 Tucked within an ancient forest, there was a grove of storytelling trees. They were beautiful beasts with twisting limbs that provided shelter to all who could lend an ear. The roots spread far below the ground, allowing for dear mother nature to hear their hushed voices. They'd whispered to the westward wind as he flew by and cried to the grass below their tail 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. During the summer storms, they would give cover and warmth as whispered about rain's harsh love. They would take the light in their guest 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. After the thaw, both bird and trees would greet one another with their newborns. Though one year, there was a scraggly tree in the center of this 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 floor and the birds didn't dare to land near or on his bare bones. The song that the others were gifted, he wasn't allowed to hear. Only the crow's harsh call while she finished the corpse. The beast of the ground were terrified of his fragile roots and never once did they burrow close to 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. The trees around him began to wonder if he was even a pine. Perhaps he was a part of the brush or the thickest below, but if he was, why weren't the rabbits burrowing near him? Perhaps it was a shadow root, maybe a bee's home nearby. Could there be a predator lurking near its base? All questions were debunked upon their conception and shot down with answers of no. Though the trees did not stop, why wouldn't the bees sit upon his scraggly limbs? Were they too skinny? Could they have been covered in thorns? Did they have poison on them? But again, all 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 sides of a rearing horse. His appearance was now completed, a thousand twisted branches that had formed a maze of needles and a rich blue-green had covered his body. Though the grove cared less and 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 non-existent tongue. Totish and crow-like were the taunt at the trees which creamed. Until the day the two-legged beast arrived. With the beast were weapons used to massacre their ancestors far below them. The trees screamed and cried but the hunters carried on, only pausing the howl-out commands of silence to the grove. The roots ripped from the ground with great cries and their branches hit the grass with a pitiful crunch. More cries filled the forest and the beast of the ground had scattered. The birds split into a thousand blocks, covering the young's eyes as they took off. Howls built the forest as the two-legged beast drove contraptions carrying the dead along the forest bare floors. Whales of the grass could be heard and the tears of the saplings could be seen, though the silent one stayed still. The hunters soon took notice to the silent one, but they had much else to do. One after the other the trees hit the earth, all crying out to their mother far down below, though soon it all stopped. The hunters glanced over at the silent one and wondered why it had made a sound. They looked at one another and sent one forth to observe the beast. It approached the pine and looked around 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 pleas. The hearts rung hollow and they took pity on the beast. They approached it with a weapon and set it into its young flesh, apologizing for any pain they may cause. They slowly sliced within its base, daring not to say a single word. One hummed a song, that of the doves, that had steered clear of its twisting arms, and another whistled as if he was the westward wind. The hush began to form on its bark as they slashed away its skin. The young pine looked up at the sky and noted that the fades were swirling above. Soon enough a final slash came. His bare body crumbled down to the cold ground below. His roots rose from the rocks, causing him 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. The hunters lifted him up and carried his corpse away to the hollow halls of the factories. Inside they stripped his skin from his bones and ripped his flesh into a thousand pieces. From his flesh and bones they made a fine pulp, and from this they created a thousand books filled with fairy tales. Perhaps he was meant to be an author.