Watch For Edges

The forest creeps in

(available as a print via patreon through october 2025)

(You could crawl out of the toilet through a pitch black tunnel in the washing machine. I was too scared to do this.)

Also there was a head in the freezer.

Halnaker Hamlet, West Sussex

Summary: Abomination. The S-class Supervillain. Me, a C-class hero. I take a deep breath. Close my eyes. Remind myself that I’m a hero.

------

Damn. I really wanted to live.

The jets roar overhead again, screaming familiar complaints after only a moment. It’s easy to see the scene – three military planes diving down towards the writhing, fleshy tentacles and then being forced to pull up as Abomination hurls another chunk of freeway at them. The sequence has been repeating for the last two hours as they desperately try to buy time until the big hitters arrive.

I hold my hand up towards what’s left of the ceiling. Abomination had peeled open the tin roof of the service station like an anchovy can. That was back when my team first arrived on scene. Back when they were on either side of me, winded but already looking back towards the fight. Back when the worst of it was just—

My hands are a mess. The road rash tearing across my palms is the worst of it, but my attention goes to my nails. Blood and soot and dirt (and worse) tear at my cuticles. My nails look like they made friends with a cheese grater. My sister once told me all things look better under the sun, but I bet she’s never seen a hand like mine held up against the peerless blue of a rare, sunny Portland day. Not that she’ll ever see it--

I imagine a joint between my fingers and pull it back to press against my lips. Puff, puff, pass. My ribs bark a protest when I laugh. I let my head fall back so I can watch imaginary swirls of smoke escape through Abomination’s handmade skylight. Carefully I bring my hand to rest on my chest. If I let my cracked bones ache instead of throb, it’s kind of like the good burn of smoke in my lungs.

I take a deep breath. Close my eyes. Remind myself that I’m a hero.

I open my eyes and let them water from the sudden radiance of the noon sun shining down on me.

Oregon coast sunrise 2018

Erin Hanson, American

funeral procession (miss you forever) I - IV, 2024, oil pastel on paper.

When it hatches as a caterpillar, it lowers itself to the ground on a strand of silk, and then produces a chemical that smells like the larvae of ants. An ant eventually discovers it, lured by the scent, and brings it back to the anthill, where it is cared for by the colony until it pupates. After a few weeks, the adult butterfly crawls back up through the anthill, through the dirt and the winding tunnels, and out into the sunlight before it can finally open its wings.

Some say that the caterpillar “tricks” the ants into doing this. I don’t know if I agree – I think it’s too small a thing to accuse of guile, don’t you?

With this in mind: Once upon a time, there were seven dwarves.

They lived and worked in the mountains, mining for gold and jewels and precious things. And one night, after a long day’s labour, they heard a knocking at the great stone doors of their mountain.

Outside, shivering and small, they found a human child.

I’m sure you can guess most of what she told them. Stepmothers were involved – it’s not important. What’s important was that each of the dwarves felt a dire and pressing need to care for the child, and they took her into their home, fed her, clothed her, and gave her a warm bed to sleep in. And many seasons passed around that mountain, with the dwarves raising the child as one of their own, until one autumn’s day.

The girl laid, slender and still, in a coffin of spun glass. And some weeks later, one of the dwarves had the idea to call for a prince. This was of course the sensible thing to do, and the prince of a nearby kingdom who listened to the story thought an ensorcelled girl would be a grand thing to rescue.

Poor devils. It feels cruel to judge them. But there were so many questions they could’ve asked – what was this stepmother’s name? Was she real? Did she exist? Who had made the glass coffin? Surely one of them must’ve thought of the question. And why did it grow more opaque with every passing day?

Were they wrong to trust?

I guess it doesn’t matter now.

The moment the prince stepped into the subterranean chamber with the glass coffin, it shivered with a twinkling, plinking noise. Threads of glass exploded into glittering, razor-edged confetti.

A claw split the great glass cocoon.

The thing that spilled out of it, hulking and huge, knew in the fog of its mind, in a base animal sense that screamed, that it was in a room too small for it to fit. It wanted up. It wanted out.

In front of it was some twiggy little thing holding a sword.

It took its first breath.

The flames were the colour of cornflowers.

The dwarves fled. The thing followed close behind, up, up, up through the stone and the winding tunnels, not to chase, not to hunt, but to get up, to get out, out, out–

It struck the great stone doors at a run. They crumbled like gingerbread. And then there was sunlight, and the open sky…

And it could finally open its wings.

Convergent evolution is a hell of a thing.

The dragon, of course, lived happily ever after with its loot of gold and jewels from a hastily abandoned dwarf mine. Being much bigger than a caterpillar, we could accuse it of tricking the dwarves who were kind to it, had taken it in, had fed and clothed and warmed it.

That’s why you know the woman in the glass coffin isn’t dead.

It still takes a long time to convince yourself to kiss her. It’s been…years? Yes, it must have been years since you last saw those ruby red lips and that cloud of raven-black hair. Her eyelashes fan across her cheeks and there’s a red rose carefully clasped between her still hands.  Those hands once reached for you, accompanied by her sweet voice, inviting you to grab hold lest you stay trapped in the tunnel forever. The longer you stare, the easier it is to see her pulse in the basin of her throat and the shallow rise of her chest.

Of all the lands you’ve traveled, there hasn’t been a single one where kissing a sleeping woman on the lips was considered appropriate.

“You can do this, Lexi,” you whisper. The trees over the glen murmur quiet agreement. It’s nearing the end of golden hour – the next procession will be here soon. The fairytale lighting is the only thing keeping the worst of your anxiety away. It’s like a dream this early in the morning. Only a dream. You twist your travel cap in your hands, squeezing your eyes tight. “You can apologize after.”

When you open them, the first notes of birdsong pierce the air.

You drop your cap and grab the edge of the glass. You’ve always been slow to decide and quick to act. If you just keep moving, you won’t have to think about how she might be mad or offended or disgusted—

You miscalculate the lid. You’re a jack of all trades and you assumed something as expensive as a gilt glass coffin would have hinges. It doesn’t. The lid slides off the edge of the platform. Your nails don’t find purchase on glass, of course. There’re flowers scattered all around her resting place, there’s a chance it won’t—

Crash!

The birdsong chokes off. A man yells from the woods behind you. Someone clicks and the pounding of hooves draws closer and closer—

You swoop down and press your lips to hers. They’re cold and unyielding for one moment, two moments—

Then her mouth softens and you pull back as she gasps for air.

Breaking an enchantment feels a bit like falling through a frozen pond. Snow White breathes like a diver surfacing for air and then exhales a frost so bitter that it freezes the breath in your lungs. The spell she was under wasn’t done by accident like you’d hoped. There’s malice in the bite of cold that lingers against your skin. You drink it down in painful sips, pulling the shroud from her aura until her eyes begin to flutter open.

You want to run. You’ve whispered enough twinkling knowledge to her that she’ll know what you did to free her. There are only two antidotes in the world and you whispered their recipes to her over and over until she could recite them from memory. It had seemed like a good idea at the time, about to leave her in a prickling castle with that thing for a stepmother—

You don’t run. You’ve done that all over the world to see every sight you ever dreamed of. Only when one wonder remained in your heart did you finally return to see it.

Come on, darling. Show me what I’ve been dreaming of. Then punch me in the face.

Snow White breathes. Her eyelashes quiver. Her lips close and then part. Is she saying your name? You lean close. Le—Le—

The world plunges into darkness. At the same time, the smell of onions fills your nose. Fuck. You’ve been trapped in enough produce bags to know what’s happened. Your hands fly up to the mouth of the bag that’s been thrown over your head, and you wedge your fingers between it and your neck just in time before the villain behind you cinches it too tightly. That’s the only reason you don’t suffocate as rough hands yank you away from Snow White and throw you onto a hard, wooden surface.

“Take her back to the castle,” a man growls.

Another asks, “The castle? Wouldn’t it be better if she gets lost in the woods--?”

“What happened the last time you let someone get lost in the woods, Huntsman?”

“…yes, sir.”

The Huntsman. His name is the only thing that stills the syllables twisting between your teeth. You chew them as the cart lurches into motion. How is he still alive?

You imagined Snow White would have taken care of him already.

----.

The children of your family often get swept away in stories. All the ancient knowledge is heavy against the thin crucible of a baby’s mind – it’s not uncommon to hear of a cousin or sibling dissolving between dusk and dawn.

So that’s what you’re doing the eve you turn twelve after learning about the razor edge between night and abyss.  You’re dissolving. The night drips like syrup from your ears and abyss flows out from between your lips in thin rivulets. Your eyes are trained on the stars as you stagger through the woods, pulled and spun around by the knowledge your brain can’t quite accept.

(Like a lunatic, you will one day say fondly. Foaming at the mouth.

Like a fairy, she will correct. A long pause. A rather messy one.)

The little girl crouched between tree roots is the only thing that doesn’t run when you lurch into the clearing. She’s wearing a silver nightgown that catches every bit of the moon’s light but still doesn’t compare to the radiance of her face. It’s shocking enough that you stop and let your head fall onto your shoulder so your eyes can fix on her rather than the sky.

“I think I should eat you,” you say in a language you don’t remember learning. “Both nights and abysses eat stars.”

“Stars chew through both,” the little girl says. For cowering alone in the woods, she doesn’t sound very afraid. Her voice is strident. Confident. “And even if it were true, little girls don’t eat other little girls.”

Your eyes fix on hers. (They’re a beautiful deep b--) “Is that what I am?”

“Yes,” she says. She scoots over so there is room in the cocoon of her roots for another body. “Little girls are afraid of the dark.”

It’s easier to sew yourself together with the echo of her voice ringing in your ears. You’re young, a child, a girl. You might even be afraid of the dark, though she doesn’t sound very sure of that point. You gingerly pick your way through puddles of mud and brambles to wedge yourself between the roots. Her body is cold against yours. How long has she been out here?

“Did you run away from home?” she asks.

You shrug.

“I did,” she says. Without asking, she tucks her cold fingers under your arm, hugging the appendage to herself like one would a teddy bear. “My father married a woman who hates me.”

“Why did he do that?” you ask.

“Because he’s weak,” she says immediately. Her fingers wiggle as if she’s counting on them. “Too weak to be alone. Too weak to rule alone. Weak to a pretty face. Weak in the face of death. Too weak to believe I’ll be fine when he’s gone.”

The part of you that might actually be a person is swimming to the surface. You examine how deep and warm your skin tone is against the paleness of hers. You know what it’s like to feel fabric and water, and heat on this skin. Now you also know what it’s like to feel the touch of someone close to hypothermia.

“Tell me how you’ll be fine,” you say.

And Snow White, who just needs someone to believe in her, tells you - someone who needs something to believe in- all about being a Princess in a castle after the first queen’s death.

“Someday she’ll kill me,” Snow White says. “Dad or me. One of us will be first.”

“How will she do it?” you ask.

Snow White thinks for a long time. “Poison. Like she did with my mom.”

You’re relieved. This is how you can help the girl who kept you from dissolving. “Oh, that’s easy. There are only two antidotes in the world, you know. Those derived from the World Tree or concocted to mimic it, or—”

-----.

True Love’s Kiss.

In your cell, you cover your face with your hands. The worst part is that it doesn’t have to be both parties in love – it can only just be one. Which is clearly you. Because you’re an idiot and there’s no way Snow White would love you after you left her to face her stepmother alone. And then kissed her without permission.

“Do you mind waiting to off yourself until the execution?” the Huntsman asks. He’s seated directly across from your cell, anxiously twirling a dagger between his hands. “I’ll get in trouble otherwise.”

You ease your hands away from your neck. The half-moon imprints of your nails against your throat throb. “Why are they even keeping me alive?”

“In case you need to wake the Princess up again,” he says. He shrugs. “You know…since one of the princes didn’t do the trick.”

“The princes?” A newspaper article you read several weeks ago comes to mind. Your lip curls. “Oh, you mean the opportunists trying to claim the throne for themselves.”

“The throne needs a ruler,” the Huntsman says simply.

The dungeon is drier than you imagined. You sit up into a cross-legged position and rub at the dust on the cobblestones. “They have one. Snow White.”

“The nobles aren’t eager to have another solo ruler after the former Queen,” the Huntsman says. “Most think it’ll…smooth things out if one of the princes rules alongside her.”

You snort. “You mean control her.”

The Huntsman inclines his head.

They’re all so stupid.

“Why didn’t you take her heart?” you ask. You remember that particular letter as if you read it yesterday; Snow White nonchalantly telling you all about how she escaped certain death by following the paths in the woods you taught her. Your nails draw divots in the cobblestone. “Back then.”

The Huntsman fumbles his dagger. It clatters to the ground and rings like a bell, over and over again. He stares at you for a long moment before he speaks through bloodless lips. “H-how did you—”

You stare at him.

He breathes in deeply. “I wouldn’t have. I couldn’t have. A young girl—”

You snort again.

“—the daughter of the King I served—”

You laugh. He wouldn’t have taken her to the woods at all if that were true.

“—I…I was—That was—”

“You’re a hunter,” you say. You point to the dagger on the floor, and it lifts slowly, like a feather caught in an updraft. He’s still and wide-eyed as you beckon it towards you. “You don’t carry a knife without the conviction to kill. You don’t lure a young girl into the woods at night without the conviction to harm. You just don’t. You do.”

The dagger falls into your palm with a slap.

The silence stretches.

The Huntsman breaks first.

“She told me I was the villain,” the Huntsman says. He swallows audibly. The beard covering the lower half of his face does little to hide the tremble of his lips. “Alright? A 15-year-old girl told me that if I cut out her heart, I would be the villain for the rest of my life. She said that my daughter would hug me and know, that my wife would kiss me and know, that the brothers and sisters I fought alongside would meet my gaze and know. And I—I—”

You twirl the dagger, leaning back against the cold stone wall. “You believed her.”

The Huntsman shudders. “She said it and it was true.”

“Before, when you were first ordered, it wasn’t.”

“Yes. Yes. It was just a job. But she looked at me with those cold eyes, those cold b—”

The dagger thuds into the wooden back of his chair, just an inch from his arm.  His teeth click together. He stares at you like a startled horse, chest heaving and hands clenched around his knees so tightly you can hear the leather of his pants creak.

“Why hasn’t she killed you yet?” you ask.

To his credit, he doesn’t feign confusion. You’d wondered why he didn’t react to how you levitated the dagger. There’s a knowing in his eyes.

“Because I sent the letters,” he breathes. “I risked everything to send them.”

You pause. That made it sound like…like the letters were important. Your heart skips a beat. “Just for that? She let you live?”

When he nods, you swear you can hear birdsong.

----.

The first time Snow White asks about love, she doesn’t ask the usual question.

“What would you do,” she starts carefully, “if you loved me?”

You’re surprised enough to look up from your latest reading assignment. Your elders want you to know about the depths of caves after your latest expedition into them. You can feel your ears morphing the longer you read, lengthening and widening to better capture the echoes of sound from objects far away. It takes a moment to remember your human ears and, when you do, you ask, “Pardon?”

Snow White watches you from where she’s lounging on her bed. Her eyes are level on you, but you can’t see much else. The rising sun is coming in from the window behind her, backlighting her so you can only see her like a shadow. “What would you do if you loved me?”

“Um…panic?”

A flash and the sun crests the canopies of the forest. She asks in the same tone, “Why?”

“Because I don’t know who I am,” you say, honest as always. At this age, you’re supposed to be keeping a diary that you study alongside your texts. Your elders tell you that is how your kind develops a personality. Your diary is Snow White. “You’re—well. I hope the person who falls in love with you is capable of supporting someone like you. I’m  too…I’m floppy. I’m not real. Not yet.”

Her breath is soft. “So you don’t love me.”

“…Do you want me to?” you ask.

“Do you want to?”

“Yes,” you say. And then, “But the person who loves you should be—”

“You should go on your trip,” she interrupts. She stands and her silhouette is lined in gold. “Now.”

You splutter. She’d been against the pilgrimage your elders were trying to send you on. She said she needed you, she said she couldn’t fight alone against her stepmother—

Snow White knows what you’re thinking. “You can come back when you’ve seen everything you want to see.”

“But I don’t want anything—”

“When you’ve seen it all, you’ll come home,” she commands. Her voice rings like it did the night she declared little girls didn’t eat other little girls. “Understood?”

And what could you do in the face of her conviction?

You leave the next morning.

---------------.

Snow White comes to get you on the seventh day. The Huntsman won’t meet your eyes anymore, choosing to spend his time huddled in the corner with his hands over his ears. Like a child afraid of the dark.

You savor the irony of it.

When she enters, the torches flare to life, flooding the room with light. The first thing you notice is the crown on her head. The second is the lack of ring on her finger. The third is her eyes—

The first thing the Huntsman notices is the blood staining the hem of her dress. “I congratulate the Queen,” he croaks. His hands shake as he bows. “The King…?”

“There is no King,” Snow White says. The torchlight is pulled into her crown and is reflected in her eyes.

“Oh,” the Huntsman says and pales.

“You’re dismissed,” Snow White says, not unkindly.

“Thank you, Your Majesty.” He edges towards the stairs, eyes darting from the fire to the Queen and you.

“Do see the nobles out,” she says as he reaches the base of the stairs. A smirk tugs at her ruby red lips. “Perhaps they’ll enjoy a jaunt in the woods…?”

The Huntsman still. “Yes…” He climbs the first steps, receding into darkness as he leaves the circle of the firelight. As he climbs, his gait turns predatory. “Yes, your majesty.”

Only when the door swings shut behind him does Snow White turn to you.

There is no silence here. Only the hum of your awareness of her and the steady beating of your heart.

“You returned,” she says.

You stand. The dust has settled along your arms and legs, and it falls like snow when you do. You forgot to move as you waited. “I did.”

She stops short of your cell doors. The shadows wrap around her eyes. “Did you see everything you wanted?”

You lick your lips. “No.”

Her lips thin. “I told you not to come back—”

“I saw the pyramids,” you say. You step forward so you are only a few feet apart. You stare at her through your bars. “I saw the valleys of the deep and the mountains beyond the veil. I met the people who live inside the World Tree and I slayed those who tried to escape from beyond the end. It was beautiful, but it wasn’t everything. No matter what I saw, there was one sight I yearned to see again.”

“Yearned,” she repeats. This time, she’s the one who steps closer. She doesn’t protest when you reach out to brush your fingers alongside hers. “You yearned?”

“I did,” you say. She’s warm. You coax her hand to twine around yours. “I came back to see it. But I don’t think once will be enough. A whole lifetime may not be enough.”

Her eyes are black like the night sky. Like the abyss you once lost yourself to, like the shadows that gather around you. “What sight might that be?”

“You.”

It is hard to say how the bars disappear. Maybe she whispered that they never existed in the first place. Maybe you cursed them out of existence. Either way, they disappear, and there is nothing between you and Snow White.

And you live Happily Ever After.

---

Thanks for reading! If you're a fan of my superhero works, there's a new flashfiction about Heroes on Tiktok posted to my Patreon which will be up on Tumblr next week :)