We slept in what had once been the gymnasium. Now it is just an abandoned church on the edge of a dark town, shadowed by overgrown, sarcastic pines that cover our roof in layers of needles. The needles are in varying shades of brown, some brittle and sharp, poking out of weathered crevices in our boards. The weight of it all - the needles, the dimness, the forgotten-ness of it all makes us want to crumble.
We miss the sounds of children playing, their squeaking shoes adding to the chaos of shrill squeals of joy as a ball made its way into the basket with a swish. Whistles blew, parents cheered, the applause thundered around our walls in acoustic delight. We even miss the quiet of church services, murmurs of prayers echoing together as feathered hats and too-tight neckties bowed in honor to their God. It was still community – many spirits coming together as one to celebrate, for a winning basketball game or answered prayers.
Now we only know silence. And the creaking of our age.
Many of us don’t remember where we came from. I do. It seems to be one of the memories that the years can’t extinguish. I remember the repose of the forest. The soundlessness there was different than here. Here, there are regrets of times lost and the fear of the future. Back “home”, we had promise. We had peace. We had the strength of who we are… who we were. The still tranquility of our own community spoke volumes in itself.
Our leaves were soft, not the spiky missiles of the aromatic needles that covered our roof. Those of us who were lucky enough to be vertical felt for our brothers and sisters who withstood the pricks of falling nature. We had light back home. We had the sun beaming through our tallest limbs with radiance and warmth. Here, there are musky shadows. The trees outside block any chance of warmth, and I can feel my surface becoming alive with mold. The beautiful chestnut coloring is quickly becoming overgrown by blackness - much like the hopes of my comrades underneath and overhead, as well as alongside me.
Until we are rediscovered, we only have our whispered memories.
We slept in what had once been the gymnasium.
Wow. I love reading stories told from a non-human perspective and you have done a marvelous job!ReplyDelete
Thanks, Eric! I really have discovered a love for writing as a non-human, and may take this to a new chapter.Delete
So intriguing. I love your description throughout this piece. It makes me want more.ReplyDelete
Thank you, Stacey! I think I may continue this one. :)Delete
Oh wow, this was so haunting and sad, as if you have to read it in whispers, not a full voice.ReplyDelete
I felt the loss, the missing pieces , you wrote them just right.
Thank you, Kir. Standing in a redwood grove does inspire whispers. Perhaps that will be a prequel.Delete
Your description is absolutely aching in this piece. The idea that it can be harder to remember than forget is so true... for trees and for people.ReplyDelete
Thank you, Angela. Remembering is much harder sometimes.Delete
The description of the "used to be" is stunning. Nicely done!ReplyDelete
Thank you so very much for reading, and your kind comment! I hoped to get that right. :)Delete
fabulous imagery and haunting use of prose to make the reader really feel for the protagonist of this...even if its not 'human'ReplyDelete
Thank you kindly, Carrie! I look forward to continuing this tale, even if only briefly.Delete
it's a skill to be able to use words like 'sarcastic' to describe a pine tree and have it make sense, but your writing flows beautifully and those dashes of otherness give it a unique flavor that i enjoyed, very muchReplyDelete
Thank you so much , Shannon! I love sticking words where they don't normally belong, and am happy it worked out in this case.Delete
Awesome. Very interesting, something written from the perspective of a tree. I never would have thought of doing something like that!ReplyDelete
Hi Cheney, and thank you! I have found that I love writing from different perspectives, as it helps me feel more "me" in the end... If that makes sense. :)Delete
The yearning here is heartbreaking. This is so good. Beautiful descriptions. I sigh with the trees.ReplyDelete
As ancient as trees can get, it must be a treasure to remember the past, when all that stretches ahead is endless whiteness. Beautiful job!ReplyDelete
"Until we are rediscovered, we only have our whispered memories." Perfect ending...ReplyDelete