If the oceans were forests, you could start at a beach of moss and walk until tufts of grass sprouted up and small white flowers spilled over like seafoam.
Wildflowers and bushes and ferns would start to sprout up as you walk farther and farther. No water, though the land would still gradually become as deep as it normally is at the bottom of the ocean.
The forests would begin about thirty feet in. Short at first, like apple trees, squat and wide and rich. They'd get taller and wider and older and more gnarled the deeper you went.
Midday would turn to midnight, and fireflies the size of lanterns would float lazily between the trunks, curiously trailing behind you as you went. A soft, inch-thick blanket of overgrown moss, soft leaves, twisted twigs, smooth pebbles, acorns, and huge pinecones would cover the ground, slowly creeping up the huge roots and trunks.
Mushrooms taller than your head would loom above, filling the air with the scent of soft, wet dirt: an earthy freshness. You'd get to the bottom, nearly or as deep as the Mariana Trench.
Gentle deer the size of garages, fur covered in glowing spirals, disappear behind trees as wide as and twice as tall as a skyscraper. Hooves bigger than dinner plates leave no prints. Vast, twisting, winding horns spiral and curve, an endless maze, great swatches of moss trailing from them.
The lanternflies swarm in hundreds, drifting, bathing the trees in a soft glow, but barely denting the pitch black.
YOU ARE READING
Twisted Dreams
PoetryA collection of short stories, poems, and half-written ramblings. ~•°•°-----------------------------------《☆》 dream \ ˈdrēm \ 1 : a series of thoughts, visions, or feelings that happen during sleep ~•°•°-----------------------------------《☆》 night·m...
