Cut Down in the Prime (404 hits)
Category: UberMadness! EntryLabels: fiction
Rating: 2 on 1 review (Rate this item) (V)
Submitted by Corn Nugget (View user info) at 2004-11-15 19:17:23 EST
This post was an official UberMadness! entry. Click here to view the original matchup.
The first few years of my life were stressful. I always worried about being stepped on, eaten, or accidentally plowed over. When I was small I resembled a weed- I was weak, green, and plain. Nobody ever noticed me, which was probably what saved me.
I remember when the wind used to blow across the bare earth, and the snow would collect on my branches, making them bow gently towards the ground which nurtured me. In my younger years I only saw animals and insects. When I first saw a man I was surprised at his agility on his feet and the intelligence glittering in his dark eyes. I knew I was seeing something special.
Admittedly, I grew envious of his freedom. I lusted after his dark, glistening skin. I prayed that he would rest against me. As the other trees sprouted up around me I worried they would take his attention away from me. I worried that he would never run his fingertips along my rough exterior.
I was elated when more and more men came through the forest. I had no idea where they had come from, where they were going, or what they were doing. The only thing I knew was that I loved them. Thousands of years passed while I watched over these men. The time passed quickly, as it is wont to do in ones youth.
I saw trees around me fall to the ground- struck down by lights from the sky or disease from within. I watched in horror while bears reared up on their hind legs and ravished my neighbors trunks. There were times that insects came in with the wind and decimated the greenery around me.
New animals wandered by on occasion, but they never stole my attention. I only had love for men. I knew this would never change. Men had souls, like me. They felt passion (I had seen this "passion" only once, two lovers rolling around beneath the shade of my leaves- grunting, sweating, heaving.
Many winters had passed before I saw a white man. I was intrigued with this variation- I hadn't even imagined men would vary so much. The white men covered themselves, talked a lot (which I absolutely loved. I would dream of my own voice- would it be deep and dark? Would it be smooth or gruff?), and they exhuded confidence.
On occasion these white men would take an axe to one of the younger trees. They would chip away at its trunk until it could no longer support itself, and it would crash to the hard earth. Of course this horrified me, that goes without saying.
More men came, and more trees left. I could see through the thinning forest. I hadn't seen so far in a millennia. I could see buildings made from the trees that used to stand next to me. There was smoke billowing out of these homes- it was sickening to smell my comrades burn.
But I love men, and I accepted what was happening. I took solace in the fact that these trees weren't wasted by floods or dry spells- they were being used. There was a purpose to this. Everything dies, so I was glad they didn't die pointless deaths.
Then I woke one morning to find a man had wedged himself into my arms, he sat cozied up in my branches, and I was overjoyed. I could hear his heart beat, I could taste his skin, and I could feel his breath on my leaves.
Other men stomped around beneath me, yelling up to the man curled around me. You already know what's going on, don't you? You know this man in my arms was trying to save me from the men at my feet. You can already picture my savior, can't you?
He has long hair and a scruffy beard. He is wearing jeans and a puffy vest over a cotton shirt. His eyes are blue and radiant, his skin is darkened by the sun. You know that he votes democratic, was raised by "hippies", and believes in some eastern religion. You know he enjoys yoga and despises Hollywood.
As you know, the men at my feet are all gaunt and brash. They have rudy cheeks, a disdain for politics, and I knack for poker. They love beer, women, and hard work.
And you know me, too. I'm old, tired, and resigned. I can accept my fate.
I am willing to die to help these men. I subtlety shake the flower-child down (being careful not to hurt him or the men on the ground) and then I wait.
I wait to die.
I wonder what will become of me. Will I still be able to watch these men after I die? Will I be reincarnated into yet another supple seed? Will I be shelter? Will I be warmth?
I ached with anxiety.
The death itself was quick and typical. I wont bore you with the details. They carted me into the mills and recreated me. I was not destined to be shelter or firewood. I was blessed with my new life. I became something greater than I could have imagined. After spending thousands of years watching men wander the forrest, I now spend my time watching men peruse libraries. I watch their faces change as their eyes alight on the words written upon me. I see their souls and their passion first hand.
I have finally found my voice, and it is soulful.
Next time you are flipping through your favorite book, or reciting a poem to your mistress, remember me. Think of me. Because I am watching you and thinking of you, and I love you.
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Submitted by youarsoghey (user info) at 2005-01-16 11:33:30 EST (#)
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