Happily Ever Afterlife

by J A Campbell

  "The other girls, the ones you ate before me, they say it's my fault you ate me," I say, realizing for the first time how much that accusation weighs on me.

  "What does fault matter? You're still eaten."

  "I don't know. For justice?"

  "Justice..." he growls. "Justice won't make wolves less hungry, only food will. Justice won't make children more wary, only experience will. Justice hunts me with an ax, and when I am dead another wolf will hunt other little girls and the cycle will continue. Justice is not a solution, it's an excuse."

  "An excuse?"

  "Cleaning an ax is much faster than cleaning the dark and molding corners of our world. Justice makes it satisfying, makes mankind complacent. So long as justice is being served, there's no need to try to make a world in which justice is never needed."

  "Dark and molding corners like you?"

  He stands and growls at me. "You are not listening. I am not the darkness in the world any more than you, little girl. We are products of a broken world full of men who would break it further rather than face the task of mending it. They hunt the wolf and let the hunger reign."

  His fur is standing on end, his teeth bared and eyes burning, but there is fear and desperation in him. Seeing his fear calms my own, and he looks small and frail in my eyes. I shrug.

  "Well, I am eaten, and you're being hunted. So, what can we do?"

  His fur flattens against his body and he huffed, turning from me. We sit in silence for what feels like hours, listening to each other's breathing. Mine is soft, calm, and at peace for the first time since I died. My murderer is weak. His breath is labored and ragged, as though he's been running for a long time. I suppose he has.

  I see the hunger in him now. In life he seemed huge and imposing, all muscles and teeth, but here he looks like bones. He is slumped in his corner, limbs sprawled and head lying against the cold stone. I can see that his eyes are open, staring in front of him.

  "I'm sorry," he says finally.

  "For what?"

  "For eating you and for trapping you in here. I tried...but never hard enough. You and all the others fell to my weakness. I am as bad as the ax-man, perhaps worse. At least he is ignorant of his crime."

  "Oh," I say, not sure how to respond to an apology from my murderer. I try to remember the rage I felt, to hold on to the unfairness of it all. But I'm beginning to expect that unfairness is not too far from justice–an excuse by which we feel better about the world. After all, it was no fairer that I was born in the first place.

  The wolf is watching me, waiting for more of a response, but I have none to give. He sighs and puts his head back between his paws, his eyes, now dull, focused on nothing.

  We sit absorbed in our own thoughts, our breath echoing in the shallow cave. It is getting colder, though I expect that has nothing to do with the temperature. The wolf shivers violently in his corner.

  All of my fear is gone in the presence of this frail and hunted creature. I can't even hate him for trapping me here, knowing that he, too, is a victim of his appetite. I can't watch him shiver alone, waiting for the hunters to find him.

  I stand up stiffly and make my way over to his corner. His ear flicks toward me but he is otherwise still. Cautiously, I kneel beside him and place one hand gently on his shoulder. He twitches, startled by the contact, and I snatch my hand away. The silence in the cave takes an uncomfortable edge. The wolf's eyes are squeezed shut, his breath shallow.

  "I am a monster," he says after a time. His eyes flash open to read my face with a deep and penetrating sadness.

  "I am a monster," he repeats, agony in his voice. "What I did to you...and the others...it's unforgivable."

  I have nothing to say that can comfort him, so I return my hand to his shoulder. He squeezes his eyes shut again, as if in pain, but leans into my hand. I begin stroking his back, untangling the mats and smoothing the unkempt roughness of his fur. He leans further into my hand, granting me access to more of his back and sides until he is nearly lying in my lap. On impulse, I lean over and embrace him.

  I feel a slight dampness beginning to penetrate my dress beneath his head, and I lean back up. To my surprise, the wolf is crying.

  "I didn't know wolves could cry," I say, wiping the tears from his fur.

  "Wolves can't," he replies, "but I have learned how, trapped with my victims. I have cried for them all, and for me. I wish I did not have to." He turns from me. "I am a monster, not worthy of tears."

  In response, I hug him tight to me, not knowing what else to do. I am surprised by his lightness and frailty. Everything in me should hate him…should take joy in his pain for the pain he's caused me. I try to remember the sharp stab I felt when I realized it was not Grandma beneath the covers in that dim corner of her cottage, the panic when he lunged at me in the stolen clothes, all teeth and tongue. Being swallowed, the crunch and squeeze of his throat pushing me into his stomach...

  I will never see my friends again, will never hug my mother, will never smell the deep and homey scent of fresh baked bread. Sunlight is gone forever, as is rain, snow, and thunder. All that is left are the ghosts of flowers and trees.

  While I mourn my loss, it all seems too far away to be of any consequence. Here and now, all I know is that I'm holding a shivering body. I cannot hate him.

  "What will happen if you die?"

  "I'll be dead," he says shortly.

  "I mean to us...to you, me, and all of the other girls? We woke up in your stomach, but if your stomach is no longer here, where will we go?"

  "I don't know. Maybe we'll be trapped in the woodcutter who hunts me, or in his ax, or maybe we will be nowhere and nothing."

  "Oh. I was just wondering if you knew."

  He growled softly, muttering to himself, and we fell back into silence. Once again, I am the one to break it.

  "What's happening out in the world?" He shifts in my arms and his eyes take on an expression like he's looking far beyond him.

  "The woodcutter is still hunting me. He doesn't have the skills of a tracker, or he would have found my hiding spot by now, but he is persistent. He will not stop until his ax is in my flesh."

  "I don't understand why he should care so much. He's a woodcutter, not a hunter."

  The wolf turns abruptly to stare at me.

  "Do you not know?"

  "Know what?" My brow furrows in confusion.

  "The woodcutter weeps as he hunts me, and he wept when he found that you were eaten. He hunts me for you."

  "Why?"

  "Why, child?"

  The wolf laughs, and I'm surprised at how charming his laugh can be. "Why do boys and men ever commit themselves to insane tasks? He loves you."

  I was just breaching the age where the thought of someone's love had become attractive. I remember the woodcutter, a young man four years older than I. He often checked in on my grandmother and chopped wood for her for free. When he knew I was visiting, he would be there to walk me home. I never thought anything of it at the time. It never entered my head that he could feel anything like love for me.

  I remember him better: the soft brown eyes and the strength of his arms and shoulder, the conversations about his dreams for his future as he walked me home, the gentle politeness with which he treated my grandmother.

  My parents had already begun the discussion of finding a match for me before I died. The woodcutter would have been a fine choice, though he was but a young man.

  For the first time, I allow myself to imagine what life could have been if I had not been eaten. I would have delivered Grandma's basket and spent the day with her, listening to her stories and learning small lessons from her childhood memories. Before sundown, I would leave, meeting the woodcutter who would walk me home. Together we would talk of trees and plants and the future. We would walk together every week, and he would start making small, sweet gestures to me, like putting a flower in my hair. After a long and timid courtship, he would beg my father's favor and ask me for my hand. We would
live in the woods, halfway between Grandma's house and the village. One day, I would have a daughter of my own to love and care for, and I would send her to see my mother through the woods with a warning to stick to the path and never talk to strangers.

  I would also give her a knife.

  As I imagine this impossible future, I release some quiet tears. Finally, I allow myself to mourn my own death and all the future it took from me.

  The wolf stirs suddenly, and I wipe the tears away before he can see them. My heart begins to race when I see the panic in his eyes.

  "What's wrong?"

  "The woodcutter has found me. I am running."

  "Can you get away?"

  "I am trying, but I am so weary..."

  "Keep running! We don't know what will happen to us if you are killed!"

  "There is...a way."

  "A way for what...to survive?"

  "I have not been entirely honest with you."

  "What?" I'm suddenly scared again. There is a strange intensity in his eyes.

  "You are not dead."

  "What?" My breath comes fast and hard. I remember being eaten, swallowed. I remember the pain and the darkness. I remember dying.

  "I swallowed you whole. You are eaten, but you are not dead. How else could you be breathing? The dead do not breathe."

  "How am I here if I'm not dead? How are the other girls here?"

  "The others have died; they were too long with me, but I carry their memories. It has not been too long for you."

  "If they are memories, what am I? A memory too? A ghost?"

  "All of those...yes." He was panting now. "Spirit, maybe...the same substance as I. Your body is safe within my body, but we are both here in this place. My heart is a muscle, but it is also this cave. My stomach is an organ, but also the place where dark and regrettable memories live within me. You are a body, but also...also a soul."

  "Why are you telling me this? What good does it do?" I am nearly shouting, cornering his cowering and panting body.

  "Because..." he wheezed, "because you can be...saved. If you get back to your body before the woodcutter kills me...he can cut you out. You get...your life back. You get your woodcutter...your family."

  I back away from him, wide-eyed. I had just reached a point where I was beginning to accept my death. How could I go from that to accepting life again so soon? If I could escape this place and grow and love and die in the world...

  "How? How do I get back to my body?"

  He is panting hard now, his whole chest heaving and his eyes glazing. "I can...show you. It is not hard. But I beg of you...a favor."

  "What favor?"

  "Take me with you."

  A shock like cold creek water runs through my veins. "What?" I try to quell the fluttering feeling that has gripped my insides.

  "Take me...with you. I can survive like this in your heart as you have...in mine. Please. I ask for...a second chance to live...un-ruled by appetite. I cannot inhabit your heart without permission."

  I pause, uncertain, wary.

  "Please..."

  I can't look at him, his ragged body heaving and his eyes full of pain and hope. I pace instead, trying to decide if I can live with a wolf in my heart.

  "Please...There is not...much time."

  "What will it be like?" My mind is racing, unable to settle on a single thought.

  "What?"

  "What will it be like, to have you live inside my heart?"

  "You won't even be aware...of my presence. You will feel...nothing."

  I look at him now, meeting his eyes. They stare into me, unfathomable, but his tail droops and I can see the exhaustion in every line of his body. He's right, there is not much time.

  "What must we do?"

  He breaks eye contact and shifts focus to the ground beside me. "First..." he says, "you give me permission to live within you. Then...then we must get to the belly again. Then, I will show you...I will show you the path."

  He yelps as if struck, and I see panic in his body. There is no time...

  "Okay, I give you permission to live within me."

  "Thank you," he says with more strength in his voice. "Now run!"

  The wolf takes off at full speed, tearing past me through the mouth of the cave. It takes me a moment to register his command, but then I do I follow him, running as quickly as I can. The thorns and vines surrounding the cave part for him, but they begin their slow return to their original position as I race behind him. This passage is easier than the journey I made to find the wolf, but my flesh is still raw from my first battle with the thorns. Scabs are ripped from the healing wounds, and the blood flows down my body again.

  The wolf is faster than I am, impossibly fast, and the creeping thorns slow me further, often catching on what remains of my dress or tripping me at the ankles. The farther ahead he runs, the thicker the thorns grow.

  "Wait!" I am nearly out of breath. He pauses to look back at me.

  "Not much time!" His voice is full of strength. "Hurry up!"

  I push through the foliage and he takes off running again, muscles rippling. Dimly, I wonder where his ribs have gone.

  Finally, I reach the edge of the woods, near the path where the thorns begin to give way to wildflowers. I speed up, but the wolf is still far ahead of me.

  "Wait!"

  "Almost there! Hurry!"

  He slows his pace a bit, and I am able to gain some ground.

  "Just get to the path," he cries. "Get to your grandmother's house, and I will take care of the rest. Hurry!"

  He races off again and I run harder, gasping for breath. Get to the path...it all seems too easy. It's faster to cut through the woods than to take the path to Grandma's house, but it was straying from the path that got me here in the first place. Ahead, I see the wolf weaving through trees.

  I make it to the path, my feet pounding hard against the compacted dirt and releasing clouds of dust behind me. I keep an eye on the silvery form of the wolf, but then Grandma's house looms on the horizon and I lose sight of him.

  My lungs are full of sharp stabs that radiate downward through my core, and all I can hear is the pounding of my heart and the pounding of my feet. I don't know how to distinguish the sounds from each other. The air whips across my freshly torn skin, but I ignore it. I am nearly there. Wheezing, battered, more exhausted than I ever remember feeling, I push forward with a last burst of speed.

  Almost there.

  I see the wolf again, racing past Grandma's house up a hill I don't remember. His face is pulled into a grin.

  Almost there...

  I hear his laughter echoing through the trees as I stretch my arm, my hand, my fingers forward.

  I touch the door.

  The world goes black.

  * * *

  Rough hands grab me and pull me from visceral warmth and bloody darkness. Cold air hits bare flesh and the tiny hairs stand on end. I did not expect it to be so cold.

  The air smells like nothing. This is the strangest thing.

  I open my eyes, and it takes a moment for my vision to adjust. The colors are strange...so different...

  The rough hands pull me to my feet, my two feet, and steady me as I adjust to standing. Once I feel balanced, I look back down at the crumpled pile of fur and flesh and old memories. It is empty now.

  I am free.

  I look up into the hard brown eyes of the woodcutter, and I grin. Now it is my chance to live happily ever after.

  And, oh, what big teeth I have.

  * * *

  Of all the fairy tales I know, Little Red Riding Hood has always struck the strongest chord in me. On the surface, it is a simple cautionary tale warning children to listen to their mothers. Delve deeper and you find an intricate snapshot of the human struggle, exploring and exposing aspects of the dark side of our nature that would require novels to completely explore. In this incarnation, I wanted to focus on the victim-blaming tone the story takes when told as a warning to children and let Red s
peak for herself and find her own peace. Unfortunately, the wolf had his own ideas.

  ~Amanda Carman

  Blood Borne Pathogen

  by

  Shoshanah Holl

  The woman in the next bed was dying.

  She'd gone on the respirator a few days ago, and Javier was certain her time was near. After you've spent long enough in the hospital, a person got a feel for these things. The old lady had moved into his room a couple of weeks ago, and he'd come to like her even though she was quite feisty at first. Over a hundred if she was a day, and she didn't care who knew it. She taught him how to play bridge and a century's worth of slang for Hispanics, all of which he took with general amusement. There was a strange charm to her cantankerous nature, though, and when they'd had to put her on the respirator he'd been genuinely sad. If she had any family they never came to see her or sent her anything. Maybe everyone had to die, but no one should have to die alone.

  He dozed now and then, the sound of her ventilator blending in with the now-familiar ambient hospital sounds. It was only when he heard the soft sounds of someone crying behind the curtain partitioning the room that he woke and sat up. The clock read a little past one in the morning, and silhouetted against the curtain a small figure held the dying woman's hand. Javier pushed himself up a little more, craning his neck.

  "Hello?" The sobbing stopped.

  After a moment, the curtain pulled back a bit and a girl in her late teens or early twenties looked around it, eyes still bleary and her nose pink.

  "Oh. I'm sorry, I didn't mean to bother you...I just...are you here to see Harriet?" He gestured at the tiny withered figure in the bed. The girl nodded and wiped at her cheeks, smearing some of her heavy black eyeliner.

  "Yes. I'm so sorry. I hope I didn't wake you."

  "Oh no, don't worry about it. I'm just glad somebody's here to see her."

  The girl stepped around the curtain. He noticed two things; first, she bore a striking resemblance to the old woman, even with the significant age gap. Second, he had never seen anyone quite as striking. Pretty or cute were not really words he could apply here, just striking. Long dark hair was cut into a Bettie-Page-esque style and she had on enough eyeliner to do an Egyptian queen proud. She was pale, even paler than him after being bedridden for a year, and dressed head to toe in varying shades of shredded, studded, and lacy black.