‘The Caged Bird Sings in a Darkness of Its Own Creation’ by Richard Thomas

In the northernmost reaches of the Silverpine Forest, past the lumber mill, east of the abandoned mine, just this side of Devil’s Gorge, there is a hut. It’s nothing special, really, scraps of wood and sheet metal held together with rumour and rusty nails, a roof made out of old billboards, a hint of a cereal ad peeking through, and a splash of red — a faded logo barely visible. 

How is it still standing after all this time? That can be debated. 

Perhaps it was built in the shadow of a huge oak tree that shades the structure, protecting it, the occasional acorns raining down on the wood and metal roof creating a ripple of percussion in the otherwise quiet forest. Maybe it’s the animal fat that is slathered over the frame: the sinew wrapped around one board after another, dried creating a bond that might be cemented even further tomorrow or the next day.

Or it might be something else entirely — an illusion, some sort of glimmer of technology rippling under the building, a line of gold running through the tiny house, as if a motherboard had been pressed into the rotting wood, a surge of electricity running over it all then fading as the sun pushes through the dense foliage. Whatever is happening here, the old man standing in the doorway holds a flickering presence, daunting in the shadow and void he creates but vulnerable in his sickly thin appearance, an old flannel shirt barely covering his pale flesh and bony arms, dirty jeans leading down to black boots that are grotesquely oversized, the only bit of joy his shockingly bright hair in a rainbow of colours, as well as a red bulbous nose.