Category: 2021 – Spring

Image: “Worm’s Eye View of Green Trees” © Felix Mittermeier on Pexel

Author: Emilie Badoux

About the story

This is a story where you make the choices. In order to win, you have to get out of the woods before dark.

This story was written for the MUSE Challenge 2021. The underlined words are those which were part of the challenge.

Start Here

First, you hear sounds — birdsong, and the faint rustle of the wind in leaves. Second, a sweet, fresh smell tickles your nose. Third, you feel the warm, pleasant sensation of the sun on your face. Then you open your eyes, and that’s when the thoughts come in. What the…? You sit up fast, too fast, and now your whole body — without waking up from its stiff, sluggish state — remembers pain; sharp stabs through your head, quiet aches in your back, but none of it is surprising after sleeping on the ground in a — you look around — meadow? In any case, none of it is more intense than the confusion, and the feeling that something very, very strange is going on. Lush and green grass, still wet with dew, fills a modest area, bigger than a garden, smaller than a field, before shrubs mark the border with the forest of tall trees that surround it. You are situated on a slight slope: on one side the forest goes up, and on the other, down. Sun-kissed wildflowers are strewn around the meadow — their scent was what you smelled before, still entranced by sleep. Despite the discomfort, you almost want to stay here now that you’re fully awake and lucid. Something is reassuring, charming, almost mesmerising about the place…

…Which rekindles the eerie feeling from before: this is too strange — and how did you get here anyways? You have the sudden certainty that if you stay one moment longer, you might never leave. You get up slowly, careful not to provoke your (suspicious) headache, and try to find a path into the forest. And sure enough, you see two paths, one going up, one going down. Both are dirt tracks disappearing among the trees; they look identical, as if one was the continuation of the other, going in and out of the strange stretch of grass. There is no way for you to know which would be the best way for you to get out of here quickly, but you have to decide.

Which path will you take?

• If you’re taking the path that goes down, click here.
• If you’re taking the path that goes up, click here.

Passage 2

Among the evergreen trees, you hear the sound of running water and, soon enough, you find a river. Can a river be useful for getting you out? You wish you knew more about getting out of mysterious forests. The river is about 10 metres wide, and its flow seems pretty strong. To your right, a little further down, you see an old suspension bridge, an indicator that at some point, people must have walked through these parts. Clearly, this bridge has not been used for years, though, and its wooden planks are scant and rotting. An attempt to cross might very well end up as an unexpected swim — and you’re not that good of a swimmer. Looking around, you see a track going nearer the riverbank: it seems like it would be passable, so another option would be to walk along the river.

Where will you go now?

• If you’re too intrigued by the old bridge and what you might find on the other side, click here.
• If you decide to go up the river, click here.
• If you want to try the way down the river, click here.

Passage 3

After walking up for some time, you find a small stone house. The well-maintained garden in front, as well as the smoke escaping the chimney and the faint sounds coming from the inside, indicate that it is inhabited. After your nap in the grass, the house feels inviting, its windows embellished with pots of colourful flowers, stone steps leading to the front door. It is a relief to find that there are other people here — you are immediately tempted to knock and ask for directions. Still, you cannot help but doubt whether or not that would be wise, given that you do not know who is in there.

So, what do you do?

• If you decide that knocking at the door is the best way of determining who is in there and if they can help you, click here.
• If you would rather try to go around and investigate through a window, running the risk of being discovered sneaking around, click here.
• If you think all of this is too suspicious and you’d rather trust yourself to get out of the woods on your own, you can go back down through the meadow and take the path that goes down, which will lead you to click here.

Passage 4

You venture onto the bridge, and, despite your misgivings, you make it to the other side safely. The path continues, and you tread through tall trees, thankful that the sun is still high in the sky. After some time, you have to stop your progress: the path has started to resemble an animal track more and more, and now it seems to stop completely, a fallen tree barring the way, which then gives way to thorny bushes. It must have led somewhere at some point, but now this path is impracticable. Turning around to go back, you notice something strange in the corner of your eye, next to the path, sparkling blue. You take a closer look: it is a bright, blue mushroom. Not only is its colour unusual, but it also seems too bright, phosphorescent. Its light is clearly not coming from the afternoon sun. Surely this mushroom must not be edible. It looks similar to those toxic, the ones that are dangerous even to touch — which leads you to believe you should probably leave it and be on your way. But you are also tempted to take it, out of curiosity: you’ve never seen anything of the sort, and you like owning special things…

Decide whether you take the blue mushroom and keep it in your pocket.

Then, you go back on your way across the bridge.

• If you decide to walk down the river, click here.
• If you decide to walk up the river, click here.

Passage 5

You knock at the door of the stone-house and hear some racket inside before the door opens to you. A woman in her sixties, with long grey hair and a brown apron, opens the door. She looks you up and down, staying silent until you politely ask for help. Her answer comes in a matter-of-factly tone:

‘You know what? I think you could help me. Why don’t you come in?’ She lets you in without giving you much of a choice, and you start wondering whether coming here was a good idea.

You are in the stone-house with the woman.

• If you have the blue mushroom, click here.
• If you don’t, keep reading.

Sorry, dear traveller, but the adventure ends here for you. The woman — the witch — decides to take her in as her minion, binding you to serve her through a spell, and you do not get to walk out of here free.

The story ends here, and you lost. Don’t hesitate to start over at the beginning if you want to try again.

Passage 6

After walking along the river for a while, you notice more light through the trees, a little way up. You climb up, and find that the trees end there, giving way to a field, yellow wheat dancing in the wind and shining gold in the late afternoon sun. Beyond the field, you see a road, leading back to a village. You are out of the woods.

The story ends here, and you won. Don’t hesitate to start over at the beginning if you want to discover other paths.

Passage 7

You walk around to the side of the house to spy through the window. When you get to the window, you find a dark grey cat sitting on the sill, its bright blue eyes watching you with an eerily clever, and, you could swear, judgemental, look. Still, you try to get closer, making your way through the bushes that surround this side of the house.

‘Oh, you’re a bold one’, the cat remarks. You let out a sigh — nobody likes talking cats. You ignore her, and try to find a human on the inside. Cats are not known for their helpfulness to lost travellers… or for their helpfulness in general. This one, however, does not let you look past her.

‘Be careful, you don’t want her to see you’, she warns. ‘The witch, I mean’, she adds after letting the mystery float around for just a second, with an intense gaze that makes you uncomfortable. ‘She’s old, she’s cranky, and she does not like intruders’. The cat lets out a feline laugh which settles your dislike and distrust of her for good. ‘But if you want to look, look. It’s your life you’re risking, not mine…’ She finally jumps down the windowsill and strolls away, leaving you perplexed.

When you look through the window, you see a homely and cosy room, which seems empty. There is a fire burning in a fireplace, a book open on a wooden table, and pretty paintings of country scenes decorating the wall — in other words, nothing suspicious. Yet, if there truly is a witch, can you trust looks to tell you whether you should go in?

What will you do now?

• You do not trust the cat’s word, and although looking inside the house did not indicate much about its possible inhabitants, you did not see anything suspicious either. If you decide to knock at the door, click here.
• If, despite your doubts about the cat, you decide not to take chances about your safety and to find your way on your own. you can go back to the meadow and take the path that goes down; click here.

Passage 8

Suddenly, you remember the mushroom you picked up in the forest earlier. Thinking the suspicious woman may be interested in trading it, you take it out of your pocket and show it to her. You ask her to let you go and give you directions in exchange for the mushroom.

‘Hm… that is a nice specimen’, she declares upon examining it. You immediately feel relief that she is interested in the bargain.

‘…but why should I let you go?’ she asks.

Nice try. The woman — the witch — is thankful for your gift, but still takes you in as her minion, just because she can. You are bound to serve her through a spell, and you do not get to walk out of here free.

The story ends here, and you lost. Don’t hesitate to start over at the beginning if you want to try again.

Image: Lost © Claudia Cantoni

Author: FC

It was Christmas Eve – Mr. Doolan’s birthday. Outside, the roads were covered by a thin layer of wet snow and the city was shrouded in the thick familiar fog of the cold season.

Mrs. Doolan was busy preparing the next day’s festive meals, submerged by a sea of pots and pans. The open kitchen overlooked the living room, where Mr. Doolan sat, pretending to be absorbed by the articles in his hands, whilst the children were on the floor, drawing and writing the Christmas cards to give to the rest of the family the next day. In reality, Brigid was pretending, too: she was not interested in the cards, she just wished that someone would break that deafening silence. Her parents had fought again – heavily. The tension in the room was so thick, that it made it hard to breathe. Niall was signing the last card, writing his name with different sized letters: the n was in capital letters, but the wrong way round, the i was capitalised, the a was larger than the n and the two ls were a bit too separated and straight.

“You wrote the n the other way round, again! I wrote your name properly right here, you just had to copy it.”

“Oh, come on Brigid. Give your brother a break, he’s only five years old. These mistakes are normal – you used to do them, too. Dinner will be ready soon. Come get your plates when I call you.” said Mrs. Doolan.

Mr. Doolan put his papers down. “Shall we play a game of backgammon? Or why don’t you two play and whoever wins plays against me.”

“But I’m not good at baggamom.” When Niall whined like that, Brigid just wanted to slap him across the face. Did he not understand how tense the situation was? Why couldn’t he just shut up and do as he was told?

“Fair enough, then. We’ll play together against your sister. How does that sound, Champ?”

Champ. He called him that way just because one of the meanings behind the name Niall is champion. But he was no champion – he was just a whiney baby. Brigid took the backgammon box off the shelf. She didn’t want to complain – she didn’t dare say that she knew she had no chance of winning against her father.

“Come on Brigid, it’s just a fun game! It doesn’t matter if you lose – as long as you’re not as awful as your mother.”

How dare he? How dare he insult her in front of her own children? Mrs. Doolan did not answer. She knew it wasn’t worth it, it would just lead them to another fight – another wave of insults and accusations. She had had enough. She could not bear another round, and the children did not deserve to witness another violent clash.

The pie was ready. Mrs. Doolan had prepared it deliberately for her husband’s birthday – it was his favourite. However, in that moment, she just wanted to throw it, ravish it, destroy it. She was about to implode and make everything around her explode with her. “No”, she whispered to herself, “you need to think about Brigid and Niall, Sive”. She turned around to look at them: Niall was on his father’s lap, Brigid sat on the floor, moving the backgammon pieces. Their children were perfect. Mrs. Doolan asked herself how could they have created such pure creatures: Brigid, tiny and gracious, and yet so strong and wise (“seeing her so grown melts my heart – too much for her age”), and Niall, who looked like a little angel, with his golden locks, blue eyes, as deep as the sea, and his head always in the clouds. “And what about you? Who will you become?”, wondered Mrs. Doolan, grazing her womb with her hand. She turned to the window: just fog. Everything was grey. As foggy as her mind, as grey as her future. She still hadn’t told a soul she was pregnant. Two months had already passed since that night – that last intimate night. They were in the bathroom, getting ready to go to bed, when she began to cry, sat on the edge of the bathtub. He knelt before her, took her hands, and kissed them. For the first time in a long while and for the last time, he was not annoyed by her tears, he had not retreated within himself, he had not repudiated her. That night of sad passion, she had seen in his eyes that wounded, tormented, and frightened boy. That boy she had fallen in love with and was unable to save.

She was afraid of telling her husband that she was pregnant. She feared it would become an inexorable reason to stay together. What kind of mother would leave her spouse with a child on the way? What mother would not give her child the opportunity of living within a united family? These questions plagued Mrs. Doolan – they made her hesitate. A few days before, she had told her parents she was considering divorcing her husband, as she could not bear it anymore. “But you have to stay with him – think about the kids! How do you think they’ll grow up with a broken family? Plus, Cillian isn’t all that bad. He provides for all your needs – he even spoils you! It can’t be that bad.” What did they know? How could they have known about the continuous abuses she had to bear every day? What did they know about what would be best for her children? Growing up in a house full of violence and resentment could not be better than a divided family, surely. Many couples divorce, and the children all seem to grow up perfectly fine – better than if their parents had stayed in their toxic relationship. So toxic it exterminated all the love. He provides. Sure, he provided all the material goods, but at what expense? At the expense of her happiness? Her sanity? No, she could not allow this. Women do not need to depend on their husbands: she would manage on her own, she was strong. One day she would make the right decision.

Brigid was losing. She knew it was going to end that way. At least dad seemed more serene – maybe he had forgotten about his fight with mum and would go say sorry to her. The little girl turned to observe her mother: she was looking outside the window. She wasn’t able to see her face, but she knew her expression was pensive, distant. She often had that air lately, as if she were lost somewhere and didn’t know how to come back – nor how to go forward. “If mum made dad’s favourite pie, maybe she’s not that upset anymore”, thought Brigid, seeing the cake next to Mrs. Doolan. It was a weird contrast: the sweet and warm smell of pastry and Nutella seemed to try to mask the cold and dense tension that still hovered in the air. Usually, in these situations, Brigid closed herself off completely, remaining, however, as alert as a prey – ready to react to any movement. She didn’t know what to do. How could she make things better? She was too anxious to think – she was afraid of making a mistake and causing it all start again. She feared that…

“Daddy”, interrupted Niall, pausing the game. “Why did you make mummy angry?”

“I didn’t make her angry, Niall. She’s the one who made me angry.”

Brigid did not even dare to look up from the gameboard.

“But will you say sorry?”, asked the child naively. He didn’t understand what had happened, but he knew he didn’t like what was going on. He didn’t like seeing his mummy crying and his father shouting at her.

“We’ll see about that.” answered Mr. Doolan harshly. Niall still didn’t understand: when Brigid and he would fight, his parents would force them to say sorry and shake hands. It was easy. Why wouldn’t they do the same?

“Listen, Niall, your mother is a difficult person,” began Mr. Doolan in a low voice. “I love her very much, just as much as I love you guys. Can’t you see? I go to work every day so that we can have everything our family needs, so that you two can have everything you want. This is why, when I’m home, I demand respect – some gratitude for all I do. That’s fair, isn’t it? With all the things I do for you guys… Who do you think pays for the food you eat every day? I mean, true, your mother cooks it, but I’m the one that gives her the money to buy it. Don’t forget about that. Or what about your new play car, who do you think paid for that? Do you know what I had at your age? I had nothing, Niall. No games or toys, no yummy sweets and biscuits – nothing. I have very few rules, but these rules are important – everyone must follow them. When your mother does not obey them, she disrespects me – actually, she disrespects the whole family! This is why I get angry.”

Brigid felt like she had to vomit – she could feel all the words she wanted to say were about to erupt from her stomach. “It’s not true – none of it is true!” Thought the child.

“So, if mummy says sorry first, will everything be good then?” asked Niall.

“Of course, little Champ!” replied his father, smiling. However, that wasn’t what Mr. Doolan really wanted. He was so afraid of losing everything that he was trying his best to keep his children on his side – he was deliberately making Mrs. Doolan appear as the family’s enemy. She was the enemy; she was the one that could take it all away from him. But she loved him – or she had loved him. She wouldn’t take everything away from him, right? Mr. Doolan knew he was the problem. He knew he was the difficult one, the one that was distancing his family from himself. He turned towards his wife and looked at her: she was so beautiful, so elegant in her movements, as if she were dancing. Why wasn’t he able to get close to her? The walls of his pride would not lower. They would not allow him to kneel before her, ask for her forgiveness, explain the truth to her – the terror he felt at the mere thought of losing her every day. He had a perfect life: a wife who loved him, kind and wise, two wonderful children and a job that allowed them all to live well and satisfy their every need. And yet, every time he expressed himself, violent nastiness was all that came out. His pride and his fears took control and he would start attacking her, before even realising it. Hurt the other, before they hurt you. He was completely unable to control himself when he was angry. He reflected all of his self-hatred on others, and then he would raise his insurmountable barricades, estranging all those around him. He feared he’d end up like his own father – he feared he’d go insane. He feared coming back home and discovering his wife had run away with the kids. He feared not ever being enough. He wanted to ask Sive for her forgiveness, but he knew he wouldn’t be able to do so. The more he thought about it, the more his anger and resentment grew. He felt he was about to explode. He had to distance himself – escape. Leave them before they left him.

Mr. Doolan got up.

“Okay guys, dinner is ready! Come get your plates, please.”

He turned around and walked down the stairs, without uttering a word.

“Cillian, where are you going? Dinner’s ready.”

He took his coat and he left.

 Image: “Fox” by jans canon is licensed under CC BY 2.0

Author: Sorcha Walsh

The moon was hanging low in the sky as the young mother fox stuck her nose outside the den. She inhaled deeply and saw the whole forest before her – the muddy, wet scent of the leaves on the ground, the blank coolness of the flowing river, and the million busy scents of the animals in the forest. She could smell the birds’ feathers, agitated by their irritated flapping as they bustled around before twilight (the most important part of any bird’s day was when they got to sing). The badgers, too, were starting to creep out of their dens, she could tell by the deep musky scent which lazily and playfully curled its way around each tree. None of these brown, unsaturated smells truly drew her attention, however. She was waiting to catch a hint of the amazing technicolour smell of people.

It had been a long time since she’d ventured out of her den. She had kits to feed, and a mother took care of her young. That was a law which went deeper than most, a law which she felt in her blood and bones. But ever since that year’s mate had failed to return, she had felt something else in her blood and bones: hunger, of a kind she’d never felt before. A gnawing, aching, consuming hunger. So when her milk dried up, she left her growing kits in very bottom of the den and ventured out. She wouldn’t go far, that she knew. But the twin impulses, equally strong, of caring for her young and sating her hunger had raged for weeks. It wasn’t until she couldn’t feed her young any longer that the maternal instinct joined forces with the aching need to fill her belly and she was forced, not by any will of her own but rather the buffeting forces which live inside and rule all animals, to leave.

She sat sniffing outside the den for a number of minutes, waiting to make sure that the coast was clear. This was by no means an easy task – every rodent scurrying by smelled exactly like a meal and after weeks without so much as a scrap of food her instinct to feed was sharply honed. However, she retained just the scrap of self-preservation which required that she wait to have a full picture of the situation before venturing out. Eventually, she did just that, slinking along the forest floor, her bony body sticking to trees and shadows.

Hunting was made difficult by her weakened state. Several times she smelled a rat, close enough that she knew she could stalk it, but in her condition she wasn’t able to move subtly and she inevitably alerted her would-be prey to her presence.

After several failed attempts she smelled a familiar scent, and a most welcome one. Her entire body seemed to lift in the air with joy as she recognised it. It was, it could only be, her mate from that year, who she had thought dead or injured. Surely he was on his way back to her, surely he had been lost. She hurried towards the source of the scent, and found a den. Not thinking, only reacting, she ran to the source of comfort, the source of sustenance, and came upon not only her mate, but another vixen and seven plump young kits, the same age as her own. Bewilderingly, her mate didn’t appear surprised to see her, or concerned for her state. No, he simply placed his lithe, muscular, healthy body between her and the other vixen – and the kits. It was to no avail, however. Propelled by weeks of hunger and an instant of betrayal, her wasted muscles propelled her forward in one bound to push past the two adult foxes and take a cub into her jaws, snapping its neck instantly. And as the rich scent of blood burst onto her tongue like an opening flower, her only thought was of her next bite.