Short Story: The Wooded Hollow

It started about a year ago. I was taking the garbage out to the can for my mom when I first noticed the path. Walking down my rickety wooden deck, I noticed the line that led away, as far as I could see, weaving this way and that as it slowly diminished into the sun.

Dumping the bag of garbage into the plastic can, I put the lid on and went up my back stairs. I sprinted down to my room and grabbed my coat. I ran to the slider and pressed myself against the glass. Yes, the trail was still there. I threw myself down the stairs and felt the warm wind roll through my hair as my feet touched the ground.

I followed the trail across my back yard, through the symmetrical track housing, toward the sun. Across the fields I hiked, the wind always to my back. Miles I walked, days passed, the sun grew hot. Summer stretched over me. The sun baked the ground, sending great cracks across my path. The tall blowing grasses along my path dwindled into sparse weeds.

As I walked, I sweat, but the drops evaporated before touching the ground. The trail turned dusty. My feet struggled to find purchase in the sifting dust. I started to hack, to cough in the dry wind, as the sun continued to bake the arid landscape.

I thought I was going to trip and fall, ending my struggle. The sun roasted my skin. I blistered and peeled and blistered again.

Then, an icy drop of water fell, striking my forehead. It was followed by another and another. It built until I was in the middle of a warm gentle downpour. Water soaked through my clothes, cooling me. I lay down and let the water wash over me, as I reflected on my travels. With the distinct staccato of rain falling, I curled my legs up, wrapped my arms around them, and fell asleep.

I woke sometime later, fully rested and ready to continue my journey. Stretching my legs, I walked down the trail with renewed vigor in my steps. Casting my gaze to the sides of the trail I noticed small green shoots in the soil. I stopped and stared at these small sprouts that were poking their lime heads through the moist crust of the soil. Before my eyes they rose, turning to small saplings that flexed and bent towards the glowing sun.

I continued my journey into this ever dense flora. Birds sang in this rising canopy of emerald leaves and umbra trunks. I walked for months along this wooded trail, eating when I was hungry, sleeping when I was tired. I took comfort under these magnificent boughs, rested in the cool shade. And I was content. I could have stayed there forever, reposing within a grove of cedar, tending the forest and my trail.

One day, I went home. Don’t ask me why; I still don’t know.

I stayed about a week within my home, never passing close enough to the window to see without.

When I finally mustered the strength to peer out the blinding portal, I wept. The landscape was littered with stumps and piles of slash. My forest had been logged. Not able to tear my eyesight away from the grizzly scene, I stood for hours gazing across the land, searching for one standing tree. Though the trail remained, I found nothing.

Ashamed of what had happened, I put my work clothes on and went out back. I dug up the stumps and threw the slash away, hoping that by removing the evidence of life from the ground I could remove the evidence of loss from my consciousness. It was a harsh task. I swept pine needles, branches and leaves as I cleaned the ground.

When I was done I looked at what I had done. “There’ll be a beautiful forest growing here before I know it,” I whispered as the sun beat down on my back.

I clutched my coat to my stomach as I walked down the trail leading across the bare ground into the blazing horizon. I walked and walked, the wind became humid, occasionally splattering me with a few drops of tepid rain. Some plants grew here and there, a few weeds and occasionally small trees. I’d stop and stare at these stunted groves of gnarled trees, but I would turn away in disgust, leaving these twisted brakes to the elements.

I walked and walked, but I didn’t see another forest. My path just kept going. My heart became as bleak as the trail.

My leaden footsteps dug furrows along the dusty trail. I looked and looked but I could not find even a weed. Days blurred together as I helplessly trod along, withdrawn into myself.

At one point I opened my eyes and there was my forest, but as I stepped toward it, it faded into nothing. I fell down in my tracks and huddled shivering upon the gritty earth, hoping to catch sight of my beautiful forest. I lay curled there for weeks, until one day I looked up and the whole landscape seemed more distinct. Yes, the colors were brighter, the lines sharper, the contrasts stronger. I put my hand up to shelter my eyes from the brightening sun, and I could hardly see. My hand was barely there. I looked upon myself and realized, I’m fading, fading into nothing.

ILLUSTRATION: Staff illustration by A. Heitner