The Inconvenient Twig Man

“She saw him. Heart pounding and barely able to breathe, she took small steps backwards, feeling for branches with her hands and roots with her feet.Lifting her foot, she set her toes down, wincing at the inaudible rustle of dry leaves. His head, lips darkened with a liquid she did not want to acknowledge, slowly rose from his meal, ears twitching. Every muscle in her body tensed in fight-or-flight instinct. Thanking God, Jesus, and every saint and sinner that made her wear dark grey and black tonight, his eerie yellow eyes moved past her. Inwardly breathing a sigh of relief, she finally set her heel down. Right onto a twig. Perfectly placed so that her heel came directly down in the middle of the thin brittle wood, at a spot where the small ‘snap’ echoes just enough to make his ears prick up and his head to swivel straight towards her. Taking a deep breath, his eyes narrowed and his body smoothly followed the path of his head, ears pricked up for any hint of any noise coming from the spot of the ‘snap’. Again, the fight-or-flight instinct did battle with her tensed muscles. This time, as he started towards her, the flight instinct won. She turned and bolted as the wolf-man started loping after her, on hairy hands and feet, running partly like a wolf and partly like a man. She didn’t get far enough fast enough.”

Do you realize the pivotal point in that story? What drives that tiny little snippet of a bad horror flick forwards? The tiny little detail which, if removed, could potentially change the entire tale? That’s right. The twig. The plot device used in nearly every forest where our beloved hero(ine) sees something terrible, some monstrous secret, is revealed in a moonlit clearing. Maybe it’s even a full moon, with dark storm clouds that parted just in time for the hero(ine) to see clearly every detail, or at least enough to become terrified of the villain. And as they’re slowly backing away, you know, you just know, there will be a twig. It will snap under their cautious feet and they will immediately freeze. And the villain will do an incredibly slow head turn, building up tension. Then, maybe they’ll stand first, and then start moving towards the protagonist, or just immediately start running towards the noise. And then a chase begins, with branches tearing at clothes, and maybe the protagonist gets away, maybe s/he doesn’t. But it all starts with that twig.

I am proud to be the keeper of those twigs. I can spend hours finding the perfect one. It can’t be too long, otherwise the ‘snap’ might not be loud enough, and it can’t be too short or it won’t snap at all. It can’t be too thick or thin or wet. God, I hate wet twigs. They take forever to dry. But oh, when they’re dry and brittle and the perfect length, I can’t wait to use them. Naturally, I’ll also collect a couple of dry leaves to place around the twig, to give fair warning to the protagonist. Not my fault if the leaves don’t make enough noise. That’s my wife’s business. And she does it perfectly, the darling, darling woman.

Now, if you want puddles, go talk to the sky. My business is solely twigs. Not branches either, there is a huge difference between twigs and branches. Twigs are considerably thinner and generally shorter than branches. Do you ever read “and the branch broke beneath his/her foot” in a horror story? In any story? No, of course not! Branches have no business being a plot device. They’re merely used as last resort weapons or to leave scratches or smack people in the face. Simple details that have little effect in the overall story.

As for roots, pah! Even worse. A character can trip over their own feet just as easily as they can trip over a root. And there is no science, no math, no planning or difficulties that can possibly go into the placement of a root. Perhaps if the tree was alive and able to move, but that’s only about as interesting as another person sticking out their foot to trip a person. To even think about the possibility that tree grew that root at that specific spot, to that specific height, for the sole purpose of tripping someone, is astoundingly arrogant. It takes years for roots to grow strong and thick, and besides, roots have a much greater purpose. To provide sustenance for a tree, not to trip a person. I mean, really, how full of oneself would a person have to be to believe a root grew specifically to trip them? That person needs to get over him or herself.

Now, twigs? Ah, now there is a plot device! Without the twig, that female in the story at the beginning could have gotten away safe and sound. She could have warned future victims, or used blackmail to control the wolf man. The story could have gone in a completely different direction. But it didn’t. Because of that perfectly placed twig. You may applaud me: I know I do a good job. I will place that twig in the exact spot that it is needed. Close enough for someone to die, far enough for someone to get away, or in the exact spot where they will be able to run far enough so that the villain and aid can arrive at the perfect times.

And, of course, the twigs must be placed right after the protagonist positions themselves, so as to prevent an early snapping of the twig. Or, depending upon the client’s desire, before the protagonist is able to see the antagonist’s doings or hide themselves. The timing of the twig snap can be a tricky thing, and placing it for the perfect timing is even trickier. I manage it with a healthy deal of luck and a mind for maths. Top of my physics class I was. Who knew, schooling is actually rather useful at times.

The ‘snap’ of that beautiful twig is the most beautiful sound, signalling the release of suspense but the start of tension. Will they be caught? Will they get away? If they’re caught, will help arrive in time? All those questions flood into your mind when that twig snaps. When I pick up the snapped twig, 5 out of 10 times it’s broken exactly in the middle. I can be off about half an inch or a couple of centimeters sometimes, I will admit to that. But hey, I can’t control where a person places their foot. Only what’s beneath it. That is my job: the inconvenient twig man. If you ever want to refer to the master of the inconveniently (for the hero/ine) placed twigs, just say my name.

Think of me next time you watch a protagonist in the forest, watching dastardly deeds being done: John Gregory, the inconvenient twig man.