When I was eight, I found a gutted white Volkswagen Beetle deep in the forest. It must have driven off the logging road above, shot down the ravine and hit the old-growth Cedar tree at the bottom. Like Nancy Drew, I studied the scarred bark sure there was a mystery to solve and bones to find. I rummaged through the car's glove compartment, back seat, and trunk searching for clues. I dug holes in the surrounding soil and followed imagined leads to waterfalls, hidden culverts and crooked, gnarled driftwood skeletons. Scribbles and sketches filled the pages of my notebook but without hard evidence the narrative fell flat.
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Chavon BarryChavon is a new writer from Victoria, British Columbia. She wrestles with simple answers and is learning to listen, to be still with God. Archives
April 2022
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