Rose sat at a picnic table in the little neighborhood park close to her house, her head full of books. She wrote in a little notebook, enjoying the warm October afternoon. Tall maples and poplars filled the ravine at the edge of the park, and their copper and gold leaves fluttered in a soft breeze.
Rose practiced describing the trees and the park in her notebook, trying to capture the look of the leaves, the posture of the trunks, and the slope of the ravine’s sides. She had just begun her third year of studying Literature at the local college, and enjoyed imitating the styles of great writers. Today she was mimicking James Joyce, proud of her own ambition.
An inner fire consumes leaves immolated in colors of flame. They hang waiting for the last breath of autumn to release them to the grave of winter.
She stopped to look over her sentences. They weren’t very close to Joyce’s style or cadence, but she felt her writing muscles getting stronger with every word.
Reading the great writers of the English language was opening her mind. All those important ideas she had never considered before about death, the human condition, the failure of religion and the suffocation of governments and industry shook her young world. Nothing was as simple as she used to think it was. The world was not a sweet place; every joy seemed to require pain as payment. Even the beauty of autumn leaves was a symptom of death.
But harsh and sad as they were, Rose knew she must face and understand these deep thoughts. She needed to come to grips with them if she was to become a Great Writer herself; she must see the truth of the world that lay beneath the shiny illusion of civilization.
She contemplated these things as she gazed at the trees. She tried these ideas on like garments to see how they fit her, what her life would be like if she claimed them as her own point of view. Yet as complex and important as they were, they did not prevent her from enjoying the fiery beauty of the trees in the afternoon sunlight.
Rose heard quiet, somber laughter. She looked around the little park, but she was alone. The street beyond the entrance was empty and silent. She turned to the ravine, wondering if someone was down there amongst the trees, but the only movement was the leaves in the breeze.
She stared at the trees. One tall maple, its every leaf brilliant gold, nodded slightly as the lazy wind passed through it. Rose heard the laughter again. She told herself she was imagining it, she must be. The only other possibility was that the trees were laughing at her, and that sort of magic couldn’t exist in the hard world she found in mainstream literature.
The laughter sounded again. It was not cruel or derisive, but gentle, the way a mother would laugh at a precocious toddler. Rose gazed at the golden maple and let herself think, what if the trees are laughing?
“Are you laughing at me?” she whispered to the maple, feeling utterly foolish. The tree nodded again. It was the only movement now in the park or the ravine. The breeze had passed on, died away.
“Well, if you’re laughing at me, did I do something funny?” The maple’s branches waved gently, and Rose heard the laughter again. She couldn’t help herself. She smiled at the tree.
“If that’s really you, then just tell me what’s so funny,” she said. “I’d like to know. Let me in on the joke.”
“Silly child,” said a soft voice. “You think you know everything about the world, about life.”
“I have learned a lot in college,” Rose said. “I didn’t even know how much there was to learn.”
“You don’t know anything, not yet,” the maple laughed.
“I know more than I used to know,” she said. “Tell me what I’ve missed.”
But the tree only laughed again, its leaves rustling against each other.
Rose wondered about the things she hadn’t yet learned, the thoughts she hadn’t yet thought. Perhaps there were things you could only learn by experiencing them—like talking to trees. She suddenly felt the world open up a little wider before her, all shimmering possibility and velvety mystery.
Rose sat in the afternoon sunlight, enjoying the beauty of the trees, the warmth of the air. She turned the page in her notebook.
A maple tree spoke to me today, she wrote. It told me I still have a lot to learn.
She described the conversation with words true to her own voice. She ended the entry with a question. The maple tree laughed, and she giggled in reply.
Rose picked up her notebook and headed home as the sun dipped westward. She might not have many answers, but the question she wrote down would carry her forward.
What else is out there?
Cathryn Grant
July 8, 2010
I haven’t read much fantasy, but now I’m intrigued. I love how your story blurs that line and transforms the tree into a “flesh and blood” character. What else is out there, indeed.
Mari Juniper
July 8, 2010
Ohh, wonderful tale! I’d so like to have a small chat with one of these wise ladies! Autumn rocks, btw, heh. 😉
T.S. Bazelli
July 8, 2010
I didn’t expect a talking tree in this one. It seems like such a lovely tree, one full of good old wisdom and conversation.
Eric J. Krause
July 8, 2010
Just goes to show that we need to listen to nature, and it’ll tell us plenty. Good story!
adampb
July 8, 2010
Came across this from @icypop’s twitter feed and love the gentle exploration of this piece. It engages with subtlety, drawing you in to the experience of Rose and widens to expand your own thinking about epistemology. There is still much to learn.
Adam B
Laura Eno
July 8, 2010
Wonderful conversation here. Be yourself and experience life in order to learn.
Marisa Birns
July 8, 2010
Lovely lesson that it is through using one’s own voice that makes a writer unique. Joyce had his, and your main character has her own.
The literary sentences she wrote were lovely, but the later ones had more power because of the intrigue.
Wonderful story!
John Wiswell
July 8, 2010
That tree deserves a Nook. Paperless books for the old sap.
ganymeder
July 8, 2010
Great story!
One slight rub, imo.
>and that sort of magic couldn’t exist in the hard world she found in literature.<
She obviously wasn't that well read or she would have at least heard of Tolkien and Fanghorn forest. But maybe that was the point?
I love the moral about writing with your own voice. The laughing tree was a lovely, enchanting touch. Well done!
Gracie
July 8, 2010
You know, you bring up a good point. I inserted “mainstream” before literature there to hopefully clarify. Thanks for the heads up.
When I was in college back in the stone age, no one was studying Tolkien in schools yet. I didn’t find LOTR until after I’d graduated. I’m very happy that’s changed, because his work is literature.
Thanks again, Catherine. 🙂
NL Gervasio
July 8, 2010
Simply beautiful, Gracie. As an English major and writer, this piece resonates with me. You’ve done a wonderful job conveying such a magical experience with a great lesson to follow. Well done!
lescelin
July 8, 2010
I love these glimpses into someone’s private world. Very descriptive and beautiful. Surreal but believable.
Sam
July 9, 2010
See, I always knew there was nothing wrong in talking to trees. I love the underlying power of this tale. Bravo!
brainhaze
July 9, 2010
This is lovely – I especially like your terms of descriptions – e.g “leaves immolated in colors of flame. They hang waiting for the last breath of autumn to release them to the grave of winter.” Excellent 🙂
Jen Brubacher
July 9, 2010
This is so lovely! I adore Rose and her questions, her certainty and her doubt. She reminds me of myself at one point in my life, and maybe that’s something all writers (all people?) go through as they realize they don’t know everything. This is enchanting, thank you.
Wulfie
July 9, 2010
Gorgeous piece. And trees DO laugh…and talk, more people should listen. 🙂
mazzz_in_Leeds
July 9, 2010
I love the idea of talking to trees, but I LOVE the thought of them talking back!
It seems I have a lot to learn too, even though my college days are long behind me…
Lots of sweetness in this piece
lil_monmon
July 9, 2010
Ooh! I got a lovely happy Anne Shirley vibe from this! Confession: in college, I talked to trees too. I don’t think any of them answered back, but they did whisper. I also liked her attempting to write like James Joyce. There was so much familiarity in this story I identified with it immediatley. But then… I’m the mad woman who talks to trees. : )
Joanie
July 9, 2010
You really captured the dicotomy of being an educated student and a free-spirited young person. I remember being pretentious like her when I was in college too. I think it comes with the territory and is part of the process. I’m glad she found her own way in the end. 🙂 The trees were so well described, I love that I was never sure if it was really talking or if it was just her imagination. Well done.
Tony Noland
July 9, 2010
Sometimes the very best magic happens when we stop trying to write the way the Giants Did It, and just… write.
Nice one, Gracie.
J. Dane Tyler
July 9, 2010
Oh, that was cool. A tree speaks in a silent ravine. A tree giggles at the folly of a young girl who thinks she’s smarter than she is. How fantastic.
Beautiful, strong, clear. I love that question she jotted down. 🙂
Deanna Schrayer
July 9, 2010
LOVE this Gracie. I love how it starts out sounding eerie, like there might be something “out there” hunting her down, but then it takes that gleeful turn to talking with the tree. There is so very much in this story – powerful and beautiful.
Aislinnye24
July 9, 2010
Totally love this – I think that’s one of the most important questions anyone can ask, especially a writer, and it’s lovely to see the moment when Rose finds her own voice.
I’m now looking out of the window at an apple tree, and wondering how it would feel about a discussion…
asthemoonclimbs
July 9, 2010
Very sweet almost-fable. I wonder at what point we start thinking we know everything, and at what point we disabuse ourselves of that notion. I suspect the benchmarks are different for everyone.
Vandamir
July 9, 2010
Beautifully conceived and written. I’d like to hear more from the trees.
Melissa L. Webb
July 9, 2010
Nice story. There is so much in this world we have yet to learn; I loved how you captured that brillantly.
Aidan Fritz
July 9, 2010
I like the metaphor coming to life. She reads/imitates dead trees and a live tree talks to her. I love the way you capture her internal thoughts.
KjM
July 9, 2010
I love the quietness in this piece. The slow and beautiful opening of the mind of your character.
“The maple tree laughed, and she giggled in reply.” – And I cannot resist someone who giggles.
A really interesting idea, interestingly presented.
Very nicely done.
mcdonnellwrite
July 10, 2010
Very nice description of a young writer, and it has a sweet ending. I like the calm, meditative feel to this one. Good job!
Cathy Olliffe
July 10, 2010
Hi Gracie! You’re actually my first flash stop today – been hectic – and I now have such a pleasant feeling deep inside. Lil Mon-Mon said it best: a happy Anne Shirley kind of feeling.
This was fantasy the way I like to read it; gentle, beautiful, real but not real. Wonderful writing. There is always a good feeling, curling up with a book or a notebook or even a laptop under a maple tree; I just didn’t know until now why that is.
GP Ching
July 10, 2010
Oh I think that writers of all ages could learn something from the wise maple. Great story Gracie. Loved it!
Pamila Payne
July 10, 2010
Just lovely. Very true to form for an earnest young writer. I like the focused, open moment you captured.
Rachel Blackbirdsong
July 10, 2010
This is one of the best pieces I’ve read in a long time. It’s glorious. Your descriptions are amazing. I love the idea of the tree laughing at her and her trying on ideas like clothes.
Anthony Venutolo
July 10, 2010
Gracie, this was a great nod to our heroes and was just written with so much soulful fun…
runbeagle
July 11, 2010
ahhh Truth. Something we, as writers are all trying to capture. Lovely vignette and the start of something more….
Alan W. Davidson
July 11, 2010
Some really nice description there, Gracie. And it goes to show, there’s a fine line between literature and insanity! Just ask my first year prof in universtity!
Estrella Azul
July 11, 2010
What a lovely story, Gracie, and I just loved your ending with the question “what else is out there?” Good question 🙂
2mara
July 11, 2010
This is such a wonderful story.
I felt like I have been here. I am always trying to be someone else when I write (I fail obviously) because I never feel my own voice is good enough. I love the ending where she wrote it out in her own voice… I think to grow you must accept yourself, and trust in yourself.
I am trying.
Very beautiful, and thank you for this
~2
Icy Sedgwick
July 12, 2010
Oh I love this! Your description of the trees is just wonderful! I talk to trees myself, but I have to admit, they don’t usually talk back, so I’m a bit jealous of Rose…
Angus Olliffe
July 12, 2010
An inner fire consumes leaves immolated in colors of flame. They hang waiting for the last breath of autumn to release them to the grave of winter.
I love this line. I could only giggle myself during this good read.
Josie
July 12, 2010
Beautifully and gently written, love the laughing tree. I was immediately reminded of Tolkien’s Ents – you might enjoy this essay:-)
http://www.theonering.net/torwp/2008/11/03/30350-essay-tolkiens-trees/
Cecilia Dominic
July 13, 2010
Loved the laughing tree! Very well-drawn contrast between the innocence of youth and the wisdom of the trees that tragically get bulldozed over for “progress.”
CD
Mark Kerstetter
July 15, 2010
The world is clogged with rotted answers. Questions are where it’s at. This is a lovely tale.