Living in the Forest

Living alone made me a bit strange after a while. I grew up here. I was one of the very few left. So I made what few friends I could, and sought solace where I had to.

I found no comfort in the embrace of my husband, nor did I really trust what the woodland creatures had to say to me. They both wore the taint of the Invading World. I could sense it, even though I couldn't see it anymore.

The stink of the Invading World ran though me, as well. Used to be, not long ago, none of us had even heard of humans. We went through our lives with the slow comedy and tragedy that comes with the changing of the seasons. Chlorofluorocarbons changed this. PCBs changed this. Pesticides and herbicides and suicides and homicides and genocides changed this.

My family became a skeleton crew of old Appalachian wood, destined for pamphlets or kindling. Not even furniture because the taint was so thorough.

Every so often, for food, we'd lure a child into us, never to return. That stopped once we figured out that the taint of the Invading World was in them, as well, and that their carcasses refused to rot into our soil. Figures this would be the case for a people who walked with ease through the same acidic rain that etched us to our cores.

One night, a squirrel that lived in my branches, and my young husband (planted by one of the few conscientious humans) came up with an idea to help us survive this terrible time. We would transform into a human family, live in the houses made from our deceased brethren, and live out our lives conquered, but not dead. It seemed like a plan.

Our strange appearance didn't shock too many of our human neighbors, who were all mutated and strange in their own ways. My husband put on a suit and began to work. I tended the home. The squirrel that came with us refused to be human, but wanted to protect me nonetheless, because I'd been his people's home for many a winter.

So, if you're ever up in our neck of the woods, be sure to visit. Mind the dog, though. He may be small, but he's crazy and bloodthirsty.

Leslie Powell