about the poisonous berries dropping from the monster onto his grandma’s clean floor. He thought about his father. “I’m listening,” Conor said.
THE SECOND TALE
“One hundred and fifty years ago,” the monster began, “this country had become a place of industry.”
Factories grew on the landscape like weeds. Trees fell, fields were up-ended, rivers blackened.
The sky choked on smoke and ash, and the people did, too, spending their days coughing and itching, their eyes turned forever towards the ground.
Villages grew into towns, towns into cities. And people began to live on the earth rather than within it.
But there was still green, if you knew where to look.
(The monster opened its hands again, and a mist rolled through his grandma’s sitting room.
When it cleared, Conor and the monster stood on a field of green, overlooking a valley of metal and brick.)
(“So I am asleep,” Conor said.) (“Quiet,” said the monster. “Here he comes.”)
And Conor saw a sour-looking man with heavy black clothes and a deep, deep frown climbing the hill towards them.)
Along the edge of this green lived a man. His name is not important, as no one ever used it.
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