2025-2026, Flash Fiction

"The Woods" – J.T. Huff '26

The woods were listed as empty on government maps, yet sound followed you anyway. Branches snapped without wind. Footsteps answered yours, always one step late. The trees were uniform, planted after the Burnings, when nature was redesigned for safety and surveillance.

Your wrist scanner vibrated: ZONE BREACH. RETURN. You muted it and kept walking, because returning meant questions, and questions meant correction.

The noises shifted into whispers, metallic and rehearsed, drifting between trunks. Red lights blinked awake overhead as cameras unfolded from bark. The forest wasn’t wild; it was operational.

You reached a clearing shaped too perfectly to be natural. The whispers stopped. Silence pressed down until speakers crackled from every direction.

“Citizen located,” a calm voice said. “Emotional deviation detected. Fear levels elevated.”

The ground trembled. Drones rose from the soil like insects, humming with purpose. You raised your hands, realizing escape had never been the point.

The woods weren’t hiding something from you. They were watching, waiting, and recording.

As restraints closed around your wrists, the voice spoke again, softer now.

“Thank you for helping us confirm the system still works.”

You were never alone. You were the test.

The compliance was logged. Future citizens would learn nothing.