The Trees Novels & Stories

"I don't understand dear. what's your point...?" "Well, my point is that if we grow more trees... They provide a lot of merits." "Such as...?" "Trees could act as a shelter to the wildlife. They would be useful in keeping the air clean and the most important fact is that trees may be able to protect the land by accumulating rainwater underground which is a solution to the problem of the dry Westlands." "You make quite the point. The wizards will be able to grow trees faster using magic... It's a great plan, in all honesty, your father here isn't all always smart. So, I was afraid that this situation is beyond my control."

They move forward warily with the protective shield around them "The heck!" They did not expect that they will be attacked by Barnacle Trees even before arriving at their destination. Barnacle trees are a sentient mystical tree that spits needles as a form of retaliation to intruders. Although being pricked with its needle won't pose any threat, still being pricked by many needles all at the same time definitely doesn't feel good. Among the group, only Audrey remained unscathed, while the rest of her friends resembles a cactus. Not even a single needle pricked her, and of course, it was all thanks to her cat, Nero.

It seemed to remind me to have hope and belief even when it is impossible. Lots of cricket to hear. More mists. There are taller trees now that I am in the middle of the forest. They seemed to have grown healthier, but their breadth terrified me at this hour — they lined up as they stood tall and straight, and their silhouettes seem to have faces. Some hoots surrounded me. There are a lot of scattered leaves too. The cool breeze also caresses every branch as well as the leaves of that falls. I heard my own rustles.

Does he have cameras in the forest too? I quietly make my way out of the house into the forest and I'm immediately enveloped in a world of vibrant colors and sounds. The trees tower above me, their trunks thick and gnarled, their leaves a kaleidoscope of greens, from deep emerald to bright lime. The air is filled with the sweet scent of blooming flowers and the earthy smell of damp soil.

MENODORA'S POV Ancient trees climb up, stretch so far that they almost touch the sky. Their silver trunks are broader and larger than any buildings I have ever seen. Their leaves glow with a faint shimmer, like stars had found a way to be caught in the branches. Flowers cover the hillsides in different shades and hues of colour, some of which I do not even have a name for.

TRINITY The forest was alive, teeming with an energy that made every sound sharper, every scent stronger. The air was crisp, carrying the earthy aroma of pine needles and damp moss. Moonlight spilled through the dense canopy above, casting silver streaks onto the forest floor and illuminating my path. The trees seemed impossibly tall, their dark silhouettes stretching into the sky like silent guardians.

“The shadow trees are near. We’re close.” Aphael nodded and his senses sharpening. The time for reflection was over. As the pack moved closer to the shadow trees, a heavy tension settled over them. The trees loomed like giants, their twisted branches spreading wide, blocking the moon’s light from penetrating the dense canopy. These trees were unlike any others on Lunular Island. Their bark was deep black, absorbing every sliver of light that touched them. The air here was different — colder, thicker. Even the sounds of the island seemed to disappear into the oppressive darkness.

I spent my hours looking at the oak trees. I was amazed at this tree's rapid growth in just a few years. It began as a little seed and grew over time into a large tree. It now serves as a haven for numerous species. The ottoman's leaves gracefully separate from its branches. The rain accentuates the vibrant hues of the young leaves.

She sat up, slowly, wincing at the pain in her body, and looked around. They were in a forest. Not the meadow of the realm, not the valley of the between-place, but a real forest, with real trees and real dirt and real birdsong that filtered through the canopy in a way that seemed almost aggressively mundane, almost defiantly ordinary. The trees were pine and oak and birch, the kinds of trees she had known in her childhood, the kinds of trees that had surrounded her grandmother's house in the mountains, the kinds of trees that had never asked anything of her except to exist in their presence.