Macabress Manuscripts

Inaccessable Academia

Look, I’m not trying to get published in an acedmic journal with most of my work, so I think I am allowed to say this: Analytical writing is absolutely one of the most difficult things and most of the time I hate it.

Yeah I’ll joke as a writer about the fact that sometimes the curtians are blue just becuase I was starign at a blue wall when I was writing a scene. Or how most of the time I’m not looking to make a statement about socio-economic anything when I’m writing, and that the demon is literally a demon and isn’t a stand in for homphobia or societal expectations.

But you know what? Sometimes it IS a stand-in. Even if I didn’t set out to make it that way. So, I thought it might be fun to share a paper from grad school to show the kind of work that goes into a final project. I swear I got like an A or a B on this, and I don’t ABSOLUTELY hate it.

If reading about Indigenous American diaspora (from someone who will acknowledge right away that they are not indigenous, and lives on land that is part of the traditional homelands of the Anishinaabe, or the Council of the Three Fires: the Ojibwe, Odawa, and Potawatomi Nations) feel free to skip the paper after the page break.

I swear, I’ll share some short fantasy tinged writing soon!

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Rejection Sensitive Dysphoria and Being an Artist

So writers block, ain’t that a bitch? And don’t I REALLY wish that’s all that was affecting me.

I spent 10 weeks in intensive outpatient therapy this year, thanks to my reason for staying in the corporate hellscape that is my job (we love insurance and a livable wage yo). While it was great for me in terms of getting my head back on right, it’s been DIFFICULT to get back into a routine of writing along with the insurance providing hellscape.

But, I’ve started to settle back into something like a routine, especially since the classes I’m in for grad school are a little less intensive at the moment. In fact, I’m only in one at the moment thanks to having to take certain things consecutively. Which is great because it means I’ll be able to devote the extra hours that I’d be spending on class work to starting submissions to literary magazines and potentially agents!

Which also means that one of the more difficult parts of being a person with ADHD is rearing its ugly head: Rejection Sensitive Dysphoria, or RSD. I’m not a doctor, and Web MD feels like medical Wikipedia so your milage may vary. To put it most simply: ADHD often causes really big feelings, and when it comes to trying to do things to be told no can sometimes feel absolutely crippling and devastating. Even if it’s inherent in what you’re doing. Like asking a person on a date, or applying for a new job.

Or submitting your work to an agent or editor when you’re seeking representation or publication.

See the problem here? The Irony is DRAMATIC ya’ll.

But, having gotten my first few rejections on a story already, I’m handling it WAY better than I would have before the extended stay in mental health daycare. And in the fact that I am still regularly seeing a therapist and can work through ways to keep balance of the negatives and difficult parts of the gig that no amount of graduate school and writer groups can REALLY make you more comfortable with.

I’m not a mental health expert or a therapist, so like take anything I say with a grain of salt. BUT a little list of things that I’ve been working on to combat the ICK.

Drink water and take your meds
- Unless you’re also impacted by the ups and downs of the supply of certain ADHD meds. Because you can only do so much.
Get in the sun if you can. We’re basically two legged plants.
Be nice to yourself.
- NICE DOES NOT MEAN OVERLY POSITIVE. If you can’t get to positive, neutrality is just as powerful.
  - I submitted a piece which was hard, and I can be proud of doing that. That sorta thing.
Talk to people that make you feel good and validated.
- Even if they aren’t also writers or creatives. Even if you would NEVER let them read what you’ve written. Even the anti-social writer is at their core a human and we’re built for community and being around others.
Take breaks.
- Look, simultaneous submissions are GREAT. But, spacing out and only submitting a story to like one or two places, or waiting until a few weeks into the wait of a query to an agent to send another one may be better.
  - Like, being told no 5 times in three days would be hard for anyone. Plus, if you get personalized feedback, you can take it into consideration and make changes before sending things out again.
THE BIGGEST ONE FOR ME: It isn’t personal, even if that piece was.
- Editors and agents are not out to make you feel bad, or be cruel and unkind to you in general. Hell, they likely don’t even KNOW you beyond your bio that you gave them.
  - It is WAY easier said than done, but you can’t take a rejection of a piece as a rejection of you as a person or a writer. Or painter. Or actor. Or whatever you are.

Spring

She felt her heartbeat slow as she watched the ice begin to melt outside of the walls of her husband’s home. The warming temperatures were always the first sign that soon, her mother would come to collect her. She turned away quickly, as if no longer looking would make it untrue. But she knew full well just how particular her mother was about time.
The great stone halls echoed with her footsteps, mocking her like the ticking of a giant clock. She often took to being barefoot in the halls to avoid the rhythmic slapping, and wished she was this day. At least in the bedroom, the plush carpets absorbed the sound. She sat in front of her vanity and closed her eyes tightly as she faced the mirror. She knew what she looked like, and wanted to hold it inside instead.
Far from the sun and her mother’s fields, her skin lost its bronze glow. Now, she radiated the cool, pale mysteries of the moon and stars. The only color to her face now were her lips, smudged with precious purple as a reminder of the only Seeds she ever planted on her own. The crown she wore here was iron, the daisy chain circlet long since dried to dust. Here she was not a child. Here she was a queen.
She opened her eyes as she felt something brush her cheeks, but kept them downcast. She caught just a glimpse of the fingertips as they wiped away ears she had not even realized fell. The hands then settled on her shoulders as she looked up at her refection. Her husband stood behind her with his head tilted down, lips pressed against the top of her head, face obscured by her wild hair Neither had to speak. Centuries in to this agreement, they knew.
Spring had come. Soon she would be leaving home.

Solitude

The King and Queen had sent dozens, what felt like hundreds, of their knights to go and retrieve their daughter from the citadel where she was kept. None of them had prevailed, and a good portion of them had not come back at all. The ones that did were in one piece, but seemed to shake in terror even as the healers saw to their wounds. There was no hope, they would say, no use. Whatever curse had befallen their first born child, it was best they just forget about her entirely. The royals were young, some of them begged, they could manage another child. No one could fault them.
The royals balked at the very suggestion, refusing to see reason. They resorted instead to contracting the mercenary guild ands other hired blades. These sorts always asked for half up front, especially when confronted with stories of kingdom-trained men coming back with their tails tucked between their legs. Money was no object, the royals assured them. Their daughter back in their arms was worth every copper it would cost.

When the first three men didn’t show back up to the the headquarters, they weren’t all that surprised or upset. You always throw trainees at the problem first: a trial by fire and if you can’t hack it, you’re no great loss. When the first company man was gone a week beyond what was expected, they asked for more money. It should have been worrisome when it was given so easily, but the Guild master was too busy counting coins to see it. Instead of sending another brute, this time they sent one of their “item recovery” experts. This one could slink through shadows, move through traps. Sure he could stab as well, but if there was some truly horrendous monster, they were much more likely to be able to get out with the information.
It was a two day trip out to the abandoned settlement. The second day was a climb too steep for horses, so he paid to board it up at the inn. The last man’s steed wasn’t still there. A deserter than. More annoying than just dying, someone would have to be sent to hunt them down and enact the…Termination clause of their contract, so to speak. Wouldn’t be him though, so he didn’t linger on it for too long.
The tower in the center of the dilapidated ruins glinted as the golden-capped roof caught the rays of the morning sun. Pristine in its alabaster stone, the sole window at the highest point looked out over the rolling hills. Too high to toss a hook into, and as the man brushed his fingers against the stone they were disturbingly smooth. Not even mortar between them. It was like the whole thing had been carved from one impossible piece of stone and then the roof was dropped right on top. One of the wizards they contracted traced leylines in the area, said a pair of them converged under it. The weave was hyper-dense. Whatever that meant.
The single door was unlocked, the hinges not even creaking as it opened. As if it was maintained and oiled still. No puzzle, no oddities, and no claws or teeth. A twenty by twenty foot room, seemingly empty save for the stairs that wound around the perimeter, starting at the side opposite him. The way the reports had come from the kingdom, he assumed there would be some fire breathing bit, or a floor open immediately into a massive spike pit. Knights truly were turtles, he reasoned. Fleshy, vulnerable bellies under armored shells.
He shook his head and took a single step inside. The door behind him slammed and clicked closed. Locked. He didn’t even have to try to tug the handle, he just knew. That was much more like what he was expecting. The mercenary rolled his shoulders and took another step forward. A pressure plate of some kind, the cracks as thin as parchment that the fire jetted up from. He pulled his foot back, stamping out the flame from his boot.
Traps. Wonderful! This might just be a challenge after all.

By the time he could see the end to the staircase, he was practically crawling. Covered in slime, blood that was partially his own and partially something else’s it had been days. Weeks? With no clocks or any other way to keep track, he couldn’t be totally sure. The exhaustion seeping in to his bones was the only metric he had for time. When he stepped into the light from the windowsill, it felt warm on his skin. And not like the blaze from the dracolisk lower down.
“How did you get up here?”
A woman’s voice. The first sound other than a growl or a scream that he had heard since he first opened that damn door. He pulled himself to his feet, using the wall to help him stand and turn towards the sound. It took him a moment to focus on the slim, fair haired figure. The princess, if the paintings he had seen were to be believed. Three years older than the last one that was completed when she was sixteen, sure. The star-shaped birthmark below her left eye was unmistakable.
“You parents have sent me-”
“Sent you? Is that what all the noise has been?”
The scoff was…Not what he expected. He watched as the woman walked to the window and stared out it. In the bright light she was strikingly beautiful, seeming to glow with an inner radiance. Except for the snarl on her lips.
“Well, I am sending you back. Feel free to tell them so.”
“What-” Now it was his turn to growl like the beasts below he had cut down or fled from. “Look, they’re paying a pretty penny for your return. Curse broken or not.”
The laugh. It was more terrifying than any of the sounds of the tower so far. It seemed to echo down from the very base of it, hitting every wall on the way up.
“Curse broken.” She shook her head and clicked her tongue in a sort of scolding.” You seem to be mistaken, Sir. You see…”
The room grew icy cold as she turned back inward. The bright blew eyes grew dark, their whites disappearing in a sea of inky black.
“The tower isn’t here to keep me in. It’s to keep you out.”

School

The old schoolhouse was a relic of another time. Nature had begun to reclaim it, vines growing over the remnants of the walls and creeping up through the broken floorboards. The other buildings of the settlement had been fully lost in a fire along with three quarters of the people that had lived there. But, that was history: recorded, known, and impossibly boring.
The forest had long been a hot-spot for local for ghost hunters and “paranormal experts” from far and wide. So long as they cleaned up after themselves, and paid for all the necessary camping permits, the park rangers tended to leave the groups more or less alone. The Internet videos and blog posts made for free advertising, and with the latest round of budget cuts that was sorely needed. After the last camping season, they had been able to resurface the primary cycling path which kept the locals happy.
This particular group had one thing that none of the others that had come before them did: a descendant of one of the people from the settlement. It had taken a lot of leg work to get everything verified between local historians and microfilm from the library. But the girl seemed legit, and most importantly, willing enough. Their hope was that the presence of the bloodline would provoke a different response from the spirits. A few orbs and garbled readings on a spirit box didn’t get as many clicks when you weren’t one of the first five people to post them.
Once the sun went down, the paranormal team had started to set up their equipment in the ruins of the one room schoolhouse. Even before the last of the sensor were plugged in and turned on there was a definite electricity to the air like none of them had ever felt. This was going to be big. That or their generator was acting up….
The leader ran out to the van parked nearby to go and get the girl while the other four hunkered down behind the monitors and pulled on their headphones. They started to transfer the baseline readings onto notepads.
It was pretty routine as they waited. The microphones were picking up key words like “fire” and “run” just like they did in most every other recording. It was the voice of the schoolhouse’s teacher, from what most of the researchers could guess. The woman had managed to get all of her students out through the narrow windows, instructing them to run and hide behind the trees far away from the blaze. She saved nearly a dozen lives that day, sacrificing her life to do so. She was lauded as a hero, and the library in the nearby small town was even named after her.
When their leader returned with the girl, and they settled down there was a spike in the activity: A sudden chill, followed by unbearable heat and then…Every sensor dropped to a complete zero, and the voice stopped coming through the spirit box completely.
“Isabelle Sawyer.”
The masculine voice seemed to bounce back and echo off the half ruined walls and old trees. It was like nothing any of them had ever heard. The leader of the group gestured excitedly for the girl to continue.
“Isabelle Sawyer.” Louder, more insistent this time.
“Y-Yes.” The girl stood up from the camping chair, toying nervously with her hands. “That was my great great-”
“Blood of Sawyer, returned to this soil.”
“We want to speak with-”
“A promise a pact as was told. An entrance, an Exit. Blood returns to soil.”
“David, I did not sign up for this shit.”
“It’s fine just-”
Sulfur. The smell was immediate and overwhelming, strong enough to overpower the smell of wet forest and plant-life that had dominated before. The air around the six of them grew hot, and thick, causing the lot of them to choke and cough, grasping at their throats.
“The deed is done, the pact is sealed. The ashes rise anew.”

The local police and the forest rangers would say that a spark from a malfunctioning gas generator that claimed the equipment and the lives of the team, the corpses nearly unrecognizable. The one question they couldn’t answer, though, was how the walls of the schoolhouse stayed completely intact.

Raven

The large, black, bird was perched on one of the few empty cafe tables, picking at crumbs left behind from a pastry. It was the coolest it had been in weeks, so there were lots of people outside enjoying the weather before it turned again. Taking a break from the sweet snack, the bird tipped its head and cleaned one of its wings.
“Ugh, gross. Shoo Nasty Bird.”
The loud woman that waved her hand at the creature nearly struck it. Letting out an indignant squawk, it puffed up its chest and extended its wings. The edges of the wings struck her arms a she shielded herself, the bird flying to resettle amongst the bushes nearby. It stared at her; nearly through her.
“Got us a table Jessie!” She waved over to another woman who had been standing at the cafe door. “Had to chase off a gross pigeon.”
“Ugh those things have so many diseases.”
As if understanding the word, and disgust, the bird hopped up on the short decorative fence to get closer. It watched as they knocked the napkins and crumbs that had been left behind onto the floor, instead of the garbage can only a few steps away. Sparrows swarmed their feet, but they seemed not to be bothered by the tiny pests.
“Anyway what were you saying? Something about the new neighbors, right?”
“Oh my God yes.” The first woman groaned dramatically. “They’re installing this terrible looking white fence. They think I don’t know that those posts are too thick and go three quarters of an inch over the property line. Well, I had surveyors come out last weekend and…”
The women went back and forth, gossiping loudly enough that everyone around them would hear. Everything from chipping paint that they had reported to the HOA, to a basketball hoop that was put in way too close to the street, they had measured. It was any wonder the people around them didn’t just pack up and leave, since they seemed so determined to ruin the afternoon for everyone. They didn’t seem to notice the glares.
“And that woman with the horrible MONSTER of a garden, the one that goes over the fences. She started digging up the old evergreen bushes the last owners put in the front too.”
“What? Ugh, the Cul-de-sac is going to look like some tacky rain forest. Great. It wasn’t bad enough when she planted that blue-grass seed that clashes with like everything. I still can’t believe that it was listed as an approved option. Who knows what all those stupid names are. Wait. Isn’t there a bylaw about only native species being in shared community visible spaces?”
“Oh yeah! Gosh you’re so smart Jessie. I’ll just take pictures. There’s like…Some website that will identify things with an image search. Perfect.”

When she puled into the driveway and got out of the car, she tossed the to-go cup into the gutter before slamming the door. She was tapping on her phone, not bothering to look up as she walked the few steps to her front door. She let out an audible “ugh” when she bumped into something.
“Samantha. Hi. I hear you’re having some issues with my garden.”
Make that some ONE.
“Why don’t we have a little chat, hmm?”
In a flutter of feathers, a large black bird landed on the railing up to her front steps, wings spread as if to block anyone from walking up them. The beast let out a victorious caw as the Gossip’s lips curled into a snarl.

Music

He hated working the afternoons after the owner and her husband went to an estate sale. Belongings from the recently deceased gave the antique shop an even weirder feeling than it usually had. His manager called him superstitious and brushed him off; he called her reckless and rolled her eyes when her back was turned. But, He liked this job and didn’t want to look for another one so he never pushed.
“Pretty slim picking out there today. Looks like we might have to hit up that storage unit auction this weekend after all.”
He despised those for a different reason: the stuff always smelled like rot and mold, even if nothing was wet. He made a note to bring some air freshener to his next shift.
“You can just leave the boxes in the office. I’ll sort everything out tomorrow and get it ready for the floor.”
He waved them off, walking back behind the desk while they walked to the door. Wednesdays were always the quietest night of the week, so he could catch up on all the Admin work they had let get away from them like answering emails, and taking photos for the website. After making sure that the ringer on the phone was all the way up, his ear buds went in. Pop music often made the more tedious tasks go by faster.

The first time he heard it, he thought it was part of the fadeout between songs or maybe his headphones were losing their charge. The high-pitched plucking sound definitely didn’t sound like anything that was part of the song He was listening to. He paused the music, pulling out the ear buds and the noise grew louder almost immediately with nothing else to dampen it. No, no noise; music.
First stop was the curio cabinet where a few music boxes were housed. If you breathed on those things the wrong way they would start up. But no, the sound was more muted here than by the desk. It was like playing a terrible game of “Hot and Cold” as he walked the shop floor. Having checked all the usual suspects, he paused at the office door. Even though it was closed, the music seemed loudest directly in front of it.
The swelling of sound was immediate as he pushed the door open. However, nothing seemed out of the ordinary; nothing floating around the room or glowing, or anything like that. He did shuffle one of the heavier chairs in front of the door to make sure it stayed open before he went in. He stepped around the boxes the own had brought in, careful not to touch any of them. He grabbed his bag so he wouldn’t have to come back in before closing for the night, and turned to get his scarf up from the coat rack. Before he could leave, he noticed an instrument case sticking up from one of the boxes.
He knew he shouldn’t, but he slowly lifted the case out of the box. The whole thing trembled in his hands, like a reverberating string after being plucked or having a bow run across it. He set it gently on the desk and ran his fingers along the clasps. A deep breath, and he pushed them up with a “click” that was only just louder than the music and lifted it a crack. Even just that much, and the sound became deafening, causing him drop the lid back down. Clicking the clasps again closed, he backed slowly from the room and closed the door.
Perhaps some bleach, maybe some holy water, instead of air freshener….

Mushrooms

“Mushrooms, Hannah? The seventies called, they want their aesthetic back.”
The chorus of laughter from her friends made her pout as the plastic baggie still wiggled as it dangled from her outstretched fingers. She had her doubts as well. But the guy that sold them to her promised “the experience of a lifetime” and he had been so incredibly handsome. Err, convincing. He had been so very convincing.
“They’ve been used for like…Centuries by people all over the world. And that celebrity cult leader with the vagina candle or whatever sent people on a journey to eat some.” Hannah had no idea if these were the same kind, of course. Not to mention the forest preserve by the old railroad tracks wasn’t exactly a tropical beach. But, it got a few of the others to nod their heads and mutter about the “Gooey” lady.
“Besides, Greg. You were the one bitching about wanting to try something new. Or are you just chicken?” She crossed her arms and smirked victoriously at the chorus of of “oooh”s and chicken clucks.
“I’m not afraid of some stupid plants. Fine, we’ll eat your stupid mushrooms.”
Internally, Hannah cheered. Another night of shitty weed and she might have to consider finding something else to do with her Friday nights. Small towns like this made that hard unless she wanted to take up bowling or babysitting. The thought of either made her cringe as she walked over to the bonfire someone lit. The little fungi looked like something out of a cartoon: Perfectly rounded at the top, brown with little white sports.
“So what, you just east them?
“That’s what the guy said, yeah.” I mean, what else would you do with mushrooms? “All right, everyone step right up.”
She let the empty baggie fall onto the grass as the last person took one Everyone was hesitant, not wanting to be the first one. If they were poisoned, no person wanted to be the sacrificial lamb.
“Oh come on.” Hannah popped hers into her mouth while the others watched.
It was like eating dirt when you were a kid playing in the park, or what she imagined licking a tree must have tasted like. One of the bottles of booze someone had brought was passed over to her quickly, and she took a swig to get rid of the taste.
“How long’s it supposed to take?”
“No idea. He just said ‘you’ll know’. Whatever that means. Now come-on, Greg. Bottom’s up. Unless you’re still chicken.”

It took roughly ten minutes for them to learn what “you’ll know” meant. It was a warm, tingling sensation that started at the tips of the fingers before radiating out. It enveloped you quickly, leaving you knocked flat on your back and pinned like a dozen blankets were on your chest. Once the weight settled in, every other sensation was heightened beyond belief. The fire burned as bright as a small sun, if you could manage to keep your eyes open to see it. The areas unlit were writing masses of the deepest darkness imaginable, the trees one writing mass with no definition.
At one point, Hannah managed to look over and make eye contact with Greg. She tried to listen, or to read his lips, but the only sound she heard was a gut-wrenching scream, as he lost his ability to speak. The feeling of the grass against her skin had started out like the feeling of a lover’s fingers had begun to morph into razorblades slicing at every inch of exposed skin. It was all…Too much to feel. The others all lay heavy and useless around the fire, unable to do anything but write in the same excruciating way.
In the painful ecstasy, no one noticed the pair or glowing brown and white speckled eyes that peered out from the dark.

Class of 2025

In 2023, I took the leap and started a master’s program for creative writing, with the intention to get a Master of Fine Arts directly afterwards. As I’m coming to the close of my second semester, I wanted to take a pause and reflect on how it’s going.

Wait, MA and MFA?

Yes, you read that right, I’m looking to get both an MA and an MFA. An MFA is a terminating degree, and has a very specific focus on just the one topic. Odd as it may seem, I’m enjoying the fact that the MA program also involves English and literary theory classes. 2 of my 2 classes so far have focused on English and nor writing specifically, in the field of linguistics and literary theory specifically. And they’ve been tremendously helpful when I’m looking at my own writing.

Writing With a Day Job

The biggest importance to me was a program that I could take fully remotely on my own time, as I have a full time job that I can’t walk away from. As a single person living in a major US city, going from a full time job with benefits to part time with the hopes of publication isn’t possible. An MFA in general, especially as a “genre” writer instead of someone who works with literary fiction seemed even more impossible. But SNHU has MFAs that are online, limited resident, AND are very friendly to fantasy and non-literary fiction writers.

The biggest difficulty has been the time I would normally spend writing right now has been changed to instead be focused on school work. While that’s been painful, it’s also an exercise in planning for the future. The MA and eventual MFA are to allow me to be able to make a life involving writing, with publishing my own stuff and, in theory, teaching and working with other novelists to be/creatives. So it’s worth it.

Ugh We Hate a Plan

In life and in writing, I’m not the kind of person who plans for anything more than a few weeks ahead. If you sat in on my therapy sessions, you’d hear me blame it in part on growing up with suicidal ideation and the fact I didn’t think I’d live to see 21 let alone be in my 30s right now. But, in looking at the next two+ or so years, there are a few big things:

Finish the MA program (In theory, January of 2025)
Start and Finish the MFA program (with no break, completion is 2026ish)
Get an agent/publisher
Have a novel-length work published

Obviously the MFA is dependent on finishing the MA, and in theory the publishING is dependent on getting an agent/finding a publishER. My smaller goal right now is to share what the journey looks like as I work through the rest of things a little better. Academia as a queer genre writer can often be equally, if not even MORE, intimidating to publishing. If i can help people feel more comfortable with the journey, then I want to.

Moth

The webbing took over the forest outside of town overnight. It glimmered as if diamonds were caught up in the strange strands, covered in the dew of the early morning. It was as if some giant, ethereal, fisherman had cast their net across the whole of the trees while the village slept. The woodsmen had refused to go near the place, even with their axes and their hounds out of fear of whatever it could be, and the citizens of the town backed them up. When a crowd gathered outside of the barracks and started shouting, the Guard had no choice but to send a contingent out to investigate.
As they reached the tree line, they could see just how dense the webbing was; each strand as thick as a length of rope and as wide as a man’s hand from fingertip to wrist. The Capitan ignored the hesitant shifting of feet from the men and the grumbling of “shouldn’t we send word the Capital” and stepped froward, slicing at the nearest strand with his sword. It did not stick to the metal like he thought it might and made no noise as it fell to the ground. The man frowned as he bent down, picking up one of the hunks of whatever it was to give it a better look. Each piece was made of multiple thin strands, soft and light. Like silk. He wasn’t sure if that was better or worse than the spiderweb they had thought it might be.

By the time the noontime sun hung high above them, they felt as though they had been cutting a path for days. While the silken strands did not stick to them, they still took a tremendous amount of effort to cut into. In some areas, the strands formed walls of the stuff between trees, blocking their path entirely. Most disconcerting of all, they hadn’t seen a single animal out in the open the entire morning, the only sign of any life besides themselves being a deer they had cut out of a cocoon-like wrapping that had long suffocated before they got to it. If this was some great monster or mage, one of them had reasoned, there was nothing a handful of Guard members with minimal training could do. It was time for them to leave and send for some experts.
Naturally, the Capitan scoffed and denied this almost as soon as it was out in the open. He was confident that his men, the “Kingdom’s Finest”, could handle any sort of….wizard casting terraforming spells without Capital permits or a couple of large bugs. His men were far from certain, but were overjoyed when they at last came upon a clearing of trees large enough for them to be able to fan out. With a nod of permission, they all practically collapsed to the ground to take a rest, swigging down water and whatever rations they had on them. The men hadn’t prepared for more than an hour or two of work, half a day at best. Certainly with seeing just how little progress they had made, they would be allowed to go home soon. Right?
Judging by the order to get up and carry on only twenty minutes later, they assumed very incorrectly. With a series of groans, they followed orders and pressed further onward.

The sky was almost black before the Capitan finally agreed to let them turn back around. They had nothing to show for the day but aching limbs. The source of whatever magic had coated the forest was either long gone or too well hidden for them to find. Weary and beaten by the day, they traveled back along the path they had carved, glad that the silken webbing had not grown back.
Suddenly, their light sources flickered, like someone waving their hands in front of torch flames. Guided mostly by the moon, they could only assume their bad fortune had turned worse and now there were clouds. One of the men looked up, stopping dead in his tracks. Before he could open his mouth to speak, there was a rush of wind A pair of segmented wings formed a silhouette against the full moon. They flapped again and again which caused the breeze. Whatever it was, it was huge and growing closer.
The guards broke rank and began to sprint, climbing over one another on the narrow path to do whatever they could to be the first out of the trees. None of them stopped to turn around until they could safely see all the sky and stars above them The large fuzzy insect settled delicately on the canopy of the trees, wing to wing covering all of the green.
Perhaps, the Capitan finally reasoned, a letter to the Capital was best.