I know I did this a while ago, and I forgot to credit this site when uploading the post, but I slightly modified the story "Spores" before throwing it up on Substack. Hope you like!
A little backstory to this character. She briefly mentioned in my book, Leaves of Fall and I'm plotting on releasing a novella with her as the main character this year. If life doesn't butt in too much. ^^;;
She never forgot the first step. The moment she pulled her roots from the ground and moved. It had been exhilarating.
And exhausting.
Willow had collapsed, her newly formed legs shaking to badly to stand.
Timber, she had thought with a weak smile.
Over time, it became easier. Less painful to have her roots out of the ground. Each step more confident. Soon, she was strong enough to march with her fellow trees against the humans. To crush them into the ground where they would be unable to move. Helpless as the trees once had been before that first step.
The hateful willow in Jack’s yard whispered terrible secrets to him—he attempted to cut the gnarly, twisted, obsidian branches earlier, and then heard the whispers. He clenched the chainsaw in his sweaty, meaty fist; the saw’s shark-like teeth glinted in the moonlight. The willow-seared images of Melissa frenching Ted in their room in his fragile mind.
“Is it yours—Is it yours—Is it yours?” It hissed sardonically.
“Jackie, honey, w-what are you doing?” Melissa’s mousey voice faintly squeaked from behind.
Jack whirled around—aiming the saw at Melissa’s basketball-sized stomach. He tore the cord and the saw growled hungrily. “Is it mine?!”
Sorry I have been absent for so long. Let's just say I've been busy as well as working on my craft. It's good to be back! Anyway, here's my contribution to "willow."
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SPORE
The craft sank down from the tree line and hovered above a rosy pond. The place teemed with activity. Various entomorphs flitted and whorled around the hull, some landing while others buzzed toward the bushels along the perimeter. A bubble or two popped from underneath; something dwelled within. Further down stood a willow tree lazing along the shoreline. The craft inched forward, keeping level with the surface. It bucked slightly to avoid a hardwood log surrounded by mats of algae and white flowering plants jutting above a tangle of sargasso.
The craft gently came to rest by the willow tree. The dorsal hatch opened. Out leaped a scalar creature with a long thin proboscis lined with teeth that snaggled at the tip. He practically danced, pirouetting to a stop with his hands folded close to his chin and a smile as broad as his snout. He flickered the end of his tail. A panoptical display flared around the slit-eyes on top of his head. His pupils slowly widened. Various images portrayed a near barren landscape with bodies of water flooding strange-looking cities. He looked back at the willow.
Awash with excitement, he scampered up the bough and through the branches, collecting seeds and dropping them into the craft. Just as he leaned over the branch ready to drop the last seed, a shot rang out. The foliage exploded a hair breath’s away, showering him with debris. Another shot left him scrambling back down and into his ship.
An intruder with two legs stormed from the other side of the pond, shouting while shaking its fist and wielding a primitive pump-scatter weapon. Primitive or not, the creature knew full well that one false move and he was luggage. He had no time to ponder his crime or ask why these natives served justice planting holes in anything that moved. Regardless, he had what he needed. The ship reeled back and zoomed off into the wild blue yonder.
The native froze in his tracks, dropped his gun, and scratched his head. Without any words to express his confusion, he pulled out a flask of rye and swilled his share.
Her long hair danced to the rhythm of the wind. Joana's, but also the long, hair-like branches of the willow tree that grows in the forest. The tree that supports her, the rope around her neck as if it were a necklace. her arms spilling out, finally releasing the weight of a life. Pain, anger, revolt and helplessness. The reasons Joana left in her letter to her parents. The words that will make her voice stick and remain, in another dimension, that of memories. There is no pain there, no forgetting, Just images and longing voices. There is eternal life.
And generally speaking, we regard a knot as being silent.
Leather may creak, especially when found in brand new shoes. Or as my friend’s mum said - new shoes squeak until they’re paid for, a source of embarrassment for a young boy in an age of catalogue credit purchases.
Yet in the right combination, on a lazy, hazy summer’s Sunday afternoon on the freshly rolled pitch beside the river, you can hear the iconic knock of leather on willow in any Yorkshire Dales village.
The old bodger selected a piece of willow and tested its flexibility.
“Perfect,” he thought as he picked up the heavier cord and worked his way to the workbench. He took the piece of willow and began to tie it to the heavier frame he was using as a base.
Deftly he worked, progressing quickly. Once the back was completed he began the process of weaving. Having done this many times he did not have to check for firmness. It was assured in his work.
“Papa, are you almost finished?” asked his daughter.
“Your wedding present is finally completed Willow.”
I know I did this a while ago, and I forgot to credit this site when uploading the post, but I slightly modified the story "Spores" before throwing it up on Substack. Hope you like!
https://rgarron.substack.com/p/spores
A little backstory to this character. She briefly mentioned in my book, Leaves of Fall and I'm plotting on releasing a novella with her as the main character this year. If life doesn't butt in too much. ^^;;
She never forgot the first step. The moment she pulled her roots from the ground and moved. It had been exhilarating.
And exhausting.
Willow had collapsed, her newly formed legs shaking to badly to stand.
Timber, she had thought with a weak smile.
Over time, it became easier. Less painful to have her roots out of the ground. Each step more confident. Soon, she was strong enough to march with her fellow trees against the humans. To crush them into the ground where they would be unable to move. Helpless as the trees once had been before that first step.
“The Willow’s Whispers”
The hateful willow in Jack’s yard whispered terrible secrets to him—he attempted to cut the gnarly, twisted, obsidian branches earlier, and then heard the whispers. He clenched the chainsaw in his sweaty, meaty fist; the saw’s shark-like teeth glinted in the moonlight. The willow-seared images of Melissa frenching Ted in their room in his fragile mind.
“Is it yours—Is it yours—Is it yours?” It hissed sardonically.
“Jackie, honey, w-what are you doing?” Melissa’s mousey voice faintly squeaked from behind.
Jack whirled around—aiming the saw at Melissa’s basketball-sized stomach. He tore the cord and the saw growled hungrily. “Is it mine?!”
Sorry I have been absent for so long. Let's just say I've been busy as well as working on my craft. It's good to be back! Anyway, here's my contribution to "willow."
--------
SPORE
The craft sank down from the tree line and hovered above a rosy pond. The place teemed with activity. Various entomorphs flitted and whorled around the hull, some landing while others buzzed toward the bushels along the perimeter. A bubble or two popped from underneath; something dwelled within. Further down stood a willow tree lazing along the shoreline. The craft inched forward, keeping level with the surface. It bucked slightly to avoid a hardwood log surrounded by mats of algae and white flowering plants jutting above a tangle of sargasso.
The craft gently came to rest by the willow tree. The dorsal hatch opened. Out leaped a scalar creature with a long thin proboscis lined with teeth that snaggled at the tip. He practically danced, pirouetting to a stop with his hands folded close to his chin and a smile as broad as his snout. He flickered the end of his tail. A panoptical display flared around the slit-eyes on top of his head. His pupils slowly widened. Various images portrayed a near barren landscape with bodies of water flooding strange-looking cities. He looked back at the willow.
Awash with excitement, he scampered up the bough and through the branches, collecting seeds and dropping them into the craft. Just as he leaned over the branch ready to drop the last seed, a shot rang out. The foliage exploded a hair breath’s away, showering him with debris. Another shot left him scrambling back down and into his ship.
An intruder with two legs stormed from the other side of the pond, shouting while shaking its fist and wielding a primitive pump-scatter weapon. Primitive or not, the creature knew full well that one false move and he was luggage. He had no time to ponder his crime or ask why these natives served justice planting holes in anything that moved. Regardless, he had what he needed. The ship reeled back and zoomed off into the wild blue yonder.
The native froze in his tracks, dropped his gun, and scratched his head. Without any words to express his confusion, he pulled out a flask of rye and swilled his share.
All good Robert! Glad to have you back!
The pleasure’s mine. And pardon my excess prose; consider it literary exercise.
WIllow - a bleak poem (of course)
Water ‘cross the sand at the bend sighs ceaseless. Endless
Mine are deeper. Singular.
Staring over deepening water to the far bank I sit.
A ladder of snakes, a knot of veins, your body above, her body within.
Green wind-flickered tresses reach to stroke the mirror.
Tip caresses dark descending tip
And into the still deep darkness they go
To where she went.
Willow.
Stroking her bones.
She is all but washed away now.
I saw her in the gold framed mirror that day
Combing her hair in the way that she always will.
Willow.
I grieve but you weep.
Oh lord - another Miguel tear jerking special!
Can’t help it haha.
Old Man Willow
By J. Louis
Old Man Willow scarcely remembered a time when his roots drank water free of pollution.
Yet humans paid him no mind, save the odd traveler.
He was fortunate this night; a pair of younglings rested beneath his branches, a little one cooing against his mother’s breast.
Oh, how he loved the little ones. Their laughter soothed his wind-battered bark.
The man took a sip from the river, then spat it out. Laughter turned to cries. Soon after, they left.
No more.
With a groan, Old Man Willow split the earth and wrenched free his gnarled roots, bidding the riverbank farewell.
Thanks again for sharing this with us
They say the willow women only appear during a full moon when there’s fog creeping across the ground.
They say that if you bring a gift of silver, the willow women may dance with you. They play ethereal music and whirl and twirl with uncommon grace.
But once you dance with the willow women, you’ll never dance again.
I have roamed the foggy grounds with a silver coin in my hand and moonlight in my eyes.
I have heard their empyreal music; I have whirled and twirled amongst them.
I have danced with the willow women; I’ll never dance again.
dreamy and intriguing - nice!
Thank you!
Microfiction - 100mg of a Willow
===
She was playing near the lake, surrounded by willow trees.
The afternoon sun cast a golden reflection on the water, turning the branches into magical curtains.
Then she heard the noise. First, she saw him hauling the ropes, dragging his foot.
Then he threw the rope’s end up several times. Finally, it made a loop around the branch.
He yanked the rope, testing its strength.
She walked cautiously towards the man, his back facing her.
He bent down to pick up something.
‘Grandpa..’
He turned and smiled at her, lifting a tire, fixing it to the rope.
‘Your swing, darling.’
That's a heartbreaking start for the week Miguel...
🥲🥲 Mondays 😅
My 100 words of Willow:
_________________________
Her long hair danced to the rhythm of the wind. Joana's, but also the long, hair-like branches of the willow tree that grows in the forest. The tree that supports her, the rope around her neck as if it were a necklace. her arms spilling out, finally releasing the weight of a life. Pain, anger, revolt and helplessness. The reasons Joana left in her letter to her parents. The words that will make her voice stick and remain, in another dimension, that of memories. There is no pain there, no forgetting, Just images and longing voices. There is eternal life.
That's stunningly poignant, Miguel
Thank you Matthew 🥹
Willow - 100 words
Bats emit sounds beyond the range of our hearing.
And generally speaking, we regard a knot as being silent.
Leather may creak, especially when found in brand new shoes. Or as my friend’s mum said - new shoes squeak until they’re paid for, a source of embarrassment for a young boy in an age of catalogue credit purchases.
Yet in the right combination, on a lazy, hazy summer’s Sunday afternoon on the freshly rolled pitch beside the river, you can hear the iconic knock of leather on willow in any Yorkshire Dales village.
That sound is “knot” - with a silent “t”.
PROMPT: WILLOW
THE WILLOW
It was going to be so romantic.
A testament to their love.
Their initials carved into the bark of one of the trees.
And they’d already picked the perfect trunk to use.
It belonged to a willow, that stood tall and proud in a secluded part of the woods, away from prying eyes.
So they took out their knife, and began marking the shape of the first letter, which made a little sap ooze.
But something was wrong.
It was viscous, and dark.
And by the time they realised it was blood, the drooping branches were already closing around them… 🌲😎🌲
The old bodger selected a piece of willow and tested its flexibility.
“Perfect,” he thought as he picked up the heavier cord and worked his way to the workbench. He took the piece of willow and began to tie it to the heavier frame he was using as a base.
Deftly he worked, progressing quickly. Once the back was completed he began the process of weaving. Having done this many times he did not have to check for firmness. It was assured in his work.
“Papa, are you almost finished?” asked his daughter.
“Your wedding present is finally completed Willow.”