Not metaphorically. The bark on the Douglas firs developed vertical gills, expanding and contracting in slow, synchronous waves. The moss at their roots glowed a phosphorescent chartreuse. Q felt his spine unlock, vertebrae by vertebrae, as if someone were unzipping him from the base of his skull.
She replied: "lol. don't do too many."
When he opened his eyes again, the rain had stopped. The log was just a log. His hand was empty—the mushrooms were gone, or had never been there. The forest was quiet, save for the drip of water from the needles above. shrooms q hussie
It stepped out from behind a hemlock and sat down directly in front of him, mimicking his posture.
The forest began to fold. Layers of reality—past, present, the memory of a bad breakup, the smell of his grandmother's kitchen, a comic panel he'd drawn in high school—became translucent sheets of vellum, stacked on top of each other. The Hussie stood up, and as it did, it peeled back the top sheet like the lid of a shoe box. Not metaphorically
He chewed the mushrooms. They tasted of dirt and lightning.
He smiled. The trees were just trees again. But for the rest of the walk back to his car, he could have sworn the shadows of the branches were waving goodbye. Q felt his spine unlock, vertebrae by vertebrae,
The Hussie stopped weaving. It pointed one segmented finger at the mushrooms in Q's hand. "Because you finally took the training wheels off your own skull. You stopped trying to be clever for five minutes. That's an eternity for you."