Our enemy buzzed in the trees, a constant reminder of danger. Hours turned to days turned to weeks, but still no ambush. Finally the sound died on day 63 and we readied, taking the lull as impending battle. Our weapons lowered when the buzzing resumed. Then they attacked.
Bodies streamed from the woods and across the hills. Within hours, the creatures pushed us back to the ridge, where we stood our ground. Their ranks faltered and we dared hope for victory. Then a buzzing rose from the canyon behind us. We’d forgotten fairies can fly.
CANDACE FREILICH 