Kropla Deszczu
Op. 28: No. 15 in D-Flat Major
Julia was teaching the willow about crying.
“What is it like?” the tree asked. This was often how their lessons started.
She closed her eyes, too dry to remember. “It looks like rain,” she said. “Feels like a wildfire.”
Her mother had taught her that people who could store freshwater became rich and left for better things. She’d minded her mother’s soured lip, and found sweetness in a giant that knew no sadness and asked about her dreams.
When the first rain of the summer came, Julia awoke to soggy leaves.
“It feels cold,” said the willow.
“But why are you sad?”
The tree dropped icy rivulets onto Julia’s hair, eyes, hands. “I don’t think I am,” it said. “What is crying when it isn’t sad?”
“It's trying to move past drowning, and feeling stuck in place.”
“And what is that?”
“Fear.” The girl stared at the emptying clouds while the willow peered into her eyes. After a time, leaves brushed Julia’s cheek.
“What was it last night?”
Julia breathed quietly. “Daddy splashed in puddles with me, and mommy wrapped us in blankets,” she said.
***
The next day, Julia found her willow tree silent, still, and sunny. A man was drilling into the tree’s trunk. Even with the breeze, the willow did not stir.
Julia screamed and ran, weeping into the desiccated bark. She could feel small drops on her hair, eyes, hands. Leftovers from the storm, and hot. She hadn’t wanted to teach it like this.
About the Creator
Mackenzie Davis
“When you are describing a shape, or sound, or tint, don’t state the matter plainly, but put it in a hint. And learn to look at all things with a sort of mental squint.” Lewis Carroll
Find me elsewhere.
Copyright Mackenzie Davis.
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The Spyglass, Or Myth of the First Orphan The house stands strong despite its sandy foundation. Miles of digging had yielded a layer fit for the necessary starting place. Now, level with the dune runoffs, a patch of grass frames the boundaries of what had become possible in such a wasteland: an oasis, home to an eccentric hermit and his flower garden. He tends to it now, frail spine comforted in familiar bend, spade in hand. A forgotten smile tugs at his stroke-afflicted mouth, but an intensity circles his irises, evidencing the internal battle to rediscover just a memory or two.
By Mackenzie Davis10 months ago in Fiction
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This story is a continuation of the Tales of Ezok that began in "The Precipice." Reading this story and its companion "Whispers and Whisps" is not required to enjoy this story, but they will each add layers to the character we see here and I would be remiss to not mention them at the very least.
By Stephen A. Roddewiga day ago in Fiction
Comments (16)
This is an incredible piece of writing. Thanks for sharing your gift! :)
I really loved this one. Nice to know the voices behind the ones I voted for. 💖
Poor tree. When will we learn the value of the silent giants which we destroy. This was a great ode to the willow. So sad.
Coming back to this because I realized I didn’t leave a comment! Wow wow wow, what a beautifully sad tale. “What is crying when it isn’t sad?” That hits so hard. Really well done!
Ah, the infinite possibilities of the willow. This is so precise and heartrending, with still your trademark blurred lines. The conversational format in medius res, and the climax of tears and stillness forms a profound little willow song. Excellent!
“What is crying when it isn’t sad?” Loved that line Mackenzie, it struck a chord in me. Beautiful and sad, great story
Fantastic work
This was sooooooo heartbreaking! We wanna teach someone something that is said but only the theory part of it. Not the practical part. This made me so emotional!
Such a tragically beautiful vignette.
What a beautiful piece of music to accompany a heart rending story. Wiiner!
Omg this is so powerful. This part hit me hard: “What is crying when it isn’t sad?” “It's trying to move past drowning, and feeling stuck in place.” “And what is that?” “Fear.” The ending was completely heartbreaking!
Hey, Mackenzie, are you a fan of Chopin? “What is crying when it isn’t sad?” “It's trying to move past drowning, and feeling stuck in place.” “And what is that?” “Fear.” I've never thought of crying that comes from fear; now I do, and I think it's the worst kind of tears one can shed. Sadder than sadness—despair? And now I'm sitting and listening to Chopin. Have you seen the "Forest of Piano"anime series?
You have expressed such incredible passion and depth in this story. Well done!
So much emotion. So raw and beautiful! I love talking trees (and it takes a long time to say anything in old Entish) Love this story Mackenzie you genius you!
“It looks like rain,” she said. “Feels like a wildfire.” ----omg that is the best description ever!!😥😍 Gorgeous writing here!!
Wow, Mackenzie...so much deep emotion in such a short piece. Love this, if it is incredibly sad!