The Seed of Death
Flash Fiction
If David Attenborough was around at the end of the nineteenth century, and had one of his cameras filming the life cycle of an oak, it would show me as an acorn being blown away by a gale force 8 from my mother tree on Arthur’s Seat, tossed pitilessly about like Barnes Wallis’ bouncing bomb, my hard shell protecting me from being turned into smithereens, bullied into taking to the air, and rocked by the thermals exploring the skies like a raptor, and finally landing on the Meadows near where the Children’s playground is now.
Time passes, and I sprout and Mr A’s camera would show a playful little seedling merrily dancing in the breeze. I survive the harsh conditions and grow regularly, and stand firm against storms and gales, I catch fungi like humans catch colds, but I am spared the dieback. After ten years it becomes clear that I am a sturdy old stick, and will live to a ripe old age, unless Edinburgh Council in its wisdom decides I need to be chopped down to make way for another pathway. Or whatever reason.
Every year I shed my leaves, but happily replace them by fresh new ones. I get knocked by the fierce winds and I often lose branches. These limbs of mine are often carted away God knows where, but are popular with dog walkers. They will find a piece, break it into smaller pieces and play catchee me with their tail waggers. I like it that I am a source of pleasure for the yappers.
If the camera were to focus on one particular remnant of mine, it could be a small stick about twenty centimetres long, made smooth by constant canine canines, if one discounted the hardly visible constellation of bite marks on its surface, almost always damp because of their saliva.
Mr Attenborough’s hypothetical camera might have picked the odyssey of that particular stick, as it has been nabbed by hundreds of breathless doggies and delivered at the feet of the human tossers. Or being kicked by school kids in need of a football.
Another camera might follow the other actor in the narration. A fanatical keep-fit chap in his mid-thirties who took a strong dislike to the paunch he had begun to develop. He had set himself the task of running five kilometres in the Meadows every morning. Many a time would his nimble trainers be within metres of my offspring, without the two ever meeting.
Then, the inevitable happens. The feet of the runner might have been seen gaining speed, and fast approaching innocent little me. I cannot be blamed for he was running towards me, not the other way round. A close-up would show the distance between the feet and the stick (me) closing. Then the trainers land on the rolling piece of wood, and our chap loses his balance, stumbles and projects himself against the whole of me, the big massive oak that I had become, for my limb had done a full circle. The impact was loud enough to attract the attention of other morning park walkers. Chap broke his neck, and expired on the spot in a matter of seconds.
Who is to blame for the tragedy? Was I the seed of his death? Or was it the gale that blew me away from Arthur’s Seat? Or was it the dogs to conveyed my broken limb from A to B? Their walkers? The kids? I am not shifting the blame away from me, but I could name a hundred other potential factors.
