First place??!! Thank you so much!! In an isolated forest clearing a man hunches over work. As the stars slowly reveal themselves in the violet sky he blindly continues to perfect his art. Numerous ruined trees lie around him; growing after each failed sculpt. Waiting. The night surrounds the forest, hovering over it like a spiderweb. The little light from the faded stars casts a shadow over the man's eyes. And yet he still carves, on and on. Waiting. He does not notice the forest. It observes him from its deep shadows; it waits until the man is finished with his waiting. Waiting takes a long time. But the forest is used to it. Something moves. With a start the man jumps up. A star, perhaps. But no, stars don't move. Waiting. The man turns back to his work and finds a slightly misshapen tree stump. Small mushrooms dot the ground near its roots. An ax is buried into its damaged surface, and a trunk of the same wood lies near the man pointing towards the stump. In an outrage, he grabs his ax and leaves the ruined tree. The man wanders off into the forest's shadows looking for a new place to try again. Waiting. Tree after tree, the man cuts himself a path through the forest. A bleeding gash crosses from both ends. Where are the ends? Soon. Waiting. One day there will be the perfect tree. One made just for carving, for being eroded into whatever twisted shape the man wants. One day takes a long time. One day takes many trees. Waiting. The forest weeps over its wounds. Like feathers being plucked from a bird, the forest becomes more empty and naked as the man leaves behind another fallen tree. Waiting cannot be measured. Waiting forever. Waiting.
