-a strangeness followed him deep into the woods. he wished it was fully dark. he wanted the thickness of its empty comfort. the moon however dispersed nighttime light onto every shadow. he sat on a stump and tried to watch his thoughts. “what do you do with your thoughts?” he asked a tree. the tree replied, “as soon as you have one, it is alive. it’s never again going to not be. you’ve born possible greatness. give your thoughts life and watch them be.”
A boy stood in the middle of the woodland. Picking ticks from his legs, arms, and even his neck. He wished he had brought a lint roller, or alcohol to light his body with. The ticks mounted a heavy advance. He’d counted over fifty. And that was only the ticks he could see. The boy started to walk, then run, toward a pond. He sprinted downhill, the sun, blazing through the canopy of tree tops, started to dizzy him; his shadow caused too much chaos. Landing hard on the ground and letting go a grunt, which spurted spittle, the boy asked the nearby pond, ‘Is this happening?’ The pond was soundly sitting and awaiting the boys arrival. And finally the pond did respond, ‘Why are you here?’
About the author: When asked where he is from, Matt has replied, ‘I’m from mud.’ Matt grew up in the farmlands of Western, MA. He’s lived in numerous locations within New England. -Read on. It’s good for the brain.
New England bands culture with devotion. Where the four seasons are to be experienced and enjoyed, not endured. -M. Taggart
New England consists of six states. Maine, Vermont, New Hampshire, Connecticut, Rhode Island and Massachusetts. Click the link below if you’d like to read a short story which takes place in the valley-farmlands of Western MA.
He walked farther into the Forrest with his son. He wanted to tell of the tree with the face. He could’t find it. As they searched he told the boy of how the tree must have uprooted itself and moved on because it was alive enough to have a face and speak and could certainly move about the woods as it pleased. The boy listened and took notice of the tone his mother had warned of. It took on a note of story telling and mistrust grew from each story. His father crossed a brook then hurried up a slight ravine and happened upon an eleven. See son, these two fallen branches make an eleven and they are showing us the way to the tree face. These were put here as a marker for you and I. There’s no way for them to simply be. They are for us, his father said with great seriousness. His son looked at the Forrest floor wearing a look if sadness. What’s wrong, his father asked. The boy replied, do you ever want to tell and not describe? What do you mean, his father pressed. That’s maybe not an eleven put here for us, the boy replied. No? He looked at his son with an irritable glance. Then what is it? His son answered, two sticks not laying down.
We were wandering our woods, passed the ravine, and near the big river than home. We came upon a tree that was sick. Its bark was pealing and we wanted to help. We kicked the bark with our boots. The pealing bark flew into bushes and ferns. We kicked around the base of the tree and started to kick higher to remove all the bark that we could. The frog approached and promptly asked, ‘What are you doing?’ We replied, ‘We’re helping this tree.’ The frog said, ‘Clearly you are not. Can’t you see? All you are doing is kicking this tree.’
There’s a path in back of the old school. We ran to it and slammed into the wood-line and then further. You laughed first and I held mine back. The woods slept while watching. We weren’t sure to leave or stay and then decided to ask a rock. We asked, ‘Would we be alright to stay?’ the rock said nothing. We jumped over the brook and leveled the ferns.