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THIS IS UNFINISHED, TURN BACK UNTIL IT IS PUBLISHED



I used to walk in the woods.
I don't anymore.

A few years ago, I lived out in the country. I lived a peaceful, solitary life.
Nearly every day, I'd walk about a mile down desolate country roads
to get to my favorite hiking trail. I never knew the trail's name.
I'd step off the gravel road, across a footbridge, and into the woods.

Or, maybe not. The REAL woods weren't right off the road.
You'll have to walk much farther for that.
For the first twenty-something minutes of walking, trees are sparse.
You'll see thin pines, baby ceaders, all children, nothing more than
fourty feet tall. These are the woods they planted, faked, not long ago.
The REAL woods start nearly another mile out from the road.
The trees get taller, thicker, and then you're there. The Old Growth.

I was never satisfied with hiking trails.
In the Old Growth, trees grow so tall you can't see where they end past
the dense layers of branches, their trunks so swollen and thick they
looked like they might swallow up the the undergrowth around them.
I'd walk to a familiar dead oak tree, trunk as thick as a shed, and turn right.
It'll take even longer still to get to my neck of the woods, but it's worth it.

As I walk, I am surrounded on both sides by ancient oaks and gargantuan pines.
The floor is a carpet of moss and ferns. Massive logs make homes for the rodents.
The air feels cleaner here, far from any houses and their billowing chimneys.
The deer out here aren't scared of you, hunters don't come out this far.
Birdsong fills the air, squirrels chitter, and the cicadas buzz loud as hell.
I always thought this was a safe place, so far from any people.

Walk far enough, and you'll reach a small clearing.
The woods part as the hills slope down to a small river, a communal drinking
spot for the animals of the forest. This place was my second home.
I'd sit on a mossy log about thirty feet from the river, and watch.
Deer would pass by in small herds, drink their fill, and carry on,
and I would sit and enjoy the serenity of being at peace with nature.
But one day, something in the Old Growth changed.

It was fall, just getting cold outside, trees barely retaining their leaves.
I passed from the young forest into the Old Growth, and noticed an unusual quiet
in the air, like the birds and insects held their breath in silent reverence.
I pushed past the honeysuckle bushes, stepped into the clearing, and froze.
The river I had spent years watching, my safe place, was tainted.
Nearly a dozen deer lay dead in the river, their faces beneath the water.
It looked as if they had stuck their heads into the stream and drowned themselves.

Horrified as I was, I dismissed the thought immediately.
I began to creep forward, slowly, one timid step after another.
I assumed there must be something wrong with the water, some chemical spill
or bacteria, and I was determined to take a sample. I would give it to someone,
and they would tell me what in God's name had happened to my precious stream.
But as I approached, I noticed something more, and I was paralyzed once again.
The corpses must have only been a day or two old, as I had been in the woods
just days prior, but plants were beginning to grow in and on the fresh bodies.
Grass meant to grow along the bed of the river poked through their skin,
and lily pads coiled their way in and out of the corpses as if it was sewn into them.
Moss crept along their hides, taking root like it might on the surface of a rock.
The last thing I noticed was the grass growing over their necks and heads.
I did not get a sample. Once I overcame my shock, I turned and ran.