You live in the trees. You smell the fresh scent of blooming flowers every morning. Great branches and trunks make up your home, your habitat -- and you could hardly be happier.

Light spills in through the single-pane window. It illuminates your desk and paperwork, a depressing contrast of beauty and drudgery.

You run your hands through your hair and rub your face. Surely it wouldn't hurt to take a tiny break.

The treehouse balcony is made of marble. Vines have grown up the rails and sprinklings of fungi add a greenish tinge to the stone's surface. You lean against the railing, feeling the cool marble beneath your hands. Stretched out before you is the limitless horizon, the tops of trees waving gently in the wind, the noon sun softening the pale blue sky. Wisps of clouds drift carelessly, effortless, and you swear you can almost smell their clean-scrubbed cotton amidst the cocktail of aromas pervading the air. Songbirds chirp their lullabies. You could almost fall asleep here, leaning on the rail.

Presently you hear a light rustle in the bushes below. A small animal, about the size of a housecat, walks in plain view and glances up at you with curiosity. Its face is flat and ugly, and its eyes are tiny slits, as though the skin around them is swollen. The body of the creature has a thin coat of fur, but the head has none: there is only splotchy, wrinkled skin. The animal has no tail, and its mouth is composed of large lips that curve downward into a frown.

You call out. "'Ey, wot's that?"

The creature stares at you, unmoving.

"Yes, I'm speakin' teh you. Wotcha want?"

A second passes, and then the beast's lips part. His voice rings out, high and grating. "Don't be rude. If you'd like to speak with me, come down eye-level and we'll have a conversation. I refuse to scream; I'm not an ape."

"I really shouldn't. My boss is in the house next door, and if he catches me slacking off, I'll be severely punished -- maybe even fired."

"Don't worry about him. Come on down."

"Now, here's the thing: I've told you why I don't want to come down, and you dismiss my reasoning with -- well, nothing; you simply dismiss it. Tell me, how is that?"

The creature sighs. "'Twas going to be a surprise, but -- I've eaten your boss."

This seems entirely impossible to you. "How's that?" you say, thinking you heard it wrong.

"I says, I've eaten your boss."

You stand in silence for a shocked moment. "I'll be right down."

You descend the beaten stairway to the forest floor and approach the beast. It gazes at you without emotion.

"How do you mean?" you ask. "Your stomach is hardly big enough."

"So it isn't."

"So I reckon you couldn't've ea --"

"See here, you stupid man," the beast interrupts, its lip curling into a sneer. "Could anyone really be so dense as yourself? If I say I have eaten your boss, I have; I am not a liar. And if my stomach is too small to contain a man, then logic dictates the man has gone somewhere other than my stomach. How do you like that?"

"Well," you say, unsure, "I like it fine, excepting that I can't fathom where a grown man would've gone when eaten if not your stomach."

"Then let me explain. I may note that I will attempt to be as condescending as possible, a reward for your stupidity.

"The interior of my stomach is, in fact, a portal to another world." The beast speaks very slowly, as if to a child. "When I eat something, it does indeed go to my stomach. But from there it travels, in the blink of an eye, to another dimension."

You are confused. "What's the use of food, then, if your body can't 'gest it for nutr'ents?"

"That question operates under the assumption that I require nutrients."

"Wouldn't -- I mean to say -- you're a living being, aren't you? Surely you need the nutre'nts."

"What?" the creature barks. "What do you mean to say, I'm a living being? How do you figure? What indicates this falsehood?"

"You're talking. Trees don't talk. Rocks don't talk. But living critters speak."

The beast stamps the ground in plain disgust. "Trees are alive, you fool! They do not speak."

"That's funny," you say. "I believe you're right."

"Of course I'm right."

"But wait -- if you're not a living cre'ture, then what use is eating?"

"See this?" the creature says, and he sticks out his tongue; "This is called a tongue. It tastes things. Some things taste good. Others taste bad. I like tasting good-tasting things."

This all seems perfectly sensible to you. "Another mystery solved!" you exclaim, and the beast eyes you with contempt.

"Indeed."

"I never did catch your name."

"Names are for the living," the beast says, and in the blink of an eye, he's gone. Disappeared into thin air.

You can hardly believe it. "How utterly queer!" You expect Alice to come around the corner any moment.

The sudden departure leaves you a bit chilled -- that simply shouldn't happen; no, not under ordinary circumstances. You glance around nervously. What an odd day -- a terribly odd day.