My contest entry for the Symphony in Text contest. The song I chose that goes with this piece is Autumn. I'm kind of hoping its not too confusing xP. I had he idea for awhile but I wanted to be subtle with it and go more for imagery than anything else. Oh well!
That and I won second! I'm pretty sure I'm the happiest person alive right now xD
This Tree is Me
Hundreds of years; a century in fallen leaves and in buds anew. How thoughtless. How careless. How without cause. And hope… well, hope is a word I no longer cherish. Hope is deceiving. Hope is a lie.
I remember, so long ago it feels, when love was life and time was truth. I had been beautiful then. Of flesh and bone and all the wonderful attributes that make humanity so deliciously warm and so sultry sweet to the touch. Silken curves and lustrous tresses. The softness of voice and the ceaseless beat of one’s own soul thudding within every flush of blood to the cheek.
But I am old now. So very, very old.
It is not of life and death I wish to speak. Death will come for me one day, I suppose. I am, as every living thing is, mortal. I will perish when my bark cracks and my leaves become no more. An autumn that shall come for me, and for everyone whose passion still lives on. But it is not something to be feared. No, it is merely another chapter in one’s own story.
I had loved once. A perilous, effortless, grotesque love that comes with the trials of morbid intoxication yet loving absoluteness. He was fair, like the fresh clinging of snow from winters first breath, and as full of life as I had once believed myself to be. Cruel, though. A senseless beast of a creature, so bent on what should fix his own addiction than the heart of one whom he called his own.
But, it has been a long time since then. I am no longer the naïve child who had fallen so recklessly in love before having the only piece of her humanity broken. Now, I am not of flesh and bone. I do not speak with a voice nor do my tresses show any form of lustre as they no longer exist. I am of bark and wood. I live by the coming and going of seasons and the countless rings that mark the years within my trunk. I bear only leaves, not children. I show only growth, not emotion.
For a tree is me. I am but what is left when one no longer calls themselves human. I gave up the rest of my soul to be what I have become.
This does not sadden me, though. No. I find no ill-tidings in what was once and is no more. I mourn not even the passing of my own humanity.
But there is one of whom I still cling to.
He had been a boy, no more than an infant, when he first pressed his small cherub hand against my roots. His eyes were wide and blue, like oceans of azure and cyan, his skin deeply tanned and pulled taut across his panelled cheekbones even then. A child I could never bear. A boy as beautiful and as free as the one I had dreamed of loving myself.
He came back to me again and again, growing and changing as he was. From that little cherub I had first felt near to the bustling child who swung from my limbs and slept safely above the world in my branches. I loved him then as I love him now, though time changes all and so does one’s own heart.
When he grew taller, his hair longer, his body stronger, his frequent visits became few and far between. So tirelessly busy he had been, following youthful ambitions that one rooted in soil could not trace. I weathered storms whilst he resided in the warm confines of a home far away from me where the wineglass was never empty and the bed always welcoming.
I was a tree after all. One could never love a tree the way I loved this boy.
The days passed on and on, ceaselessly sifting into each other as had the decades before his presence became known. For the first time since I had given my soul, I wished for it back only moments if it meant seeing his face. If it was my life, I would have given even that for a minute with him for that would be the perfect ending. How could another century ever compare to that?
And waiting as I had, time seemed only to pass more and more quickly with each hour he had not been by my side. So I gave up hope. Hope, as always, was without reason.
As the circles continued to add up, I slowly began forgetting the happiness he had brought me in the short years he’d been around. Like a human was my memory. Like a human was my fleeting want to be remembered. I gave up believing he would come back for me. It wasn’t as if I was anything but a piece of childhood better left in the past.
He came back, one cold Autumn day, though not as I had hoped he would be. I had been waiting to see the grown man who had filled my imagination and ignited the fiery passion within me once more. Unfortunately, time is not kind to those of flesh, and he bore the markings of life that would soon be at its end. Deep markings of age caressed his russet skin and flares of white stripped the ebony locks that had been so lovely against his cheekbones. His eyes, though still wide and filled with wonder, lacked the light and brightness that I had always loved to be his.
But nothing in this world could have stopped my happiness.
His hand pressed against my bark, the veins and wrinkles covering what once had been so lush and strong. A hand, though, that was still his. A hand I had missed.
That was the last time I ever saw that boy.
I’m sure he’s where the angels sing now, watching his children’s children and the world go on as it always will. In a place where the grass is evergreen and water always clear as the sky above, I know he is happy. In my heart, all I hope is that he will still remember me.
I, on the other hand, linger on among the trees of old whose cries I can no longer understand. As time continues, I become only more senseless, and yet unhappiness is not something I could ever say has befallen me in these times. I had loved twice in my life. Once was hell, the other heaven. Both gave me reason even not to mourn what had passed. Now, as another Autumn comes, chilling my wants and my needs again, I let my leaves fall for maybe the last time.
But now I know I can be at peace, even if I am but a tree.
This was beautiful, haunting and so wonderfully written. It' an amazing piece of work. Though it did leave me questioning HOW she became a tree but that is a small matter compared to how much I truly loved this story. I have read it about three times now, if that's any proof of how much I like it haha xD
Aaaaand I'm back.
Hi.
Okay, this won't be long, I hope. I'll start off with the praise. Without a doubt, the most powerful aspect of this piece is the narrator's voice. In my head, I imagine her voice as ancient, wise, and possessive of something of a Celtic undertone. I do, however, repeatedly get stuck on your personification of the tree as feminine, simply because up until you began to hint at femininity, the voice I mentioned prior had seemed so strongly masculine. This serves as a detriment towards the flowing nature of the piece (another pleasant attribute of your story, which I will discuss later). I would suggest mentioning the tree's womanly qualities a bit earlier, just so that a masculine voice isn't unconsciously established.
Continuing with the voice idea, you do give me a good idea of the tree's temperament, but it's easy to spot some minor blips lying around, as far as this personality goes. It mainly has to do with slight and unaccounted-for changes in personality here and there. I'll use an example in case you're not sure of my meaning. Early on, you establish that this narrator, then simply a fuzzy mass of wisdom and literary semi-coherence (I'll substantiate on that idea a bit more later as well) in the reader's mind, is old, tired, ready to move on to what comes next. Yadda yadda. Then, as soon as you hit the part about the "senseless beast of a creature," the reader is suddenly doubtful about whether the tree really is old and tired. It could be (and I'm guessing that this is your excuse) that the tree is a bit more fiery toward certain subjects than she is toward others. This would be an invalid explanation: this is far too small a space to develop such a complex character effectively, and too early nonetheless.
I'll give you another example, and this one is far more prominent. In the first paragraph, you install that Celtic storyteller voice I mentioned earlier with the very first line (kudos to you there, by the way). However, with the following sentences, you absolutely kill that voice, along with leave the reader completely in the dust. You see, providing two conflicting personalities - not to mention voices - in such a small space is never a good thing. Not only this, but the reader doesn't know exactly what you're referring to when you say things like "hope is a lie" and all that. One can assume that these things will be learned later - and they are - but all I'm saying is that it's not really the best start to a story you expect readers to follow through with.
Nevertheless, when one delves a bit further, one finds that your descriptions are positively exquisite - almost poetic, if you really look at them. You place a large, but hardly disproportional amount of weight on the descriptive aspect of this piece, and do not fail to support that part of the infrastructure. This is that poetic quality that I was talking about, and I love it. The simple wording in your poem "Sorry, Songbird" is almost - no, entirely - nonexistent. It's clear, when one analyzes this piece from such a perspective, that prose is ultimately your niche. While I'm at it, however, it may be convenient to offer you some critique as well. You kind of overdo it at times (believe me, I have the exact same problem), to the point where your phrases just sound like a mishmash of pretty words and commas - honey to the ears, but somewhat disjointed and, well, meaningless.
Another thing I find somewhat fuzzy is the narrator's account of her past love experiences. My problem lies exclusively with the boy mentioned prior, that "senseless beast of a creature" the narrator fell into a halfhazard relationship with. I really have no idea how this at all relates to the story. To be honest, I think it kind of deters it. I had listened to the song before beginning this review, and afterwards listened to it again, in case this first love was alluded to lyrically (and thus would be a requirement in the story), but I could not find any reference to a prior love. My second thought was that the boy who the tree had been truly in love with was somehow also the first boy, but I could find no instance in which you related the two. It would be a tenuous relationship, anyway - not only are your views of the two antitheses, but the structural connection between the reminisces is awkward as well. So, in summary, if the two characters are intended to be the same, it doesn't work, and if you just stuck that first guy in there to take up space, it doesn't work, either. So get rid of him.
And with that, I've reached the end of my review. Your description technique is, again, wonderful. The story you tell can be characterized through words such as "magnificent," or even "heartbreaking," at its zenith. My expectations were met. That said, I do think it would be wise of you to take into account my critiques - tweak a few things here and there, polish it up. It wouldn't do anyone any harm. So! Keep writing, and if you have any questions or comments, please feel free to give me a PM.
-Kafka
I meant to say - congrats on winning second! Expect a decent review soon, although it seems others have found nothing to critique. I'll see if I can find anything worth mentioning. If not, I'll simply express my awe. Your poem was excellent, so I have high expectations, my friend.
-Kafka
One thing that struck me was the resemblance this has to The Giving Tree by Shel Silverstein. Was that purposeful? Part of the contest?
Anyways, it's very beautiful, but, as Tanya said, "I have no nitpicks".
EDIT: I just read that Bobby Bare made a song about Shel Silverstein;'s story. Is that the song you linked? If so, I understand now.
Walker, this was truly beautiful.
The words were haunting and the narrator's voice was old and wise, in my mind.
I could clearly picture the little boy and those eyes in my head. Congrats on painting such a beautiful short story.
I'm sure you'll do great. I'm sorry I have no nitpicks but I am very awed but this piece.
Thank you for the great read.
Tanya
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