Liam and the Misty Mountains

 Liam and the Misty Mountains

Liam couldn’t believe his eyes. Just moments ago, he’d been snuggled in his bed, his favorite book still clutched in his hands, when he suddenly found himself standing on the edge of a cliff. And not just any cliff—this one had floating rocks, misty peaks rising like sleepy giants, and a valley below where plants glowed purple and pink like a million tiny fairy lights.

He gasped, taking it all in, and clutched his backpack tighter. Wait—backpack? When did he put that on? And what was inside? He quickly peeked in, hoping to find a candy bar or maybe a camping lanturn. But all he found was a single sandwich, a flashlight with barely any battery left, and, of course, his stuffed rabbit, Mr. Nibbles, who looked just as surprised as Liam.

“Well, Mr. Nibbles,” Liam said, holding the rabbit up to the landscape, “I don’t think we’re in the bedroom anymore.”

Mr. Nibbles stared back at him with his stitched smile, clearly unfazed. Mr. Nibbles had been on many of Liam’s pretend adventures, but Liam was pretty sure that this wasn’t pretend. He’d pinched his arm about seven times to check.

Ahead of him, a narrow path twisted down the cliffside, disappearing into the mist below. The only sound was the faint hum of the glowing plants and a strange, low whistle that seemed to come from somewhere far in the distance.

Liam felt a shiver of excitement. “Guess we’d better explore, right?” he said, setting Mr. Nibbles back into his backpack and zipping it up, leaving just his head poking out. With a deep breath, he took his first step down the path, doing his best “intrepid explorer” impression. His heart pounded with a mix of nervousness and thrill. Who knew what he might find?

As he rounded the first bend, he spotted a strange figure crouched by a purple bush. The figure was dressed in ragged clothes, with a wide-brimmed hat pulled low over his face. Liam squinted. The creature—no, the *person*—seemed to be talking to himself in a soft, scratchy voice.

“Erm, hello?” Liam called, as politely as he could manage.

The figure jumped, clutching at his hat. “Good gracious, who goes there?” he croaked, looking up with wide, curious eyes. He had a face like a wrinkled mushroom, with a long nose and wispy white hair sticking out from under his hat.

Liam stepped closer, careful not to scare him. “My name’s Liam. I, uh, think I might be lost. I just sort of… appeared here.” He gestured at the cliffside and the mist.

The mushroom man raised a single bushy eyebrow. “Appeared, you say? Well, that’s highly irregular. Highly.” He gave Liam a serious look, then seemed to come to a decision. “Name’s Fiddlewink, Chief Guide of the Misty Mountains—well, retired, actually. These days I mostly chat with the plants.”

He patted the glowing bush fondly, as if it were an old friend. The bush sparkled back, as if to say, *Hello, yes, we’re very much best friends.*

“Nice to meet you, Mr. Fiddlewink,” Liam said, feeling a bit more comfortable. “Um, do you think you could tell me where I am? And maybe how to get home?”

Fiddlewink scratched his chin thoughtfully, which made a sort of squeaking sound. “Well now, that’s the question, isn’t it? Where you are. Not many people come here on purpose, you see. The Misty Mountains are rather selective.”

“Selective?” Liam echoed, trying to keep up.

“Yes, yes. They like a certain *type*, if you catch my drift.” Fiddlewink waggled a finger at Liam. “Adventurous. Curious. Not afraid of heights… much.”

Liam gulped and decided to change the subject. “So, you said you’re a guide? Maybe you could show me around?”

Fiddlewink beamed, clearly delighted by the request. “Oh, I suppose I *could* dust off the old skills. Follow me, young Liam!” He trotted down the path with surprising speed for someone who looked like he was older than Liam’s whole town.

They walked for what felt like hours, winding down the cliffs, through tunnels covered in bioluminescent moss, and across narrow bridges made from twisted roots. Every now and then, Fiddlewink would point out something important, like the “Majestic Purple Splotherbush” (a shrub that was very nice but apparently *terrible* to eat) or the “Glowing Green Wiggleroot” (which was *delicious*, but made your tongue tingle for days).

“Just don’t eat more than three Wigglers in a row, or you might start floating,” Fiddlewink warned.

Liam tried not to laugh. “Floating?”

“Oh yes. Happened to my cousin once. Had to tie rocks to his feet to keep him from floating away.”

As they walked, Liam realized he wasn’t as scared as he’d been at first. Fiddlewink’s stories were strange and sometimes didn’t make much sense, but they made the Misty Mountains feel… friendly, almost. Like maybe he belonged here, even just a little.

Just when Liam was beginning to wonder if they’d ever stop walking, Fiddlewink halted abruptly. “Look, boy, down there.”

Liam peered over the edge of the cliff. Below, he saw a massive cave entrance, framed by sparkling purple vines. And at the mouth of the cave, glowing brightly, was a round pool of water that seemed to pulse with light.

“What is it?” Liam asked, awestruck.

“That,” Fiddlewink said with great seriousness, “is the Wishing Pool. It’s been here as long as the Misty Mountains themselves. You throw something into the pool, make a wish, and poof! It just might come true.”

Liam’s eyes widened. “Really? I could wish to go home?”

Fiddlewink nodded, though he looked a little sad. “If that’s what you really want. You could even wish for two sandwiches next time instead of one.”

Liam laughed, reaching into his backpack. “I don’t have much to throw in, just this sandwich and Mr. Nibbles, but—”

“Wait, wait!” Fiddlewink interrupted, horrified. “Not the rabbit! You don’t throw rabbits in the Wishing Pool! The Wishing Pool has *rules*, you know!”

Liam chuckled. “I was kidding, Mr. Fiddlewink.” He took a deep breath, feeling a strange mixture of relief and sadness. This place was amazing, and he’d never had an adventure like this. But… he did miss his family, and his bed, and maybe even his little sister (even if she *did* always touch his stuff).

He tossed his sandwich into the pool and squeezed his eyes shut. “I wish I could go home.”

For a moment, nothing happened. But then, the pool began to glow brighter, swirling with colors. Liam felt a strange pull, like he was being lifted off his feet. He looked at Fiddlewink, who waved sadly.

“Goodbye, Liam! Don’t forget about the Misty Mountains, and don’t you dare forget old Fiddlewink!”

“Never!” Liam shouted, feeling the world spin around him.

And then, just as suddenly as he’d arrived, Liam was back in his bedroom. The first thing he noticed was his bed, the second was Mr. Nibbles still clutched in his hand, and the third was… the sandwich.

“Wait a minute…” Liam blinked. There, on his nightstand, was his very same sandwich, perfectly whole. He laughed, realizing that maybe, just maybe, the Misty Mountains and Fiddlewink weren’t so far away after all.

As he lay back, he whispered into the darkness, “Goodnight, Mr. Fiddlewink.”

And somewhere, far off in the Misty Mountains, a certain mushroom-faced guide chuckled and tipped his hat to the stars.

The LightKeeper

 The Lightkeeper 

 

Jasper’s breath fogged in the chilly air as he clutched his torch tightly, the warmth of the flickering flame steadying his nerves. He peered into the dense, shadow-filled woods, feeling the weight of the darkness pressing in on him. The night was still, so quiet he could hear the soft crackle of his torch, each spark a tiny miracle of light against the oppressive gloom. 

 

He wasn't supposed to be out here—everyone had made that clear. “Stay by the fire,” they’d said. “The forest isn’t safe after dark.” But Jasper had always been curious, drawn to the unknown places, the quiet mysteries that only came alive at night. Tonight, he’d been chosen as the youngest of the village’s torchbearers, and while the elders went to prepare the grounds for the Harvest Moon Festival, he’d wandered. 

 

Now, he was lost. 

 

He knew the stories, of course, about the Watchers who guarded the woods at night. Ancient spirits with glowing eyes, protectors and keepers of the forest’s deepest secrets. He remembered how his mother would warn him, her voice a mixture of sternness and wonder, “The Watchers don’t like to be disturbed, Jasper. They don’t take kindly to those who wander where they don’t belong.” 

 

But here he was, heart thumping as he ventured deeper, his little torch the only point of light. 

 

Something rustled behind him. Jasper whipped around, torch held high. Shadows danced, twisting and turning as if alive. A low murmur reached his ears, too quiet to understand. He swallowed hard, fingers tightening on the torch. 

 

“What… what do you want?” he whispered, his voice barely audible. 

 

Nothing replied. But the air around him grew colder, and he noticed that the branches above him seemed to form arching shapes, almost like the vaulted ceilings of the village chapel, where he had always felt safe. The trees seemed older, their bark gnarled and rough, and Jasper had the strange sense that they were watching him. He took a shaky breath, focusing on the torch’s flame, and took a small step forward. 

 

As he moved, the path seemed to shift and change beneath his feet. The brambles parted just enough for him to walk, almost as if the forest were guiding him. Or testing him. 

 

He walked on, his steps quieter now, careful. Slowly, he began to hear the whispers again, just faint hints of words, like voices carried by the wind. They seemed to be calling his name, though he wasn’t sure. The forest felt alive, but not hostile, almost… welcoming. 

 

Then, out of the corner of his eye, Jasper saw a flash of light. He turned, and there, through the trees, he spotted a glowing figure—a faint, shimmering form with a crown of antlers and eyes like burning coals. One of the Watchers. The figure looked at him, tilting its head in curiosity, and though he felt his pulse quicken with fear, Jasper didn’t turn away. 

 

The Watcher raised a hand and gestured for him to follow. The boy hesitated but felt an unexplainable urge to trust this strange spirit. Taking a deep breath, he stepped forward, following the glowing figure through the trees, his torchlight barely illuminating the path ahead. The whispers grew louder now, familiar and comforting. 

 

The Watcher led him to a clearing, where a circle of ancient stones surrounded a pool of crystal-clear water. The moonlight glinted off its surface, and Jasper could see his reflection—a small boy with a torch, standing among giants. For a moment, he thought he saw other reflections too, shapes flitting in and out, glowing eyes watching him, spirits of those who had walked these woods long before him. 

 

The Watcher stopped at the edge of the pool and turned to face him. Slowly, it reached out, its hand hovering above his torch. The flame flickered and shifted, growing brighter, more intense, until it burned with a white light that lit up the entire clearing. 

 

Jasper felt a warmth spread through him, a deep sense of connection, as if the forest itself had accepted him. The Watcher placed its hand on his shoulder, and though its touch was light, Jasper felt the weight of centuries in it. In his mind, he heard a voice, soft yet powerful. 

 

“You are a Lightkeeper now,” it whispered. “A guardian of our woods. When you carry this torch, our bond will guide you and protect you.” 

 

The boy’s eyes widened, and he looked down at his torch, the flames now steady and strong, glowing with a strange, ethereal light. He felt a surge of pride, mixed with a deep sense of responsibility. 

 

The Watcher released him and slowly faded back into the shadows, leaving Jasper alone in the clearing. He looked around, noticing how the forest seemed different now—less frightening, more familiar. He knew the way home. 

 

With the torch held high, he walked back through the forest, every step filling him with confidence. He could hear the whispers still, like an ancient song, guiding him. And in the torch’s warm glow, he felt the presence of the Watchers, their watchful eyes always on him, their silent blessing lighting his path. 

 

When he emerged from the woods and saw the lights of the village ahead, he took a moment to glance back. The trees stood tall and dark, but he no longer feared them. Now, he was their Lightkeeper, and he knew he would never be alone in the forest again.

Whispers in the Wood

*Whispers of the Wood*

In a land where the trees were old enough to gossip and the streams knew every secret, young Linden the elf was sleeping soundly. It was his fifth birthday, a very big deal among elves, because it meant he’d have his first *real* forest dream. His grandmother had wrapped him up snug in a blanket woven from spider silk (the spiders had grumbled about it, but everyone knew she could charm anyone with cookies).

As Linden lay there, the forest creaked and stretched like an old grandparent. Moonlight filtered through the leaves, casting a soft glow on his bed, while his pointed ears twitched slightly with every night sound.

The dream began with a shiver of laughter. The forest spirits had finally arrived—though a bit late, as spirits tend to be. They were tiny, glowing things with wings like cobwebs, and they hovered above his pillow, discussing their plan.

“Are you sure he’s old enough for this?” one spirit whispered, glancing down at Linden. 

Another spirit shrugged. “Old enough to sleep through Gran Willow’s snoring, so… close enough.”

They fluttered down, and one tapped Linden gently on the nose. Instantly, he found himself in a strange woodland world, with animals he’d only ever heard about in stories. A fox with spectacles sat reading a tiny newspaper, while a rabbit with a monocle inspected his paws with great importance.

“Welcome, youngling,” said the fox, in a voice so wise it could have belonged to a very forgetful professor. “I am Fenwick, the Keeper of Forgotten Socks.”

“Why do socks need keeping?” Linden asked, rubbing his eyes in the dream.

“Oh, they’re terribly mischievous,” Fenwick said, adjusting his spectacles. “One minute they’re on your feet, the next, *poof*, they’ve vanished. Someone’s got to keep them in line.”

Linden giggled, though he wasn’t sure if he understood. Next, a turtle wearing a top hat shuffled over. “I am Lord Slowpoke,” he introduced himself, “Guardian of All Lost Keys. Takes me three days to find one, but that’s the charm of it.”

The dream meandered on, with Linden meeting more curious creatures: a hedgehog who hummed lullabies to tired leaves, a squirrel who bragged about once stealing a human’s shoe, and a choir of sparrows who sang off-key just to be rebellious.

Finally, the tallest of the spirits floated down, her voice as warm as a crackling fire. “This is your gift, young Linden. Tonight, the forest has shared its memories with you.”

Linden scratched his head, which felt oddly lighter without all his usual thoughts. “What am I supposed to do with them?” he asked, a little sheepishly.

“Oh, nothing. Just enjoy them,” the spirit chuckled. “And maybe don’t try to understand all of it. Even *we* don’t quite get why socks disappear.”

The morning light crept into his room as the dream faded, and Linden awoke, smiling. He couldn’t remember much of the dream, but he was left with an inexplicable urge to find his other sock—and a warm feeling, like he’d been given a hundred secret hugs by the forest itself.

Second Chances

 Della’s business was always booming. As the town’s resident necromancer, she ran a little pop-up shop, Second Chances, just outside the cemetery. For the right price, she’d bring back the dearly departed, no questions asked. 

Today, a man with slicked-back hair and a leather briefcase strolled up to her with an urgent request. 

“It’s my boss, Arnold,” he said. “I need him back just long enough to sign these papers. I swear, he was this close to promoting me before he kicked the bucket.” 

Della squinted at him. “So… you want me to resurrect your boss. So you can get a promotion.” 

He shrugged. “It’s what he would’ve wanted.” 

Della waved him off and went to work. Minutes later, Arnold shuffled out of the grave, pale and groggy, adjusting to his brief time among the living. 

“Uh, Della, is it? Where am I?” he croaked, one eye twitching as he spotted his “loyal” employee. 

“You died, but it was a minor inconvenience for Mr. Slick here,” Della explained, deadpan. 

Arnold blinked. “Oh. Well, I suppose I should be—” 

“Sign here, sir,” the man interrupted, shoving a pen into his bony fingers. 

But Della grinned. “Oh, one thing: Resurrection contracts come with a little clause. You know, for quality assurance.” 

The man frowned. “What kind of clause?” 

“Let’s just say he’ll be following you everywhere for at least a year. Day, night… holidays. Arnold here gets… attached.” 

The man’s eyes widened as Arnold gave him a toothy grin, visibly decaying by the minute. 

"Promotion or not," Della said, “he’s all yours.”