I grew tall, like my father, on hate and wind and rain. Never tears, because we do not have gods and our roots do not reach deep enough to remember old tales. The others vanished, taken one by one. Only I remained, alone, to tell them of the forest. Only I, naked, adorned with a sign about how very old I was that covered not a single root working up through the earth, exposed to their stares and whispers that could not replace other trees rustling in the wind.

If not for the aliens, I would never have learned of ficlets.

If not for the aliens, I would not have gained the power to protest horrible stories that undress trees, that bear us naked to the root, strip us of bark but are not considered mature content.

There are now saplings who will never grow tall and strong thanks to naked trees posturing in windows and on your computers.

I should click the link to report the previous story … and yet—and yet, the chainsaws haunt my waking dreams,and I do not wish to be like you.

I am no longer a nut.