Only a Matter of Logic

 There was once a forest from which no living soul returned. It was said that the forest had a penchant for flesh. All who thought of its border of gnarled old trees leading into darkness pictured strewn corpses, littered bones, and the smell of decay so putrid that it could render oblivion with a mere whiff.

    So went the legends.

    Now, legends are powerful things. So much so that no one had entered the forest itself for centuries. And no one thought about the fact that if no one had entered it for centuries, than it was not likely to be strewn with corpses, littered with bones, or smell of rotting flesh. No one, save a logical little girl desperate to get away.

    Hold, the reader might say. Logic? one might ask. Surely a little girl filled with logic would find herself at a crossroads when desiring to immerse herself in a forest. That would be the magical thing to do; quite at odds with what is logical.

    Ho, ho, this writer might say in return. Perhaps, she might endeavor to continue, the reader has forgotten their logic. For logic sits where the truth lies. And so does magic. Not opposites at all, but bedfellows.

    And this little girl, so the writer writes, was desperate to get away from lies.

    Into the forest she went, where she found a world of leaves and soft moss and gentle branches. The faeries attended her there, and she was not surprised. For how else would an ancient forest last so long or be filled with such legends if their were no faeries within it? And in such a forest, where others thought to see corpses and bones, the little girl saw faeries flit and things were vibrant green with life. She saw the truth.

    It was only a matter of logic.

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