A Needle in a Haystack

The man stood at the center of the forest, surrounded by nothing but acres upon acres of gnarled trees and the unforgiving darkness which threatened to engulf him. He was lost. Not the kind of lost that could be overcome by unwavering determination and sheer persistence but the kind of lost that leaves you frozen, so unsure of yourself that a single step creates tremendous doubt.

Beads of sweat glistened on the man’s face, illuminated by the tiny glimmer of pale moonlight which miraculously made it through the thick canopy. The man knew he was lost. He had known it for a long time.

For a while, the man had tried his hardest to escape the nightmare he was in. The more he relentlessly trod forward, the closer he seemed to be getting to civilization. It was only when he walked past the same oddly shaped rock for the third time did he realize that he had gotten nowhere. He was hopelessly and utterly lost.

And so he stood there. A lone figure among the mass of trees that made the forest, small and insignificant. A needle in a haystack.  In the distance an owl hooted, a single solitary cry that reflected the lonely situation he was in.

He knew he had to push forward, but the question is which way?

After cursing his luck for the situation he was in, the man took a deep breath. Slowly, he scanned his surroundings. The man took a step forward.

He was going to get out of this forest alive, or die trying.


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