The Woods
It was curious how the woods changed as I skipped after the evanescent butterfly. Sometimes the butterfly seemed to join with the sunlight, and sometimes I thought I could almost touch it. The woods were inviting, singing in their wispy voices as nymphs and dryads skipped behind the vibrantly green trees, calling me to them. There was no trail I followed, only the butterfly and the call of the forest.
The airs grows denser, the light only shines through in patches, and the foliage grows sparser as the trees overhead steal the light. The butterfly is no longer a sky blue, but a darker purple. The trees still call me along, but the bird-like song has vanished. They whisper to me, telling me promises. The butterfly pauses on a branch right above the forest floor. I jump up to try and reach it, but the tree slaps my hand with a bough. No, it seems to say. You can't have it yet. Go further. Your prize is waiting.
The butterfly no longer merrily flutters about. Its flying patterns seem strange and foreign, and they seem to almost fail at times. The naiads are still smiling, but their eyes are stone and their voices creak. The trees stare down at me, their faces becoming less mirthful and darker. Their whispers are more frequent but less clear. The sunlight is becoming increasingly rare. I'm so close to the butterfly. If I can but catch it, I can get back home.
The woods are dark now, the trees grow close together and block out all light. The branches are thick and dead, the leaves dark and sick. Gone are the bright laughs from the tree spirits. Now they growl and moan and scream. They hiss and glare at me with hatred behind tree trunks. The trees' whispers are louder, angrier, harsher, and the air is dense with threats and curses. Roots reach out to grab my legs, branches tear at my clothing, begging me to stay and screaming when I leave. Nothing grows on the ground. It's bare, hard as rock, and unforgiving. It seems to shift, throwing objects in my way to try to trip me. The butterfly has stopped and slowly drifts to a tree branch high above the forest floor.
I climb the tree a ways, but it's still so high. If I jump, I can get close enough to catch it, and then I can go home. I leap off, but the tree pulls on my leg. I begin to flail and miss the branch. I fall, and the demons of the trees laugh at me. The butterfly flies down to try to catch me, but it's not a butterfly. It's a moth. A dark, sickly, ugly moth that attacks my face. I hear the trees shake in their laughter, and the demons dance about on the forest floor, rejoicing. I can hear the dirt of the forest floor getting closer. I turn my head to catch a glimpse of the ground as it rushes to meet me.
The airs grows denser, the light only shines through in patches, and the foliage grows sparser as the trees overhead steal the light. The butterfly is no longer a sky blue, but a darker purple. The trees still call me along, but the bird-like song has vanished. They whisper to me, telling me promises. The butterfly pauses on a branch right above the forest floor. I jump up to try and reach it, but the tree slaps my hand with a bough. No, it seems to say. You can't have it yet. Go further. Your prize is waiting.
The butterfly no longer merrily flutters about. Its flying patterns seem strange and foreign, and they seem to almost fail at times. The naiads are still smiling, but their eyes are stone and their voices creak. The trees stare down at me, their faces becoming less mirthful and darker. Their whispers are more frequent but less clear. The sunlight is becoming increasingly rare. I'm so close to the butterfly. If I can but catch it, I can get back home.
The woods are dark now, the trees grow close together and block out all light. The branches are thick and dead, the leaves dark and sick. Gone are the bright laughs from the tree spirits. Now they growl and moan and scream. They hiss and glare at me with hatred behind tree trunks. The trees' whispers are louder, angrier, harsher, and the air is dense with threats and curses. Roots reach out to grab my legs, branches tear at my clothing, begging me to stay and screaming when I leave. Nothing grows on the ground. It's bare, hard as rock, and unforgiving. It seems to shift, throwing objects in my way to try to trip me. The butterfly has stopped and slowly drifts to a tree branch high above the forest floor.
I climb the tree a ways, but it's still so high. If I jump, I can get close enough to catch it, and then I can go home. I leap off, but the tree pulls on my leg. I begin to flail and miss the branch. I fall, and the demons of the trees laugh at me. The butterfly flies down to try to catch me, but it's not a butterfly. It's a moth. A dark, sickly, ugly moth that attacks my face. I hear the trees shake in their laughter, and the demons dance about on the forest floor, rejoicing. I can hear the dirt of the forest floor getting closer. I turn my head to catch a glimpse of the ground as it rushes to meet me.