Young Writers Society

There are many types of trees.

Each with their own personality.

You won't find two beeches of the same quality.

But here is a short description of trees I know of, at least the ones I know enough to write about.

Blue Beech, for instance. Oft nicknamed the 'muscle tree' for his hard, sinuous curves. He may wrap you up in his strong, white arms for a time, green hair smelling of the sea. But he is a fickle lover. Soon, with a shake of his leafy head, he'll be laughing with another. He is carefree, but also uncaring. He's strong, though. He'll weather through another jaded lover. He envies mankind's flesh. So soft, so supple, so unlike his own hard, smooth frame. He loves the taste of humans.

He may even love you, for a time.

But I recommend a more steadfast husband.

Pine, perhaps. Shy, sensitive, all things that Beech is not. He will warm you with his tentative smile, the way he alwyas tries to tame his dark, spikey, scented hair. He would hold your hand forever, if he could. Always he would listen to your thoughts, so quiet, so kind. He would love you in a way that Blue Beech, for all his strength would not. Didn't a wise philosopher once say that true strength lies within vulnerability? Pine's dark eyes, icey blue as winter, would always see your true feelings. He would shelter you forever beneath his wide, scented boughs.

For an evergreen tree has everlasting love.

But humans do not last forever.

Would you make him cry for you just for a few yeras of happiness?

It would be along time before you met him again.

Perhaps not. See Willow, kneeling in her grief, before the salty pond of her tears. You will find everlasting sadness beneath her boughs as sure as you will find everlasting love beneath Pine's.

But perhaps you might find peace also.

She is silent.

She might be kind to you, for a time. But soon her gaze would only see the hole in the world you'll leave once you go.

Maybe you don't want such a melancholy friend. Maybe you like laughter. The sweet taste of sap upon your tongue. Maple would be the one for you.

He's game. He's fast. He's laughter itself, it seems to you. See him, there, perched on a fallen brethren's trunk. His eyes glimmer in the darkness, that instance of glee when the syrup boils over into the fire. He is easy to laugh and easier yet to smile. He'll be able to talk you out of and talk you into anything. Happily, you could probably do the same to him, if you tried. He'd run with you, through the forest, a stag next to a wolf in the forest, laughing, breathless. He's the moment when you leap from the branch into empty air, equal parts fear and daring. He'll be your best friend.

Forever.

When you die, he'll claim your body, to rest forever beneath his roots. His memories of you will become the golden yellow sap running through his viens. Always he will remember you.

It's not a bad way to go.

But, maybe you're not quite the simple soul I took you for. Maybe you want more. Maybe you want something less sweet, a blend, complexity, maybe you want someone who you can trust.

But only after they've betrayed you several times.

Black Cherry may supply the bittersweet taste you crave.

Sharp and tart as a freshly picked crab apple. Not even you, a friend, would be spared her wit. For hours you'd spar, until one fatal word would slip between one of each other's armour, and the loser would be stunned, cheeks red from excertion or embarrassment. You'd never need to apologize to each other, you're too familiar for that.

So familiar you could watch mortals fall for her, men and women, enamored by her intellignece, her humor. Not quite love. Not quite lust. Perhaps a combination. And you'd see her fall for mortals too, see it end in tragedy. But you'd still be here for her, wouldn't you?

I do hope you would.

A fair weather friend would be shred to bits in this hurricane of a tree. No, you'd stay by her side. You'd follow her anywhere. Well. Within reason. You'd cry on each other's shoulders, share jokes, play pranks, generally be friends.

The best kind.

And maybe, after a time, you'd catch yourself thinking that maybe, once you know someone so well you don't have to count the black, thick wavy hairs on her head because you already know the number, maybe, you might just have learned to love her.

And then you'd both end up laughing at the same time, high and clear as the blue sky above you.

When you die, she'd fiercely follow you, wherever you went.

When you ask her why, she'd laugh and flick your nose.

"Because love is forever, that's why."

She might say, clear and sharp as a ripe cherry on your tongue.

And you'd apologize, saying that you didn't know this was a love story, you'd thought it was a comedy routine.

You'd laugh together, forever.