#58 - The Human Tree

There is something in the rain.  It makes the water taste different, somehow.  I don't find it completely disagreeable; it actually feels a bit warm spreading through my roots.  The people will not react well to it, however.  They don't feel anything right now.  For now, they will eat and drink and smile and work each and every day.  They will thrive for now. 

To explain concepts such as months and years to me would be like me attempting to describe the sensation of fresh sunlight as it strikes my green leaves.  We can both agree upon the subject matter, but the way we experience the world around us is, to put it simply, different.

This is why I can feel the twinge of flavoring in the water that the people that walk around and beneath me do not. 

Years pass.  To me they are like breaths, had I known what such a thing felt within me.  The people around me, my friends, seem distressed.  The world does not seem quite like it once was.  All of them seem to be in a constant hurry.  No one wants to lean against me anymore for shade and rest.  I do not like this change in their behavior.  I wish I could understand their dialect; those strange, sustained grunts and moans that source from them.  I cannot understand, but I can detect emotion.  Things are not well.

It has been a while longer.  Again, I cannot fathom how long.  People are lying lifeless in the paved walkways.  One of their boxes with wheels has collided into the hill directly behind me, long since abandoned.  Those that still live look dazed, confused.  Perhaps they are hungry?  I wish that I was of the namesake to bear fruit for those that need it the most.  I look on with fresh sorrow.  Why is it so many are like this now?  I lap at the waters held within the ground beneath me, tasting in the richness of that strange flavor I detected those many years ago.  It has intensified many folds now, it sending a warmth of which I cannot quite explain.  What was it about this warmth that my friends found so intolerable?

Time has passed once more.  The world around me is silent.  Sometimes I will hear them, but it is never for long.  The long stretch of blackness that spreads out on either side of me – once alight with the noises of their machines, the rhythm of their steps – was empty.  The dead that have been lying around me are in the final throes of decay. 

I am lonely.  So many breaths have left me, without a single difference coming to pass amongst the surrounding area.  I feel myself growing old; the toughened skin that wraps around me is becoming grey and splintered.  I test at the water once more, in curiosity.  No such warmth is felt from the liquid. If only there was a single other soul left to appreciate the change.

My limbs creak in the dusty wind.  The black stretch of material has become cracked and worn; areas have started to sprout fresh grass.  The tall, hollow and concrete things my past friends once resided within have long, spiny cracks in the wall faces.  Foliage seemed to cover everything now.  With one, final breath I allow my arms to drop for the first and final time.  My pride; a single, small seedpod fell from me and struck at the ground.  I take one last look at the fallen world, relax myself, and focus downward at the seed beneath me.  I can only hope that they can, perhaps one day, hear the bustle of those strange and wonderful beings once again.

#57 - Bloodied Snow

His broad shoulders sunk with a mixture of dread and anger that churned within his heavy heart. His arms let fall the stack of fresh meats that he cradled as the sour odor of smoke curled about his nostrils.   Shock seemed like a palpable thing; it coursed through his blood like a fresh, fiery brew.  What had once been his beloved hometown was now a mess of still-smoldering buildings, slaughtered livestock, and rapidly cooling corpses.  At one time, these were his friends.

He began walking.  His heavily bound feet crunched through the hard snow, his breath misting in front of him in large, whitish clouds.  The tavern sign, once a symbol of reverie and celebration in past hunts, lied upon the frozen ground before him like a fallen comrade.  All around the building, accompanying splintered wood and strips of fur, were bodies.  He trudged toward the nearest of them, his heart foolishly hopeful that the man would stir from the noise of his approach.  He placed a large, calloused hand upon the back of the man’s neck, feeling no movement within.  

He continued on, his feet having to be supported beneath a thick layer of crystallized blood as he walked toward the town’s center.  The whipping, chilled wind was his only companion in his sorrow.   It added to his pain by gnawing upon his exposed ears and hands.  More bodies filled the town square; some bearing long swords and armor of an attack.  Most didn’t.  Most were the smaller bodies of women and children.  His anger impossibly intensified.  They must have attacked while most of the warriors were away on a hunt, just like him.

White-hot rage filled him, seemingly at once.  To witness the death of women and children – those without the means to defend themselves from the hardened warriors of their enemies – was cowardliness in the purest of forms.  He drew his sword from its sheath and began stalking around the camp.  His hands were shaking with rage, his eyes stung with tears.  He wanted someone to hurt; to cut and make bleed like so many of those he now witnessed surrounding him.

 Suddenly, a sound echoed out to his left, falling upon his trained and listening ears.  He turned, the long furs around him shifting a bit upon his body.  He approached the noise quickly and without any thought to stealth or to preserve the element of surprise.  His body was much too filled with the vengeful souls of his brothers to do such things.  A nearby building seemed to house the disturbance he had heard.  Without hesitation, he kicked at the cracked wooden door separating him from his enemy’s fate.  He trudged inside, weapon at the ready.  

His eyes narrowed intently downward, toward the back corner of the room.  A single, trembling child lay huddled against the charred wall.  The boy took notice of his imposing figure, his small eyes wide with terror.  Without even looking at the child, he knew this was one of their enemies.  He took long, quick strides for the boy, his weapon raised, every fiber within his body aching to slice downward.  What did it matter, he thought.  So many of his own people’s children now lay dead just outside.  This child’s death would bring him peace.  A small glimmer of sweet revenge that he could practically taste upon his lips.

The sword clattered to the floor.  He knelt before the boy,  his hand extended.  A piece of salted meat was held before the child

“You are one of the Aduuren,” he spoke with a slow, authoritative voice, “So you are aware that your people will never return for you.  As far as their concerns, you are dead. “

The boy seemed to understand.  He nodded swiftly.  Perhaps to merely appease him?

“I will feed and take care of you, boy,” he said with a heavy heart, “As I have no one to care for any longer.  I will teach you what you need to know, and in the end-“

He stood to his full height while grabbing at the boy’s arm and gently pulling him to his feet.

“You will see what monsters the people you were raised by,” he finished while turning for the door.

#56 - Why I Write

Why do I write?  Why do I feel the all encompassing, irresistible urge to put pen to paper, or finger to keystroke?  It doesn't do anything for me.  It doesn't further my professional career, give any financial or intellectual security.  What does this habit do for me?  Why must I keep going, page after page, without any beginning or end in sight?

I write because it give my life purpose.  I write for others just as much as I write for myself.  I write because my dreams do not allow me to sleep, sometimes.  I write because I don't know how not to.  I write because characters and scenes will pop into my head, usually while on completed unrelated mental topics.  I write for all the people that don't know how to, but would like to try.  I write to remember.  I write to forget.  Sometimes, I write to enhance personal experiences in my daily life.

I write because the feeling of procrastinating is so much better than the feeling of nothing.  I write because I like to go back late at night and read my own work for entertainment.  I write because there is too much stuff in my head.  I do write to hopefully be published someday, but that is not the focus.  I write just to see if I can.  I write because some books should not have ended that particular way, with that person in power.

I write because the world inspires me to.  I write to feel like I am getting things done in the course of my day.  I write to give birth to new ideas, as well as destroy them.  I write to give life and meaning to completely fake, completely fabricated people.  I write because my high school English teacher told me to one day, and I haven't stopped since.  I write because the feeling of letting someone read your work is indescribably remarkable.  I write because I enjoy the soft sound of keys striking in pure silence.  

I write because it is as much of a painful, excruciating process as a soothing one.     I write because my feelings make no sense unless they are on paper, sometimes.  I write because I failed as an artist, but still feel unbelievably creative.  I write to make my time feel worthwhile.  I write to allow characters to gain a mind of their own and start to tell the story for me, with me as a mere commentator to their actions.  I write because I didn’t go to college for it, which is one of my biggest regrets in recent memory. 

I write because it makes me feel smarter.  I write to leave something behind when I die.  I write to have something my future children can read and be proud of their dad.  I write to huddle at my computer late at night sometimes while scrolling through the pages of my work.  I write to have little chunks and bits of me and those I am closest to scattered throughout my stories, just to see how they will interact with one another in other, fantastic settings.  I write to submit it to writing forums in front of a sea of strangers, just to see the reactions.  I write to hear negative comments

I write to grow.  To learn something new every day.  To teach someone something new about the world.  To be able to use a word I learned in the dictionary.  To hone my skill.  To communicate with others.  To cheer someone up, or bring them down when they need it.  To express love to my wife.  To research something introduced in one of my stories.  To recharge my batteries.  Because I love a good adventure, even if it is in the comfort of my own home.  To have fun, and laugh a little along the way.  To let off steam.  To alleviate stress.  To get stressed when I need to be.  To fire myself up.  To make me feel good.  To get my fingers tired from so much typing that I can’t possibly keep going, then go some more. 

Why do you do what you do?  Can you fill an entire page of why?