OLDEN’S WOOD

(an exerpt)

by

Henry Snider
To Be Published in 2012′s
“CHAINED IN THE ATTIC”
By Wicked East Press

Olden’s Wood had grown again.

Cheri Addison pressed her cheek against the bedroom’s cool window frame and watched the fiasco two blocks away. Police, volunteers, even a military division worked day and night to contain what was once only twenty square acres of undeveloped property. Now, like spring gone insane, the entire wood throbbed with life, pulsing larger with each minute.

“I . . . see . . . you,” she chimed and looked at trees which usually took decades, in some cases centuries, to grow. Trees which emerged overnight. Fingers stroked the window frame and caressed its swollen paint.

The neighboring lawn grew shaggy before her eyes and strained from an immaculate manicure into a dandelion-infested mop. Leafy green shoots thrust through sidewalk cracks, forcing gaps larger.

One news reporter gave aired testimony at an intersection two doors down. Cheri leaned back into the bedroom and hoped she wasn’t seen.

Cra-pop!

One block over, a roof split as an oak, already in full bloom, burst forth as shingles frisbeed out in every direction.

Screams echoed through suburbia-gone-mad.

Thwahhhhhhhh!

A multi-toned musical note reverberated throughout the neighborhood and synced in time with a cloudy expulsion from the Wood. Resulting haze hung heavy above treetops and drifted slowly southward.

“Tick-tock, tick-tock, Mother Nature’s tired of your world-of-rock.” Cheri repeated the rhyme and wandered through the abandoned house. Smells of burnt wood and combustibles wafted, scents in such sharp contrast they tickled her senses.

Nature worked to reclaim what man wrought. Panes split as branches sprang anew from treated lumber. Glass shattered as an ashtray fell from a decorative hall table now adorned a multitude of foot-high branches. Plank floors actively shifted underfoot, looking for an easy exit from wall-to-wall carpet. The grandfather clock now sported, to Cheri’s amusement, a leafy beard worthy of its name.

Boom!

Another explosion rocked the neighborhood. Air whooshed in, telegraphing the blast’s force.

Silence.

Lazy travels led her downstairs to the kitchen where she’d first discovered the pot. A simple miniature rose contained in a clay pot rested on the windowsill. She picked mankind’s prisoner up and marveled at what growth occurred during her hour’s stay here. Once a simple, four-inch plant now bloomed at well over a foot. Deep red petals yawned toward life-giving light.

Thwahhhhhhhh!

Sound ripped through the house.

Walls shook and splintered under the stress.

Cheri lost her foothold and fell, sliding gracelessly down a wall beside the home’s back door. Her grip on the pot tightened. Windows shattered, shards twinkled like starlight as glass flew in every direction.

Scents of decaying matter filled the kitchen, followed by a light haze seen once on a vacation to the Everglades. Recognition took nary a moment.

Spores. Her Wood was growing.

Thwahhhhhhhh!

Though sounds from nature’s trumpet still sounded, the mixture of foliage and construction masked the Wood’s trumpet.

—————– end of exerpt —————–

For the rest of “Olden’s Wood” and other nightmarish tales, purchase “CHAINED IN THE ATTIC” by Wicked East Press.  Available on Amazon later in 2012.