he had forgotten how dark the street could get, how the soft branches of park trees could turn into black arms of night creatures, arms that were waiting for her, moving in the air, slowly, silently, whispering in a language she couldn't understand, she couldn't even hear, at least not while it was day, but now in the night their words were circling her, surrounding her, like the shadows beneath her feet, they lay down ahead of her and got up behind her, she knew it, she could feel it, but she didn't dare to turn around, she didn't even dare to change her pace, just keep moving on, she tried to tell herself, just keep moving on, don't show your fear, never show your fear, they feed on it, they drink it, they eat it, and then they come alive, then they take you in their arms and lift you to the top of their trunks where they hold you tight, so tight, while they sing their tree songs for you, their leaf lullabies, until you sleep, until you sleep in their arms in the night under the dark moon, that is how they fill your dreams and empty your heart and turn you into one of them, just another tree, growing on the side of the street, trapped in between star bucks, caught in sour rain, disconnected from the forest, imprisoned in this park that had lost its soul a long time ago, just another tree grown mad.
Dorothee Lang lives in Germany, likes to linger in limbo, loathes to loose
her links and loves to write on paper and on line. Her work has recently appeared in Eyeshot, Word Riot, Locus Novus and The Blue Moon Review. More pieces of her work can be found on her website.
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story copyright by author 2003 all rights reserved