A Stranger's Fate in the Forest

A Stranger’s Fate in the Forest

By M. F. B. Porter

Melancholy tunes and fluttering voices

meander through the damp springtime air.

Moss grows sporadically on the bases of old trees, and

moths that look like dusty, dying butterflies dance sadly to the

music that seems to come from everywhere and nowhere.

Many other tiny forest creatures scurry to and fro,

mystified by the thick forests

many dark secrets.

Mist slowly creeps forth, hiding the tree stumps

moss covered bases, and the sad

music seems to drift with it ever closer.  A

mysterious stranger stands among the

maddening scene, alone in the growing dark of the eve.

“Money, power, favor, nothing will spare me now,” the

meddler thought, sure that their own end was near.  “Just a

meander through the forest for some fresh air had been the idea."

Matter of fact, a logical plan it had been, now

mutated into an eerie and lonely fate.  “Chance is my Master now,” cried the stranger.  “And I am

merely it’s chess piece: a pawn who’s turns have run out.”