Old boughs ached. Branches hung limp from a gnarled, knobby trunk; a series of sad, aged shoulders sagging with the weight of centuries. Even the tiny leaves were taken by the weight. Once green and lustrous, age yellowed them, made them brittle.
Age was thought to make trees stronger. It helped them grow, made them wise, let them witness the world around them for so long that they seemed timeless. Such was the thinking of short-lived man.
Well, after such long life, perhaps death wasnāt so bad. After all, trees are mortal, too. This one just forgot for a while.
There was a wind flowing through my black hair. It came from high in the hills of Nebraska and hit my paperback book by Kinsey. I look up at the tall, wizened willow with glaze high up. With the clouds blotting the sun and rain far away against the knothole nearby. My dress bloomed in the fall dayās air.
Oh, how I wish to be swept away from this earth and gaze at the celestial heavens, where the secrets of love were held in a locket clasped with a brooch.
Twisting and turning the tree said what I only whispered.
At my roots there is a hole and from it rises a scar, put there by a lightning strike decades ago.
I was young then, barely five feet tall. No child had climbed my branches yet; no young lovers had carved their initials in my trunk; no old men had leaned into me for support.
A day of sunshine erupted in black clouds dropping hail and torrential rain. Wind twisted my trunk just at the moment the electric arc seared through me, leaving me for dead. But I lived. I healed and grew around the wound, becoming stronger than before.
My name is Unimportant. My ancient craft is that of Story-blabber - a spinner of tales! Some story-tellers believe in starting at the beginning, but thatās not my way. I think stories are like sausages - you donāt need to begin at the beginning, you can start wherever you like, in the middle - or at either end. Cut them into slices, mix them up, let the pieces fall as they may, then string them up and watch the story write itself! Taste your way backwards or forwards, it doesnāt matter which - youāll have it all in the end!
Sweat poured down my brow as I tapped the keyboard. Time ran short, very short, and I still had three dozen words to go. The image of the gnarled tree gave me no inspiration and the act of brainstorming a different idea took so much extra unneeded effort. I had to get this done before I started the work day! Or more accurately, before my boss showed up. I checked the clock, 15 seconds. A few more keystrokes andā¦done! Whew. I smiled and sent in the story. A SIREN blared. The word count police! I had gone over by one word!
These are all great!
Old boughs ached. Branches hung limp from a gnarled, knobby trunk; a series of sad, aged shoulders sagging with the weight of centuries. Even the tiny leaves were taken by the weight. Once green and lustrous, age yellowed them, made them brittle.
Age was thought to make trees stronger. It helped them grow, made them wise, let them witness the world around them for so long that they seemed timeless. Such was the thinking of short-lived man.
Well, after such long life, perhaps death wasnāt so bad. After all, trees are mortal, too. This one just forgot for a while.
Counting those who fall.
A mighty oak hid Jake as he watched the fairies swirling and dancing into the night, spellbound, unable too move.
Heād listened to every story told about these woodland fairies and their magic since he was a child but never believed a wordā¦Ā
āNever let them catch you watching they said -Ā thats how they cast their spell!ā
He shifted position, only very slightly but fairy turned their eyes on him.Ā
His last thought was, āThe storiesā¦. What will I tell my wife?āĀ as his legs gave way under him and his soul left his body.
The mighty oak, whisperās 746ā¦.
Brash Ambitions
There was a wind flowing through my black hair. It came from high in the hills of Nebraska and hit my paperback book by Kinsey. I look up at the tall, wizened willow with glaze high up. With the clouds blotting the sun and rain far away against the knothole nearby. My dress bloomed in the fall dayās air.
Oh, how I wish to be swept away from this earth and gaze at the celestial heavens, where the secrets of love were held in a locket clasped with a brooch.
Twisting and turning the tree said what I only whispered.
At my roots there is a hole and from it rises a scar, put there by a lightning strike decades ago.
I was young then, barely five feet tall. No child had climbed my branches yet; no young lovers had carved their initials in my trunk; no old men had leaned into me for support.
A day of sunshine erupted in black clouds dropping hail and torrential rain. Wind twisted my trunk just at the moment the electric arc seared through me, leaving me for dead. But I lived. I healed and grew around the wound, becoming stronger than before.
Hereās my entry for today Erica: https://open.substack.com/pub/arrivalsanddepartures/p/cone-of-shame
My name is Unimportant. My ancient craft is that of Story-blabber - a spinner of tales! Some story-tellers believe in starting at the beginning, but thatās not my way. I think stories are like sausages - you donāt need to begin at the beginning, you can start wherever you like, in the middle - or at either end. Cut them into slices, mix them up, let the pieces fall as they may, then string them up and watch the story write itself! Taste your way backwards or forwards, it doesnāt matter which - youāll have it all in the end!
Sweat poured down my brow as I tapped the keyboard. Time ran short, very short, and I still had three dozen words to go. The image of the gnarled tree gave me no inspiration and the act of brainstorming a different idea took so much extra unneeded effort. I had to get this done before I started the work day! Or more accurately, before my boss showed up. I checked the clock, 15 seconds. A few more keystrokes andā¦done! Whew. I smiled and sent in the story. A SIREN blared. The word count police! I had gone over by one word!