Rachel Hickingbotham is a neurodivergent writer from the north of England, currently studying English Literature and Creative Writing. Drawing on over 15 years of experience supporting individuals with complex needs, her work is rooted in a deep understanding of how circumstances shape identity, opportunity, and voice.

She is particularly interested in exploring the inner lives of complex characters, often focusing on themes of perception, misinterpretation, and the fragile line between connection and isolation. She is increasingly drawn to settings that quietly shape a story as much as any character.

As a self-proclaimed ‘waffler,’ short stories pose a serious challenge, making her even more determined to figure out how they work.

When not writing, she can be found attempting (usually unsuccessfully) to wrangle her hyperactive fiancé and 3 spoiled cats, absconding to Scandinavia or pestering the local library to take out way more books than she can read.

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The Sentinel

I am watchful. I am still. I am a sentinel of the woods. My roots have pierced the hard, snow-packed earth for centuries and may do so for centuries to come. I have stood since Vikings walked here, leather shoes snagging in my roots as they set up their camps for evenings long since passed.

I have witnessed the passage of the seasons. I remain the same, green and constant, as the outfits of those around me change from verdant greens to burnished golds and reds. I have seen life, death and rebirth. My limbs have cradled the nests of birds and the cosy drey of squirrels. Infinitesimally small scars mar my bark, the signs of tiny claws long-since gone.

It is never completely still here. Never completely quiet. The rustle of small creatures through the undergrowth. Birds call and deer stalk. The susurration of the leaves disturbed in the breeze. The playful splash of rainfall creating small, trickling pools where sycamore seeds and discarded leaves skim peacefully over the surface. All of these sounds makeup the fabric of the forest, but the pervading sense of peace remains.

This night, the peace is to be shattered.

A russet-haired beauty bursts through the trees, her dress glowing white-blue in the moonlight. It would have been lovely but for the pulls and tears made by clutching branches and sharp-thorned brush. Dirt-streaked and sheened with perspiration, her skin is porcelain pale. Her eyes are alight with terror. Her feet are bare, and she shudders with cold.

Laboured breaths come faster, faster, hanging mist-like in the frigid air before her. She stumbles, catches herself, her trembling hand against my bark and her fear is palpable. For a moment, her terror is my own. She claps both hands to her mouth to silence her own whimpers as she catches her breath.

The sudden, tempestuous cacophony caused by her pursuer’s approach wipes away all other thought or feeling. Creatures scamper, a nearby doe darts off through the brush, white tail flashing its goodbye. The girl searches wildly for a place to hide, but this is his plan, this is his game, there is no place for his quarry to escape him.

He is known to this place. Echoes of his presence linger still. It is not the first time he has been here. He knows this place well. His step rarely falters, his hands reach for obstacles before they make themselves known, a draping vine, a low-hanging branch. The last girl was blonde… maybe a year or two younger than this one… He caught her much more easily.

She cowers against my trunk, and it takes him a second to spot her, but he does. Of course. He drags her from the ground, slamming her back against my trunk. I do not falter. Her screams rent the air. She claws wildly at his arms, his face and neck, any part of him that she can reach. She is a fighter, this one, and as much as I am able, I will help her to keep fighting as they crash into the hard-packed earth, struggling. Her for survival, him for dominance.

His hands wrap effortlessly around her graceful, slender throat, and he squeezes with all his might. This is the first time he has truly lost control. His cool nature has been overridden by the insult of her sheer refusal to give in, and he snarls with white-hot rage as he throttles her. She gasps wordlessly as her thin fingers clutch at his hands, trying to loosen his hold. Her eyes begin to roll back, and he grins with satisfaction, but does not release his grip. Instead, he relishes in the disjointed jerking of her limbs. He moves back only when her dress is wet with her body's dying release.

She lies still now, broken, doll-like, her hips twisted at an unbecoming angle, arms and legs splayed out, the fingertips of her left hand trailing in a half-frozen pool of water. Her wide, unseeing eyes catch the silvery moonlight, making them appear as coins left for the ferryman. The sight is as saddening as it is disturbing, and I pity her, this once-vital girl. Leaves fall, as though my kind have decided to cover her and give back what modesty he has taken.

He sits back on his heels, regaining his breath. The hands that only moments ago snuffed out life rake the long, dark hair back from his face without a tremor. An owl lands upon my outstretched branch and its haunting cry hangs on the air. The wind rustles through my leaves as though in answer. He gets to his feet and turns his back. He does not look at her again. Her purpose served, his interest in her spent.

The forest stills. His footfalls fade as he makes his way back down to the pathway. A tough walk, confusing for one not familiar with the way. This is not a problem he knows.

It is not a problem she will ever know.

She is part of the forest now.