Sticks without Stones

by Trent Walters

This is not a sequel or prequel but pairs with the stand-alone, “Stones without Sticks.”

The stick was once known fondly by its parent as a limb… until a biped severed it from its parent, stripped it naked, and hobbled on the stick up the mountainside. Despite the biped’s initial cruelty, the stick grew fond of the biped as its palms wore groves into the stick’s flesh. Before being held in the sleeping embrace of the biped’s flabby yet warm limb, the stick had not experienced true love.

Sadly, the relationship was one-sided. In spite of enduring long hours of pressure and pain because of its devotion to the biped, the stick broke unexpectedly and was, without a teary goodbye, discarded for another. “Oh, I see,” said the stick, “love me and leave me, will you?” But the biped neither answered nor returned.

The stick lay quietly for many moons, too upset for words, until another biped stepped on the stick, and it snapped:

“Why don’t you watch where you put your oafish feet? You think you can traipse through this neck of the woods and not notice upon whom you’re stepping? You don’t see trees uproot themselves and stomp on your fingers.”

The biped pretended not to hear and strolled on through the stick’s home.

A stone came rolling along. The stick, still nettled by its busted-up life, yelled at the stone to help out a fellow inanimate object. It showed no interest in the stick’s plight. Burned again, the stick thought, by a stone this time; it doesn’t get any worse than this.

The sun came and went. Rains came and went. Snows came and went. The stick lay still, nursing its wounds, when a black ant showed interest. Finally, the stick hoped, it would be loved for itself.

But no, the ant was a termite and it hollowed out the stick and laid eggs in it that wiggled and lunched on the stick’s innards. The pain was as excruciating as it had heard the biped complain that kidney stones were, but the stick felt too hollow to be hurt again.

Or so it thought.

On the last day of its life, a biped spotted the stick, put it over its knee, and broke it in two, then, carrying it back to its lair, built an altar encircled by stone, and set the stick on fire. Perhaps the stick ought to have been bitter about the flames charring its flesh, but it couldn’t help noticing the biped’s worshipful and submissive posture.

Dreams of a Thousand

by Luc Reid

Inevitably, I was getting sleepy. I stared at the alarm clock’s oversized blue numbers, bleary-eyed. The numbers went in and out of focus.

“Big,” I murmured. “Big.”

“What?” Jean said thickly, rolling over toward me. She put her hand on my shoulder. “Did you say something, babes?”

“Shh, go to sleep,” I said.

“You dreaming about Mike again?”

“I wasn’t asleep,” I said.

“You always dream about him, huh?”

“Don’t worry about it,” I told her. “I’m just trying to fall asleep.”

“If my brother was dead, I’d want to dream about him,” she said. “You’re lucky.” She was starting to wake up. Jean had a thing for long conversations at night when I was trying to get to sleep. Not that I didn’t like them myself, it’s just … I was trying to get to sleep. I should just get to sleep.

“He wasn’t a really nice brother, you know.”

“Neither were you, babes,” she said. “That doesn’t mean you don’t miss him.”

“I’m really worn out, Jeanie. Can we talk about it tomorrow?” I yawned.

“Sure, babes,” she said, and rolled back away. I lay there listening to her breathing slow down, thinking about Mike.

“Big,” I whispered, too quiet for even Jean to hear. The blue digits on the clock blended into a little stream, a waterfall. I was tumbling down, down, gently, sliding into sleep …

Then I was in the dream, looking up. A thousand Mikes towered over me, holding a thousand newspapers, his wide faces split in a thousand grins. “I guess it’s my turn to be big tonight,” he said.

I buzzed my tiny wings, lifting into the air and dodging away, trying to get used to the compound eyes again.