Sewanee Young Writers Conference
If my writing was a place...
The sunset highlights the outline of the trees, making it far more dramatic. Creatures not native to this land, this planet emerge and wander. They chatter and meet, discussing through their language barriers. Everywhere I turn is something new and strange and wierd and wonderful. Some animals glow, others have scales, or feathers longer than my arm. The sun is still setting, never quite making it behind the horizon and keeping us, and the forest, from plunging into the night.
Magic is alive here, walks amongst the trees, dressed in robes and cloaks. It smiles or glares, to each their own. The not-quite shadows shelter things from view, things we know are there yet don't want to see- death, inequality, prejudice, anger, hatred. Walk too close and it will grab you around the ankle and drag you into the shadows. I still sport a handprint scar on my ankle.
The sun will never set, leaving just enough light for life to continue and magic to thrive. Nor will it ever fully rise, never to chase away the shadow things or release the darkness of the forest.