The Forts in the Woods

By Peter Bowden


The boys moved like explorers through the thick Georgia pines, dragging old boards, bent nails, and the kind of hammer that had seen too many jobs. The morning sun cut shafts of light across the forest floor, and every step felt like discovery.

They built not with plans but with instinct, balancing lumber across low branches, propping walls against trunks, spreading army blankets and discarded tarps for roofs. Each board creaked with the promise of shelter, each nail pounded into place was a declaration of territory. These weren’t just forts—they were kingdoms, outposts against imagined enemies, safehouses where secrets could be kept.

The woods held them close, breathing quiet around their laughter. In one fort, they made rules: who could enter, who must knock, who would be guard and who would be scout. In another, they carved their initials into bark, proof that they were here, that they mattered.

When the day waned, the forts remained like sentinels in the twilight. The boys walked home with dirt on their knees and sawdust in their hair, carrying the quiet triumph that comes only from building something of your own hands. Tomorrow, the forts would wait—weathered, imperfect, yet indestructible in memory.


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