Forest from the Trees
05 Apr 2019Today’s prompt: “A tree from the point of view of one of its leaves”
I don’t know why they bury so many bodies at us.
I know I’m supposed to turn red one day, before I die. I wonder, do we turn red because the bodies they bury at us bleed into the roots?
They killed someone at us last night. Pulled a bag off their head. Brandished a scythe. They yelped, “No.” It felt so quiet, even though it was the only sound in the woods. The scythe dragged across their throat, and then it was really quiet.
Their body dropped to the moldering leaves on the forest floor. Some of them were brown. Some of them were red. The red ones are shaped like me, but curled up and dried. I’ve always understood mortality. The evidence is right below me. One day, I too will fall, and dry, and curl, and become just a husk with a few fibers where my veins were.
They pushed the dead leaves aside, and dug a hole. On the south side of us this time. There are already bodies to our north and east. Lowered the body into the hole. Shoveled dirt over the top. The big one spoke: “All that’s left is the west.” And then they left.
One of the dried leaves still hanging on from last winter fell and landed on the mound of dirt. See? We understand mortality.