Writing thing for Prismlotus, with more to come.
It started as a magic show of sorts.
Somehow it grew. Through some force of nature it became a little more real.
People gather in the forest to feel the magic they've yearned for since they shed their childhoods like so many skins grown too small. (Dolls hidden away in boxes and meaning lost from the little games, when the morning sun is only there to let you know it's time to face another day.)
People so thoughtlessly leave certain things behind them. As children they forgot matchbox cars and left building blocks scattered in their wake. Something else gets misplaced as well, and then they spend the rest of their lives searching for it.
But the forest. The forest is an experience of joy and wonder in the little things. It's so beautiful and so sad. Nostalgia made into a tangible place.
.Winding paths lead through the trees hung with prismatic lanterns spinning lazily in the breeze, throwing out splinters of colorful light. Glowing bugs flit from lantern to lantern, children following behind with outstretched hands.
(They say if you catch one you'll be granted good luck. Or maybe a wish. No matter the lore, the flickering fireflies are tailed by multitudes of laughing, hopeful children.
Arched bridges span trickling streams reflecting starlight, jets of water spraying up overhead and tinkling back down. Ponds swirl with hints of fins and more than once a child has claimed to have spotted a mermaid. These glimpses are rare, an arm or a tail or a lock of hair flashing on the surface before darting down below. Still, it's made its way into legend, and people find themselves waving at the water.
Ropes of vine and fields of wildflowers sway and ripple in gentle breezes smelling of jasmine and gardenia and lilac. People sway, too, sometimes, caught up in the feeling, moonlight silvering their skin and heads tilted up to the inky night sky.
And no one wants to leave.
No one wants to leave.
But as it does, time passes, time, the cruel and relentless reminder of worlds left behind and the ones already slipping away. People drift further along the path, pulling their children by the hand.
Always leave holding your child by the hand. Always be attentive to your children.
Dawn finds Ssmiling attendants bidding each guest farewell. They walk lightly, nearly dancing, faces practically aglow with some kind of perpetual youth that seems, to these guests, wholly unfair. Do the attendants live in the forest? Don't they have daily lives to return to as well?
The guests find themselves wishing they never had to leave as the attendants call after them in musical tones. "Come visit us again!"
A contentedly tired child turns up to the pretty, nearly ethereal being with a little smile on her face. "We will," she promises, before her mother and father take her hands and lead her through the gates.
