Alex breathed in and centred himself, if Grandma could chop wood, a hale and healthy man in his twenties would have no problem. The axe felt strange in his hands, warm, heavy in a way that spoke more of possibility than actual heft. The wooden handle worn smooth from years of use, the steel head, red paint flaking but the blade sharp and bright.
He looked at the log he’d set on the tree stump Grandma and Grandpa had used as a chopping block since the world was young, took another breath, and swung.
The axe seemed to cut its own path through the air, the wrong path, he could feel it going off course, too fast, out of control. He hung on and felt the jolt, then give, of contact with the log, then air again, and the arm-joggling thud of the blade meeting the chopping block.
The now empty chopping block, his log had flown off to the side, and lay on the ground, the short strip of bark sheered off one side taunting him with his own incompetence.
The DNA of Stories 