A Woman's Work

Monica looked at the lump on her floor with contempt. What an idiot! She knew she would have to kill him one day, but why did it have to be today of all days? Today, when there was so much to do for the luncheon tomorrow? Bread and pickles to be bought, finger sandwiches to be made, napkins to be folded and the body of a no-good, dirty-rotten, pig-bodied, scum-sniffing, head-balding husband to take out back and bury.

            And it wasn’t like she hadn’t told him she would kill him. She’d told him a thousand times. Once, when the whisky had stained her most stylish throw pillow. Again, when he’d vomited on the dinner table while the Andersons were over for an evening meal. She’d told him just two days ago after she’d found him passed out on the front lawn, his face pressed right up against the ass of one of those ugly gnomes he kept bringing home for the garden.

            Those gnomes. He kind of looked like one of them, she laughed to herself. Maybe she should set him up in the garden with some overalls and a pitchfork. Surely, no one would know the difference! At this she laughed and laughed and laughed. She laughed until tears streamed down her face. She laughed until the muscles in her abdomen screamed and begged her to stop. She laughed until her knees buckled and she had fallen to the floor next to the body of her husband. She laughed until laughter would come no more.

            That was when she noticed his face. One eye was open, gazing dumbly into the abyss. The other was bashed in to the point where one couldn’t tell if it was opened or closed. His unshaven face was flecked with pieces of his own flesh. His mouth hung open, tongue flaccid and sagging out from between his lips. She knew that tongue would taste of whisky. Her stomach turned.

            Cliff had been a good man, when Monica had married him. But he had a problem with whisky. He had liked the way the drink felt, rolling down his throat. He had liked the way it took his world, crumpled it up and tossed it away, like paper into a wastebasket. He had liked forgetting.

            But it got him into trouble. He got arrested and he got punched and he got spit on and he got thrown into the street. And of course, in the end, he got bludgeoned to death with a clothes iron. But that’s the thing with whisky. You take the good of it and you get the bad of it.

            Monica stood up. She wiped the blood from her hand on a napkin, one of the napkins for tomorrow’s luncheon. She would have to run to the store and buy some more of those this afternoon. She looked around the room. A new carpet would do as well. And a new sofa. She looked down and added a new dress to the list. Everywhere she looked, pieces of her husband had splashed and splattered. Even in death, the man couldn’t keep the house clean!

            Monica sighed, and went to work. A woman’s work is never done, that is certain, she laughed.

March 2045

MARCH 2045

To Whoever finds this,

Zombies are living among us. No, they’re not breathing or expelling waste, but they are going about their daily lives. I saw one mail a letter the other day. A LETTER. Who does a zombie have to send a letter to? I mean, he probably ate his whole family years ago.

Oh, you have so many questions now. I’m getting to them. First though, I’m telling you my story. Sort of.

My mom was born during the Zombie Apocalypse. Or, if you’d rather I be politically correct, the Disease Era. My grandparents both died at some point during the chaos, but Mom was raised by a group of refugees who managed to keep their brains from being eaten.

Actually, I’d like to pause here to correct myself. I was working off a stereotype there, but if you’re reading this in the future or if you’re from a different planet, you need to know the truth. Zombies don’t just eat brains. They eat flesh of any kind. That’s why we’re able to keep them contained these days, at least for now. They eat our dead. No more burying corpses. That’s kind of gross anyways, why did people ever think that was a good idea?

Then there was my dad. He was 4 years old when the disease struck. He was bitten really early on and his hand had to be amputated, but they were able to stop the spread of the Strigoi virus and he never became a zombie. Anyways, as you probably guessed, my father was part of the same refugee group as my mother, so they grew up together and dire situations and hatred of zombies brought them together. Great Hollywood story. Or I think it is. Hollywood isn’t a thing anymore.

That’s the funny thing about humans, isn’t it? They make all these scenarios up and turn them into movies, but no one ever takes them seriously or truly prepares for something that could happen. I’ve watched a ton of zombie movies and even though there isn’t a single one that gets them totally right, there’s a lot of stuff that was predicted correctly. So why weren’t we coming up with answers to the zombie problem, just in case? Next I hope aliens invade, and we’ll see how we deal with that one.

Last week, there was this big revelation that the zombies had formed a political party. Party Z, of course was the name. I think they probably thought “Flesh-Eating Party” sounded a little too much like a typical Saturday night for them.

Okay, I know that joke was bad.

Anyway, so the zombies want to represent themselves in the parliament, because they have needs that differ from the human population and they want their voices to be heard. They’re also pissed about some racism that’s been going on. Yeah, zombies are more sensitive than you’d think.

Oh! This is important. My Uncle Fred is a zombie. I can’t believe I didn’t tell you that already. The thing is, we don’t see Uncle Fred very often because, well, my dad’s a bit pissed at him. Yeah, he’s the guy who munched on Dad’s hand. And tried to eat his face. So, he stops by for birthdays and stuff.

They’re still pretty similar to humans, you know. Except that they can’t really talk. The few things they do say take forever to get out. I mean, like forever! And that might be okay for a zombie. They can only die if you sever their brain stem. Basically, they live forever.

THIS IS WHAT’S SO FUNNY ABOUT PARTY Z!

By the time they’re done discussing their platforms and what they want changed, I’ll probably be dead anyway, so I’m not worried about it.

Okay, fine, I’ll tell you more about what the zombies eat. I know that you probably don’t care about politics. Even politicians don’t care about politics.

So, there’s these little buildings set up outside of hospitals. All the dead bodies go there and then the zombies go in and get their portions and that’s that. Easy. And environmentally efficient. I guess some people are pissed because they don’t want their loved ones to become Zombie Snacks.  Would you rather have them buried in the ground to be Worm Snacks? Everyone’s gonna get munched on someday, it’s just a matter of who’s doing the munching.

I went to a graveyard on a history trip last May. Holy, it was the creepiest place. Just all those dead bodies, rotting there underground. Who would want to go there when they die?

They’re also talking about teaching us Zombie anatomy in schools. Which I’m all for because I really want to know whether or not they go to the bathroom. It’s not really something I know how to politely ask Uncle Fred, and I also have no desire to spend three hours waiting for an answer. And I’ve never seen a zombie in a public restroom.

I do know that zombies can’t procreate. Thank goodness, because human babies are creepy enough, I can’t even imagine what they would be like with dead eyes and saggy flesh. Also, can you imagine two zombies doing it?

So, that’s where we’re at right now with the zombies. A civilized society, for now. Mostly because the zombies know that they need the human race for food and humans don’t want to get their faces chewed on.

            So, I hope if you’re reading this, things are still going well. I’ll continue writing as things continue to change on the zombie front.

Best wishes,

Johnny Uman

Devil's Visit

Author's Note: In the beginning, I had trouble coming up with a character name. By the end, a name seemed unnecessary, because I think, in a way, this is a situation that a lot of people find themselves in.


_______ didn’t care for other people. _______ thought other people were rude and ignorant and untrustworthy.

            People, according to _______, were out to please only themselves. This is why there was only ugliness in the world.

            People were selfish, _______ was sure about that. And that was why wars happened and why people made fun of others and why people threw their garbage on the ground instead of carrying it a few extra feet to throw it into the garbage can. People were out to please only themselves.

            _______ was pondering all the ignorant and foolish things that humans do when a knock sounded from the door.

            This was just what _______ needed, a person to spout out at. Since the telephone was invented, no one but religious fanatics came to the door unannounced, _______ was sure of that.

            _______ opened the door to find a person standing there. The person was dressed in ordinary clothes, and had an ordinary face.

            “Yes?” _______ noticed the person carried no pamphlets or paperwork of any kind, which was the custom of religious people who knocked on unsuspecting doors.

            “Hello. I’m The Devil, and I’ve come to wish you a good day.”

            _______ was nothing short of flabbergasted. There had been talk of people being visited in their homes by God, but The Devil? Surely that was only a thing of stories.

            “Well, I just don’t believe you.” _______ began to close the door, but The Devil slipped inside before it could shut.

            I must stop to assure you that this was indeed The Devil, and not some kind of imposter. Going door-to-door impersonating the Devil would be insane and a person who did such a thing should seek psychological help, that’s something that I am sure of.

            “If you’re The Devil, then what on Earth are you doing here?”

            “God’s having a day off,” The Devil replied, while scanning the room. “Not much for decorating, are you?”

            _______ said nothing. The Devil was standing in the middle of the living room! This didn’t seem like an appropriate time to talk about home décor.

            “Not much of a talker. Okay, let’s cut to the chase. I’m here to tell you about how things really are.”

            “What things?”

            “Things in the world, of course. They’re quite a bit simpler than you might think. Do you mind if I take a seat?”

            _______ said nothing. The Devil sat.

            “Some coffee would be nice as well. I’ve had a long drive.”

            _______ prepared the coffee and sat down.

            “So, you seem to think you know how this world is run, don’t you?”

            _______ said nothing. The Devil continued.

            “You think the world is ugly. And some of it is. That’s my department, you see? And I gotta say, I’m proud of it. But, my old friend God has asked me for a favor, so I have to tell you,” The Devil paused for a sip of coffee. “Ah, that’s not too bad, thank you. Anyway, I gotta tell you, you need to look around. See the birds and the flowers and the old people holding hands? That stuff’s beauty, and it is around. I don’t like it too much, but it’s around.”

            The Devil took another sip. _______ said nothing.

            “And there’s waterfalls and rainforests and bunnies snuggling. Kittens playing with yarn and fuzzy pink sweaters. And candy and smiles and babies laughing. DO YOU UNDERSTAND WHAT I’M SAYING?”

            _______ started at the sudden shouting, but said nothing.

            “Arrr, listen, I don’t like talking about this stuff, but like I said, I’m doing God a favor. There’s kisses and rainbows and dancing and milkshakes and Robert Munsch stories! Do you understand that there’s beautiful things in the world?”

            _______ said nothing. Then _______ spoke. _______ said, “I know there’s beauty in the world. But I’m afraid. Because the beautiful things don’t last. The beautiful things are temporary.”

            The Devil said nothing.

            “It seems like the ugly things, the wars and the sexism and the littering, those kind of things never go away.

            The Devil thought about this. Generally, it was not The Devil’s job to defend the world’s beauty. The Devil was proud of the ugly work that had been done. But, The Devil had promised God, and God was a good friend.

            “Maybe, it’s attitudes like that that chase the beauty away. Did you ever think about that? Maybe it’s being blinded by fear that let’s the ugly parts of the world sneak in and take over. Maybe people need to stop worrying that the good things in the world are going to go away, and they should start appreciating them a little more. Maybe- Ah, I can’t talk about this anymore. It’s not my area, you know? And I don’t want to make all my hard work irrelevant, you know?”

            _______ said nothing. The Devil stood up.

            “Just, pay a little more attention to the nice stuff, okay? I have another appointment, so I gotta get going.”

            With that, The Devil left _______ to sit in silence and think about the good things in the world. _______ thought about the people who bought the homeless coffee and sandwiches and baby birds hatching and swinging on the swings in the park. _______ thought about sunsets and sunrises and phone calls just to say “hello.”

            And before _______ knew it, it was night, and the whole day had been taken up by thoughts of beautiful things, and _______ wasn’t so sure that the world was ugly.

The Day Gary Fled For His Life

Gary was happy. Gary had a house with a garden. Gary had a pantry full of food. Gary had a cat. Gary didn’t know that soon he would have nothing. Soon, he would have to flee for his life. And not too long after that, Gary would be dead.

But that all comes later in the story.

Today, Gary was shopping for a new car. Oh, his old one ran just fine, but he wanted something new. He had the money for it, so why shouldn’t he?

Money got humans whatever they wanted. Gary wanted a new car.

            Now, remember, Gary was happy. He was so happy, in fact, that he didn’t even mind navigating his way through the hoards of protestors at the entrance to the car lot. They had signs that said things like, “Driving cars is murder!” and “Petroleum is a drug!” They shouted things at Gary like, “You’re killing our Earth!” and “You’re a piece of shit!” It was a minor inconvenience, but nothing that bothered Gary too much. He just tipped his hat and went on his way. Protestors were usually spouting a bunch of nonsense anyway, Gary thought.

            Gary looked at cars. Gary said, “I like this red one. What’s it called?”

            The salesman (he had sparkling teeth and a big smile) responded, “That’s the Eternity. It’s a big seller here.” Then he smiled. The salesman wasn’t happy, but he sure was good at pretending to be.

            “I’ll take it!” Gary said, and he smiled too. Gary’s eyes squinted up when he smiled, because Gary wasn’t pretending. The salesman didn’t care if Gary was pretending or not.

            Gary filled out some paperwork and wrote a cheque. A cheque was a piece of paper one wrote a dollar amount on and then signed. That paper was then somehow turned into money. Cheques were a fast way to give someone lots of money. People liked lots of money.

            Next, Gary drove his new red Eternity out of the lot. Protestors threw tomatoes. Tomatoes were red like Gary’s car. Blood was red like his car, too, but Gary didn’t like to think about blood so this thought never crossed his mind.

            Gary got home and turned on the TV. He didn’t ever watch TV, he just liked the sound in the background while he went about his business. Usually, his business was with his coin collection, or with moving the furniture in the den around.

            Today, while he went about his business, the TV was saying things like, “Completely out of oil,” and, “country in crisis.” But Gary didn’t hear a thing.

            It was 3:26 am when Gary awoke from his sleep to the sound of a commotion. Gary lived 12.9 kilometers away from town and his closest neighbor was 4.1 kilometers away. There was rarely a commotion in front of Gary’s house.

            Gary sat on the edge of his bed and stuck his feet into his slippers. They were green. Green was the colour of money. Gary’s slippers had cost more money than slippers ought to. Some people didn’t have money or slippers.

            Mittens was Gary’s cat. She was annoyed that Gary would even think about awakening her from her slumber. Mittens was grey. She was grey and fat. Cats who lived with rich, happy humans were often fat, because they got fed food from a shiny dish and didn’t have any predators to worry about. Mittens would have plenty of predators once Gary’s house was burnt down and she had to live in the wild.

            But we’ll get to that later.

            Gary put on his green slippers and tied on his housecoat. In hindsight, Gary would wish he got fully dressed, because, you see, fleeing for one’s life becomes difficult if one is dressed in slippers and a robe.  (You can imagine how it could also be comical, to someone who is watching the fleeing from afar.)

            Of all the items in his house (which was very large), Gary chose to take with him only a battery operated flashlight. The batteries had not been replaced in years, and had very little charge inside. Batteries were important to humans. Batteries made things turn on. Humans liked when things turned on.

            Please recall that before this point in the story, Gary was happy. Now, Gary was scared. Gary liked order, Gary liked ordinary. Gary liked to keep to himself and let the rest of the world go on mostly without him.

            Gary had forgotten about a cheque had received many years ago. The cheque was signed by a man named Jonathon H. Coleman. The H stood for Herbert. Herbert was his grandfather’s name. Jonathon H. Coleman had a smile like the salesman who sold Gary his red Eternity. He was also the head of a company that mass-produced a so-called “synthetic gasoline” called Fabroline. People called it Fabroil for short, or Fab for even shorter.

            This company was a scam. A scam is a dishonest scheme.

            Fabroline was made from 7 parts real gasoline and 3 parts other chemicals that most average people couldn’t pronounce. These average people bought Fabroline because they were told that it was an environmentally friendly alternative to regular gasoline that contained no natural petroleum. They thought they were preserving oil supplies and saving the environment. They were incorrect. 

            A man named Steve had recently released Fabroline’s secret to the press. Steve was currently being savagely beaten for speaking out. Steve had a wife who was pregnant. He had been trying to save the world for his unborn daughter. Steve was too late.

            Years ago, Fabroline had needed a place to build their facilities. They discovered a large piece of land owned by a bachelor. He lived in a small house with no garden, little food, and no cat. That man was Gary. That Gary was unhappy. He had no coin collection and very little furniture to move about his house.

            Gary had accepted Jonathon H. Coleman’s offer. The offer had many zeroes in it. Humans generally enjoyed monetary offers with many zeroes.

            Perhaps if Gary had paid attention to what his TV had said earlier, he might have made a connection between the cheque that was signed by Jonathon H. Coleman and the mob that he was now witnessing outside of his home. However, it does us no good to dwell upon ifs, so we will continue with the story.

            Gary saw the mob out his front window. They were shouting and they were throwing things. There was no doubt that they were approaching his home.

Gary started towards the back door. First he walked, then he trotted, then he jogged and by the time he was at the door he was sprinting. He left his home just as the first mob member began to pour Fabroline all over the roses in his front garden.

Gary had reached the woods behind his property just as another mob member struck a match and dropped it onto Gary’s roses. The roses were glistening with Fabroline.

Men and women of all ages were throwing rocks and bottles and cans at Gary’s house. These acts were quite irritating to Mittens, who had had a long day of catching spiders in the cellar (or she had been trying to. Remember, Mittens was fat, and so not very good at catching things.)

Mittens proceeded down the stairs, to glare at whomever was making all the racket. It did not take long for her to discover the flames that were currently engulfing her home. Mittens ran out the cat door and into the backyard. I don’t think I have to tell you that Mittens did not prosper in the wild. Mittens met a coyote. Coyotes were usually very hungry. Mittens was fat. Soon the coyote would find his hunger quite satisfied.

Fabroline was very good at helping things burn. By the next afternoon, Gary’s house would be burnt to the ground. The mob drank whisky and beer and watched with delight as Gary’s walls and furniture and belongings turned into ashes. (It’s funny how something that was once a thing can be so easily reduced to dust.)

No one in the mob knew Gary personally. All they knew was that his name was found on a document in the files of the Fabroline company, and so without any questions asked, they assumed that he must be partially responsible for the scam.

Also, the mob members liked to see things burn.

Gary was too far away now to hear what the mob members were shouting. If he had been closer he might have heard things like, “Burn, you fucking scum” or, “Fuck you, old man!” “Fuck” was a word that humans used when they were angry. And when they were excited. And when they were sad. Some humans used it for no reason at all.

Gary used this word several times during his flight. Once, because he got his robe caught on a thorn bush. Another time, because his expensive slippers slipped in the mud. And again, when the batteries in his flashlight died.

Now, if I were to start this story again, I might add a detail into the second or third paragraph. That detail would be this: Much like his pet feline, Gary was fat. Or, to put it more kindly, Gary was out of shape. Many well-off humans were out of shape. Well-off humans could afford to buy fast food and soda pop and rarely needed to be in shape for things such as physical labour or running for one’s life. Oftentimes, well-off people who were out of shape would do some kind of physical activity, and would experience a thing called a heart attack. This is what happened to Gary now.

Having a heart attack made it very difficult to continue running. Having a heart attack also made Gary dead. Being dead meant that Gary wasn’t happy anymore. He wasn’t unhappy either. He wasn’t anything.

And although I said it doesn’t do to dwell on ifs, I will include this: No one was chasing Gary. If Gary had known this, he might have stopped running. If Gary had stopped running, he would not have had a heart attack. If Gary hadn’t had a heart attack he would not have become dead. If Gary had not become dead he would have lived to see the world become a smoldering, chaotic mess caused by a company called Fabroline. This company had taken advantage of average humans. These average humans rebelled and destroyed the company and everyone involved in it. Then they destroyed everything else.

It was a good thing Gary had fled for his life that day.

A Story About the Old Birch Tree

Maria’s chest hurt again.  She sat on her bed breathing deeply, the phone clutched in her hand.  She considered calling Ellie and telling her to wait for another day, but the thought of Ellie’s big eyes made Maria change her mind.  Ellie had the kind of eyes you couldn’t say no to.  They had the look of pure childhood innocence and curiosity.  Maria loved those eyes.

            Ellie had been asking to go into the woods for months.  Usually Maria said no, the woods are too dangerous for little girls like you.  But Ellie was 6 now, and Maria had been playing in those woods since she was about 4 years old. 

            All of Maria’s finest childhood memories took place in those woods behind her old farmhouse.  She’d had countless adventures there with her sisters, Maude and Maggie.  Maggie was dead now, she’d had a bad heart.  As for Maude, she didn’t know who she was anymore.  They had put her in the home in Greensville almost two years ago. 

             Bernie, Maria’s faithful cat was watching her from his favourite perch on the rocking chair across the room.  “Don’t you look at me like that, Bernie.”  Maria was sure he was scolding her for considering a hiking trip when she was in so much pain.

            “I won’t take her far.  Just up to the entrance of the caves.  That should give her a good story to tell at school.”

            The old caves.  There were an endless number of ghosts that were rumoured to make their homes in the caves.  Escaped murders, tragic lovers, lost children.  The stories had been told for generations.  Maria didn’t believe a single one of them.  There was no such thing as ghosts.  She would show Ellie the caves and talk about how they were a natural wonder.  She wouldn’t say one thing about anything supernatural. 

            Ellie and her big eyes arrived just after noon.  Maria had taken her medication and was feeling much better.  “I’ll be back to get her around 5, Mom.”  Lisa, Maria’s daughter, was a strong believer of the ghost stories of the caves. 

            “Well Ellie, we better get a move on then, so we can make some cookies before your Ma comes to get you.  And I made us some trail mix to snack on.”

            Ellie grinned and clapped her hands.  She was dressed for the day in a plaid shirt, some old jeans and hiking boots.  She looked adorable. 

            “Let’s double check we have all the supplies we need.”  Maria said. “Bug spray?” 

            “In the backpack.” Ellie responded.

            “Whistle?”

            “In the backpack.”

            They continued until they had confirmed that all of the important wilderness supplies were in the backpack.  In her head, Maria double checked that she had all her medications and some aspirin, just in case. 

            It was a beautiful day in the woods.  The birds were singing and the cricket orchestra was out to accompany them.  Ellie was collecting plant specimens for her collection.

            “This is called Queen Anne’s Lace, Ellie.  It’s the great-great grandmother of a carrot, see?”  Maria pulled the plant out of the ground to reveal the carrot-like root.  “You can eat this if you ever get hungry in the woods.  It tastes just like carrots.”

            “Yuck, carrots.”   Ellie stuck her tongue out, but grabbed the plant and added it to her collection. 

            Maria continued leading them along the winding path towards the caves.  She was feeling a bit weak, but she guessed that was just from all the fresh air that she was getting.

            As they approached to the hill that led up to the caves, Ellie pulled on her grandmother’s hand.

            “Yes, Ellie?”  Maria had been looking at the ground, struggling to catch her breath, and wondering how she was going to make it up the hill to the caves. 

            “There’s something in the way, Grandma.  Look.”

            There was something in the way.  A large pile of brush and dirt had fallen from the ledge above, completely blocking the path up to the caves.

            “Oh dear.”  Maria was secretly thankful.  She was sure she would not have made it up that hill.

            “Oh dear,” Ellie repeated.  “Does this mean we can’t see the caves?”

            Maria looked down into Ellie’s face, right into those big, innocent eyes, and she couldn’t say no.   The back way to the caves was about 45 minutes longer, and it had only taken an hour to walk to where they were.  They would still be back just in time to meet her mother. 

            “Well there’s a back way we can take.  But first let’s sit here and have a break.” 

            So they sat.  They ate their trail mix and drank from their bottles of water and rested.  Maria’s chest was hurting again, but she didn’t want to scare Ellie.

            Their break lasted close to an hour.  Maria managed to keep Ellie’s attention by telling stories of her childhood in the forest.  Soon her chest was feeling better, and she was sure that she was ready to move on. 

            Maria hadn’t taken the back way to the caves for a very long time, but she was sure that she remembered the way.  The trail wound around and around, and Maria continued to point out interesting plants to Ellie, who was now so loaded down with specimens that she had to stop collecting.   They were standing in front of a large birch tree, which had grown at a strange angle. “Birch tree bark is the best for starting fires.”  Maria was saying, when her chest began hurting again.  The pain was immense, and it was all she could do to keep herself from falling against the tree.  But it passed quickly, and Ellie hadn’t noticed a thing.

            It occurred to Maria then that perhaps they should turn around.  Maybe she should tell Ellie that she couldn’t remember the other path to the caves, that she would go home and call her old friend Teresa, and ask her the directions, that they would come back another time.  But she couldn’t take the disappointment in those eyes.   So she decided to carry on. 

            “Grandma, when will we get there?”  Ellie asked casually, picking a dandelion and plucking its petals off one by one.

            “Oh, soon my dear.”

            “Okay.”

            It might have been the pain in her chest, or the exhaustion that she was feeling, but it wasn’t long before Maria began doubting that she was going the right way. She had travelled it so many times, but it was possible that in her distress she had turned the wrong way.  It was getting late, probably near five.  Maria was sweating and her heart felt heavy.  She took a deep, shuddering, breath.  It was then that she tripped.  She wasn’t sure what she tripped on.  Maybe it was an exposed root or a rock, an animal hole or maybe even her own feet. 

            She landed with a thud; the wind was knocked out of her and her chest screamed in pain.  Everything went blurry for just a second but then, miraculously; she was back on her feet.  She turned to Ellie, who was examining a piece of birch bark, and hadn’t even noticed the fall.

            “Grandma, when will we get there?”  She asked, again casually.

            “I’m sure it’s not much farther.”

            “Okay.”

            Maria had begun to get worried.  She had taken her granddaughter deep into the woods, wasn’t quite sure where they were and was barely in any condition to lead her on a wild adventure through the wilderness.   

            Maria began to lead back in the direction that she knew her house was.  They walked for a while, when Maria noticed the strange birch tree that they had walked by before.  This was good.  This meant that they were going in the right direction.

            “Grandma, when will we get there?”

            Maria was beginning to find it strange that Ellie was so calm.

            “Soon I think.”

            “Okay.”

            They continued on in silence.  Even the birds seemed to be taking the situation seriously, as none of them were singing. 

            Real panic struck Maria when they walked past the birch tree another time.  How could that be?  They hadn’t turned around.  They had been walking on a straight path. 

            “Grandma, when will we get there?”

            This question terrified Maria.  Why was Ellie so calm?  Why wasn’t she getting worried?  Maria guessed it should be getting dark soon.  What time was it?  She quickly reached in her bag for her pocket watch.  It said 3:48.  But that couldn’t be right.  They had been walking for hours.  It must have been past 5 o’clock.

            She finally managed to get out an answer for her granddaughter.  “Soon enough, Ellie.”

            “Okay.”

            They kept on, again in silence, the entire time Maria was dreading the coming darkness.  What if the stories were true?  What if there were ghosts in the woods?  Oh don’t be silly.  She told herself.  You’ve been in these woods at night a thousand times and you’ve never seen a damn ghost.

            Maria had just managed to calm herself down when she saw it.  The birch tree, it’s trunk jutting out at an obtuse angle, it’s bark peeling back, its leaves perfectly still.  There was no breeze to move them. 

            Maria screamed.  She wanted to rip out her hair and claw at her face.  What was happening?

            “Grandma.”

            Maria stopped and looked at her granddaughter.  She was playing with a piece of grass, trying to whistle with it.

            “When will we get there?”

            The terror that shot through Maria then was something that no ghost could have caused.  There she was, lost in the woods and screaming at the top of her lungs, and Ellie hadn’t noticed.  Ellie hadn’t noticed at all. 

            Maria wondered then if this was a dream.  Maybe she had fallen asleep after telling Ellie all of her wild adventures in the woods.  Or maybe she hadn’t gone into the woods at all.  Maybe she was at home, sleeping, in bed.  Yes, this was a dream, Maria knew it was.  She pinched herself.  But she remained where she was.  Ellie was there, still playing with the blade of grass, unable to make it whistle.  Maria pinched herself harder, so hard that if this were real she should have bled, she should have felt pain.  But she felt nothing.

            She gave up.  There was nothing to do except to wait.  She would wait until morning came and Bernie hopped on her bed, telling her it was time to get up.   She waited, but the time didn’t come.  It felt like an eternity, and she waited. 

            My grandmother told me a story about the old birch tree.  She said it was haunted by an old woman, a woman who didn’t know she was dead.  Everyday the woman waits to wake up, but she never will.