*Here's the beginning of my first short story for my Creative Writing class. Let me know what you think of it so far!*
The rough bark against my skin offered the relief I had been searching for. I inhaled the pine scent, my eyes closed tightly. With all my heart, I wished I were home. But that was nowhere near possible. I knew this tree was the closest I could get.
Back home, we had trees around every bend. Brown and green hues met your eye wherever you turned. Those colors were my favorite; they were even the color of my eyes. I could still feel the prickly sensation of pine needles beneath my bare feet. The crunching sound of autumn leaves still echoed in my ears. Bright oranges, subdued greens, vibrant reds, dull browns; I didn’t care what color those leaves were. The fact that they were there and a part of the trees made them beautiful beyond belief to me.
I sighed as I heard some kid ask his mom why I was hugging a tree. As she shushed him and walked away, I slowly pulled back from my sole comfort and stared at it longingly.
“You got a thing for trees?” I heard someone ask. I turned to see an old man, maybe in his seventies, sitting on one of the benches that lined the path, staring at me curiously with a raised eyebrow.
“Yeah…you could say that.” I sounded tired, defeated. I hated sounding that way. My voice used to be so full of energy and happiness. The man’s eyebrow rose higher; I faintly wondered if it was physically possible for an eyebrow to go that high. I guessed his overlapping wrinkles just made it look farther up than it really was.
“Why?” His question was so simple, so innocent. But I found it cutting.
“Why not?” I responded. “Lots of people got things for trees. It’s a reasonable thing to got a thing for,” I said indignantly. The man chuckled and shook his white head, looking down at the pigeons around his feet. He had some seed in his hand, and every few seconds, he’d sprinkle it around, smiling his gummy smile as the pigeons went berserk.
“I see your point. But you seem to like them beyond reason, if you get my meaning. I like trees, but I don’t go around hugging them like they’re my long lost lovers.” He grinned cheerily, looking like a pale raisin, shriveled to the maximum. I looked back at the tree, as if expecting my reply to his comment to be there.
“They’re home,” I whispered. I could feel the moisture gathering in my eyes, and I blinked rapidly to dissipate the coming tears. The man smiled gently. He looked less like a raisin that way
“You don’t belong in the city, honey, I can see that. The only trees we have are the ones around you here in Central Park.” I nodded. I already knew that. “Where’re you from?” he asked kindly.
“Michigan,” I sighed, thinking of my farm. The man laughed softly and shook his head again, his loose wisps of hair blown around in the light wind.
“What the hell are you doing in New York?”
“I have family here. It’s the only place I could go,” I shrugged. The man nodded me over, patting the space next to him on the worn bench.
“Alright, sweetie, tell me your story,” he said expectantly. I paused. Did I really want to tell this stranger everything? I considered my options, and decided that I might as well. I needed to get this off my chest anyway.
I walked over and took a seat next to him, his toothless grin close to my face. He smelled like prune juice and bird feed, but there was something comforting about that. It didn’t bother me, at least.
“Why don’t you start with your name,” he suggested, handing me some seed to give to the pigeons.
“My name’s Ashlyn,” I responded, flinging the seed around, smiling softly as the birds pecked it off the ground in the blink of an eye. Just like my chickens would have done. It was quiet for a moment as I stared blankly into the distance. I felt angry at those tall skyscrapers that blocked my view behind the trees. They seemed too shiny in the sun, so unnatural a background to the green foliage. I wished they would all tumble down and be replaced by brown limbs.
After a few seconds of silence, I realized that he was waiting for me to continue. “I’ve lived in Central Michigan all my life. Never even visited another place. My family owned a farm where we grew mostly corn. We had animals, like chickens and cows and livestock like that. And…and there were a lot of trees. All around the farm. Where the fields ended, the trees began.” I sighed, closing my eyes in remembrance. “I loved those trees. More than I loved the farm. They were just…there. Always there. And I knew I could always find comfort and happy solitude with them.
“When I was little, I’d spend hours just hiding in the branches. Whenever things got bad at home or I felt really sad, I’d go to the trees and feel safer, better…happier.” I shook my head, frustrated that I couldn’t express what exactly it was the trees did for me.
“It’s okay, honey, I understand. When I need some alone time, I come here to feed the pigeons. I like to think that I’m doing them a favor by feeding them. But each seed that I throw at them is like a seed of trouble that they just gobble up. And there you have it: one less seed of trouble to worry about. So I guess they’re the ones doing me the favor in the end.” He looks down at me, the corners of his eyes crinkling with his smile. I thought about what he said for a long second. I guessed trees did the same thing for me. They were so strong and old; they seemed to just drain all my troubles and worries out of me as soon as I touched their bark. That bark that held years of memories and concerns like mine.
