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Picture Prompt: Magical Forest

Published on Sunday, January 19, 2014 by

magical-forest-1308067-mEach week we post a new picture prompt to inspire you

When you’ve created your poem or piece of fiction simply post it in the comment section of this post.

Picture Credit: Image courtesy of 

Tmou/ http://www.sxc.hu


I found #piclit on Twitter, what is it?

The Piclit Dash (#piclit) is is a 15-minute free writing exercise held on our blog every Sunday at 2:30 pm PST/5:30 pm EST/10:30 pm GMT. Write whatever comes to you. Don’t fixate too heavily on what you are writing and disengage your inner editor – the key is for you to get the words on the page first; you can worry about editing later. When you’ve finished, feel free to share on our blog in the comment section.

One Response
    • The forest is shrouded in fog. And ice. And sorrow.

      I crave the heat of my home, an island in the sea. This is no island. My bare feet ache from the cold and my lips are numb.

      Home is far away, but I’ll find it again. I have people waiting for me there. Family. Friends. Lover.

      It was my lover who sent me here. I don’t think he meant to, but when he gets angry he loses control. I didn’t mean to upset him. It’s my nature to be clumsy and he never should have had his tobacco pipes out when I’m cleaning.

      He said I needed to learn a lesson, to know what it’s like to be without sunshine and the scent of the sea.

      There is no ocean here in this shrouded forest of mist and snow. Only ice. I miss the green smell of moss and ferns. The scent of flowers that always lifted my mood when my lover turned me away because he was angry with something I said or did. Here I smell only the bitterness of frost on dead trees.

      I hope to find others here, maybe someone who can offer me a blanket and something warm to drink and melt the numbness from my mouth.

      Something dark stirs behind a stump. I’m curious, but also frightened. I don’t know what kinds of creatures live in these desolate woods.

      I step slowly toward it and it lifts its head. The face is human and it’s as small as a child, but its features are old. Deep lines crease its face, furrows divide a thick brow that reminds me of a caterpillar. It stares straight at me with eyes round as eggs but red like the underside of a starfish.

      “Hello,” I say, eager for conversation. And maybe advice on a way out. “What is this place?”

      “It is called the Forest of the Forlorn,” it tells me in a scratchy voice steeped in years of silence. “How did you come here?”

      “I was sent here by my lover.”

      “It appears he does not love you very much.”

      Tears fill my eyes at the truth in the creature’s words. I am forlorn and unloved, so I’m in the right place. “Why are you here?”

      “The forest has been my home for as long as I can remember.”

      “You were born here?”

      “I was made here.” It paused as if to think. I couldn’t decide if it was male or female, and it would be impolite for me to ask. “I am a combination of all the lost souls sent to these woods. I am who they once were.” It looked at me sadly and said, “And now you will be part of me, too.”

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