Back Again Until Dawn

 And now for something completely different, to steal a phrase...

Just as we are gaining momentum on the podcast with over 105 listens to our first 4 episodes, the US implodes and shit gets real.  As we wait for this transition of power, I find daily tasks becoming more difficult.  It seems inappropriate to pretend all is well and record a new episode, so when my alma mater, The University of Iowa, hosted a flash writing contest I welcomed the diversion.  

The only guidance?  Under 1,000 words and select a character and object from their prompts in the genre of your choice.  I chose "Arborist" and "Lighthouse" and came up with this over the past 36 hours:  

Back Again Until Dawn

It seems the trajectory of time is now my nemesis.  As if on cue, just when I am at my strongest and most able to provide for myself, I am suddenly sacrificed so that the one who came after me may survive.  

That one began its journey centuries after I became aware.  Aware of the breeze that must have created me, aware of the creatures who make their livelihoods and homes from me and aware…acutely aware…of the incessant pounding of the waves against the rocky shore just below.

My family slowly disappeared over time because of these harsh elements.  The wind.  The rain. The sun.  Man.

That day over eight decades ago began with just one man.  Each new dawn saw more machinery, more men and finally, my neighbor took form.  Rocks transported by huge carts were assembled slowly and with care, until the circular monolith was done.  By day the thing was mostly still and silent.  By night it came to life and the light swept across the jagged shore, back and forth, back and forth, and back again until dawn.  In fog, it moaned its warning in lieu of the light.

Many times over the years I have been jealous of this giant neighbor with such great purpose, but slowly I have grown to equal and exceed its size, in spite of the shade it threw that dictated my formation, or deformation, over time.  

Which has now become my demise.  

Again, it began with one man, but this time one who gazed upon me softly while he yielded tools of every size to poke and prod my entirety.  This man was in attendance every day while, once again, machinery invaded our world.  But instead of creating another structure with their machines, I appear to be the focus of the men and am slowly being, groomed?  Groomed for death I assume, as I have been unable to rest for many phases of the moon now and long for the predictable solitude of before.   

I have seen others go over the years in a similar fashion.  At first, many disappeared suddenly and violently when big men with huge saws began to fell us by the dozens per day.  When that ceased early last century only ten percent of my kind remained, and of those nearby on this shore who were weak, those too far away from another’s nurturing care or those simply too close to the eroding, rocky cliff we face just faded away.  With the herd culled, it was easy for the men to remove more and replace the ground their roots depended on for nutrients with stone walkways to The Lighthouse, the name the destination had been given.  Over time the elements even weathered the new structure, spurring many beautification efforts so that eventually cement roads leading up the coast took the last of my immediate tribe.

Nevertheless, my relative isolation over time became my song, until now when the verse I penned is altered and the ending crescendos.  I wish to share my wisdom, be it to help a seedling grow or an elder to gracefully fall in order to regenerate our species, but I am sure the one man who appears daily has other plans.  He frequently climbs my branches and secures ropes as he carves and cuts and caresses me, muffling the melody.

I suspect my demise is due to the fact that I now tower naturally over the man-made tower.  My roots have become connected with its foundation.  Ships approaching from the South cannot see her warning light because of my expanse, so I must assume I too now endanger them and that is why my branches have been trimmed in such an unnerving manner.  I expect the topping off will simply continue down my trunk until I no longer exist, like so many before.

And then one sunrise as I began to lament my lost lyrics, the grooming stops and the man who has earned my trust brings a metal square and hammers it gently onto a stand on the sidewalk near my base.  The cacophony ceases once the machines exit, and soon all that is left are the man and the Lighthouse.  And me.

As he leaves, he stops and assures me that the initial aches from his actions will pass and that I will thrive because of his care.  Years later, I have outlived my Arborist and grown taller, more sturdy and wise. Many approach me now to stop and stare at the metal plaque he left that day.  They then wander over and gaze at the ocean underneath us and bathe in the light from the beacon as they embrace.  They whisper how the Redwoods will outlive them and how they must be protected.

We shall see, says the breeze before it wanders off in a grand ballad, connecting us all.

So, how does this fit into the Storyteller Kitty Time theme of cat lulls mouse/cat eats mouse?  

The prize is a pack of writing supplies, a book by a UI Writers' Workshop alum AND...

...a pen made from a UI campus tree.

You seriously cannot make this shit UP.