Illumination Journal Staff Zine Fall 2023

illumination The Undergraduate Journal of Humanities Illumination Staff Staff Zine 2023

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Illumination Staff Untitled (2023)

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Table of Contents Keara Wood .............................................................. 2 Laila Smith ............................................................... 3 Evan Randle ....................................................... 4 - 10 Sophia Schultz ................................................. 11 - 13 Avianna Hite .................................................... 14 - 27 Mandy Choy ..................................................... 28 - 29

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Thursday, November 2nd Keara Wood

In the morning I walk – through the dawn bright chill, the overcast sky a pale gray face, hint of moon, past streaks of fir and pale yellow brick (Toto? Is that you in the window?)

But before this I read – an essay of blown glass pain, of spring, a switchblade opening, of women haunting and whaching craggy moors (Anne Carson, you girlish devil)

After work I think I will write – cat purr and laptop whir, the sound of creative industry: click click pause click.

As trees burn away to black outside my window, I write (a poem titled Thursday, November 2nd)

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Thursday, November 2nd Keara Wood

Laila Smith Disco Girls #3

Isolated Resolve Evan Randle Michael Bennett was less than thrilled to be working for the Old Man. While they were both of Massachusetts descent and identified as Whigs, Bennett felt as though he and the Old Man were fundamentally distinct in one quality: personality. Bennett fancied himself a people-pleaser who was willing to concede in his beliefs if necessary; the Old Man was anything but.

“And so he only served a term...” Bennett muttered to himself as he folded his tie — a subdued gray and brown — over his neck, taking a few moments to look himself over in the mirror. He was initially awestruck by how the Capitol compared to even his fairly affluent home, but in the weeks preparing for the congressional sitting he had slowly become desensitized to its atmosphere.

“Seven... twenty two, twenty three.” Bennett said aloud as he squinted at the room’s clock, before giving himself a final pat down and leaving his room.

Perhaps it was a bit unfair to attribute the Old Man’s failure to his personality — Jackson certainly had a way of transforming his personal opponents into ones of the people — , but from the various stories he had heard over Boston and D.C. bar tops, even the Old Man’s family considered him undesirable to spend significant periods of time around. Despite these rumors, however, Bennett became his aide. Did he choose to do so because of political belief, or simply a desire to succeed? He wasn’t entirely sure.

Regardless, it had come time for the two to actually meet, and that was

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what was foremost in Bennett’s mind. He knocked once, then twice on the Old Man’s mahogany door before politely clearing his throat.

“Representative Adams? This is Bennett—“ A voice vaguely barked in response from the other end of the door before it slowly swung open. A fellow aide rubbed his eyes and nodded in brief recognition to Bennett, who took the opportunity to glance over the following area.

A few couches imported from Britain sat around a well-kept desk, journals strewn atop it in a simultaneously well-kept and unfocused manner. A few men within Bennett’s age wrote feverishly atop inexpensive notepads, while the Old Man spoke quickly and loudly. His hair has largely frayed; only a few light strands clung to his forehead, while his eyes were as sharp and critical as a freshly-whetted blade.

“Yes, yes, another petition! Do you believe the gag rule of importance?! It is merely the weapon of slave-owners!”

The Old Man waved his hand back and forth at one of his many assistants before focusing his attention on the new arrival.

“You. What are you doing – just standing around? Go, go! Make yourself useful in some way.”

Bennett swallowed quietly. His hands awkwardly clasped around his notepad – the highest-quality in the room – and he blinked twice before awkwardly responding. “...Representative Adams, my name is Michael Bennett. What would you like me to d – “ #5

“Anything! Do you need me to hold your hand? Give you a powdered wig to dust? Write an idea down or at least pour more madeira! You do know what that is, don’t you?”

The Old Man sharply retorted before refocusing his attention on the agenda ahead of him. His anger towards Bennett had washed over like footprints on a beach; now his calm eyes looked towards the future of the day.

Bennett, meanwhile, opened his mouth to reply – before closing it. There wouldn’t be much use in saying anything else. He nodded as politely as he could muster himself to before stepping out into the Capitol’s hallways once more.

“I didn’t attend Princeton to be treated like a fool...” He murmured nearinaudibly to himself a few minutes later as he slowly poured the amber liquid into a small glass. “...Disliked before he was elected president, then throughout his tenure... why would he even return to politics? Does he want to turn the House against him even further-” Bennett then stopped himself and slowly closed his eyes. He needed this job – unpopular or not, working with a former president would surely improve his standing. If he acted deferential now, he could run on a platform focused on learning from the Old Man’s mistakes in a few years. A policy on slavery that only slightly favored the North, to avoid being villainized by the south. Saying what the country wanted to hear. If he had to tolerate being treated poorly by a washed-up gaffer, then so be it.

A few moments later, when Bennett placed the glass on the Old Man’s desk, he did so with a grin that stretched across his recently-washed cheeks. #

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“Your drink, sir.”

Then, drawing his notepad, Bennett kept an open ear as to the Old Man’s words.

“They placed the rule to stop me, I tell you. The southern ‘members’ of our party – frauds in every sense of the word – voted against it! They believe me to be some kind of beast. Foolish! The true monstrosities prowling our countries are the slave - owners and their complicit followers. All of them. Not a single one is to be considered anything but sinful! I’ll speak, I tell you. I’ll speak as much as I’d like – even if they grab me by my tie and throw me off the floor!”

The Old Man’s hawkish eyes bore through each of his assistants, as if he were searching them for weakness. Despite this, Bennett’s expression remained as salable as prior – With a nod or two included for emphasis, of course.

“Now. One of you, fetch my suit. The rest, keep taking notes – don’t miss a single word! Archive, archive, archive!”

The Old Man stood up after providing his orders and stretched his wizened back. Despite standing shorter than his aides, the wingspan of his soul occupied more of the room than one may have thought.

“Remember...” He spoke clearly to those around him while buttoning his suit over his blue and silver tie. “...If you are disgusted by what most of my ‘fellow representatives’ say this afternoon – if you want to fight them tooth and nail – then you are a man of blessed character.”

Bennett narrowed his eyes at the Old Man’s last statement for just a moment before his face was once more shaped into a clay expression of #7

agreeability. Yet even as he outwardly expressed concord, the younger man’s mind remained bewildered. Was there not a point where ardent resistance yielded nothing more than isolation?

Following the Old Man to the congressional sitting momentarily after, Bennett’s mind continued to work feverishly. Despite all his ridicule, his unpopularity... the Old Man’s back continued to support his short frame unabashedly.

How was that the case?

Two hundred and forty two congressmen filed into the House Chamber.

Some, such as the Old Man, wore their faces like stone, while others loquaciously interacted with their fellow representatives. Those from the South shook hands with those from the North; their smiles mirrored Bennett’s in a way that caused him to momentarily raise a brow. While each of these men proclaimed to hold their own set of beliefs – instilled upon them by their socalled ‘monumental life experiences’, most would claim they belonged to some larger affiliation. Those such as the Old Man, who viewed such groupings as little more than corrals, were exceedingly rare. As Bennett neatly and delicately pressed his suit down over his chest, his gaze naturally wandered away from his position in the lower tier of the room’s rostrum to that of the Old Man’s. His wizened face was dour compared to the smiling masks of clay around him, yet not a trace of dissatisfaction was visible in those serrated eyes.

Throughout the course of the congressional session, the expensive sheets of Bennett’s notepad were marred by hasty scribblings. The Annexation of Texas, The Creation of the Wisconsin Territory, and the recent election of #

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Martin Van Buren to the presidency were all topics of significant debate, yet not the foremost conflict on everyone’s mind. Instead, that achievement would go towards the slavery debate. Though the recently-instituted gag rule prevented the effectiveness of any petitions regarding the southern-dominated institution, conversations almost subconsciously turned towards it – a magnet composed of horrific statutes that drew conflicting opinions towards it as though they were iron filings. Many from the South praised the chattel system that had made them prosper, while Northerners tended to speak mildly against its continued spread.

Yet none called for its outright destruction – for the ingrained nature of its horrific practices was believed by many to be too entrenched to resist.

Bennett found himself agreeing with this mindset, despite his personal distaste for the institution. Just as he believed the topic would recede into the backs of the representatives’ minds, however...

“Massachusetts, Twelve.” ...The Old Man slowly rose – the ramparts of his posture extending past merely his height. Without a trace of hesitation, nor the effort taken to paint a smile onto the stern canvas of his countenance, he began to speak calmly yet passionately.

“Slavery, and the horrific wars puppeteered by its continued existence, is a sinful institution that approaches its twilight years.”

It was as though a firework had detonated in the Capitol – so instant were the reactions of those present. The Democrats of the South bore indignant, if not downright furious expressions, while many Whigs from the North massaged their heads in exasperation. #9

“Whether they be forcibly abducted from their homes across the Atlantic, or born under the system of the devil, many humans – who, may I add, are our Brothers and Sisters under God – have suffered horrifically under this system.

Torture, maiming, rape, humiliation – this is what thousands are experiencing whilst living in a country that was born from the womb of freedom.

Even those lucky enough to escape slavery find themselves victims of its continued influence. They are assaulted in the street, unlawfully imprisoned, and find themselves unable to participate in even the most simple of democratic processes. And so I urge any of you who are good Christians or bear the most basic forms of altruism to refuse the tyrannical gag rule and petition for the annihilation of slavery’s demonic sway.”

The room remained quiet as the Resolved Falcon lowered himself back into his seat. More than half of the room held expressions of disgust and hatred, while many others appeared exhausted by the radical nature of the sermon. Only a few clapped or nodded faintly in agreement.

Despite this, the Resolved Falcon’s eyes remained as unclouded and self-assured as ever. His face, set tightly in the stones of resistance, seemed immutable by the opinions of those around him.

And, in the lower tiers of the House Chamber... ...A small, yet entirely veritable smile crossed Michael Bennett’s lips. In neat, focused handwriting, he dedicated an entire page of his notepad to nine succinct words: “I WAS A FOOL.” “THERE ARE MORE IMPORTANT THINGS.” # 10

Sophia Schultz My Psychadelic Brother # 11

Sophia Schultz Rooftop Esape

Sophia Schultz Jolyne Kujo # 12

Sophia Schultz Loving Ponder

Sophia Schultz Bloody Shower # 13

Gunny Tree Avianna Hite Julien felt that if he breathed in any more dust, he’d exhale a sandstorm.

The black cloth pulled up over his nose had done little to help against the raging prairie winds—what’s left of the prairie, anyways. A fire had blown through this area many seasons ago and had turned any vegetation into ashy sand hills.

Corpses of blackened trees littered the surrounding area, and it was taking everything Julien had just to navigate his horse around them and see through the grit in his eyes. She huffed heavily underneath him, and he could feel her flank heaving from where his boots were pressed against her sides.

Adjusting his feet in the stirrups, Julien reached forward and rubbed the palm of his gloved hand down her neck. “It’s okay, Belle,” Julien muttered. His rifle dug into his thigh from where it was hooked on the saddle. “We’ve gotta be almost there.”

They had been riding since sunup, and now the sun was getting closer and closer to the horizon. “Half-a-day’s ride my ass,” Julien grumbled, tugging on Belle’s reins to maneuver her around another fallen tree. “I knew Mick was lyin’ to me. Not sure why I listen to him anyways.”

Julien had only two days to get back before his mom noticed he was gone.

He had told her a pretty convincing lie, one he was fairly proud of.

“Maggie’s prize mare is gonna drop her foal soon. Maggie told me I could stay with her until she does! Please, mom, it’ll happen any day now!”

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Any day now, he had said. That left him at least two days until his mom started poking around the Livingston’s ranch asking after Julien. Of course, Julien wasn’t that dumb. Maggie’s parents did have a pregnant prize mare, due any day now. Julien just wouldn’t be there to see it happen, and he didn’t need Maggie’s parents talking to his mother before he got back. Maggie was kind enough to cover for him—hell, the whole juvenile population of Champaigne was. There was a code among thieves after all, and Julien knew that if anyone ratted him out, he’d rat them out right back when it came to be their turn to hunt for the legendary Ghost Fox of Gunny Tree.

Julien had never been told when the legend of the Ghost Fox started.

Rumor says that hunters of the past have traveled out into this wasteland, and that each one has come across a fox that just won’t die. Some hunters have shot it, some have trapped it, others have smoked it out of its foxhole. And yet no matter how many times the fox is killed, it always comes back. So the rumors say, that is. Julien’s never been so sure what to believe.

Anybody who’s anybody in Champaigne had gone on their hunt for the Ghost. Julien’s dad had done it, so had his dad’s dad, and so on. It was a longstanding tradition to go right before one’s thirteenth birthday–or at least, it had been. Ever since Jimmy Clearwater had his accident 10 years ago, the adults tried to put a stop to the hunt for the Ghost. But everyone knows everything about everybody in Champaigne–there’s no hiding, no pretending. You go to Gunny Tree, or you don’t, and if you don’t you’re chicken. That’s what Julien knew, and he wouldn’t let his mom or any other adult tell him differently. Adults seemed to forget that a whole lot rested on the opinion of other kids—if you’re # 15

declared a chicken, you’re a chicken for life.

No one in Champaigne had turned 13 in nearly two years. In other words, Julien was the first to make this journey in a very long time, and he knew that all of the children were going to be paying attention, waiting until it was their turn. He had to prove himself, and failure was not an option.

Belle nickered below him, tossing her head as a particularly strong gust of wind came at them from the east. Julien pulled the cloth further up his nose and rubbed at his eyes, steeling himself. To hell with what Mick had said. He had been pointed in the right direction, and so as long as Julien could get there before sundown, he’d be just fine.

Julien tapped Belle in the sides with the heels of his boots, urging her forward. Soon, Julien could see that they were coming upon a hill thick with dried underbrush. It was a little steeper than he would like, and he glanced down at Belle in concern. They had come across a stream some hours ago, but since then she hadn’t had any water. He didn’t want to push her too hard if they weren’t going to be able to find any more water until they came back.

Sighing, Julien pulled on Belle’s reins and brought them to a standstill.

Gripping the horn of the saddle, Julien heaved himself up and swung a leg over so that he could drop to the ground. His boots hit the dirt with a low thud, and the joints in his ankles popped. Making his way around to Belle’s head, grazing his hand along her coat as he went, he was happy to see that she didn’t seem as tired as he expected. She was even stomping her front hoof on the ground, nearly catching the toe of his boot.

“Alright. I’ll just walk with you a little bit, how’s that?” He asked, reaching # 16

up to take her reins in his hand. Tugging her along, Julien started to lead the both of them up the hill, hoping Belle was grateful to not have an extra hundred pounds of weight on her back.

A few burrs and weeds tried to latch onto his pants as they walked— Julien really hoped nothing would snag bad enough to tear. He wasn’t sure how he’d explain ripping his nice riding pants to his mom when he got back.

Finally reaching the crest of the hill after what felt like an hour of climbing, Julien paused for a moment to catch his breath, surveying the horizon.

It was more of the same all around–sand and tumbleweeds, dust and fallen trees–except for one silhouette a few hundred yards out, right in the middle of it all. It was a tree, and a tall one at that, its naked branches extending out into the open sky. He couldn’t see much else from this distance, but he just knew that this was what he had been looking for. There was no other landmark quite like it for miles around, from what he had seen.

Grinning wildly, Julien turned to Belle and gave her a rub on the nose, laughing when she snorted in his face. “This is it, girl! That’s just got to be Gunny Tree!” He tugged on her reins again, bounding forward with newfound energy. Belle followed him, albeit with a bit less pep in her step.

They made their way down the hill, and Julien noticed that the sun was starting to touch the horizon. He shivered slightly as another gust of wind hit them–it would probably get chilly tonight. He needed to make this fast, if he could.

As they got closer and closer, Julien could finally see just how massive this tree actually was. It was easily taller than his family’s barn back home, but # 17

how it was still standing, Julien had no idea. Not only was the wasteland around them some of the driest Julien had seen, but the tree appeared to be long dead.

It was mostly stripped down to the bone-white flesh underneath, the little bit of scattered bark along its trunk sticking out like a scab. It was riddled with holes, and as Julien stepped up to the base of its trunk, he could see they weren’t just any ordinary holes. They were bullet holes, up and down the whole base of the tree.

Julien swallowed thickly, running his finger over one of the deep divots.

A crow cawed somewhere overhead, and Belle snorted and stomped her foot behind him, pulling back on the reins. “You’re fine, girl,” Julien muttered, a slightly uneasy feeling settling in the pit of his gut as he stepped back to circle the tree. He didn’t see anything else unusual about it, at least until he made it around to the other side. At the very base of the tree was a hole in the ground, about the width of Julien’s head.

“Bingo,” Julien breathed, crouching down on one knee to try and peer inside. “Foxhole.”

It was hard for Julien to see much of anything. The hole did seem to go pretty deep in the ground, but with the sun setting, it was getting too dark to tell. There wasn’t any sign that it had been lived in. There were no tracks on the ground around him, no evidence of animal remains either.

“Hello?” Julien called, then immediately felt silly. It’s not like anything would be answering him—he would be more frightened if he got a response back. Standing up and brushing the sand off the knee of his pant leg, Julien looked over to where he had left Belle. She was nervously shifting back and # 18

forth, though thankfully she hadn’t left Julien behind. He wasn’t sure what he would do if she did.

“Alright girl. Let’s set up camp. We’ll find that damn ghost tonight.”

Julien led Belle away from the tree, though not without a quick glance back. The tree seemed to be looming over him, like its branches were stretching down to grab him. It gave him the creeps, and he decided to set up camp a little further away from the tree than he initially planned.

He chose a spot by a small hill, nestled between some taller underbrush that would hopefully help camouflage him and protect him from the wind. He pitched his small tent and tied Belle’s lead to one of the stakes he had pounded into the ground. After giving her some water from his canteen, Julien grabbed his rifle from where it was strapped to Belle’s saddle and laid down on his bedroll on his belly, facing the tree.

The sun had finally set, and Julien couldn’t help but jump at every little noise, whether it was the brush of a tumbleweed against the ground or the rustle of some small creature in the darkness. His eyes had adjusted to the night, and he was thankful that the sky was clear—there were no clouds blocking off the light from the moon and the stars.

After a while, Julien wasn’t sure how long he laid there, but his fingers were starting to tingle from being propped up on his elbows for so long. There had been absolutely no movement from around Gunny Tree, and Julien was starting to feel frustration burn deep in his gut. He was starting to worry that maybe the foxhole was actually abandoned, or maybe this damned fox was just a ghost after all. # 19

More than that, he was worried that he would go back to Champaigne empty-handed. He worried about what Maggie would say, what Mick would say, or what all of the older kids who had gone to Gunny Tree and bagged the Ghost Fox would think. He thought of Aaron Belfey, and his sleek leather coat with the fur-lined collar. He was the last boy to bring back a Gunny Tree Ghost, and he was still admired by all the other kids. Julien also thought of Ignes, who had refused to go before her thirteenth birthday many years ago and was still being squawked and clucked at in town, even by kids years younger than her.

“Damn ghost. Just show yourself already,” Julien grumbled, finally getting tired of lying on his stomach. He moved to sit up, but as he did, Belle suddenly neighed loudly, rearing back and slamming her hooves down on the ground. As she did, Julian caught sight of some other movement from the corner of his eye—something large. Heart jumping to his throat, Julien scrambled for his rifle, his sweaty fingers slipping over the worn wood. While Belle was creating a ruckus from behind him, Julien tucked the rifle into his shoulder, spun around, and aimed.

Sitting there in the light of the moon, just a few feet away from him, was the very thing Julien had been looking for. Yet, it wasn’t what he expected at all.

A small fox sat in the dirt with its tail wrapped neatly around its paws. It was smaller than he imagined, with an orange tint to its thick gray fur. In the moonlight, it seemed to glow with a bright silvery hue, and it was staring straight up at Julien with a look so startlingly intelligent it made Julien question whether this was really a fox at all.

Julien’s finger was on the trigger, twitching, but he couldn’t shoot. He # 20

couldn’t do anything other than tremble with awe and adrenaline and stare right back. Many seconds passed, and neither of them moved. Belle had finally calmed down some, but was nickering and pulling on her lead. Julien still didn’t look over at her. He looked only at the fox in front of him.

“Most of your kind usually say something by now.”

Julien swore loudly, jumping to his feet and whipping his head around wildly, pressing a hand to his left ear. There was no one there that he could see, just the desert, Belle, and the fox. But he swore he had just heard a voice, a woman’s voice. It was loud and had made his ears ring and his heart pound in his chest. But there was no one there. It was almost like someone, or something, had spoken inside his head.

“You don’t have to be scared of me. Given what you have come here to do, I should be the one scared of you.”

The voice resonated in his head again, not as loud this time, and somehow it seemed to come from a clear direction: right in front of him, right from the fox.

“There’s no way…” Julien mumbled to himself, eyes locked on the fox. He dropped his gun into the dirt, his hands shaking too much to keep holding it, and instead pressed both palms to his ears. “I’ve lost it, I know it. There’s no way this is-” “What, real?” The fox cut in, still unmoving from its spot on the ground.

“You’re hearing me, aren’t you? Then why is it not real?”

Julien froze in his tracks, trembling like a leaf in the wind, slowly lowering his hands from his ears. The fox’s mouth did not move, its ears only twitched, and yet Julien heard the voice again. # 21

“You are calmer than some of the others. I am impressed. Some would have run by now. Or tried to kill me.”

Julien did not say anything for a moment. He felt dizzy all of a sudden, and willed himself not to pass out. Instead, he reached down and pinched himself, hard, on the arm. When the fox did not vanish from his sight, he did it again. Yet there the fox sat.

“You really are real,” Julien whispered, his voice so quiet it could be carried off with the wind.

“I’ve said as much,” the fox said, and this time Julien could hear the tail end of a laugh.

“Then you’re… no way. My god, you’re the ghost, then! The Ghost Fox of Gunny Tree!” Julien couldn’t control his volume, pointing vigorously at the fox while trying not to wet himself, pass out, or both.

“If that’s what they call me.”

Julien wasn’t sure whether to laugh or to cry. Suddenly, he paused.

“Wait… but you just said something about others! Other people, other people like me, they’ve come here then? What do you mean, tried to kill you? Everyone has killed you!” Julien exclaimed, running his hands through his hair to try and calm himself down.

“I never said anyone has killed me. And I never said I’m a ghost.”

The fox stared up at Julien with a tilt of its head, and Julien frowned.

“What do you mean no one has killed you? That’s why I’m here!

Everyone–Maggie, Mick, Aaron! They all have come back with proof! Aaron, even he has a fox coat to prove it!” # 22

“They said they killed me, did they? Julien, no one has killed here in years.”

Julien stood there, dumbstruck, unable to say a word. The fox moved to stand, fluffing its tail out, and turned to face Gunny Tree.

“How did you know my name?” Julien asked after a long moment, his voice breathless. The fox did not answer, and simply started to walk to the tree.

Julien wasn’t sure what to do, but after a slight moment of hesitation, he left his gun in the dirt and followed the fox. Belle neighed behind him, stomping her hooves, but he paid her no mind.

“People have come here for decades. Being hunted is a part of my history, and it has been my family’s history before me. Tell me, Julien. You came here to hunt me. Why?” The fox continued to walk to the tree, but Julien paused in his steps, caught off guard by the question.

“Well… you, you must know why,” Julien stuttered, trying to scramble together an answer. “It’s tradition. It’s my family’s tradition, my town’s tradition.

It’s… it’s Gunny Tree. A legend. Bringing back a Gunny Tree Ghost is one of the highest honors. All of the kids dream about journeying here one day.”

The fox was several paces ahead now, and Julien hurried to catch up.

By now they had reached the tree, and Julien once again looked at all of the hundreds of bullet holes. The fox came to sit to his left, curling its tail over its feet and looking up at the bullet holes alongside Julien.

“I am called a myth, a legend. A ghost, so you say. An honor to kill.

You face fame if you kill me, or shame if you don’t.” # 23

Julien frowned at that, looking down at the fox. It still seemed to glow, in the moonlight. It really was a beautiful creature. He thought of his friends back home, about Aaron’s fur coat, and he wasn’t sure how to best respond.

“You say no one has killed you. You say you aren’t a ghost.”

“I am a fox.”

“Er… right. Then my friends, my family, everyone… they said they’ve killed you.”

“Yes, they’ve said that. And some maybe have killed, killed before my time here at Gunny Tree—I am not very old, you know—or killed other creatures that are not me. But no one has killed me, Julien. I am here, with you.”

“But… you speak. This isn’t all in my head, is it?”

“I am a fox, Julien, and foxes cannot speak. But yes, I am talking to you. I do not know how, or why I can speak to your kind. But does it matter?

If I can speak to you, I can try to save my own life. That is all that matters to me.”

Julien crouched down to be eye-level with the fox, scuffing his knees in the dirt. Gusts blew all around them, whistling through the bullet holes in Gunny Tree. The fox turned its head to stare at Julien again, its eyes narrowed.

“You know that if I go back, they’ll make fun of me, right? They won’t believe me if I tell them this, that I talked to a fox. I want to tell them, I do. I just…”

“You’re right, Julien, they won’t believe you. And the others who have not killed here before won’t come forward, because that will mean they lied, # 24

too. Whether you kill me, whether you choose to say you killed me, that’s up to you.”

“Well… I don’t… if others haven’t killed you, that means I don’t have to either, right? I can just lie like the rest of them, can’t I? Hunt down… I don’t know, a rabbit, something? Make it look like I killed you?” Julien felt himself talking in circles, and he didn’t want to look back down at the fox, but he did it anyway.

The fox was leveling Julien with a stern look, and Julien got the impression that it was sighing at him, though this time there was not a sound.

Turning away, irked by the fox’s expression, Julien looked back at Belle. She seemed to have settled down finally, but was now staring across the distance between them. She seemed to be looking at Julien too, her big head tilted like she was judging him. Julien huffed, frustrated.

“Okay! Okay, don’t look at me like that!” Julien shouted abruptly, not sure who he was talking to, throwing his arms up in the air. “I know it’s wrong!

But don’t you see, I can’t, or… I just don’t want to be made fun of!” Julien cried, wrapping his arms around himself, feeling like a little kid throwing a tantrum. For so long, this day had meant everything to him. Now he was talking to a fucking fox, and everything seemed so skewed.

The wind seemed to blow even chillier, whistling through Gunny Tree like a set of wind chimes.

“I know. But maybe it won’t be the boy after you, or the girl after him, but someone down the line will kill me, Julien. And you have to ask yourself whose fault that will be.” # 25

Julien felt his lower lip trembling, and he stood up, angrily wiping at his wet eyes.

“I don’t… I don’t want to kill you,” Julien admitted, clenching his hands together in front of him. The words were painful to say and left a bitter taste in his mouth, but Julien couldn’t try to convince himself that he still had ambitions to kill the fox. Hell, he had left his gun with Belle.

There was silence, and Julien could feel the fox’s eyes on him, watching.

Waiting. When it was apparent Julien wasn’t going to say anything else, the fox stared at him for another moment before getting up and walking to the trunk of the tree. Standing up on its hind legs, the fox scratched at the tree, nails scraping over a dried piece of white bark. Finally, the bark came free, and fell to the ground at the fox’s feet.

“There is no other tree like this one for miles around. Take this bark home with you. Show the town, tell them that Gunny Tree is deserted, that there is no fox there, and use the bark as proof that you were here. Some people might not believe you. But others? Others will be grateful. Not everyone is as willing to kill as you might think, Julien. Like you.”

Julien bent down to pick up the piece of bark, turning it over in his hand.

He squeezed it tightly, letting the sharp edges dig into his palm. From far behind him, he heard the sound of Belle’s snort, the chirp of crickets, and the rush of the prairie winds.

“It’s still your choice. But I sure hope you’ll at least try to save my life.”

When Julien looked back down, the fox was gone, not even a paw print # 26

left in the dust. The only proof that it ever existed was from the piece of bark in his hand, and an indentation of a claw mark across the top left by the Fox of Gunny Tree.

# 27

Mandy Choy A Leap of Faith

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