BETWEEN FOUR JUNCTIONS

Maybe the flies were always the faeries. I picked wildflowers behind them. I picked leaves and stripped them of their flesh until only their veiny skeletons were left.

We stuck cleavers to each other’s clothes. We were at the Mouth of the Jungle and the cleavers were its taste buds.

“The jungle is eating you!”

A scream followed by laughs. Still we found no faeries.

“They’re hiding in the tree trunks.”

We pressed our cheeks to the cool rough bark, wrapping our arms around like vines, and listened to the wood’s creaking and clicks. We clicked back with our tongues on the roofs of our mouths.

We left a trail of flowers that lead out of the jungle, through the field, all the way to the Faery House. We lay down our heaps of flowers there and began the decoration. We made it a temple, a haven. We laboured away until the sunlight grew orange and shone sideways. Until the shadows of the trees swallowed upland.

As the world grew dark, we all felt a pull, calling us back. One day the game has to end, and we’ll have to pretend to forget. Time was running out. It was time for us to run out of the sea, of the field.

We said nothing as we waded through the cold, sharp grass to the train that was waiting on the other side. Our limbs became heavy and the skin on our bare feet stung. Our eyelids began to itch. The others flopped aboard the carriage, doorless and empty. The train pulled away and I was left running behind with fire in my lungs.

I chased the train by the side of the tracks, but the End of the Day was faster. It caught up, overtook, and I fell down a hole in the earth.