Author: Fall Writing Contest 2018

This bruise-eyed boy hauling a box, heavy as the world. Straining under snickering rain and cratered sky. Stop. Old man breath. Feels like the thousandth time he’s walked this route, the first time he’s felt this way. Adrenalin like rumbles of thunder all through him.

The morning winds rush down the hill behind Tim, catching the sound of wood on concrete, so it reaches along the concrete path under the line of birch trees, the path brings it through the gates into the playground, where it reaches the ears of waiting chattering children, who turn and see Tim, see the weight of the box, see the scribbled warnings Privet, Danjrus, Dont touch, and come circling in towards him. They all clamour to see what’s inside. They plead. They cajole. They bribe with offers of friendship and parties. Their words tinkle and crash around him like shattered glass. Theo says “Show me.” In this little corner of the universe, nobody says no to Theo McKenzie. But Tim does, and time stops for a moment.

As the reader is most definitely aware, small rural towns love their monster stories. In the town of Hogan, there had only ever been one.

The monster, which came to be known as the Hogan Pine, was a tree. The story, as most people tell it, goes that in centuries past the tree would lure travelers into its forest (by night, naturally). They would catch a sudden, deep aroma of pine and become absolutely helpless in resisting its pull — everyone loves the smell of pine. Then, if they hadn’t been alone, they’d be found the next morning — or on a different, more distant morning — lying dead at the base of the tree, body covered in its needles.