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When Autumn Comes

The tree once had a soul, the way all dead things once had a soul. And, as all trees received their souls, it had received its soul from the seeds of its parent, and somewhere out there it's soul lived on in its own children.

Once a gorgeous weeping willow, the tree was now a skeleton of its former beauty, giving off a foreboding air that drove away even the bravest of creatures. Winter snow fell soundlessly against the trunk, spring rain lashed through the branches, and each year without fail the tree waited for its leaves to grow, to feel the scorching heat of the summer sun melt the ice around its frozen heart.

But this willow was dead. It had been so for several years. And dead things do not have souls.

Humans walked by the tree every once in a while, making a waist berth around to avoid the branches that snagged on their clothes like desperate, grasping fingers. It was as if they could sense the tree growing sour as it's body wasted away, the stench of rot that stemmed from hungry maggots it had no knowledge about enough to hasten the pace of any passerby's.

The years grew long and the tree grew bitter as leaves refused to grow or fall. The weight of the willows dead limbs bent it over the road that ran parallel, branches low enough to scrape painfully along the hoods of every car that passed through the area.

The desperation of the tree grew ever steadily, and the mind that had once been pleasant and peaceful had darkened into something evil. Greed, cold and burning, filled its every cell. The ground around it was littered with scraps and shattered bits of metal and glass, the only evidence left of what tragedies have occurred. Any survivors would tell you that the tree came out of nowhere, limbs swinging and cracking, a seemingly mobile, sentient force.

A stiff wind rattled the branches ominously, and a spark of excitement went through the willow, the first thing the tree had felt in several years. Change was coming, a sensation that it used to feel in its leaves.

A distant figure turned the corner, coming far too close to the tree. The earth seemed to hold its breath—it had felt what happened to those who ventured too close. But change had been on the wind, and so the tree did nothing as the figure approached.

"Hello," greeted the being. Even trees could not see in the dark. Trees could not see at all.

"Hello, what are you?" Replied the tree. Nobody had even spoken to it before.

"I am a man. What are you?" The willow knew for a fact that men had eyes, and if they walked around at night they must be able to see from them.

"I am a willow tree," a hint of pride colored the voice of the tree.

"No you're not," denied the man. "Dead things are not anything."

"I must be something," insisted the tree. "Look at all the destruction I've wrought." It sensed the man contemplate the littered ground.

"Perhaps," acknowledged the man. "But a rock in your place could do the same amount of damage where you stand, and rocks do not have souls, nor are they dead things."

"Well then, what are they?" Asked the tree.

"They simply Are; existing without independent purpose or will." Replies the man.

"Perhaps then, I am an Are," decided the tree, "since losing my soul I have no purpose, I make no leaves."

"You are not an Are. You are a dead thing, and dead things are Are Not's." Insisted the man.

"What's that?"

"Are Not's are things that have existed with purpose and will long enough to not exist anymore. Like blades of grass when the snow falls."

"But I don't have a purpose or a will," protested the tree.

"It seems to me your purpose is to prove you have a will. And if you think you have a will, then you must." Said the man.

The tree was silent for a moment, "well then, what are you?"

The man replied, "I am a man, I exist with purpose and will."

"So you will one day become an Are Not?" The man nodded in confirmation, and then vocalized it. "What is your purpose in being here?" The tree asked.

"Because you are a Are Not, and Are Not's don't exist." Explained the man.

"But I must exist, I am talking to you. I have a soul." Frustration leaked into the tone of the tree.

"Dead things don't have souls. And it is not you talking, but the shadow of who you used to be." The man replied

Bark creaked as the tree leaned toward the man, "How did I lose my soul?"

"It lived in your seeds, who became your children." Said the man.

"Can I get it back?" More of a demand than a question.

"I don't know." The man shook his head.

"I think I want it back. I do not want to be an Are Not." Decided the tree.

"That is not the way in which the world works. Time will not allow it." There was no sympathy in the man's voice.

The tree was done listening to the man. "I would like you to cut down the willow back there. It grew from a soul of mine."

"Cutting down that tree will not restore your soul," warned the man.

"Perhaps not, but the tree still took something of mine, and I would like it back, or I would like justice." Dark tendrils curled around the consciousness of the tree.

"This is not justice," argued the man. The willow swung its branches threateningly.

"Your fate lies before me if you disobey me." Glittering glass and jagged metal lay before the tree.

"Will you agree to go in peace if I do this?" The man felt no fear at the tree's threat.

"Yes," replied the tree, knowing its own lie.

"Very well," conceded the man. He left and came back with an axe. And despite the man's warning, with every blow of the axe the tree's mind grew more and more hopeful, more and more desperate.

"Another tree," demanded the willow, upon feeling no change at the fall of the tree.

"Another tree," as the man's axe fell on willow after willow, the tree's agenda transformed into something more sinister.

"Another tree," it insisted blindly as the last willow fell, and the man, who had hoped he was done, instead was turned on the maples, pines, and oaks left behind. Everything had fallen away in the face of the old willow's determination. Nothing mattered more than this, however had the man stopped to ask the tree exactly what 'this' was, the tree would have found itself without an answer.

"There are no trees left," announced the man at last, tiredly. The willow had worked him nonstop, day and night, cutting down tree after tree until the thudding of the breaking bark had become the thudding of his own beating of his heart. "You have destroyed what gave you a future. Are you pleased with yourself?"

It was as though the tree hadn't heard the man. "What is this feeling I have? Is this peace?"

"No," the man threw the axe away, enough was enough, "this is not peace, this is emptiness. Your desperation has made you weak, and with everything you have taken from this world, your threats are empty, and you are empty."

"And for your crimes," the man said as he walked away, a twisted type of victory running through him in bitter circles, "you will stay that way for eternity."