The Forest

This year the Vancouver International Writers Festival, in partnership with Youthink magazine held a writing contest for grade 8 – 12 students.

At the beginning of a class period, students were given the following words: compost, Skytrain, Facebook, sob, what if, labyrinth. They had to write any form of prose, poetry short story, screenplay etc within the class period, using all those words.

From approximately 1600 participants, here is one of the grade 9 winners (it was a tie)!

The wind howled through the trees like a vengeful demon, released from the darkest pit of hell.
The sun had already set, leaving behind an eerie red glow that was fading from the jet-black sky. I made my way underneath the rustling canopy of leaves, the kind that you find at the edge of a dark, forgotten forest. This was the kind of forest that people never entered, the kind that you speak about in whispers on a midsummer’s night. This was the kind of forest that you were dared to go into on Halloween, after everybody else was in bed, with the doors to their houses bolted tightly shut. That was the kind of forest I was about to enter.

I took one last look at the dark black sky, devoid of moon and stars, and stepped into the forest. Even one step, and I could feel the difference. The forest had a malevolent air about it, as if it were watching you with hatred, waiting for you to make a mistake, and when you did, you could count on it to be your last. Anybody would have turned and ran as fast as they could, anybody except for me. Ever since the incident, I had been classified as a disturbed teen. Now you’re probably wondering what the incident was, and who I am. Am I right? Of course I am. People never mind their own business anymore.

Amway, my name’s Nick, and I used to be normal, and have a normal family, and do normal things. Undoubtedly, I was just like you. I used to live in Toronto, and go to school, and have friends, and play sports, and do stuff.

And then the incident. Both of my parents worked late, and didn't have much time off, so when they did they liked to do something special. One evening, when they were coming home from a dinner together, there was an accident on the Skytrain they used so often. An unusual technical malfunction, as it was reported in the newspaper. But there was nothing technical about the death of my parents. Now, instead of having sleepovers with friends, I lay in bed thinking, “What if the trains hadn’t malfunctioned?” Well, the answer is obvious. I would still live in Toronto like normal person, instead of the wilderness of Wyoming with a crazy grandmother addicted to Facebook and online games. I would have friends, instead of spending most of my time with trees.

These were the thoughts that went through my head as I made my way through the treacherous labyrinyh of roots and trees. Bats were flying above me, sobbing at my loss, or so I like to imagine. It was fall, and rotten and dark leaves were composting on the forest floor as I made my way towards the center of the forest, where he lived. The only person ever to have lived in the forest, he was the reason that my grandmother spent all of her days indoors, and wasted the rest of her life away. Simple people say he died, and some people say that he still lives in the centre of the forest. He is my grandfather, and he is insane.