Length: 1400 words
Tense: present
POV: 3rd
The last story was way too normal. So now it's back to different. This one may be difficult. It's not my first story in unchronological order, but it is my first story where the chronology is not linear. It also has some pretty strange style. There is a definite story in all of this, even if it doesn't appear obvious at first.
A language of words:
“Father, what’s Tom’s dog saying when he barks like that?” “I don’t know, Johnny. Scientists believe they have a language, of sorts. They can say simple things, like ‘I’m hungry,’ or ‘I love you.’” “Oh, but what about animals who can’t make noise. Like squirrels. Can they not talk?” “Why not. We use a language of words, son. Maybe they don’t. Maybe there are other languages, that we humans have yet to learn. Or maybe we know them already, but have forgotten.” “I don’t understand.” “Neither do I. But listen to the world, son, and feel its story, its images, its emotion, beyond the particular to a universal that maybe you can understand, and maybe you will hear some chords of a translation ringing in your heart.”
A language of jealousy:
A larger squirrel watches from a top branch, panting from exertion. Below, a scene plays out. A dance. A chase. A fall.
A language of fear:
A rumbling sound in the heart of earth. The ground begins to shake, and rocks tremble on a hard black. But running now, a great monster striding forward, and another, left, right, and now a great blaring sound, and now a tree but it trembles in noise, and a world flies by.
A language of adventure:
There is a cool, shady tree in an edge of a field of poppies. A family lives there, alone. There are enough nuts, and no one to steal them. But now the sun is shining, and a field glistens. Now a lone squirrel is running, and poppies bend. Now the crest of a hill, a view below, variegated, vast, different. Running further, skipping sideways from a danger here, a motion there, never knowing but still running and ready to learn.
A language of expectation:
Every year the big tree had given them acorns aplenty. Now a mother squirrel chases her kids back into a nest. An image of nuts fills their minds. But a mother has seen. The tree is gone now.
A language of loss:
A small squirrel goes outside to play. It is raining. A small squirrel retreats into a hollow. A small squirrel knocks around some nuts. A mother watches, silently. A small squirrel cuddles up to his mother, and feels her warmth. No words are said.
A language of anger:
A larger squirrel comes back another night. A smaller squirrel is asleep. A chase. It is fierce, and blood flows. A hard black surface. In and out of grooves between trees. To the ground, in a circle, never giving up. A bright light, a crack. Silence. But no satisfaction.
A language of determination:
Forth, and back again, but now! They whiz by, tumble by, inattentive. A ploy, but not so good. A squirrel darts forward. Now, a world is past! Another lies before her. Again, forth, and back, but no! A world! a world! and she is here.
A language of hope:
There is a tree beyond a range of hills. It is old and cracked, and its branches are bare. In a hard wind it shakes with a fury. Where is the squirrel who lives here? Where is the wanderer, lost. But maybe this crevasse, that abyss! Still a thousand more, still another. Home, and a storm whips by. Tomorrow, another. Some day, a squirrel will return home.
A language of desperation:
Clambering through a heap of sharp objects. A gash along a side, a red spark on a silver rod. A scrap of a feast, here, between steel. But a banging, a light. Running, cut again, a banging, there is another. Not here, searching an unfamiliar landscape – but now familiar, now there is another, a squirrel dives in.
A language of trust:
There is a human who lives on another side of a lattice of steel. It cannot pass a lattice of iron branches, but it watches. A squirrel approaches, timidly. Unaware, at first, or feigning it. A human does not move. A scrap of food, beside a steel tree with a thousand branches. A human leaves, a squirrel approaches. She sniffs food, snatches it hurriedly, retreats. But another day, and it is there again. A human, closer this time. A squirrel approaches, sniffs, snatches, and retreats. But not so quickly this time, stay, a while, and understand.
A language of grief:
It has been a year. The seasons know it, and a family knows in its heart. A little squirrel is gone now, in a tree to the south. Birds fly overhead. A reality crashes in like a storm raging outside, and a tree wavers.
A language of betrayal:
A squirrel sees a human with an iron-tree. It is listless. A squirrel approaches, a finger curves. Forth, back, sniffing a bar. Another day, a squirrel returns. A large, dark human, an iron-tree, and safety. Another, and now an iron-tree swings at a squirrel, missing. A heart beats, a hiss escapes. Does another tree rise, does a squirrel wait to find out? She runs, and ahead of her crickets hum tunes of a park’s nightly solace.
A language of war:
A family of squirrels cowers in a hollow. A metal circle whirls outside. The tree shakes. A great noise fills the air. An elder daughter slips between her mother’s arms, and makes a run. Will they follow? but now the tree is sideways, now there is a tremor in the ground, now a young squirrel is running, and she cannot look back. A whirring dies off, a dust settles behind, still she runs.
A language of memory:
A hollow, gold with an evening sun. Green leaves, translucent, bending light. A pile of food stashed in a corner, but it is not yet winter. Here, a small tree, a small but fierce squirrel below. Here, scraps from metal boxes, and a rumbling, always, and monsters that tumble down unfeeling, like rocks from a hillside. There, warmth, a squirrel, a small human, a lost cat, but all settled on those same planks of wood, all stared over that same field of poppies, all felt images that metal monsters could never understand.
A language of lust:
There was a beautiful squirrel in a large tree. He radiated strength, harshness, courage. He hardly quailed when dogs stampeded by. He dodged quickly, at a final moment, when a dog was already feeling the crunch of bones against teeth. He made a game with them, and they understood, played it with joy, maybe valued his courage as much as he scorned their ineptitude. She couldn’t keep her eyes off him. She fought a smaller squirrel, and lost, fought a dog, and broke a leg. His image stole her mind. She fought, again, and won.
A language of hurt:
An injured squirrel cowers in a hollow. Others rush by. She is hungry, but they do not pause. She has a mother, but her mother is far away, across a black ground. A dog bit her halfheartedly. A human yelled, and a dog pulled away. They left her, exposed on the hard ground. Why? Why? A question hurst worse than its answer – why? But a squirrel gets up, hobbles to a low-lying tree. An opening between two roots. It is empty, she crawls inside.
A language of loneliness:
A smaller squirrel is gone. A handsome one has left. A squirrel remains in a tree, looking out. Traveling only far enough to get food, but not far. Acorns are plentiful beneath wide, empty oaks. Birds chirp with each other in a language of words she does not understand. Haunting melodies float down from treetops. It is the music, not any words. She listens for a night and a day, hunting food, dodging dogs and humans, retreating to a hollow in silence. She listens, understands, without knowing, and then she runs.
A language of love:
A mother waits in a hollow, while a light rain falls. Who is that squirrel in the shadows, searching? Who is that, fur damp, tail watered down by a long night’s journey. This hollow is cold, but it is cozy. A mother’s son has left her, but he lives nearby. She glances toward his tree, sees him as a speck against a deep blue sky, perched on a branch, gazing through a light rain. A mother gazes down. A squirrel looks up, and a mother sees the light in her eyes.
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