• Golden rays of light shine brightly; the rising sun creates a sky of fire bearing its light over the land. These waves of flames hail over a sea of mountain ranges. The mountains are very important to the land, protecting the plains and valleys and whimsical forests, but are uninhabited. At night they are nothing but dark silhouettes filling up the sky and during the day they lumber over everything, scarring the vast territories.
    One mountain in particular is the Crook Mountains. They aren’t just any mountains but magical ones. It was said they change colors with the feelings of children. Their peaks clouded and drenched in the early morning while the innocent slept, and full of color and erect trees in the sunny afternoons while they played. The mountains are indeed breathtaking, serene, and untouched like fresh green leaves of the summer trees.

    At the base of the mountain laid the small village of Stonebridge. The small houses of sticks and stones glowed and the stream sparkled from the morning light. Not a lot of people lived here. Farmers woke up early to work the fields and tend to live stock and the women began household duties. The land had been treating them well for the past century providing juicy crops and clean water from the mystic mountains above.
    There was one house though unlike the others because only one person lived in it. He’s a child by the name of Tristan Gale; who lives on the outskirts of Stonebridge. He is thin lad of eight stone with brick colored hair and brown eyes and freckles marking up his face when it wasn’t covered in mud. He is the poor boy, the beggar, and his meaningless life brought nothing but sadness over him.

    Today is a brand new day but everything was the same. At the rickety house of Tristan Gale there was a lot of work to get done, things to wash, weeds to pull, and a garden to grow, but he didn’t do the work which left is house in near shambles. The stone shingles were missing on the roof or barely hanging on and his chimney never worked. His house was also dirty, littered with cracks where the vines would invade. Tristan never tended to his yard and never planted anything for the summertime.

    He did not see things as magical like the other children. The mountains were always gray in his eyes and looked upon as nothing but a burden. In his eyes the trees looked bare and dead with limp branches. There were no vibrant leaves or pastel blooms in Tristan’s mind, but a bitter, gray, and cold earth.

    Tristan stared out the cracked window to the outdoors. Something strange caught his eye that he didn’t notice until the sun hit highest in the sky. The Crook Mountains were shrouded with white fluffy clouds, penetrated by rays of light that shined on the rocky slopes. It was the only thing that stood out in Tristan’s mind and the only thing that seemed alive. He couldn’t prepare for the journey that awaits him.

    The sun hid behind the mountains casting large shadows over Stonebridge, and igniting the sky with glorious flames. Night approached and Tristan curled up in his quilt. His eyes stared blankly at the edge of the fabric and his bony fingers traced over the seams. His room was dark. The sapling growing outside raked its branches against the window and casted eerie shadows in the boy’s room. Tick tock tick tock went the old wooden clock and a brown field mouse squeaked before escaping into a whole in the wall. Tristan slept peacefully as images filled his head.