How Forests Are Made (A Short Story)

Once upon a time, there was one tree. Not just any tree, that tree was the epitome of mystery. It had an old, wizened look about it and it gave anybody who saw it the intention to turn around and go back to where they came from. Nobody had ever been close to that tree. Until one day, the boy came. He was a happy little rascal and he walked right up to the tree and watched. He watched the tree moving it’s almighty tendrils; he looked at the spots of dark moss, covering the ancient carcasses of animals that ventured too far, he glimpsed a sight of the lost world inside the tree and he just stood and watched. Some unnatural force that was almost hypnotic held him there in that spot. For a seemingly endless time he just stood and watched.

Days, months, and even years passed, yet the boy never made a move. The dark moss that covered the tree spread, and concealed the boy’s legs. He looked like a shining beacon in the midst of all that rot, even though he was filthy. The boy grew higher, ascending, climbing and rising to touch the dense, foreign fog that covered the sun from his now glassy eyes. His arms stretched and extended, outwards towards nowhere. His hair became crammed with green moss and grew into a mass of tangles. Then, there were not one, but two trees. Branches’ lengthening, never to touch, leaves growing, for no purpose, trunks strong, never to be moved.

Once upon a time, there were two trees. Not just any trees, those trees were the epitome of mystery. They had old, wizened looks about them and they gave anybody who saw them the intention to turn around and go back to where they came from. Nobody had ever been close to those trees. Until one day, a boy came.

By Chance