A single tree stands still in an open glade. It remains there not because it is a part of some strict regimented order. Nor does it feel the temptation to stand amongst or alone. Its world is its own and the world owns it. The branches care little of who breaks or rebuilds, of what conquerors and falls. Armies have clashed and bled to the lands its fertile roots cling dear, roots that claim to the earth more than you or me. It is the wisdom tree, the summer, the tree of memories and love forgotten. It holds the faces of many and none. For it is a tree, and a tree it shall remain until it is called back into the soil that birthed it, where it shall care no more.
But for now amongst this tree stand the children of this era. The high tech savvies and low life grabbers. The wanters and the givers, taught since first grasp to “treat thou as himself” then again has that rule ever stood amongst any century. When thyself must prove itself to be worthy of the social conduct withheld by the world. For amongst stand the losers, undesirable, dropouts and scum each one held within a standard set by others, which uphold no charity to those lesser. Life has its orders and classes and like the tree it cares little.

CH. I JP+RJ, reads the carved lettering on the withered oak, the inscriptions gleaming each in their own faded bliss. Plethora of other insignias mark the tree each telling their own story of lost insignificance. How quaint thinks Roland as he fumbles in pocket for a lighter. Cuffing his hands as he lights a smoke against the autumn breeze. Tom around the corner throws pebbles into the murky shore, wincing at the next failed attempt as a rock sinks to the murky depts. The cold wind bites at his neck punishing him for insolence of forgetting a jacket.

“You know what really f***ing sets me off Roland” brings up Tom as he unsuccessfully tosses another stone. “What?” “These f***ing people ya know” Tom says. A silence ensues, only penetrated by the drifting cars tolling on with the slavery of civilization. “And may I ask why,” Roland muffles between puffs, rolling his eyes. “God, you know just people” his back turned to Roland, hands buried in pockets, fumbling the loose change he had yet thrown away. “I don’t see the issue,” “Don’t give me that bulls*** you know as well as me that everyone and everything is f***ed up bud.” Turning around, pushing his hair out of his eyes. “It’s just that everyone is so fake these days…you know,” “enlighten me Holden Caulfield!” smirks Roland as he adjusts himself comfortably against the tree. Slouching into the damp earth, cross legged, as a small child would, receiving his lesson for the day. “It’s the standards; everyone has to fit this place…status quo ya know, their role in the whole grand scheme of things. It’s all bull you know. All these cliques they’re all just facades. Masks worn by each other to fool the other to think they’re one of them.” Tom looks over Roland, his chin in his palms, giving him that look of acknowledgement with a smirk “continue.” “well…alright lets take a look at the setup.. There is your jock, oh mister big shot, testosterone driven a**h***. He sees himself as the bigshot around town. So pumped up on his own bulls*** and what others tell him. He gains the idea that he is literally above others in the order of things.”

Tom is now pacing back and forth one moment looking at Roland, the other talking to himself, a prophet trying to sell his own cheap belief to himself. “Each one is their own egotistical maniac, picking on these weak people… the again who f***ing doesn’t.” “Its like encoded in us, don’t follow the bulls*** everyone at one point has made an a** about another and likewise, s*** I have a lot and im pretty sure you have too Roe’.” Roland stares long at Tom, ignoring the leaves falling upon his head like a halo of brown and gold. After taking a long drag Roland says, “so basically what you are saying is that we are all some cruel being that is instinctively cruel and damned?” “Well ya basically man…” Roland lifts himself up, grimacing at his knees as they pop. He walks the to the muddy lake, and looks at the grimy reflection he sees of himself looking back at him.