“Evergreen”
— CC Message in a Bottle
Everyone needs a prompt, a push, a little spark now and then. We asked our writers to send us short pieces on a simple word: Evergreen. Perhaps you think first of The Evergreen State, or a color that evokes a memory in vivid detail. Maybe your mind settles on that which is timeless. Here are a few of the pieces we received… maybe you’ll find one in the wild.
Evergreen Dream
by Burl Battersby
Awoken in the pale night; the moon masked by a wispy halo of clouds, a thin layer of powdered snow spread on the open ground.
Against the horizon, bare branched birch, maple, and alder spread toward the winter stars, as if in tribute to the sky.
More composed, more reverent, the evergreen fir, spruce, and hemlock gathered between these arch-branched-deciduous-queens, huddled in their own wondrous prayer session to the god of earth.
Behold, an evergreen dream of eternal breath.
Burl E. Battersby writes as B. Eugene B. This nom de plume speaks to who he is as an artist and what drives him to create; he is a recovering addict. In addition to reflecting the change that enabled his writing to flourish, B. Eugene B. has an aspirational element associated with it: Be! Eugene! Be! B. Eugene B. has self-published his autobiography (B. Coming Burl), and a book of his art and poetry (Corrected Poems), both of which are available on Amazon. He is currently finishing edits on his first novel, (When I Was a Child / I Found the Entrance to Hell / To be a Real Place) and is also working on his second book of poetry (In a Past Life & Other Poems Sung by the Window). The author lives in the South End of Tacoma with his wife, daughter, and three dogs. PS - just call him Burl (he/him).
A Dream of Evergreen
by Sarah Comer
I was here ten thousand years before the tall ships sliced the bay. Before new tongues choaked out the old. I walked the land and worked my will unnoticed and unfettered, long enough to see the grandsons of men I knew be buried by grandchildren of their own.
And that is how they caught me.
I could not leave him there, gagging on the cold earth, not when I knew how to breathe the life back in. I had done it before, for men and women, children and animals, frozen, starved or drowned. But always alone. I came when no one else did, found them when the sparks of life still hung thick about them. All thought they had been close to death, but not one that I rekindled ever guessed they were twice born.
But that time I wandered too close to the flame. The dead man looked so like his father’s father, a man I had once loved. I knew his time was not like mine, and yet still I loved him—and still I went away. Only for a season. I returned to find his whole life had passed. I was not there when the light died out. When I saw his face again, there upon the son of his son, I could not bear it. Precious little is familiar in lives as long as mine.
And so I stopped the burial, threw myself inside that open grave. There were no sparks of life, not even dying embers to breathe life into, and yet I carried on. I reached farther, burned brighter, clawed him back from where he’d gone.
He drew a breath and I rejoiced, but then I saw it in his eyes; the light of madness, of the unseen seen. He would have no place—no peace—in this world.
The village turned on me in horror and in rage. And they were right to do so. I meant it as a kindness, but what I did was not kind. They dug the hole twice as deep and made his grave my own. It is piled high with forgotten stones, and now brambles and ferns weave over them, a tapestry of life and time. An apt shroud for one overflowing with both.
I could walk the land again tomorrow, if I wished, but I choose to wait a while. Call it penance, or call it regret. I lay here in this soft earth and learn to take my time, to feel the joy in all things living.
I stretch my arms wide and sink my fingers in the cedar roots, and drink the waters that will someday reach the sea. I dream deep dreams in this dark place, and when I wake, I sometimes feel the sparks of a lost child or wounded deer dancing above ground. I will not reach so far beyond the veil of men again. But I am what I am.
So I gather their light like wandering stars, and lend it my breath until it burns bright. And in my grave I smile, for it is my nature to wish all things evergreen.
Sarah Comer (she/her) is a fiddle teacher, writer, and storyteller, born and raised on very strong coffee in the Pacific Northwest.
10 Steps to Evergreen
by Jennifer Renee Adams
Craft a list of all the Evergreen trees you know (spruce, yew, pine, hemlock, cedar, redwood, fir, cypress).
Count your list of trees (Evergreens only).
Measure and cut a sheet of paper precisely 4 inches by 4 inches.
Onto each sheet, write one type of Evergreen tree. Printing or cursive are equally acceptable.
Quietly, fold each sheet into an origami heart, enclosing the tree.
Tenderly, pile the hearts into a pocket located on your chest.
This is important: Find a house that you can look straight through until you are staring at the water. Do this.
Gingerly, place your hand over the pocket where the hearts are cradled, warm now and listening to the beating of your heart.
Gaze through the house. Study the water. Press the warm hearts. Feel your very own heartbeat through your fingers, your hand. Envision a shelter of Evergreens, your feet, icy in the very water you now study.
Shout, “Evergreen!”
Jennifer Adams is a writer, artist and art educator living and working in the South Puget Sound. She lives with her partner, children and pets in beautiful Lakewood, WA. In her free time, she loves making friends with dogs, and eating macarons. This is her first time since high school submitting her work for publication.
