by

Inside the Trees | A Short Story

The orange trees killed my father. It wasn’t their fault, not really, but grandmother says she can’t forgive them for allowing her only son to fall from their twisting branches to the hard ground below. After the windowless van takes away dad’s unmoving body, she lugs a huge ax from the old woodshed and hacks away at the trees until nightfall. Ker-chunk. Ker-chunk. Ker-chunk. She piles all the bright, round fruit and glossy green leaves in the center of the yard and lights them on fire with a red jug of gasoline from the garage. I watch her from my bedroom window as a slight breeze licks the flames and grandmother dances around them. When the smoke clears I see a thick, fuzzy white mold growing on her skin. It spreads quickly, growing thicker and darker. I smell the sickly scent of rot and decay from inside the house, but mother won’t let me run to grandmother—even after she screams. As the sun rises and turns the sky golden pink, we hear her curse the trees with her last dying breath.

***

I didn’t mean to break free, not really. The ancient ones taught me how to flow from one tree to the next, how to coax the leaves to turn toward the light, and how to root myself deep when conditions are harsh—but I’m curious. And restless. When the fire starts, I squirm and fight. I don’t want to do the same thing as always, to snuggle deep into the earth and stay dormant in the suffocating darkness of the soil until I find another tree to crawl into. No, I want to burst free, to fly and soar, and to experience sensations I’ve never felt before. On a whim, I jump and catch a breeze and find a new home in an old woman’s skin. At first, the softness and warmth are divine. I move with her and through her. I dance and sway, but she fights our connection. Her blood boils and churns. She screams. I feel myself changing from a tiny life force of trapped light into some combination of the woman and me, but her body gives out and she falls lifeless to the hard ground. I burst forth as a crackling mist of tiny flickering particles. I move with the wind and spread myself out in all directions, becoming one with everything I touch. I’m free. I may have transformed into a killer, but it feels too wonderful to stop.

***

My grandmother is the first to succumb to the mysterious sickness, but not the last. It spreads quickly and soon it isn’t just orange trees we fear, but all trees. No longer can we collect acorns in our pockets and sit with our backs pressed against the rough bark of the towering old oaks, or listen to the golden songs of the marsh wrens while hiding beneath the sweeping thin arms of the willows. Trees are dangerous. Rustling leaves are death rattles, warning us to run. The poison travels by leaf and by seed until the tree itself becomes nothing but mold and ash—like the body of my mother, my neighbors, and all my friends from school. Those of us still alive cover our skin with thick layers of cracking mud and crawl into rock caves or underground bunkers, anywhere the tiny particles can’t find us. We learn to run and we learn to hide. I’ve gone from the loving center of my family of three to a homeless orphan in a world where shade means monsters and a fragrant breeze means death.

***

Spring becomes summer and the winds stop blowing. I settle all over the earth as a yellow dusting—a thin layer of fine pollen. The animals rush through me and I catch rides on their fur, but they always wash or shake me free and I’m left laying at the bottom of a river or on the hot ground. Stuck. Although I am abundant, bountiful and many, a singular emotion forms within me—restlessness. I want the adrenaline surge of newness again, the thrill of excitement I had when I boiled in blood for the first time. I want more. I catch a ride on the back of a tiny mouse and plan on moving into a ripe red strawberry, but on a whim, I move into the furry creature instead. Its body reacts—spinning, boiling, transforming. I sing with the feeling and rejoice. I’ve found my new playmates.

***

In the middle of summer, the sickness moves to the animals. We find their bodies everywhere. Some are covered in sickly sweet-smelling white mold, others in spidery green threads that crisscross and pin the lifeless bodies to the earth. The sickness seems to grow inside and burst free, or perhaps it grows on the outside and bursts in. Nobody can tell. The occasional bird or mouse darts quickly past, but sightings of larger animals have stopped altogether. Life seems to be dying off and it makes me think of dinosaurs and extinction. Will my bones become a fossil for some future scientist to ponder? The family I’m traveling with leaves me beside the road because food is running scarce and they are scared, but I’m a fast runner and I’m good at hiding. I climb up a mountain and find an abandoned cave to make my home. Despite the soaring temperatures outside, it’s nice and cool inside. I lay as still as I can listening to the brisk silence. It’s a crisp, bare sound and I grow to appreciate how it echoes around me noiseless and clean. It’s far better than the hot silence outside the cave—the thick, deadly stillness that whispers “death is coming for you” without making a sound at all. I try not to listen to the growing panic inside me, but as my cans of food dwindle I’m finding it harder and harder to live alone in my cave of silence.

*** 

The harsh stillness of summer gives way to the blustery winds of fall. After months of being unable to dance in the breeze, I’m overjoyed at the thought of twirling through a cloud of colorful leaves. I grab hold of the first big wind and soar effortlessly across a cloudless sky looking for a tree or creature to explore. I find nothing. No birds. No trees. No sounds. The land has become barren and flat, covered only in the moldy remains of those I’ve touched. Rolling emptiness spreads off in all directions and the marred remains create an unfamiliar ache within me. It’s a conflicting sensation of triumph and loss. I’m a creature of light, but this feels more like darkness. How did I become the opposite of life? The currents lift me and I travel over the crumbling rocks remembering bird songs and children climbing trees. I search for signs of anything left, but I fear this realization comes too late. What have I done?

***

Winter comes without a sound. I watch as the snowflakes fall. I’ve scavenged everything I can and it’s not enough. I’m not going to make it. Crawling to the edge of the cave, I push my hand out into the air and a chill travels through me. Shivering, I see a fleck of orange on my palm. I scream and rub it on the rocks, but I fear it’s too late. The sickness has found me at last. A voice speaks inside me, a soft whispery sound I’m certain means madness, but I listen anyway.

“I’m sorry dear child. I didn’t mean for any of this to happen.”

“I’m going to die,” I say to the voice. “Like my mother, my grandmother, and the birds. I’m going to die in this cave alone.”

“You aren’t alone. I’ll stay with you.”

The voice brings warmth. It wiggles through my body and I crawl toward the center of the cave and fall asleep.

***

Redemption. The word rings through me and I cling to it. Riding on the breezes, I gather all the scattered parts of myself and cover the child with a thick blanket of life. I don’t try to become her, I try to heal her. I breathe air into her lungs and move blood through her veins. Outside the world is covered in white but inside I’m remembering my purpose and I remake things. The strength of the ancient ones flows through me and I hope it will be enough. Everything I am, all my many multitudes of particles and energy, I pour into the small child on the stone floor. Cracking the rocks, I break the ground into tiny pieces and regrow life. It ebbs out from the child and from me like rivulets of liquid stars. The earth shudders and shakes, moving with us, becoming a new land—a new start. The moon watches, winking above, singing her soft lunar lullaby and nodding her approval.

***

A honey smell tickles my nose and I wake in the cave but find it’s no longer the same. Silence has transformed into bird song, rocks into towering trees, and the bleakness of winter into spring’s happy sun. Rested and calm, I stand on strong legs and spin in a circle. The air sweetly dances with me. I’m alive. Above me towers a beautiful tree, covered in delicate white petals and round ripe fruit. I climb into the strong branches and reach through the glossy green leaves to snap off a bright shiny orange. The rich citrusy smell makes my body shudder with joy. Sitting within a curve of the tree, I peel the sticky fruit and throw the thick peels to the soft ground below. The first bite bursts with juice and it drips down my chin and through my fingers. A fuzzy yellow and black bee buzzes around my head and I think it speaks to me of second chances, but I can’t be sure as the marsh wrens are calling and I feel the urge to run.

Author’s note: This piece was inspired by the orange trees in my grandmother’s backyard and was written as an assignment for a class I’m taking called “Exploring Your Aesthetic.” The challenge was to play with form and story structure. I found the assignment challenging, which probably means it was the exact thing I should be doing. Let me know what you think of this story, particularly if the format feels different enough and if you found the story engaging. Thank you for your continued support!

65 thoughts on “Inside the Trees | A Short Story”

  3. what drew me to this, Bridget, and what holds my interest is that first paragraph; that’s how my best friend died: a fall from a ladder while pruning a tall tree. his head crushed by hitting the water metre tap at the bottom; no anger was spent on the tree; he just fell, he died.

    Love the picture of the oranges: they remind me of Camille Bourdas’s short story ‘Orange’ about colour blindness —

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  8. So well written Bridgette, I was captive from the first sentence. I enjoyed the interplay between the orphan and the orange plague and the two perspectives they brought to the story were both balanced and engaging.

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    • Thank you! Music to my ears that you found it balanced and engaging. I’ve been working hard on my openings and then hopefully giving the reader a good payoff for reading on. I’m glad it worked for you.

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  10. Brilliant story, Bridgette!
    I especially loved the lines “How did I become the opposite of life?…What have I done?”– the fact that nature itself is the villain of a somewhat dystopic world and that it comes to this realisation. The switch of perspectives was also very interesting.

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    • Thank you for your kind words! I’m so glad that the story worked for you. It was fun to image a consciousness living in trees and sort of realized afterward it’s a bit like if the Lorax didn’t have to speak for the trees because this one spirit does. I liked it devouring everything and then realizing it’s mistake-because sometimes we become villains in our own lives without realizing it.

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  11. You so talented Bridgette. You always interested story written. Iam so happy & enjoy to reading, you make me happy & relaxed 😌. I love the old story your grandmother. Beautiful orange plantation. Nice Orange pic.
    Have happy weekend, Bridgette 🌹!

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  12. Powerful & vivid story, Bridgette! 🙂 Hooks us with that opening line & love the gradual progression through each season, crowned with that tinge of hope and acceptance in the end ❤

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  17. Very intriguing, Bridgette! I love the way you bounced between the 2 sides…I don’t always care for stories that switch perspectives that way, but it totally fit your tale so perfectly! 💞💞💞

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  20. Hi, Bridgette. I was tired, and in no mood to read. But your first line grabbed me, and the rest of the para reeled me in. Your innovation earnt attention to the end. I sensed Poe, Tolkien, Le Guin, McCarthy … but not in a derivative way. More in a sense of what may come for you. This feels like it has had a few good edits, but may still spit spare pips under pressure. If I were your class leader, I’d be well pleased with this result. As should you. Anyway, before I sound any more pompous, I’ll close with a well done, keep up the ace work, and thank you for a striking (and, I suspect, lasting) first impression! Best regards, P. 🙂

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    • What a thoughtful and generous comment. I’m so glad it drew you in. Yes, it went through a lot of edits before it reached this place and could definitely be worked more. I know it’s not clear what this entity is and how it’s able to swallow all life, including others like it. I sort of hint at it, but it’s honestly not fully fleshed out in my head yet either. I focused more on trying to craft beautiful sentences and the format of these chunky paragraphs. I broke some of my writing rules (repeating words and using some vague language) but it seemed to fit. Thanks again for your kind words.

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  21. Very nice! You certainly deserve praise and attention for this fantasy piece. The switching viewpoints reminds me of Iain Banks, though I am certain many others use the technique also. Have you written novels? I understand that Asimov wrote short pieces he later wove into novels. Perhaps you could work this story into a full novel? How long did you take to write this?

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    • Thank you for the kind words. I’ve got several novels in the works, but nothing published yet. I’m self-publishing a collection of 52 short stories which should be ready in April. I do think many of my short stories are really seeds for bigger tales I might tackle in the future. It took me about a week to write this story, off and on.

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  27. Wow. It’s VERY different. I think you definitely nailed that part of the assignment. It makes me think of a poem, the separate stanzas shouting different ideas to the reader with brief pauses in between. Lots of really interesting imagery in this one. I particularly enjoyed the way the protagonist changed shape and melded into the world around itself. Thought evoking stuff!!!

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