Schism

Original artwork by Kyle Newbridge

Samantha,

The quakes are dire now. At least biweekly, I cannot sleep. The forest is broken. Trees fall every night and every day—a quarter of the forest has been depleted. The leaves have fallen, whether brown or red or yellow or green. Mostly, the ground is comprised of rot; the leaves are wilting. The woods are decomposing, and mushrooms sprout everywhere, trying to hide them.

The city in the rainforest was evacuated. The warriors told me that the sand people did not make it. They were massacred by a monster, said it had eyes like black ink, hide like burnt, etched walls. They say it painted the desert with them. They say nothing could withstand its blows. They say it breathed like catacombs, its heart beat like undertakers’ soles. They say it cried.

I am afraid, Samantha.

I was unable to pack away any meat for winter. All the herds left. Every last one of them fled. Right off the edge. The warriors urge me to do the same.

I don’t want to leave this place, to look down past the clouds.

I am so sorry, Samantha,

Tomas Cohen