It started with this Far Side cartoon, about “luposlipaphobia” which has always been one of my favorites. In case you can’t read the below, luposlipaphobia is defined as : The fear of being pursued by timber wolves around a kitchen table whilst wearing socks on a newly waxed floor. Obvious right? I mean, we’ll ALL had it at one time or another.

I’m not sure the date of this, but it must be early 80′s because I still have a hand written letter (in orange felt pen from a science classroom) from my friend high school Alison, wherein she enumerates several other phobias. Sadly, in the post hurricane/earthquake/tsunami/apocalypse/dystopian-televised-teen-death-match/magic-battle-between-good-and-evil that I call my office, I can’t find it. BUT, I do remember at least one of the brilliant ripostes that I came up with. I remember it, because it’s a real thing and I use it often: perspectotripophobia – the fear of new glasses.

Later on, Gary Larson expanded on this meme (before the idea of memes was even invented I think) with this: Anatidaephobia – The fear that somewhere, some how, a duck is watching you

Anyway, yesterday I noticed I was on Twitter at the same time that one of my idols, Margaret Atwood was tweeting. I felt all tingly inside, and tweeted how I liked it, referring to her @MargaretAtwood. Then I got nervous because my tweet was pretty uninspiring.  So I obsessed about it for awhile and came back with this tweet: “Caniconigenitweetophobia: the fear that somewhere, somehow, @MargaretAtwood is reading your tweets”

Well, imagine my excitement (and my enjoyment of the irony) when @MargaretAtwood retweeted my tweet to over 300,000 followers. And many of her followers retweeted or favorited too. Now this didn’t cause any huge landslide of followers or anything, nor did it secure me a book deal, an interview with Ellen, an Oprah special or an invitation to Perez Hilton’s birthday party (all of which I deserve BTW), but it was a bit of a thrill, from someone’s whose one and only in person meeting with Ms. Atwood was a dismal failure (on my part).

Anyway, again, it got me thinking of all the good reasons everyone, but especially aspiring or up and coming authors should tweet  writers they admire.

1. It’s fun!

2. It’s a great way to keep track of what you’ve read. My book tweets are something I can look back on to remember what I’ve read and what I thought of it.

3. They tweet back or retweet you which is exciting and fun, but also helps to build your profile.

4. Finally, and most importantly, it makes THEM feel good. It’s very easy to assume that Margaret Atwood and her few equals are always confident and self assured about their work. After all they have millions, best sellers, movies and prizes. How could they doubt themselves? Well, I’m pretty sure Ms. Atwood is a human being, and we all know she is the epitome of a writer. Ergo, she has some bad days, I’m almost certain. Maybe she won’t read every “I LOVED HANDMAID’S TALE SO MUCH I COULD VOMIT” tweet, but then again, maybe a tweet like that will make her day when she’s feeling, you know, that writer thing we all feel once in a while.

I’m a recent convert to Twitter. The absence of pointless games is one thing that puts it ahead of Facebook for me. It’s also given me a chance to focus Twitter on my professional life, while Facebook is for my personal life. I like the constraints of 140 characters. As a sometimes poet, and screenwriter, conciseness pleases me.

Tweet on people. Follow me. No, really, follow me; I have the key to the headmaster’s liquor cabinet.

Who have YOU tweeted?

It’s Tuesday again, and after last week’s ultra-negative rant against craptacular teachers, I thought perhaps something a little more heartwarming. Something with a little Canadian Content too, which is always good, especially if I ever apply for government funding.

So, this story has a little bit of everything; it’s Canadian, it’s got a francophone Vietnamese angle, it’s got Africa (the Congo to be specific), it’s got homelessness, it’s got Berlin (all good stories have a bit of Berlin), it’s got Jake Freakin’ Gyllenhaal for dog’s sake.

Rachel Mwanza, 15, won the best actress award at the Berlin Film Festival for her work in Montreal film maker Kim Nguyen’s film War Witch (French title  Rebelle). Look at this lucky girl accepting her award from Jake G.

Fifteen years old, people! Rachel, given what you had to overcome before you even took on what sounds like a  monumentally hard role, you are truly TERRIFIC.

For this week’s Marvelous Middle Grade Monday the obvious choice is C. S. Lewis’s Narnia Series. Of the series, the “first” book THE LION, THE WITCH AND THE WARDROBE is the one that first comes to mind to focus on as a standalone, and it IS a great book. But my favorite of the series is THE SILVER CHAIR. Here’s a brief summary:

Eustace Scrubb and Jill—a girl whom he recently befriended—walk through a door and find themselves in Aslan’s country at the very edge of the world. Eustace returns to Narnia to find his friend, King Caspian X, as an old man haunted by the kidnapping of his only son and heir, Prince Rilian. He and Jill—along with the ever melancholic Puddleglum—are soon sent on a quest to find the stolen prince by following four simple Signs…

As an adult reader, I have some major problems with the Narnia series, not the least of which is the whole Christian thing. Some of the books in the series have a stronger sense than others of the Christian themes that Lewis intended. The end of DAWN TREADER is pretty overt, and there are parts of LION, WITCH too that I find a little strong. The final book, THE LAST BATTLE is all a bit much for me, especially the ending. I also find some of the books a bit muddled – there are too many people driving too many stories.

I never was a fan of THE HORSE AND HIS BOY and while I like THE MAGICIAN”S NEPHEW, it kind of seems like it’s from another series. PRINCE CASPIAN is just a weak book.

Ah, but THE SILVER CHAIR…sigh. My feeling is that this one is the most cleverly plotted and contained. It has the strongest protagonists, in the reformed Eustace and his classmate Jill, and it is the only one that has a very clear and strong “quest” as a premise. I love the signs that Aslan sets out for them, and the denouement is fantastic, as are Eustace’s and Jill’s personal journeys. It also has what I consider to be Lewis’s best suporting character (maybe in a close tie with Reepicheep), Puddleglum, the Marsh Wiggle.

I hope the movie franchise makes this one soon. It feels very cinematic and I think would adapt well to the screen. This book can also be read on its own, without much knowledge of the rest of the series.

It’s a shortish book, at 52436 words, and has a reading level of about grade five or six.

For this week I can’t wait to read I’m going to go with OLIVER TWISTED by J.D. Sharpe and Charles Dickens. This is another one awaiting a US release, and I’m not even sure if it would be considered suitable for middle grade readers. I’m not a huge fan of the recent fashion for classic mash-ups, but this one seems like “why didn’t I think of that” fun.

For other Marvelous Middle Grade Monday posts check out these blogs:

• Joanne Fritz @ My Brain on Books
• Ben Langhinrchs @ My Comfy Chair
• Sherrie Petersen @ Write About Now 
• Brooke Favero @ Somewhere in the Middle
• Myrna Foster @ Night Writer 
• Ally Beecher @ Kid Lit Frenzy
• Barbara Watson @ Novel and Nouveau
• Deb Marshall @ Just Deb!
• Anita Laydon Miller’s Middle Grade Blog
• Michael G-G  @ Middle Grade Mafioso 
• Natalie Aguirre @ Literary Rambles
• Ms. Yingling @ Ms. Yingling Reads 
• Jennifer Rumberger 
• Pam Torres @ So I’m Fifty 
• Mary @ Writer’s Butt Does Not Apply to Me 
• The Accidental Novelist 

I was perusing my fabulous bookshelves the other day, and it occurred to me that I have an odd and interesting collection of books by people that I know personally or have met in person. I haven’t been to many book signings; they’re not really my thing, but I have a good pile of books, many signed, that I obtained through various means, from people that I know or have met in various ways. I thought I’d do a little rundown.

First, here are the books:

From top to bottom and right to left, here we go:

DARK INSIDE by Jeyn Roberts. Jeyn and I were in a class together at the University of BC. DARK INSIDE is her super scary first novel. It came out last year.

HILDEGARDE by ME! Published in 2002 by Harper Collins Australia. Now out of print I think. I’d love to publish it again here in Canada and in the USA.

MUD GIRL by Alison Acheson. Alison was the teacher of the class I did with Jeyn. She is such a good teacher, I dedicated my rant against crap teachers to her (It’s better than it sounds).

A whole bunch of books written or edited by Richard Dawkins, who I met at an atheist conference in DC. One of the coolest scenes I’ve ever experienced.

BREAKING THE SPELL by Daniel Dennett. met him at the conference too. Like a cross between Santa Claus and Galileo.

NOMAD by Ayaan Hirsi Ali. Same conference. Seriously, the line up was to die for.

THE TIME TRILOGY by Madeleine l’Engle. Met her at a book signing for MANY WATERS in Toronto.

CAT’S EYE by Margaret Atwood. She was giving a talk at The St Lawrence Center in Toronto. I went up to talk to her (in my usher’s uniform). What I planned to say: Something brilliant, flattering and pithy. What she said before I opened my mouth: “WHERE’S MY COAT?”. What I said: *runs away*

STORY by Robert McKee. I went to one of his famous workshops in Sydney Australia. Best weekend. He’s an inspiration.

THE WRITING EXPERIMENT by Hazel Smith. Hazel was one of my English profs at the University of NSW. One of my poems is included in this book. She introduced me to the word “Juxtaposition” which I use in about half my books.

ENGAGEMENT, by Paul Keating. He was, if you didn’t know, Prime Minister of Australia in the 1990s. He was chummy with my husband for a while. I never read political non-fiction as a rule, but I rather liked this book. Awesome dude.

GOD IS NOT GREAT by Christopher Hitchens. Same atheist conference. He was brilliant and terrifically sexy. RIP Hitch :-(

MANY WATERS, by Madeleine L’Engle. See above. Also see hilarious review on Forever Young Adult.

CATCHING FIRE and MOCKINGJAY, by Suzanne Collins. Garden variety book signing, nothing too impressive, but I loved that when I said to her “I can’t wait to see what you’ll do next,” she replied “me neither”.

WITH NAILS by Richard E Grant. Richard was in Hildegarde. I met him on the set. He was very nice to me, though possible slightly less so to some of the other cast and crew, from what I was told.

40 DAYS AND 40 NIGHTS, by Matthew Chapman, a screenwriter and director and the great grandson of Charles Darwin. Guess where? Atheist conference.

INFIDEL, Ayaan Hirsi Ali again.

THE GREATEST SHOW ON EARTH, Richard Dawkins again.

DARWIN’S DANGEROUS IDEA, Daniel Dennett, again.

ROCKS IN MY HEAD, by Don Watson, my uncle.

SOULSAVER, by James Stevens-Arce. I met James in a VERY early chat room (around 1996?). We’ve never met in person, but chatted nearly every day for years.

THE PORTABLE ATHEIST edited by Christopher Hitchens

THE MORAL LANDSCAPE by Sam Harris – yep, atheist conference. This was possibly the first time the “Four Horsemen” had appeared all together. It was a once in a lifetime experience.

THE SELFISH GENE by Richard Dawkins, one of his first books, and the source of the term “meme”.

Compared to one of my blogger friends, who reviews books at whatchyareading.net, is a signed book fanatic and also gets ARCs up the wazoo, my pile is slightly pathetic. But I think there are some fun stories about meeting and/or knowing authors there.

What are YOUR author meeting stories?

So, okay, that’s Canadian speak for “Why YA”? As some readers may have heard, YA (young adult literature) is a total THING now. Agents are clamoring for it, publishers are knocking each other unconscious for hot properties. It’s a scary scene.

So, right now maybe you’re asking yourself what the hell has happened to teenagers in the last decade that they are:

1. Suddenly interested in reading so much?
2. Suddenly have so much TIME to read?
3. Suddenly have enough money to buy millions of books?

Now I’m no business analyst, but I’m pretty sure a goodly portion of the recent wild success of the YA publishing industry can be attributed not to teens but to grown men and women reading these books. I read these books compulsively myself. What is the secret?

I have a feeling it has something to do with the way teenagers experience things. In YA books, teenagers are often doing things that have become mundane in our adult lives. But to them these things are new. Love, sex, dating, staying up all night, buying expensive clothes, trying new foods, rebelling. Most adults have done these things until they’re not interesting anymore. But reading about teens doing them reminds us of our first time.

Here’s an example: someone I follow on twitter, an agent, recently tweeted that she was excited to have a leather jacket for the first time in her life, after wanting one since she was a teen. You can imagine something like this taking up a whole chapter of a YA book – my first leather jacket, coveting it, saving for it, paying for it. I’ve had half a dozen leather jackets, it’s boring to me now, but seeing it again as something exciting and new makes it fun again. Makes me more excited about the leather jackets I have. Makes me remember my first leather jacket. Makes me miss it for the first time in years (it was stolen).

Even fantasy or dystopian YA draws in adult readers this way. Most adult readers have never faced what Katniss Everdeen faces (I say MOST. Ever been to North Korea or the Sudan?) but we have all faced insensitive, seemingly arbitrary and unfair bureaucracy (ever tried to enroll your child in French Immersion?). We have all felt victimized and trapped. We have all felt alone, as if all hope was lost. Most of us adults have faced these things so many times that they bore us.  We bear these daily slights with stoic resignation, never thinking of doing this:

But teenagers are almost never stoic, and those in YA books even less so. There’s a not so secret part of the adult readers of YA books that wants to become belligerent and disagreeable. I would even go so far to say that most characters of successful novels, even if they are adults, share some of this belligerence; they are more like teenagers, no matter their age.

I have long been inspired by tweens and teenagers, even before I started to write about and for them. They haven’t had the life crushed out of them by cynicism. They have a clear view of the future, unsullied by broken dreams and dashed hopes. Not only are teenagers a work in progress, but to them the whole world is. They genuinely believe they can make it better, different, more suited their desires and whims.

Would that we old fuddy-duddies could remember this.

THAT’s why YA.

For YA Highway I agreed to do a Valentine post – a Valentine to someone – in addition to the swoony scene from my WIP that I posted earlier this week. I also wanted to do a Terrific Tuesday post, but since my Terrific Tuesday posts are usually about teens (or sometimes tots), and I think a woman of my advanced age writing a Valentine to a teen (or a tot) is a bit weird, I thought I might called today Terrific TEACHER Tuesday instead.

I’m not going to go all “Don’t Stand So Close To Me” now. The closest thing I ever had to a sexual crush on a teacher was a swimming teacher when I was 35. Sigh…Mr. Boryenko.

Anyway, this will be a Valentine to a terrific teacher, one who greatly affected me and helped to shape me into what I am now. Many of you will have stories like this – the primary teacher who taught you to read, the middle school teacher who inspired you to try a bit harder, the high school teacher who helped you learn that you were destined to be a writer, an actor, a chiropractor, or whatever.

Sadly, I don’t have stories like this, not from school anyway. All I have is stories of teachers who discouraged me, punished me for things that were out of my control, or ignored my feeble early attempts at writing. So, in the interests of getting things off my chest, I’m going to list them first.

Mademoiselle Someone or other who got married half way through the year and changed her name, grade 1 – you sat in the back of the class and smoked. You bumped me out of the advanced reading group after I struggled with ONE word (“stopped”, I’ll never forget it) because I’d been away for two months.

Mademoiselle Spinster Twin, grade two – you made me stand at your desk reading in French until I fainted. You grabbed me, painfully by the chin, to redirect my attention to something – I don’t remember what – that I’m sure was beneath my intelligence.

Nuns with names I don’t remember at Convent School in New Zealand (grade three). You didn’t notice, or didn’t care, that the older girls were bullying me, because I got along better with the boys. You didn’t notice me at all, despite the poems you reluctantly admitted were extraordinary.

Madame Abuser, grade four – you backhanded my classmates, threw books, tied kids into their chairs with extension cords, shut them in lockers and taped their mouths shut with, I think, gaffer’s tape. You never touched me – I don’t think you dared – but my heart broke every day for my classmates. Yet we fought with each other about who would hold your hand on the way to gym. It makes me sick to think of it now, how much we loved you, and how you hated us.

Madame Memorable, grade five. All I remember from grade five is developing a fierce crush on Peter Malone that lingered for four years. Madame Memorable, you must have been okay.

Madame Little Blonde with the fox fur coat, grade six – you were tough, a disciplinarian. You set the bar high, yet never bothered to notice I was already floating above it. I spent a fair bit of time facing the back wall, sometimes with tears in my eyes, frustrated and bored, and humiliated by the bullies that you fawned over because they were ass kissers.

Mr. Whathisname, the band leader, you weren’t much better, basically telling me I had no musical inclination at all and leaving me to the b*tches in the percussion section. No musical inclination? Please see, “played the lead in the musical” and “rock band” below.

Monsieur We-were-your-last-resort, grade seven. I know you knew me. I wrote a poem, in French, that made you cry. Yet you distained me, set me meaningless punishments, and made me cry, and not in a good way. Once you literally kicked my butt. I showed you, AGAIN in grade ten what I could do with words, but it never occurred to you to take notice or do something about it.

Monsieur Douche-bag, grade eight, remember those poems I showed you? I know they were bad. I get it. I was thirteen years old for God’s sake, of course they were bad. But did you have to tell me that? Make me feel about two inches tall? Did you hear I’m publishing a novel in verse next year?

Grade nine English/Gym teacher. No surprise I don’t remember your name. ‘It’s not a very good story is it?’ you said to me. No, I know, it wasn’t but…really? I wrote it, and many others you’ll never see, in my spare time. I showed it to you, because that’s what you do. And I got ‘it’s not very good’? Were you friends with M. Dumont or what? Did you hear I have a book coming out next month?

Grade Ten, Mrs. Feminist who hated girly girls. You turned your nose up when we asked you to supervise the cheerleaders. I get it, we knew it was superficial and cheesy, but in an athletic school, that’s what girls who want to sing and dance do. We showed you in the end, how serious we were, but it’s hard to forget a slight like that. You looked at us like we were trashy bimbos so that’s how we felt.

Grade eleven, new artsy school and  Mrs. McJazzyPants. You were inspiring, and loved me, for a time, casting me in the lead and giving me a solo with the blues band, but then you dumped me. Blocked me from the jazz choir, the girls’ rock band, even preventing a friend from accompanying me on a solo performance in the Arts Benefit Concert. I showed you anyway, with a song I only see the irony of right this moment, but I never trusted you again, even when you took me back in grade twelve. I know it’s too late (you passed in 2009) but can I tell you that you can’t treat a teenage girl like that?

Mrs. Crooks, dear Mrs. Crooks, 68%, really? In creative writing? Are you f*cking kidding me?

Grade twelve, you know what? I don’t remember any of your names. Not one. I had my rock band, Jessica, Maury and Graham. I had my friends. I had my sisters. I didn’t need you. I gave you one of the best years of my life, and I got nothing back. You didn’t listen, you didn’t seem to care. You interacted weakly with me. I had the feeling that you hated us all.

If you hated teenagers so much why did you teach high school? Can you see how you failed me? Me! I have an IQ of 139. I spoke, read and wrote in two languages. My father was a professor, my mother a librarian. We were well off, middle class, well-travelled and lived in a house full of books. And you failed to inspire ME. To what uninspiring level of sh*t did you rise for the kids who couldn’t or didn’t read, or had a bad home life, or basically supported themselves? Did you ever stop to ask yourself if it was okay that your work was crap? Do you think surgeons should ever ask themselves this? Or police officers? Or ship’s captains?

I’ve been told, over and over, that there are inspiring, wonderful, life changing teachers in the world. The web is full of stories about them. But my experience has been considerably less than this idealized, rose tinted view.

Your ship sank, school teachers o’ mine. Happy F*cking Valentine’s Day to you all, wherever you are. Teachers look like superheroes in the media because people don’t call their crap teachers out. Do you know why we all love to hear about inspiring teachers? Because they are exceptional. And why should that be? Isn’t it their job to inspire young people? When is the last time you read a post where someone rhapsodized about an auto-mechanic because they did what they are paid to do and FIXED YOUR DAMN CAR? And smiled at you as they took your money? And called you ma’am?

We are not asking teachers and schools for miracles. We are asking them to do their jobs. Many, maybe most, do. Maybe I was just unlucky. I hope there are no teachers like this left in the world, but I feel almost sure that there are. My seven year old daughter (let me repeat, she is SEVEN YEARS OLD) has been driven to tears by her gym teacher (repeat: GYM TEACHER) on more than one occasion.

It wasn’t until I left high school that I had terrific teachers. Dr.Hazel Smith at the University of New South Wales. Alison Lyssa at Sydney Community College. And finally Professor Alison Acheson at UBC, who has had a profound impact on everyone she’s ever taught.

So this Valentine’s Day, this Terrific Teacher Tuesday is for you, Alison Acheson.. Happy Valentine’s Day Alison, you are truly TERRIFIC. Your students have the confidence, and the writing credits, to prove it.

For this week’s marvelous Middle Grade Monday here’s something a lot more recent, SCHOOLED by Gordan Korman. I love to see a middle grade book that will appeal to boys who haven’t bought into the whole school of magic thing. SCHOOLED is funny and exciting but firmly grounded in the real world. But the unusual upbringing, the main character, Cap, gives the book an almost magical realism feel. He’s such an exceptional kid. It reminds me of one of those books where an alien or a mythical creature finds him or herself trapped on Earth and has to endeavor to learn our ways.

Here’s the blurb on SCHOOLED from Goodreads.

Homeschooled by his hippie grandmother, Capricorn (Cap) Anderson has never watched television, tasted a pizza, or even heard of a wedgie. But when his grandmother lands in the hospital, Cap is forced to move in with a guidance counselor and attend the local middle school. While Cap knows a lot about tie-dyeing and Zen Buddhism, no education could prepare him for the politics of public school.

40,000 words, with a reading level of 4.9, SCHOOLED is an easy read, despite having a pretty mature and sophisticated storytelling style and premise. I would recommend it for anyone, but in particular, reluctant boy readers aged up to 14.

For this weeks’ I-can’t-wait-to-read I’m going with a recent UK release that doesn’t seem to have a US relase date yet, but is available from Amazon.ca. HOW TO MAKE A GOLEM AND TERRIFY PEOPLE by Alette J. Willis. What can I say? Great title, great cover, great premise. This one sounds super fun.

For other Marvelous Middle Grade Monday posts check out these blogs:

• Joanne Fritz @ My Brain on Books
• Ben Langhinrchs @ My Comfy Chair
• Sherrie Petersen @ Write About Now 
• Brooke Favero @ Somewhere in the Middle
• Myrna Foster @ Night Writer 
• Ally Beecher @ Kid Lit Frenzy
• Barbara Watson @ Novel and Nouveau
• Deb Marshall @ Just Deb!
• Anita Laydon Miller’s Middle Grade Blog
• Michael G-G  @ Middle Grade Mafioso 
• Natalie Aguirre @ Literary Rambles
• Ms. Yingling @ Ms. Yingling Reads 
• Jennifer Rumberger 
• Pam Torres @ So I’m Fifty 
• Mary @ Writer’s Butt Does Not Apply to Me 
• The Accidental Novelist 

Oasis for YA is having a romantic blogfest in honor of Valentine’s week, and are asking people to post swoon-worthy scenes. Since I just signed a contract on my upcoming verse novel AUDACIOUS (Orca Books, Fall 2013), I probably shouldn’t post from it here. Instead I’ll give you a scene from my WIP, a YA/chicklit/scifi/romance. I haven’t quite got to the really swoony scenes yet, so I’ll share this one, where an alien invader meets a human girl for the first time. Unfortunately he knocks her unconscious.

 

Ah, no. What have I done?

Wake up.

The girl human lies unmoving on the floor at my feet, blood blossoming from a gash in her forehead. Her cheeks are wet with tears, her mouth slightly open. That last little cry never quite escaped.

Breathe.

Her chest rises and falls once. My own breath catches somewhere near the back of my mouth.

Breathe again, please.

I press my fist into my chest. Sixth used this sign with me. It’s an imperative. You Must. Right Now. Obey. It feels different when I do it. More polite.

Breathe, human. Obey. Please.

Her chest rises and falls again, and begins a slow rhythm.

Stupid, stupid, stupid. That was so stupid. She’s tiny compared to me, like a bird that has fallen from its nest. She couldn’t hurt me with those pathetic knives. Think. Not anger. Not fear. Think. I don’t hate humans. Not this one, anyway. I have instructions. I know the instructions. I can’t…I can’t do it…not this one.

Her friends are gone. They ran down the hill. Will they come back for her, I wonder.

I look at her crumpled on the floor, her arms splayed at awkward angles, knees falling to either side. It seems, vaguely…indecent. I gently move her legs together, not even sure why it matters.

Wake up, little human.

Sweet painless death, her hair is beautiful. Like a spider web or a cloud with the setting sun shining on it.

If she woke up now she would scream and scream. I could not make her believe I wouldn’t hurt her again. No one could blame her for putting one of those knives in my throat.

I trail my fingers in her cloudy hair. It feels like the wisps of dandelions. Why do I even know about dandelions? That seems like the kind of thing that might be a waste of my diminished brain power. Dandelions, spider webs, setting suns. Why do I even notice such things?

Defective.

Would it be wrong to smell her hair?

Don’t be scared, little human girl. I won’t hurt you.

Ah. Her hair smells like the rushing river and pine needles.

Pine needles. Think. I need to think.

I can’t leave her here. What if her friends don’t come back? It’s getting cold. She could freeze. Humans can freeze. What if my people come back? They would kill her.

She breathes. Her chest rises and falls. Her eyes move behind her eyelids. Her eyelashes are like a caterpillar’s feet, though I’m not sure that caterpillars have feet.

I slide my hands under her legs and shoulders and lift her up. She sags, limp in my arms, but I hold her tightly, like…like…something I can’t quite remember, something behind the door. She is as light as a dandelion, or a spider web, or a snowflake, or a wisp of cloud. I can smell the tears on her face.

There is no sadder smell in this world, than the tears of a human girl.

Stupid defective eighth, what have I done?