From Eden

Posted on by Editor Team

By: Cole Grennen

You’re here to find something, but you’ve gotten lost. The sun has begun to set, and your phone is dead. You forgot what you came here for, but it was important. You remember it was important, like the ghost of honey on your tongue. Do you wish to proceed?

  1. Yes
  2. Do I have a choice?

To the North rises an ocean of wheat, golden in the fading sunlight. It shifts in waves, glinting like gold, but you can see shadows swimming in its depths. To the East sits a forest, green and red and great in its
splendor. You see movement in the branches, but the creatures are gone when you blink. To the South lie great plains, rolling hills as far as the eye can see. The sun casts shadows where there should be none. There’s nothing there to cast them. There’s nothing to the West. You don’t look. You never look. Which way do you go?

The sun casts shadows where there should be none. There’s nothing there to cast them. There’s nothing to the West. You don’t look. You never look. Which way do you go?

  1. Forwards, I’m not a coward.
  2. Backwards, I don’t want to play anymore
  3. Left, my mother’s left-handed, so I’ve always held affection for
    the direction
  4. Right, nothing can go wrong when you pick the right path

The forest rustles before you, trees taller than your eyes can reach. The trees sway in a breeze you can’t feel, gentle and lovely.

  1. I enter the path set before me; a road almost big enough for my
    car to fit––but not quite. I’ll have to walk, but that’s okay. If I
    stay on the path, I’ll know which way I came. I know not to step
    off the path.
  2. I stare, for a long time I was the shadows flittering through the
    leaves. They’re playful, dancing like sunlight. Dancing like children. I’m not stupid enough to enter without permission.
  3. There’s a foot path, old and worn with new growth just sprouting
    through. The path hasn’t been touched in years. It looks welcoming, like the touch of an old friend. A forgotten lover.
  4. The trees open just ahead, a shrouded arch of draping branches
    and sharp leaves. Like the one I was married under, long enough
    ago that I forgot the exact color of our bridesmaids’ dresses. The
    way the rain fell. I think I see my wife ahead, draped in white and glowing. I came out here to find them, I’m pretty sure. Why else would I be here?

The foliage crunches beneath your feet, branches and twigs and leaves crackling under your weight. You feel bad, yours are the first footprints against this earth in a lifetime. Human footprints, at least.

  1. I shouldn’t be here. This forest is not my friend, I know this.
    I’ve known this. There’s a reason we always agreed to stay on the
    marked paths.
  2. I see her, just ahead. White dress catching on branches and
    thorns as she walks through the underbrush. I cry out but she
    can’t seem to hear me. I can’t even seem to hear me. Where has
    my voice gone?
  3. I must’ve made the wrong choice. There… I thought this was the
    way she came. This is where she said she’d be. This is where her
    GPS said she last was. She must’ve taken a different path, perhaps
    the footpath I saw a while back.
  4. The birds chirp above me, tiny bodies flitting through the
    branches on feather light wings. The sunlight glints off of their
    beaks, flashes of light that guides my way. The forest is thick, but
    nothing is impenetrable.

Behind you, a branch snaps.

  1. I freeze. Every breath echoes too loud in my ears. Faintly, like a
    flute played in the next room just loud enough to hear over the
    sautéing of vegetables, laughter floats on the breeze.
  2. Haha, there’s nothing there but forest. Nothing there at all.
  3. This is a forest, of course there’s going to be large creatures. Most
    of them are prey animals, most predators don’t come out until
    after dark, I’m pretty sure. We just finished a marathon of Planet
    Earth, so I know what to do if the thing behind me is less friendly
    than your average deer.
  4. The birds have stopped chirping. Around me, the forest hangs in
    perilous silence. Why are the birds silent? Where have they gone?

You turn, slowly.

  1. There’s nothing there, only darkness. I can’t see past the branches
    I just ducked under, long and spindly and sharp. It’s the kind of
    dark that breathes, pulsing with life in the way that feels like a
    heartbeat, like a lost friend. There’s nothing there, nothing at all.
  2. There’s someone standing there. Someone tall, limbs too long,
    and fingers even longer. He has no face, but that doesn’t stop him
    from looking at me. I’m trapped, I can’t move, oh, god, he’s moving closer, oh, god, please help me. Someone please help me.
  3. I don’t turn around. You’re never supposed to turn around in theorest, don’t you know that? It just tells the creatures following you that you know they’re there. If they don’t know that you know, they’ll stay in their shadows. They won’t come into the light.
  4. There are eyes watching me, from all around. I can see them, glowing red and green and white, like those nature documentaries we would watch when it was hard to sleep. You know the ones at night, where the bob cat’s eyes glow green as she snarls at the camera.

You run, tearing down the path like a spooked horse.

  1. That wasn’t a deer. Oh, god, that wasn’t a deer.
  2. There’s nothing following me. I cannot hear the footstep just
    inches from my heels. I cannot feel the warm breath on the back
    of my neck. I do not see it. It is not there.
  3. Those eyes follow me, close enough to touch, and they’re going
    to get me. They’re faster than I could ever hope to be, silent in
    their pursuit. They’re toying with me, I know, but I can’t stop
    running. If I stop running, then the game will be over.
  4. I can hear him following me. He runs, careless, smacking into
    trees and branches like a living thing wouldn’t. Like a puppet
    controlled by a particularly cruel master. His arms trail by his sides, long fingers scratched and bloodied and wrong. Like he was clawing at something. There’s dirt under his nails. I can hear him breathing, but he doesn’t have a mouth.

The forest is closing in around you, trees bending and creaking and groaning. If they had eyes, they’d be following you. Maybe they do have eyes. You can feel them on your back. Long, twisted fingers grasp
at your arms, your hair, your clothing. You tear through them, uncaring. There is a light up ahead, a solemn glow between the wild leaves. You aim towards it, desperate, reaching, aching. Without warning, the ground disappears under your feet. You tumble, aimlessly, over the edge of a cliff you never saw coming. You never even reached the light.

  1. I scream. I can’t stop screaming. My throat cracks, dry and rusted
    and bloodied.
  2. Like a dream, I wake before I hit the ground. It was only an illusion; the earth is solid under my feet.
  3. There isn’t a cliff. There never was a cliff. You’re lying to me.
  4. I tumble, weightless, but the ground never grows closer.

If you were to wind up back where you started, if you got a second chance–– would you make better choices? Would you make them worse? Are you capable of changing this ending for the better? Are you
capable of changing yourself ?

  1. I don’t know, I’m still falling.
  2. Of course I would, I take every chance for growth I’m afforded.
    Now that I know where I end up, I can change that. I’m the only
    one who can control what I do.
  3. I see birds floating around my head, tiny and blue and way too
    loud. Am I hungover? Why am I sitting in the center of a perfect
    circle, unmarred by the forest surrounding?
  4. No, I… I can’t be sure that I’ll remember all the choices I made.
    I know I won’t remember them, so I’ll just make the same ones
    again and again and again.

Do you wish to proceed?

  1. Yes
  2. No. Do I have a choice?

You’re here to find something, but you’ve gotten lost. The sun has set, and your phone is dead. You forgot what you came here for, but it was important. Her name sits empty on your lips, like the ghost of honey on your tongue. Do you wish to proceed?

  1. No, of course not. Why would I want to leave? I’m exactly where
    I want to be, the trees are home now. Everything is safe. Everything is alright. You should join us
  2. Yes. Yes, I’m confused. Where’s my wife? She was here, I know
    she was. I saw her, so what did you do with her? Where is she? I
    don’t know where I am     Where is she? Who are you Where is she? There’s something in the
    trees    .
  3. Yes, I followed your directions. I answered your questions. Why
    do I have to go through this again? If I go with you, will you let
    me leave? Please, I want to go home

To the North rises an ocean of wheat, burnished in the light of the moon. It shifts in waves, glinting like silver, but you can see shadows swimming in its depths. To the East sits a forest, dark and black and horrible in its splendor. You see movement in the branches, but the creatures are made of darkness and shadow, and your eyesight was never that great. To the South lie great plains, rolling hills that melt together until the ground looks flat. The moon doesn’t cast the shadows it should. The things dancing in the darkness are unburdened by the chains of solidity. There’s nothing to the West. You don’t look. It smiles to you when you glance away. Which way do you go?