Justin Fuller

The Philosophy of Trees

The story I have to tell you today is not the story I wished to tell. In fact, I am loath to repeat much of it. I pray antiquity and modernity alike judge me not as an author, nor even as editor, but as a trembling witness. Reluctant to confess what he has seen, yet compelled by his conscience to reveal the devilry that took place at the autumn equinox on the outskirts of a great Carolina wilderness.

Nothing

Nothing wasn't quite what I expected it to be. I think I expected emptiness; nothing is a little different that empty. In order for there to be nothing there can't even be me. When I thought about emptiness I was really thinking of emptiness except for me. All that nothing — or is it, none of that nothing? — I expected a vast darkness, like I was floating around in space. Instead, I was alive one moment, then nothing.

Bridge

Water is still pouring out. Maybe not quite as much as before, I can't remember. Even so, it doesn't look like it's going to be a problem. The river is hundreds of feet below. Still, I remember this whole region is a flood zone if the dam breaks. People used to talk about how everything would break down once people were gone. There was a book about it. The subways of New York would flood, homes would be overtaken by nature, bridges would fall, and dams would collapse.