These aren't the stories your mother told you.

No, these are the other stories.

The Emerald Children, written by Daniel Wilcox, narrated by Josh Curran.

I can't feel my fingers anymore, let alone my feet and toes.

The rope they bound me with is uncomfortable, biting into the skin, irritating,

as though one of the children is rubbing sandpaper furiously against the flesh until the blood begins to spill.

Maybe they are, I wouldn't be able to tell. The kids are practically silent, busying themselves like worker bees in a colossal hive.

I hadn't even heard them when they'd snuck into the church, pulled the large front doors

open and carried me from the pew where I'd been napping.

So maybe not worker bees, Maybe some kind of ant.

They're all still at it now, unrelenting.

Kids are lucky like that.

They have those endless reserves of energy that keep them going far beyond the hours when

adults are able to keep up.

Come on, come on.

I mumbled through gritted teeth. Feeling sweat break out all over my naked body.

The rope is bound tight, but a few hours ago I found a sharp snag of rot that jutted out behind me

and I'd been soaring away ever since. It's not as easy as they make it look in the films.

A quick slash in the hero is free, but I feel like I'm making progress. There's a tingly sensation coming to my

fingers as the rope loosens and the blood begins to flow again. In the large cavern below,

the thousands of children run their roots in the straight lines that weave along the stony floor.

I'm somewhere high up on a ledge, able to overlook it all.

...