It's coming to the time of year when we ring off the dead trees, for the good of everything else. By now you can tell by sight which ones are gone and that's a blessing for sure. In the months before spring there's always that worry that you'll brush against a tree that's died and carry that death with you to the next living thing.
Everyone knows that passing the death on ensures your own but for some they'd rather be dead than sent into isolation on one of the thousands of micro-islands that have been made since we found it could only spread through touch. The centuries before were fraught with misunderstanding and countless unnecessary deaths.
Some say that we made the death as a bioweapon against foreign forces, others say nature is trying to reclaim its place in the slices of earth we've carved out for ourselves. I choose to think of it as something in between, after all everything adapted from somewhere and what better place to start than a laboratory somewhere deep in the north pole, one slightly cracked window and a strong arctic wind to share whatever has been created - for better or worse.
I've lost count of how many times I've seen people trying to shove each other into dead trees out of anger, spite or some petty argument but I never thought I'd be next. All I did was smile at a stranger and not even an hour later I'm being pushed through the protective ring by their jealous partner.
There's no way to tell who carries the death, it's the only thing keeping me here.
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