Z. E. Wayland

A farmer walked through his field, upon all the verdant green that rolled across the horizon line, content with its beauty. Until he saw a single weed that sprouted from the ground, a disgusting blight in an otherwise perfect field. So, he leaned down and tore it out. Its roots popped from the earth with the sound of torn fabric. All that remained of it was a barren spot on the ground where once it stood. Satisfied with his work, he continued his day tending to other pastures and slept soundly. But, then the very next day, two more weeds sprouted in that greenery. Furious, he knelt down and ripped away the weeds by the neck before scouring for more hiding from plain sight. He wielded a white jug of chemicals. Poured so lavishly that the scent of citrus choked the field, but he could no longer smell it. The farmer would only be reminded of it from the incessant itch along his ankles as he returned home for the night. Even more weeds grew by the next morning. The farmer balked, baffled, ...

If only there was an easier way to forget Carey Stratford. Before that night lit by pillars of light and flame, we had two presidents. One along the west coast, the other on the east, both picking apart the states like children bickering over a spider’s legs. They carved their ownership with drones and tanks and bullets and borders and threats of mutually assured destruction. As our station was loaded up with nuclear armaments, I joked there would be a West Dakota with the other security officers. A few laughed. Ms. Stratford did not. Her first name was disallowed ever since she quit; she cast her gun and tag back to the station. “I want everybody to know exactly where I stand,” she said as she rode the wave of resistance and pulled the tide behind her like horses about to stampede. Ms. Stratford was a disruptor, an organizer, somebody who would grab Eden’s flaming sword by the handle to open its gardens to the world once again. Ms. Stratford became a threat. Did she see God’s ever-bur...

Though the sight of these snow struck hills are beautiful, nobody could forget its danger. Nobody knows this more than the exiles. Banished to the edge of the maps, they flock in the night to survive. Brenna sits on a high perch tower with weapons nearby. An owl returns to its spot along the wooden tower’s low wall with a new piece of prey, an unfortunate mouse, between its claws. “Share?” She asks. The owl promptly ignores her. It is not her owl, after all.  “Odin doesn’t know you well enough for that, Brenna.” A second owl says as it perches next to her. It unfurls its wings, feathers transform to fingers, talons to feet, owl to Cyrene, the exiled druid among them. “Takes time for an animal o get used to you. Even if it is comfortable being around other people.” The two, and the owl, on the high perch keep their eyes watchful for dangers that stalk the night. Brenna, distracted, could not take her eyes off the village itself. If it could even be called a village.  “Why do we...

That little funeral sure was the bee’s knee’s, wasn’t it? Her body wasn’t brought to the park, but she wasn’t going to be buried under the playground. You came anyways. Lucky you. Didn’t have to see her body. Crushed, crashed right as she pulled out in front of the high school. Nobody saw it coming. You even laughed when they called you, told you she died. Absolutely impossible, you thought. After all, being a teenager came packaged with the feeling of immortality. You didn’t feel it here. You didn’t feel it the day you arrived and realized that her desk would be empty forever. Lucky you. You became the best trumpet player in the band. Sure showed those skills when you lined up with your other band members. The dirge didn’t fit the tone. It was a sad pop song from a movie. And she hated this song, but none of you have any time to practice something new. You all knew that and when the song ended, laughed about it. Not too loudly of course. Not while you were exchanging your trumpet for ...

Though the temple is fasting, the town is not. So, we drive down the mountain path, barely touching the gas pedal. Brother Monk, who has the privilege to live in the comfortable bedrooms, throws gravel with every turn. The pebbles sound like summer rain when they land in the forest below. It’s Little Monk that brought money and brought me, his western brother. He complains something to Brother Monk. Brother Monk makes a funny retort. They both laugh; I laugh because they laugh. When we reach the bottom, Little Monk shoves money into my hands. I reject, Little Monk offers again, and I accept, tucking the bills away before we arrive at the tourist area. They take a lot less pictures of us now that we’re not wearing our robes. Tourists chatter on about how “different the air is than in America” and how “nice it would be to be a monk.” I can’t stop to join their conversation and clear the jam of words in my throat. They would mistake me for a local. The three of us spread along a bar. It s...

Water froze atop the pavement overnight. Skaters filled the park with bodies gliding on its surface. There were no new neighbors. No new skaters wobbled with the children. And teenagers filled their time before winter bid nobody go outside. Robin walked in three pairs of socks, holding generation old skates. She knew all the faces and all the ones missing; hockey kids have migrated because a puck and stick went through her window. Her socks stay on when she comes home. Soon, the carpet won’t have glass and glass will replace wooden boards. Then, she’ll watch the snow fall, descend down like wishes from the dark. Skates on the ice, Robin circled Emily’s unofficially reserved seat. Each time around like paired clock hands counting seconds without her. She was skater then a spectator then saying goodbye. Soon, the sale sign will be pulled and strangers shuffle in with smiles in Spring. Those new neighbors will never be like the Duttons. But, some day, the two will laugh together again at ...

Two-Thorns curls his claws around the clean edge of the tower window. Below, a sheer drop that grew in height the longer he looked. Beyond, the valley where he had watched the sun spread its wings of light in a soaring ascent. Beauty, he knew. Mimicking its rise, he too spreads his wings. Light and warmth fall on feathers and scales. His brothers, sister, all left through this way. To glide out was the only escape. So, he readies himself. Plenty fell, plenty survived. Pacing to the back of the wall, he ran. Then, out to the window. Then, out to the edge. Then, stopping. Two-Thorns, once more, at the clean edge of the tower window. The chains upon his leg tighten. No sound, no feeling, and yet they remain persistent. With nothing to gnaw on but the memories, he remains, he tries again, and he stops again. He continues. The pacing, running, gnawing, and slinks back to where the chains once were along the walls, where they would have been the most slack. From there, curling in his own win...