October 2011 Writing Challenge - Voting Now Closed!

[Autumn2May]

The woods are lovely, dark, and deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep. - Robert Frost


_{Image by sparksoffire}

A journey through a forest can be a peaceful and centering experience.  The beauty of nature, the earth below and trees above, can leave a man or woman feeling at one with the world and make them a better person for it.  You are not here to write about this type of forest.  This month we will tell a darker tale, of haunted woods and frightening beasts, that most wish to never have cross their paths.

October's challenge is to write a short story or scene involving an evil or spooky wood as the main setting.

The rules are as follows:

1. Must be prose.
2. 1,500 - 2,000 words.
3. Must take place in a forest or wood and contain an element of fantasy.

The contest is now closed!  And the winner is:

timwestover

Congratulations to our winner!

[William McMonnies]

OLD MAN FOREST

‘Admit it, Faldek, we are lost aren’t we?’
Christel dropped her bag onto the forest floor and leant against the trunk of a huge beech. ‘I’m not walking another step until you admit it.’
Faldek stopped and walked back to her.
‘All right, I admit it. We came through this glade an hour ago. We must have walked in a circle.’
‘—And an hour before that.’
‘Are you sure? All these trees look the same.’
‘I’m sure.’
Faldek dropped his bag and sat heavily at the base of the tree. He took out his water bottle, taking a long swig before handing it to her. She shook her head and he re-corked it.
‘So, what do you suggest?’
Christel looked up at the sun filtering through the high branches. It was past midday, she reckoned. From the stories they had heard in the village, they didn’t want to be here when night fell. But they were just stories, weren’t they? she tried to reassure herself.
‘Maybe we should try to find our way back to the village.’
‘But we must be more than half way though by now.’
‘We don’t know that.’
Faldek sighed. He knew that the way through the forest would be difficult. There were no marked paths and the canopy was so thick it all but blotted out the sun. He rolled down his knee socks and looked at the scratches on his shins. Worse than that were the noises. At first they sounded like small animals in the undergrowth and he’d shrugged them off. But as they got closer to the centre of the woods, they began to sound more like footsteps, as if they were being followed.
‘Let’s try and get our bearings,’ he said, pulling himself up on a low branch. ‘If I climb above the canopy I might be able to see a way out.’
‘No,’ said Christel, ‘you remember what the old crone told us about the trees? It’s not safe.’
But he was already half way up the beech tree. She could hear the twigs snapping as he swung himself from branch to branch.
‘Be careful!’ she shouted.
Then the noises stopped. He must have reached the top, she thought. So, she waited.
The old woman in the tavern had scared her. ‘You thinking of going through the forest eh?’ she had said, ‘I wouldn’t if I were you. But, if you do, there’s three things you need to know. Stay together. Don’t get separated, because that’s Old Man Forest’s way y’see. He likes to get you on your own. Second, make sure you are out before sunset. All kinds of things come out in the dark, things you don’t want to be meeting. Ah, and whatever you do, don’t climb the trees.’
She strained her ears for the faintest rustling from above but there was no sound.
‘Faldek!’ she called, the panic rising in her voice.
‘What?’
She jumped. He was standing behind her, a stupid grin on his face.
‘You scared the life out of me. How did you get down without me seeing?’
‘Up one tree and down another.’
‘How come I didn’t hear you?’
He shrugged.
‘So did you see anything?’
‘I think we should head east. It looks to thin out that way.’
‘Isn’t that the way we went before?’ she asked but he was already striding away towards the trees.

Christel was convinced they would end up circling the glade again but this time Faldek strode on ahead of her with a new sense of purpose. It’s as if he knows the way, she thought. Instead of thinning, the forest seemed to be getting more dense. After two hours it was almost too dark to see, even though, by her reckoning it was mid afternoon. She tripped over a root and fell heavily to her knees.
‘Wait!’ she called to Faldek, but he didn’t even slow his pace. She pulled herself up and jogged after him, ‘Faldek! Wait for me.’
She realised she could not see where her feet were landing. Nothing for it, she thought, I need light or I will injure myself. She stopped briefly and pulled a little magic from the trees. A faint ball of light popped into existence and she made it hover a couple of feet from the forest floor. Better. She knew they had been warned against using magic in the forest unless they had to, but she had to catch up with her companion.
She ran headlong towards the sound of Faldek’s footsteps, keeping her eyes on the ground. He’s only walking, she thought, So, why aren’t I catching up with him?

Deep in the Forest the Great Oak stirred. Older than the Forest, some say as old as the earth itself, it spent most of its days in slumber. But now it stirred. Someone was in his forest: someone was drawing power from the trees. His trees. He send out a message deep underground; the message passed from root tip to root tip through the damp earth. The funghi picked up the message and moved it across the forest floor in an instant. <<Who is here? >> resonated through the trees. <<Who is here? >> the leaves whispered. The birds fell silent and the earth creatures retreated to their burrows.
Then came the message back: <<They are two. >>
Another message, from a little further into the forest: <<He is with us. She is not. >>
Good, thought the Great Oak, he will lead her to me and then she will be with us too.

Christel had stopped calling to her companion. He wasn’t answering, and try as she might she was unable to catch him. Each time she drew near he moved away from her. As if by magic, she thought. ‘Whatever you do don’t climb the trees.’ Why? What happened when you climbed the trees? She sent out a mind link, tried to connect with Faldek. Each time she could feel their minds connecting, the link was lost. It was like trying to grasp a piece of wet soap. Was he blocking her? No, it didn’t feel like that; it felt like someone else was blocking her. Gingerly, she extended her search, put out thought links like the tendrils of a climbing plant, wrapping themselves around the thoughts. They probed and pushed through the air, ran through the boughs and around the trunks until they found what they were looking for. Someone else was in the forest. She could sense him.
Christel focused all her attention on this other. Should she risk mind linking? She had fallen into a jog but realised that Faldek was getting no further ahead, so stopped. Faldek stopped too. She took a step forward. So did he. She stood, searching for a way into the mind of the new entity. She was sure that whoever was blocking Faldek’s mind link was also controlling his movements. Don’t climb the trees.

The Great Oak saw that they had stopped. It annoyed him. This one is clever. Oh yes, more than the others, he thought. She has worked it out. No matter. She will be with us soon. He felt the thought-tendrils creeping towards his mind. So she wants to link with my mind? Then I might just allow it. He reached out with his mind and allowed the tendril to close around his consciousness.

The blow hit Christel’s mind like a hammer hitting her skull. Whoever she had linked with had a mind bigger than anything she had linked to before. Even so, she sensed that she was only linking with a part of the entity; there was more behind the consciousness, not part of the entity but joined to it. Like a forest of minds, she thought. Now she could feel the entity pushing back, probing her mind. No matter. She would block it. She knew how to do that. She blocked, and the entity pushed through. She blocked again and the entity pushed through again. She thought about blocking even more strongly, but stopped herself. This is like trying to run after Faldek, she thought. The faster I run the further he moves away. So, she stopped blocking. She let the entity link with her, sensed its enormity. Now she had its attention she could feel its anger. Then came the message, repeated over and again: You will be with us, it said. You will be with us. She tried to pull back from the link, but their minds were so intricately connected. She would need to undo each strand, one by one. Then the thought came: If he is so closely linked with me, what about Faldek?
She gently put out a link and pushed against Faldek’s consciousness. This time it slipped through.
:Faldek?
:Christel? What happened? Where am I?
:No time to explain. You have to help me.
:How?
:Can you move?
:No my legs won’t work. What’s happening?
:Don’t panic. I think you’ve been trapped by something. It happened when you climbed the tree.
:I’m scared Christel. Help me.
:No Faldek, concentrate. You can break the link now. It’s weaker now.
She drew more power from the trees around her and pushed it towards Faldek. Careful now, not too much. But the entity was so intent on the link with her mind he did not notice. She watched Faldek beginning to glow with a pale green light. Slowly he started to move towards her.
:No! Not this way! Get out. Get out and bring help.
She saw him look at her, his face contorted with grief.
:Christel!
:Go.
Then he was gone.

Faldek came back with the others but it was too late. Christel wasn’t there. He’d found the spot he’d last seen her though. It was empty. Well, not quite empty. There was a sapling. He couldn’t be sure it wasn’t there before. Tall and slender, elegant; like her, he thought. He looked at its boughs, bending slightly in the breeze, the leaves rustled and brought back a memory. A whispered voice. Be with us, it said: Be with us.

[akapaoloverdi]

The Marking Tree
By Paul R Green
A slight northerly breeze brushed through the treetops leaving only the natural susurration of the drying autumn leaves in its wake. A single sycamore leaf lost its tenuous grip on its host and spiralled lazily to the forest floor, coming to rest at the base of the huge and ancient oak which stood alone almost exactly at the centre of the small dell below.
The oak itself was devoid of foliage after having been struck by lightning over a century ago. Its gnarled trunk as wide as a large horse had been stripped of bark from a height of about four feet from the ground up to about seven feet, and within this strip were carved a great number of paired symbols, each with one of the pair scored through. The symbols ringed the tree, some so old as to be illegible, others still clear though weathered.
At the base of the giant tree two distinct pairs of men stood sombrely. The oldest of the four, a rake thin man in his fifties, had followed the slow descent of the leaf, smiling a half smile as his weathered brown face found a rare patch of warm autumn sun. He closed his eyes enjoying the moment of tranquillity and much to the surprise of the others intoned in a rich and sonorous timbre. “Low autumn sunlight, canopies blaze with colour, a cold wind sweeps through.” Smiling again, he removed his plain, yet expensive, brown cloak and handed it to the man at his side, who folded it with a measured attention to detail that could only come through years of devoted service.
Across from these two, the youngest of the men, though he seemed of an age with his companion, tossed his bold blue cloak aside with casual abandon. “Such pretty words. Don’t you think?” He asked of his companion, then before he had chance to answer turned back to the older man. “I must make sure they’re conveyed to your next of kin.” he sneered.
The older man sighed, the breeze seeming to mirror his resigned breath as it skittered across the forest floor stirring the carpet of golden leaves that surrounded the men, briefly picking them up in a whispered waltz before letting them fall again just as abruptly. The servant glowered at the impudent youth, whilst his master carved an intricate swirling symbol into the ancient oak. Once finished carving he moved to a small dirt mound away from the tree, his servant following discreetly.
The younger man added his mark, a collection of sharp angles, then strode to a similar hillock about thirty feet from his opponent. His friend picked up the discarded cloak and hurried after. Once there the young man shook out his hands and rocked his neck from shoulder to shoulder , bouncing on the spot to set his heart racing and the blood pumping. “Ready when you are, old man.” He called between graceful lunges, his breath hardly troubled by the exertion.
“Are you so eager to return to the dust, then? And you so young? Tell me, have you even bedded a wench yet? Or do your tastes lie elsewhere” the old man retorted pointedly, casually letting his gaze slide from his opponent to the young man beside him, causing his own man to stifle the smile that crept unbidden to his lips.
His opponent’s nostrils flared as he drew in a deep breath, thrusting out his chest and sub-consciously drawing himself to his full height, like a rooster in a hen house.
The old man turned to his servant and in a marked stage whisper said, “Observe how he imitates the cock!” The emphasis on the last word punctured the young man’s bravado and he let out a guttural roar. “Enough! I’ve had my fill of your mockery, old man. I’ve shown you the courtesy of coming to this place, out of respect for the traditions of our trade, but I do not have to listen to such slander. My patience is at an end.” And with that he reached into the pouch at his waist.
The old man answered calmly. “You came here, because you feared the watch would interrupt our duel, so do not pretend otherwise. You have no respect for the traditions of our craft. It will be my pleasure to strike you from the lists.” 
The rustle of the leaves seemed to cheer the old man’s words as the wind picked up a pace, bringing in scudding clouds that covered the sun, lessening the already limited light beneath the trees.
The young man finished rummaging in his pouch and held out his hand, opening it up to reveal a smooth purple stone which began to pulse with a faint eldritch light. He raised his head and smiled a predatory smile as the stone flew toward his aged foe, gaining size as well as momentum, so that by the time it struck it was as big as two fists.
The old man flew back, landing hard despite the thick carpet of leaves covering the forest floor. His servant flinched but stayed where he was. The young man looked quickly to his friend almost in disbelief, grinning as his friend sycophantically congratulated him on the surprisingly quick victory.
The wind howled and shook the treetops sending more leaves to join their kin below in a roiling, churning dance that swept around the clearing.
“Rather premature of you, don’t you think?” came the old man’s voice, causing the presumptive victor to turn to where his foe had fallen only to find him gone. “Impossible.” He whispered, with a hint of awe, despite himself.
“Hardly.” came the reply, startling the young man further as even his friend, close as he was, could not have heard the aside. He spun around, eyes wide, desperately trying to locate his opponent but the voice came from everywhere and nowhere and the wind had brought even darker clouds, making it difficult to see too far into the woods that surrounded the dell.
He reached again into his pouch, this time producing an ivory carved owl which he quickly popped into his mouth.  His perception shifted and the warmth of his companion’s body blazed bright before him, and allowing a moment to let his eyes adjust he began to slowly scan his surroundings.
The darkness of the woods was sporadically speckled with the occasional glow from the numerous creatures which dwelt within, but the only other vividly pulsating life source came from the servant who waited as silent and still as the oak he stood beside. Gradually, with a growing sense of foreboding as he failed to find his foe, his gaze returned to his companion.
“Do you see him?” hissed his friend, hand clasped tightly upon the hilt of the sword at his waist. Before he could answer his companion’s chest exploded toward him, blown apart by the same glowing purple stone with which he had felled his opponent. Although the stones flight had been slowed by its passage through the body of his friend he had little time to react and was caught full in the gut by the stone. The impact doubled him over forcing the owl token from his mouth in a spluttering exhalation, leaving him prostrate in the dirt showered in hot sticky blood, shards of broken bone and gobbets of warm flesh.
Driven by adrenaline he rolled to his left, scrambling through dirt and leaves in an attempt to make himself a more difficult target. Sliding down a small depression he come to rest at its bottom where he frantically detached the pouch from his belt spilling a selection of small items onto the ground where he lay. His grubby fingers scrabbled through the scattered contents eventually retrieving a number of yellow gems which he clutched tightly in a grimy fist.
Taking one of the stones he lobbed it in the direction from which judged the attack had come, where it exploded in a ball of flame, turning the nearby trees to flinders and leaving a smoking crater below a gentle shower of smouldering leaves.
Not daring to stay in one place too long the young man scrambled away from the depression heading for the perceived protection of a nearby beech tree, nestled amidst a small briar patch. Standing behind it he pulled in a grateful breath and risked poking his head around the trunk to glance across the clearing.
Back on his mound stood the old man, a brace of green stones circling his body in contrasting orbits. He spoke normally, but once again his rich voice seemed to emanate from everywhere at once. “You should not have done that. Fire is prohibited here for good reason. Once again your lack of respect for tradition looms large. It will be the death of you.”
With a snarl, the young man stepped out from behind the tree and cast the remaining handful of stones toward his enemy only to curse loudly when their flight was halted and they simply joined the stones slowly orbiting the old man, who opened his own pouch and took out an uncommonly clear diamond the size of his palm. The old man raised the precious stone above his head, the wind gusting around the clearing circling him; whipping the leaves around him so high that he appeared to be knee deep at the centre of some great arboreal whirlpool.
The sun chose this moment to break through the clouds, sending a single shaft of blazing light into the clearing, where it struck the diamond and split into a myriad of coloured beams that danced across the young man’s awed face.
 Fear coursed through the young man’s veins as he felt the light upon his face, giving way to surprise and then relief as the anticipated pain failed to materialise and he realised that he wasn’t to be burnt alive. Bolstered by this he stood tall and smacked his palms together before him and began rubbing them furiously as he hissed a guttural incantation through gritted teeth.
The natural ambient noises of the forest, so intrinsic to their location as to have gone almost unnoticed, stopped dead; their presence only discerned by their absence. As the young man stopped chanting a sinister rustle at his feet drew his attention and he glanced down to see tendrils of bramble looping about his boots. Instinctively he kicked out in an attempt to dislodge the questing vegetation but the action prompted the stems to constrict further causing him to pitch forward into the muck. Again instinct drove his actions and he thrust out his hands to break his fall, harmlessly dissipating the energy that was building around them.
Small rifts opened in the ground where his hands touched, closing quickly around them leaving the young man’s arms buried to the elbows. “Damn you! I concede” he screamed, squirming violently in an attempt to escape his preternatural bonds.
The old man walked slowly to where his opponent lay, filthy and defeated, the brambles now completely enveloping his legs. “I’m afraid that is not up to me anymore.” He said as he dropped to his haunches with a grunt. “You really shouldn’t have thrown that firestone.” He admonished. Then leaning in close to the young man he whispered “The locals really didn’t like that.”
Standing, he beckoned his servant and, taking his cloak, began the pleasant walk home beneath lightening skies, as behind him the noises of the forest returned, only briefly marred by the muffled screams of his former apprentice. He stopped with a sigh and turned back. “I almost forgot.”
The old man stood before the tree and with a bold stroke scored through the young man’s carved mark, before walking away as behind him the leaves danced on the wind and the more bold of the forests scavengers stepped into the clearing with hungry eyes.

[tommy]

THE RULES
By Tommy O Neill

Ominous black clouds swallowed up all of the moons light. The forest darkened as if a giant blanket had been thrown over the canopy. All that could be heard to the naked ear was the whistling of leaves and the creaking and swaying of ancient and young trees alike. Nothing in the forest moved besides the trees it was as if they were dancing to a song that was getting ever faster and more complex as the storm slowly rolled in across the sky. Suddenly a shaky voice broke the silence from deep within the darkness
“I beg you please don’t do this you know the rules! You know what will happen if you break them “
“I have no choice! What do you expect me to do he has marked me, you saw him he marked me and he vowed that he would return to finish me off you’ve seen what they are capable of , I have to leave now “said a second slightly more high pitched scared voice
The first voice spoke again this time pleading
“If you try to leave you will be punished you do realise that don’t you?  And besides If one of them has seen you once you are to follow the rules and stay put as you have done but if he sees you again moved from here the curse will have you “
“The curse! “Shouted the high pitched voice with a little more conviction “The curse. No one believes in the stupid curse when have you ever heard of the curse working on someone? “Silence followed for a few heartbeats “Never that’s what I thought because it is fake there was never a curse to begin with it’s just a ploy to make sure we follow the stupid rules! “
 Suddenly from the darkness a third voice boomed loudly
“Who speaks? “The grated voice asked “Heed me the curse is not to be taken lightly! Tell me who it is that disturbs the peace with such folly“
“Don’t tell him please! “Begged the high pitched voice
“I won’t “replied the shaky voice now whispering
“Tell me now who speaks or else there will be serious repricutions the rules are ultimate and must be followed at all cost “
“Oh shut up you old fool “shouted the high pitched voice angry now
 A loud gasp could be heard “Who dares speak to the elder like that? State your names now “ came another voice equally as commanding as the booming grated voice yet lower more feminine almost.
There was nothing to be heard for a few moments except for the whistling and creaking of trees until a fifth raspy voice spoke out from the darkness.
“I know who speaks Great Lord Elder “it rasped “Why it is none other than Saplin and his dear brother Rootis. Saplin it seems is planning on leaving my Lord “
“Damn you Salder “screamed Saplin as he ripped his roots from the earth and began to race through the forest passing his brethren almost crab like. Rootis shouted for  him to stop but it was too late he had made his decision he was marked which meant the men were coming back for him to chop him down like his sister Sash and so many others before her.
As if on cue thunder shook the ground, rain began to pour down and lightning illuminated the trees as the great Lord Elder screamed “seize him” his booming voice ringing through the forest. Suddenly all the trees came alive and began swinging their great branches towards Saplin. He was lucky he was young and not yet fully grown as he was able to dodge and weave between his older brethren who were nowhere near as nimble as himself after decades of sleep. If he could make it two miles north where the trees stopped growing he would have some chance as slim as it was though it was still a chance.
More and more of the sleeping giants began to come alive and make a grab for him but time and time again he somehow managed to avoid their grasp. Then the younglings began to wake and heave their bodies from the soil which nurtured them. They were nimble and fast as they followed him crashing through the darkness. Some of the youngest ones were faster than he and made attempts to coil their branches around Saplin but although they were faster than him he was bigger and stronger and lashed out his with his own strong branches tearing them off  and sending them crashing to the ground as he continued on through the rain and the mud.
Suddenly a loud gut wrenching scream echoed through the forest stopping Saplin and all the others dead in their tracks. Saplin could have sworn it was …. Then another scream this time louder. Saplin was in no doubt it was Rootis. He turned to run back the way he had come when he heard another scream it wasn’t Rootis this time but whoever it was sounded as if they were being murdered . Then he heard a loud crack and another agonising scream closer this time.
They had come at last he knew it was them he knew they would come eventually. It was the humans coming to chop them down coming to murder them without a second thought coming to take their dead bodies away without a care in the world.
Rootis screamed again this time weaker. Saplin sped back toward his brothers screams which could only be heard by the trees themselves and nothing else, past all of his brethren that once again lay rooted to the spot where they had stopped . He knew it was against the rules to do nothing but stay still and let them murder you where you stood but he didn’t care he had already broken the rules once today and he wasn’t going to let them kill his brother as they did his sister. He flew into the clearing where his brother was when suddenly the human that had marked him days earlier turned around from his butchering to look straight at Saplin. His eyes opened wide with shock as Saplin lurched forward and landed face down on the dirt unable to move anymore.
So it is true Saplin thought to himself  when a human sees you once you have to stay in the position where he saw you and root yourself to the ground for all time because if you leave and the same human sees you again and recognises you in a different position the curse will take you. But this can’t be the curse can it? I simply can’t move and wait to die.
The human walked slowly to where Saplin lay not knowing what had just happened. “Hey Jerry “he shouted into the brightening forest as the first rays of sun began to touch the tree tops “did you chop down this here tree? “ When no answer came he spoke to himself “I coulda sworn it was over on the other side last week” he said taking out a small metal flask from his front pocket and taking a quick swig “and I coulda sworn it was moving a while ago as well” he said as he placed the flask back into his breast pocket and continued chopping down Rootis.
It didn’t take long for Saplin to find out what the real curse was. He could have never imagined that it would be as bad as it was. The curse he found out was that he could never die no matter how many pieces they chopped him into no matter how painful it was he couldn’t die. His body was split into hundreds of different items from smoking pipes to floor boards as was his sanity which thankfully for him he lost almost immediately.
 

[timwestover]

Unbroken Lines
Tim Westover

In our neighborhood, all the houses were alike; their complex geometry, indistinguishable. But mine was the most splendid of the identical houses, because I framed it with an impeccable lawn. Blades of grass stood in unbroken lines: crew-cut, uniform, regimental green. The lawn was the perfect complement to the red brick of the house itself, and behind that, the vast blue emptiness of sky.

But such a spectacle is paid for in vigilance. I walked the lawn every evening, being careful to vary my path so as not to flatten the zoysia. I suffered no weed to survive the night; I dug out their roots with a thin-bladed knife. My neighbors, dwelling in their own identical houses, let crabgrass spoil their property and lives.

The first sign was so small. During my patrol, I found a sapling, almost a foot tall, which had not been there the night before. I am aware of what occurs on my lawn above all other pieces of land in this world. I know it better than my own face in the mirror. Had the sapling instead been a tendril of kudzu, the stalk of a sunflower, even the grasping face of a dandelion, I could have understood its sudden appearance. But a sapling, no matter how small, does not sprout over night. I dug up the sapling and worried about its roots; how far could they have spread in a day?

I woke the next morning under a shadow. There was an oak in the middle of my front yard. Seventy feet above the lawn, the tree boasted a full crown of leaves, towering above the gable of my roof line. An irate squirrel, at my eye level, hissed at me and made what must pass for a rude gesture, then scurried upwards.

The tree came not only with fauna, but with flora, and all was bounded inside a precisely delineated patch of transplanted forest floor. Bounded by a ten foot by ten foot square, there were scrubby pine saplings, brambles, vines, fallen leaves, and twisted limbs. Exact unbroken lines separated the wild from my zoysia.

Could it have been a practical joke? I had had trouble with curious kids and ill-trained pups before, so I had aimed motion-sensing floodlights at the lawn. They had not been trigged in the night.

My neighbors slowed down as they drove past my house. I knew how to look into their faces, through their windshields. I was used to seeing jealousy—they looked upon my landscaping and despaired. But that day, behind their masks of surprise, I saw smug smiles. They couldn't wait to call the homeowners' association. They would put a yellow ticket on my door, a thirty dollar fine for "untidiness." It would be a blemish upon my heart.

I called every arborist listed for our town. None could make an emergency visit that day. A wind storm thirty miles away had thrown limbs into power lines, toppled trees over roads, and it was a bonanza for anyone with a chainsaw.

I moped around the house all day; I tried to stay away from the windows. I finally fell asleep once the sun hid my shame, but rustling wind unsettled my dreams.

The next morning, there were two oak trees in my lawn.

The newer arrival was as tall as its predecessor; it, too, came bounded with its own precise plot of forest floor. Beneath its crown were scrub pines and brambles and leaves and earthworms. I looked from one oak to the next, but I could see no difference. They were as alike as mirror reflections. From my window, I was derided by two squirrels, who turned their tails towards me in tandem and climbed above my head.

The arborist had no explanation. A tree is a tree, he said, and he was dismayed to cut down two healthy specimens for purely aesthetic reasons. I made a mental note to use a new arborist in the future. I watched his work, scolding him when I thought he was unnecessarily endangering the remaining zoysia. He lopped off all the limbs first, then brought down the trunks in sections, running each fragment through a chipper that sprayed a cloud of sawdust over my lawn. The arborist tackled the remaining scrub with a weed whacker, a horrible tool without finesse. The process of excision brought no relief. Two barren squares of soil stared up at me like eyes.

I awoke the next morning to four trees standing outside my window. Four oaks, four hundred square feet of forest, four squirrels with distain in their furry faces.

I wanted a specialist: an arborist of renown, not a provincial layabout. By the time a person of sufficient repute from the state university arrived at my home, two more days had passed: four trees had become eight, then sixteen. They stood on their squares like chessmen—exactly as neat, exactly as scheming. Only, they were all rooks, and I was the lone pawn. The renowned arborist chopped down the sixteen trees. I didn’t scold him for carelessness as I had his predecessor. The lawn was already suffering from sixteen open wounds. I asked the renowned arborist why the vegetables had chosen to wreck my lawn and not another's. He said that oaks used to be common in our region, before the subdivisions were built. I asked how I could stop them from spreading. He offered only the most dire solution: a potent herbicide,which had assassinated notable trees in university towns and felled founders’ oaks. It was an indiscriminate killer. Zoysia would not survive, nor any root or seed below the soil.

A few days prior, I could not have dreamed of ruining my own lawn, my own flesh and blood. But now, I thought of it as a test of will. Anyone can maintain an established lawn—it only takes a modest irrigation system, an imprecise mix of chemicals. But to raise grass from nothing? It would be a proof of my mastery. I would have a lawn that belonged to a fresh, young, vigorous generation. Yes, the homeowners’ association would censure me, but their authority is only covenant, not moral law.

The herbicide smelled like chlorine. It hissed and sizzled over the zoysia. Pert stems drooped into the foamy earth. All was barren, void, and new.

The next morning, thirty-two identical trees and their bracken filled the emptiness in front of my house. Thirty-two squirrels urinated from thirty-two branches onto the crowded forest floor.

I called the renowned arborist and harangued him until the university switchboard blocked my calls. The profession had lost its way if it could not kill a few dozen ordinary trees.

I walked to the end of my driveway and looked back up towards my home. The trees obscured nearly the entire edifice; hardly any red brick or blue sky broke through the wall of foliage. Some may say the woods are lovely, dark and deep, but these are the ones who are only passing through. But I, who suddenly found myself in their midst, cannot find the beauty of trees. They are unwelcome when they come to visit, even less welcome when they have come to stay.

I was awake all night, leaning against the mailbox, to see the moment when the next iteration of oaks would be born. It happened at exactly midnight. This must have been coincidence, as I could not believe that trees cared about our human measures of time.

In a blink, sixty-four trees now filled my lawn. There was no space for any more; the last generation quivered at it was pressed by the newcomers. The exact space that each had been allocated—its one hundred square feet—bled into its neighbors, so that not all had their full allotment. They strained at the perimeters of the lawn, and I worried that they would not be held back by sidewalks and property lines any more.

What could I do? Could I burn them? I would set up barriers and dig trenches so that the fire would not run out of control. But the flames might crawl along the branches and spread to my home. And if not from branches, the fire would be spread by cinders caught in the wind. I judged it a foolish risk, a mad plan, but it might have been our only hope. Had I know what would follow, for me and for us all, I would have sacrificed my home and more. I would have been a hero, with a statue in my honor in an open public square. I would have had more fame than I could have ever hoped to gain from a nice lawn on a suburban street.

But now, there will be no more statues, no more squares. How could I have known that, then? Can I be expected to know the future from what had happened on my lawn? And so I did nothing, which was all that anyone could expect.

At midnight, the trees doubled again. One hundred and twenty-eight oaks exploded from the earth, breaking past the property lines that they had previously obeyed. The driveway was thrown over, chunks of concrete reversed. Trunks crashed up through my living room. A tree branch shattered my bedroom window. A crown of leaves broke open the attic dormers. The rubble of my dwelling was lost in scrubby pine saplings, brambles, vines, and fallen leaves. It was as if that marvelous place—so like its siblings along the neighborhood streets, and yet so superior, because of my landscaping—had never existed.

I was spared impalement because I felt the ground swell beneath my feet and danced away just in time. One hundred and twenty-eight squirrels cried victory above my head. They hurled acorns down at me—the seeds of the two hundred and fifty-six identical trees that were to come the next day.

My house was only the first casualty as the oaks continued to multiply geometrically. In three days, the homeowners' association ceased to exist, because the entire neighbor had been filled by trees. Even the most crabgrass-polluted yards disappeared into forest. My smug neighbors saw their homes, identical to mine, destroyed. Two days after that, our city was gone beneath a wall of wood. In a week, homeless human refugees flocked to the last open spaces—deserts, islands, parking lots, and glaciers. But the trees followed them. They marched beyond their natural limits, bringing with them patches of forest that overlaid water and ice. Oaks limbs touched, end to end, continuous, along every latitude and longitude.

And now, it is thirty three days since the first oak was born to loom above us. More than eight billion trees that have sprung from that first seed, and each oak is identical to all its kin. Or, at least, we cannot tell the difference. Yesterday, humans outnumbered our arboreal enemies two to one; tomorrow, they will have reversed the odds.

We suburban souls find ourselves huddled in the darkness, without our homes, beneath an solid dome of entwined limbs. Unbroken lines of trees, as thick as grass, grow closer and closer. Their trunks press in on us, and we have less room to live with each passing day.

Soon, the world will be made of wood, and only the squirrels will ever see the sky.

[LLambertLawson]

The Return

   Margaret had a secret, and she kept clues hidden in seven wooden boxes. She sealed the boxes by driving nails through each edge. If she had wanted back inside to see the lock of hair once more or caress the fingerbone, she would have had to smash the boxes open, but she promised never to destroy anything beautiful again. Besides, the magic would die if she released the secret herself. To scrub the stains from her soul, someone else had to pull her body from the earth. She hoped pieces of her body would serve. The seer said they would.
   Margaret gathered the seven boxes into a sack; grabbed the coil of rope from the wall; pulled her door shut; slipped a letter into a man's postbox; and left Stavehaven--but hopefully not forever.

   Corwen Longshanks hadn't seen an envelope with his name on it in over three years, not since the mess with his brother had begun. Three years of troubled peace. But now a new envelope stared up at him, begging for opening, but Corwen did nothing in haste. Not anymore.
   So he tilled his patch of land, walked to market, roasted fish and vegetables over hot coals, and piled into bed with a full stomach--all while the letter whispered secrets to his kitchen table.
   Who could have sent me a letter, he wondered as he drifted to sleep. Who indeed?
   
   Margaret loved when the leaves shed their verdant color for an aged coat of fire, as though death could bring out the best one had to offer. Margaret hoped so, for her youth had brought out the worst. She pushed those thoughts away and pressed her spade into the soft earth. Worms wriggled in the soil as she placed the first box into the hole, the dark green designs disappearing into the tiny grave. She resettled the dirt into the hole and tamped it down with her foot, wondering if the man would be able to follow the map. Would he even want to? Some mysteries were better left buried, but curiosity was a liquor. She touched the rope lashed to her hip and knew that in a few hours she might not care either way.

   The candle clock had burned away two hours, but Corwen had yet to lace his boots and plod through the mud to sow barley across his land. He traced the edges of the letter with a finger, stabbing the corners into the pads of his thumbs, hoping to glean some knowledge from the grain of the paper.
   The last letter had brought trouble that he had not yet recovered from, would perhaps never recover from. Knowing this, he brought the letter to the candle and ignited one edge. Corwen left the smoldering missive on his table and began his chores.
   Yet when he returned from the field, the letter still lay on his table, white as a virgin's dress, whole and taunting: open me, it said. Open me.
   And Corwen did.

   She'd decided to dig the last whole with her hands. Where she was headed, no one would check for dirt under her fingernails. No one would care one whit about cleanliness at all.
   Margaret spent the rest of the afternoon delaying, telling herself she was looking for a branch of just the right height, a trunk of just the right girth. She didn't quite trust the healer, now that the end drew near. In the end, she returned to the entrance of the forest, taking a slow walk back. Slats of light cut holes in the air there, looking like little doors Margaret could just step through, the heat cleansing her of her past. But when she slipped her hands through the light, she found it was just light, and cold light at that.
   She tossed the rope over a branch and began her work.
   
   Corwen followed the charcoal arrows through the purpling fens that edged Stavehaven, the spirit-lights of town just visible over the hillocks. He'd traveled this way on business with his brother, fording their medicine cart toward the hovels and huts in the forest. They'd paid good money for the herbs those people'd gathered. They'd made good money too and saved a fair few lives.
   One life, of course, Corwen couldn't save.
   In the light of the sliver moon, he could barely make out the rut the boots of many had walked into the earth. He touched his fingers to his temple, drew out a strand of spirit-light, and flicked it onto the ground. Yes, he thought. Here we are.
   He consulted the map, comparing the noted landmarks with the view he had. He had come to the right place.
   Despite his spirit-light, voluminous shadows encircled him as he entered the forest, and he wondered how he'd find the spots marked by the six red Xs. He wondered if he even wanted to find them. As the fens receded, he knew he could always turn back. He could always go home.

   The first site had been easy to find; if nothing else, the mapmaker knew this forest well. The box, however, broke his heart. He'd recognized the figures carved into its face by touch alone: the ice bears that had so preoccupied him in his youth, their large flanks and icicle teeth etched in such detail. His fingers danced around the edges of the box, looking for the latch. All he found were nails marring the beautiful scene his brother had unburied from the wood.
   The boxes had been stolen from him, three years earlier, by the woman who'd murdered his brother, the woman who'd dragged his brother into this very forest, beat his head in with a rock, and half-buried his body. She'd wanted him to be found; she said so at the trial. And she'd been ready to die. But, the night before her execution, she'd simply vanished.
   Now, with a paper littered with arrows and Xs, Corwen knew the woman had returned, and all thought of returning home fled his mind. The woman must be in the forest, he thought. He shook the box in rage and--something rattled inside. No latches, only nails, no way to get inside the box besides dashing it against a rock, crushing it like the woman'd crushed his brother's skull.
   Which gave him an idea.
   His blood clawing in his veins, each drop demanding violent redress, Corwen located the largest of the Xs and plotted his path. He could dig up the other boxes later. First, though--first came the woman.

   The shrieking had finally begun to unnerve him, and the closer he moved to the final X, the more piercing it became. His inner ears rattled with the fury. It was as though, in addition to limbs and cones and needles, the trees had grown fierce mouths and the will to use them. No words, no secrets from the earth. Just raw anger to match his own, and he allowed it to nourish him.

   He saw the shadow shifting across the ground before he saw the body, and he felt the thirst for vengeance drain out of his body. He'd been beaten to it. She swayed like the devil's pendulum, her feet trailing her momentum as thought she were an echo of herself. Below her, Corwen found loose dirt and pulled up another of his wooden boxes. More ice bears, these gnashing their teeth on--
   Alfred?
   Someone had carved his brother's image into the box, settling his head into the ice bear's mouth, a look of serenity in the lines marking his eyes and mouth. He gripped the box in his hand and looked up at the woman's body.
   She'd done it; she'd carved Alfred's face into the box. Why couldn't she let him go?
   Why can't I? he thought.

   He found the other five boxes before the sun leaked out of the forest and carried them all back toward Stavehaven. The fens could be treacherous at night, but so could camping overnight in the forest, and he took his chances with the swamplands. In the stories, ghouls burst out of the fetid water, grasping at the ankles of travelers. But Corwen's life was no story, and he arrived home safely.
   Inside, Corwen placed the boxes on his table and retrieved his tack hammer. He'd not wanted to destroy them, but the women had marred them, both with her etchings and her nails, and he wanted to smash them into a hundred pieces and burn their bones.
   First, though, he wanted to discover the source of the rattling that emanated from inside each box.

   A lock of fire-kissed hair. A desiccated heart. A fingerbone. A sack of iron jewelry. A pile of yellowed teeth. A bloodied ear. A dark lump he couldn't identify. The contents of the boxes lined up across his table, marching from candle clock to table's edge, told him a story he couldn't hear. Whose parts? he thought. At first, Alfred came screaming to mind, but he'd been buried with all his fingers, and he didn't have red hair.
   Spirit-lights turned on all around the perimeter of his house, warning of someone approaching, and then that someone knocked. Knuckles wrapped lightly against his pine door. He pressed his hand over his heart. It was well past midnight.    
        Well past.
   The knock came again, lighter, and he gathered up the human remains from his table. Throw them away? Put them in his pockets? In the end, he sat them back on the table, wiping his hands furiously on his trousers.    The knock came a third time, and he knew he could not ignore it.
   He opened the door wide, his hand fingering his hidden blade, and there she stood, the Red Fire of Stavehaven, her neck cracked and her head bent so that temple touched shoulder. She held out both of her hands, palms up, as though expecting. And then he noticed her left hand, the missing fingerbone, and he glanced at her mouth. No teeth. If he looked at her head, he'd likely find that she lacked an ear, but he couldn't bring himself to life his gaze. Nor could he bring himself to unleash his hidden dagger. Instead, he kept his eyes and on the ground and prayed she'd take what she came for and leave.
   

[Faith]

Shortcut

The forest loomed before him, a black shadow in the night. Clouds drifted across the moon, hiding her light. Behind him was the village where he spent the day waiting in frustration while the blacksmith worked on re-shoeing his horse. A whole day lost.
He had consulted his map more times than he could count to the point where it seemed glued to his hand. Every single time he looked at the map he came to the same conclusion. To make up for the lost time he had to take the way through the forest. The same forest that was encircled on the map with signs in as many languages as possibly fit. Every single sign told the same in essence.  Danger. Avoid. Do not enter.
"What exactly are those dangers depicted on the map?" The blacksmith looked at him like he had gone stark raving mad. "Tha will not even think about entering the forest. A spirit lives there, a vengeful one.  Cross his path and tha will loose thine wits as sure as the sun that rises every day."
"I have no choice. Lives depend on me delivering this message to the King as swift as I can. As it is I have already lost too much time."
"There ain't many lives to be saved when tha is dead thaself, messenger. Heed my words and take the long way around the forest if tha insists to ride tonight."
"Fortunately for me, blacksmith, I do not believe in ghosts, spirits and other fairytales from people who got scared by their own shadows. Unlike you I am not afraid of shadows in the night."
"The choice is thine, messenger."

"The choice is thine." The words echoed in his head. The choice maybe, but time certainly not he thought. I have already lost too much precious time.
With his spurs he sent his horse forward. More delay was not acceptable. The message had to be delivered before the sun rose another three times.

Determined he guided his horse along the short route through the forest.
He grudgingly slowed down a bit in the forest.  It would be foolish to let his horse break a leg, which would slow him down more than anything else that could happen.

A short distance away he noticed the road dividing into two forks.  A large oak tree stood majestic at the split. The oak possessed a peculiar trait. A large branch grew out of the trunk, clearly visible from the path he travelled. He estimated the branch to be at one and a half man's height.. And even more peculiar was the fact that something big dangled from the branch.
It moved slowly back and forward on the gusts of wind. Illuminated by the moon and stars a human form slowly started to appear. The wind blew harder and harder moving the shadowy form with it. A loud crack. Lightning illuminated the tree and its surroundings for mere seconds while a large gust of wind turned the body around. Mere seconds were enough to show him the body carried his own face. His neck broken, his face purple and eyes that were now staring direct at him. Glowing yellow eyes without a pupil that were very much aware that he was there. "You were warned!"

His horse panicked, bucked and threw him on the ground. Neighing, it turned around and galloped away without any concern for its rider.  Dazed the messenger shook his head. Upon realization of what happened, his eyes darted immediately back to the oak tree. Fear coiled in his stomach. Nothing. The only thing to be seen was some ivy hanging in trails from the branch.
My imagination. Shadows and my imagination. I am not afraid. There is nothing here. There is nothing here he repeated to assure himself. It didn't help against the tension in his body.
He turned around to retrieve his horse and immediately stepped a few paces backwards. Mid step he froze when he remembered he was getting closer to the large oak. A quick glance. Nothing odd. Now he returned to take in the view before him. Trees and shrubs, branches and thorns, leaves and mosses on the ground with an occasional mushroom. Everything looked like what you normally see when you admire a forest, except that there was supposed to be a road there. He had travelled on it.
Tentatively he stretched his arms and touched the leaves and the bark of the trees. Real, he thought when a thorn pricked in his hand.  How can that be? He shook his head. It was not important. The only thing important was to move forward. He had a message to deliver.

With a thunk an arrow landed next to him in a tree. A cloud darkened the moon. He turned around to see a ghostly archer crumble into a pile of bones on the ground, its eyes glowing green.
The arrow in the tree didn't disappear with the archer, it's point firmly embedded in the bark.
The messenger paled. His heart bumped in his throat. Ghost or not, this real arrow could have killed him without much difficulty. His surroundings had changed again. No road splitting in two paths. No ancient oak with thick branches. Instead of that grass, a meadow surrounded by trees and impregnable bushes. And in the centre a large rock. He entered the meadow, his face turning frantic back and forth and to the side. If he looked constant around him, if he was aware of his surroundings, surely they couldn't change anymore, could they? But the feeling in his body got stronger, that despite how often he watched, despite how fast he turned his head, the forest would and could change in the split second he wasn't looking. Nearing the centre he could now see a small path emerging across the meadow.

Another wind gust. The clouds drifted away from the moon whose light now shone in all her beauty on the meadow.
The ground started to tremble and burst open revealing multiple shallow graves. In the light of the moon the bones started putting themselves together to form a skeleton. The skeletons readied the weapons which were buried with them. Flesh formed around bones, skin covered flesh and clothes and armour were created next to give life to the warriors , restless spirits doomed to relive the battle that killed them.

The messenger threw himself flat on the ground in the hope none of the ghost warriors would trample him. He heard the sounds of metal on metal.  He smelled sweat and blood and decay. He heard the screams of the wounded, the whisperings for mercy from the dying only to realise that it was himself who prayed for mercy. The moment the moon once again became darkened by the clouds, the warriors crumbled immediately to dust.

The messenger ran without any sense for direction. His feet found the path he noticed earlier. His breath panting, his only thought to get away from this place as quick as possible.

Howls sounded behind him. Growls coming closer and closer. The eerie silence replaced with the sound of his heart and breath. A hurried look behind him showed a doglike creature with yellow eyes calmly following his trail. The beast didn't run like himself, yet seemed to come nearer with every step it took. The messenger tried to run even faster, motivated by the fear of getting caught by this monstrous beast. His surroundings a blur, he kept on running while he heard some of the creatures panting from running next to him, only separated by trees and bushes.
Every second he expected to feel the claws and teeth of the creature behind him in his back.
The howling suddenly stopped altogether as did the panting a short distance away from him. He shot a quick glance backwards. No yellow eyed monsters on his trail. He relaxed a little and adjusted his speed to a slower but steadier pace. With his hand he felt the familiar corners of the dispatches securely tucked away in his bag. The forest seemed to grow more and more vast with every step he made. With his hands he protected his face against the thorns. The wide sleeves of his blouse were shredded to rags. His arms and hands covered with many swallow cuts.

His foot got stuck behind a root, he stumbled. Thorns cut his face when he used his arms to regain his balance. Unexpectedly the road stopped and he fell down. With a soft thud he landed in a pile of leaves. Careful movement told him nothing was sprained, or even worse broken. Something black moved in the corner of his eye. His head turned so he could see the source of the movement. Almost immediately he crawled backwards against the earthen wall. Frantic he searched under the leaves for something, a large stick, stones, anything which could be used as a weapon against the pack of wolves that stared hungrily back at him.

[Jack]

Hi.  First time poster and first time short story writer, to be honest.  I hope you enjoy.

The Journey Home

The rumbling of thunder woke him.  The intense pounding inside his head shook him to life.  Jack sat up and surveyed his surroundings.  Panning the immediate area did little: the midnight darkness consumed most of that around him, with only the vague outline of trees visible.  Rain lashed down, hindering attempts to stand up; he reached for a nearby birch to steady himself.  A rumble.  After a few brief inhales of air he felt composed enough to properly analyse his situation.  The last thing he remembered was travelling south down the A38, his best friend Sam sat next to him.  Even with their headlights on full beam, the intense darkness of the night made it hard to see too far ahead.  He had actually made a point of questioning the unnatural darkness of the night, he recalled.  That’s when his next recollection hit him: the women who had entered the road in front of them.  Sam had swerved the car to avoid impact.
 
Another rumble.

If the car had crashed it had to be near by.  Maybe he had been thrown from it?  That would certainly explain the boxer currently using the inside of his skull as his personal punch bag.  The very thought of it stung him to life; scanning now in all directions showed nothing, however.

A sound.

This time not of rumbling thunder but something much more human.  Jack turned to find the figure of an elderly man not but ten metres away.  He was much smaller than Jack, but standing at a little over 5’, this would often be the case for the old man, Jack thought.  He didn’t move, unsure what to make of his sudden partner in the dark.  The man spoke; winds sweeping in as he did so.  The trees all around the two men shook.  Jack couldn’t work out what, if anything, had been said.  The thunder continued to rumble; rain lashed down more heavily.  He slowly approached the man, who now had his full attention.  His search for the car, and Sam, had abruptly ended.

“Who are you?,” Jack asked.

The man’s lips moved, but again his words did not meet Jack’s ears.  The man pointed at Jack, then ushered him towards the darkness beyond.  Without fathoming why, Jack felt the odd impulse, nay necessity, to follow the man.  As he began his approach in the direction of the old man’s gesture another sound stopped him.  Not of the thunder or the wind, and not of any other noise a wood such as this could realistically conjure.

It sounded like Sam.

Jack turned in the approximate direction of the sound but saw nothing.  This did not surprise him: the darkness of this night had, if possible, become blacker.  His visibility now stood at a little over ten metres.  The car could be a matter of feet from where he stood, but he would be unable to see it.  He listened intently, hoping for the sound of Sam’s voice to reach him again: it did not come.  Jack turned, and followed the man into the black.

“I need to find my friend,” Jack next asked the man.

His small, grey-haired head rotated in Jack’s direction and shook from left to right.  Despite this, Jack continued to follow him.  He still wasn’t quite sure why, but for some reason he felt a link to this man; a reason to follow him.  Their progress was suddenly halted.  The swirling winds dropped, the branches ceased to shake and a sound echoed out from the beyond.  Jack couldn’t quite make out what this voice was saying, but its owner unmistakable.  Sam’s voice was not loud enough to be close, but close enough to be heard.  Pushing confusion aside, Jack trudged on behind the old man.  They soon reached a break in the trees, where the moonlight now provided a semi-illumination.  Jack could make out the outside of a structure a short distance in front of the two men.  He turned to the old man, who had sat himself down on a large, curved rock.

“What now?” Jack asked.

The man again mouthed his answer.  Jack made it out this time:  

“Home”.  

“What do you mean?” he responded, puzzled.

The old man pointed towards the structure and mouthed the word again.  Jack found himself acknowledging the gesture, turning in the direction the man required.  As he closed upon the structure it soon became apparent it was nothing more than a small shack.  The moonlight drenched it in a strange, white aura, not befitting of a building such as this.  The stone wall and thatched roof reminded Jack of the outhouse in the grounds of the farm he grew up in.  Almost identical in fact: a truth he was too disorientated to notice.  As he reached for the small, wooden door knob, Sam’s voice echoed all around him again.  Louder this time.

“Jack, Jack!”.

Whether it was the wind around him, or the pounding still present in his head, he could not grasp where exactly the voice was coming from.  It was all around him and yet nowhere.  In his head, yet miles away.  The wind whisked the sound away, and again Jack found himself alone.  He turned the knob and entered.

The taste of dirt was indescribable.  It filled her entire mouth.  Rolling onto her back, Sam spat it out, much landing on her feet.  It was then she noticed the blood that followed it.  Following that was the intense pain originating deep down her throat.  She coughed: more blood spewed onto her.  It hurt, but at the same time made her feel slightly better.  The pain momentarily distracted her from what had happened.  As it passed, thoughts quickly returned.

“Jack!” she exclaimed.

Turning around, she realised she had fallen quite a distance.  Up a slight embankment above her sat the wreckage of her beloved Ford Ka: it would not be winning any beauty contests now.  The driver’s side of the windscreen now had a large hole in it, her exit from the vehicle artistically displayed.  Sam dragged herself up the embankment and quickly reached the passenger side door.  She ripped it open but found nothing but an empty, glass-covered seat.  Panicking, she turned her attention back to the wood.  The darkness made it almost impossible to see much past the first few trees, and Jack was nowhere to be found in this direction.  An uplifting idea suddenly entered her head; she reached back inside the vehicle and switched on the car’s headlights.  They had been left undamaged in the crash and now illuminated much of the wood.  Her great idea quickly left her down hearted: even now, Jack was nowhere in sight.

A shimmer.

Over to Sam’s left the light hit an object and reflected back up into the night.  It must have fallen from her pocket as she was thrown from the vehicle.  She slid back down the embankment as fast as her body would currently allow her.  The phone was surprisingly in one piece, allowing Sam a momentary moment of hope.  As she reached for it, she could have sworn she heard a voice calling her name from deep inside the wood.  The wind seemed to carry it from the night to her ears.  As quickly as it she heard it, it was gone.  It was then, as she began to dial for help, a sight left her numb.  She dropped the phone to the floor; her body quickly followed.

The other side of the door revealed more of the same, literally.  Jack found himself back in the wood.  A short distance in front of him sat the old man, just as he had been before he entered through the doorway.  Jack noticed a difference: the wind had stopped, with the rain now lashing down even more ferociously than before, lashing upon his face.  Jack made a determined stride towards the old man: he demanded answers.  With a steely focus on nothing but the little, grey-haired man, his attention no longer stretched itself to his precarious surroundings.  It was an unwise decision, as the rain-drenched mud quickly betrayed him.  His feet flying northwards, Jack once again found himself on the ground.  As he looked up, the old man now standing over him, something felt different.  He felt weak, unable to right himself.  The old man lifted his upper body, resting it against his.  Jack looked up at the man, who again mouthed the now familiar word:

“Home”.

This time, however, as he spoke, he glanced around at his surroundings; taking it all in.  Defying his small stature and age, the old man raised to his feet with Jack in his arms.  He began to walk back into the dense part of the wood, and the darkness.  He strode confidently, Jack could not believe this frail old man could carry him like an old rag doll.  They seemed to travel for hours, it certainly seemed so to Jack.  He had given up contemplating where they were going and what was going to happen.  He completely gave himself to this old man, as if something inside him told him he could be trusted wholeheartedly.  Somehow, and he wasn’t sure how, he knew everything was going to be alright.

Five feet in front of her sat the lifeless body of her friend.  Tears already streaming down her face, Sam raced over to Jack’s body.

“Jack, Jack!” she screamed.

She slapped his face and called his name: nothing.  Laying him down on the rain-soaked grass, she attempted resuscitation.  It felt weird to her: this was her best friend.  She could not be sure she was doing it right, she had no formal training after all, but it felt correct.  Either way, it did nothing.  As she lifted her head, his fell.  Sliding back across the muddy floor, Sam grabbed her phone. The operator was still on the line, asking frantically what the problem was.  Sam’s panicked state made her voice inaudible: her words strangled by the anguish flooding her entire being.

“Don’t worry, Jack,” she said softly, propping his head onto her leg.

And he wouldn’t worry.  Not anymore.  As Sam dropped her phone to floor, tears streamed even further down her face; a saddening truth engulfed her body.  He was dead.

As the two men continued their journey, Jack could make out something in the distance in front of them.  The darkness of the wood seemed to recede; a light shone out in the distance.  As they neared the light’s origin, the wind noticeably dropped.  The rain soon followed; the two men were almost in touching distance of this warm glow now.  The denseness of the trees broke and a bright clearing soon greeted Jack and his Carrier.  In the centre stood a house.  Not any house, thought Jack: it was the house of his youth, the building he had grown up in.  The old man stood Jack up, planting his feet onto the now lush, warm ground.  Jack stumbled, but the old man steadied him.  He pointed at the house.  Jack acknowledged his companion, something deep inside telling him this was meant to happen; that everything would be ok.  The old man smiled, turned, and wandered back into the dark.  Jack turned, and approached the house.  It was exactly as he remembered it, right down to the line of crayon he left on the crème-coloured wall one summer afternoon.  As he reached for the door handle, he took one last look behind him.  The wood had disappeared.  Sunlight and lush green fields surrounded him in all directions.  The sound of birds filled the air overhead.  As he felt all his stresses and worries exit his body, he smiled.  For the first time, in a very long time, he was truly content.  He allowed himself one final thought of Sam and the world he was leaving behind.  Jack twisted the door handle and entered.

He was home.

[altany]

The steady drip, drip, drip of fat heavy droplets was an almost musical counterpoint to the deep base thud, thud, thud of the heavy metal shod hooves of Faloc’s mount.  He was hunched, irritated and totally unobservant.  He was also chilled to the bone, rain had turned to sleet and the wind blew right through him.  Every now and then his cough would erupt, wracking his chest with pangs of pain.
These woods had given him shelter from the crashing thunder and torrents of rain as he made his way home.  These woods had a dread name but that was better than the alternative; chilled to the bone, soaked with no shelter.  The Dead Woods, a child’s tale, was where the dead went.
He was going home.  Home, he hadn’t been home for more than a decade.  Not since the muster.  A war in a far away land that had cost him two fingers, his youth and his good looks, had kept him away.  A Northern boy, afraid of nothing he had followed the king until the end.  Five more years as a prisoner of war and finally he was going home.  A journey that seemed to be taking forever.  He could barely remember being warm, even though the southern sun had scorched his skin.
Faloc shivered as the wet lump that was his hood caressed the skin at his nape.  He looked up and flicked it back, the rain had stopped anyway.  His discomfort from hours in the saddle in wet clothes and soggy boots set him thinking of food and fire.  The grey sky, what little he could see of it through the trees, was lightening.  The trees still holding their leaves were crowned with their autumn gold.  A beautiful sight which lifted Faloc’s mood, a little.  Although it was very cold under the trees, in deeper shadows pools of frost painted the carpet of leaves.  Misting breath every time he coughed a tribute to the chilly air in the Dead Woods.
A terrified squeal burst from his mount as Faloc was thrown through the air to land in the mulchy wet leaves, his head cracking off the roots underneath.  Stars preceded the dull ache and the vomiting as he rolled over.  Total disorientation followed for a few moments, in another time and place, he’d have been dead.  The tattoo of hoof beats receded as his terror stricken mount  fled as though the duke of hell was about to brand its ass.  Faloc sat down, just for a minute, his back against a dry trunk, moments later he closed his eyes letting the sky spin like a drunk man.

‘Damn I’m cold’ Faloc muttered when he awoke.  The vile taste filling his mouth and nostrils caused him to gag.  Blowing clear his nose Faloc retched again before rising unsteadily to his feet.  He felt the back of his head wincing as dizziness slapped his face, no blood just a big lump.  Lucky.
Slowly looking around, the woods seemed still and there appeared to be no threat.  This was just as well as he was in no state to defend himself.  Faloc retrieved his sword, bending slowly.  It was then, he saw it.
At the edge of his vision, between the stars that blinked in and out, the dead soulless eyes of one long gone looked back at him from within the shadows.  A blank stare from a spirit chilled Faloc’s blood.  The eyes seemed not to see him.  Fear drove out nausea and Faloc ran for it.  Living foes he had fought often but a man cannot fight the dead.
A stumbling, slippery footed shamble more than a sprint was all he could manage.  To either side glimpses of spirits seemed to flit in and out of view.  The trees hid the details of the ghosts that filled the wood.  He was terrified.  The nightmares of a childhood full of bogeymen and witches were flashing in vivid colour through his imagination.  The Dead Wood, rang in his ears.  A child’s tale?  It was real.

Faloc stumbled against a rough barked tree grazing his cheek, but he barely seemed to notice.  Swirling around and waggling his sword against enemies that were impervious to him.  Panic had taken hold and Faloc was unhinged.
Through the trees ghosts of warriors ambled in the same direction.  Weapons by their side and shambling forward they appeared to be unaware of his presence, where were they going?
Faloc flattened himself against the tree and tried to breathe.  A few yards away dead men’s ghosts ambled past, wounds covering them showing how they met their end.  They looked like King’s men, the armour and insignia were familiar to Faloc and a little like his own.
A flutter of fear filled the air and Faloc, looked over his shoulder.  The ghosts that filled the forest were beginning to scatter in every direction.  Their eyes changing from torpor to terror as a loud snarling roar filled the ears as loud as thunder.  Faloc scrambled quickly away, not caring which way he was running as long as it was away from the rising tide of terror and the beast that followed unseen.
A deathly wail filled the forest as a poor unfortunate soul was sent to oblivion.  Whatever it was that followed and hunted through these woods was fast, dangerous and voracious.  A second scream of eternal pain rang from the trees.  Another spirit had been devoured.
Chancing a glimpse behind, Faloc saw a huge shadow looming as night was beginning to fall; all he knew was that he didn’t want that shadow to cover him.  It was a primal fear, the dark was coming and the spirits of the dead were fleeing.  Reason enough for Faloc to run as fast as his legs could carry him.
Moments later Faloc skidded to a halt as, an all too solid, wolf barred his path.  Its eyes full of intelligence, it waited.  It seemed to be waiting for him.

‘Follow’ the word reverberated inside Faloc’s head.  He jerked as it thundered above the rushing of blood in his ears.  Peace flowed over him as the looming shadow was at once forgotten.  The wolf rose and started to trot off through the trees.  Having no option but to follow the wolf he trotted along to keep up, pain greeting every step, then he slowed to a wincing walk.  The grey wolf waited up ahead.  Stars still flitted around his vision.  Had the voice been female?  Faloc thought so.  He wasn’t sure, however.  The spirits that had filled the woods had disappeared.  Maybe the bang on his head had been worse than he thought.
‘Where are we going?’ Faloc asked aloud, his guide tilted its head quizzically.  He hadn’t really expected a talking wolf.  It walked slowly onwards; he was obviously fit to continue.  And so they went on.  His misery making the time drag on until the sky was darkening.  The trees were still close around them and the leaves still dripping as the mist started to close in.  Dusk was upon them.
‘Hurry!’ Faloc was startled from his misery.  His guide was getting agitated as their pace seemed to get slower and slower.  Maybe it was afraid of the dark.  Or maybe it was afraid of what lived in the dark.  The trees were thinning out and now he was walking on grass not fallen leaves.  A structure rose up through the mist right in front of him.
‘Come in.  Quickly’ He was ushered inside.  The driving home of bolts and drawing of curtains swiftly shut out the dusk.  Faloc stood before the fire that filled the hearth, looking slowly around a tidy little home.  The only thing out of place was a little bookcase with books on it.  Books, was the last coherent thought he remembered as he collapsed in a heap.  That, and the bright light that filled his vision.

‘Wake!’ the word spoken quietly compelled Faloc to open his eyes.  He was dry but cold and candlelight created a pool of light that made his eyes water.  A tall woman with raven black hair stood over him.  Her pale skin reminded him of the cold that filled his bones.  Her deep black eyes like a pool into which he had fallen.  She was striking, almost beautiful but not quite.  Too stern to be beautiful, otherworldly perhaps.
‘Who are you?’ her lips didn’t move as the words filled his head.  Her stare was hard and questioning.  His lips started to move, although his throat was closed and dry.
‘Faloc Mensel.’ He wanted to say more but nothing more could pass his lips.  He couldn’t move either.  The hard surface on which he lay felt like stone.
Faloc felt the weight of a judgement, and he had no idea what he was judged against.

‘Welcome home Faloc, you are fortunate.’  A mere twitch of her lips, not quite a smile.  She passed her hands across his heart and it began to thud in his chest.
‘Home?  Where?  Where am I?’  The rising fear making his voice raise a few octaves and a few decibels.
‘Rest now, later all will be clear.’  The voice quelled his anxiety and his eyes closed.  Rest came swiftly.

The great doors to the fortress long hall parted as Faloc stepped forward.  Inside a feast was in full swing as many warriors drank and caroused in the vast chamber.  Big men with beards full of food and ale.  Wenches moved among the tables smiling and welcoming.  Faloc made his way inside, the doors closing behind him.  Soon a horn of ale was in his hand as he took a seat at the long trestles.
‘Greetings friend, welcome!’  Beside him a bull of a man, raised a horn in salute.
‘The maiden that brought me hence was beautiful, was yours not?’  A wistful look of longing covered his face.  She had obviously left a lasting impression on him.
‘A wolf led me.’ Faloc began, uncertain of everything.
‘Ah, I see.’ His new companion shook his head sadly.  Faloc felt his answer had disappointed.  A confused look evident on his face.
‘A great warrior you must have been and a great shame that the cold took your life.  The wolf seeks those who are worthy and leads them to the Ice Queen.  You must have been worthy’
‘What?  I’m  dead?  But…’ Faloc tailed off, tears of confusion filling his sight.  His voice growing small he asked ‘where am I?’
‘Valhalla, my friend, tomorrow we fight the giants.  Drink!’
 

[Autumn2May]

And the contest is now closed!  Don't forget to vote for your favorite story!

[Autumn2May]

And our winner is timwestover!  Congratulations on your win!

[davidstardling]

Wow i am excited to see this monthly writing competation i would love to know that when are we going to start writing competation for this February as i am very much interested to Participate in it =)