The Young Tree

The best word for this is probably 'strange'. (: This was an attempt to write for children (which explains the repetition) and it ended up a bit dark with lots of cynical symbolism. (:

 The forest is always darker than the world outside it. Branches and leaves form a roof through which the occasional shaft of sunlight filters, starkly golden in the cool darkness. Trunks and bushes create a maze that no outsider can navigate. 

        There is a tree in the forest. It is wide and proud, with moss growing up its broad sides in thick, green abundance. It is younger than many of the other trees but it has grown quickly. It scoffs at its smaller elders, who watch it with apprehension. They too, were the largest trees in the forest, once. They too, were full of pride and scoffing scorn. But one by one they lost their places, clashed roots and grew weary of expansion. 

        Now they whisper warnings to the proud young tree, so brash and boastful. The wind carries the hushed rustle of their leaves.

         It roars back to them with the shaking laughter of the young tree. The young tree has no fear. The young tree is strong. 

        “We too, had no fear,” The rattle wails upon the wind. “We too were strong!”

        But the young tree dismisses them. The young tree is different. It is bigger and stronger than ever the cautious saplings hoped to be. It knows it is invincible. 

        The young tree pushes outward in the favorable climate. It drinks deeply of the  sweet, rolling stream and the heavy, nutrient-rich earth. 

        But the young tree stretches out too far. It drinks too much of the sweet, rolling waters. It absorbs too much of the heavy, nutrient rich earth. 

        The young tree becomes weak and lazy. It is made sluggish, bloated on excess. It cannot care well for itself now it is so large. 

        The old trees whisper warnings to the proud young tree, so brash and boastful. The wind carries the hushed rustle of their leaves.

        It roars back with the shaking laughter of the young tree. The young tree has no fear. The young tree is strong. 

        “We too, had no fear,” The rattle wails upon the wind. “We too, were strong!”

        But the young tree dismisses them. The young tree is different. It is bigger and stronger than ever the cautious saplings hoped to be. They are only jealous.

        The young tree’s thick bark begins to flake. Its leaves fall and do not grow back. The fresh, green moss that grew so abundant on its side begins to wither. Still it drinks too much sweet water. Still it takes up too much of the heavy, nutrient-rich earth. 

        The  old trees whisper warnings to the proud young tree, so brash and boastful. The wind carries the hushed rustle of their leaves. 

        It roars back with the shaking laughter of the young tree. The young tree has no fear. The young tree is strong. 

         “We too had no fear,” The rattle wails upon the wind. “We too, were strong!” 

         But the young tree dismisses them. The young tree is different. It is bigger and stronger than ever the cautious saplings hoped to be. They fear its size and power. 

        The bark of the young tree wears thin, thin. Its branches are bare, starkly naked against the cold, sunlit sky. The fresh, green moss is dead and brown. There is little of the sweet, rolling stream waters left to drink, trickling like a trail of tears round rocks suddenly so huge. The earth is dry, robbed of all it has to offer. There are few nutrients left. 

        The old trees whisper warnings to the proud young tree, so brash and boastful. The wind carries the hushed rustle of their leaves. 

        It coughs back with the laughter of the young tree. The young tree has no fear. The young tree is strong. 

        “We too had no fear,” The rattle wails upon the wind. “We too, were strong!”

        But the young tree dismisses them. The young tree is different. It is bigger and stronger than ever the cautious saplings hoped to be. Their fears are groundless, all is well.

        The seasons change and clouds all in thick, gray armor take the sky by force. There they wait, amassing their numbers and strength. They bide their time as they prepare to lay siege to the world below. The distant booms of their thunder drums rage. Far away, sparks of lightning fires blaze, thin and forking, veins in a large, gray face. 

        The old trees whisper warnings to the proud young tree, so brash and boastful. The wind carries the hushed rustle of their leaves.

        It wheezes back with the laughter of the young tree. The young tree has no fear. The young tree is strong.

        “We too, had no fear,” The rattle wails upon the wind. “We too, were strong!”

        But the young tree dismisses them. The young tree is different. It is bigger and stronger than ever the cautious saplings hoped to be. Storms will come and storms will go.         

        The clouds are ready at last. There is a final, loud, booming bugle-note of thunder and the forest is battered by a merciless barrage of streaming arrows of rain. The young tree sends its whistle of a laugh on the raging wind, which has turned traitor on the side of the clouds. The rain becomes hard, stinging hail bullets. Still the young tree laughs merrily. But the clouds are immortal. The clouds are fate. And the ragged, impudent young tree is struck firm and square by lightning. 

        “Fire!” Cries the young tree, through the flames that crackle along its branches. “Fire! Fire! Help!” 

        But the old trees cannot help it. They do not offer their advice. For the fire spreads quickly from the young tree’s branches to their own.

        “Oh, fire!” Shrieks the forest, ablaze and glowing bright. “Fire! Fire! Help!”

        But their cries are drowned in the dance of flames. Above the clouds watch, dark and impassive. They do not feel the tortured pain of leaves curling into fists of soot, of branches chewed by hissing teeth of electric blue and orange. 

        And the young tree is wrapped in a cloak of fire. It caught well, with its thin bark, its patch of dry, dead moss, its bare branches so brittle and weathered, wood weakened with a sickness brought on by itself. 

        In the morning all is quiet. The few, badly burned, surviving old trees gaze upon the charred stump that is all that remains of the brash, boastful young tree. 

        “We too, had no fear,” the soft rattle sighs upon the wind. “We too, were strong.”

        The forest is always darker than the world outside it. Branches and leaves form a roof through which the occasional shaft of sunlight filters, starkly golden in the cool darkness. Trunks and bushes create a maze that no outsider can navigate. 

        Better not to go into the forest. Better not to see the greed and growth that will ever plague the trees. Stay out of the forest, where you can see the sky, where no roots grope and suck, no fires blaze, no charred stumps lie.   

Reviews

[J. P. Wickwire]

Very cool. Like Corey Rowley already said, it's like an old school fairy tale-- or maybe one of Aesop's fables (kind of the same thing??). Dark, yes, but enchanting. It deserves illustrations and a spot in someon'es anthology :D

[Crowley]

This has kind of an old school fairy tale moral to it. Interesting piece, I liked it. You write well. Keep posting, I will keep reading.

[All out of words]

This is definitely a bit dark. I don't know that I'd make my (hypothetical) child read it, but it works for me. I really like the style, and the imagery. Trees are powerful symbols.
I don't know how different this is from what you usually write, but I'd like to see more from you.