bio

K.D. Bryan is a Denver native - one of six left, soon to be bred in captivity for the future enjoyment of zoogoers. He enjoys writing, exploring places, too much caffeine, the resulting insomnia and long walks on the beach. Sadly, there are no beaches of the proper length in Colorado.

primary contact:
kevinbryan@comcast.net

The Woods

I don't like these long train rides. Do you? Sorry, I can be quiet if you like, if I'm bothering you. No? Oh, good. Thank goodness. I love a nice conversation. Wiles away the hours, makes me think a little less about certain things. Oh? Oh, things like the woods.

No one really knows anything about the woods on the edge of the world. Yes, the edge of the world. Ha, yes. Yes, you're right. Most people nowadays won't even admit the world has an edge. Of course, that said, there are still whispers from the deranged about it. Not that anyone should trust such things.

The woods are real though. Every tree in the forest has tears for leaves. People often mistake them for drops of rain until they realize the sun is shining, and it has been for days. These tears all threaten to fall off the tips of the long, gray branches but they never do. What? No, I'm not a writer. What an odd question!

There is no wind in the woods. This realization arrives when people see that nothing is shaking, suddenly knowing that the cold in their bones is from within, not without. Nice and warm in here, isn't it? You almost look like you're sweating. The continual howling sounds just enough like the wind that they can lie to themselves, if they are either too smart or too stupid to admit the truth.

The roots are carpal bones, grasping at nothing. Those are the bones of the hand, just so you know. Not everyone knows that. Where was I? Oh, yes, the roots. Twitching, slowly cracking, they ache for a hand to hold tightly and never let go. Nobody looks at these roots closely. No one. The fog obscures them most days. Even if a person were to catch a glimpse of them in the corner of their eye, they would find their posture suddenly improved, eyes continually held front and center. The occasional crack under their foot would register as a twig because that's what it had to be. There's no grass. Not even dead grass. Only mud. Terrible mud in these parts, isn't there? Around spring? Hmmm. You're awfully quiet all of a sudden.

I know. I know what it is. You don't believe me, do you? Well, that's fair. You might think people would notice such a forest. You may assume they speak of it in terrified whispers. You could think the woods a local legend, a national fairy tale, a terrible shared hallucination.

You would be wrong.

The truth is that nobody ever remembers these woods. Nobody ever speaks of them because no one ever knows them. Save for the deranged, of course.

People who travel through them safely - those lucky, lucky few - do not remember the woods, much less speak of them. They never recall them, except in dreams that leave them awake at odd hours, panting for breath. Their friends, family and lovers cannot explain the changes in them afterwards but then again, neither can they. Some are left shadows of their former selves; others now live as if all fear had been erased from them. Are you all right? You look a little peaked.

Of course, some people - some people choose to stop in the woods. They choose to sleep there or hunt for game. They are the foolish, the brave or the merely desperate.

Hmmm? Oh, yes. Game! Despite what you might think, there are animals in these woods. Oh, yes. None of them have names. All of them have teeth. So many teeth. So many.

You wouldn't want to meet anyone who survived a night in the woods.

They're deranged, you know.

My scars? Why do you ask?