The first time I saw you I screamed. The night had been quiet, as quiet as any hunting camp can be. The sounds of men sleeping restlessly while horses neighed and stamped their feet at little scurrying creatures blended into the gentle night atmosphere — only interrupted by my own muffled sobs. I heard the guard stationed at the entrance to my tent let out a quiet, strangled groan then the unmistakable sound of a blade piercing flesh. A weight fell against the tent wall and slid to the ground, letting out a sickening, gurgling, whimper as it fell. Then a puddle of blood, nearly black in the faint candlelight, seeped under the canvas. I stared as it pooled, steam rising and dissipating in the cool night air. Then you burst through the tent entrance, sudden but silent. Blood was splattered across your chest and dripped from your hands. Your mouth was pinched tight and your eyes were wide in an expression of mad, ferocious anticipation of battle. The blood speckled across your face highlighted the deep, jagged scars crisscrossing your face. You stood at the entrance, blade in hand, and looked like an absolute monster. I screamed. You rushed at me, covering the several feet between us so quickly I barely had time to flinch. You clamped a rough hand over my mouth, cutting off my scream. “Shhh. Quiet child,” you whispered. Even in a whisper, your voice was harsh, demanding — dry — as if it were not something you used often. You lifted your knife in front of my face and my heart dropped into my stomach. I tried to pull away from you but the rope tying me to the stake in the ground held tight. “Be still,” you demanded and with a couple of quick motions, you sawed through the rope. Your movements were so quick and sure it must have only been a few seconds between you entering my tent and cutting my bonds. As you pulled me to my feet I heard men moving and swords being pulled from scabbards. My scream had woken the camp. You must have heard them too because you cursed and said, “Follow me. Quietly.” You cut a slit in the back of the tent and stepped through, pulling me behind you. The night was dark, with clouds covering the stars and tents blocking most of the light from the fires. You pulled me further into the dark, through the trees. Behind us, I heard men swear and begin yelling for the others to come to them. They must have found the guard’s body. A moment later I heard another shout and light poured into the night as the tear in the tent was spread wider. You pulled me harder, silently urging me to move quicker as men began to crash into the woods behind us. Your steps were quick and intentional. You made no noise as you moved. My steps were clumsy and loud, my dress seemed to snag on every branch and thistle in the woods. We entered a small clearing and in the faint light, I saw a moving shadow, too large to be a man. The creature stamped a foot and huffed impatiently as we neared. A horse. Your horse! We were going to make it! We broke into a run, and in the dark, I didn’t see the boulder sticking from the ground. I tripped and went sprawling, my hand wrenched from yours. I hit the ground hard but adrenaline masked the pain and I quickly pushed myself up. Just as I made it to my hands and knees the clouds parted overhead. A sliver of light peaked through the night highlighting the rock that had tripped me. Only it wasn’t a boulder. It was a man. His mouth and eyes gaped open in a frozen expression of shock. A thin red line crossed his pale neck where a blade had opened his throat. I screamed again. You were further away from me this time, untethering your horse. It took you a couple of seconds to get to me and get a quieting hand over my mouth. “Shush child,” you commanded. You wrapped an arm around my waist and lifted me. You didn’t lift me to my feet but carried me, one-handed, to your horse and sat me in the saddle. You grabbed the saddle horn and gracefully pulled yourself into the seat behind me. Even as you kicked your heels into the horse’s flank, men started crashing into the clearing, apparently drawn to my scream. We shot off in the opposite direction, the horse nearly at full speed within a few steps. We crossed the clearing and made it to the woodline. I closed my eyes tight, sure we were going to run straight into a tree but a small trail opened up. I don’t know how you saw it in the dark but you guided the horse straight to the trail and navigated the opening perfectly. We made it no more than ten or twelve lengths into the woods before I heard a sickening sound of wood meeting bone and the sudden cool air on my back told me you were gone. I chanced a glance behind me and could barely see you laying on the ground a large dark figure standing over you. I whipped my gaze ahead of me, terrified of running full speed into a branch, and saw several men standing in the trail ahead of me. I froze. I couldn’t imagine how the men had gotten in front of us and I didn’t know what to do. I had heard stories of what men like that did to girls, even young girls like me -- even young princesses like me. I knew what was likely to happen if they caught me again, but I was a child. I didn’t know how to defend myself or how to face down an attacker. I panicked and remained motionless. Your horse, however, did not. We hit the crowd of men with all the speed and power the warhorse was capable of. A couple of the men were sent flying, their bodies flung like ragdolls. Another crumpled to the ground, his agonized screams almost drowning the sound of his bones shattering under the horse’s hooves. And then I was clear, through the crowd with only open trail before me. Except I wasn’t clear. Just as I made it past the last man, another stepped out of the woods, threw out a hand to catch me by the arm and yanked me out of the saddle. I hit the ground with enough force to knock the wind out of my lungs. A rat-faced, gap-toothed man leaned over me and sneered, “Naw where ya’ think ya’ be uff to, naw miss?” Other than a few crude jokes and several vile threats, the men didn’t say much to me when they brought me back to the camp. They bound my feet as well as my hands and tied me to a stake near the fire. I guess they wanted to be able to keep an eye on me. I watched as they dragged the dead guard out into the woods and left him, not caring enough to bury him. Several of the men wandered around the camp nervously eyeing the woods and the rest gathered around the fire. From their conversations, it seemed none of them believed you had come on your own. I laid on the ground, trying to make myself as close to invisible as possible. And I cried. Men sat on logs between me and the fire, blocking the heat. So, I curled into a shivering, weeping ball for I don’t know how long until the fear and the struggle of the day got the best of my body and I began to nod off. I was only half asleep when my eyes shot open and my head jerked up. I tried to place what had woken me. There hadn’t been a noise, I was sure of that. But something was happening. There was some kind of electric tension in the air, like the anticipation before a lightning storm. The men around me sensed it too. Several stood, their hands drifting to their swords for reassurance. Every eye flicked nervously over the deep shadows of the woods. Men shifted anxiously, gathering closer together on instinct. Everyone was perfectly silent. Everything was perfectly silent, like even the creatures in the woods could sense a great and terrible danger was approaching. And then you were among them. One moment there was complete, excruciating silence and the next you were running, quicker than I would have thought possible, into the middle of my captors. In the firelight, I saw a deep gash above your eye, and dried blood covered half your scarred face. You held a sword in each hand and didn’t make so much as a whisper as you moved. It was many years ago now, and the details of the fight are foggy. And to be honest, I wouldn’t want to remember more even if I could. I just remember you were a blur. You did not stop moving. Men came at you in twos and threes and you blocked, dogged, sliced, chopped and pierced. Always moving and every movement deadly. If I had been deaf, if I hadn’t been able to hear the gruesome sounds of metal meeting flesh and the anguished screams of the dying, I think I would have thought it was graceful. You ducked, and twirled, and spun, slashing one, parrying another, rending a third. More men came running from the woods, guards that had been on patrol called back by the screams from the camp. You took them as they came, a master performing his bloody art with elegant, terrible, efficiency. An eternity later, or maybe just a moment, the camp was quiet again. You stalked around the fire, muscles tense like a cat ready to pounce. After several minutes you must have been sure that they were all dead. I saw your body physically relax as you walked toward me, swords in hands dangling by your side. You were covered in blood. The sarong around your waist was soaked through and clung to your legs as you walked. Your hair was plastered to your head and little drops of blood dripped from the tips. In the light of the fire, I could see that not only was your face lined with scars but your chest and arms were seamed with deep furrows now caked in blood. You were a monster. I tried to pull away, too scared to scream, but the ropes held me in place. Your face was a perfect, expressionless mask as you reached down and cut my bonds again. You stepped past me, not saying a word, and slowly lowered yourself to the ground. You leaned your back against a log, your chest heaving in great, big breaths. “Rest child,” you grumbled. “You are safe now. I will take care of you.” And you have taken care of me. I don’t know if my father commanded it, or you took it upon yourself, but from that day forward there was hardly a time that you were not nearby. Our people have always been a warsome people, and I have come to realize that my father is a weak king. Over the years we have faced siege from rival kingdoms, invasions of bandits, infestations of wild beasts, and gods know what else. Through it all you have come to my aide, saving my life and adding to your scars. You were a monster. But, you were *my* monster. Which is why it hurts me deeply to have to write this. The enemy is at the gate again. My father, the King, is drunk or cowering in his throne room and my mother is dead. It is left to me to save the kingdom. Not save it for the King--this castle can crash down around his crown for all I care--but save it for its people. If I do not do anything the people, *my* people will die. I have decided to do the only thing I can do to save my people. I am going to unleash you upon our enemies. That is why I asked you to take a message to the Keep Commander. If you were here with me you would never let me go, and I have to go. I am going to offer myself to the enemy King. Surely he will believe holding the princess will give him influence over the King. This enemy King will either take me to lay claim to the throne or kill me to crush the heart of my father. He does not know that my father cares only for himself. Nor does he know about you. But I know you. I know that you will come for me. You will come to either rescue or avenge me and whichever it is, you will destroy this enemy king. I know what it is I ask of you. I know, as I write this letter, that I betray you. I hope you know how this breaks my heart. But my heart, while broken, is steadfast in its purpose to save my people. I need you one more time. Once more I need you to be a monster. My monster. My scarred man.


6:15am I woke up earlier than usual, which was strange as I had no work today. The sun was just beginning to rise, the predawn gloom softening from dark to soft pink and light blue hues. The air was cool and calm and the trees rustled peacefully in the slight breeze. Life seemed to have awarded me with an early start today so I rose, stretched my aging muscles and bones and put on some green tea. My house was, as always, immaculate, but I still found things to fuss over. I carefully, minutely shifted the cherry blossom tapestry on my wall and stepped back to observe it. The beautiful woven tapestry had been my wife’s favourite gift. Whenever I looked at it, it reminded me of her and made me smile. Once my tea was done, I sat on my small patio and sipped it gratefully, reading from a small book of haiku I had procured at a market many moons ago, its spine well creased. 6:40am Sufficiently revived from slumber, though still needing food, I decided to visit my daughter and my grandson. Although the hour was early, their family were early risers, for my son-in-law was a businessman, and young children always have a habit of rising early. I brought with me the little paper bird I’d been making for my grandson, Akira. He had a fascination with them at the moment, so I decided to give him a gift. I put on my robe and my sandals and departed. 6:50am The tram lines were busy at the early hour, full of commuters travelling to work in the city centre. I was glad today to not be one of them. The brightly coloured people talked the loudest, while the ones in their dour suits sat and stared at the window as though marching towards their doom. I was glad that my retirement was near. I had had enough of working for a lifetime. It was near the time now where my family looked after me as I had them, and I try to share my wisdom with them before I am gone. I hopped off the tram at the stop just before my daughter’s district. There was a teahouse here that sold delicious miso and tofu soup, just what an old man’s chilled bones needed. I grinned as I entered the teahouse. The familiar sight of grey-green uniforms greeted me and I bowed my head to each of them as I passed. I had served myself many years ago in the first World War and I would know some of these young men’s grandfathers who served with me.

The thin, older lady at the counter greeted me with warmth and a warm smile as she served me my usual. Word was that she fancied me, but I could not imagine being with anyone else other than Mikeru. She had been the one. I sat at a table by myself and quietly slurped my soup, listening to the officers discuss the War. “The Americans are planning an invasion, a large one, to try to stop our support of the Germans,” said a young man with a moustache.

An older gentleman, perhaps a veteran of the last war if his hard face was anything to gauge by, spoke. “The Americans will launch an attack but our troops are superior and our sea borders are well guarded. They would pay for it dearly in blood if they tried to storm our shores,” he said calmly. We’d fought with the Americans before and admired their weaponry, but they lacked the honour and rigid structure of our culture. There was a sturdiness in honor and order. “Apparently they are aiming for here and Osaka,” said another, slurping his soup loudly. “Hiroshima doesn’t have that many military targets here currently. Most of them are out fighting,” said the fourth. “We are in charge of the defence of the south. If the 2 nd Army falls, the south will be open to an invasion. American troops can take control of the rivers and gain entry inland. We are a primary target military wise,” corrected the veteran. “But there are too many civilians living here to warrant a full attack.” “They will bomb us, no doubt, but the damage will not be so severe as to completely destroy the city,” said the veteran. “They’re Americans though. Do you really think they wouldn’t kill civilians if it meant they would win the war?” “They are men, just like us. Any good general knows that innocent blood mustn’t be spilt if other alternatives are available. An attack will come, mark my words, but we will recover. Still, I will get a radio broadcast put out warning people of potential bombing threats. We are all well-versed in what to do now,” the veteran said, heaving himself up. The others stood, thanked the lady behind the till and trooped out. I finished my soup and sat there, pondering a while. This time, I was grateful, the war had not touched my family. There was no grief-striken mother to console as only one of her sons came home, no father to watch as he became a little more hollow, a little more shrivelled.

Akira was too young to be conscripted and he would grow up outside of the shadow of this war. My son-in-law had a slight limp, a remnant of a childhood injury so he had not been conscripted, much to his dismay. My daughter was secretly delighted. He instead worked in the communications office which dealt with much of the war effort so he was content. They were all spared my nightmares. I thanked the lady who smiled coyly at me again and began the short walk to my daughter’s house. I mulled over what the officers had said and wondered if I should move my daughter and her family away from Hiroshima for a while, at least until the Americans had turned their eyes from us. There were still small towns a short distance that would welcome anyone paying. Then there were some of the larger estates, like those owned by the Baron, who might consent to housing a family for a small price. My daughter would agree, my son-in-law would not. He was too proud, too patriotic and had an open disdain for the Americans. But I would try to convince them. I wanted them as untouched by the war as I could keep them. 7:30am I knocked on the sturdy wooden door of my daughter’s house and waited. The sun had pulled itself higher and I could see the faint glint of the Ota River and smell its slightly salty, and unpleasant, smell. The door opened and my daughter emerged, looking wide and awake and already flustered. “Father!” she said, and managed a weary but warm smile. She leaned in to give me a hug and I breathed in her warm scent. She reminded me so much of my wife, the warmth of the earth evident in her. “Come in. We are just all about to eat and then Ozuru has to rush to work,” she said, stepping aside and letting me into her small but homely house. Akira was already bouncing of the walls and he squealed in joy as he pumped his little five year old feet to race towards me. “Grandpa!” he shouted. I laughed and picked him up, whirling him around, although I’ll admit he was getting a little harder to pick up now. “My how you’ve grown! You’re becoming a big boy now!” I exclaimed and ruffled his jet-black hair. He beamed and grinned, showing a missing tooth. “Go and eat your breakfast and then I have a present for you,” I said to him. He rushed off to the table and sat there. “Good morning, Hikaru,” said Ozuru as he emerged from the bedroom. Tall and rather solidly built, he had fairer features than my family and I as befit someone of the water. They were a good match - water and earth. “Good morning,” I said politely. I sat myself down in the chair and watched the little family. Akira was impatiently waiting for his food while Ozuru gently kissed his wife on the cheek then turned on the radio. “…to stay inside and be aware for the sirens. The Americans have issued a statement with their intent to attack Hiroshima…” “Bah! We’ve weathered worse than them,” Ozuru said dismissively. “Don’t underestimate them. I fought with them, and what they may lack in honour and order, they do not lack in intelligence. They love their weapons,” I cautioned. Ozuru looked at me sideways and I could sense his slight distaste for the fact I had served with those how were now our enemy. But I had not chosen our allies.

“Either way, any bombs they drop will be mainly aimed at the garrison. Anyone living near there would be wise to relocate for a while until we win this war,” he said. “Would you think of relocating Sunari and Akira until we are sure it is safe in Hiroshima?” I asked him cautiously. He looked at me and scoffed. “I will not leave. My country needs me and we are safe here. Our house is part brick, not wood, so it will withstand any blasts alright. And like I said, we are too far from the garrison for us to really be in any trouble,” he said. “You don’t know where they are going to bomb. They are getting desperate to win this war. It has already dragged out for too long,” I argued. “We know roughly where they are going to bomb, if indeed they do. I don’t think that we are in any danger,” he said, making his cup of coffee while Sunari remained silent. “Food! Food!” shouted Akira. Sunari smiled and set the table with three plates, knowing my penchant for the teahouse, and served the food. Ozuru downed his coffee, shovelled a few spoonfuls into his mouth and then checked his watch. “I have to get going. I’ll be home on time today, I promise,” he said, giving each of them a kiss. He looked at me and sighed. “I understand your concern, Hikaru, I do. But Japan is strong. Let them throw whatever they want at us. We will survive and come out stronger. We always do.” “Even iron breaks if it is bent hard enough,” I replied. He left and Sunari looked at me. “Are you really worried?” she asked me. “I am. I think you and Akira should leave the city and go somewhere into the country. There will be no attack there as there are no advantages to be gained. You would be safe,” I said. “Safe where exactly? Where would we go? What would we need to take? How would we get there as we own no means of transportation outside the city?” she asked. “I don’t know. There are towns, there are the Baron’s estates. You would have to decide that, once you got your husband to agree,” I said. “I doubt that will happen,” she said tiredly. “He does not believe the danger.” “It is war. There is always danger.” They ate in silence, while I sat there watching, wondering what to do. My bones were aching and I felt as though I had spent my whole life at war, although it was really only a handful of years. Still, war leaves scars. Always. 7:55am Sunari cleared away the plates and sent Akira off to wash up. I sat and looked around and smiled when I saw the photo of my wife and I hanging on her wall. Sunari and her mother had not always gotten along, but in the end they had reconciled and I was glad. They returned a little while after, Akira in his school uniform. “My, my, don’t you look handsome,” I said, and heaved him up to sit on my lap. I pulled the carefully folded bird out of my pocket and held it out to him. “Oooh birdy!” he exclaimed and reached out to grab it. “Now, be careful with it as it’s very delicate. But this is Kurēn, the Crane. So long as you carry him, you will have good luck!” I said.

He touched it reverently then threw his arms around my neck. “Thank you, grandpa!” he said. I laughed and gave him a kiss. 8:10am We all began walking towards the door to leave when a sudden, blaring noise pierced the morning. Sunari and I exchanged horrified looks. “What is that sound, mummy?” Akira asked. Sunari paled like snow on the ground. “Planes,” she whispered. I grabbed her and Akira and pushed them to hide under the table, pushing it up against the fridge. If the fridge moved it wouldn’t crush the table and would perhaps add an extra layer of metal protection. I closed the curtains to prevent some glass raining through if the windows shattered then dragged the chairs to cover the front of the table to stop as much rubble flying through as I could. “Mummy, what is happening?” Akira said, terror beginning to seep into the child. “Just hold onto me, Akira. Everything will be okay,” she said. Her brown eyes stared up at me from the shadows and I saw she didn’t know whether to believe those words or not. “Ozuru,” she whispered. I grimaced as I realized that Ozuru was heading towards the communications office, one of the areas he had said would be hit. “I’m sure he’ll be fine,” I said, trying to make it sound convincing. The tears welling up in her eyes told me I’d failed. I peeked out the window to see if there were any signs of planes. Within a few moments, I heard the telltale drone high above and I waited to see if I could see what direction they were going. I hoped they didn’t decide to drop it right on our heads. Another minute passed and I finally saw the tiny dots above in the clear sky that were the American planes. They had passed over us and were heading towards the other side of the river where many bridges spanned the banks. I breathed a sigh of relief. Perhaps we would escape the biggest effects of the blast. I still felt a pang of worry for Ozuru. We may not particularly get along, but he was a good father and Sunari loved him. I waited to see where they dropped the bomb, but even my undimmed sight couldn’t spot something so small. 8:15am Then it happened. A blaze of light appeared midair above one of the stone, domed structures. At first, I thought it was a spot in my vision but it grew larger and brighter and my whole world became white with intensity of it. Even with my eyelids jammed shut, it was like I was staring into the sun. I could hear Akira and Sunari screaming my name but I was blind. I think I screamed too. Then I was hit with a blast so strong it felt as though my flesh was being seared from my bones, that the world was crumbling around me, sweeping me off my feet and hurling me upon wings of fire. Then there was nothing. ***** Consciousness. I crawled to my feet, blind with the white light. I sensed my body was damaged beyond repair but I could feel nothing, see nothing, hear nothing. After an eternity, the white light faded somewhat and I managed to open my eyes. Or were they open? I remembered standing in Sunari’s house, with Akira. Where were they? I turned, or tried to, but my body had other ideas. I collapsed on the ground again. My eyes managed to make out a tall shape of bricks. A wall. Where was the roof? On the ground? There it was. Was that the charred remains of a table...I looked for a sign of the sun in the sky, as surely it was still only early morning, not almost night. I could not find it. Perhaps it had fallen out of the sky in that blinding flash of light. I lay there, grey settling over everything. There was silence. I don’t know why. Hiroshima is always a loud, busy city. Ash. Everything was ash. Ash from fire. Fire in the sky, blinding light, sound, plane, sirens… In a final moment of clarity, I realised. “A bomb.” The horror registered somewhere deep inside and I realised why I couldn’t find the sun. The blackness began coming back against the brightness still seared to my eyelids. “ The sun has set in the East, casting this grey night. Now it rises over the West, for they held the Sun in their hands and ended us.”


This is not a utopia. It is the perfect universe from a mathematical perspective. It is the one possible universe, out of the infinite number of possible confirmations the universe could take have taken post-bang in which the mass and energy of all was, all that is, and all that will be in the absolute sense of the universe is in two equal and opposite distinct points. In this perfect universe, these two distinct points would be traveling at equal and opposite velocities in all existing planes except for one. This mean this one and only one universe, out of the infinite number of possible confirmations the universe could have taken post-bang will have the most massive explosion, the most impressive display of force that has ever been possible at any point in any universe's history, would occur. Can you imagine it? It would be the most glorious thing that has ever taken place or ever will take place in the entire cosmos. In this universe, after this tremendous display, all would be silent. Everything was equal and opposite, and all would be silent. Space and time no longer exist, or mean anything as concepts. This is one universe, in all of the possible universes. Literally one in an infinite number of possibilities. We have no math to understand the concept of that. It literally does not make sense. That is how unlikely that occurrence is. That's how tremendous the power of that one occurrence must be. I use "single" in this case in the symmetrical sense of the word. Because, mathematically speaking, this single equal and opposite velocity can occur in an infinite number of directions in an infinite number of planes. There is another universe. In this universe, the big-bang occurs in such a specific way, as before, a particular set of circumstances occur. However, in this universe, our planet is formed. The masses of heterozygous quantum-probability decisions take place over the billions of years that the planet exists, creating life. This life divides, evolves, and interacts in such a specific way humans exactly as we know them form. All of these humans have the exact same social interactions and procreation patters as they do in our history so you and I were created. This means that one out of all the infinite meiotic divisions that could have occurred in the germ lines of all humans ever, and combined with the correct mate, occurred. Which means all chance meetings that led to marriage, all the stupid fights that led to divorce, and all the drunken kisses that happened in our world happened. And in that universe, everything in our lives happened like they did. Out of the infinite number of possible decisions we made, we made the exact same ones again. And in this universe, you were friend's with my friend's friend, and we went to the same party. And then I met you, in that one instant when our eyes met. In that one instant, in that single, completely and utterly and mind benignly improbable moment that it is truly and rightly one single occurrence in a certain and awesomely infinite number of possibilities. More impossible than anything that could ever be imagined. The tremendous nature of the magnitude of that one moment will never leave me.


"It kinda looks like—" "Don't say it."

Kenny nods solemnly, recrossing his long legs in the rusted lawn chair. The skinny blue and white plastic spindles weaving the chair seat have long since loosened and torn. His ass hangs out of half of it, but it doesn't bother him any. I watch him try to change the subject in his brain, can physically see the wheels turning, his lips twisting from one side to the other.

It doesn't work, though, so he readjusts in his chair and tries again, "I'm just saying—" "Don't say it ." "It looks like a friggin' Christmas tree!" He shouts, hands flopping in the air dramatically. I sigh and crack open my beer. We sit quietly in our old shitty yet somehow still comfortable lawn chairs and stare at the tall green spruce, shimmering as if it were decorated with the ghost of baubles, tinsel and lights of Christmas past. He's right. It does look like a Christmas tree. Doreen, a few RV's down, had some fancy app on her phone where she could just take a picture of the damn thing, and it told her everything we needed to know about the giant green tree that showed up out of nowhere a couple of days ago. As if a fully grown, sixty-foot Christmas tree appearing fully rooted in the center of our little town wasn't bizarre enough, the fact that we're about ten clicks outside'a Roswell, a desert-laden arid landscape, only added to the mystery. The even stranger thing was, about four or five nights ago, I was out, maybe had a few too many beers, wandered a little too far into the desert, and I coulda sworn I saw this same tree. Just sitting there, in the middle of nowhere, all by itself. It glistened in the moonlight, and I slapped my face to get a grip, but it was still there when I pried my eyes back open. Somewhere between the booze and the call of the moon, I passed out right there on the hard-packed dirt, and when I woke up, there was no tree. Of course there wasn't; that would be crazy.

But when I stumbled back to my silver Twinkie airstream the next morning and heard the commotion of my neighbors, all gathered around outside their RVs and trailers at the center of our little town, it was impossible to miss that same giant green monstrosity beaming up from behind the crowd. As if it had just up and twinkle-toed its way over here and then planted firm. According to Doreen and her fancy app, said green monstrosity is a Norway Spruce, the same kind they use at Rockefeller in New York at Christmastime. And it just so happens to glimmer when the light catches it as if it's decorated in rows and rows of lights. Annoyed I won't partake in further discussion—as if it weren't the only thing we've all talked about since the damn tree's mysterious arrival—Kenny huffs and climbs out of his lawn chair, joining Doreen, her husband Danny, and a handful of other locals and their heated conversation. There's a lot of pointing and handwaving. I sit back in my chair and attempt not to give in to the temptation and join them. After a few lazy hours and a long nap in the sun, I haul up out of my lawn chair and make my way inside.

I never needed or wanted more than I got; my place is comfortably sparse, and the stream's tiny size has never bothered me. It's the quiet of living alone I've always craved. The can opener in my grip is halfway twisted into a can of beans when the door rattles, Doreen knocking and shouting my name. "Open up, Joe!" Grumbling, I pull my lit smoke from between my lips and growl, "It's open." The rattling door whips open, Doreen huffing as she enters. She stares down at the can in my hands, brows furrowed. "Tell me you're not eating that for dinner." I growl back, straining the beans in the sink before dumping the can into a pot on the hotplate. "Joe, why don't you come out and join us after eating that very enticing can of beans? We've got a whole spread; everyone's brought somethin'. Not that what you've got there doesn't look like the best damn meal you've ever had. Looks very appetizing. Filling, too." "You're not very funny. And I ain't in the mood," I say quietly. "Never are," she rolls her eyes, gripping the Formica countertop, her claw-like hot pink fingernails clicking furiously. "Joe, it's Thanksgiving. And there's a god-forsaken Christmas tree out there! A goddamn miracle! You shouldn't be alone here, stinkin' up the place with cigarettes and beans. Come over." Steam begins to rise up out of the pot. I stir it. Doreen watches me. I watch the steam. She groans, "Just think about it. No one should be alone on the holidays. Even your ornery ass." The screen slams shut behind her. Of course, she doesn't shut the door. I turn the heat on the hotplate off, then move to close the door when the sounds of laughter drift in through the screen. I watch my neighbors laugh and talk with their hands and hug and touch. A part of me shifts uncomfortably at all that affection. Another part watches with envy. I close the door quietly, light up another cigarette, and grab a spoon, not bothering to transfer my dinner to a bowl. Faint sounds of holiday music and chatter filter through the aluminum walls of my airstream. The air inside feels thick and stifling. By the time I crack another beer, it's full dark. A new, glimmering light streams in through the window above my sink. It shimmers and dances, and I want so badly to ignore it, but the laughter's grown louder, and suddenly, the silence of my home, ordinarily comforting, feels oppressive. Tentatively, I get up and glance out the window.

The damn tree is lit. It's fucking lit , with white and green and red twinkling Christmas lights, seemingly unfolding out through the branches. I'm certain it's not plugged in, and there are no wires or string lights. We've checked. It's been doing this since its equally mysterious arrival. Doreen and her husband Danny smile, his arm draped over her shoulders as they look up in wonder. Kenny wobbles from too many beers, a shit-eating grin on his face, our other neighbors all cuddling and chatting around the tree, relaxing beneath the glow. I feel envious. I grumble, grab another beer from the fridge, and reluctantly step outside. I'm grateful no one makes a big deal of it when I give in and join them. Swallowing my annoyance, I listen to theories of aliens and government conspiracies regarding the Christmas tree's sudden, strange appearance. Why either party would go out of their way to plant a fully grown glittering tree for a bunch of us bumpkins in the middle of the desert is beyond me. I've got no better ideas, but I doubt it's aliens or the government. More likely, we've all somehow accidentally ingested ayahuasca or some other mind-altering substance. Kenny drags our lawn chairs over in front of the tree, propped up like a warm fire, and I join him and sit, kicking out my long legs, our asses falling through the broken spindles.

I can't help the slight grin tugging at my lips at how happy this stupid tree makes my neighbors. Maybe I don't mind spending time with these idiots so much. Maybe they aren't half bad.


“Explain.” The word I now dread most. Before this I was a teacher; explaining things was my job. This is how a cell works. Here is our evolutionary tree. The three types of rock are igneous, sedimentary, and metamorphic. Explaining things to children takes time and patience, but they learn, grow, and eventually become full-fledged members of society, ready to consume content, post asinine opinions online, and forget everything I’ve taught them. The circle of life. “Explain.” I shudder. The inquiring alien is a hulking mass of tentacles and eyes, wearing a crown of nebulae. Its sceptre is made of pure energy, its garments are sewn from cosmic dust. It blinks, and its eyes flutter like a crowd wave at a baseball game. In the time it takes to complete the blink, cosmoses flare into and out of existence. I still struggle with seeing time this way, from the top down.

Explain? You want to know about the weird time here? Imagine yourself in the mirror. You look good today, nose, eyes, normal human anatomy. Now imagine the mirror also shows you the back of your head and the view from the ground when you stand on it. You can see your muscles, your skeleton, what you’ve had to eat today. Simultaneously. That’s life in this alien dimension. The mind reels. “Explain!” I can’t hold it off any longer. We launch into our eternal back-and-forth ritual. A human invention sits in front of me, this time a comb. It can be anything they’ve dug up over the years, broken tile, a soccer ball, a DVD of the seventh season of ‘Frasier.’ “This is a comb,” I say. “It’s for styling one’s hair. People use them to untangle knots, too. This one is made of plastic, in a country called China, that’s in those little gold letters there. This comb is black, probably disposable. Human beings love to throw things away, and do it with relish.” “Explain. They style their hair, then dispose of this? Why? It’s a perfectly good . . . Comb, you called it.” “Explain. That’s all you ever say to me. Look,” I say, running my hand along my bald head. “I didn’t use the things much, didn’t have much need. Give me something I know about. Action movies. Video games. A DVD from the eighth season of Frasier. You know, pop culture. I’m no historian.” I groan. “We’ve been at this for centuries. I’m ready for a break.” “Explain.” “Explain? Explain what? My feelings?” I hurl the comb at the alien. It bounces harmlessly off and floats toward Pluto. “You scoop me up from my planet along with a bunch of junk — you’re Alaskan crab fishermen, and I’m the crab. You’ve got me explaining details of our civilization one by one, using terms you may not even understand. ‘Explain Christmas, explain inflation, explain the appeal of Gwyneth Paltrow.’ It’s impossible!” I pause for a moment to wipe the spittle from my mouth. “I’ve been in your clutches for eons, answering your endless questions, and you’ve never once answered one of mine. So no more.” I crossed my arms defiantly. “Your turn. Explain.” “Explain? Very well,” the alien rumbled, its voice like a semi truck passing by. “Normally subjects are terrified; they explain until they expire. But I can see you’re a curious man, our species loses hair too as we swell with knowledge.” I tried not to picture one of these ghastly beasts with hair. “My identification is Skim. I’m a researcher and author of travel guides.” He held up a dodecahedron and it blazed with swirls of knowledge.

“Explain. Saber-toothed puff-dog.” A frightful hound materialized before me, eight feet long, with a pink, puffy coat like a Chow Chow and a toucan-like beak. From the beak extruded four fangs, completing the image of a perverse quadruped. It croaked a deep ribbit. A voice oozed from the dodecahedron. “Saber-toothed puff-dog. Found in the jungles of the Yo-Yo System, these fierce predators of the forest make terrific pets for the energetic inhabitants of Yo-Yo III who like to walk the dog. Around the world, these dogs are sometimes known as ‘sleepers,’ due to their hibernation strategies where they rock the baby dogs to bed.” “Explain. Galactic core.” The hideous dog vanished, replaced with a complex map of the center of the Milky Way. “The galactic core is 10,000 light years-” “Explain. Earth comb.” The galaxy dissolved, leaving only the dim red light shining from the dodecahedron. “Not found.” Skim shrugged its tentacles. “I need your knowledge to complete my latest installment. ‘Skim’s Guide to the Milky Way: See the best 2% the galaxy has to offer.’ Earth has quite a few treasures, did you know your moon and sun ratios are practically identical? The eclipse you take for granted is a natural wonder of the galaxy, your people can really get some tourism specie. Once you start advertising it correctly, beings from all over the galaxy will swarm to your tiny corner.” “Explain. Advertising correctly? Swarm?” I ask. “It sounds like you want to take over Earth. Conquer it.” I began to sweat profusely. “Everyone who tried to conquer Earth has failed, we’re a resilient species, and there’s nothing we hate more than non-humans. That’s why dictators compare minorities with rats.” “Explain. Rats. Never mind, we’ll come back to that. I don’t want to conquer you,” Skim said, laughing so hard its rows of teeth dance. “I like Earth, but I wouldn’t want to live there. It’s a dump, and there are some bad neighborhoods. Have you ever been to the Colosseum? Those Romans don’t care who gets thrown in there. Your government doesn’t make real contact until 1947.” Skim smiled. “Let my book do the work, and soon you’ll be swarmed with aliens. Earth real estate will be worth a fortune soon, there are many ancient beings looking to retire near a yellow star.” “Explain. How is this not being conquered?” I ask. “You can’t show up somewhere, declare it beautiful, and decide to move in. You’ll be taking land from us. We’re the native people,” I say. “And if this is hurting my planet, you won’t get any more information from me. I won’t be explaining chocolate ice cream, the sunrise, brown paper packages tied up with strings, or ménage à trois. That last one is great. You’ll have to kill me and dump my body in a space ditch.”

“Explain. Native?” Skim chucked again. “You aren’t native. Your people moved to Earth, just like you moved from your planet before that, and the one before that. Humans are as plentiful in the galaxy as suns. You came to a planet, declared it empty, killed the local Neanderthals, and now you’re angry someone might do it to you. And if you won’t explain Earth’s ways, I’ll find someone who will.”

“Explain,” I say. Skim lifts the dodecahedron, and I feel each atom in my body buzzing, churning, longing to separate from its cohorts. My body is alive with vibration, each cell burns as the mitochondria swell and begin to revert to stardust. My tongue falls away, and with my last breath I gasp, “Stop.” My body becomes one again, and I collapse to the floor, heaving in pain. Skim points a long, terrible tentacle at me. “Explain.”


As the blue in the sky turned to black and stars began to shimmer, a harsh wind picked up. Drakaith tightened his new cloak around him. A bit of dried blood flaked off against his knuckles. The former owner of the cloak had been just the right size, it was neither too long and dragged on the ground, nor too short, allowing wind to billow inside. A very suitable cloak, he thought. Stepping to the edge of a small clearing Drakaith came to a stop. This was where his father had taught him to swing an axe for the first time. He must have been only ten summers old, but the lesson was harsh, physically demanding, with a teacher who wanted only one thing; exhaustion. First he had used small branches, then they had progressed on to larger ones. The size of the axe matched the size of the log. Father enjoyed the admiration from being the most skilled tree cutter in the forest and he was determined for his son to follow suit. Hours of punishment followed. Drakaith had enjoyed it to start with. The art of the swing, the aim of the sharp head, the thrill of the split. He swung away imagining each new branch was a fresh victim, ready to behead. His father praised his natural ability. The first kind words he had ever heard him utter. The pride was short\-lived however, for soon the skin started to rub away on his young hands and the blisters made the boy want to stop. This only encouraged his father. Blisters were a sign you were doing it right. “Be proud of them and hack harder. Pain purifies the soul.” he’d said. Drakaith chuckled. He was right about that at least. The branches of the trees above were still, all around him, yet the wind came blowing through. Not a noise. He stepped away from the tree next to him, his mind slipping back into cautiousness. He felt unwelcome. Something he was used to, but something to be mindful of all the same. A glinting in the grass ahead caught his eye. Looking around he walked out into the middle of the clearing and knelt down. A small silver coin was wedged in the mud. Picking it up, he wiped it on his cloak and moved to put it in his pouch with the few others he’d recently acquired. As he opened the pouch, he stopped. He was being watched. He closed his eyes and felt the magpie staring at him. He probed its thoughts. Nothing. The magpie flew down and stood on a tree stump staring at him. He opened his eyes and glared. The magpie glared back. “Silver for the season, a peck for the neck, reason is treason.” What a peculiar thought, considered Drakaith. The magpie cocked its head. Drakaith let his own thoughts speak to the creature, his mouth unmoving. “Nod your head if you would like this silver coin.” The magpie nodded. “Nod your head if you will peck me if I don’t give it to you.” The magpie nodded again. “Would you like a dull bronze coin instead? Nod for yes.” The magpie didn’t move. Drakaith looked around. The magpie stayed where it was. Reason is treason, which means he doesn’t want to be asked why he wants the silver. He just wants it. He’ll peck me if I don’t give it to him. But perhaps he’ll give me something for it. That’s what they do in the Iron City he had heard. His father would make the trip once a year, pulling his cart, filled with different samples of rare wood he had cut, some he had shaped. In return for the wood, they gave him little silver coins and a few dull ones too of bronze and copper. These coins sat in a jar, hidden underneath the cooking fire. Drakaith had watched his father dig the hole and hide them there. The coin meant nothing to him, but it obviously did to this magpie. Perhaps he could be useful. “The silver is yours if you find me… a snake.” The magpie shuffled slightly, seemingly deliberating the offer. With a flap of the wings it took off, soaring up into the sky and was gone. Drakaith put the coin in the pouch and sat down on the tree stump. The wind continued to blow, but the forest was silent still. Had he known there was so much more to the wilderness he would have paid it more attention. Living here, with such a dull tribe as the Poastas Clan, he had been more interested in the things no one else dared talk about. Death, sickness, pain. The Soothsayer once said he may become a healer, but the Poastas Clan did not have a healer and had no one to teach him, so the elders made him learn to swing an axe. His father was most pleased. Ironic that an axe to his chest had killed his father then. He’d thought that at the time. The arrival of the raiders was not a surprise to Drakaith. He’d watched them approach throughout the day, staying just out of their sight. When they reached the Poastas camp, he was safely hidden in a hollowed tree, with a perfect view hole to watch the slaughter. The axe that struck his father was unlike ay he had ever seen. Double edged, with a purple coloured grip at the base of the handle. It was made for killing, not tree cutting. That was obvious. The Poastas camp held about thirty people altogether. Seven families, with three elders who had lost their families to sickness. There were meant to be lots of different tribes in the forest, but with strict rules about where you could wander, Drakaith had never seen any. Until that day. There were fourteen of them. Six men, four boys and four women. Faces painted, carrying flaming torches. When they approached the Poastas men and women didn’t know what to do. A confrontation was obviously about to take place, but with so little interaction with outsiders, they were unaware of the danger. Emelles, the eldest daughter of the largest family, stood tall and proud as they approached. Drakaith had always admired her, she never did what she was told, unless she wanted to. She was fierce. Everyone knew she would be the camp leader when she became an elder. But that was many years away. The warriors carried weapons of all shapes and sizes. None as impressive as the axe, but still dangerous looking all the same. Emelles beat her shoulder twice, as is the Poastas custom. A tall dark haired man smiled, the paint on his face cracking as he did so. Then he thrust his sword under her chin. He did it with such ease. No second thought. No hesitation. Just like father cutting down a tree, he had thought. Swift. Decisive. Emelles had shuddered and then the sword was withdrawn and her body simply slumped to the floor. Blood staining the earth. Drakaith saw his mother grabbed from behind and her throat slit, as father begged them to leave. For such a stern man, he had broken so easily. As soon as the killing began, he fell to his knees. Others looked to him, hoping he might swing his axe. But he didn’t. He fell to his knees and begged. The dark haired man grabbed his head and put out his eyes. The screams were horrible. Then the axe came. If it wasn’t for his brother Kagraith arriving behind him, he would have stayed until the end. He would have enjoyed that. He had heard that the corpses go hard to the touch a while after Death had finished with them. That’s how Death knew he had done his job properly. He’d always wanted to touch a hard body. He had touched several now of course, prodding them each time with fascination and wonder. Grampian the hunter was the last of the Poastas to face the killers. When he rushed in, sweat glistening and muscles bulging, he had screamed a sort of war cry. He beheaded the first attacker, then swung and threw a knife into the back of another. Kagraith was crying and would make too much noise, so Drakaith grabbed his hand and ran deep into the forest. He still wondered how Grampian had died. Quickly most likely. A shrill ‘caw’ from above made Drakaith jump. He looked up to see the bird up above, circling him. It flew away, delving deeper into the forest. Drakaith followed. The bird would hover for a moment, to allow him to catch up, then continue deeper and deeper into the forest. Drakaith could hear no thoughts from the bird and so kept his eyes alert. Snakes were hard to find and always dangerous. As they moved past a small bubbling brook, the bird suddenly swooped low and then landed gently on a branch. Staring intently into a thick patch of grass and nettles. Drakaith took a deep breath and closed his eyes. His mind searching for thoughts of the snake. Nothing came to him. Some animals he could hear their every whim, others nothing at all, a few, like the magpie, he could get small scraps. Enough to have a conversation, or give an order. The snake it seemed, had no such connection with him. It simply stayed very still, watching him. Drakaith wanted to know what logic was behind the communication. Why some and not others? But these were answers he would need to be patient for. They would come, he thought. A noxious smell rose from the snake, Drakaith hawked and spat on the floor. He hated this smell, truth be told, he hated snakes in general. It was a shame he could not communicate with it, out of all the animals he felt a snake would be both wise and interesting. Instead it was no more than a nuisance. Sensing the rising danger, the snake coiled itself into a striking position. Drakaith grinned. The snake lifted its head, bearing two venomous fangs. Drakaith willed the snake to lift its tail. It did. The tail slowly uncoiled and lifted up next to the head. Bite down, he willed. The snake slowly took the tail in its mouth and sank its fangs deep into the scaled flesh. After a few moments the venom kicked in and the snake performed a sort of dance of death. Spasms throwing it around, the tail thrashing wildly. Drakaith was fascinated. Such pain he had never seen before. Not like this. Perhaps finding some more snakes could be useful. If he could harvest their venom he would be able to make a human dance in this way. It would surely make their soul taste all the better for it? As the snake came to its final position, dead on the floor, the magpie swiftly landed next to it, staring intently at Drakaith. The bird had come for what was rightfully his. Drakaith fished in his pouch and pulled out the shiny coin. The bird shivered, excited by the prospect of receiving this delightfully polished piece of metal. Drakaith hesitated. The bird cocked its head. “Come and find me tomorrow and I will have more shiny pieces for you.” the boy spoke. “Peck the snake if you would like that.” The magpie shivered and pecked the dead snake. “Very well, see you tomorrow.” He tossed the coin to the floor, the magpie quick as a flash snapped it up and was gone. Drakaith watched it fly away. I think I shall call you Shivvers he thought smugly. A very useful bird. Drakaith picked up the dead snake and walked back towards his village. He’d need some more coins and there was only one place he knew that had some. Under the kitchen fire. He wondered what state the place would have been left in after the killers had finished. Perhaps they had burnt it down, they had flaming torches after all. He dismissed the idea, a fire would not be a smart thing to start in a forest. Perhaps he would find an axe, not that he had a use for it, but it would be nice to have. An axe would go well with his cloak, especially the purple handled one. Such a thought filled him with purpose and he strode on, past the markings on the trees that signalled he was entering what used to be known as Poastas territory. Shafts of light had begun to break through the trees as morning approached. Shivvers would find him soon and there was much to be done he grinned.


Roo’s Journal January 12, 2021 I met up with Dingo for lunch today. It was...honestly I’m not sure it was the best idea with how I’ve been feeling lately. Dingo always could tell when something was off. It’s that stupid superhearing of theirs I swear, they can tell your heartbeat is different or that your breathing is different. There's got to be some explanation for it. They caught on to me not too long in. They had just finished talking about a promotion, apparently, Solar Man was impressed with them tracking down a lost kid in the Rockies a few days back and moved them to Search and Rescue operations. Makes sense, despite the claws and teeth they were never great with the whole “combat” thing. Anyway, I guess I must have...changed my expression or something when the topic came up or something like that cause pretty soon they were just staring at me. They asked me what was up and I tried to dodge the question. But they wouldn’t drop it. Said they knew something was up, that they could smell it (Note to self, look into scents connected to emotional state, might be how they do it). Eventually got me to crack on the “Feeling like a joke” thing. They...they just kinda let me vent to them for a bit. About my frustration with work, about how low I had been feeling lately...eventually, I started talking about Genus, and then they looked a little upset. Genus wasn’t pleasant for us. It wasn’t pleasant for any of us who were left in that butcher’s shop since we were kids. The things they did to us, we don’t like to talk about it. Too many bad memories I guess. But they let me keep going until they could tell I got it all out. They told me about this...ID guy, they go to. Apparently, he’s some kind of specialist in Superheroes who need psychological help. Told me they go to him for help with their PTSD and a few other things that happen to kids you grow in test tubes. They want to make me an appointment with him. And all I can think about is whether or not I should let them. I mean...I haven’t heard of any other hero doing this. Would signing on for counseling make it worse? I mean if the guy’s not secure, if people find out, I’m not just a joke of a hero, I’m a joke of a hero with mental issues that might make me seem unstable. But what if it helps. I mean. There's no risk in trying at least right? I might take them up on it. Anyway, I need to go back to work. The Mayor’s doing some...big...something downtown. I think it’s a toy drive. He wanted to get some kid-friendly heroes in so he called in the Super Pals and Flexo invited me to come along. Might be his attempt to get me some exposure but well...the Pals aren't exactly the most respected team on the block either. They’re the kid-friendly little guys club and Flexo tries to make the less popular heroes look good whenever he can. I’m gonna go to it. Maybe going out for something that doesn't involve Super Criminals and schemes to reverse the State’s gravity and float it to the moon or something. Besides, it’s not like we’ve got anything major going on hero wise, I can take a few hours off. I mean, is the world gonna end if I just make a public appearance? Who cares about the joke hero. The Martyr and the others will be able to handle things without me for an afternoon.


At the house at the edge of the woods there lived a Woodsman and his three children. The youngest of these children was a newborn baby boy. Upon the baby’s birth, the Woodsman’s wife died quickly and quietly. The Woodsman grieved this loss enormously, and for many days and nights could hardly bear to touch his tools.

The Woodsman’s oldest daughter, Tove, took notice of this. She kept herself awake into the wee hours of the darkness, peering at her father as he trained an empty gaze on the fireplace night after night. Each new day, his tools remained untouched and the woods grew thick and the food upon the dinner table grew thin. At school, Tove kept quiet, praying silently that when she returned home her father would be in good spirits. In her mind, the hearth swelled and her siblings lay on their bellies on the floor playing with newly carved toys. She would set the table just right for her father, and he would serve them all a hearty supper smelling of warming spices. The growling of her stomach shook her from the daydream, and her ears perked as she overheard a group of schoolchildren whispering amongst each other.

She approached the circle of little huddled bodies wearily, listening closely to the disjointed chittering.

“Glowing eyes all the better to see you with!” “Razor-sharp claws all the better to catch you with!” “A big bloody mouth all the better to eat you with!”

Tove poked her head through an open cranny in the circle and murmured. “Who?” The children went quiet, all their pointed gazes landing on her at once. Tove suddenly felt much smaller than she was, and tucked her chin into her chest.

“Only the big. Bad. Wolf .” One child sneered. “The most horrible, most wretched, most enormous creature in all the woods! He guards the forest’s heart, ready to gobble up any naughty children who wander alone.”

Tove gulped. She did not care much to hear about what monsters lie in wait just outside her house. She shook her head and turned to leave the huddle when one boy chimed in.

“They say if someone’s brave enough to slay him, they’ll never go hungry again, that they’ll always have fresh meat at their door.” Tove stood still. She thought of her growling stomach, and wondered if that same gnawing feeling stewed in the bellies of her father, her sister, the baby. They were in no condition to face such a beast. And so Tove took to the woods.

Between her malnourished smallness and matured face, worn heavily with violet strokes under her eyes, Tove looked exactly her age; all of seven years old.

With trembling ankles and wrists, skinny and jutting with days of ceaseless hunger, the girl trudged across the frozen dirt, snow-damp leaves sticking to her little shoes. Gnarled branches twined sharply in the sleeves of her shirt, pinching at the loose fabric as she passed by. Her head swam with chill and hunger and exhaustion, but she was not afraid. The forest contained no greater horrors than did the four walls of her home, of this she was quite certain. Even if the wolf was so terrible as the schoolchildren said, she would not allow herself to cry.

As Tove drew deeper into the woods, with fingers frostbitten and stinging wrapped tight around the handle of her father’s hatchet, she happened upon what she knew to be the heart of the forest. For it looked like a heart indeed. A convoluted knot of roots, all gnarled and endlessly weaving, towered above her. It was at least three times her height. She squinted at it, considering that at once it may have been many trees, which grew too closely together and eventually could no longer be differentiated. The heart thrummed with life. At first she thought it to be a trick of the light, but as she inspected it closer she was certain that the system of roots was moving. Its pace was lethargic, but all the same rhythmic and predictable; the mass of roots curling in on itself then expanding, curling, expanding, and beating just as true as the heart in Tove’s own chest.

After so many arduous and monotonous hours of exploration, Tove’s fingers twitched about the handle of the axe, longing to be of some use. But the little girl steadied herself; she had no quarrel with the heart, only the dreaded dire wolf which guarded it.

“Only call him once and he shall come…” Tove whispered to herself, her lips slow with chilling numbness. She stuck two fingers in her mouth and whistled as her father did to call her to supper - when they still held supper of course- and waited. In the permeable stillness of anticipation, Tove found that perhaps there was some fear in her yet, as the back of her neck prickled with something awful. She was reminded of all the things the children had whispered about at school: an uncountable many teeth, yellow lamp-like eyes, monstrous claws larger than her head, a growl so deep and so terrible that the very ground trembled in its wake. But Tove heard no such growl. Instead, slowly approaching, her ears perked at a cool and tremulous mewling accompanied by a damp thumping of paws. She craned her head and peered into the darkness, the hatchet poised behind her head.

“If you be the wolf, then show yourself!” She cried, sounding only a bit braver than she felt. From that spot of darkness crawled a creature which was only remarkable in its thinness. A wolf, yes, but neither big nor bad nor frightening. Frightful, perhaps, in its hollowness; strange and wan with a coat of matted and silvering fur. The girl stared at the weary thing, perplexed, lowering the axe of her father.

The wolf seemed to take notice, but did not bare its teeth in reply, instead offering a slow and deliberate nod towards the blade in Tove’s hand. She glanced at it and felt suddenly quite sick with herself for boasting to kill something so obviously pathetic.

“You have come to slay me.” The wolf spoke, its voice laden with grit and gravel, heavy with disuse. The girl winced, but was not want to lie, and nodded apologetically. The wolf slowly blinked its large dull eyes and continued. “Well, then.” Tove stared at it. If she were to kill this creature it would be no great victory, no brutal slaying, but a merciful and swift death. With childish curiosity, she found herself approaching the thing with an outstretched hand. The creature did not flinch away, and Tove felt no fear as she lay her hand upon its head and scratched affectionately behind its drooping ears. Touching it, she was startled to find its body cold as ice beneath its meager coat.

“You’re cold.” She said plainly. The wolf nodded solemnly.

“This winter is especially cruel, little one. You are wise to wear such a warm coat.” Said the wolf, its nose pointing to her grandmother's hooded cloak, passed down to her as the eldest child. Tove had not grown into it yet, and it hung heavy and limp about her tiny shoulders. The girl considered this a moment and unfastened the clasps of her coat before wrapping it about the body of the wolf.

“Oh child- I cannot accept this.” The wolf protested as it was dressed, but it lacked the strength to shake the cloak from its shoulders.

“I’m not so cold.” Tove lied, her teeth clacking sharply together.

“It is a waste to bestow warmth upon something so near to death as myself.” The wolf said, though it held no sorrow in its voice. Tove’s brows creased. She was not so downtrodden yet to believe the lies of grownups; knowing that even the most fleeting moments of kindness mattered greatly.

“You are to die?” Tove asked.

“You are to kill me.” The wolf answered.

“Is that what you want?”

The wolf sighed, its slight shoulders heaving under the weight of its breath.

“I have watched these forests since I was only a pup. For many days and months and years I wandered here, guarding her heart.” Its eyes flickered to the gnarled mass, beating slow and constant. “But I am old and weary now, not so strong or brave as one such as yourself. There are powers too great now for me to defend her against.”

The corners of Tove’s ears burned at the compliment, but she was thankful for the warmth.

“I am not strong.” She muttered.

“But you are brave.” The wolf said, a graveness creeping into its voice. “You came all this way. You have heard the stories. You know what must be done.” Tove blinked in awe at the creature. She was certain she did not want to kill it, and yet she recalled the day she found a deer in the wood just outside her home. The poor thing had caught itself in a bear trap, its legs bent at unnatural angles, mewling in pain. Tove watched her father take a hunting knife to its throat, joyless and somber. He had explained later that it was a kinder death, if a bit more expedient. The wolf was not so different, only a bit more dignified, nobly bowing its head, accepting its fate.

Tove’s fingers twitched tighter around the handle as she raised it slowly above her head. She sucked in a deep, frozen breath, steeling herself. The wolf met her gaze, its eyes dark and enormous. She grimaced, mumbled a prayer, and swung the hatchet. It sliced through the air and landed against the wolf’s head with an ear-splitting crack. The blade stuck on the lip of its cranium, and Tove wiggled it free, bits of blood and fur flecking the snow. She raised the hatchet and swung again. And again. And again. Until the wolf lay in a muddled heap. She breathed hard, the cold stinging her throat and nose. Her arms ached, trembling with strain, and the axe fell from her little fingers. She stared at the remnants of the wolf with wide eyes in disbelief of her own strength.

As she looked on, a smell wafted past her, warm and gamey and inviting. With a sinking feeling she realized it was the fresh meat she was smelling, raw and bloody. Her stomach churned with hunger. The sensation bubbled past her ribs, her throat, her mouth, consuming the whole of her body. She dropped to the ground. In a mad frenzy Tove took handfuls of bloodied muscle, tearing into it with her baby teeth. It was tough and ugly and yet she carried on until she was stained deep crimson from her chin to her fingertips. She licked clean the bones, picked pieces of flesh from fur, breathed in the remaining smell as if it would fill her belly all the same. When the meat had all gone, and still her stomach rumbled, Tove looked down at the tarnished snow. Before her lay two coats; that of the wolf and that of her grandmother, side by side.

Her eyes flickered between the two as the gravity of her deed began to settle in her mind. She conjured the image of her father, staring blankly into the fire, her sister scraping a fork along an empty plate, the baby crying out in its crib. She would not allow them to starve down to nothing.

With a final lick of her lips, Tove shirked her clothes, but the cold hardly registered. Over her head, she draped the silvery pelt of the wolf, and as it enveloped her twiggy limbs she felt it grow heavy. The fur seemed to expand as if it were breathing, each silvery hair lifting and falling, its color shifting from dull gray to a deep dark black. The edges of the pelt knit together with some invisible thread, stretching across Tove’s slight frame. She closed her eyes and breathed in the winter’s air, but no longer felt its sting, no longer hungered, no longer starved for rest.

Tove opened her eyes. The wolf stalked away.

The house at the edge of the woods held one less soul in it that night and a great and terrible emptiness was felt at the meager dinner table. For hours, the Woodsman wandered the forest in frantic search of his eldest child. He turned every stone, marked every tree, kicked up any patch of leaves or snow which her little body might be buried beneath. In the late hours of the day, as the sun drew itself into the earth and set the forest floor ablaze, the father knelt in the snow at the sight of something familiar. But as he looked upon the ground, what was born as hope swiftly twisted itself into a horrible and all-encompassing grief. Laid before him in the snow was the coat of his mother, passed down to his daughter, stained rusty red and stinking with old blood.

When the Woodsman returned to his children at the house at the edge of the woods, there sat on the stoop of the door a bundle of meat. Great hunks of venison, still bloody-fresh and wrapped in twine stained the ground. And every seven days, exactly when the last of the meat ran out, the Woodsman would find another fresh bundle at the door.


The meeting location they were bound for was a plaza in the city centre. Madeline and Billie set out as soon as there was enough light to see by, but with Madeline’s injury, their progress was slow. By the time they arrived, it looked like the rest of the group had already gathered. The others all stood spaced out around the square. She and Billie slotted into one of the gaps they’d left. Madeline recognised most of the people from last time, but there were a few new faces, and a few of the old ones were missing. She tried not to think too hard about why that might be. A few greetings were exchanged, and the man Madeline remembered as the group’s leader, Kelvin, nodded at them as they took their place. After a quick look around, he raised a hand for silence. “Hello, all. It looks like most of us are here, so I’ll begin. Is that okay with everyone?” Madeline joined in with the nodding and murmurs of assent. “Good.” Kelvin paused, glancing in her direction. “First off, I want to say welcome back to our newest member. After the last meeting I wasn’t sure we’d see you again, so thank you for making the journey.” Unsure if she was meant to respond, Madeline smiled in reply. When the pause extended slightly longer than was comfortable, she hurriedly searched for something to say. “Err… Thanks for having me,” she ventured. Seemingly satisfied with that response, Kelvin continued with his greetings. As in the previous meeting, the group went through reports on Poiloog activity, human activity, and any other observations that might be of import, all led by Kelvin and Kate. Madeline tried to listen attentively. She knew that having access to this kind of information, collected by numerous people, could provide a strong tactical advantage in survival. But her mind wouldn’t settle in the moment. Standing still was impossible with her injuries. She would think she had found a comfortable position, only for some other aching or stinging to rear its head. The result was a continual shifting and shuffling, with a portion of her mind permanently occupied with seeking a way to minimise the pain. What little focus she had left was occupied rehearsing hers and Billie’s proposal. Every possible scenario played in her mind. The group's abject refusal. Their enthusiastic agreement. Even the eventuality of Poiloogs attacking just as Madeline started speaking. She knew that none of this would help her now, but still, she couldn’t stop. Eventually, the usual business of the meeting seemed to conclude. She forced her attention back to what was being said just in time to hear Kelvin ask, “Is there anything else anyone would like to put forward?” Madeline glanced over at Billie to find their eyes already resting on her. She nodded, and they turned back to the group. “I— I mean, *we* have something,” they said. “Go right ahead,” Kelvin replied with a wave of his arm. “Thanks,” Billie said. “Mads and I have been thinking, it looks like our people were taken by the Poiloogs. Her friend, Liam. And my brother, Joe. And I’m sure the rest of you have lost someone too.” A few members of the group exchanged sidelong glances, but most nodded along. Billie looked over to Madeline and gestured for her to continue. “Well,” she said, “we were thinking that, seeing as the Poiloogs seem to take them somewhere, there’s a good chance they might all still be alive. So… we want to try and rescue them.” A buzz passed through the assembled crowd. Neighbours whispered to each other. Some voiced concern or dissent. Others simply stared on in shock. “We tried that,” Kate said from across the circle. “And it's not like we gave up on it. We continually observe the Poiloogs' activities in the hopes of discovering more.” Kelvin nodded at Kate’s words. “Billie, you know why—” “Please just listen,” Billie said firmly, raising a hand for silence. “You can at least hear us out.” There was a brief pause, where Kelvin looked on the brink of saying something. But then, he closed his mouth and nodded for them to continue. “Thank you,” Billie said. “We do understand that this has been tried before.” They turned to face Kate. “And we appreciate all of your ongoing work.” At a nod from her friend, Madeline took over. “But we just *can’t* wait any longer. I don’t know about you, but the person I lost… He’s just a child. I hadn’t known him long, but he was already like family to me. I looked after him. I took responsibility. I *have* to try and help him. Otherwise, I don’t see how I can—” Her voice cracked slightly, and she swallowed hard, fighting back the burn of tears rising behind her eyes. With a deep breath, she used the forced pause to glance around, noticing some of the affronted glares softening — wrinkled brows smoothing out, tensed jawlines relaxing. She opened her mouth to continue, but the lump in her throat caught the words. Noticing her struggling, Billie resumed, “So we came up with a plan. Or at least the idea of one. All that we ask is that you hear us out and tell us what you think. If you don’t want to help, you’ll get no judgement or ill will from us.” They glanced over at Madeline, who shook her head, still struggling to hold back the flood. With a small, sympathetic smile, Billie turned their attention back to the group. “We can’t follow the Poiloogs when they're on their ships without drawing too much attention to ourselves. So the best way to find out where they take the people they capture…is to get captured.” Anticipating the reaction, Billie held up a hand to maintain silence. “We know that it’s a risk. And it’s not one we’re asking you to take. Only that you let me—” “Or me,” Madeline said quickly. “—take it. Whoever it is,” they glanced sidelong at Madeline with a wry smile, “will conceal a Bluetooth tracker on them. That will allow the rest of us to follow along at a safer distance. If we have enough of us in the approximate area, we should at least be able to get a sense of the trajectory they take.” Kate nodded approvingly. “A good idea. And I’m pleased you’ve given it some thought. But even if we could find enough trackers and receivers, the range on them is not that far. If we wanted to follow along it would still be tricky at the speeds their ships travel.” “Which is why the captured person would leave a trail of another kind as well, in case we lost them,” Billie said. “Yes,” Madeline jumped in. “We’re not sure exactly what yet. Perhaps they could trail oil behind them. Or drop lego bricks along the way. Or carry something that emits a signal we can track. Just something that the others can follow.” “And how will they do this without the Poiloogs noticing?” Kelvin asked. Billie nodded. “A good question. We figure that the Poiloogs rely on their mind control to keep prisoners in check. As long as the captured person can keep the Poiloogs out of their head, we doubt that they’ll have many problems dropping things off the side of the ship undetected.” “That’s a lot of guessing and figuring,” Kelvin said. “A lot of hoping.” “We know,” said Madeline. “But hope is all that we’ve got.” A long pause followed, leaving Madeline’s heart racing as she surveyed the assembled people, trying to judge what they were thinking from their faces. She glanced over at Billie, who seemed to be doing the same. Finally, Kelvin spoke. “It’s not a bad plan. In fact, it’s similar to one we’ve tried before. And for that reason, I cannot in good faith commit this group to its execution. We’ve lost too many to this endeavour already.” Madeline’s heart sank, taking with it the last of her resolve. The words left her weak and trembling, fighting the urge to sink to the floor and never get up again. “That said,” Kelvin continued. “I encourage everyone here to think for themselves whether this is something they would like to be a part of. And short of committing the group to assist you, I will offer any help that I can.” A modicum of strength crept back into Madeline’s limbs as she nodded in thanks to the leader. “Now if there’s nothing else…?” Kelvin said, turning back to the rest of the group. “I suggest those of you that would like to discuss anything further can do so before we disperse. And I’ll post the location and time of the next meeting. Thank you.” As the other members turned to discuss things with their neighbours, Billie shuffled closer to her. “Not a bad result then,” they said. “Could have been better,” Madeline replied. “Could have been worse.” “I suppose now we’ll just have to see how many people want to help.” Together, they turned to survey the people around them, watching and waiting to see who might volunteer.


Here is a story about someone trying to become a better person.

Here is a carnival and a summertime of any year and lights and people and joyful screaming. Look at the sturgeon moon stamped onto the black sky. Now, if you would, walk out of the crowd and into a darker part of the carnival. You can come back later.

After a silent walk along slick, dark grass- yes, I know, a carnival in the dark? You're too bound by habit. Have a little imagination. Anyway. After your walk here is a single booth.

Here is a man in a dark suit, standing in his single booth. And here are the lamb heads stuck to the walls, eyes crusted with blood, definitely alive once and definitely not now. Now we have the pieces.

Watch. Here is a young woman, young by her own standards, anyway, with dark hair and a blue silk scarf. Watch her steps, focused and measured. Here is the wet grass of the carnival field and the man's raised head and small, ugly smile as she approaches the booth with practiced shyness.

"It's twenty-five tokens to try." he says quietly.

Here comes her nod.

Twenty-five tokens to try. Tale as old as time. Here is the purse and the plastic coins and the hands briefly touching, no not like that, she is married and he is not that kind of man, and here is the dagger, silver and angry.

See how the woman looks at the knife, like it could kill her itself without her intervention. Remember that this is a story about someone trying to become a better person, if you can.

Now, if you will, watch the man as he turns into the darkness of the booth. He's walking out in his polished black shoes to the backyard. It’s quieter back here, away from the noise of the carnival. There’s a reason he chose to put his stand a little ways away. This needs silence. He comes to a stop in front of the tall wooden fence.

See, and I am sorry about this, but see the agitated lambs behind the backer rails. He's picking one of them up at random. He's a businessman, not a monster. He doesn't care which one dies.

The lamb, of course, is bleating and kicking and screaming, and the woman is waiting patiently outside, the way young women with dark hair and blue scarves are wont to do, and the man is walking steadfastly back to the booth as the lamb screams, for, what, its mother? The fence?

See her fingers run over the hilt of the dagger. Watch as she bites her lip; she has a question.

"Is it very painful?"

A pause. Remember what this story is about. Always remember. Watch as the man puffs his chest as he answers.

"No! As long as you do it well."

(He means to encourage her to hit the heart. Many other patrons hit the stomach, and you know how that goes.)

"I will."

Pay attention now. She is tensing her arm and clenching her jaw. He is doing the same. Who is more frightened?

Well?

Anyway. An adult sheep is tied up a hundred yards away, straining at her rope. Look at her panic, not a slaughterhouse panic but a motherly one. A panic of runningto rather than runningaway.

He closes his eyes, and she steadies something snakelike writhing inside herself. He lets go of the lamb and whistles in an entirely nonmusical way.

Here! Here, watch! The lamb is running across the fairground and her mother is bleating in joy, and the lamb's dark animal eyes are shining and catching the light of the stars! This is deeply joyous, but you want to see the woman and the knife and the man, I know.

Well, fine. Here she is throwing the dagger, something in her face dying as she lets go of the hilt with a practiced flick of the wrist. Here is the dagger spinning out! And here is the lamb stumbling on its long lamb legs, almost to its big sheep mother who will keep it warm forever!

She misses! The knife hits the ground, piercing the soil. The woman’s hair looks a little less dark as she retrieves it and throws it again at the hesitant lamb.

Daggers are faster than carnival-dwelling lambs, so watch, if you can, as the blade slices through the air for a second time. The lamb keeps its little lamb face on its mothers soft sheep body. The dark-haired woman averts her eyes and swallows down something dark before it can reach her lips or the cool night air.

But wait: she begins to shout in confusion and anger, but the lamb’s white wool remains unstained with blood, so what can be the reason?

Well, you were watching the lamb and the knife and the woman, and you have forgotten to watch the man, haven’t you?

Here he is running as the woman shouts angrily. Here is the man running, running, running across the slick grass trying to catch the knife as it draws closer to the inside the caverns of the lamb’s chest.

Here is the look of terror on his face, of regret and speed and trying-to-make-up-for-it-all. Here is the knife and the man and the man and the knife and the woman and the lamb and the knife and the night and the ferris wheel and the booth and the mother sheep straining at her rope! Here is the man and the woman colliding as he uses his manbody to stop her from taking up the dagger for a third time, and here she is in understandable shock, after all, he said twenty five tokens to try, and she’s paid her twenty five tokens, so what’s this?

Here is hand grazing dagger hilt and woman falling silent.

Men, as a rule, can’t run faster than daggers any more than lambs can, and this particular man can’t run faster than dark haired women with blue scarves. So, here is the dagger thrown for the third time as the lamb stands by its mother.

Nobody can quite believe what’s happened. Then.

Here is a screaming, screaming lamb and an agitated silent mother stomping at the wet carnival grass. Here is a lamb that isn’t screaming anymore, but, oh, a man that is.

Watch him as he falls to his knees in his expensive carnival suit, wailing to nothing, kneeling outside his out-of-the-way booth. The woman’s lips form a thin line as she stands up. He is screaming and screaming and crying and the lamb is twitching and the knife is completely silent in a rather self-satisfied way.

“What the hell was that?”

He won’t stop yelling and kissing the lamb’s face and grabbing its hooves and holding his hand over its bleeding stomach. He won’t stop shouting thick apologies to the silent sheep standing over him.

Just watch for a second. Don’t forget who opened the booth.

He stops screaming and grabs at the mother sheep’s wool. Silence. The woman with dark hair and a blue scarf can’t decide whether to stay or go. She’s young enough to stay.

Have you noticed the man’s eyes? He doesn’t have spectacles, by the way. They’re big and brown and dark, and so are the mother sheep’s. He takes the dagger from the lamb’s stomach, which makes its body shiver.

Here are two pairs of eyes. Here is one set of hooves and one set of manhands. Here is a thud of impact. Here is a perfectly placed wound. Here is puncturing vein and sheep’s eyes dying and a second scream, third scream, fourth scream because now the woman is screaming. She should have been old enough to leave.

The man recovers quicker this time, watch. Now both a mother and her daughter are dead, not just one, and things seem more in balance. Wretched mirrors and all that. He stands up and brushes the carnival dew off his carnival suit.

“You can take them both if you’d like.” The woman is shocked. Watch her face in the moonlight; she’s older than she’ll tell you. Blame society, if you’d like. But, then, she’s not that old, so blame her histrionic personality, if that suits you better.

“But I didn’t want you to do that!” she says, almost a wail.

“She did.”

“The sheep told you-”

“I was trying to be better.”

You’ve remembered the point of all of this, haven’t you?

The dark-haired woman purses her lips.

“You probably shouldn’t run this stand, then.”

He wasn’t expecting this. He drops his voice.

“I know. I-”

“Actually, I will take both. The lamb and the sheep. Please.”

He falls silent, looks at her as a betrayer.

“I’m under no obligation to be better myself.” she says, impatient.

“It’ll be ten extra-”

Seriously?

“No.”

Thank God.

He nods.

“I can bag them myself.” says the woman.

She’s not really asking but she’s not really telling. I don’t know. You decide, but remember it’s not terribly important.

He nods and they walk over to the booth together, both trying very hard not to look back at the two white bodies lying in the grass that is rapidly becoming crusted, not dripping, with blood.

“Do you mind if I leave you to it?” he says eventually, sticking a fork through the porridgey silence.

“Not at all.”

A few more paces from both of them.

“There are plastic bags in the cupboard under the cash register. Don’t, um, take any money.”

This man is remarkably tactless.

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

Ha.

“Well, they’re my wages.”

“Don’t leave me alone with your cash register, then.”

Here is a woman with a point.

Here is a man averting his eyes as she walks behind the booth.

“I’m leaving now.” he says, darkly serious. He looks at her with deep distrust. The woman remembers her mother and she also remembers the opened but uneaten bag of granola she has at home, which is going to go stale if she doesn’t do something with it, maybe trail mix or cookies or just breakfast.

“Okay. I’ll get the bags, then I’ll leave too.”

She knows he wants to hear that she understands. It helps with trusting sometimes. You understand.

Here is a man turning away. Here is a man passing the bodies of a mother and a daughter and trying not to slip on the wet grass. Here is a man walking towards the lights of a carnival, and getting on a ferris wheel, and watching a woman as she does exactly as promised. She’s quick and neat bagging the sheep. Her blue scarf blows in the wind. Her skin is golden in the infant sunrise. He feels nothing.

Here is a man who is thinking about sailing to France, and the sheep in the fields of Old England, and not working in a carnival for the rest of his life.

Here is a story about someone trying to become a better person.