A Micro Graphic Novel Project
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Attending to the Hour
By Gord Sellar
I wish it had gone the way they'd told me it would.
It's not a glamorous life, out here, hacking down trees. Sometimes it feels as if they're whimpering.

I would do another kind of work, if I could.
But I don't know how well I would do it.

I wish I hadn't come too late. Too late. Being too late, like angry words, cannot be taken back.

The timber wolf grinning behind the door. It knew.
I could see it in the thing's eyes, the sneering, the sureness of its victory.

My axe took of its head. It took three chops.

There was a little red cloak at the foot of the bed, that I found later, beside a ravaged bundle of food. I realized whose things they had been only days later, when I came back with my saw.

It was then I realized that the girl had still been alive, when I'd first come. They hadn't lied to me; they'd just been... vague.
So now, I wait and warm myself a little, sitting by my window. I am waiting for the hour, listening for their voices in the winter dark.

They're not the only creatures that can hunt at night, under the silent moon.
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