Fat & Bones by Larissa Theule

Fat stood on the topmost branch of the tree, gazing in the direction of the farmhouse. Something had happened. He could feel it in the tips of his blue wings. The farmer’s wife had not yet made a trip to the pigpen, and already the afternoon sun had begun to lick the fields. A slight shiver passed through Fat. There would be a full moon tonight.
    Fat sniffed the air and smelled something putrid. Something else too. Something faint and pleasant, like new seedlings coming up from the dark earth.
    Change. That’s what the fairy smelled.

    Fat adjusted his belt. He had observed lately that Bald had grown stooped and weak. The old farmer would drop tools and could no longer carry heavy machinery. One time, a pig had broken loose from the pen and pushed Bald over so the old man’s crooked legs waved in the air.
    Lately, Bald’s son Bones had taken over the farm. Fat hated Bones, as Bones hated Fat. Although they’d never spoken to each other, their hatred had grown dense and deep, too thick and round not to roll over everything in its path. Nobody knew the reason why. Some said it was because Bones had shot BBs at Fat when Bones was younger, and Fat had responded by dumping a potion in Bones’s coffee that turned his hair into bramble. Or they might have hated each other because one wished for wings and the other wished to be tall. Whatever the reason, nothing would do but for their hatred to burn itself out.
    Fat sniffed again. Death. That was the change in the air.
    The door to the farmhouse opened. Bones carried out the body of his dead daddy and dumped it into a crude hole. He began to shovel dirt on top. When Bald was covered up, Bones dropped the shovel and turned to Fat’s tree, the only tree in the field. Bones grinned. It was the kind of grin that could make one’s stomach shrivel like a raisin. Bones had buried peace along with his daddy. Bones wanted war.
    Fat smiled. War would be a nice change of pace. To create a bit of disorder, a little chaos. Quite a welcome change, really. He went into his hole to plan.

    Back inside the farmhouse, Bones patted his weeping mother on the back. He himself felt no sorrow for the loss of his father; his heart was too small. “Don’t worry yourself, Ma. I’ll take care of you.”
    Bones had no idea how to take care of himself, let alone his mother. In fact, he only noticed her when she placed a plate of food in front of him. Even then, his acknowledgment of her came in the form of a hungry grunt.
    Mrs. Bald rocked harder in her chair, enormous tears tumbling down her cheeks.
    â€œMa, please, get over it,” said Bones in as kind a voice as he could manage. “Pa’s dead. Dead is dead. No point crying about it.”
    Mrs. Bald wept louder.
    â€œC’mon, Ma.”
    Mrs. Bald’s tears began to soak her hair and clothes.
    â€œMa, put a sock in it!” roared Bones. “I’m hungry. Fix me a pot of pig foot stew. That’ll set you right.”
    He grabbed his hat and charged through the front door, kicking aside the cat’s shiny red food dish on his way out. He had planned on waiting until the following day to chop down Fat’s tree, but Ma’s crying grated on his nerves. A good swing of the axe was just what Bones needed. A good swing of the axe would get rid of that wretched fairy, and all would be well.
    Hate has a habit of rendering its keepers blind. Which is why Fat did not look down to see Bones lumbering through the wheat toward his tree, never mind the axe in Bones’s hand. Nor did Bones look up to see Fat navigating the air currents above him.
    Bones reached the tree. Without stopping to plant his feet, he swung the axe, lost his balance, and fell to his knees. A strand of wheat whipped across his face. He growled and picked himself up. The next time, he stood firmly, his feet a stable distance apart. He swung the axe across his shoulder, gritted his teeth, and whack!
    A shriek of pain