 Ducked within an ancient forest, there was a grove of storytelling trees. There were beautiful beasts with twisted limbs who provided shelter to all who could lend an ear. Their roots spread far below the ground, allowing for dear mother nature to hear their hushed voices. They'd whisper to the westward wind as he flew by and cried to the grass below their tails from one hundred years ago. They spoke of beasts that had ten thousand arms only visible to those who looked closely. They muttered about birds with wings that could cover the sky. When the land was covered in flames and their skin was being burned away, they would speak of fates that had tucked themselves in the sky and suns far away. In the summer storms, they would cover and warm and whisper about rain's harsh love. They would take delight in their guests' amazement and would listen to the gifts of song given by the birds. Though these meetings would become less and less and the heat began to dwindle, soon they said goodbye to their friends and awaited their arrival after the melt, and after the thaw, both birds and trees would greet one another with their newborns. Though one year there was a scraggly tree in the center of the grove that no one would claim as their own, he did not cry when he sprouted from the ground, and he had no voice to tell his tales. He wouldn't whisper to the wind, and he never spoke to his dear mother below. His screams would go unheard when the flames tore through the forest, and the birds didn't dare to land near or on his bare bones. The songs that the others were gifted, he wasn't allowed to hear. Only the crow's harsh call while she finished the corpse. The beasts of the ground were terrified of his fragile roots, and never once did they burrow close to the silent scrub. They wouldn't dare to hide under his limbs during the wicked storms, screaming that the shrub would topple and crush them alive. And the trees around him began to wonder if he even was a pie. Perhaps he was a part of the brush or the thickets below, but if he was, why weren't the rabbits burrowing near him? Perhaps it was his shallow roots. Maybe a bee's home nearby. Could there be a predator lurking near his base? All questions were debunked upon their conception and shot down with answers of no, though the trees didn't stop. Why wouldn't the bird sit upon his scraggly limbs? Were they too skinny? Could they have been covered in thorns, or did they have a poison on them? Yet again, all the answers were shot down and their faults were explained so. They decided to ignore the silent scrub and let him grow. Years passed by, and the silent one grew to the size of a rearing horse. His appearance was now completed, a thousand twisted branches that had formed a maze of needles, and a rich blue had covered his body. Though the grove cared less, still they shunned him and ignored his roots, scratching stories and tales along the ground. The trees now hissed about the scraggly pine and mused. About the sound of his voice, they howled and teased him, screaming wickedly about their view of his nonexistent tongue, totish and crow-like were the taunts that the trees would scream, until the two legged beasts arrived. With the beasts were weapons, news to massacre their ancestors far before them. The trees screamed and cried, but the hunters carried on, only pausing to howl out commands of silence to the trees. Their roots, ripped from the ground with great cries, and their branches hit the grass with a pitiful crunch, and more cries filled the forests and the beasts of the ground had scattered. The birds split into a thousand flocks, covering their young's eyes as they took off. Howls filled the forest, as the two-legged beasts drove contraptions carrying the dead along the forest's bare floor. Whales of the grass and tears of the sapling could be seen. Though the silent ones stayed still, the hunters soon took notice of the silence, but they had much else to do. One after the other the trees hit the earth, all crying out to their mother far below, though soon it all stopped. The hunters glanced over at the silent one, wondering why it had yet to make a sound. They looked at one another and sent one forth to observe the beast. They had approached the pine and looked around at its short base only to be greeted with a slew of sorrowful words, a will dedicated to no one at all. The hunters stopped when they saw the desperate fleas. Their hearts rung hollow and they took pity on the beast. They approached it with a weapon and set it into his young flesh, apologizing for any pain they caused. They slowly ciced into its base, daring not to say a single sound. One hummed a song, that of the doves that had stayed clear of this twisting thing, and another whistled as if it was the westward wind. Tears began to form on its bark as they slashed away at its skin. The young pine looked up at the sky, and it noted that the fates were swirling high above, and soon enough a final slash came. His bare body crumbled down the cold ground below. His roots rose from the rocks, causing them to tumble to the ground with hushed clacks. The pine looked up one last time to see nothing more than a single hawk looking down upon its form. At last, his mind had left into the darkness and the hunters lifted him up and carried his corpse away to the hollow halls of their factories. Inside they stripped his skin from his bones and ripped his flesh into a thousand pieces. From this flesh and bone they made a fine pulp, and from this they created a thousand books filled with fairy tale. Perhaps he was always meant to be an author.