Where the Trees Grow by Katherine Stockton-Juarez
“I have never been good at explaining, but for you I will try,” I said to the girl beside me. “Every living thing fears death; it is destruction--torture to the ones who are unlucky enough to evade its cold grasp. However, it also brings new life.” I looked into her eyes and began to wonder how to do it. How does one explain that which cannot be put into words? We try so hard to make mortality more than it is, and we try so hard to make it something it is not. It is the beginning and the end. Death is a cycle that is as predestined as the seasons. From winter, we begin in the new swirl of white innocence and purity. Then through spring and summer we live. As autumn comes, we fall to our knees and death conquers us—all but for that one seed which brings with it a forest.
We walked forward into the willowy trees where the leaves whispered to one another as the wind blew our hair. Orange, red, and yellow -- they danced to a song only they could hear. Beside me walked my child. Before long, we reached a clearing. A body lay in the brown leaves as if it were only asleep; I knew this woman.
Her hair was gathered in a thin white braid that nearly touched the back of her legs; it framed her caramel tinted skin. Her eyes were a warm brown. They were unbefitting of her ancient face, for they held a sparkle of youth. Doors to a world of memories, her eyes were ones you could look into without any risk of judgment. Her lips were a pale, frosty color that whispered the secrets of what was to come. She was a woman who belonged in the nature around her, or perhaps it was nature that belonged around her. Either way, she could always be found outside among the sycamore trees. She would lie below them and watch the leaves flow towards her, and they would always fall. She was like a magnet to them; they sought her out in reckless determination. However, the evergreens were her favorite--they were the only constant in her ever-changing life.
In my memory I see us in our forest walking side by side, hand in hand. Her now frail hand had been strong and protective; it had been my shelter from the cold. Whenever I saw her shake a stranger’s hand, they would draw theirs back in surprise from her chill, but if you held her hand long enough, you would begin to discover her all-encompassing warmth. And unlike that frail hand I see now, she was powerful. Unstoppable, she was the force that pushed me onward when I fell because, always moving, you either caught up or were left behind.
Her eyes, which were closed now, were an earthy brown. Every time I looked into their depths, I was swept away to another time. With her, I was back in our forest feeling the crinkle of the leaves below my icy feet and smelling the musky wind that froze my running nose. With her, I was able to see the last visit to our forest. But her eyes, which were closed now, could see truth. Looking beyond the black and white of our world, she was the only one capable of really seeing the colors in between.
And her now white hair was twisted in a braid; it too had once been something else. Beautiful burgundy curls once fell to her hips. If ever I was lost, I only had to look for a bright red to know she was just around the corner. But her hair was white now. Actually, looking closer, I could just barely make out spots of red and brown among the sea of white. I pressed my lips to the place on her head where the white of her hair met the tan of her skin.
I put my now larger, shaking hand into her frail one and lay down beside her in our forest. Looking up through the leaves of the sycamore, I saw the radiant sun shine down upon us.
My little girl with the big brown eyes watched me from behind a tree. That tree, which is so rich in life, she clung to as tears raced down her cheeks. As I felt the slow caress of death’s cold fingers, I was not afraid--it was my time to die so that my child would live. And as I lay dying, surrounded by the life before me, all I could think of was that I would never die for as long as my children lived.
“I have never been good at explaining, but for you I will try,” I said to the girl beside me. “Every living thing fears death; it is destruction--torture to the ones who are unlucky enough to evade its cold grasp. However, it also brings new life.” I looked into her eyes and began to wonder how to do it. How does one explain that which cannot be put into words? We try so hard to make mortality more than it is, and we try so hard to make it something it is not. It is the beginning and the end. Death is a cycle that is as predestined as the seasons. From winter, we begin in the new swirl of white innocence and purity. Then through spring and summer we live. As autumn comes, we fall to our knees and death conquers us—all but for that one seed which brings with it a forest.
We walked forward into the willowy trees where the leaves whispered to one another as the wind blew our hair. Orange, red, and yellow -- they danced to a song only they could hear. Beside me walked my child. Before long, we reached a clearing. A body lay in the brown leaves as if it were only asleep; I knew this woman.
Her hair was gathered in a thin white braid that nearly touched the back of her legs; it framed her caramel tinted skin. Her eyes were a warm brown. They were unbefitting of her ancient face, for they held a sparkle of youth. Doors to a world of memories, her eyes were ones you could look into without any risk of judgment. Her lips were a pale, frosty color that whispered the secrets of what was to come. She was a woman who belonged in the nature around her, or perhaps it was nature that belonged around her. Either way, she could always be found outside among the sycamore trees. She would lie below them and watch the leaves flow towards her, and they would always fall. She was like a magnet to them; they sought her out in reckless determination. However, the evergreens were her favorite--they were the only constant in her ever-changing life.
In my memory I see us in our forest walking side by side, hand in hand. Her now frail hand had been strong and protective; it had been my shelter from the cold. Whenever I saw her shake a stranger’s hand, they would draw theirs back in surprise from her chill, but if you held her hand long enough, you would begin to discover her all-encompassing warmth. And unlike that frail hand I see now, she was powerful. Unstoppable, she was the force that pushed me onward when I fell because, always moving, you either caught up or were left behind.
Her eyes, which were closed now, were an earthy brown. Every time I looked into their depths, I was swept away to another time. With her, I was back in our forest feeling the crinkle of the leaves below my icy feet and smelling the musky wind that froze my running nose. With her, I was able to see the last visit to our forest. But her eyes, which were closed now, could see truth. Looking beyond the black and white of our world, she was the only one capable of really seeing the colors in between.
And her now white hair was twisted in a braid; it too had once been something else. Beautiful burgundy curls once fell to her hips. If ever I was lost, I only had to look for a bright red to know she was just around the corner. But her hair was white now. Actually, looking closer, I could just barely make out spots of red and brown among the sea of white. I pressed my lips to the place on her head where the white of her hair met the tan of her skin.
I put my now larger, shaking hand into her frail one and lay down beside her in our forest. Looking up through the leaves of the sycamore, I saw the radiant sun shine down upon us.
My little girl with the big brown eyes watched me from behind a tree. That tree, which is so rich in life, she clung to as tears raced down her cheeks. As I felt the slow caress of death’s cold fingers, I was not afraid--it was my time to die so that my child would live. And as I lay dying, surrounded by the life before me, all I could think of was that I would never die for as long as my children lived.
'Til Death Do Us Part by Abygale Harlan
I didn’t know at the time that those two words “I do” meant I was selling my soul to another. The first few years were blissful, amazing, perfect if you will. We had everything in common, we never argued, it was almost like marrying myself. Every morning was the same: wake up, eat breakfast, go to work, get home, eat dinner, sleep. Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, and Friday, it was the same. It was a routine sewn into my brain like stitches into a quilt. It was easy, there was no reason for it to change. In my busy schedule, there was barely room for us to talk, eventually the silence cut through me. Tick toc, tick toc, tick toc. 5 hours, 2, 1, a minute, the day’s time seemed to fade away with each passing moment of being stuck in this neverending loop. I wasn’t happy. I could have just filed for a divorce. No! We took a vow when we wed, there was no backing out. I loved her, she loved me, we were stuck together in this hospital-like room. Tick toc, tick toc, tick toc. It was so odd, at times I heard children playing, wrestling, arguing down the hall, but I never remembered having any. It was like the past few years had been a blur. Tick toc, tick toc, tick toc, tick toc, time for my medicine, I don’t like my medicine. Tick toc, tick toc, I wanted to see my wife one last time, but she was busy with other patients. Tick toc, she finally made time to see me. Tick, she hit the ground, toc, we love each other. Tick, we’re married but I’m free, my soul is mine. Toc, here comes the police. Tick, 1 minute, toc, 1 minute, tick, 1 minute, toc, 1 minute. It was like marrying myself; I hate myself.
I didn’t know at the time that those two words “I do” meant I was selling my soul to another. The first few years were blissful, amazing, perfect if you will. We had everything in common, we never argued, it was almost like marrying myself. Every morning was the same: wake up, eat breakfast, go to work, get home, eat dinner, sleep. Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, and Friday, it was the same. It was a routine sewn into my brain like stitches into a quilt. It was easy, there was no reason for it to change. In my busy schedule, there was barely room for us to talk, eventually the silence cut through me. Tick toc, tick toc, tick toc. 5 hours, 2, 1, a minute, the day’s time seemed to fade away with each passing moment of being stuck in this neverending loop. I wasn’t happy. I could have just filed for a divorce. No! We took a vow when we wed, there was no backing out. I loved her, she loved me, we were stuck together in this hospital-like room. Tick toc, tick toc, tick toc. It was so odd, at times I heard children playing, wrestling, arguing down the hall, but I never remembered having any. It was like the past few years had been a blur. Tick toc, tick toc, tick toc, tick toc, time for my medicine, I don’t like my medicine. Tick toc, tick toc, I wanted to see my wife one last time, but she was busy with other patients. Tick toc, she finally made time to see me. Tick, she hit the ground, toc, we love each other. Tick, we’re married but I’m free, my soul is mine. Toc, here comes the police. Tick, 1 minute, toc, 1 minute, tick, 1 minute, toc, 1 minute. It was like marrying myself; I hate myself.
Going Home Early by Colin Buckley
“Dammit, light already.” A disgruntled solider struggled with a match while huddled in an alcove of wood and dirt. He looked about 35 and clutched a near soaked letter in his hand.
“Your pack’s wet.” A young voice rose from another dark corner of the trench.
“Toss me yours then!” He struggled to be heard over the cacophonous noise pouring in around them. “Which company are you?”
“Fifth. You?”
“Seventh.” He was quite sure fifth had been wiped out days ago, but he was never one to question lone soldiers about their losses.
“I want to go home…” A break in the near constant bombings allowed the elder to hear this near whispered statement. It was like the man was talking to himself.
“We all do. Shut up and throw me your matches. There’s no point in anything if a man can’t read.” When the young one didn’t move he tried something else. “I’ve got four little girls at home waiting for this to end.”
The young soldier finally managed to fish out his matches and crawled over with them. “My wife is pregnant.” All that could be seen of him were shifting eyes in the dark.
“Better get home soon then.” The elder said, he struck a few matches a tad violently and leaned over the letter to read. His uniform illuminated with the flickering light.
“Same goes to you. Although I think you’ll be going home early.” The young soldier pulled the trigger of his gun. He picked up the letter, ready to relay any intelligence to his side of the war.
“Dear daddy…”
“Your pack’s wet.” A young voice rose from another dark corner of the trench.
“Toss me yours then!” He struggled to be heard over the cacophonous noise pouring in around them. “Which company are you?”
“Fifth. You?”
“Seventh.” He was quite sure fifth had been wiped out days ago, but he was never one to question lone soldiers about their losses.
“I want to go home…” A break in the near constant bombings allowed the elder to hear this near whispered statement. It was like the man was talking to himself.
“We all do. Shut up and throw me your matches. There’s no point in anything if a man can’t read.” When the young one didn’t move he tried something else. “I’ve got four little girls at home waiting for this to end.”
The young soldier finally managed to fish out his matches and crawled over with them. “My wife is pregnant.” All that could be seen of him were shifting eyes in the dark.
“Better get home soon then.” The elder said, he struck a few matches a tad violently and leaned over the letter to read. His uniform illuminated with the flickering light.
“Same goes to you. Although I think you’ll be going home early.” The young soldier pulled the trigger of his gun. He picked up the letter, ready to relay any intelligence to his side of the war.
“Dear daddy…”
