Short Stories - Issue 1
Ghoul
I have dark circles under my eyes.
From a distance, they look like pools of muddy ink under the skin. Up close, they look like bruises.
I used to date a girl, a very lovely, gentle creature, who said it was hereditary.
She said my mother had the same eyes.
As the years have gone by, the skin has hardened, darkened and begun to atrophy. There are cracks that run in ever-expanding circles, like the inside of a dead tree, sawn to the stump and smoothed by the elements. I have worn sunglasses since 1974, which is convenient as it's enabled me to colour-match them with a dark tan leather jacket I've owned since, I think, 1976-77.
In the last year I have visited a doctor who said I should sleep more and worry less, and a dermatologist who said I should drink less and run more.
"Your diet is healthy?" the last one asked.
"Well, I just eat bats and that's it."
He shook his head – doctors always do – and directed my attention to a pamphlet entitled So You Want to Give up Bats? The front page featured – and probably still does - several strangers posing as a family on a beach, flashing brilliant smiles from the pamphlet to eternity. The image is clean and, from what I can remember, the lines of text run softly around the cover's perimeter. You might be impressed; you might not. One small detail will catch your eye, though - a single thought bubble extending from the father's head:
“No Jerry, I will not eat a bat today.”
The two children, with smiles as wide as their shit-eating parents, are feasting on some type of bubbling, grey larvae; if I had to guess - mealworms.
Honestly, I dropped the thing in the first bin I found.
Atrophy is a peculiar smell. Like something is dying but will not rot. I have read that it is basically mummification. Am I becoming a fossil? Will I end up as a shrunken head in some museum of curiosities nobody visits?
The middle and lower third of my face is hard like stone at this point. When I tap it, there is a heavy rapping sound. I sometimes think if I had more visitors - a dog, or some other short-lived friend of man - I could pretend there was knocking on the door. We'd laugh and laugh, and then, after a brief discussion of what had occurred, go our separate ways.
I know now you're wondering where I live. I know about the letters. Of course, I couldn't say. It wouldn't be right. What I can disclose is that it's not terribly far from where you are now. Even now.
My house is simple, it doesn't stand out, so don't go thinking you can find me and just turn up.
I've kept things simple inside too; various mementos from my working life and not much else: 30 years selling suitcases from China - you can do that kind of work over the phone - and five years pretending God had touched my soul. Of course, he has not. I suppose what I'm saying is there's still a lot of suitcases in my house. Do I work now? Not at all; my face has put paid to that.
One thing to be grateful for, I suppose.
Life here is quiet. My neighbours tend to their business and I tend to mine. There are few children. For a while there was an ice cream man who came by but he seems to have learned his lesson. There is no money in ice cream, I told him. Not much money in most iced things, to be honest.
At night, the bats gather at my window. They tighten into a single mask, swarming black 'til I let them in.
And how they run against the rushes!
There is a whistling as I turn in; a draft caught in the gaps of my chin. I am splintering and I am cracking. I am almost hollow.
Just don't call me a ghoul.
From a distance, they look like pools of muddy ink under the skin. Up close, they look like bruises.
I used to date a girl, a very lovely, gentle creature, who said it was hereditary.
She said my mother had the same eyes.
As the years have gone by, the skin has hardened, darkened and begun to atrophy. There are cracks that run in ever-expanding circles, like the inside of a dead tree, sawn to the stump and smoothed by the elements. I have worn sunglasses since 1974, which is convenient as it's enabled me to colour-match them with a dark tan leather jacket I've owned since, I think, 1976-77.
In the last year I have visited a doctor who said I should sleep more and worry less, and a dermatologist who said I should drink less and run more.
"Your diet is healthy?" the last one asked.
"Well, I just eat bats and that's it."
He shook his head – doctors always do – and directed my attention to a pamphlet entitled So You Want to Give up Bats? The front page featured – and probably still does - several strangers posing as a family on a beach, flashing brilliant smiles from the pamphlet to eternity. The image is clean and, from what I can remember, the lines of text run softly around the cover's perimeter. You might be impressed; you might not. One small detail will catch your eye, though - a single thought bubble extending from the father's head:
“No Jerry, I will not eat a bat today.”
The two children, with smiles as wide as their shit-eating parents, are feasting on some type of bubbling, grey larvae; if I had to guess - mealworms.
Honestly, I dropped the thing in the first bin I found.
Atrophy is a peculiar smell. Like something is dying but will not rot. I have read that it is basically mummification. Am I becoming a fossil? Will I end up as a shrunken head in some museum of curiosities nobody visits?
The middle and lower third of my face is hard like stone at this point. When I tap it, there is a heavy rapping sound. I sometimes think if I had more visitors - a dog, or some other short-lived friend of man - I could pretend there was knocking on the door. We'd laugh and laugh, and then, after a brief discussion of what had occurred, go our separate ways.
I know now you're wondering where I live. I know about the letters. Of course, I couldn't say. It wouldn't be right. What I can disclose is that it's not terribly far from where you are now. Even now.
My house is simple, it doesn't stand out, so don't go thinking you can find me and just turn up.
I've kept things simple inside too; various mementos from my working life and not much else: 30 years selling suitcases from China - you can do that kind of work over the phone - and five years pretending God had touched my soul. Of course, he has not. I suppose what I'm saying is there's still a lot of suitcases in my house. Do I work now? Not at all; my face has put paid to that.
One thing to be grateful for, I suppose.
Life here is quiet. My neighbours tend to their business and I tend to mine. There are few children. For a while there was an ice cream man who came by but he seems to have learned his lesson. There is no money in ice cream, I told him. Not much money in most iced things, to be honest.
At night, the bats gather at my window. They tighten into a single mask, swarming black 'til I let them in.
And how they run against the rushes!
There is a whistling as I turn in; a draft caught in the gaps of my chin. I am splintering and I am cracking. I am almost hollow.
Just don't call me a ghoul.
Justin Elesia is a favourite. He has work in Circus, and the South Bank Review, along with various titbits all over the internet waxing about the film, Ninja Terminator. You could say he's wasted a lot of time, but why be a dick about it? When not writing letters to celebrities he believes slighted him, he is answering court summons' or stockpiling a virtual library of records on Discogs. He's also really trying to write more. Anyway, he thanks you for reading his work and invites you over to his house for tea and biscuits: www.yellaholes.wordpress.com/
Melon Tossing
There are few things more satisfying than launching watermelons in low gravity. Does wonders for the ego. You just take a standard three-step drop, plant your significantly reduced weight on your rear leg, step forward, and let her fly. She’ll carry for ages and fall with a satisfying squish. Not that you’d hear it. But having our own variations of these melons on Hegedrus, I know what sound it should make.
And here you’re probably wondering why I’d be wasting food way out in the Milky Way’s Lesser Antilles, on this lunar outpost, circling planet E-Minor. To which I’d respond, have you ever tried to eat a family-sized cabbage? I’m flush; worry not. When Qow needs a fix, he just whisks down to the Americas for a nice slab of even-toed ungulate and a bottle of vitis vinifera.
But Qow’s going on a bit. I tend to do that when I’m nervous. And my life at the moment isn’t quite as carefree as tossing watermelons might make it sound. For one, it’s Sunday, week-one of my third fantasy football season, and I’ve been over-tinkering my lineup. The second, though it relates to the first, pertains to my job here. In addition to being a self-proclaimed Earthophile, my job here is to report on the status of the Helium-3 supply to my superior, General Zeorf. The humans must always be, to use his words, “light-years away from getting their simian little digits on the stuff.”
Helium-3, in case you’re from the far-reaching Camargo Cluster, is the fuel of my civilization. It’s an isotope harvested from the solar wind that collects on atmosphereless atolls across the galaxy. It’s collecting on my boots as I scuff through the regolith on this otherwise barren surface. Instead of using fusion to split uranium molecules, which, to be frank, have produced some spectacular Earthly follies, Helium-3 relies upon nuclear fission reactors. No radioactive waste. Harnessing the power of a star, a single spacecraft’s worth could power all of
North America for a cycle around its sun.
Humans have known about it for years, but have only recently made the strides to do anything with it. As we speak, the Chinese have a rover scuttling about up here, poking around for the stuff. It makes for great target practice with the melons. Left to their own devices, it looks like humans will turn the Moon into the Middle East, and just in time for the start of the playoffs, which is a problem.
The thing is, General Zeorf would never allow it to come to that. Before then, he’d hover three or four spaceship carriers over the surface, and Earth would suffer a more totalitarian enslavement than the self-imposed one they are currently living with. And that would be the end of fantasy football, and I am way too excited about my draft this year to allow that to happen. After a painful exit in the playoffs last year, I have a real shot at winning this thing.
I mean take a look at this lineup. ODB and T.Y. at wide receiver. Beast Mode and Ivory at running back. Wait. T.Y.’s up against the Jets defense this week? Maybe instead... Damn it, there I go again. Tinkering.
Qow drops back to pass, sees ODB deep, launches it. Could it be? Whaaahhh. Qow does the unimaginable, a 600 yard pass for the touchdown. Some fantasy owners will be very happy with that play.
You want a real challenge, though? Try clearing the Aristarchus Crater; it’s two times as deep as the Grand Canyon, two lengths of Manhattan across.
I don’t know, with so many of me spread throughout the galaxy, there’s a good chance my reports don’t even get read. Mid-way through last season I started including updates on my team. General Zeorf never said a word. And besides, do we Hegedrians really need to have our hands on all the Helium-3 in the galaxy? Would it hurt us to leave the humans even a little? We’re not even using the stuff here, and its three miles deep.
Please don’t think I’ve been sitting idly with this information. I’ve been very active on my blog, extolling the benefits of renewable energy on Earth. I’ve sent some very strong-worded letters to a number of heads of state. I’ve trolled the conservative sites. It’s so easy to bait those guys—their vitriol is palpable. Solar and wind might not send you across the galaxy, but it could keep you content long after you’ve pumped and fracked every drop of oil and gas out of the ground. And besides, interstellar travel isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. Most of it’s
like this—a lot of empty space.
But if we are crunching the numbers, Helium 3’s worth an easy three billion US a ton, and their estimates of a million tons are far less than what’s actually here. In short, it’s not if, but when.
So let’s say I let old Zeorfy know what’s up. Week one of a sixteen week season starts today. Let’s say the message is flagged and processed in a week or two. The fleet would get here at the earliest, say week fourteen. Just in time for theplayoffs. A year from when ODB dropped 30 points on me and ended my season. But now ODB is mine, and I got a real shot at winning this thing. On the other hand, if I wait, I could throw a few melons around, maybe even a cabbage or two, and scare the bejesus out of whoever arrives first. That would buy me at
least a couple of weeks.
I think that’s what I’ll do. Humans, whether you know it or not, this is your last fantasy season; I hope you are loaded up.
And here you’re probably wondering why I’d be wasting food way out in the Milky Way’s Lesser Antilles, on this lunar outpost, circling planet E-Minor. To which I’d respond, have you ever tried to eat a family-sized cabbage? I’m flush; worry not. When Qow needs a fix, he just whisks down to the Americas for a nice slab of even-toed ungulate and a bottle of vitis vinifera.
But Qow’s going on a bit. I tend to do that when I’m nervous. And my life at the moment isn’t quite as carefree as tossing watermelons might make it sound. For one, it’s Sunday, week-one of my third fantasy football season, and I’ve been over-tinkering my lineup. The second, though it relates to the first, pertains to my job here. In addition to being a self-proclaimed Earthophile, my job here is to report on the status of the Helium-3 supply to my superior, General Zeorf. The humans must always be, to use his words, “light-years away from getting their simian little digits on the stuff.”
Helium-3, in case you’re from the far-reaching Camargo Cluster, is the fuel of my civilization. It’s an isotope harvested from the solar wind that collects on atmosphereless atolls across the galaxy. It’s collecting on my boots as I scuff through the regolith on this otherwise barren surface. Instead of using fusion to split uranium molecules, which, to be frank, have produced some spectacular Earthly follies, Helium-3 relies upon nuclear fission reactors. No radioactive waste. Harnessing the power of a star, a single spacecraft’s worth could power all of
North America for a cycle around its sun.
Humans have known about it for years, but have only recently made the strides to do anything with it. As we speak, the Chinese have a rover scuttling about up here, poking around for the stuff. It makes for great target practice with the melons. Left to their own devices, it looks like humans will turn the Moon into the Middle East, and just in time for the start of the playoffs, which is a problem.
The thing is, General Zeorf would never allow it to come to that. Before then, he’d hover three or four spaceship carriers over the surface, and Earth would suffer a more totalitarian enslavement than the self-imposed one they are currently living with. And that would be the end of fantasy football, and I am way too excited about my draft this year to allow that to happen. After a painful exit in the playoffs last year, I have a real shot at winning this thing.
I mean take a look at this lineup. ODB and T.Y. at wide receiver. Beast Mode and Ivory at running back. Wait. T.Y.’s up against the Jets defense this week? Maybe instead... Damn it, there I go again. Tinkering.
Qow drops back to pass, sees ODB deep, launches it. Could it be? Whaaahhh. Qow does the unimaginable, a 600 yard pass for the touchdown. Some fantasy owners will be very happy with that play.
You want a real challenge, though? Try clearing the Aristarchus Crater; it’s two times as deep as the Grand Canyon, two lengths of Manhattan across.
I don’t know, with so many of me spread throughout the galaxy, there’s a good chance my reports don’t even get read. Mid-way through last season I started including updates on my team. General Zeorf never said a word. And besides, do we Hegedrians really need to have our hands on all the Helium-3 in the galaxy? Would it hurt us to leave the humans even a little? We’re not even using the stuff here, and its three miles deep.
Please don’t think I’ve been sitting idly with this information. I’ve been very active on my blog, extolling the benefits of renewable energy on Earth. I’ve sent some very strong-worded letters to a number of heads of state. I’ve trolled the conservative sites. It’s so easy to bait those guys—their vitriol is palpable. Solar and wind might not send you across the galaxy, but it could keep you content long after you’ve pumped and fracked every drop of oil and gas out of the ground. And besides, interstellar travel isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. Most of it’s
like this—a lot of empty space.
But if we are crunching the numbers, Helium 3’s worth an easy three billion US a ton, and their estimates of a million tons are far less than what’s actually here. In short, it’s not if, but when.
So let’s say I let old Zeorfy know what’s up. Week one of a sixteen week season starts today. Let’s say the message is flagged and processed in a week or two. The fleet would get here at the earliest, say week fourteen. Just in time for theplayoffs. A year from when ODB dropped 30 points on me and ended my season. But now ODB is mine, and I got a real shot at winning this thing. On the other hand, if I wait, I could throw a few melons around, maybe even a cabbage or two, and scare the bejesus out of whoever arrives first. That would buy me at
least a couple of weeks.
I think that’s what I’ll do. Humans, whether you know it or not, this is your last fantasy season; I hope you are loaded up.
C.P Blackburn Chris is a fussy New Yorker, who has lived and worked in Madagascar, Hungary, Belarus, and Turkey. He is currently working in Istanbul, delighting in Turkish hospitality and cuisine. When he is not grading papers or fussing with his stories, you can find him fussing-about on his paddleboard. He has previously been published in the Flash Dogs anthology. Pay him a visit at @CP_Blackburn
Nothing Can Ever Really Shield You from the Sting of an Acorn
I was once told that when trees are planted close to each other, they begin to grow together; these inosculated trees start to entwine, to dip and swerve and rest in the reliance that their symbiosis grants. The protection and opportunity granted under the communal embrace of branches was perfect for He and I. Amateur spies, soldiers, explorers. We appreciated the shelter provided by wide old oaks, the elasticity of young saplings and the fortification given by junipers and crab apples. If you were to cut us open – slice us and gaze at our cross sections – inside me, you would find ten tidy, agreeable rings; He would contain twelve bawdy, explosive ones.
At that time I felt us inseparable, freewheeling towards our teenage years. Even then I was acutely aware of my role as understudy. It was necessary for me to act as counterweight to the disregard He held for social convention; apologising to shopkeepers following His attempts at pre-teen robbery, providing alibis for missed meals and breaches of curfew and on one sorry occasion, ignoring the desire to speak out about a magazine, taken from an older brothers bedroom. The images had made me uneasy. I felt a great relief when, having tired of rubbing the glossy paper against my cheeks and lips, terrorizing me into making contact with women that left me confused and alarmed, He set it alight. This is not to say, however, that time spent together was wholly unpleasant. I dipped and sometimes even bathed in the opportunity of being a part of ventures which were beyond those I was capable of myself. I took a silent but genuine delight in witnessing, first hand, the spectrum of emotions that were gleaned from sailing a half step closer to danger than I was comfortable with. What He lacked in etiquette, I made up for in reliability.
At that time I felt us inseparable.
Having an army issue penknife, lifted from my father’s toolbox, as the only working utensil does not make for quick work. Sharpening stick-arrows one by one in this way, shavings slowly dancing downwards and crowding around your toes, quickly leads to boredom. The bubbling mix of endorphins that fizzed around His mind and limbs were causing Him to pop with frustration. He scoured the surrounding trees, bushes and undergrowth for an alternative pursuit. Laying His sights on two unfortunate boys (nine doughy and innocent rings apiece), He bounded out of our bolthole. Their tearful stares, obvious and natural reactions to an onrushing, knife swinging maniac, seemed to ignite the crackling tension that howled inside Him. As I watched, the initial, prickling irritation gave way to a sort of thrill, feeding me from a comfortable vantage point, without the burden of any real engagement. His eyes were focused intently on the boys. It was a look of total investment, the search for entertainment had been realised. Like stakes, hammered deep into the forest floor, they remained, upright and rigid. Acorns were soon arcing their way towards the targets, lighting the late afternoon air as they whistled past the now alabaster children. One of the two cried out in a comical whine as the grenade clipped him on the bridge of his nose. He stooped forward, cradling his head as if it were ready to roll straight off his shoulders. Eager to deliver the fantastic, final blow, He turned to me, smiling. What He saw in return were my eyes, sailing high above His, dazzled by a source of confusion and interest. Perched high, watching.
*
A hand resting on a negligible hip complete with schoolmarm mannerisms, an appropriation of an action which She had undoubtedly seen before; perhaps from Her Mother, possibly an older Sister. Clothes hung much too loose on a tiny frame, giving a malnourished impression. Any notion of that was quickly dispelled however, by the passion that bristled in the healthy red glow of dimpled cheeks. Before He could think of an appropriate excuse for this aerial bombardment, She was standing between Him and His targets. I had never seen anyone his own age stand up to Him.
I crawled into sight and, misjudging the gradient of the slope, bounced directly into this spontaneous court scene. My loose arrival seemed to trivialise the situation somehow as the targets of a previously rampant acorn assault were now ignored as they bowled away softly with a t-shirt, transparent from sweat, and a grazed nose as souvenirs. We watched anything but each other, sticks were nudged with toes and stones were tossed into brambles until eventually the silent impasse melted into a burgeoning social connection. Undoubtedly, this was aided by a kick, absent-mindedly aimed at a crisp pile of leaves. Watching as they caught form in a breeze, following them as they weaved and landed in Her nest of cork screw curls; our crumbling laughter was enough to cement the developing bond. This was it. The forest was ours. A triarchy we.
From then, we travelled as a pack. From the moment that the dawn dew began to evaporate until our skin prickled with the burn of the cold night air, we were as one. At some indiscernible point of the summer break we caught a bus. Now comfortable in our own village we craved the experience of somewhere unknown, of anonymity, of alien sounds and assaulting smells; of a place that was not ours. Withering looks from new faces provide ample stimulation for three wayfarers. None more so than that day, Him, protesting innocence with contraband in clear sight, a flushed face offering nothing to ease the suspicions of an explosive shopkeeper. I, watchful and stumbling; unable to catch my breath as voices were raised and fingers were pointed. Her intervention, one part honesty, two parts pleading and haphazardly diluted with comedy, reduced the danger to a manageable level that provided an opportunity to exit unscathed. Maybe not a clean incision, perhaps a flesh wound, though not life threatening. For that brief bulb of summer, this was how it was. Her, acting as a foil for Him and I. She was neither as socially offensive as He, nor as unashamedly apologetic as I. An anti-hybrid.
*
We watched as the leaves—once robust, taut and green—reached middle age. Their supple skin was being replaced with a wiser, less vital shell. Over the remaining weeks of summer, our union was also changing course. Suddenly and—for me at least—unexpectedly, three people were no longer a mandatory requirement. As each passing day held onto the balm of sunlight for a marginally shorter time than the day before, Her and I found reasons to share ever increasing moments together. These engagements started to matter more to me than
anything else, the humour and reliability in our fragile friendship gave weight to a form of emotional growth. I told her, in the most grown-up language I could muster, how trees could grow together, how they would remain inseparable if they were planted beside each other, how from the moment their dewy branches entwined there was no way it could be reversed. Bound together the way fingers on the hands of lovers entangle, the position our fingers suddenly and frighteningly found themselves in. While never intentional, we were, in a sense,
promoted to a higher emotional platform. He remained stagnant, but content.
*
I did not recognize the end of our friendship; as I took less enjoyment from times shared with Him, forcing myself into a role I no longer had a script for. I did not recognize the end of our friendship; as I had subconsciously tweaked my route so that I tapped at Her sitting room window first each morning instead of His, eager to gorge myself on Her words and Her curls at a slower pace than was necessary as we walked to His house. I recognized the end of our friendship; sitting with Her, under a porcelain shield of foliage, its protective gauze hiding our inosculated fingers. I recognized the end of our friendship; as an acorn landed square against my chest, a second made my ear ring, a third brought blood to her nose.
At that time I felt us inseparable, freewheeling towards our teenage years. Even then I was acutely aware of my role as understudy. It was necessary for me to act as counterweight to the disregard He held for social convention; apologising to shopkeepers following His attempts at pre-teen robbery, providing alibis for missed meals and breaches of curfew and on one sorry occasion, ignoring the desire to speak out about a magazine, taken from an older brothers bedroom. The images had made me uneasy. I felt a great relief when, having tired of rubbing the glossy paper against my cheeks and lips, terrorizing me into making contact with women that left me confused and alarmed, He set it alight. This is not to say, however, that time spent together was wholly unpleasant. I dipped and sometimes even bathed in the opportunity of being a part of ventures which were beyond those I was capable of myself. I took a silent but genuine delight in witnessing, first hand, the spectrum of emotions that were gleaned from sailing a half step closer to danger than I was comfortable with. What He lacked in etiquette, I made up for in reliability.
At that time I felt us inseparable.
Having an army issue penknife, lifted from my father’s toolbox, as the only working utensil does not make for quick work. Sharpening stick-arrows one by one in this way, shavings slowly dancing downwards and crowding around your toes, quickly leads to boredom. The bubbling mix of endorphins that fizzed around His mind and limbs were causing Him to pop with frustration. He scoured the surrounding trees, bushes and undergrowth for an alternative pursuit. Laying His sights on two unfortunate boys (nine doughy and innocent rings apiece), He bounded out of our bolthole. Their tearful stares, obvious and natural reactions to an onrushing, knife swinging maniac, seemed to ignite the crackling tension that howled inside Him. As I watched, the initial, prickling irritation gave way to a sort of thrill, feeding me from a comfortable vantage point, without the burden of any real engagement. His eyes were focused intently on the boys. It was a look of total investment, the search for entertainment had been realised. Like stakes, hammered deep into the forest floor, they remained, upright and rigid. Acorns were soon arcing their way towards the targets, lighting the late afternoon air as they whistled past the now alabaster children. One of the two cried out in a comical whine as the grenade clipped him on the bridge of his nose. He stooped forward, cradling his head as if it were ready to roll straight off his shoulders. Eager to deliver the fantastic, final blow, He turned to me, smiling. What He saw in return were my eyes, sailing high above His, dazzled by a source of confusion and interest. Perched high, watching.
*
A hand resting on a negligible hip complete with schoolmarm mannerisms, an appropriation of an action which She had undoubtedly seen before; perhaps from Her Mother, possibly an older Sister. Clothes hung much too loose on a tiny frame, giving a malnourished impression. Any notion of that was quickly dispelled however, by the passion that bristled in the healthy red glow of dimpled cheeks. Before He could think of an appropriate excuse for this aerial bombardment, She was standing between Him and His targets. I had never seen anyone his own age stand up to Him.
I crawled into sight and, misjudging the gradient of the slope, bounced directly into this spontaneous court scene. My loose arrival seemed to trivialise the situation somehow as the targets of a previously rampant acorn assault were now ignored as they bowled away softly with a t-shirt, transparent from sweat, and a grazed nose as souvenirs. We watched anything but each other, sticks were nudged with toes and stones were tossed into brambles until eventually the silent impasse melted into a burgeoning social connection. Undoubtedly, this was aided by a kick, absent-mindedly aimed at a crisp pile of leaves. Watching as they caught form in a breeze, following them as they weaved and landed in Her nest of cork screw curls; our crumbling laughter was enough to cement the developing bond. This was it. The forest was ours. A triarchy we.
From then, we travelled as a pack. From the moment that the dawn dew began to evaporate until our skin prickled with the burn of the cold night air, we were as one. At some indiscernible point of the summer break we caught a bus. Now comfortable in our own village we craved the experience of somewhere unknown, of anonymity, of alien sounds and assaulting smells; of a place that was not ours. Withering looks from new faces provide ample stimulation for three wayfarers. None more so than that day, Him, protesting innocence with contraband in clear sight, a flushed face offering nothing to ease the suspicions of an explosive shopkeeper. I, watchful and stumbling; unable to catch my breath as voices were raised and fingers were pointed. Her intervention, one part honesty, two parts pleading and haphazardly diluted with comedy, reduced the danger to a manageable level that provided an opportunity to exit unscathed. Maybe not a clean incision, perhaps a flesh wound, though not life threatening. For that brief bulb of summer, this was how it was. Her, acting as a foil for Him and I. She was neither as socially offensive as He, nor as unashamedly apologetic as I. An anti-hybrid.
*
We watched as the leaves—once robust, taut and green—reached middle age. Their supple skin was being replaced with a wiser, less vital shell. Over the remaining weeks of summer, our union was also changing course. Suddenly and—for me at least—unexpectedly, three people were no longer a mandatory requirement. As each passing day held onto the balm of sunlight for a marginally shorter time than the day before, Her and I found reasons to share ever increasing moments together. These engagements started to matter more to me than
anything else, the humour and reliability in our fragile friendship gave weight to a form of emotional growth. I told her, in the most grown-up language I could muster, how trees could grow together, how they would remain inseparable if they were planted beside each other, how from the moment their dewy branches entwined there was no way it could be reversed. Bound together the way fingers on the hands of lovers entangle, the position our fingers suddenly and frighteningly found themselves in. While never intentional, we were, in a sense,
promoted to a higher emotional platform. He remained stagnant, but content.
*
I did not recognize the end of our friendship; as I took less enjoyment from times shared with Him, forcing myself into a role I no longer had a script for. I did not recognize the end of our friendship; as I had subconsciously tweaked my route so that I tapped at Her sitting room window first each morning instead of His, eager to gorge myself on Her words and Her curls at a slower pace than was necessary as we walked to His house. I recognized the end of our friendship; sitting with Her, under a porcelain shield of foliage, its protective gauze hiding our inosculated fingers. I recognized the end of our friendship; as an acorn landed square against my chest, a second made my ear ring, a third brought blood to her nose.