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Weekly Contest #320
The first sign that something was wrong with the forest was the silence. Not the quiet hum of a still night, but a profound, unnatural absence of sound. The crickets in the meadow had stopped their nightly song. The great horned owls, usually a constant presence in the old oaks, had gone mute. Even the wind, when it swept through the ancient pines, made no sound. Jasper, the old trapper who had lived on the edge of the Whispering Woods his entire life, was the first to notice. He was a man more comfortable with the rhythms of the wild than t...
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