My Talking Tree [short story]

The door opened. From the clear comfort of the house, the cute sparkling face of a girl of about eight years old peeped out. She looked at the front yard, at the stars in the late evening sky, at the warm summer breeze vivifying the branches and leaves of a tree in the middle of the fence. Her dad told her that this tree had been growing here for a long time, since the times when there had been no house there, and there had been no roads, and in general there had been almost nothing, except for the same trees. And when their house was being built here, they decided to keep this tree, right at the very edge of their green lawn, right next to the road. And so it happened that now a fence goes from the edge, rests against the tree trunk, and then continues again on the other side of it.

“Sarah!” she heard mother’s voice from the living room.

“Mom, I want to sit by the tree for a while!”

“Okay. But not for long. And put on your sweater!”

Sarah grabbed a windbreaker from the hanger and hastily put it on as she were running down the steps of the porch onto the grass in front of the house. She ran to the tree, touched its thick trunk with her palms. Then she spread her arms as wide as she could and hugged it. The tree was her friend. Not a day went by that they didn't spend time together. Even if it was raining outside, Sarah would run to the tree anyway, hug it quickly and then run back to the house. But if the weather was good, then she could sit there for hours. The tree even told her stories. And she called it “my talking tree.”

“Mom said I have little time. But will you have time to tell me something interesting?” the girl looked up with pleading eyes at the trunk and at the wide, enveloping crown. Then she turned to face the house and sat right on the ground, leaning her back against the trunk. She ran her hands back along the rough bark, repeating the shape of the grooves with her fingers, and then, holding the trunk with her left hand, tried to reach the fence with her right hand. And it almost worked out. The very fingertips felt the surface of the wooden planks.

“I’ve grown up a little more,” thought Sarah.

Then she heard a voice in the distance. Even two voices. Sarah fell silent, trying to hear what they were talking about. It was difficult at first. But they were approaching, and she began to slowly snatch some words from the conversation:

"… act… now…"

"…but… the situation… investments…"

“I heard this word somewhere…” - Sarah thought, - “Maybe dad said it? No, it’s unlikely it was him.” The voices approached.

"I don't see any expediency in this step. We need to conduct a market analysis."

"And I tell you - we can hit the jackpot, they will obviously buy it."

"Let's at least put together a focus group."

“I get nothing. Some nonsense,” Sarah said aloud, with slight displeasure that the tree had slipped her such an uninteresting conversation. Meanwhile, the voices passed by. There was silence again. Sarah looked at the ground, skipping from one blade of grass to another and wondering why it was impossible not to skip, but to look at everything at once, to see all the blades of grass on the lawn at once. Of course, it would be nice to see all the blades of grass all over the world, but at least a lawn in front of the house would be enough.

A voice again. Now alone. What a strange one. It seems to say something, but the words are mixed, and it turns out a mess. And it speaks to itself. Also hiccups constantly.

"Hic!… Aaaa… And he-e-ere the bootsies, yeah, look... B-b-boots on my feet. What for? Why bootsies? Why do… people’ave them? N-n-not on my hands ... Hic! ... Why-y-y-y on my feet? Why I need’em?"

This voice moved much slower than the first two. And now it quieted down. It was as if it had stopped. There was only a kind of inarticulate, intermittent murmur. Or groaning. Or both.

"Ooh, w-well, took’em off… Fly away, bootsies!"

Sarah heard a knock. Something fell on the road. “Did he really throw out his shoes?”

"Here... Hic! Yesss, I'll g-home. Go barefoot… Oooh… It’s m-m-more pleasant… You see, I feel... feel better now..."

Sarah began to think. She stretched out her legs, looked at her sneakers. Then at the grass. She thought for a couple of seconds. Then quickly reached her feet with her hands and tugged off her sneakers and her socks, and put her bare heels right on the ground. She liked the feeling of the grass and the soil – a little wet, a little cool. And she also liked that now she could feel the wind with her feet too.

At that time, the voice came up to the tree. And Sarah heard it quietly half-muttering, half-humming some melody. The hoarseness of the voice only made this melody more pleasant. It was just at times interrupted funnily by hiccupping. So this voice, with singing and hiccups, gradually faded and disappeared...

Then, after a couple of moments, she heard shallow breathing right behind the fence. Sarah recognized it as a neighbor's dog, which used to run away from its house. Every time in some incredible way. The girl, by hearing, determined that the dog approached the fence feeling her sitting next to it. Then she quietly said hello. The dog barked in response, also quietly. And ran on.

Sarah got to her feet, turned to the tree, looked at it, and said “Thank you.” And then she jumped towards the house. She ran up the ladder, and just like that, with wet and slightly dirty feet, ran into the house.

The Day of Scream [short story]

That day windows opened everywhere. In every house, small and tall, reaching cirrus clouds, the windowsills were being cleared unswervingly, half-dried plants were being moved aside, and wings were being opened wide. Each person went to their window and looked out, and screamed as loudly as they could, and the buzz of all these screams merged into one, resembling a dog's howl. Although it sounded much less pleasant.

Not to say that it was a scream of pain or misfortune. Everyone was in a rather good mood, and somehow it turned out that the weather was usually quite good that day (though how do you know which is good and which is not; probably, the majority just liked what they saw outside). Perhaps it was just a scream of living.

In addition to screaming, people on the upper floors also shook their fists, threatening someone whose name they did not know, but about whom they were not happy by default. Some of them also considered it important to show displeasure more vividly, and they spat out. And these spits then simply fell down to the ground, but some, with the help of the wind, flew into the faces of those who lived on the lower floors.

They, in turn, took it as normal and just kept screaming as spit dripped down their faces. After all, the scream was mutual, human one. And it's not so important that someone from above took water from their body and sprinkled you. It's a common good. Home is for everyone.

In small houses, people screamed too. At the same time, they liked to look at tall houses and then at their own, small ones. They also turned their heads like this: to a tall house, to their own, to a tall one, to their own. Sometimes their heads began to turn so quickly that it caused their dizziness, and then they simply fell to the floor, and having come to their senses after, rose up, knelt, poked their faces out again, and continued to scream.

And the scream went on and on. If someone got tired and took a break, then another would join. And so on for several hours. A deafening sound, which, the further away from people, the less it was heard. And which, when it ended, left the feeling of some kind of pure silence.

And it seemed everything was getting better. People then closed the windows. They were glad. Some even laughed. Ever so slowly. Next time they open the windows in a year.

One Night [short story]

A star appeared in the dark sky. The first star. It was quite late – though it was autumn already, it was obvious that the evening was about to turn into night. You realize it by making little observations. The number of lights in the windows of houses shrinks, the noise of the streets dies down. And even what remains from nature in the urban environment shows that it is time for sleep. And in this dark, almost night, but (as it is autumn) completely dark sky, the first star appeared.

I looked up, looked at it, and asked “Why did you show up so late today?” To be honest, I don’t remember asking it out loud. I rather just thought it. That is not that important. And even though these were just thoughts, it was better yet, as they were more truthful and didn’t fall under the capture of language.

The star, having heard my question, remained silent. It just kept on flickering. In a way as it befits the first star – not too bright, not too catchy, but so that you immediately notice it. I set sights on the fact that the star certainly should have heard me (or apperceived – since the question was not asked by voice). After all, penetrating a language, mastering it, we limit the circle of those who would understand us and, moreover, we limit the transfer of meaning to those words that exist in that language. But if we communicate with thoughts and energies, then we do not have such restrictions. Anyone can understand us, understand our feelings, understand that elusiveness that lives beyond borders. A man, an animal, wind. That’s why I was sure that the star had heard me.

I glanced across the sky, from edge to edge. Darkness. No more stars. Only that lonely one kept flickering. And then I just stared at it and plunged into the blissful abyss of thoughtlessness. I just looked at it, thinking about nothing, just merging into a single whole with all that space between us.

Then it answered me. For a couple of seconds, the brightness of its light increased, and this made it look bigger. And then again it became the same as had been before.

I wanted to go out. I closed the window and, without even putting on my jacket, went outside. The wind was stronger than I’d thought while in the room. A true autumn wind that tore off the leaves remaining on the tree branches and then lowered them to the ground. I went to the part of the garden where the sky was best seen. Suddenly I felt like sitting right on the ground. Just like that, in spite of the fact that it had rained the day before and the fallen leaves decided to keep the moisture. And in spite of the earth had almost completely cooled down by that time.

I lowered myself, first sat down. I found that very first star in the sky. It seemed to be glad to see me. It asked me to lay. So I did. I was laying and looking at this small flame of light somewhere in an immeasurable space, feeling the moisture and cold on my back.

I began to breathe in the autumn smells and with them breathed in the feelings and thoughts of the sleeping world. And there was no lie in it. It was wonderful. It was beauty.

The star called me softly. And then, in one instant, I saw thousands and thousands of stars lit up in the sky. Like this, at once. They decided to appear not one after other, not gradually, but all at the same time. All at once.

I was laying. And all my thoughts and all my mind were replaced by the wind of the world, and the water from my eyes joined the water on the earth. The world continued to rest. And it felt so good.