Skeamatic
Theed
Pruning:
“So, how long’s it been there?”
They’d been talking for minutes. Still, he was in awe. Its trunk the width of a person, it splayed up and backward. Boughs stretched out, supporting cascading clouds of leaves and flowers. The rich bright greens buried beneath an explosion of pink.
“She’s coming up on two hundred years.”
Thomas shuffled, hand on the rail as he doubled over, setting down heavy branch cutters. He wrapped a hand around pruning shears, stood back up, grinning.
“How long do they live?”
Tired of holding his Carbine, he set the stock down on the grey brick path, muzzle in his hand.
Thomas pursed his lips, cocking a thin brown eyebrow as he scratched stubble on his chin.
“About three hundred an’ fifty years, sir.”
His shoulders dropped, jaw hung, eyes wide. “Born before me and it’ll outlive me.” He replayed what he heard, caught the “sir,” and composed himself.
“Please, call me Gepard.”
Thomas’s grin brightened, he nodded and turned, snipping away at the tree. Sprigs of pink and green rained down.
“You’re an Ar-Arborist? That’s the word, right?”
He itched the side of his eye, reflex forced his mouth open.
“Yup! Been doing it for nine years now.”
He kept snipping, sometimes pausing and standing back—finding the next cuts.
“Do you like it?”
The snipping stopped. Thomas turned, leaning on the railing. Leaves rested on the thick red weave of his wool sweater’s shoulder.
“I love it. I get to serve people, make art, and work with plants. That’s all I’ve ever wanted to do.”
Gepard smiled, pondering the idea of choosing something.
Thomas leaned over the rail—closer.
“Do you like being a Soldier?”
“I’ve not thought about it.”
Gepard paused, finger and thumb resting on his lip.
“Fighting kills people. Burns worlds. It destroys anything beautiful.”
He stuttered in his breath.
“But I fight to protect people and what’s beautiful.”
Thomas said nothing—waiting.
“I like being a Soldier.”
He nodded, looking back at Thomas. His eyes narrowed.
“Arborist's trim trees, Soldiers wage wars. Where’s your war, Gepard?”
The air was punched out of him, he sagged under the question’s weight. He looked at the tree, gaze falling to the ground—eyes watering.
He turned, pointing down the boulevard.
“Out there. If we can’t stop it, it’ll come tearing through here.”
He threw his arms up.
“The buildings, trees and people, all will burn.”
He sniffled and took up his Carbine.
“I will die to stop it. That’s what I was born to do.”
.
.
.
Thanks for looking and reading.
Theed
Pruning:
“So, how long’s it been there?”
They’d been talking for minutes. Still, he was in awe. Its trunk the width of a person, it splayed up and backward. Boughs stretched out, supporting cascading clouds of leaves and flowers. The rich bright greens buried beneath an explosion of pink.
“She’s coming up on two hundred years.”
Thomas shuffled, hand on the rail as he doubled over, setting down heavy branch cutters. He wrapped a hand around pruning shears, stood back up, grinning.
“How long do they live?”
Tired of holding his Carbine, he set the stock down on the grey brick path, muzzle in his hand.
Thomas pursed his lips, cocking a thin brown eyebrow as he scratched stubble on his chin.
“About three hundred an’ fifty years, sir.”
His shoulders dropped, jaw hung, eyes wide. “Born before me and it’ll outlive me.” He replayed what he heard, caught the “sir,” and composed himself.
“Please, call me Gepard.”
Thomas’s grin brightened, he nodded and turned, snipping away at the tree. Sprigs of pink and green rained down.
“You’re an Ar-Arborist? That’s the word, right?”
He itched the side of his eye, reflex forced his mouth open.
“Yup! Been doing it for nine years now.”
He kept snipping, sometimes pausing and standing back—finding the next cuts.
“Do you like it?”
The snipping stopped. Thomas turned, leaning on the railing. Leaves rested on the thick red weave of his wool sweater’s shoulder.
“I love it. I get to serve people, make art, and work with plants. That’s all I’ve ever wanted to do.”
Gepard smiled, pondering the idea of choosing something.
Thomas leaned over the rail—closer.
“Do you like being a Soldier?”
“I’ve not thought about it.”
Gepard paused, finger and thumb resting on his lip.
“Fighting kills people. Burns worlds. It destroys anything beautiful.”
He stuttered in his breath.
“But I fight to protect people and what’s beautiful.”
Thomas said nothing—waiting.
“I like being a Soldier.”
He nodded, looking back at Thomas. His eyes narrowed.
“Arborist's trim trees, Soldiers wage wars. Where’s your war, Gepard?”
The air was punched out of him, he sagged under the question’s weight. He looked at the tree, gaze falling to the ground—eyes watering.
He turned, pointing down the boulevard.
“Out there. If we can’t stop it, it’ll come tearing through here.”
He threw his arms up.
“The buildings, trees and people, all will burn.”
He sniffled and took up his Carbine.
“I will die to stop it. That’s what I was born to do.”
.
.
.
Thanks for looking and reading.