Sometimes a story starts from a single image and I'll build the narrative around that image and see what comes of things. For this one, I saw two grieving parents on a porch out in the country under a black, starry blanket of night, looking out at the expanse of their property. I thought this was a nice way into that story and I think I know the ending already, but the stories always have a way of surprising me when I'm in the middle of writing them...and that's only a good thing.
"And then, when the child finally took its last breath, the mother and father buried it in a shallow hole of soft dirt halfway between the home and the property line.
As the months passed, a small, but persistent, sapling sprouted from the grave. Despite the raging winds of autumn, the bitter frost of winter, the perpetual rains of spring, and the hard drought of summer, the sapling remained strong and alive. Its branches grew slowly, the skinny, blossomed fists reaching for the heavens.
With neither rhyme nor reason, the father came to mistrust the tree that had taken root in his yard. From the porch where he and the mother sat to watch the sun set each evening, he could see the ground bowing up and out from the roots that had begun to wind their way throughout the soil, hungry for whatever nutrients lie beneath.
'It’s not natural,' he said one night as they sat sipping their iced teas. 'It’s not right.'
The mother made a noncommittal noise and continued staring off toward the horizon. She had learned to let him air his grievances until he had tired of talking about them. He would wear himself out fighting a battle against himself and they would sleep without having fought with each other. This was her way of not going to bed angry, a bit of advice her mother passed along on their wedding night so many years previous.
'I don’t understand why that damn tree had to grow right there,' he lamented. 'It’s disrespectful.' He grunted, approving of his own opinion, and sipped the last of his tea loudly.
The mother clucked her tongue as if she agreed (she did not, for the Lord had his ways) as he stood up and marched to the shed on the side of the house. 'What you fixin’ to do, honey?' she asked.
'I ain’t fixin’ to do nothin’. By hook or by crook, that sapling is coming out of the ground and getting thrown into a bonfire,' he yelled over his shoulder.
The mother rolled her eyes. 'Okay, dear.'
From the porch, she could hear the banging of him moving tools and farming implements around in the darkened shed. A few minutes later, he emerged with an axe slung across his shoulder and walked briskly across the lawn. The mother watched as he swung the axe at the base of the sapling; his mumbled swears carried across the yard.
'Language, dear,' she said loudly.
'Uh huh,' he muttered back, wondering how the blade had missed the sapling completely, its head buried in the surrounding dirt somehow missing every single one of the roots. He dislodged the axe from the ground and swung again. Though he had struck the sapling straight on, the blade bounced off its surface and knocked him off balance, nearly putting him on the ground. He swore profusely under his breath.
'Goddammit, Marvin. I said language!'
'Yeah, yeah,' he muttered to himself, dislodging the axe again. If it cain’t be cut, it damn well better burn. He strode back to the shed, frustrated, and put the axe back in its place. When he came back out, he was carrying a can of gasoline normally reserved for the tractors.
The mother saw this and made the sign of the cross before heading inside with their glasses and the empty pitcher. 'Just be careful dear,' she yelled as she entered the house. The storm door banged shut behind her and she could hear the sound of Marvin dousing the sapling in gasoline. She emptied the glasses and the nearly empty pitcher into the sink. Even from this far away, she could hear his satisfied hollering as he lit the fluid and the flames came to life, crackling and dancing in the yard.
And then, silence.
She shook her head as she rinsed out the glassware and placed it all face down on a towel to dry. Of course he’d done something to make the situation worse. Of course he had. She wondered if she’d have to take him to the hospital again as she dried off her hands and walked back out to the yard.
Marvin stood there, dumbfounded, the entire front of his body covered in soot and ash and smoke. Little gray wisps danced around his body and dissipated in the air above him, swirling out into the night. His hands were up in the air, as if to protect his face. While most of the smoke had disappeared, the smell of it hung thick and heavy on the breeze, tainting everything in the general area.
The sapling was gone; in its place was a much taller tree with more and darker branches, with more and greener leaves. It had grown into a beautiful thing in seconds, the moonlight spilling through its silhouette and creating black dappling on the ground below..."
