They ran, the four of them, hand in hand. It was the only way they could get from this place to the next. Despair rose in the thicker woods as one became wrapped around a tree, whiplashing the group in the onslaught. But on they ran, recovering themselves, never breaking their grasp to dust off their muddy knees. The terrain was an endless, mountainous wood. Neverending. But there is nothing more determined to race home than a Howling. Howlings are almost always children, amorphous in their gender until they make a choice at age 18—if they make it to that rare age—and despite their name they very rarely howl. But when they do, you don’t want to be anywhere near. It is the sound of universes shattering and will consume your eardrums by snaking up…
“Lost Howling,” A Short Story by Christin Rice
