Young Writers Society

How could we ever be fine being alone, they ask us. They don’t understand us, do they? No, they don’t. They don’t see the voices, hear the voices, know the voices like we do. They scoff—Ha!—and laugh—Baah!—and mock—Raagh!—but they’ll see. Oh, they’ll see.
We sit by ourselves and drink our fish, eat our pond, and be merry, all by ourselves. We are grown, you see, grown stronger by the day, thronged by the voices that we hear, and they envy us. They have nothing like we do, and they are so alone, cowering together, pretending they’re not. But they are. We see it. We feel it. We know it.
We bathe in the shadows, watching them, as they scuttle by in the cold sunlight. They lie to themselves, wagging their heads and shaking their hands, saying the sun keeps them warm. But the filthy light kills them, blasts them, sucks them dry. And they embrace it. Stupid! one voice says, and we nod. We know what the wretched pale face does. That’s why we live in the darkness.
The darkness clothes us, feeds us, loves us. It gives our voices bodies. It fills us, makes us whole. They wear their filthy suits and mucky dresses, stomping and tromping and romping like stiff ugly dolls. They hate the dark. They drag us from it, slap their smoggy shirts and shorts on us, clothe us in air and feed us with light. They burn us. They hate us, all the voices scream. And they are right. The voices are always right.
We sit, quiet now, and the voices all muddle together. They fill us with warmth, wrapping us with bright shadows. We snuggle under the covers, embracing the heat. Suddenly one of the stupid pale faces speaks too loudly.
“Hey, John, Tater’s back. Gonna need a hand over here.”
No! They come take us out to cold again! Fight! We stay here. We safe.
The voices erupt in screeches and we grab our head, rocking further into the shadows, away from the floppy gloves reaching for us. One touches us, and a voice shouts Run! Bite! Stay! Hide!
“Noooo!” we groan, shaking our head. Too many voices!
“Come on, Tater. Get out of the dumpster.” They pull and yank at us, stealing our home, snatching our peace.
“No! No, no, no, no, no!” We scratch and claw and kick and scream, fighting for our home. Kill them! Feed them! Love them! Fear them! The voices writhe in pain as they pinch our wrists with their nasty hands.
“Tater, we’ve got to do our job. Get out of the dumpster.”
We lung at them, hissing bug-eyed in their faces. They flinch and drop us on the hard metal. It hurts us, and it throws us onto the cold cement. We scamper away from them, fleeing to shadows, safety. Yes, safety. We’re safe now. Shadows. Darkness.
Warmth.
They plunder our home, robbing us, but leaving us alone at last. Slowly they walk away with our home. Tears spring into our eyes, cold tears, hard tears, nasty tears. Kill them! Flee them! The voices are divided now, some gnashing at them, some scurrying away from them. We rock back and forth as the voices banter back and forth. Kill them! Leave them! Bite them! No! Yes! Noeyaskilcrushidstyanurel…!
The voices swirl angrily with each other, hugging, slashing, kissing, smashing, brushing, clashing.
Then the voices are silent.
Finally, one whispers softly, Cry.
And we do.

It was a sad day in the quite town of Makor. Already, a late autumn day had befallen us. The news had recently reached our ears and we now stood beside the ol’ Hag’s Coffee Pot, gathered beside other members of the Armed Author Association, or Triple A as it is often called, looking with interest at the scene before us.

The wind flew by with an uncaring presence. As it passed it caressed my uncovered, unprotected face; it was always freezing this time of year. In front of me lay the sprawled body of a man, broken, like a pair of smashed, forgotten spectacles, shattered. Death, it was a hideous thing to look at. For me, let alone anyone else, it was gruesome to see somebody wrapped in the arms of this silent beast known as Death.

We waited, listening for the confirmation we all dreaded to hear. It came swiftly, like flying procession of sadness. It was Protagio, the head director of the AAA, somebody had murdered him.

“I know who did this!” someone behind me suddenly shouted. “It was Antagonia!” Craning our heads, we all looked to see who had spoken.

“And what makes you say that?” A man beside me responded. “How can you believe for one second she would so much as hurt a fly?”

“It’s true! We heard her conferring her evil words of death to some associates of the Writers Block Union!” A group shouted in confirmation.

“We know the WBU hates the AAA intensely, but would they really go this far?” the other group shouted back.

Before long, an argument through the entire group had spread out before me. Muttering to myself, “So, it has come to this,” me and my partner walked over and began to search the scene for clues. By now, a raging argument had erupted around us.

We scoured the body, but to no avail. There weren’t any clues to point us to the killer. Suddenly, a thought sparked within me. Raising my voice, I began to shout so that the crowds would hear me over their clamor.

“Everyone, we are all writer’s here! Why can’t we sort this out like civilized persons!?”

My partner piped in and said, “And why don’t we start thinking like writer’s and not like fools. If this was one of our stories, who would we have set up to be the murderer?”

“That’s a good point! Let’s think like authors!” the crowd shouted, and they began to ponder for a moment. Suddenly every face looked to me. “It was you!” they shouted in unison.

“What?! How could you accuse me of such things?” The crowd rose up in a cry of hatred, in unison they came at me raising their fists and shouting-

Suddenly, the creature Sleep departed from me and awareness returned to me. "Was it a dream?" The words departed out from my mouth just as they were thought. It seemed that it was merely a dream born forth from the inner corners of the subconscious mind, nothing more.

Looking out at the manuscripts before me, it was obvious Sleep had once again snuck up upon me while my thoughts were concentrated on new ideas for my story. It was a dream, nothing more than that. Sleep, it called to me again, telling me to come back to it. And my body thought it best to oblige, despite my unwillingness.

Monopoly

Me and Myself are wonderful friends. We often play board games together; we’re inseparable. This sounds crazy, we know, but this is what happens when one has no friends, or at least none nearby or with a vehicle. The games between Me and Myself are always pretty intense. They can last for hours, before we both get tired and decide to call it quits.

Monopoly is a wonderful game, even if there's only "one" player. There has been many a night when Me and Myself have played against each other. Sometimes You-know-who joins us. When playing against Myself, somehow the winner is always Me. We don't really know why. One time, Myself landed on Chance on the opening move and was sent to jail. Then Myself got out of jail and landed on Community Chest, receiving a 'Get out of jail free' card. The very next turn, Myself landed on 'Go to jail'. Myself decided to just pay rather than use the card, since no money had been spent yet and the card might come in handy later on. It did, by the way. We laughed very much at that incident later, but Myself personally was not very happy about it at the time. Another time, Me was able to buy Board Walk, Park Place, and Pacific Avenue for under five dollars each! We love auctions…

Me and Myself also play Scrabble often. Words seem to be our thing. We just have a way with them. Those games have gotten intense, too. Me traded letters for five turns in a row one time, trying to spell a certain word. Then Me realized that the word was being spelled wrong—so all those turns had been wasted for absolutely no reason. Me was pretty embarrassed at that.

We’ve tried playing Chess or Checkers, but they never work out very well. We always seem to know what the other is thinking, Me can’t get an advantage over Myself, and Myself can’t get an advantage over Me. At least, not very well.

Me and Myself often have long conversations with each other. We both know English, Spanish, and American Sign Language, and we sometimes switch languages without realizing it. We always understand what the other is saying without difficulty, though. Our favorite place to go on a walk is a little tiny park in a little tiny neighborhood that almost no one else knows about. It’s sort of like our secret place to get alone with each other. Me has always thought that it’s the sort of special place that must be shared with someone; that to go with no one else would be breaking some sacred, unwritten law. So Myself always goes with Me. Always.

We also love riding a bike to the beach, nearly twenty miles away. Me decided to take a camera along once, and was well rewarded. Someone was having a small wedding, and they had no photographer. Me volunteered to take pictures for them, and they agreed. Myself suggested saving them and putting them into a portfolio, just in case Me ever goes into professional photography. Me thought that was a great idea. We agree on most things, though we do argue often enough.

We love each other, and we love each other’s company. That makes boring nights a little less lonely.

When the cold wind blows from the north and all that can be done is, my return is nigh. You worry, but our children will see their mother again. This adventure isn’t forever.

Home. What a wonderful word. It brings to mind the smell of bread baking in our old clay oven, the laugh of our children running through the grass. The candle burns low but our spirits stay high. Home is the promises of safety we whispered in their ears, the soft kisses at night we gave them on the forehead, a touch of hope when the call to arms comes.

Home. What a ridiculous lie. Home didn’t save us from the letter that called us to the front. We hugged the children goodbye, left them with elderly relatives, and departed for the war. All the pleas couldn’t get us sent home. This is a life or death war, they said. The state of our country depends on the outcome, they said. Don’t be so selfish, they said. Selfish? Who is selfish-parents who care about their child’s tears, not some ruler they will never meet?

Your dreams of home didn’t save you on the battlefront, either. When that lightning bolt, fired by some foreign wizard, jetted across the battlefield our wishes didn’t save us! Oh, the stink of burning flesh that rose from you! The screams of pain until my dagger slit your throat in a desperate attempt to be merciful, no matter how strong the longing was to keep you at my side!
At least you got a proper ceremony. Most of the other soldiers had to rot on the battlefield, but my torch set you aflame. Maybe your ashes found their way home.

Home didn’t protect the children, either. Another letter came to me not long after you had died. It told of our baby girl and her brave brother. The tears stream down my face even now, fifty years later.

Imagination can barely paint a full picture. What horrible monster would massacre children. And yet, the smoke of our burning home, the wails of our little girl, the screams of our son echo in my head. He probably tried to fight them, the poor dear, with your old sword that hung over the mantle. The dirt that was stained with his blood-nothing will grow there, even by this day.

There’s no one who worries about me anymore. No one who frets when work runs late, no one to complain when the bread burns. Nowhere for the bread to burn. But the days went on, and against all my wishes, my existence continued.

Still, today the graveyard has no visitors but yours truly, but it is far from empty. Soon it will expand.

My heart flutters like a baby bird, who is caught by a cat before it can learn to fly. My skin is shriveled like aged paper, and my every step sends pain through my joints. This brings more joy to me than anything has since your death.

When the cold wind blows from the north and all that can be done is, my return is nigh. My return to you and the children. This adventure that is life isn’t forever.

Wait up for me, love.

The air smells like wood. It's warm here. Me and Kiki like it here. He will curl up atop the freezer usually. So then it's under the stairs for me.
The humans that keep me here seem to be quite resilient. Usually humans would have put someone like myself out quite soon. My saliva drips all over them any time they attempt to hold me. Yet still they have made no attempt to get rid of me? Crazy, crazy, humans.
The stairs are slippery beneath my paws. At the top someone has just opened the door. "Butterscotch, no come back here!" She says. It's the young human. Just as tall as the mother human, but definitely the youngest. They don't like it when us cats come up. Or at least not me a Kiki. Nina and Quincey get free range of the house on most days. But that was due to bad habits we had developed. It seems that no matter what happens, they always find a solution. How do you make someone dislike you? None of these tactics seemed to be working. Most people freak out when a cat drools on them. But no, not these people. They think it's adorable.
The table is tall. It towers above my head. The chairs around it like prison bars. It feels much safer in here. The humans aren't bad. They feed me and give me a warm place to sleep. They even let me outside sometimes when the weather is nice. But the world is waiting! My mother always said that to see all of it would be amazing. My only dilemma is my own sense of compassion. They love me so much. To just walk away would be terrible of me. So first I must make them dislike me. But alas, this task is much harder than it sounds.
The small dog runs under the table. Up onto a chair with me! The big dog is sweet and friendly. But the little one always wants to play. "Hissss," the dog stops in it's tracks at my noise. I swat threateningly at it. It whines and backs up. With another hiss from me the dog leaves.
Sitting back and licking my leg, thoughts of large forests and tall mountains begin to fill my mind. A place where birds fly and sing. Where mice scamper everywhere. Where flowers bloom in every color. With brooks and creeks. The dreams of a cat.
My attempts to get kicked out have included a variety of things. Breaking vases, lamps, and other such delicate objects. Leaving "presents" in bedrooms and bathrooms. Laying on the stairs for hours on end, until someone finally trips over me. Dashing between people's feet. Jumping onto the chair someone is about to sit in. And other such annoying things like that. But these humans are faithfully putting up with me. Not even drooling on them has made them want to get rid of me. Now there seems to be nothing left to do. Either destroy my code of ethics, or stay here forever. How does one pick between such options? My only good choice seems to be continue trying. Stay as long as it takes, even if that is forever. Until then, let the drooling commence!

The gates opened. The mass of kids, mowhaked and leather-jacketed, poured in to the corral. Piercings abounded, existing happily in noses, eyebrows, lips, cheeks, foreheads, and what have you.

My group of friends sneaked in with the back of the crowd, Molly trying to hide the flask of whiskey under her coat. We knew the drill. Look around, take a swig, put it back. There would be no fighting over turns.

We had seen better concerts, but this one was in walking distance of our neighborhood, and was only seven bucks to get in. That's cheap enough that we didn't have to ask our parents for money.

Some band called Dead Bird was opening for The Rats, who had just come out with their first album. It wasn't bad, but didn't really say anything, you know? Political punk is where it's at, but The Rats was more for fun than anything else.

Peter took a swig of the whiskey. "Man, this shit is awful," he said, making a face.

"It's all my mom had," apologized Molly, as some skinhead bumped into her.

The venue was packed. Seven dollars really brought in the crowd.

A guitar chord sent the crowd into a whirl of cheers. "Oh, look at him," a voice behind me cried. The frontman of Dead Bird had jumped onto an amp with the chord, holding the mic aloft as if he was going to use it to save the world.

A murmur escaped from my mouth, too quiet, thankfully, for anyone to hear: "how original."

The song that followed the guitar chord thrashed the audience into a whirling mass of joyful anger. Nothing could be understood, but hey, it was pretty fun.

"How'd you like that?" The frontman panted. "It's important to stand for your rights, even if you have to show them by taking away theirs. Have you ever wanted to take away someone's rights?"

Most of the crowd cheered, sweaty and ready to say yes to anything the charismatic punk said, but some of the crowd looked a bit leery. It was, perhaps, time for Dead Bird to get off the stage, but the lead continued to make a speech condoning what you need, not what others need. Interesting, but not my cup of tea.

My group of friends looked at each other uncomfortably. We had been to concerts like this before; they never ended well when speeches like this happened.

Suddenly, a group of people near the front jumped on stage and turned to face the audience. The frontman's speech stopped. Four words ended his speech.

"This is the revolution."

The eight people that had jumped on stage pulled bottles of liquor and rags out of their pockets and began concocting Molotovs.

"Well, fuck." My friends looked at me.

"Let's go," Molly said, panic in her voice.

The three of us turned to leave, and being near the back, we were able to slip out before the fight really got started. Or whatever that was.

It would certainly get Dead Bird publicity.

We're All Empty People Living in Our Empty Houses

The snow has been falling heavily for the past few hours, and it’s probably best to shovel now before it freezes overnight. The rusty metal shovel is still in the garage where you last left it. The snow on the drive is light and comes off easily. Back and forth, back and forth across the driveway in careful rows. Soon there are large drifts on either side.

The weatherman on TV said it was a few degrees below zero outside. The cold is good, though. It freezes my skin, makes my hands too numb to feel the shovel.

Maybe it will make me too numb to feel emotion as well.

Everyone seems to like emotions, even negative ones. People go on talking about loved ones they’ve lost, reliving memories. All that produces is sorrow. Thinking about you makes me want to just lie in bed all day and never get up. Because what’s the point?

Maybe that’s why shoveling snow is a good idea—to break me out my melancholy, my indifference to the world. It hasn’t helped, though. There’s a difference between doing things for the sake of doing them, and actually caring about them.

Or maybe that’s not what made me get up and come out into the cold to shovel. Maybe it’s that the house feels too empty.

The shoveling doesn’t take long. My back is aching a little by the end, though. The snow has started falling again, but a lot more lightly than before. My foot lands on something on the way back to the garage. A crunch. Glasses, lying cracked and broken on the driveway.

Your glasses.

They must have come off when they were wheeling you away on the stretcher.

Coming home to a silent house. Setting groceries on the counter, calling out your name. No response. Coming up the stairs, back aching, to knock on your door. Still no answer.

Opening up the door and finding you lying on the floor face down. Dialing 9-1-1 with shaking hands. Paramedics rolling you away. Your blank, lifeless face.

White sheets and blank walls.

And a red line across a black screen, refusing to rise up into mountains.

The glasses are cold in my hands, after laying on the ground all night. Cold and lifeless, like—

The shovel falls from my trembling hands. My vision blurs with tears.

My voice quivers. “Maybe...maybe you can hear me, son. Maybe you can’t.” My voice rings out across the silent street. “You were right, you know. About me. It was selfish to want you to follow in my footsteps. Everyone...everyone wants to think that they’ve walked the best path, that all who follow should want to go the same way. But we all want to make our own paths. And we all want to go to different places.

“There isn’t really anything to say that will mean anything, or make things happen differently. All there is to say is...is sorry. Sorry for not listening. Maybe you’ll forgive me, and maybe you won’t. Maybe,” my voice turns into a laugh, “maybe this is just an old man talking to himself. Who knows.”

The world around me is a quiet one, the snow dampening all sound. The street is empty. Large flakes of snow float slowly down from the heavens. The world feels peaceful, serene. A flake of snow lands on my hand, melting quickly to water.

One last look across the empty street, to your vacant car. The pieces of the glasses get tossed into the trash can at the bottom of the drive. Another glance at the now-clean driveway.

And then there’s nothing left to do but head back into the empty, empty house.

My name is Thoth, and my species is Oak.
However, you couldn’t truly call me a tree—or you could, but then you would have to add that the tree you are referring to is sentient, and much more sapient than others. My mind is clearer and faster than the mind of most humans, although the cause of my peculiar condition is unknown to me. My history is shrouded in uncertainty, and my origin is entirely forgotten. My family—if one ever existed—has disappeared.
Hundreds of trees stand around me; however, they do nothing but ostracize me. Of course, they cannot be blamed for this; they are unable to welcome me, for they cannot speak, or even think. But it makes me feel so alone, the way they stand there silently and motionlessly, drawing shadows across my face. It sometimes feels as though they are purposefully ignoring me, shunning me, refusing to allow me to belong with them. But of course, this is a foolish though; it is possible that the trees once were able to think, but they certainly no longer are.
Which makes me wonder, is my ability to think slowly being lost? Will my mind decay until it eventually disappears, leaving me no different from every other cold, forlorn tree?
My feet have been planted in the same soil for more years than humans have existed, although my memory of those long-lost times is little better than your own. For centuries, my roots have grown deep into the ground, and they will hold me here for the rest of my days. They are too deep to be dragged out, and anyway, the years have frozen my limbs and limited my movement. Traveling is no longer an option for me; it hasn’t been for many seasons. The ability to speak has not yet gone from me, though. If there was anything for me to say, my mouth could be opened and my voice could be put to use.
However, for over a century, no words have escaped my lips. The last time my voice was used, disaster ensued. Since that day, my foolish desires have never been allowed to overpower my reasoning.
In my long life, many creatures have passed beneath my branches, and many events have been witnessed by my eyes. Many great, forgotten tales live on in my mind. Today, one of these tales will be offered to you: Listen to the story of the day that eternally sealed my lips.
There was silence in the forest, as there often was. My leaves were thick at that time of year, and many trees flowered around me. There were footsteps not far from my grove, and soon a human stood in the clearing before me. He was alone, and yet he was speaking, presumably for his own ears to hear.
“She is more beautiful than the rose of Venus!” the man said. “My love for her is stronger than the ox that pulls the plow. The seed of our love was planted with the creation of the skies, and its echo shall last until the end of time. Our parents will not allow us to marry, but my heart will never again be squeezed by my unfeeling father. Tonight, we will run away from the world. Soon she will come here, as she promised, and then we will leave forever and begin our lives together!”
The man’s words enchanted me; human love had always seemed a beautiful thing to me. The man looked up at the treetops, continuing to speak, but behind him, out of his sight, a creature was moving. It crept toward him from the shadows of the trees; it appeared to be stalking him, preparing to kill. In looks, it was similar to a deer, but it was a much more frightening beast. In place of antlers, it had horns as long and sharp as swords; in its mouth were the teeth of wolves.
“Look behind you!”
The words escaped from my mouth before my mind could snatch them back. The man stared at me with his eyes wide; he was terrified to hear a tree speak. He raised his fists and backed away from me slowly, toward the beast. He tripped on one of my roots and fell backward onto the beast. The beast struck, impaling him with its horns, rupturing his heart. Blood sprayed from the man’s chest, decorating my leaves as though autumn had come early.
The beast hurried away; later it would return with its pack to feed, but this man’s story is not finished yet.
More noises came from the depths of the woods; footsteps, and a human voice. A woman entered the clearing, looking around.
“Where are you, my love?” she called, and then her eyes fell upon the broken body of the man.
An indescribable cry escaped her lips, one of pain and sadness and anger and fear, and she knelt before the man, cradling his head with her hands.
“Why are you lying here?” she asked, pulling the words from her strangled throat. “Why must you die on me?”
The forest was silent but for the woman’s sobs, and slowly, the man raised his arm and pointed at me. His final breath was a shudder, and then he closed his eyes.
The woman did not move for a long time, and then she lowered the man’s head onto the ground. She stood shakily, and walked up to me with her gaze directed at the ground. She raised her fist and brought it down, hard, upon my trunk; my bark scraped her skin, and she pulled her hand away. It was covered in blood.
She looked at me with a ferocious glare in her eyes, and then she turned and fled.
My longing to call after her, to tell her what had happened, to convince her of my innocence, was unbearable. But it was overpowered by my fear of causing her any more pain. And so she left the forest, taking with her my desire to speak.
Many other stories are housed within my limbs, but not one has affected me as much as that one. It will remain carved into my memory for as long as my roots clutch the ground.
Has it ever been said that dreams harbor wishes? If not, then it has been said now. Every time my eyes are closed, the story of the lamentable lovers is replayed to me. But in my sleep, where this world is unable to berate me, my dreams bring peace to me.
In my dreams, with me is another tree—although it cannot truly be called a tree. We talk with each other for the length of the day; we tell our stories and we plan our futures. In this dream, our roots are not held captive by the ground. At the end of the day, we lean against each other with our branches intertwined, and together we sleep.
For most of its time, the world has been parading past me, and never once has it stopped to ask my thoughts of it. But in case it ever happens to wonder how it could make itself better in my eyes, my response is prepared: Give me a chance to love, so that when my end is near and you look upon my withered trunk, of all the names you might call me, lonely will not be one.

“Did you do the dishes?” my mother shouted from somewhere upstairs.
“Why do you think the sink is empty?” came my bitter reply.
My mother always said that her life was happy before a “fleshy little sack of nothing” landed in her life. Of course that sack was me. She never does any work at home though, so, to me at least, her life seems a lot better off now than it probably was.
“Then get out and make something of your life!”
Slamming the door behind me was my only response.
The day was chilly but my coat was still up somewhere in the depths of my room. The sky was gray and the day smelled somewhat of pumpkins. The street was empty despite it being early afternoon on a Saturday. It must have been one of those endless sleepy Saturdays that seem to come and pass without notice.
My favorite place to hang around on a day like that day was a small corner of the small forest that surrounded a small river that passed under the bridge that led to our small town. This corner was like a natural cave. Unfortunately, it had no roof other than the tree tops, so it could become very wet. My solution for the problem of wet leaves was to keep a tarp rolled up in a gallon-sized plastic bag hidden under the leaves. But today, the leaves were dry, so the tarp stayed rolled up and hidden.
My body was thankful for a comfortable place to lie down; y bed felt like a pile of rocks most nights. The leaves fell, covering my body with the aroma of sweet maple and earthy elm. The leaves soon created a blanket-like barrier, and soon, the ground was almost indecipherable from me. My eyes closed as if by their own accord and only opened when the sky was a pinkish red color and the thing that had awakened me was standing with one paw on my lower lip, one on my chin, one on the bridge of my nose, and one on my cheek. In other words, there was a squirrel on my face.
My head jerked in surprise, and the squirrel scampered onto my stomach. Its weight and claws were quite an unfamiliar feeling on my stomach. The squirrel’s tale swished, ticking my nose, and it seemed to feel the warmth emanating from my body. It twitched for a few more minutes, but the rise and fall of my breathing seemed to lull it to sleep. My hand inched toward it, finally coming within stroking distance. When my fingers finally found purchase with the grow-gray fur, one little black eye popped sleepily open and looked at me quizzically. My finger ran across its soft fur over and over, gently, gently, and the squirrel puffed a little huff of breath and closed its eye again. My hand inched under the squirrel, scooping it up gently.
The leaves rustled with my sitting up, and the squirrel twitched a little bit, but otherwise seemed completely calm with the movement. My eyes couldn’t leave the tiny ears and nose of the squirrel as my feet carried me home. My mind was filled with crazy visions of keeping the squirrel and training it to do tricks. Too distracted by these dreams, my mother surprised me on our porch with a scream.
“Why in the whole be-deviled world are you holding that mangy rat!” screeched my mother, batting it out of my hands.
The squirrel, quick as a wink, flew out of my hands and under a bush. My heart broke in that very moment. The squirrel never came back. Why it ever decided to come up to me in the first place is a mystery, but the magic of that moment has never left me. It has provided a solace in many a hard time, to think of myself as “the squirrel whisperer.”