A Creative Story: A Short Story Of Witherwood

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You’ve never heard of Witherwood, have you? No. I didn’t think so. It’s a rotten old forest. There are few alive who know the place, let alone the treasure hidden in that place. I didn’t know about it myself, not until the lads and I found ourselves there. It’s a long story, see. Times were different back then. The world you know, it was barely the twinkle in the eye of some revolutionary lacking a tragic history to drive them to greater heights. We weren’t rebels. We weren’t daring outlaws. Stealing from the rich and giving to the poor. Pfa. We stole from everybody and kept for ourselves! We were thieves! Murderers and thieves, and Witherwood was a good enough place to hide. Not that we knew to call it that, at the time. The old king’s guards had burnt us out of our old hideouts. They’d chased us from the slums to the countryside. The boys and I waded through rivers and swamps and other muck you can 't imagine. Kept going until we found the forest. It was perfect. The grey old branches were so thick and tangled that they practically blocked out the sun. Always seemed like such a dreary place, full of shadows. Well. That suited us just fine. The trip had been full of good hiding spaces. It 's how we got so far in! The guards were still chasing us like bloodhounds! Easy land to disappear into after a robbery. All we really needed was a proper home. None of us liked the idea of sleeping on dirt like a bunch of animals. Well if the forest didn’t provide! Old Jack had barely

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