Trespassing—a Criminal Offense

“Trespassing—a Criminal Offense” was selected as a Juried Winner of short fiction in Short Edition’s America: Color It In Contest, summer 2020.

The dryad who lives inside the oak tree has been terrorizing the condo building dwellers for generations. She throws acorns, pours sap, and drops pollen on their cars, and causes severe allergies in people. She used to be a condo dweller herself, at the time when condos were a rarity, and most houses in the city were privately owned. Her clothing is in tatters now, save for an oilcloth raincoat, and for her drawers, silky like her skin. They survived because of her modesty, though no one sees her except for squirrels, and, only once, a woodpecker.

But today she comes out, for the first time in many years. Her legs finally got numb from sitting in a tight place, though her circulation is so slow that it took a long while for them to do so. Cautious as she is, she comes out shortly after midnight, on a weeknight, when the people are mostly asleep. If someone weren’t, they would see a short woman, almost a child, covered from head to toe by an antique raincoat. It would seem strange because it isn’t raining, but the city is full of strange people.

She walks, gazing at the stars, until she bumps into a man. He’s taller than her by half. But she’s so strong that he stumbles.

“I’m sorry,” she says.

“Who the hell are you?” He doesn’t look happy. “You look weird.”

“My name is Annabel Van Winkle.”

He snarls. “Do you know you’re trespassing? Trespass is first and foremost a criminal offense.”

His eyes—her night vision is sharp—are glued to her face. It’s like the touch of a spider.

“I live here.”

“In what apartment?”

She points to the tree.

“Are you making fun of me? I’m a police officer.”

“No, sir.”

His voice is like a dog’s bark. “You must leave. Now.”

No one has spoken to her like that for a long time. She’s a lady. It’s very upsetting. She stumbles and catches his arm for balance. That’s what nerves do to you.

He pushes her back.

“You’re assaulting me. I must place you under arrest.”

“I’m sorry,” she says. “I’m leaving.”

“It’s too late for that.”

She decides against arguing. She turns away and strolls toward the tree. She feels his body slam into her, and she’s knocked down, her face in the dirt. His knee is on her back. Then he speaks to someone who’s not there. She knows it’s called a cell phone.

“I’m sorry I have to do it to you,” he says when he’s done speaking to his invisible friends. “I’m not a racist. I feel that all lives matter. Yesterday, I knelt in front of a crowd of demonstrators. I caught flak for that from my buddies.”

She doesn’t know what “flak” is. She’s not in the mood for enriching her vocabulary.

“Are you OK?” he asks. His voice sounds gentle and tender. “I don’t want you to get hurt.”

The earth is warm and soft, but she’s embarrassed to lie like that, underneath a man. She pushes him off her and strolls toward the tree.

“Stop!” he shouts. “Or I’ll shoot!”

She glances over her shoulder. He’s kneeling. He holds something that looks like a toy gun. She ignores that. Toy guns can’t hurt a dryad.

She smooths her hair the color of the winter sky. “I have to go now, young man. I’m sorry I pushed you. I didn’t mean to.”

She keeps walking.

“Stop,” he shouts. His voice is pleading now. “Stop.”

She keeps walking.

The first bullet sends splinters flying from her back, and sap is dripping.

She stumbles, but she keeps walking.

The sap is flowing after the second bullet.

She keeps walking. The tree is only three bullets away, and she has plenty of sap in her.

On the Move

The pundits say the zombie economy is complicated because they have no economy. The cornerstone of any economy is money. Zombies lack money. They have no jobs except for biting and staring. They are not even allowed to enter the bank, let alone apply for a credit card or open a checking account. They have no cash. Not even worn-out coins with an image of a woman with her eyes closed, her fangs sticking out, and her hands with vicious claws spread out above her head. That’s why the zombies are on the move. To the more welcoming financial pastures. To the land of opportunities. To the new horizons.

The zombies are moving into our neighborhood in columns of U-Haul trucks with out-of-state plates. They unload their furniture silently, their faces smeared with fake blood, their movements jerky. They had no money for gyms or ballet schools.

We are thrilled at first. We smile. We invite them to veggie dinners. We take selfies with them. We try to hire them as gardeners and construction workers. They refuse. Sometimes zombies bite, but mostly they sit on the porches, playing with their phones or staring at us. Their kids scream in ultrasound, and our dogs howl, and our cats run away. The zombies come to the chain stores, offices, and banks and stare at the clerks and tellers. All the places of employment are moving out of town. We have no jobs left. Our economy is ruined. The cash we have left is useless.

One backward man among us shoots at a zombie. The zombie is not hurt, but the man is arrested. Not for long, because the cops run away.

We lose our nerves, pack up, and leave in columns of U-Haul trucks. The newly erected sign behind us says “Velcome to Zombieland.” It makes sense: the letter V takes less paint than the letter W. More paint left for fake blood.

We arrive at the next town. The locals are thrilled at first. They smile. They invite us to veggie dinners. They take selfies with us. We sit on our new porches, play with our phones, and stare at our new neighbors. They try to stare back, but we don’t blink, and they look away. They already lost all their pets to our children’s screams. They will be packing soon. This is a big, welcoming country. Lots of space, and the gas is cheap. Many banks are still open.

Money Chronicles: A Story Initiative — Winner & Finalist