The Rabbits of Bristleback Flat

The early pioneering North American settlement called Bristleback Flat was founded by a man whom the stories from that time called Bristleback Mac. His Christian name, according to the lone church document, was John. The stories say he was called Bristleback Mac due to the wild wolf-like pelt that grew thick on his back and the way his words, though he rarely spoke, would snarl from his throat. They say the man could have been kin to Remus or Romulus, given the family’s canine resemblance and his general ornery disposition. His mother is said to have been of long snout and pointed ears. It is believed his father, a man whose face was all beard, died in the war against British tyranny. There are no photographs of John to confirm his appearance and air, but such significant myth and folklore does not depend on such tangible evidence. However, this narrative does not revolve around John, but rather the transformation of the settlement that bore his name, and the adventures of the two boys and one girl who inadvertently unraveled the hidden nature of Bristleback Flat.

This was the first Devil’s Night Thomas and Philip of Bristleback Flat had celebrated. Having been boys for thirteen years now, they were used to costumes and treats and pretending to be ghosts on Halloween. Knocking on doors for sweets, going on hay rides, and telling spooky stories by campfire are more than footnotes in the anthology of boyhood. They are the very timbre of the instrument of adolescence. How to celebrate the night set aside for the Prince of Darkness himself, well, that was nearly a mystery, an unknown opus. All the boys knew about Devil’s Night was that they were supposed to cause havoc. That’s what the boys before them did. That is what they would do. What better way to ignite the spirit of chaos than to rouse it in the woods that surround their town? The unknown is, after all, the origin of bedlam, and the things most unknown creep beyond borders and live in the shadows.

Thomas and Philip awoke before the sun spoke as they do every day and scuttled out of their caretaker, Pastor Faber’s modest house. Only this time, they met in secret at the town’s water well. The two naughty creatures met grin to grin. Thomas spat down the well and listened for a splat that would not come. Philip glanced left and right, scanning the long wheat field in which the well sat, cracking his knuckles and checking once more for any other soul.

“Tonight’s the night, ain’t it?” Philip said as he lowered his head and shifted his eyes up and down, asking a question to which he very much knew the answer.

“Sure is. And I have a plan,” Thomas, who had propped himself against the mouth of the well, said with a hint of secrecy. “Little George and them are having a sleepover at Mr. Smith’s barn after the dance. Let’s pretend to be specters and give them a spook that’ll stop their hearts from beating,” Thomas laughed, “we’ll be ghouls or goblins or some such.”

“We do that all the time.” Philip shook his head and spat down the well, mimicking his brother-in-mischief. “This one’s got to be big. This one’s got to have all of Bristleback talking and worrying and carrying on. It’s got to be a hell of a big prank.”

The hills were covered in low-hanging clouds and pocked with barren soil where the grass had been chewed by ruminant animals. Somewhere beyond the hills, a discordant bell was heard. Its dysrhythmic clang became louder and closer as Thomas and Phillip scratched their heads and fiddled with their coverall suspenders.

“Steal pies from Mr. McLaney’s shop, then. When he ain’t looking.” Thomas clapped, and the sound bounced down the well. “And we can blame it on one of the girls. We can toss the pies at folks from up on top of the church.”

“No, no, no.” Philip’s face distorted.

“And why the hell not?” Thomas asked with a furrowed brow.

“You’re mighty sure of yourself, aren’t you? Think about it. Ask yourself,” Philip holds his coverall straps confidently, “is Mr. McLaney’s open at night, especially Devil’s Night? Of course not. And what’s the good of throwing pies from church when there ain’t gonna be nobody coming to or from the church at night? Get to thinking about how easy it is to be caught stealing pies. We would have to smash the door down. You think he’s going to be alright with that? That sound like it’ll sit well with Mr. McLaney? Say we do steal the pies and don’t wind up getting caught. We throw the pies at travelers and no one says, gee, where’d those boys get them pies? No, they would swing two incidences like us from the gallows in a snap.”

Defeated, Thomas plopped down and began to pluck blades of grass. “To heck with it, then. Who says we have to do anything?” The clanking bell drew nearer.

“You’re just sour you don’t have any good ideas,” Phillip proclaimed as he stood above Thomas.

“I ain’t.” Thomas found a pebble to chuck, hitting the approaching cow responsible for the eerie bell. The poor beast let out a pitiful moo and lowered its head to eat the grass. “I didn’t mean to hit you, Bessie, you good old girl. That’s gotta smart.”

“I’ve got the best idea of any idea that’s been had,” Philip hollered, crossing his arms and making himself taller, ignoring Thomas’ animal empathy. Thomas squinted in the rising sun and waited for Philip to expound. “Get this, you know the bluffs near the road? There’s a caravan coming through tonight. Heard Mr. Smith telling Miss Nancy to get supplies ready and beds made. It’s mostly old biddies whose husbands died. Indians ransacked the village east of here. You know what we can do?” Philip did not wait for Thomas to answer. “We can spook them as they come through. We will be set up there behind the trees whooping and hollering and throwing pine cones and rocks and such. They’ll be mad as hops, but ain’t no one’ll know it’s us because we won’t have to steal nothing and we will be hidden behind the trees. What do you think about that?”

“No, no way,” Thomas says as he shakes his head. “We’ll be found out, and -,”

“And what?” Philip interrupts.

Thomas lowers his voice to a hushed whisper. “And we might hurt somebody. It’s different than throwing pies from a rooftop. What if we frighten a horse and cause it to buck? Horses hate spooks. Someone could get thrown. Break a leg or something.”

“Chicken,” Phillip says, recrossing his arms. Thomas stands and prepares a retort. “Pussycat. Yellow,” Philip says, taking a step toward Thomas.

“Yellow? Alright, to hell with getting caught, then. How about getting eaten? There are wolves out there! Everybody’s been talking about them. A whole pack of wolves. They’ve been eating cows.” Bessie, the heifer, raises her head from her feast and regards the boys with her enormous, dark eyes. “I guess you don’t mind getting ravaged at all, not a lick, huh Philip?” Bessie lowers her head and continues her breakfast.

“Yeah, yeah, when’s the last time you heard of a wolf eating a fella? Do we look like livestock? No offense to Miss Bessie,” Philip chuckles. Just then, Thomas catches some movement in the distance. A bell in the shape of a person disappears and reemerges again and again as the fog plays its tricks.

“Wendy’s coming,” Thomas announces, quickly standing. He brushes the dirt from his pants, adjusts his shirt, and licks his hand to fix his hair.

“Don’t say nothing,” Philip commands as Bessie the cow saunters off, her cowbell clanking along.

“What are you fellas getting into?” Wendy McAllister, who according to Thomas’ innermost secrets is the most dashing creature in the world, much less Bristleback Flat, confidently draws herself closer to the boys. “And don’t say nothing. You look mighty suspicious.”

“Nothing. Spitting. Catching frogs and throwing them down the well,” Philip says in rapid succession.

“Prove it,” Wendy demands with her fists upon her hips. Philip gestures as though Wendy is wasting his time.

With a toss of her curls, Wendy casts a spell on Thomas who wastes no time spilling the beans. Philip becomes red with ire and fusses with Thomas saying now Wendy must go with them on their vicious errand, lest she tell on them.

“I don’t think I will,” the young lady says, once again tossing her curls to which Philip responds curtly, stating she will so go with them as it will keep her blabbering mouth shut. And if she doesn’t tag along, he will tell, saying it was all her idea. He would rather have no girls in sight on Devil’s Night, but Thomas has left him no other choice.

“Fine, I’ll go along as you have said, but only to make sure you don’t do anything stupid.”

Seeing the perfect opportunity to cause more strife for the traitor, Philip raises his finger as though he has a swell new idea. “Thomas said he isn’t doing the prank anyway. Guess it’ll be me and you,” Phillip says to Wendy through a series of feigned huffs and puffs, “Thomas being a chicken and all.” Philip begins to cluck and jerk his head forward and backward.

“What? No, I never said that. You’re twisting my words,” Thomas says with his proud bird chest, “I’m going and I’ll be the first to throw a rock, the biggest rock anyone can find.”

The three would-be terrorists spend the next moments planning and scheming their Devil’s Night tricks.

***

In the shadows of Bristleback Flat, the men know of a lurking presence, one that moves only when they do not look. They know that when a blister on your hand bursts, you don’t tell your wife. They know that their knees are sorer from prayer than from work. They know that cheap whiskey makes you feel good right now and bad later. They do not know what good whiskey makes you do.

The women of Bristleback Flat know that what their husbands do to them at night might bring life or it might bring death. They know the circles they make with other women cannot be broken. They know how to understand the patterns and signs in the wind and dirt. They know that God has a purpose for them. They do not know what that purpose is.

Being born on bare floors with cold cadavers as mothers to comfort them, and being the bastard sons of a vagabond thief and an old, dying man, the fates of Thomas and Philip were written in blood; the boys are destined to bear the weight of their lineage. They are the wards of an unwilling state. They were born to labor and to serve God until they die, their eventual unmarked graves a testament to their insignificant and short lives.

Spite and malice unfold in spades in the dispositions of the ill-born for whom there are no pillows or yielding hands or thoughtful words. But for Thomas and Philip, Devil’s Night is not about avenging God for their circumstances. For Thomas and Philip, tossing rocks at a caravan from the high point above the town road is the nature of their age, the calling for which there is one answer.

***

The moment had arrived, and with Devil's Night lurking over the residents of Bristleback Flat, anticipation hung heavy in the air as they awaited the arrival of a weary caravan filled with defeated women, children, and old men. Thomas, Philip, and Wendy move stealthily through the woods, collecting an arsenal of projectiles.

Wendy, struggling to prevent her dress from snagging on thorny vines, inquires in a hushed tone, "How much farther to our spot?" Philip silences her with a stern look, his irritation palpable even in the dimly lit shadows.

“Why do we have to whisper? There’s not a soul for miles,” Thomas says, and his heart rises to peek out from his throat.

“It ain’t miles and we don’t know if anyone else is out here. So, she’s gonna hush like I say, and so are you.” Philip finds an oversized pinecone and drops it in his sack with a sneer.

Fearing the heat on his face may be from a severe blush of embarrassment, Thomas denies his urge to look at Wendy and gauge her reaction.

With bags full of bombs of all sorts of shapes, sizes, and materials, Philip leads Wendy and Thomas to the high point in the woods.

Here they are now, Philip, Thomas, and Wendy perched upon the tallest hill, concealed by pine trees and the darkness of Devil’s Night. It’s a dark so dense even the stars seem to have been extinguished.

Below the three hooligans, a dirt road stretches on until it reaches Bristleback Flat. Thomas is the first to see the caravan trudging along. Shoving past Wendy and bumping Thomas from his vantage point, Philip crouches and puts a dirty finger to his lips. After a few moments of anticipation, the figures making up the caravan become clearer to Thomas.

There is a man in worn trousers and a loose-fitting shirt, clutching his hat against his chest as he limps along, his feet bare. Beside him sitting on an open carriage drawn by two black horses is a fat woman leaning wearily with the back of her hand to her forehead. Are they gray horses? It’s difficult to tell in these shadows. The woman’s belly is enormous, yet her limbs are frail and delicate. She isn’t fat, she’s pregnant. Trailing the carriage is a boy carrying a rifle longer as than he is tall, while a multitude of injured and sickly individuals bring up the rear.

Thomas juggles an apple-sized rock between his hands and squints to see clearly in the moonlight. Philip picks a hefty pine cone from his sack and crouches, motioning for Wendy to do the same before holding up five fingers and beginning his countdown.

Five fingers… four fingers… three fingers… two…

With a startling eruption, Philip releases a bombastic holler that echoes throughout the bluffs, spooking the gray horses and mystifying the people in the caravan. He rears back to prepare the pinecone to launch when suddenly, Thomas hurls his apple-sized rock at Philip, hitting him in the arm and causing his pinecone to travel in an unintended arch.

“Hey, what’s the big idea!” Philip’s words echo as his holler did moments ago, further befuddling the folks below.

The pinecone’s new trajectory leads it to land squarely at the tip of one of the spooked horses’ noses. Wendy and Thomas look on in horror as the fearful beasts buck and kick, jarring the carriage to and fro, side to side. The caravan’s guard boy tosses his rifle aside and joins the barefooted old man in his attempt to soothe the terrified animals. Phillip, being preoccupied with scolding Thomas, does not witness the drama unfold below.

In a flash, all is quiet, astonishingly quiet. Thomas, having kept his eyes on the incident, points a shaking finger towards the road. Wendy and Philip scamper to the edge to get a better look. As their eyes adjust to the darkness and the distance, another quiet moment suggests the next moment bears the terrible unknown.

As the unfolding events below come into focus, a horrid moan breaks the silence. The thin, loathsome sound of the sick old man provides the soundscape for this horror scene. The boy now lights a lantern and its halo illuminates the grotesque. The pregnant woman has been flung from the wrecked carriage, her blood staining the soil below. A dozen fellow caravanners have gathered around the lifeless woman and their cries join the old man’s lamentation in naked sorrow. The flickering flame elongates and shortens the shadows of the bereaved in rapid succession.

“What have you done?” Wendy inquires with a tremor in her voice.

“What have I done? Tom throwed a rock at me and made me miss. I was only aiming for the ground. I swear!” Philip’s voice quivers. Thomas shakes his head vehemently.

“You-you shouldn't have done that,” Thomas studders. With their attention spread among the chaos below and the pointing fingers in front of them, the three children have failed to sense a new presence in their midst.

A new light shines from behind the quarreling kids.

“Murder.” A single word terminates the conflict. Shocked, Wendy, Thomas, and Philip turn to witness Mr. Smith with a lantern held high, exaggerating the shadows on his face.

***

It is past midnight. Thomas and Philip find themselves inside a jail cell with their backs to cold, unforgiving iron bars. Five sets of predatory eyes size them up. A sixth man urinates in a corner on the straw floor. Thomas’ knees give out and he plops down hard. With a glance containing fleeting agency and something resembling strength, Philip tells Thomas not to do it. Do not cry. Not here and not now.

The tears come thin at first and then gush from Thomas’ eyes. His voice catches on the edges of his erratic breaths. Philip bends over and places a hand on Thomas and in mere seconds Philip’s gossamer shield is dismantled by sneers and profanity from the six derelict and obscene men.

“They gonna hang you. You killed that lady and her baby,” the urinating man says as he turns toward the boys, tucking away his member and wiping his hands on his trousers. The other inmates laugh and encourage the man.

Through the lone barred window to the cell, Philip notices a dancing light, likely from an approaching lantern. With it come a multitude of voices, harsh and condemning. Philip cups his ears in an attempt to shut out Thomas’ tormented cries and the ire of the baying mob just beyond the jail wall. The men amplify their obscenities and repeat their accusations of murder and the grim punishment soon to follow.

Overwhelmed, Philip falls to his knees and battles the scream that demands to be released from his chest.

***

The night ebbs with no comfort or kindness. The hostile voices from beyond the walls dwindle as the hour grows. Fearing further insults and intimidation from the convicted, Philip and Thomas stay on either end of the cell until morning comes.

In the wee hours of the morning, Philip and Thomas find themselves shackled at the wrists and ankles while lurching along in line with the brutes from jail.

“To where are they marching us?” Thomas asks, fearing the answer. Philip screws up his eyes and shakes his head, indicating that it is best not to draw attention.

“To the gallows, of course!” A gruff voice says from behind. The boys turn to find an absurd creature of a man with no hair save a long, wiry bit sprouting from the back of his head and with dark sweat circles beneath his arms. Thomas trips over his irons and falls, causing a great commotion among the other prisoners. Philip tries in vain to help Thomas to his feet when a uniformed deputy smacks Philip on the head and yanks Thomas upright.

“I won’t tolerate your cavorting and causing a ruckus. What’s the idea?” The deputy growls, his grip firm as he shakes Thomas.

“I don’t want to die!” Thomas squeals, his voice laden with panic. A thunderclap of laughter comes from the inmates who have all stopped marching to witness the drama. The deputy immediately scolds the criminals and sends them back to walk in a formation.

“You ain’t gonna die,” the deputy walks hip to hip with Thomas, “not today, that is.” A look of concern and confusion gets on Philip’s face and is mirrored by Thomas. “Oh,” the deputy seizes the moment to torment the boys, “you haven’t heard. That’s clear to me now. No, you won’t be swinging today. The lady you tried to murder lived, by the grace of God. That unfortunate soul. You see,” the deputy scratches his sandpaper chin, “she was with child and that child did not survive.” The deputy spits a stream of chewing tobacco to the ground. “You will spend the rest of your days working off your debt and the rest of your nights in a jail cell with these animals.” The deputy gestures to the many salivating and wild-eyed prisoners walking with them. “That is, if you acknowledge the corn. Try not confessing, and, well-” The deputy drags his finger across his throat.

Leaning in, the deputy puts his hand on the back of Thomas’ neck. The smacking of the rancid tobacco mixed with his halitosis causes Thomas to shudder. “Today, you little son of a bitch, today you and your little fiend of an accomplice are joining the big boys to round up all the wolves of the woods and shoot them dead in the head. Dead in the head. For your sake, you bastard, you son of a bitch, you better pray to God me and the other deputies don’t get distracted. One of the big boys here might mistake you for a wolf. Ain’t that right, Sammy?” The deputy smiles at the absurd man, who nods maniacally, licking his lips and shaking his shackles.

***

Walking to the woods seems to take hours, marked by thirst, hunger, and raw pain settling in the boys’ bones. No relief comes as they approach the tree line, for Thomas and Philip know that beyond the threshold is no refuge, but a grizzly task forced upon the damned by unforgiving monsters.

As the boys, the group of thieves, and the menacing deputies cross the tree line, the morning light is all but blotted out. A profuse canopy of branches and vines darkens all that is around them, and with the light, so goes the murmuring of the men.

Several moments pass before Thomas and Philip’s eyes adjust when suddenly a torch is ignited – whoosh – followed by a handful more torches here and there. The boys shield their eyes before being reprimanded in the heat of the flames.

“Heads up, heads up!” The deputy snarls and the boys quicken. Another deputy begins to hand out sharp objects of many shapes and sizes from a burlap bag. Spears, farming tools, knives, and shears are divvied out. Thomas is given a knife. Philip is handed a hatchet.

“Don’t get any ideas,” the deputy says as he lifts his shirt to reveal a pistol. “You might stick me, I know you want to, but you won’t get far. You’ll be too heavy with led to make a run for it.” The deputy does not wait for the boys to respond. He motions for them and the few prisoners near them to follow his lead as they search the wolf traps and look for tracks that will lead to the wolves not yet ensnared.

As the group ventures deeper into the woods, the silence of the forest surrounds them, broken only by the crackling of torches and the rustling of leaves underfoot. Thomas, now armed with a deadly tool, tries to focus on his task of finding wolf traps and tracks, but his mind is weighed down by the gravity of their situation and the guilt he feels for involving Wendy. Unable to reconcile his wickedness with Wendy’s innocence, Thomas speaks up.

“What’s to become of the girl?” Thomas’ inquiry is followed by a swift smack on the mouth and the command to be silent lest he wants to become wolf bait. Philip nudges Thomas, pleading with him to keep a low profile.

Coming up to one of the traps, Thomas, knife in hand is sent to inspect it. Indeed, to his horror, a young wolf had been caught and had been there suffering for some time before succumbing to its wounds. The scent of death caused Thomas to wretch, dropping the knife.

There beside the dead beast are two wounded rabbits. Were these poor creatures set to be a meal for the wolf pack? How they suffer, paralyzed and bloody. Thomas finds his knife beneath the tall forest grass. Trembling, he raises the weapon, deciding whether or not to end the rabbits’ pain with a heavy and swift drop of the blade.

No. Thomas will not take the rabbits’ lives. Instead, he delicately secures the frightened creatures between his belly and his tucked-in shirt.

Philip and the deputy arrive on the scene just as Thomas finishes securing the dying rabbits.

“That’s a dead bitch!” the deputy says as he kicks the wolf.

As they trudge on further into the woods, the deputies keep a watchful eye on the prisoners, their fingers never straying far from their weapons. Thomas and Philip are well aware that any misstep could be their last. The forest seems to close in around them, its foreboding presence amplifying their despair. The tiny concealed rabbits move slightly and Thomas pets them over his shirt, his knife heavy in his hand.

“She’s being kept in the pillory.” The breath from the deputy caused Thomas’ insides to turn. “You asked what will become of the girl. Oh, they are having a jolly time with her. She murdered that poor woman’s baby and justice must be served. She can’t be allowed to have a child of her own. Wouldn’t be right.” The deputy halts and raises his torch between him and Thomas, wearing a pitiful face. “Torture and humiliation is a woman’s way to go. Can’t have her hands covered in wolf blood with you lot.”

Enraged, Thomas tears the torch from the deputy’s hand and tosses it at the base of a tree that ignites instantaneously. Chaos erupts amongst the criminals as the fire leaps from tree to tree ripping along at a dazzling speed. Soon, the fire blazes the very ground on which they stand. The criminals run amuck and begin to slaughter any living thing they can get in their wretched hands, every fleeing animal succumbs to their lunatic wrath. Squirrels, hogs, foxes, rabbits, and even wolves run from the former security of their dark places and onto the blades and spits of madmen. Ravenous and unhinged, the criminals rip with sharp teeth the flesh from charred yet living animals and uniformed deputies alike.

Thomas, paralyzed with shock, witnesses the absurd man named Sammy who had berated them earlier wrap his slimy hands around Philip’s neck and drag the doomed boy to the ground. All Thomas hears is the roar of flames and the chilling resonance of human and animal squealing.

Thomas looks at his feet in a futile attempt to tell them to move and to rescue his friend, whom he can no longer see from the smoke and flames that cover everything. What lingers in his gaze is not only stubborn feet, but his right hand holding the knife now covered in blood and bits of sinew. Before him lying on the ground is the deputy, hands on his stomach, the source of much-spewing blood. The deputy, releasing his death rattle, succumbs to his injury and gives up the ghost.

With lungs full of smoke and a head full of horror, Thomas falls to the blackened forest floor as darkness envelopes him.

***

“Here, have a drink of water,” Wendy wets Thomas’ lips from a wine bladder. Bewildered and fevered, Thomas sits up in bed with a start. He inspects his right hand, the evil appendage, for the blood he saw before, proof of his savagery. Despite seeing no trace of red, he uses his left hand to scrub the offending limb vigorously.

“They killed everything! By God, they’re cannibals and demons! They killed and burned up everything!” Thomas thrashes about, his exclamations bring him into a coughing fit.

Wendy attempts to calm Thomas by petting and stroking him along his neck. Thomas, blind with anger and confusion, only takes a superficial notice of Wendy.

Slowly emerging into the reality around him, Thomas says, “You were sent to the pillory. The man said you were there as punishment for what happened to that poor woman’s baby, and Philip and I were to kill the wolves with those evil men as our punishment. But, oh Wendy, they killed not only all the wolves, but everything else, and the whole forest was burned up in the fire. I did it.” Thomas, sick with hunger and delirium, begins another coughing fit, weeping and lurching on his bed. “I think I killed someone!”

Wendy attempts to calm Thomas with a shoosh followed by the sweetest lullaby. As she dips a rag into a bucket of well water, she says with a voice that Thomas loves that she is not in trouble and neither is he. “Everything is exactly how you wanted it.”

“But, how can it be?” Thomas ceases his weeping and thrashing about to finally take a real look at Wendy. “Your eyes.” A new red compromised of capillaries is circumambient of Wendy’s baby blue irises. Thomas catches his mild reflection in the glassiness of her eyes and brings his hands to his face, running his fingers over his temples.

Wendy wears a coy smile revealing yellow top and bottom incisors that are far too long for any human. Thomas quickly averts his eyes as though he has caught sight of something he ought not to acknowledge. Wendy slows the pulse of her lullaby.

“Your, your hair.” Snapping back to reality, Thomas places his hand on Wendy’s delicate forehead and pets her. Two long, stiff ears erect once his hand reaches the nape of her neck.

Shocked, Thomas shoves Wendy, accusing her of being bewitched.

“Bewitched!” Wendy laughs. “Look around you,” the girl says with puffy cheeks. Thomas holds his breath as he surveys his surroundings. “As I said, everything is exactly how you wanted it.” The floor beneath his sickbed is no floor at all, but the black and charred remnants of the forest fire. Indeed, his nostrils are filled with the mildewy miasma of old ash and rot. He is not inside the security of a home or hospital or even a jail cell, but outside among many animal and human carcasses and burnt trees spattered with blood.

Wendy turns her back to Thomas. Her movement indicates she is retrieving something or perhaps putting something together. As she resumes her posture towards Thomas, she displays two rabbit skeletons, one dressed in boys' clothing and the other in a dress. Bits of meat and dried blood poke out from beneath the fabric.

Wendy lifts the well water bucket onto the cot. “Look.” The water settles, and in its murkiness, Thomas sees himself, red-eyed, long-eared, and lagomorphic.

“We have to leave. We have to go back to Bristleback Flat. Someone will know what to do. Pastor Faber can make us normal again,” Thomas attempts to rationalize his and Wendy’s animal appearance.

“Go back?” Wendy tilts her tender head and points to a makeshift sign nailed to a tree behind them:

WELCOME TO BRISLEBACK FLAT, HOME OF THE RABBITS, AND NO WOLVES is written in dried blood on a piece of charred pine.

***

Death is in the distance just beyond the tree line

until the tree line is on your acre.

We pray with laughter

and we worship by holding hands.

My god, we so pray and promise to not be human anymore!

*

But babes are not born with weapons like wolf pups are.

So, first, we were animals,

then, something more.

*

We build altars and defenses against our primal desires.

With blisters on our hands and lashes on our backs,

we atone for our animal flesh.

We etch a decree to wipe out wildness from our hearts.

My God, do we pray and wail!

*

We bow our heads to the infinite

and boldly orientate our hearts to the unknown with tools,

measurements,

and oracles.

Our vanity is rewarded with applause.

Our words are carried on God’s wind

beyond where our feet can take us

and outside the boundaries of our maps.

*

We awake in the morning beneath thick coats near blazing fires

yet remain cold and shivering

with souls that are breaths in the winter

and as fleeting as birdsongs.

*

And all of God’s rabbits ate a plentiful harvest

and thanked Him

while rumors of hungry men in the burnt forest were whispered against their pink ears.

***

Eric St. Pierre, a multifaceted New Orleans-based creative, weaves together his talents as an author, visual artist, and musician. With a focus on the intersection of the tangible and the transcendent, he delves into realms where the corporeal meets the ethereal, and where the essence of the human-animal converges with the divine. Eric’s writing and visual artistry have found homes in publications such as The Raffish literary magazine, The Emerald Coast Review, Running Wild Press, and the thought-provoking columns of The Independent News Weekly.