MIDAS
The entire forest goes silent the minute he takes the first step into its shadows.
Like a single organism holding its breath in anticipation.
Or a predator watching its prey; stalking…observing…waiting for the perfect moment to pounce, to attack.
Midas rolls his shoulders and breaths in the stale, unmoving air.
“Let them come.”
He walks beneath sunless copses, into pools of darkness punctuated only by thin shafts of silvery moonlight passing through the leaves.
The towering trees stare baleful down at him as if disapproving of his intrusion into their space.
Screaming oaks of magnificent mahogany brown in the day, transformed in the darkness into grotesque faces contorted in pain, twisted bloodwoods with scarlet sap running down their trunk as if from bleeding wounds and spot
