Sticks

The summer breeze ruffled the leaves of the ivy bush. The sun warmed the foliage, and the twigs swayed gently. Droplets of dew beaded on the tips of the lush green leaves, glistening like diamonds — nature’s own jewels adorning the bush. To the untrained eye, everything seemed normal, just any other ivy bush. But to those who listened very closely, they might have heard the exchange.

"Stan? Are you there?" a quiet voice whispered, almost as if it were just a puff of wind.

Silence answered. There was no sign of life in the ivy bush, though after a few moments the voice spoke again.

"Stan? Where are you?"

After another long pause, there was a gentle yawn.

"Morning, Steve. Yes, I'm here. At least, I think I'm here."

"What do you mean?" Steve asked in confusion.

"Well, I feel like I'm here, and I can hear myself — but that's it," Stan explained.

"That's it? What do you mean?"

After a few moments of thought, Stan replied, "I can't see myself. In fact, when I think back, I can't remember ever having seen myself."

Steve thought for a moment and slowly came to the same conclusion. "You're right. I can't remember ever having seen myself either. But we are stick insects!"

"How do you know that, Steve?" Stan asked. "You could just be a voice in my head."

"My mother told me I was a stick insect," Steve informed him, matter-of-factly.

"Did you ever see your mother?"

A sudden realisation hit Steve. "No. I've got no memory of what my mother looked like."

Stan exhaled a sharp breath. "You see. Maybe she was just a voice inside your head."

"Or maybe we're both voices inside hers," Steve suggested.

A shadow briefly darkened the leaves with a quiet wisp of wind, and then was gone. The bush rustled nearby, followed by a shrill chirp. The voices fell silent. The wind continued to rustle the leaves, whispering its own tale across the air.

Long moments passed. The sounds of nature played their sweet symphony through the air. You would have been forgiven for thinking the voices had never occurred in the first place.

But then —

"Stan? Are you there?"

"I think so," Stan replied. "I mean, I can hear myself."

"What was that?" Steve asked. "Did you hear it?"

"I think it was a bird," Stan said, before thinking for a moment. "Though I didn't see it. Maybe it was just in my head."

"But I heard it too."

"You didn't see it though, right?"

Steve thought for a moment. "Well, no."

"Just another voice inside this head," Stan mused. "Whoever's it is."

"No. I refuse to believe that I'm just a voice," Steve stated abruptly. "Look at me. I'm waving my leg."

"I don't know where you are. How can I look at you?"

"Well, look around. Can't you see me waving?" Steve asked in desperation.

"I'm not really sure what I'm looking for," Stan admitted.

"It will look like a thin stick waving."

Stan looked around and saw nothing but small sticks waving in the wind. "I'm sorry, Steve. I see hundreds of sticks waving. But it's just the wind."

Silence followed as Steve considered the possibility that he didn't exist — that he was just a disembodied voice, fighting for the right to exist.

Suddenly, an idea came to Steve. One that would prove or disprove he was a stick insect and real all along. "Stan? Do you see that leaf, way out in the open?"

"What, way out there?"

"Yes, that one."

"Yes, I can see it. But what is this all about?" Stan asked in confusion.

"Well, if I stood on that leaf, way out there away from all these sticks, then you should be able to see me, right?" Steve surmised. "That will prove that I'm a stick insect — and as a result, we can assume you are too."

"You can't go out there. It's dangerous," Stan said, growing nervous for his friend. "Does it really matter that much? Even if we're just voices, then we've got each other. Right?"

Steve considered Stan's warning before coming to a decision. "I need to know, Stan. I can't just be a voice. I need to know that I'm something. That my mother was something. I'll be careful."

Silence lingered as Stan looked out towards the distant leaf. Sticks swayed in the wind, but there was no sign of Steve. He waited for long moments, his hope at seeing his friend for the first time slipping away like the dew off the leaves around him.

Then suddenly, way out on the distant leaf, something stirred. A stick — a walking stick. Stan's heart filled with excitement. "STEVE! I CAN SEE YOU!" he shouted.

But Steve was not the only one to see Stan. A rustle in the bush, and then a whoosh of air and an ominous shadow.

"STEVE. LOOK OUT!" Stan cried, but his voice was lost to the breeze.

Stan watched in horror as the bird neared Steve. It snatched him up in its beak and then vanished into the morning sun.

Stunned to silence, Stan stared at the spot in the distance where Steve had occupied just moments before. Then a strange calm settled over him as he realised what all this meant.

"Well, I guess he was real."