The Swamp, The Witch and The Curse

The air in the swamp isn’t just thick—it’s alive. It presses in from all sides, wet and pulsing, like the lungs of something ancient exhaling around me. The rain doesn’t just fall here—it seeps, sliding from the sky like something half-dead, mixing with the swamp’s own fevered breath. It clings to my skin like fingers, damp and whispering, murmuring stories of things that watch but never show themselves.

Midnight in the Meadow

Dirt infests my lungs as the king’s guards slam my body into the ground. Pain splinters through me—stiff bones cracking on impact. The air smells musty and dirt clings to my throat the way sand clings to wet skin. I cough hard, hacking, tasting earth on my tongue.

Lanterns and Roots

The tree next door never rests. Its branches shuffle like fidgeting fingers, and its offerings rearrange themselves when no one’s looking. Last week, it wore pink paper lanterns. Yesterday, the lanterns were gone, replaced by dreamcatchers that shiver like chattering teeth. Today, a crown of fairy lights twitches in the daylight.