flash fiction

Roots

When the town of Daisy was built up in the late 19th century, with its frontier style storefronts, its unpaved roads and, most notoriously, its saloon, the people were surprised to see a rather large tree growing at the north end. From their observations, this town was in the middle of nowhere, smack dab in the middle of the Mojave Desert, exceptionally dry and miserable, something to be expected from a desert town. The patience that was required to get through the day was saint-like, and any real pleasure came from a shot of a whiskey down at Al's Saloon. The tree was tall, thick, with green and hazel leaves hanging from its branches. It provided a nice shade, and the smell of its leaves in the summer was especially refreshing. The tree sprouted a delicious fruit every spring, something the town would take advantage of every season. The harvest would be plentiful, and it provided the people of Daisy a nice respite. This tree made life tolerable. Men toiling in the mines would return from a long day and lounge along the trunks, knocking back drinks from Al's. Women would pick and store the fruits to make all kinds of things – candies, juices, cocktails. Along with the nice “beverages” from next door, the tree was one of the few things that made life semi-tolerable for the town of Daisy.

Railroads and industrialization cut through the land, deeply scarring the vast expanses of the desert, bringing about unprecedented prosperity for all who embraced its mechanized ideals. Before long, most stores in Daisy were absorbed into a conglomerate, no longer built in the typical frontier-style, radically changed. Roads were paved, rotting buildings demolished without a second thought, and man even saw fit to attempt to drain the desert of every last drop of valuable blood it had left. Whatever ore, gold, or useful substance was excavated and used to fuel the trains, the automobiles, to fund business ventures and trips. The mining towns that typified America were a thing of the past, and the power of the Industrial Revolution was too great to stop. Holding back the tide was futile.

And in this climate of radical change, one thing remained constant. The tree still stood in its isolated corner, the leaves still crisp, its colorful combination of green and hazel. Fruit still hung precariously from the branches. Even as Al's underwent renovation, the tree seemed untouched, unchanging. Before long, as time continued it unending march, as the roads became connected, as the storefronts destroyed in favor of suburban housing, a city built surrounding the town, the tree began to wither. Kids would ride their bikes down to the newly-dug ditch, laughing at the strange shape that the “Witch Tree” was twisted into. Teenagers would sneak into its now hollowed-out base and do all sorts of unspeakable acts within it for the excitement of public consummation. And one day, it was bulldozed, along with other dead vegetation. They didn't know what it was. What it stood for. Why it was there. The town of Daisy, the people who now lived there, didn't understand its significance. It faithfully and unwaveringly stood for Daisy until the end of its days. And yet, it was now gone. Roots upended, time had continued its march.

Trying flash fiction again, let's see how it goes.