52 I WRITER’S DIGEST I October 2019YOURSTORY
I
willwaitforthemat theedgeofthe
gladethatwouldhavebeenprom-
isedtothemhadtheycomeofage.
Myrusset-and-whitefurdoesnot
dowelltohideagainstthebranchesofthe
oldoaks,nowladenwithlacelikemossand
bareofanyfloraltrappings.
Abby’seyesarethefirsttoreachmy
gaze,largeandgreenastheunrestrained
frondsaroundus,ancientandsorrowfulas
a personwhoknowswhentheirtimehas
come.Sheis braverthananychildherage
shouldhavetobeandholdsherbrother
Jem’shandtightly,drawinghimcloselyto
her.I rememberplayingwiththemindays
longgone,theautumnleavesshoweringus
ingoldandred,andknowthatthisis the
lasttimeI willeverseethem.
Butstill,I drawupmyhackles,con-
tortmymuzzle,andgrowl:“Whatis
yourpurposehere?”
Jemcradlesa freshbruisejustabove
hiseyelid,blackandblueblooming
acrosshisforehead.I grimace.Thenmy
eyesreachthedeep,redlineacrosshis
neck,onehetriestohidebydrawingup
thecollarofhisturtleneck.I havetogrit
myteethtochokebackpainedwhines.
“Wearehere,”Abbysays,hervoice
ringingoutacrosstheleafyclearingone
lasttime.“Toimploreyoutoallowus
passageintothelandofthefey.”
Myclawsraspacrossthebark.“Andwhyis that?”I ask,myvoice
onthatfineedgebetweenstrengthand
trembling,thebowofa violinaimed
withdeadlyprecision.
“Becausewearedead.”Abbystates
flatly.“Becausewewishtoreposepeace-
fullyunderneaththestarsandthepines
weoncecalledhome,toletourspirits
becomeentwinedwiththatwhichhas
shelteredusforsomanyyears.”
“Isee.”
The damp,staleairhangsbetween
us.Abby’sbrighthairis inpigtails.It is
thehairofhermother,andhermother
beforeher,allthewaybacktothose
whocamebeforeme.It washergreat-
great-grandmotherwhohadfoundme
andnursedmebacktohealth,andit
wasthenthatI haddecidedtoassumea
shapehonoringthosefierylocks.
“Youmaypass.”Myvoiceis hollow,
devoidofallemotion.
It is sucha shamethattheywillbe
thelastoftheirline.Therewillbeno
morechildrenformetowatchover,to
growfondof,andtograntpassageto
thisplace.Andit hadallbeenthefault
ofa strangertothisplace,onewhohad
neverknownhowimportantthesechil-
drenwere.Anoutsider.
Theirfather.
I hadwatchedhimmercilesslysteal
thelivesfrommywards,aftercharm-
ingandscheminghiswaybackintotheCONTEST #97Outofnearly 300 entries,Writer’sDigesteditorsandreaderschosethiswinner,
submittedbyKaylaAdaraLeeofTungChung,HongKong.Feuillemort
THE CHALLENGE: Write a short story of 650 words or fewer based on the photo below.
IMAGE ©GETTY IMAGES: IMAGE SOURCEvery home he had broken by leaving so
long ago.
Abby passes me by without a glance
above, and I swivel my head to see them go.
Her muscles are tensed, her fi sts clenched,
and something in my heart breaks to see
them leave. Th e fey will treat them well, I
know, far more than I ever could, but all
my years of estrangement from my former
home beyond the tree-line has granted me
a suspicion that has festered for all the years
I remained bound here.
Th e cold sun shines high above me,
tingeing the edges of my fur silver. Or
perhaps it already was graying with the
weight of waiting here for cycles without
end, to bear love and loss for the decades
I have been a guardian of the glade.
Th e children disappear into the
woods. It is done. Slowly, I fade away
into the faint morning light without so
much as a whimper, the faint claw marks
on the bough I had stood upon all that
remained of me.