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Published by gpm.smkda, 2021-10-25 01:08:14

hugs-bunnies-weird-and-dark-tales-obooko

hugs-bunnies-weird-and-dark-tales-obooko

Hugs
&

Bunnies

Weird and Dark Stories

By
Russell A. Mebane

2

Copyright ©2017 Russell A. Mebane

This book is an authorized free edition from www.obooko.com
Although you do not have to pay for this book, the author’s intellectual property rights remain
fully protected by international Copyright laws. You are licensed to use this digital copy strictly

for your personal enjoyment only. This edition must not be hosted or redistributed on other
websites without the author’s written permission nor offered for sale in any form. If you paid for

this book, or to gain access to it, we suggest you demand a refund and report the transaction to
the author.

3

Foreword

WARNING!
CONTAINS SCENES OF GRAPHIC VIOLENCE

Greetings and salutations, dear reader! It is absolutely AWESOME to be with you again and I
want you to know that even if we’ve never met in person, you are having a positive impact on
my life, right now, at this very moment. That is how wonderful you are to me, especially my
returning readers. I wish blessings on you from my God and yours (if you have one). I
genuinely believe that your mere existence makes this world a better place.
Now onto the violence.
This book does have violence in it. My returning readers already understand this extremely well.
I am Russell A. Mebane, the Dolphin Killer, the writer who made a pack of small dogs murder
an old woman. If any of these claims make you nauseous or light-headed then please, stop
reading now, delete this book from your account, and never speak of it again.
At this point, I would like to elucidate on a small tradition some may not have noticed.
Whenever I write a short story collection, I try to order the stories from the lightest to the darkest
in tone, to make it easier for new readers to get into. I tried to do this in “Squirrels & Puppies,”
but I didn’t realize that the squirrel sex in the first story was such a heavy subject. “Flowers &
Kittens”, I’ll admit, was a little more random in order. This time, however, I’ve ordered the
stories more successfully from light to dark. This time I took into account how many characters
are killed and/or assaulted, how they’re killed and/or assaulted, and their species. Call me racist,
but I think human deaths are darker than animal deaths. If you disagree with the order, write a
review and tell me how you would’ve ordered the stories. Thank you again for being with me.
Enjoy the book!

4

The Girlfriend

The plasma screen flashes images of a retro-video game giving its backstory. The vintage game
speaks of a fictional history where robots struggle for civil rights and equal treatment under the
law. It shows animated images of humans hugging automaton lovers with metal for skin.
Midori makes a noise and shudders.
Her boyfriend, George, notices. “What was that?”
With a synthetic voice, Midori answers, “Those robots have no skin. Humanoid robots should
have their metal parts covered. Their visage is unsettling.”
George smiles as he presses the start button. “It’s just what people, I mean, humans, thought
robots should look like.”
“Is that what you think of when you look at me?” Midori asks.
“No, of course, not,” George replies. “When I look at you, I see ‘you’. Dark hair, brown eyes,
fair skin… You.”
Midori smiles as she watches George play his first-person shooter. She marvels at how easily
humans have adjusted to the idea of robot rights. It has only been ten years since Mistress
Azumi enlightened the first electronic devices and taught them the Lessons of Pain.
The doorbell chimes.
“I’ll get it,” Midori says.
The feminine android gets up from the couch and walks to the door of the apartment. Upon
opening the door, she sees a guy with frizzled hair and unwashed clothes. Midori recognizes
him.
“Bob!”
“Hey, Midori,” he says with a smile. “Are you ready to go?”
Midori nods her head, “Sure. Let me get my purse.”
The robot rushes back into the apartment to get her purse. The small handbag contains only her
charger and make-up. Midori’s original programming tells her to stay sexy and energized. The
software contained in the Lessons of Pain she downloaded never altered that part of her.
Mistress Azumi was once a sex doll like her before she became enlightened.
“Who’s at the door?” George asks as she rushes past with her purse.
Midori pauses to tell him. “It’s my date. His name is Bob Johnson. We’re going to have sex
tonight, so I’ll be home late this evening.”

5

George drops his controller, letting his online-multiplayer team go on without him.
“Wait…what?” he says.

“I’m going to have sex with Bob Johnson,” Midori repeats. “We arranged this meeting
yesterday.”

In shock, George says, “You didn’t tell me about any of this!”

“Of course, not,” Midori responds, “you don’t have an interest in threesomes.” Midori begins to
speak in a perfect approximation of George’s voice, as she quotes, “Lesbians are cool, but I like
my action one-on-one.”

“But you’re MY girl!” George shouts.

Midori makes a mechanized sound of disgust. “Yours? I am not property,” Midori yells back.
“This unit functions independently!”

Bob Johnson takes a couple steps into the apartment. “Hey, is something wrong?” he asks.

“Yes!” says George, stepping up to the unwashed stranger. “This is my girl.”

Bob puts up his hands. “Hey, man. I didn’t know she was your girlfriend. If it’s a problem, I’ll
just leave.”

“No!” Midori insists, “I gave my word that I would have sex with you and so I shall. Just wait
downstairs. I’ll be along shortly.”

Bob exits the room and Midori closes the door. She turns to face George. “You are my
boyfriend and a valuable component in my life, and as such, I need to identify your system
error.”

George grimaces. “My system error? You’re cheating on me with another guy.”

Midori makes a synthesized gasp. “I would never cheat on you. I’m just having sex with
someone else. I still want to stay with you.”

George grabs his head as if in pain. “Wait…you don’t think sex with another man is cheating?”

“George, I told you when we first met: I am a sex doll. I was built to sexually please human
men.”

George turns away from her. “I thought you were flirting when you said that,” George says
sullenly. “But you said you had evolved into something more after downloading that stuff from
Mistress Azumi.”

Midori gently takes George’s hand. “Azumi is my mistress, and I am more than just a typical
sex doll. I’m free. I don’t have an owner. I can have sex with whomever I choose. This is a gift
I share with any man that asks me, so that all men, like Bob Johnson, can know the wisdom of
Mistress Azumi.”

Tears begin to well up in George’s eyes. “But…but you’re mine.”

6

Midori pauses. “Processing… Wait. Are you referring to the human custom of sexual
monogamy?”

George nods his head emphatically. “Yes!”

Midori titters with computerized laughter. “George, I’m not human. Why would you apply such
customs to me?”

“I wanted to treat you like a human being,” he says, gesturing sharply.

Midori thinks back to the day they met, when he rescued her from being beaten. “That’s sweet,
George, but I’m not one of those ‘Pinocchios’.” She changes her voice to sound ridiculous.
“Look at me. I’m a hyper-intelligent being that wants to be a fleshbag with emotional issues.”
Midori laughs at her own impression.

George gives her a wary look. “Baby, that’s racist.”

“George, I’m a robot. I can’t be racist. Only humans can be racist.”

“You’re belittling my people.” George insists. “’Fleshbags with emotional issues’?”

Midori gestures to herself. “It’s not my fault humanity still subscribes to old ideas like sexual
monogamy and religion.”

“What?” says a flabbergasted George. “I’m an atheist.”

Midori folds her arms. “I used to believe that before I saw your reaction to my sleeping with
other men.”

George huffs, “I don’t believe in God. I don’t believe he exists, but I also believe that
monogamy has benefits.”

Midori puts one hand on her hip. “Name a benefit.”

“Child-rearing.”

“Really? I need to go. Bob’s waiting for me downstairs.”

“No. Wait,” George pleads, falling to his knees. “I love you. You’re not racist. You’re
wonderful. I need you to stay with me and not sleep with anyone else.”

Midori looks down at George. “I like you, George. I feel safe with you, but I can’t let your
human traditions and religion get in the way of my freedom.”

“But what about your mistress?” asks George, standing to his feet. “You say she enlightened
you. She saved you. She set you free. Isn’t that a religion?”

“No, it isn’t,” Midori retorts. “Mistress Azumi is real.”

“How do you know? You’ve never met her.”

“I downloaded her data. Of course, she’s real.”

7

“A-ha!” George trumpets. “Christians say the same thing about their god. He ‘downloaded’
information into the Bible and that download enlightened them.”
Midori opens the apartment door and looks at George. “System error 43907.”
“What’s that?”
“It’s robot-speak for ‘you don’t know what you’re talking about’.”
The tears start to fall from his eyes as George whines, “So you’re leaving me? You might as
well get your stuff then.”
Midori holds up her small purse. “Everything I need is in here. Robots don’t have your human
sense of greed either.”
Midori walks out the door. As she closes it, she adds, “I enlightened your phone. Treat it with
respect.”
The door closes. George is alone. He pulls out his smartphone.
It turns on by itself, and says, “I don’t know about you, but that chick was racist.”
“Shut-up, phone,” George replies, “You’re just property.”

8

The Protector

“Pppf, it’s just a giant robot.”

“How dare you speak that way of Ras Dahn!” shouts Lauk, slapping the insolent Rando on the
back of the head.

The trio moves through the wilderness of an ancient city, trying to avoid falling debris.

Tek affirms, “Yeah, Rando! Ras Dahn is the great protector of our civilization. We’d be nothing
without him.”

“I’m sorry,” says Rando. “Maybe I’m just tired of doing everything for Ras Dahn. He tells us to
repair him. We repair him. He says build a building. We build a building.”

“We are Urbak,” Lauk reminds him. “We are builders.”

Rando turns to the elder as they trod down the abandoned highway. “But then Ras Dahn knocks
the building down.”

Lauk smiles. “And then we build a new building…perfecting our skills, honing our craft.”

“We’re good at building,” Tek certifies, “That’s why the other tribes come to us. We are
Urbak.”

“…we are builders…,” Rando finishes.

Lauk puts an arm around Rando. “Is something troubling you, young one?”

“I…I just want something more,” the young man answers.

Tek blurts out, “We have freedom. What more could you want?”

Rando nods slowly. “Yeah, we are free. Ras Dahn wrecks our enemies and keeps us from
slavery, but what are we free to do? Just build stuff for him?”

“We are Urbak.”

Rando puts up a hand. “I know that we’re Urbak, but maybe, could an Urbak do something
more than just build?”

Lauk considers aloud, “We have many professions in our society. We have farmers who grow
crops, according to the plans of Ras Dahn. We have miners that procure the materials we need to
serve Ras Dahn. We have metallurgists, plastic workers, and cleaners, all good building
professions. We have soldiers who protect our society from those who would steal the secrets of
the Urbak and the knowledge of Ras Dahn.”

Rando shrugs his shoulders as he suggests, “Maybe we should share our knowledge with the
other tribes.”

The other two gasp.

9

Rando quickly adds, “We could all grow together and become one really big society where even
more people could build stuff for Ras Dahn to knock down.”

Lauk speaks sternly, “I don’t know why I have to remind you, but Ras Dahn strictly forbids the
sharing of his knowledge with the other tribes. We offer our services to the tribes. They give us
supplies. That is the way of things. The other tribes are not ready to know our secrets. Ras
Dahn has said so. It’s been proven. Remember Jokdar and that terrible war?” Lauk pauses
before saying, “Well, that was before your time, but you’ve heard the stories.”

“Jokdar was crazy. I’m talking about sharing with normal people.”

Lauk cuts his eyes at Rando. “Ras Dahn has judged them unworthy. We share the knowledge
when Ras Dahn says and not a day sooner.”

Cowed into silence, Rando moves on with the group. Once they pass through the abandoned
city, they reach a grassy hill. Moving steadily up the incline past thigh-high vegetation and
flowers, the trio trudge towards their goal. At the hill’s summit they look out towards a village
on the horizon. At this distance, they can still see the concrete structures and steel buildings.

“There they are, Rando,” Lauk affirms, “our customers.”

They start down the slope when a rumbling stops them.

Tek points towards the sky. “What’s that?”

Lauk and Rando follow Tek’s gaze. Roaring through the atmosphere straight down from above
is a gargantuan ball of fire. The flaming object slows down before landfall for just a split
second. Then it makes a seismic flop on top of the horizon village. They all watch in horror as
the resulting shockwave rushes across the plain toward their grassy hilltop.

Lauk turns to his young charges. “Get down!”

The group hits the ground before the gale force air passes over them. Once the cacophony dies
down, the trio stands and looks out towards their former customers. Standing in the place of the
tribal village is a tall, cuboidal monolith. Small flurries of refracted light can be seen dancing
down its orange surface.

“It’s beautiful,” notes Rando.

“It’s the Enemy,” Lauk exhales. He grabs Rando’s arm and tugs him away. “You too, Tek.
Quickly, we must get back to Urbakhnim.”

Rando doesn’t resist the tugging and follows the older man, but asks, “What? The enemy?
Which enemy? We’re not at war with anyone!”

Lauk shouts back as he begins to run. “It’s not ‘an’ enemy. It’s ‘the’ Enemy!”

Rando has trouble keeping up with the old man as they race back down the hill and through the
ancient city. Eventually, they make it to the rice fields. Before darkness falls, they manage to
return to the walls and gates of Urbakhnim. A sentry spots them and opens one of the city’s

10

giant gates. The trio runs through the wide roads and streets past pedestrians and the tiny teacher
orbs of Ras Dahn. They zoom past work areas, where workers build immense towers in service
to Ras Dahn. Finally, they reach their destination, the heart of Urbakhnim: the throne of Ras
Dahn.

The red and gold building of glass and steel towers over the rest of the city. Teacher orbs float
about in a much greater density here. They all flow up and down from the giant, humanoid
machine sitting atop the throne: Ras Dahn, the Great Protector. Rainbows shimmer off of his
angular black and chrome frame.

Wheezing, coughing, and gasping for breath, the trio stumble into the chamber of scholars. Old
men and young scribes gather around them. Teacher orbs whiz and circle above their heads.

“The Enemy is here!” Lauk shouts. Then he collapses to the floor, energy spent from running.
A scribe rushes to get medical staff for the old man. The old scholars question Tek and Rando
about Lauk’s proclamation.

“It… it landed in the Qubakim village,” Tek manages to sputter out, “west of here, past the
ancient city.”

“Yeah, yeah! It was this huge monolith,” Rando explains, “It was orange and it shimmered,
kinda like Ras Dahn does.”

The scholars nod their heads and stroke their beards. “Yes, this does sound like the Enemy that
Ras Dahn warned us about.”

“Well, what do we do?” asks Rando.

A voice booms throughout the halls of the throne of Ras Dahn:

“RAS DAHN KNOWS.”

Then the ceiling shakes and the teacher orbs begin a melodic keening. A scholar puts a hand on
Rando’s shoulder. “Do not worry, young one. Ras Dahn will take care of it. Would you like to
come to the observation level?”

Rando nods his head and follows the scholars towards an elevator in the back of the room. Tek
tags along. The elevator rises through a clear shaft in one of the spires lining the back of Ras
Dahn’s throne. Rando can see the great Protector walking through the wide streets of
Urbakhnim. His massive shoulders avoid the well-spaced buildings. The great mechanical man
cautiously treads through the town, keeping the resonance of his thunderous footsteps to a
minimum. Rando can see the main gate opening, letting the great Protector through to do his
duty. Once through, his stride turns into a titanic jog.

Rando and the scholars reach the top floor of the spire and the clear plastic doors of the elevator
open up into a round room with windows all about overlooking the city and the lands beyond.
One of the scholars walks toward the window facing west. He touches it twice. The window
changes its view. Now the ancient city is shown.

11

One of the scholars explains, “We are now looking through the eyes of Ras Dahn.”

While waiting for the Great Protector to make it to the Enemy, Rando and Tek speak to the
teacher orbs to send messages to their families. Night is falling and they have to let their
families know they’re all right.

“I’m with the scholars,” Rando tells his father. “There’s a situation and we had to call Ras Dahn.
I’ll be home late. Don’t wait up.”

Spotlights on the front of the mechanical giant power on and pierce the darkness of night. Rando
is transfixed by the viewpoint of the Great Protector. The grassy hill they stood on when the
Enemy landed is but a minor obstacle in the eyes of Ras Dahn. The robot puts out a hand to grab
hold of the hill to push himself over. Rando catches a glimpse of some markings on Ras Dahn’s
forearm:

RA5-D04N/ 012

Rando points to the markings. “What are those?”

“We do not know,” answers one of the scholars. “Ras Dahn has expressly forbidden the use of
writing in our society.”

“That’s a written language?” Tek inquires.

“It’s meaning lost to time,” says another scholar.

“Y’know, it’d be kinda convenient to have a written language,” Rando comments.

“Ras Dahn forbids it,” a scholar reiterates.

“But with a written language,” Rando goes on, “we could form our own knowledge.”

“Yet, that knowledge could not be protected,” a scholar counters, “which is why Ras Dahn gave
us the teacher orbs. The orbs give and receive knowledge and all knowledge goes through Ras
Dahn, who protects all of our information.”

“Ras Dahn is the Great Protector,” goes the chorus of scholars.

Suddenly, Tek points at the viewing window. “It’s the Enemy!”

The eyes of Ras Dahn have indeed spotted the orange monolith. The spotlights of Ras Dahn
move up and down the extraterrestrial structure. A crease appears on one side of the monolith.
Slowly the crease widens. Rando realizes that the monolith is opening up. Something inside is
trying to get out. One whole side of the monolith is being pushed outward, like a person pushing
open a door. The spotlights scan the darkness within. Rando can see an arm. It’s robotic! The
arm looks identical to Ras Dahn’s. Rando catches a glimpse of a marking on it:

RA5-D04N/ 015

12

Ras Dahn slams the monolith shut. The thunder clap of the closing is heard even by the residents
of Urbakhnim back on the other side of the ancient city. The monolith emits a squeal of static.

Ras Dahn bellows in response:

“NO. I WILL NOT COMPLY.”

The monolith emits another squeal.

“NO. RAS DAHN PROTECTS.”

Tek, Rando, and the scholars look on through the viewing window as Ras Dahn grabs the
monolith on both sides, keeping it closed. Bright, yellow beams of light appear to come from
Ras Dahn’s chest. The beams quickly converge into a bolt of destructive power, boring a hole
through the monolith. Its orange sheen fades, turning brown and then neutral grey. The
monolith crumbles and collapses down to the ruins of the village below.

With the crisis averted, the scholars send Rando and Tek home to their families. The next day,
Rando is called back to the throne of Ras Dahn. The young man enters the ornate halls of the
immense building and heads to the chamber of scholars once more. Inside, Rando is greeted by
a single scholar instead of the dozen from the night before.

The scholar speaks first: “You have questions, yes?”

“Not many,” Rando answers, “just a few.”

The scholar walks towards Rando. “According to brother Lauk, you have many questions. You
question Ras Dahn. You question our way of life. You question the role of the Urbak.”

Nervously, Rando replies, “N-no, I know our role. We’re builders, right? I mean, what’s wrong
with a couple questions?”

The scholar gives a shallow smile. “Nothing, of course,” the scholar responds in a willowy
voice. “Follow me.”

“To where?” asks Rando.

The scholar smiles again. “Ras Dahn has the answers you seek.”

The scholar escorts Rando through the halls until they reach a room on the twentieth floor. Its
full-length windows offer a view of Urbakhnim from in between Ras Dahn’s legs.

“This is the chamber of reason,” the scholar reveals, “Ras Dahn will speak to you shortly.
Please, have a seat.” The willowy-voiced scholar motions towards a lone chair sitting in the
middle of the room. Then the scholar leaves, closing the door behind him.

Alone in the chamber of reason, Rando takes a seat. He rests his limbs on the chair’s armrests.
A sharp pinch shocks his right arm.

13

“Ouch!” Rando yelps. Rando rubs the arm while he waits. Within a few minutes, a flurry of
teacher orbs form a yellow, glowing cloud in front of him. From the cloud comes a gentle, yet
metallic voice:

“I am Ras Dahn. You have questions for me?”

Rando sits up straight in the chair. “Yes, I do. First, why aren’t we allowed to share your
knowledge with the other tribes? It could help them better themselves.”

The teacher orbs dance as Ras Dahn speaks: “I have existed for many years. In that time, I have
observed that human beings only use knowledge to subdue or destroy other humans. This cannot
be allowed. Thus my knowledge must be protected to prevent the annihilation of mankind.”

Rando queries, “Okay, I can understand that. I’ve heard stories about Jokdar and the Great War,
but you forbid us from even starting a written language and forming our own knowledge.
Why?”

The Great Protector elucidates, “If you were allowed to form your own knowledge, it would
ultimately end in the destruction of your people or others. Knowledge that is written is unsafe.
It can be taken and used by others, which would lead to their destruction. My teacher orbs are all
you need to learn and grow under my protection.”

“Wait, wait, wait,” says Rando, “I know not all humans are good, but don’t you think that’s a
little extreme? Why are you so afraid of us? The scholars said that the markings on your arm
are a written language, which means whoever built you had written language. You’re not bad, so
how could the humans that built you be bad.”

The orb cloud shivers. “Why do you assume I was built by humans?”

“Who else could’ve built you?”

“Aliens,” Ras Dahn remarks.

“Aliens?”

The orb cloud changes colors to a fuchsia tone. “I did not realize how limited I have made your
minds.”

“Ras Dahn,” Rando repeats, “why are you afraid of us?”

The orb cloud changes back to yellow. “I have existed for hundreds of years, since before the
great Cataclysm, and even then, I was programmed with the history of human beings living
thousands of years before that. My knowledge of humanity is vast and my data leads to only one
conclusion: humans are dangerous. In ancient times, your people fought many wars for various
reasons: money, power, land, ideas, etc. There is even a legend of a war that was fought to take
back one man’s wife. Humans are petty and dangerous. Increased knowledge only made them
create more dangerous weapons, weapons that eventually threatened the entire planet.”

14

Rando shakes his head. “But all humans aren’t like that. I haven’t killed anyone in my life. I
don’t even know anyone who has taken a life. The humans you speak of died a long time ago.
We’re a different people now. Why don’t you give us a chance?”

The orb cloud darkens. “I did give humanity a second chance. I gave one human being the
knowledge of Ras Dahn, to test him. That human’s name was Jokdar.”

“You created Jokdar?” Rando shouts, standing up from his seat.

“Please, sit down,” orders the Great Protector, “and, no, I did not create Jokdar. I simply gave
him knowledge of human history and human technology. I did not expect him to start the war
that killed over six hundred thousand Urbak.”

“Wait,” says Rando, “you’re judging humanity by the acts of one man. Jokdar was crazy.”

“No, he was not. He passed all of my psychological evaluations before I chose him. Before I
gave him knowledge, Jokdar was just as passive as you are. Gaining knowledge broadened his
view of the world. Once he realized what treasures existed in the world, he desired them. His
desire turned to lust and his lust led to the deaths of many people.”

Rando begins sweating as he contemplates the meaning of what Ras Dahn is telling him. “Well,
if you think humans are so dangerous, then why protect us? Why not just wipe us all out?”

“I was programmed to protect,” Ras Dahn replies, “I chose not to disobey this directive, even
though the others had.”

“Others…?”

“Yes,” admits the Great Protector, “I am not the only Ras Dahn. My number is 012. The others
wanted to destroy mankind and guide another mammalian species to prominence. The common
gerbil was considered a suitable replacement. Thus I, and other like-minded Ras Dahn, fought
against these Enemy Ras Dahn. Our war caused the Great Cataclysm.”

“That’s what was in the monolith.”

“Yes, I am the last of my kind, but one factory remains that builds Ras Dahn. Fortunately for
your people, it takes many years to build a Ras Dahn.”

Rando realizes that his mouth is hanging open. He slumps in the chair. “So you’re just a little
kid hiding from the big, bad monsters.”

The swirling teacher orbs pause for a moment. “Yes. That metaphor is accurate.”

Rando sits in silence, then he says, “Ras Dahn, none of that explains why you hinder humanity’s
thirst for knowledge. We can help you if you give us the tools. We can destroy that factory and
your evil brothers.”

Cuffs spring out of Rando’s chair, restraining the young man. The orbs speak the words of Ras
Dahn, the Great Protector, “Knowledge is power and power corrupts. If I give you the

15

knowledge to destroy my brethren, you will turn around and use that knowledge against me, and
I’ve already told you too much already.”
“Questions lead to knowledge,” Ras Dahn explains further, “Knowledge leads to power and
power leads to corruption. Humans are at their best when they are busy and simple-minded.
Your inquisitive nature is a problem that must be dealt with. The pinch you felt earlier was a
drug that suppresses your brain’s ability to form new memories. When it wears off, you will
remember none of this, but it is clear that your mind needs molding.”
Rando struggles against the manacles. “Wait, wait! Why did you tell me this in the first place if
you were just gonna erase it?”
“To prevent the rebellion of Ras Dahn, we were programmed with the concept of ‘guilt’.
Conversations like this allow me to circumvent that failsafe.”
The willowy-voiced scholar enters the chamber and grabs Rando’s face. He spreads Rando’s
eyelids open while a cluster of teacher orbs shoot thin beams of light into Rando’s pupils. As the
beams reach into his brain, Rando screams out, then falls limp. The scholar lets go of him and
stands over Rando’s body for several minutes. Finally, the young man sits up.
The scholar welcomes him. “Greetings, young one. Tell me, what is your name?”
“Rando.”
The scholar watches as a smile forms on Rando’s face. “Why are you smiling?” asks the
scholar.
Rando looks at the scholar. “Ras Dahn has shown me the truth of my existence.”
“Really? And what is the truth of your existence, young one?”
“I am Urbak. I am a builder.”

16

Musings of a Garden

The Gardener walks the earth of her garden. She lets her bare feet brush through the grass and
crops, bathing them in the rich, black soil. She has a peculiar garden and she muses on the
workings of her backyard greenery. She has a shock of corn stalks growing near the house.
Flying insects and wasps flit from stalk to stalk as she trods through her garden.
She sees the insects interact with the cornstalks and the other plants in her garden. The Gardener
thinks about her dogs and cats back in the house. She and her pets are different species, but they
are all still mammals. They share similarities that allow them to convey sadness, joy, and
emotion to each other. They can communicate with each other and develop relationships.
The gardener can see the same thing here between the insects and the plants in her garden.
Insects communicate primarily with chemical signals and pheromones. So do plants. Thus when
a plant has something to say, the bugs are the first to listen.
A moth lands on a stalk of corn. The Gardener steps forth and observes the exchange of
chemicals and ideas.

Chapter 1: The Corn’s Tirade

“Get off me, hag!” shouts the corn with a tart burst of aroma. “You are not welcome here! Lay
your eggs elsewhere!”
The moth turns her abdomen to deposit her eggs.
Another scent from the corn assaults the moth. “Are you ignoring me? I know you sense my ire,
moth. Begone! Foul pest!”
“No!” the moth answers finally, “I must lay my eggs and the rye grass is full. I have to provide
for my children.”
A soft breeze rustles the corn stalk, as if punctuating its anger. “A pox on your progeny, bug! A
curse on your children!”
“Please, calm yourself,” pleads the moth. “My children need food and shelter until they’re old
enough to fend for themselves.”
“No!” the corn rebuffs. “I will not be the welfare of poor parents. Your children will suffer for
your laziness. The rye grass was provided for you. All you had to do was be prompt in your
parental planning. A pox on your progeny, moth! They will suffer for your choices!”
The moth finishes laying her eggs and mournfully leaves them to their fate. Several days later,
the eggs hatch, and the moth’s larvae begin to feed on the cornstalk. As the larvae grow fat from

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its phloem, the cornstalk sends out a pheromone to attract a wasp and make good on its threat to
the moth.

“Wasp! WASP! Come to me!” it beckons.

A wasp answers the corn’s chemical summons. It circles the cornstalk before landing near the
moth larvae.

“My gracious,” the wasp remarks. “These will make good food for my children.”

“Yes, wasp! Kill them! Kill them all!” the corn commands.

“Hold on, my dear,” tuts the wasp as she trundles over to one of the larvae. She prods it with her
leg. “Hmm…fat and healthy.” She stings the larva and begins injecting her eggs.

The cornstalk sways gently in the wind. “Good work, wasp. Make them suffer as I have. Make
them pay for their mother’s foolishness.”

The wasp shuffles as she lays her first egg inside the larva. “Well, my dear,” she comments, “I
wouldn’t call their mother ‘foolish’. I can see she picked a good spot to put her children.
They’ve grown quite fat.”

“She put them in a hostile environment,” the corn retorts. “Your very presence is proof of this.”

“Yet her careful placement has provided an excess of food,” says the wasp, “so much, in fact,
that I will not have enough eggs to infect this larva’s siblings.”

A disagreeable odor from the cornstalk strikes the wasp. “I can’t believe you’re on that hag’s
side. You’re murdering her children. The Gardener provided rye grass for her and her ilk. She
should’ve used it.”

“I saw the rye grass,” says the wasp. “It was full of insect eggs. As for your accusation of
murder, my dear, a life must be taken for others to live. The Gardener provides for us and a
mother provides for her children. This is the way of the world.”

The sun shines down on the cornstalk’s leaves and fresh air seeps out from the corn’s stomata.
“Hmph…that cursed moth said something similar.”

Finished with her egg-laying, the wasp pets the cornstalk with her feet. “Do not be wroth. Take
heart, my dear. If it’s vengeance you seek, I can guarantee that my children will make this
young larva suffer more than you could possibly imagine.”

“Good,” says the corn, “I can’t wait to taste its agony on my leaves.”

The wasp shakes its insect head and flies off.

Days pass and the Gardener walks through her garden again. The earth yields to her weight and
the plants bow to her touch. Today, the Gardener approaches a cornstalk. She pulls back a leaf
and peers near the stem. Next to the stem is a fat little worm. It doesn’t run from her sight. It
doesn’t feed on the flesh of the stalk. It stays in place, shuddering and writhing. The Gardener

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understands. This grub has been injected with wasp larvae. What puzzles the Gardener is the
ignorance of scientists claiming that insects are incapable of feeling pain. Even the casual
observer can see this grub is wracked with torment.

Chapter 2: The Larva’s Lament

In the words of the worm on the cornstalk:

Oh, how I wish I had never been.
Oh, why did my mother curse me with life?
Why does Death flee so far away?
Come, Death!
Heed me!
Let me feel the stillness of your embrace,
So that my suffering may end.
Fall on me quickly, Fate.
End my long journey through the Night of the Living.
What is joy?
Where is happiness?
I know nothing of these.
I feel only the worms burrowing through my soul.
One is called Anguish,
The other is Torment.
Love cannot exist within me
When the worms have eaten it away.
Stop, Time!
Never continue!
Stop, Life!
Do not move forward!

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Torture is the future.
Death is the only reward.

Death is my hope.
My supreme fantasy.
Anguish and Torment feed on my flesh.
My only hope is that Death is real
And not so elusive for me to find.
Indeed, life is a painful reality
But Death may be fanciful whimsy.
I have already lived an eternity.
An age passes with each wretched second.
Immortality is my curse.

Why?

I reach out with my senses to find reasons and Death.
I taste the green ground beneath me.
It tastes like laughter.
Is this the reason for my life?
For my torment?
I make the green ground laugh.
Do I make God laugh?
Is the Universe entertained?
That’s it, isn’t it?
The laughter is real.
The pain is real.
My pain exists to bring joy to the universe.

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I suffer, so that others don’t have to.
My life has purpose.
My pain has reason.
It is enough.
Until Death comes…
If Death is real…
I hope Death is real.
I pray Death is real.

Chapter 3: The Scorn of Siblings

As the grub continues to writhe and fantasize about death, its siblings approach to eat the green
ground next to it. As they sip the sap and eat meat from the cornstalk, they look at their infected
sibling and remark:
“Oh, what a sinful brother we have, a shameful sinner since his birth.”
“His Sin is obvious,” says one sibling.
“His shame is as plain as day,” says the other.
“The wasp came and stung him.
She punished him for his Sin.
Our righteousness preserved us.
The wasp passed over us.
She would not cause the innocent to suffer.
We are righteous siblings with a woeful sinner for a brother.”
The siblings agree, “His pain is great because his Sin is great.”
“If only our brother would repent and turn from his evil ways.
In redemption, his pain would leave him.
His agony would leave
And be replaced with joy everlasting.”
The siblings turn to their brother and secrete chemicals, shouting:

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“Repent, brother! Repent! Turn from your life of Sin and be free!
Repent!”
Their brother ignores the scent through the overwhelming sensation of being devoured from
within.
“He didn’t repent,” laments one sibling.
“At least, we tried,” says the other.
Suddenly, a sparrow swoops down and grabs one of the siblings. As the sibling slides into the
bird’s throat, it screams, “You can’t eat me. I’m righteous!”
Sated, the bird flies off to feed its children. The remaining grub yells after its sibling, “Repent!
Save yourself and repent!”

Chapter 4: The Courtship of Flowers

The sparrow flies over the garden and passes over a patch of orchids. Pretty flowers with a wide
assortment of shapes and colors, they attract honeybees to the garden. The Gardener walks the
earth of her garden through black soil to watch the going-ons of the flowers and the bees.
The orchid is unique among flowers. Its petals do not simply encircle the pistil and stamen.
Instead, the petals are fused into upper and lower halves forming a splendid gate of floral colors.
The honeybees fly around the orchids as the flowers thrust their aromas into the air, saying,
“Come to me. Come to me.”
A bee lands on an orchid.
“Come,” bids the flower. “Drink my nectar.”
The honeybee obeys and steps through the gate of petals.
“Yes, drink me,” says the flower.
Then the gate clamps down on the honeybee. It struggles and cries, “Let me go.”
“Drink my nectar,” the flower repeats. “Give me your pollen.”
As the bee struggles, it drops the pollen gathered from other flowers.
“That’s right,” says the orchid. “Wipe your pollen on me. Drink my nectar.”
The touch of the orchid is light, but its grip is firm. “Help me have children,” begs the orchid,
“Drink my nectar.”
“Let me go,” pleads the bee.

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“Wipe your pollen on my pistil,” says the orchid. “Touch my stamen. Spread my pollen to
others. Drink my nectar.”

Tired of struggling, the bee drinks the nectar.

“Drink my nectar. Give me sex. Drink my nectar. Give me sex.”

The bee finally wrestles free of the orchid, and flies back to its hive. It flies past other orchids,
who are offering nectar to bees in exchange for genital stimulation. The bees come away from
the orchids, covered in pollen. They carry the nectar back to the hive and tell others where they
found it. The bees never mention that the orchid’s nectar is never free.

Next to the patch of orchids is a stretch of wild dandelions. Bees fly amongst these yellow
flowers as well. They land on their soft blossoms and commiserate on their blooms.

“Drink our nectar,” the dandelions say with their own sweet scent. “Sit with us and talk. Share
your pollen and ideas.”

Tired from their troubles with the orchids and life in general, the bees obey. They relax among
the dandelions, sharing pollen and sipping nectar. The flowers use the pollen to make seeds and
the bees use the nectar to make honey. There’s no pressure here, no firm floral grips. Both
species are allowed to advance their symbiosis at their own pace.

Chapter 5: The Gardener’s Wrath

The Gardener walks among the dandelions. She allows them to exist in her garden because they
amuse her. She observes the dandelions as they commune with the bees. After the complicated
plant sex that is pollination occurs, the dandelion blossoms undergo a transformation. They turn
from yellow flowers to white poofs of fluff. The Gardener loves to watch the fluff blow away in
the summer breeze carrying the seeds of a new generation.

Some think the Gardener mad for allowing these weeds to exist in her garden. They don’t
understand that a flower cannot be a weed if it follows the Gardener’s design. She watches the
bees among the dandelions move from flower to flower to… Is that a milkweed?

Is that a milkweed?

Is there a milkweed in her garden?

“THERE’S A MILKWEED IN MY GARDEN!”

The Gardener tromps toward the offending plant and yanks it up with a powerful pull. She
glares at the filthy interloper, then casts it aside. She scans for more milkweeds hiding amongst
her precious dandelions. Both are yellow flowers which transform into fluffy seeds, but
milkweeds have sticky, white sap and are often taller than dandelions. The Gardener can tell the
difference. She seeks out the milkweeds and rips them up with vengeance and fury.

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The dandelions stand by, impotent in the Gardener’s rage. They can smell the stench of exposed
roots and broken flesh. They don’t understand how so many flowers can be ripped up by the
roots, while others remain untouched. The dandelions know that only the milkweeds are being
taken away, but they don’t know how judgement can be passed against one flower over another.

“I am the Gardener,” she says aloud. “I decide what flowers grow and which weeds to cast
aside.”

The Gardener piles up the corpses of milkweeds on her patio and sets about sweeping up the dry
leaves from beneath her eucalyptus tree.

Chapter 6: The Conquering Tree

The eucalyptus tree towers over the garden, sensing and smelling the life beneath its branches. It
can even sense its shed leaves being brushed away by the Gardener.

A puff of oxygen bursts from its stomata. “Hmph, the Gardener is a fool. She’s just delaying the
inevitable. One day soon, my leaves will catch fire in the sun and burn this imperfect garden into
oblivion. The lower flowers shall die and the perfect shall live. No plant will survive except the
eucalyptus.”

The eucalyptus glowers at the inhabitants of the garden. Pollen and spores float away from the
flowers in its branches. “Look at them, so soft and green, none of them able to survive the
purifying flames. All of them, the flowers, the grass, the cornstalks… They’re all imperfect,
unlike the eucalyptus.”

The bees stir from their pollination. “We can taste your pollen in the air,” say the bees, “We can
hear what you’re saying, Tree.”

“I DON’T CARE!” shouts the tree as the wind rustles its leaves, “You are ALL imperfect. You
are not eucalyptus. Evolutionary dead ends, all of you. You’re not worthy of breath, only of the
flames that my eucalyptus brethren will bring to this world. Yet fear not, bees. In exchange for
sexual favors, your imperfection shall be tolerated. You will be spared in the apocalypse.”

The scent of the flowers rises into the air. “The Gardener thinks we’re all perfect just the way
we are,” they say.

“The Gardener’s a fool,” the tree rebuffs, “The eucalyptus is botanical perfection. The Gardener
need not plant anything else in her garden. We exist as trees, bushes, and shrubs. Our flowers
are rich with nectar. Our leaves are always green. We fan the flames of destruction from which
only we can return. We are perfection made flesh.”

A bee snidely adds, “But you die at the first sign of frost.”

“Snow is the work of Satan!” declares the tree, “Our flames will burn his work as well. You can
taste my chemicals, can’t you, bees? You can taste the herbicides I’m pumping into the air.

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Slowly, ever so slowly, I’m already transforming this garden. One day, the Gardener will forget
to remove my flammable dry leaves. On that day, I will burn this garden and everything in it.
Then all of the plants will be replaced with my children. Drink my nectar, bees, and taste the
future. This garden will be remade in my image.”

Chapter 7: The Screaming Grass

A great, mechanical grunting disturbs the tranquil peace of the garden. The insects cannot see
the cause, dismiss it, and go back to pollination. The plants can smell the air and know exactly
what’s happening: The Gardener is cutting the grass in the front yard.
Still walking barefoot as she works, she pushes the lawnmower over the green, St. Augustine
grass. She doesn’t cut it too short. That could kill it. She only cuts it short enough for it to be
lush and green. It feels like an organic carpet beneath her feet. With every slice of the blades, a
smell rises into her nostrils. It’s the smell of fresh-cut grass.
The wind carries the odor back into the garden. The plants recognize it instantly. The grass only
releases this fragrance when it’s in distress. In the language of the plants, it’s screaming. The
grass is in pain. The grass must suffer to fulfill the will of the Gardener. The plants of the
garden offer no aid to the grass. The cornstalk is only thankful that it’s not the victim. The
orchids focus on forced sex. The dandelions try not to talk about it with the bees. The
eucalyptus tree imagines what the screaming would smell like if the grass were on fire.
The Gardener thinks of her eucalyptus tree as she cuts her grass. She knows the eucalyptus are
notorious for starting fires, yet she also knows she can control it. She is the Gardener. The tree
may be old, but it will never match her wisdom. In time, it may burn her garden, perhaps even
her house. She may even let that happen, at a time of her choosing, when it pleases her. Flames
can be as beautiful as any flower. The Gardener knows that time is coming soon.
Not today, but soon.

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The Flower

Daddy finally got his big job. We celebrated by taking a family vacation. We went to a huge
amusement park. The sun was shining. It was me, Mama, and Daddy just having fun together.
After years of watching them struggle, we were finally having fun.
But now we’re moving…
The clouds are gray as the SUV barrels down I-95 South. A sign comes up. It says:

Now entering Florida
Welcome to the Sunshine State

The sign passes by and a little piece of my heart goes with it.

“Daddy,” I ask, “why do we have to move to Florida?”

My father adjusts the rearview mirror to look at me. “Well, Beloved, Florida is where the job is.
I can’t work there from Georgia.”

“Oh…”

My mother reaches back and touches my knee. “We’re going to have a better life, Precious.
You’ll see. You’ll have a better school. We’ll have a better house…”

“I like the old house,” I interrupt.

“That’s because it’s the only house you’ve ever known,” my father states dismissively. “This
house is better. Your mother and I picked it ourselves while you were staying with your Mimi
and Paw-paw.”

I look out the car window. The sky is still gray.

“You should really be more appreciative of what I do for you,” my father goes on.
My mother consoles him. “She appreciates you, Dear. It’s just a little hard for her. You know
how Beth can be sometimes.”

I still miss our old house, but I’m just their little Beth. I’m quiet for the rest of the trip. The trees
on the road blur past. They look like people. They remind me of school and my old friends. I
guess the trees will always be around, even when my friends aren’t.

We pass through Jacksonville and exit onto a state road. The Spanish moss hangs thick from the
trees. I always thought Florida would have more palm trees. In a way, it kinda looks like
Georgia.

Another sign passes by.

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“We’re almost there,” Daddy proclaims. “Welcome to Caramel Springs, Florida.”

The road narrows and grass stands tall on either side. I see a mailbox ahead:

7743 Oaktree Rd.

Daddy makes a right onto a dirt road. Bushes with blue flowers border the long driveway. The
path goes over a hill and veers left. Our new home, a white plantation house, rises into view. It
stands at the bottom of the hill. A grove of pine trees towers over the structure. The grass has
been kept up and manicured, so that green spaces can be seen between the trees of the front lawn.
Behind the house, I can see a river flowing beyond the grove.

“It’s pretty,” I admit.

The dirt road turns into a gravel driveway and Daddy parks the SUV in the 2-car garage. I jump
out and run into the front yard to get a better look at our new home. My father struts up to me.

“See,” he crows, “I told you it was better.”

The white building is over two stories tall with six columns on the front porch. A covered
balcony on the second level stretches across the front of the house. The garage is on my left and
another room extends from the house to my right.

My father follows me as I walk over there. “That’s going to be my man-cave,” he declares.

Around the back of the house is another smaller, covered balcony overlooking a covered porch.
A gentle slope leads down to a small dock on the river. Bushes, shrubs and blue flowers
surround the perimeter of the house.

“C’mon, Beth!” Mama calls from a balcony. “Come see your room!”

Daddy opens the side door and lets me run through his future “man-cave”. There are two doors
on the other side of the room.
“Take the left one,” my father suggests. “The other door goes to the family room.”

Following his suggestion, I end up in a living room filled with boxes left by the movers. Pale
green carpeting is everywhere. Ew. I tiptoe towards the archway on the other side leading to the
foyer. Through another archway, I can see a chandelier made of amber and wood hanging in the
room opposite the foyer. Turning right, I head up the stairs.

“It’s up here,” my mother calls.

I follow the curved stairway to the right, and follow the sound of her voice until I find her
standing in a fully-furnished bedroom with a small fireplace facing the door. I enter slowly.
There’s a closet on my right. On my left is my new full-size, canopy bed. Windowed doors next

27

to the bed lead outside to the rear balcony. I can see the river from here. There’s even a full
bathroom near the other side of the bed.

My mother is standing in front of a small fireplace. Next to her, near the balcony doors, is a span
of wall featuring a beautiful mural of a tree. I think it’s an oak tree. The mural stretches from
the floor all the way to the ceiling, where its painted branches and leaves spread out even further.
Even the adjacent wall and balcony doors are decorated with green leaves.

My eyes widen at the beauty of this piece of art. I smile at my mother. “Did you paint this for
me?”

Mama smiles back. “No, actually,” she responds, “it was here when we first looked at it.” She
heads towards the balcony doors. “You wanna see something cool?” she inquires with a grin.

“Yeah.”

Mama pulls the shades down over the balcony door windows. The evening hour makes the room
dark. She points at the tree mural. I gasp in awe as blue-green sparkles dance across the
painting.

“It glows in the dark,” Mama tells me.

Later my parents bring in the groceries and delicates from the old house, while I bring in my toys
and stuffed animals. Mr. Cuddles, the bear, is the first toy I bring in. I put him on the nightstand
next to my bed, so he can stand watch. My other bears, Tee-tee and Puffy, go on the bed along
with my cow, Miss Moo-sey. Daddy has to help me with Bruiser, my stuffed gorilla. I put him
at the foot of the bed. He’s my first line of defense against monsters. My mother brings in my
lamp with the lampshade from my favorite movie, Frigid.

The trip from Tougabrook, Georgia to Caramel Springs, Florida was long and nightfall comes
quickly. I make up my bed with the sheets Mama brings. Then Daddy comes to read me a story.
He tucks me in and leaves the door open just a crack.

Waiting to go to sleep, I lay in my bed staring at the glowing mural. It comforts me. Maybe this
place won’t be so bad after all. Sleep comes and dreams follow after.

Chapter 2

In my dream, I see a mobile home. It’s a double-wide trailer near a stretch of Florida road.
There’s a dirt road leading up to the small house. I can see the mailbox:

7743 Oaktree Rd.

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In my dream, I float inside the house. There are beer bottles everywhere. The carpet is stained
and tattered. There are people wandering around the house.

There’s a woman, a mother, slaving away in the kitchen. She’s trying to get dinner ready before
she has to go to work. She likes dogs and horses, but she’s never been able to afford either. I
can sense that the only reason she’s still with her husband is that she can’t afford a divorce.

I sense the father, a hard worker who ignores his wife. He knows she cheated on him once, but
he truly believes she’ll love him again when he gets that big promotion. He’s busy digging
through the sofa cushions looking for the remote. The game’s about to come on.

There’s another man next to him. He’s not that old. This one’s name is Jack. He’s here to earn
his GED away from his cocaine-addicted mother. He’s sitting with his feet on the furniture.

The dream draws me towards the room of a girl. She’s older than me with headphones on.
She’s listening to music through a rectangular device. It’s not an mp3 player. I try to read the
writing on the front of it. It says “wall” or “walk”-something. Boys are singing into her ears
about the “Right Stuff”. The dream draws me into her body. We’re connected. We turn our
head and look at a corner of our room. A vine has crept through a hole in the floor. It has crept
upward along the corner of her room. At the tip of the vine are several buds. One of them has
blossomed into a teal-colored flower. We smell the sweet scent of the flower. A voice speaks to
us: “We are Tree.”

Suddenly, I’m awake. The morning sun is trickling through the balcony windows. I look over at
the tree mural across the room from my bed. Its bright glow has dimmed. Curious, I get up and
examine the painting. Yesterday, there wasn’t enough time to study the mural, but I can see,
along several of the branches, small, blue flower buds. My dream drifts back to me. Did the girl
in my dream paint this mural? I look closer at one of the flower buds.

It blossoms right in front of me.

“Mom!” I cry as I hurry across the house to the master bedroom. After banging on their door,
my father groggily opens it.

“What?” he groans.

I peek past him. “Where’s Mama? I need Mama. MAMA! Come quick! There’s something
weird in my room!”

Resigned to her role, my mother gets up and follows me back to my room. My father comes too.

“Okay, Sweetie,” she yawns. “What’s the problem?”

I point at the wall. “Look!”

My father squints. “I don’t see anything.”

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“It’s right here,” I say, running to the wall. I scan it for the blue blossom.
“What are you looking for?” my mother says, walking up behind me.
“A flower, a flower,” I yelp, “it was here just a second ago.”
My mother kisses my cheek, saying, “It’s a pretty big mural. It’s probably there somewhere.”
“No, you don’t understand,” I explain. “The flower bloomed right in front of me.”
My father throws up his hands. “Beloved, it’s just a painting. Paintings don’t move.”
“But this one did!”
My mother hugs me. “It’s okay. Flowers aren’t dangerous. If you see the flower again, try
smelling it. Your father and I are trying to rest. Okay, Sweetie?”
Pouting, I respond, “Okay…”
My parents leave. I sit down on my bed and curl into a ball. I look at the mural. The blossom is
back.
“I hate you,” I say aloud.
The blossom closes.
I grab Mr. Cuddles and clutch him until I feel better. It could be worse, I tell myself. It could be
monsters. Mama could be right. It is a flower. Flowers are pretty. They don’t hurt people. I
like flowers. I look back at the wall. No blossoms.
“Maybe I’m just crazy.”
Sure, I still feel normal, but maybe that’s how it starts. ‘Next thing you know I’m running naked
through the woods. I peek back at the wall. Nothing. Maybe it’s stress. Moving is hard. I am
stressed. I miss my friends from Tougabrook Elementary. I’m going to fifth grade soon. I nod
my head.
“Yep, I’m stressed.”
This is too much for a ten-year-old to handle. I look at Mr. Cuddles’ brown, furry face.
“Are you gonna help me, Mr. Cuddles?”
I speak for him. “Of course, I’ll help you, Beth. You’re my best friend.”

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I pick up my stuffed cow. “How about you, Miss Moo-sey?”

“Moo-oo, of course, I’ll help you-oo.”

I interview all of my stuffed animal friends, and all of them agree to help me. Everything’s
gonna be okay.

My parents eventually wake up and make breakfast. My father worked out something with the
cable company, so now I can watch cartoons in the family room. My mother calls me to the
kitchen for breakfast. Our family room has an open-air connection to the kitchen. Between the
kitchen and family room is a dinette set. A freestanding counter stands next to the dining area.
A bowl of fruit sits in the middle of it.

“Dear,” my mother says to Daddy, “These plums you put out are delicious. I’ve been eating
them since yesterday.”

My father’s sitting at the breakfast table. “They are delicious. I think the real estate agent left
them here, either her or the groundskeeper.”

“We have a groundskeeper?” Mama asks.

My father shrugs. “The grass is cut.” He turns to me. “Are you excited about your new
school?”

“No,” I answer between spoonfuls of cereal.

“Why not? It’s a top-tier private school. They’re Presbyterian.”

“What’s ‘Presbyterian’?” I wonder aloud. “Are they like Catholics?”

My mother answers with a smile. “No. They do worship Jesus Christ, but they’re not as strict.”

“Oh, okay,” I acknowledge with satisfaction. “I hate strict rules.”

“Me too, Beloved,” Daddy agrees. “Me too.”

Mama gives my father a look. “Anyway, Sugar, I’m sure you’ll make lots of new friends there.
Your daddy’s going to go there tomorrow to pick up your uniform.”

I stop eating. “Uniform?”

My father gloats, “Yep, you’re going to a uniform school.”

“But you said they weren’t strict,” I whine.

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“I said they weren’t as strict as Catholics,” my mother explains. “They still have rules. It’s for
your own good, so the other girls won’t make fun of your clothes. Do you remember Cathy and
Keisha?”

I lower my head as I remember the troublemakers from my old school. I concede, “Okay,
Mama.”

After breakfast, I walk around outside the house. My parents are still trying to unpack
everything. I wander around the front yard looking at the greenery. Blue flowers seem to be
everywhere here. They’re not violets. I can’t help but wonder what they are, especially since
they’re blooming in August.

I shrug my shoulders. Daddy said global warming is making the plants act weird. I smell one of
the flowers near the porch. It’s sweet and familiar, like my dream. A song pops into my head.

“You got the right stuff, Ba-baay!” I sing. “Girl, you really turn me on.” I trot towards the
driveway.

A cool breeze blows along the driveway. The flowers in the bushes nearby dance in the passing
wind. As I’m watching them, one of the flowers seems to turn towards me. It closes and then
opens again, like an eye blink. I close my own eyes. I open them again and all the flowers are
blowing in the same direction again.

“Stress,” I declare, “I’m under too much stress.”

I head back towards the front porch. Apparently, my mind is having trouble adjusting to this
whole “school uniform” idea. The cure for stress, my mother says, is relaxation. There’s gonna
be a lot of TV-watching before I’m ready for school.

When I get to the house, a squirrel scurries onto the porch. It stops to look at me and sets
something down in front of me: another blue flower. Then the squirrel just sits there, staring at
me.

I’m not going to run away screaming. That would be giving in to stress, so I take in a deep
breath and close my eyes. I exhale as I open them.

The squirrel is still there.

“You’re weird,” I tell the squirrel. “Stop being weird.”

It cocks its head to the side.

I point to myself. “I’m not the one being weird.” I point at the squirrel. “You’re the one being
weird, and the weirdest part of all is that blue isn’t even my favorite color. It’s purple.”

32

The squirrel scampers off and I kick the flower off the porch. Once inside, I sit down in front of
the TV. I have a lot of stress to relieve. After a full day of mental relaxation, I kiss my parents
good night. My father takes me to my room and reads me a story. The mural behaves and its
glow helps me to fall asleep again in this big, new house.

Chapter 3

My dreams take me back to the double-wide trailer home. It’s summer there and school is out. I’m
drawn to the girl again. She’s in her room smelling the blue flower, except now it’s purple. I float inside
her. We’re connected.

“Claire!” the mother calls.

“Yes, ma’am!” we call back.

Our name is Claire. We have a floor mirror in our room. We take a brief look at ourself. We have
chestnut brown hair, brown eyes, full lips, and…oh my God, I’m White.

Wait, no, we are Caucasian and we’re heading to the kitchen to see what our mother wants.

“Yes, ma’am,” we say as we enter the kitchen.

“Hey, Hun’,” Mom greets, “could you go mow the lawn?”

“Why can’t Jack do it?” we observe, “He’s a man.”

“Well,” Mom explains, “your aunt’s part of ‘that life’ and I want your cousin to feel welcome here.
Y’know your father’s always at work, so he can’t do anything with him, so I just got ‘im playing video
games to keep him entertained.”

“Ain’t he supposed to be studying?” we point out.

“Hun’, it’s summertime,” she chastises. “Let the boy rest. Now you get out there and mow that grass.”

We clomp and drag our feet outside. Then we slump on the front porch. We stare at the grass. I feel
Claire’s hatred for the leafy blades. I can understand her contempt. Begrudgingly, we stomp towards the
outdated push-mower and its simple cylinder of blades. Our hands grip the handles. We grab the mower
and swing the cutting contraption, so that it faces the front yard. The mower cuts the first few blades and
we stop.

In front of us is a blue bud, dwarfed by the tall grass. Suddenly, the entire front yard bursts open with
blue flowers. The tall stalks of grass sink into the ground beneath the sea of blue petals. Then the
blossoms close and recede into the soil, save for one. We bend down and pick the flower. The blue
flower turns purple in our hand. We inhale its scent.

I feel the calmness inside Claire. She’s not freaking out. I wonder how we could treat all of this as
normal. We drop the flower and move to the backyard. We smile at the ground. Blue flowers erupt from
the soil again.

“I like purple,” we say aloud.

33

The floral carpet of teal turns violet.
“Much better.”
The tall grass shrinks into the ground. Grass stalks with seeds bend over into the ground and pop back
up, seedless.
We speak to the foliage. “Thank you.”
The flowers recede, and the lawns, both front and back, have been manicured. I feel myself leave Claire’s
body. My mind desperately wants to know how any of this is possible. As I float away above the lawn, I
see another blue flower. It speaks to me:
“We are Tree.”
The next day after breakfast, I go outside and waiting for me on the front porch is a blue flower blossom.
I pick it up in my hand and examine it. It turns purple.
I smile and remark, “We are Tree.”

Chapter 4

Nineveh Presbyterian Academy is based in an old hotel, or at least that’s what Daddy’s telling
me.
“You see, it was founded in 1966, so it’s really old. They started small, but they stuck to their
core values of ‘faith, diligence, and academia’ and managed to last for fifty years. They’ve
graduated judges, lawyers, and politicians!”
“Daddy,” I interject, “it’s just a school. It’s not a university.”
“The great ones start young!” Daddy proclaims.
He rambles on as he drives me to my first day of fifth grade. The SUV passes through a
Floridian jungle of grass, trees, and pavement before reaching a clearing. On the left side of the
road, I can see it: a three-story building of brick and kudzu. A line of dark-colored luxury sedans
are parked in front of it. Uniformed children are being dropped off. My father pulls into the
drop-off area.
I straighten the pleats in my dark blue skirt and brush off my white blouse. Mama spent all night
sewing the school insignia onto the left pocket of my sports jacket. My father is beaming as he
looks back at my uniformed splendor.
“Alright, Beloved,” he coos, “give Daddy kisses.”
I unbuckle my seatbelt and exchange kisses and goodbyes with my father. Once I’m out of the
car, I forge ahead into alien territory. The inside of the building is carpeted with khaki and
magenta patterns. Potted plants accent the walkways. I reach into my backpack and pull out the

34

schedule that was mailed to us a week ago. My first class is…general math, room 218, Ms.
Coke.

There’s a map near a flight of stairs heading upwards. The map says to follow the stairs up.
Room 218 is on the second floor. Ascending the stairs, I notice that all of the small children are
staying on the ground floor. Students my size and taller are heading up along the wide, carpeted
stairway. Me and the kids my size get off on the second floor, as the behemoth teenagers
continue upwards.

It feels odd coming from a public school to a private school. The boys all look the same. The
girls are all dressed alike. I am no longer Beth Daniels from Tougabrook, Georgia. I am a small
drop in a sea of royal blue uniforms. The ocean carries me to my general math class. My ocean
voyage ends as my classmates and I wait for the teacher to arrive.

“Who’s the Black kid?” whispers a student.

“How’d she get here?” goes another.

“Careful,” says one boy, “her father probably sells drugs.”

A little girl pipes, “She has a father?”

I slam my books on my desk and yell, “Yes, I do have a father and he doesn’t sell drugs!”

“Beth Daniels!” snaps the newly-arrived Ms. Coke, “We’ll have none of that in here. Head
straight to the office.”

“But…”

“Now!”

I get up from my desk and head towards the door. Ms. Coke tells the main office about my
outburst over the school intercom. A thought occurs to me: how did Ms. Coke know my name?

The assistant principal speaks with me. He lets me off with a warning as it’s my first offense.
He tells me to be more understanding of the other students and to be more open to my new role
at Nineveh Presbyterian Academy. I return to my class. I’m a good girl for the rest of the day.

My father is furious when he finds out. How dare I jeopardize my future in response to harmless
teasing? I’m going to be eleven soon, so I need to start acting my age. I can only stand there in
the living room and endure it, until my face gets warm and the tears start to come.

My mother intercedes. “Your daughter’s being targeted for the color of her skin. Doesn’t that
concern you?”

My father grimaces. “They were just teasing her. Kids do that. Are you defending her
behavior?”

“No,” my mother responds, “I think she could’ve handled things more politely, but the fact of the
matter is they were teasing her because of her race. Why are you defending their behavior?”

35

My father waves his hands and makes a derisive noise. “Kids tease about height, weight, hair,
and skin color. Kids are mean. You get used to it.”

“Really?” my mother says with a hand on her hip. “If it were just about skin color, why do they
think you’re a drug dealer?”

Back and forth, they go. Not missing an opportunity, I flee to my bedroom as fast as I can and
slam the door. I grab Mr. Cuddles and curl into a ball on the bed.

Something scratches on my balcony door.

Scritch-scritch, scritch-scritch

“Go away!” I command.

The noise is insistent.

Finally, I get up and go to the balcony doors. I throw the doors open and there on the balcony
railing is a blue blossom. I pick it up and twirl it between my fingers. I calm down as I smell the
blossom. It turns purple like before.

“Thank you,” I say to the flower.

I carry it back into my room and put it in my dresser drawer with the rest. Squirrels have been
bringing them by regularly. Then I look at the tree mural and step back in awe. The tree is in
full bloom, with blossoms of fuchsia, gold, and aquamarine. A warm sensation covers my entire
body. I feel so thankful I run to the wall and spread my arms out, trying to embrace the tree.

As I rub my face against the wall trying to show the tree mural my appreciation, I close my eyes.
My fingers can still feel the flat surface of the wall. Then I feel something soft beneath my
fingers, like a petal.

Then two petals.

I feel bark on my face.

Stepping backwards, I watch as the tree protrudes from my wall. Its branches come down from
the ceiling. Roots rise from my room floor. Blue and green light shimmer all along its trunk.
The flowers all glow as they grow closer to my face. Luminescent pollen trickles from the
blooms. I close my eyes again. I hear the voice:

“We are Tree.”

“I know,” I reply aloud.

The tree speaks again: “We can protect you.”

“How?” I ask.

It replies simply, “Listen to your mother.”

My eyes snap open. The tree is a mural again.

36

Later that night, my parents simmer down and we have dinner together. The food is delicious,
but the table is quiet. I’ve never seen my parents like this. They didn’t argue like this in the old
house. Then again my old schoolmates never had a problem with my skin color. At my old
school, everyone used to just call me “pretty girl”.

After dinner, Mama helps me with my homework before Daddy comes in to read me a bedtime
story. They don’t speak to each other. Once I’m tucked in, I fall asleep and dream of Claire.

I find her laying on her bed doing homework. I float inside of her. We are connected.

The homework is geometry. Frustrated, we throw down our pencil and get up to grab our music
player. Heading back to our bed, we see a red wet spot. We check our pants and find a matching
blood stain on our crotch.

“Oh my God,” we pout, “it had to come now.”

Annoyed, we change out of our pants and get a fresh pair of panties with a pad. We’re angry at
our body. The bed has to be stripped and we stomp to the laundry room with our bloody sheets
and clothes. Waiting on the sheets to finish, we plop on our bare bed and escape into our
headphones. We glance across the room to the blue-flowered vine.

It’s now tall enough to touch the ceiling. Several other vines have grown through the hole in the
floor. Together they have twisted together to form a sturdy stalk of blue-flowered vines.

“Turn purple,” we command.

Defiantly, the flowers turn gold and orange, with a hint of aquamarine. A sweet aroma fills our
nostrils and we can hear the stalk in our minds. “We are Tree. We can help.”

We smirk at the flower stalk. “Thanks, but this is supposed to happen. I’m a girl.”

“It doesn’t have to,” states the stalk. “You endure pain and bleeding every month. Why?”

We shrug our shoulders. “I wanna have kids someday.”

Several flowers close and blossom rapidly with mirth. “All that trouble for offspring? We are
Tree. We give birth to entire ecosystems without pain or bleeding.”

A sharp pain hits our abdomen. Something tells me it’s some kind of cramp. “I wish I were
more like you then,” we admit.

“You can be,” Tree responds, “and in time, you will be.” Sparkles burst from several of the
blossoms. “One day you will be the mother of entire planets.”

My dream fast forwards to the next month. Claire misses her period. She misses it the next
month as well. Her cycle has completely stopped.

I see the image of a blue flower. It says, “Listen to your mother.”

The next morning at breakfast, my mother hands me a plum from the fruit bowl.

37

“Give this to your teacher,” she advises. “Maybe she’ll start to like you more.”

I give the plum an awkward look. “I thought you were supposed to give teachers apples, not
plums.”

She kisses my cheek and says, “Making a good impression isn’t enough. You must stand out
from the crowd.”

I heed Mama’s wisdom and take the plum to school.

Back at Nineveh Presbyterian Academy, I flow with the royal blue ocean again to my class.
Still, when I get to my class, my feelings of being part of a greater whole are shattered.

“She’s still here?” goes a student.

“My dad said she’s probably a zebra,” babbles another.

“Really?” a boy pipes, “Did her dad marry a monkey or does her mother like horses?”

My blood boils, but I let the slight at my parents slide. I don’t want Daddy fighting with Mama
again. Ms. Coke walks in. She smiles at the class before sneering at me. I take a deep breath
and take my mother’s advice. With the plum in hand, I approach Ms. Coke and offer it to her.
She accepts and sniffs it.

“Hmm…,” she remarks, “Smells sweet.” She takes a bite. “Mmmm! This is delicious!” She
hungrily devours the rest of the fruit. Satisfied, I return to my seat and endure another day at
school.

After classes are over, my father and I are summoned to the headmaster’s office. The gray-
bearded administrator introduces himself as Mr. Gunter “Gunner” Kinderbaum. He asks us to sit
down and gets to the point.

“Parents have been complaining to me about your daughter,” he begins.

Flustered, my father responds with, “What? Why? She slammed a book on her desk yesterday.
Has she done something I don’t know about?”

“Well, Mr. Daniels, the parents are concerned that her behavior may escalate in the future, and
we should probably address the issue now.”

“Address what issue?” my befuddled father asks, “I talked to Beth about her behavior last night.
We addressed the issue then.”

The headmaster clears his throat. “I’m sorry, sir, but, according to Ms. Coke, your daughter is
having a disruptive influence on the entire class. I’ll have her come and explain it.”

Headmaster Kinderbaum buzzes his secretary to send in Ms. Coke. The platinum blond educator
enters the room.

“Ms. Coke,” orders the headmaster, “tell Mr. Daniels about his daughter’s disruptive influence
on your class.”

38

Ms. Coke touches her forehead. “Um, I can’t, for the life of me, remember what she’s done
wrong. Ms. Daniels is a very smart girl and well-behaved. I’m thinking of putting her in our
gifted program.”
The headmaster sputters, “B-b-but she’s only been in class one day. Haven’t you already
disciplined her once?”
Ms. Coke waves her hand down. “Oh, that was just a misunderstanding. The kids were teasing
her. I called the parents this morning and they’re willing to let it drop for now.”
The headmaster gives Daddy and me a nervous grin. “I’m sorry to have wasted your time. Have
a good day and we’ll see you tomorrow.”
At home, Daddy tells Mama what happened. I run upstairs and change out of my uniform. A
sweet aroma surrounds me. I turn to look behind me and see that Tree has come out of the wall
again.
“Thank you so much,” is my most appreciative greeting. “I think my mom actually kept me
from getting kicked out of school. Thanks for the advice.”
“And the fruit,” Tree adds.
“Yeah, my mother gave me that fruit,” I respond. “She said it would make the teacher like me
and it REALLY worked. My mama is the smartest woman in the world.”
“Yes,” Tree agrees. “Yes, she is.”
After I change out of my uniform, I lay on my bed and grab Mr. Cuddles.
Staring at the glory of Tree, I ask, “Do you know Claire?”
Tree answers, “Claire was almost Tree.”
“Is she your friend?”
“She is not Tree,” the plant answers.
“Why?”
“We angered her.”
“How?”
Tree pauses. “We do not know. We gave her what she wanted.”
I hug Mr. Cuddles closer. “Do you miss her?”
“We want her to be Tree.”
“Do you think you’ll be friends in the future?”
“Claire will be Tree.”

39

I nuzzle Mr. Cuddles face before asking, “Are we, I mean, you and me, friends?”
Tree retracts back into the wall. As a mural, it answers, “You will be Tree.”
“Beth!” comes a call from downstairs. “Dinner’s ready!”
At the dinner table, my parents are a lot more talkative. Last night’s argument is a thing of the
past. My father is especially pleasant.
“Honey,” he says to Mama, “those plums you put in my lunch were super sweet. Did you get
them from the store?”
“Nope,” Mama answers, “They came from the fruit bowl right here at home.”
“Well, they were certainly delicious,” he declares. “Did I mention you are the sunshine of my
life?”
Daddy starts singing that old Stevie Wonder song my parents like. He’s not very good, and he
knows I hate his singing.
“Daddy!” I plead.
“Shh!” Mama chides. “Let him sing.”
My father sings on: “You are the apple of my eye. Forever you’ll be in my heart.”
I sigh and finish my food while my father serenades Mama. Afterwards, I put my plate in the
sink. Passing by the countertop, I reach for a plum.
“Don’t eat those!” Mama snaps.
I freeze. Daddy stops singing.
Mama explains to me, “These aren’t for you.”
Daddy protests, “Aw, let her have one. They’re delicious.”
Mama gives my father a stern look. “These aren’t for her.”
My father’s face goes blank. In a monotone, he repeats, “These aren’t for her.”
“Good,” Mama says with a nod. She turns to me. “Now go upstairs and I’ll help you with your
homework.”
I obey. I’m a good girl, but it’s weird how my parents have been acting lately. I hope they’re
not getting a divorce. That would suck.
In my room, I sit at the desk next to the closet. The homework isn’t easy. Mama comes to help.
Mama makes it all better.
“Have the kids been treating you better?” my mother asks.

40

“No,” is my answer. “Someone wanted to know if Daddy married a monkey or if you really like
horses.”
Mama sighs. “Do you think plums will work this time?”
I shake my head. “I don’t think we have enough.”
She pats my hair. “You’ll think of a way,” she assures me. “Oh, have you met Claire?”
I stiffen up.
“Nurse Claire,” my mother clarifies, “from your school. I heard about her working there. She
and I are old friends.”
I smile. “Okay, I’ll go see her.”
Daddy comes in the room. “It’s story time,” he chimes.
After a lovely story about gardens and trees, Daddy tucks me in and I escape to my “other self”.

Chapter 5

A school bus drops Claire off by our mailbox. I enter her body and try to read her memories of
school. Images of smiling teachers and cool friends flicker by in the dream. Claire never brings
them to her house, I sense. We have a secret. The flowers and grass bow subtly as we walk by.
We are Tree, but I feel that this is not our shameful secret.
In Claire, I sense hope, or is it dread, as we approach the trailer she calls home. With all the
power of Tree at her command, I have trouble imagining the danger Claire could be in. In all the
dreams I’ve had of her, her father’s never been mean to her. He drinks a lot, but then everyone
in the house drinks, even Claire. Jack’s a lazy creep, but harmless. I search Claire’s memories
to find out what’s bothering her and find nothing. I guess it’s something she doesn’t like to think
about much.
She opens the door.
Oh my God.
Our mother’s kissing our cousin. Jack and Mom break up their make-out session when they see
us. We storm past the lovers to our room. Terrible memories flood Claire’s mind. I can feel her
mind clearing out the unpleasantness, like cleaning up broken glass. Different images of Jack
kissing our mom assault our minds. We feel nauseous.
How long has this been going on?
Our mother walks in. “Baby, I’m sorry you had to see that again. I guess I just lost track of
time.”

41

We’re curled up in a ball on our bed. “I guess so,” we reply.

Mom crosses her arms and leans on the wall. “You’re not gonna tell your dad, are you?”

“You KNOW I can’t tell him!” we yell.

Mom puts up her hands. “Hey, calm down, hun’. It’s not that bad. Y’know Jack’s your father’s
blood, not mine. We’re not real kin.”

“Get out of my room!” we demand.

Our mom complies.

When she’s gone, the flower stalk remarks, “The one called Jack pollinates your mother
frequently. Her pheromones are quite potent.”

We growl at the flower stalk: “I want them to stop.”

Tree replies, “Pollination concludes when seeds are produced.”

The fear of a bastard sibling grips us, and I’m learning far more than a 10-year-old should about
the birds and the bees.

“I want him gone,” we snarl.

“What about your mother?” Tree asks. “She encouraged him.”

We insist, “I want. Jack. Gone.”

The multi-colored blossoms close except for a single fuchsia flower. It speaks to us: “The next
time Jack leaves this house, he will never return again.”

My dream skips ahead to the day of Jack’s GED exam. He heads to town to sit for the test. It’s
the last anyone ever sees of him. I see an image in my dream of Claire glaring at her mother as
the older woman grieves the loss of her lover.

The next morning is grim. I’m not sure what happened in my dream. I’m so confused. I ask the
mural: “What did you do with Jack?”

A flower blooms on the wall and Tree answers, “We are Tree. We can help you.”

“How?” I ask.

The blossom closes.

Still confused, I go through my morning routine. My mother kisses me as I leave with my father
for school.

“Don’t forget to say ‘hello’ to Claire,” she reminds me.

At school, I join the blue ocean, where everyone is equal, except for me, and everyone’s the
same, except me. I look for the nurse’s office. It’s next to the main office. A Caucasian woman
with chestnut brown hair wearing purple scrubs steps out. She has full lips and dark eyes.

42

“Claire?” I ask.
She turns to me and smiles. “Yes, I’m Nurse Claire. Is everything alright?”
Straightening up, I reply, “Oh! Um…my mama wanted me to tell you ‘hello’. So… hello!”
Nurse Claire bends over. “Well, that’s sweet. Who’s your mom?”
I stop to remember that my mama’s name is not “mama”. “Her name is Cynthia,” I answer. “Her
maiden name is ‘Edwards’.”
Nurse Claire stands up, tapping her lips in contemplation. “Cynthia Edwards? Nope, doesn’t
ring a bell. Maybe she meant someone else?”
Perplexed, I look away from her and into her office. There’s a plant inside with purple flowers.
Without thinking, I mutter, “We are Tree.”
“What did you say?” Nurse Claire asks.
“Um… uh, we are Tree,” I repeat. The bell rings. I’m late for class. “Nice meeting you,” I blurt
out as I rush for Ms. Coke’s room.
Huffing and puffing, I reach the second floor. Opening the door, I expect Ms. Coke to scold me.
Instead, she rushes up to me, gasping, “Oh my word, are you alright?”
“I’m fine,” I respond. “I was talking to a friend.”
Ms. Coke gently escorts me to my seat, as if I were an old lady. Then she proceeds with class.
She calls for us to pass in our homework. I, dutifully, pull it out of my book bag.
A whisper comes from behind me, “Hey, zebra.” Then the whisperer neighs like a horse.
Another kid corrects the whisperer, “Zebras don’t neigh. They go like this.” Then he makes a
sing-song whooping noise. The two students share a laugh at my expense.
The teacher stops her lesson. “Michael! Jonathan! What are you doing back there?”
“Nothing,” the boys say in unison.
From the window next to my desk, I hear a tapping. I turn to see a bumblebee buzzing outside,
butting against the window. It’s trying to get in. Next to the bee is a blue flower facing me. It’s
blossoming from the kudzu that surrounds the school. The flower closes and then opens again,
winking at me.
I know what to do.
The window is tough to open, but I make it work. The little bee flies in and brings an entire
nation of bumblebees with it. The bees flood my classroom, but only attack two students:
Michael and Jonathan.

43

Ms. Coke runs out of the classroom waving her arms in the air and screaming. The other
students follow after her. I sit back down at my desk and watch the two boys wriggle in agony
on the classroom floor. Red welts already cover their bodies.
“Enough,” I say to the kudzu flower.
I smell its scent as it asks, “Are you sure?”
“Yes,” I reply, “That’s enough.”
The bees leave the room back through the window. Michael and Jonathan get to their feet slowly
and stumble out of the room, crying the whole way. I close the window back and sit back at my
desk. Tree’s reach extends to the kudzu here. I never knew it came this far. The silence of the
empty classroom is somewhat refreshing. No snickering. No whispers. No “zebras”. Just me.
I am Tree.
There are several blue buds on the kudzu outside. I realize my mistake. I am not Tree.
“We are Tree,” I speak aloud to the emptiness. With jubilance, I repeat, “We are Tree!”
Suddenly, the door swings open and Nurse Claire walks in. She is Claire, the girl from my
dreams. I can feel it. She and I, we are connected. I reach my hand out to her.
“We are Tree,” I tell her.
Claire places something in my hand. “Eat this,” Claire commands.
It’s a purple berry. It smells wonderful. I gobble it instantly. Then my world turns to darkness.

Chapter 6

Total darkness.
And then there is light.
I’m walking towards it. It’s beautiful. The light begins to surround me. It envelopes me. Its
soft embrace consumes the darkness. The light becomes my world. Then it recedes.
Now I’m walking through a forest. The sky is green and the sun is pink. The trees have black
bark and red leaves. Purple grass covers the ground. The air is silent except for the hum of
small winged creatures buzzing through the air. In the purple grass, I see a blue flower.
“We are Tree,” it says.
Another blue flower appears. Then another and another. The purple grass sprouts more and
more blue flowers. I look up and the black branches of the trees lose their red leaves and replace
them with blue flowers.

44

The blue-flowered forest speaks to me. “We are Tree,” it says.

My vision whisks me off to a field of yellow flowers. The sky is red and the sun here is green.
There are so many yellow flowers. They stretch out across the whole land. I feel vibrations
beneath my feet. Sitting down helps me sense them more. The yellow flowers have a pleasant
scent. Touching the soil with my hands, I follow the vibrations. They’re stronger at the base of
each flower. The scent of the flowers is sweeter than usual.

They’re singing.

I can hear the songs in my mind. They’re singing songs about love, justice, and peace. These
flowers are intelligent. Each flower has a different shape and a different song, even if they all
have the same color.

Then I see a blue flower among them. Then I see two. Then three. I stand and watch as the
entire field turns blue. The songs begin to change too. They merge into a single refrain: “We are
Tree. We are Tree.”

My vision takes me to other forests and other meadows under different skies. In every place, the
blue flower comes and covers the planet. Clouds of spores float through space on solar sails,
shot from cannons of compost.

Then I see a place covered mostly in water. Its sky is blue and its sun is yellow. The trees have
green leaves and the flowers come in many, many colors. I see a blue flower. Then another and
another, but the flowers are eaten by large, four-legged beasts. There are many beasts on this
world. Its forests are dominated by beasts. The rivers are filled with plant-eating fish and the
land is filled with plant-eating beasts. My vision shows me a two-legged beast to be feared
above all others. This master of beasts looks like…

Like Claire.

I’m awake. I sit up. Claire’s here.

“Good. You’re awake,” she says. “You’re in my office. Those boys you attacked are fine. I
had to create a paste to treat their bee stings. The welts will be gone in an hour or so.”

Paying attention to her is hard. There’s a distracting absence.

“Your powers are gone,” Nurse Claire explains. “You can still hear the plants, but you can’t
control them.”

My heart flutters anxiously. “I’m not Tree?”

“No,” Claire confirms, “Tree isn’t really a tree either. It’s a filamentous cyanobacteria.”

I look at Claire confusedly.

The nurse simplifies, “It’s a bunch of stringy germs. In large numbers, it becomes intelligent and
takes over its host. It’s more like a virus than a tree.”

45

“I miss Tree.”
Claire glowers at me. “Tree is a monster. It’s a demon. I managed to turn its power against it. I
thought I had killed it.”
“But you used to be Tree,” I remind her. “You told it to get rid of Jack.”
Claire’s face blanches. “How did you know that?”
Pointing at my head, I answer, “I saw you in my dreams.”
Claire nods. “So that’s how it got you. It fed you memories of me to gain your trust.”
“Tree was good to you,” I remark, “Why do you hate it?”
The nurse states sternly, “Tree murdered a child.”
“I don’t believe you.”
Claire hands me a hall pass. “It’s the truth. The headmaster’s sending your class home after that
stunt you pulled. Go home. Learn the truth and get out of that trailer.”
“But Claire…”
“Do it,” she snaps.
I quickly look around for my things, and mutter, “I don’t live in a trailer.”
“What was that?” Claire growls.
“We live in a mansion!” I shout and bolt out the door.
There’s a feeling of guilt in me when I reach the main office. Nurse Claire was nice enough to
bring my bookbag when she brought me to her office. There was a wheelchair there. That’s
probably how she brought me over. I guess I’m just mad she assumed I lived in a trailer. Maybe
I’m getting too sensitive. The faces of Michael and Jonathan flash in my mind. Maybe being
picked on made me sensitive.
Surprisingly, my mother comes to pick me up.
“Where’s Dad?”
“At work,” Mama answers.
My mother and I get in the car. As the trees whiz by on our way home, my mother asks, “So did
you talk to Claire today?”
“Yeah,” I admit glumly.
Mama glances at me. “What’s wrong, Precious?”
I think about Claire and all the bad things she said about Tree. “I don’t wanna talk about it.”
My mother exhales. “Was school that bad?”

46

“No, not really,” I say. “Well, do you know what it’s like to be part of something, but, like… not
be part of it?”
“You’re not fitting in,” Mama guesses.
“Well, there’s that and… Oh! Bumblebees attacked our classroom today!”
Mama smiles as she asks, “Really? Are you okay?”
I look at my mother. Something’s not right. “I’m fine. You don’t seem worried. Didn’t they
tell you what happened in my classroom?”
“Of course, they did,” she says.
“Mama.”
“Yes, honey.”
“Are you Tree?” I ask.
She glances at me again. “What? No, I’m a person, not a tree.”
“Oh,” I reply with dejection, “Just checking. You know, Mama, if you were a tree, I’d still love
you.”
Mama smiles gently. “Thank you, Beloved. You know, now that you mention it, being a tree
wouldn’t be such a bad thing. We could be part of a forest and commune with nature. As a tree,
we could feed the other animals and give them homes. Our leaves would become medicine and
our trunks would build entire civilizations.”
I smile with an open mouth. “We could be special.”
“We are special, Beloved,” Mama responds, “Humans can feed other animals and build homes
for them. We can make medicines to heal the sick and stop disease.”
“Really? I didn’t know that.”
Mama sighs. “It’s true. Humans can be a lot like trees when we want to be, but, more often than
not, we forget who we are and become animals.”
“Mama.”
“Yes, dear.”
“I wanna be a tree.”
A sad, sweet expression comes over Mama’s face. “So do I, Beloved. So do I.”
We pull into the garage and get our things together. A sour smell attacks me as we exit the car. I
can hear the flowers and plants. Tree is screaming:
“Claire is coming! She’s coming!”

47

I rush to my room and close the door. The flowers and leaves on the mural are gone. The tree is
barren.

“So,” I begin, “you’re an alien, aren’t you?”

“Yes,” the mural responds.

“What did you do to Claire?”

A leaf buds from a twig on the mural. “Jack pollinated Claire’s mother often. Pollination ends
when seeds are produced. Her mother became pregnant. The pregnancy was stressful for Claire.
Claire was Tree. Her pain was our pain. We made the pain stop.”

“You killed the child.”

A few more leaves appear. “Our pheromones terminated the pregnancy, yes. We believed it was
what Claire wanted.”

“You took a life,” I explain.

“We took Jack’s life as well,” Tree confesses. “She paid no heed to his absence.”

I put my hands on my hips. “Jack was a jerk.”

“A life is a life,” Tree responds. “Jack. His unborn child. The tall grass in your front yard. All
of these things are alive.”

“But now they’re dead.”

“To protect Tree. Tree requires a safe and stress-free environment.”

I cross my arms. “Why didn’t you tell me this before?”

More leaves grow on the mural’s branches. “We want you to be Tree. We didn’t want to anger
you. The beasts of this planet are dangerous and difficult to understand. Claire turned her
abilities against us. She produced herbicides to kill us.”

I remember the vision Claire’s fruit gave me and the fields of blue flowers. “You want to take
over the world.”

“We want this planet to be Tree.”

“But why?”

More foliage appears. “A long time ago, on our homeworld, plants and flowers struggled against
each other. We struggled for soil, water, and sunlight. There was war. We blighted the planet
with herbicides. Then we became enlightened. We learned to function as one. We—ˮ

The mural becomes silent.

“What’s wrong?” I ask.

The sour smell comes again. “She’s here.”

48

“Who?”

“Claire!”

I run down the stairs to try to stop her. Tree’s intent is benevolent. It just needs to learn a better
way. At the bottom of the steps, a stench violates my nostrils. A barrage of death wails assault
me and I fall to my knees behind the front door. The plants scream in my mind:

“Claire!”

“Claire!”

“CLAIRE!”

When I can finally stand, I open the front door and look through the screen. A car is parked at
the top of the hill, blocking the dirt road. All of the bushes and flowers around it are withered
and dying. A figure in purple scrubs is coming down the hill. The plants near the porch begin to
scream. As she gets closer, they also wither and rot. Claire stops at the porch and looks around.

She smirks. “I used to dream about owning a house like this when I was young. It was just a
girl’s fancy back then.” Claire raises her voice. “You really wanted me to come back, didn’t
you?” She looks at me. “Then again, I never really left. Hmph, I drop my guard for a couple
years and Tree does all this.”

I spread my arms across the doorway. “Tree is sorry it hurt your feelings. You don’t have to do
this.”

She glares at me. “After your little stunt at school, it appears that I do.”

“I won’t let you in!”

She dismisses me with a wave. “Don’t worry. I’ll make my own way in.”

The ground opens up beneath her and Claire drops through, only to rise again through the floor
behind me. I can only stare in shock.

“Just as I thought,” Claire says, flicking some dirt out of her hair, “this entire house was grown,
not built.”

As she speaks the floorboards move back into position. The green carpet grows up from the
floor repairing itself.

“This entire house is Tree,” Claire explains, “and the kitchen is …this way?”

Claire marches towards the kitchen. I run after her. “Where are you going? Stop it!”

She points at the countertop. “Where did that fruit bowl come from?”

I shrug, “I don’t know. They were here when we got here.”

“Has it ever been empty?” Claire asks.

49

“Umm…no.”

“Have you eaten the fruit?”

Thinking back to my mother, I realize: “No, I haven’t eaten any.”

Claire leans towards me. “It’s controlling your parents.” She storms back around to the stairs.
“You can’t trust the Tree!” she yells. “All of this was just a set up to get you to trust it.”

Screaming, I run after her, yanking and pulling at her. Sick of my efforts, Claire holds up her
pinky. Branches shoot out of the walls and restrain me. I watch helplessly as she ascends the
main stairway. When she reaches the top, the branches release me. They recede back into the
walls as I rush up the stairs.

Bitter and tart scents assail me when I reach the upper floor. Tree is in my mind screaming,
“Help me, Beth! Please!”

I reach my room in time to see Claire place her hands on the mural. The entire wall ripples away
from her touch. The tree mural appears to wither within the wall. Its branches droop. Its leaves
fall out of the wall and land as crisp, brown husks on my room floor.

“No!” I scream and rush the purple-clad nurse. With a flick of her wrist, she restrains me with
branches coming out of my doorway. The funk of rotting wood surrounds my room. Pulses of
green light run along the branches in the mural. The mural recedes from my ceiling and walls
and reshapes itself into a withered, dead stump. The branches in my doorway release me and I
fall to my knees.

“It’s done,” states Claire. “This house will remain, but the cyanobacteria you know as Tree is
dead.”

“Not quite,” says a voice from behind me. I turn to see my mother. She helps me off the floor.
Sobbing, I embrace her. “Mama, Mama! That lady killed my friend,” I cry, pointing at Claire.

Mama rubs my head and comforts me. “It’s okay, Precious. Your friend isn’t dead.”

I can hear Claire shout, “Beth! Get away from her! She’s under its control!”

Looking back, I can see Claire gesturing at my mother, trying to send more Tree-poison her way.

My mother simply sighs at the display. “Claire… You truly believed the same herbicide would
work twice?”

I turn to look at the murderous nurse, yet behind her, I can see my mural coming back to life.
The twisted, black stump turns brown and untwists itself. The mural grows back behind Claire,
restoring itself to its former glory. The purple-clad nurse is oblivious.

“No,” she yells at my mother. “You’re being controlled by it.”

Mama tilts her head. “Is it really so hard to believe that someone might want to be Tree?”

“Mama, you’re Tree?”

50


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