She had run until her lungs burned. Scraping the skin of her shoulder against the brick wall, she spotted the sign for a bookstore she had never seen before. It must be new, she thought. She looked behind her to see them stretching their necks and spinning their heads searching for her. A bell rang as she darted inside. The store was dim and cool. It smelled of turned pages and gathered dust. No one sat at the desk in the entry way. She wandered to the back, frantically peering behind her. She crouched in the farthest corner between two shelves. A label of faded paper was taped to one of them. FOR WHEN YOU NEED TO ESCAPE. The labeled shelf contained colorful spines with faded gold titles. She grabbed a forest green tome and cracked open the cover. By the time the ones chasing her entered the store, she was gone. The clerk in front shrugged when questioned, saying he hadn't seen anyone all day. They didn't even notice the book that had fallen open in the back corner, laying flat on the ground, pages spread wide.

When he fell, it was still summer and quiet in the city. Now it is spring and the city roars. He does not know how long it has been. He only knows that his nose and wings lie broken beside him, slowly becoming a part of the earth. He is, too. He once soared about in the sky and basked in the sun. He saw everything grow and live and die. He was a watcher, a guardian. Yet when he fell, the city did not miss a beat. He was cast out into the field of the forgotten with the others. It was then that he himself began to forget. He does not remember the scent of a storm on the wind nor the first star that appeared in the night sky. He does not remember what it was like to have wings or be the color of polished stone. He is slowly becoming a part of the earth like his broken parts. A guardian of the sky sinking into the dirt. It happened slowly, like a fading photograph. One day, it was all gone. His final memory is of the sun kissing the horizon and the city's soft hum as it tucks into the night.

Water dribbled down her chin as she stepped back from the lion's open mouth, the chill of the water cascading down her throat. "What did you ask for?" her sister whispered. "I asked for more," she replied. She wiped the water roughly from her chin. Her sister arched a brow. "More?" she repeated. "More of what?" She turned to her little sister, rolling her shoulders back. "More of everything." Her sister scoffed and folded her arms. "That is not what the fountain is for! You ruin everything." The child stormed off down the steps. The fountain was said to grant wishes. Wishes for wealth, love, fertility. She laughed softly and sat on the edge, staring the lion in its stone eyes. She had no need of these things everyone else wished for. So instead, she wished for more in hopes that the fountain knew what she meant. The garden slowly sharpened around her, birdsong became more crisp in her ears, the scent of wildflowers filling her nose. The sun warmed her skin like fire and her heart thudded against her chest. "More," she murmured. "That's all I want."

She did not think she would be pleased to see it. The patched roofs cresting over the hilltop. The cart wheels rolling through the market and the bleating of sheep. She had seen so much more than anyone living there. She had feared for her life, seen the edge of the world, stared into the darkest, deepest cavern imaginable. She had questioned her value, her strength, her soul. She had been through rain, ice, and scorching sun. She had never thought she would see this place again. She had not wanted to. She had stopped calling it home ages ago. And yet, as she came to the top of the hill, her heart swelled to a point of ache. There it was, just as she had left it. Small, quiet, predictable. A place forgotten by the rest of the world. A place to call home once more.

Do you know why the trees weep? There is much sorrow in the earth. Up through their roots and into their branches it is sucked, pouring out in shades of emerald and jade. Cascading down in soft vines that twist in the wind. Life fades and browns and falls, sinking back into the sorrowful earth. Do you know why the trees do not mind? They have seen many ages of this world. They know the burden they carry is not always a burden. It is a reminder that from sorrow comes new beginnings. New buds. New blossoms. So do not worry that the trees weep. They know better than we do that no matter how many leaves fall, more will grow in time. 🍃

It could have been a dungeon. That was what she kept reminding herself. She could be locked in a damp, dark dungeon with stiff air and rats nipping at her ankles. Instead she lay surrounded by plush cushions and tea keeping hot on the table beside her. The chandelier glistened above her, spreading light across the ornate ceiling. It was a dungeon in other ways. The tea, the pillows, the chandelier. All torture devices without the sharp edges. He gave her more every day to tempt her, call her over to him, keep her as he wanted her to be. She desired none of it. Part of her would have preferred the rancid dungeon over the posh suite. At least that way she could remember why she was trapped here and who it was that contained her. That way she could lose her soul to the darkness of despair instead of the intoxicating fanciful life he offered. The rats would be better than the chandelier.

There once was a girl who slept on a tear stained pillow. A lonely child, she decided to go to the shop that was said to grant wishes. The shop was only open when the moon is dark so the girl waited a week until night folded over the silver orb. She stole out into the cloaked night and waited in the queue that was trailing out from the shop doors. When it came time for her turn, the girl entered the shop and was surprised to see it was empty save for an old man sitting at crooked desk with a pen and large book opened before him. "What is it you wish?" he asked. "I wish for friends." The shopkeeper looked her up and down. "Do you fear what lives under your bed?" "Yes, there are monsters under there. I'd like friends to protect me." The shopkeeper nodded, grinning. He scribbled something in the book. "Your wish is granted. Go home and look under the bed." The girl obeyed, doing so cautiously. She was met with several pairs of yellow eyes. At first, fear grew in her chest and she went to scream. Then she remembered what the shopkeeper said. "Hello," the girl said. "Are you my friends?" The eyes blinked in answer. "Do you like stories?" Another blink and low, soft growls of pleasure. The girl went and retrieved a book from her shelf. Crossed legged, she sat and read to the monsters under her bed. The friends she had wished for.

There is a place in the autumn wood where you can sit and hear the earth's breath. It is slow, quiet, and steady. The air smells of burnt orange and scarlet. It is the place you sit before you go. The place where the earth holds you in her embrace and gives her farewell. There is a wooden bench, solid and smooth under your touch. There is a lake, still as glass. It holds the sky like a mirror and for a moment, you are not certain what way is up. Leaves blow across your feet and you rise to meet the wind. It has come for you. You feel the earth's breath against your cheek one last time and you let go. The autumn wood waits for the next farewell, the bench empty and warm with the memory of you.

He lived there all alone with only his stone lions to guard him. Selfishly, he preferred the quiet and isolation. He had no time for foolish socializing and tending to relationships. They had only brought him heartache in his experience. Money was the only certainty in life. Money had purchased the house with the stone lions. He had so many bedrooms in that house he could spend every night of the week in a different one. Money was the only thing he could rely on. There was always more of it around the corner, under a rock, across the river. Eventually he found himself talking to his coins and cash, treating them as guests in his home. Eating meals with them, kissing them good night. He caressed his safe that stood tall in his study. The cold metal was soothing and the only thing he ever felt. He was dead for months before anyone found him. It was the bank that discovered the body, coming to collect a payment he had missed. He was splayed out, his skull crushed, his legs and arms wide like a starfish. His safe had betrayed him; falling and flattening him without warning or regret. He had loved money more than anything and it never loved him back.

The howls that come from the hills are not wolves. Whispers in the villages will confirm that they are not. Shrieks pierce the quiet, damp air as All Hallows’ Eve grows nearer. The sharp cries get closer. Under your windows and outside your doors. The howls are not wolves. Their screams and growls belong to something else, something dark, something laced with malice and hunger. The veil thins and they creep closer, starving, screeching, scratching. It takes only minutes the next morning to find who is missing. Young children, old women, the local bartender. All gone to the hills to fill the air with their own wails. They are mourned by never searched for. They will not be found. The howls do not come from wolves. They come from somewhere the living can not, and dare not, go.