The Start of an Acorn's Life (various)

[Beaumains]

A brutal storm dropped me into a puddle during a dark September night. The muddy water drained in a week, and a single leaf covered me. I was found. Sharp white fangs forced me into a dark, wet space and pressed me against a slimy wall. The red fluffy monster could crunch me with a single bite but chose to pick up a brother of mine and ran 300 feet to the west. She buried us in the soil that would freeze into a solid mass.

When the sun melted me, I popped out of the ground as a green sapling. Vulnerable, I rose and strengthened while rabbits and moose munched many of my brothers and sisters. My unforeseen survival led to a brutal winter above ground. When the Earth warmed, my skin hardened and turned brown. Every year, my leaves were baked in the spring’s and summer’s sunlight while I shredded my fingers in autumn. The yearly gains were minimal but added up after two hundred cycles, and I dropped a myriad of acorns. Many were lost, but some became mighty trees themselves.

All changed when unusual, two-legged mammals began roaming through my forest. Their fur was neon orange with even brighter white stripes across, and they were noisier than a pack of howling wolves. The unusual guests soon rested at my roots. They were the first humans I met.

The humans slaughtered an old oak, an uncle of mine, and ate tuna sandwiches on his fallen body. Then, the inharmonious song of my six-hour-long downfall commenced. An endless barrage of thunder accompanied the metal teeth grinding through the layers of skin I had painfully grown. Collapsing was a strange sensation, and I kissed Earth again after all these years. They chopped me into pieces and sawed my round shape into rectangles and beams in a factory.

My heart was auctioned off, driven to a furniture workshop, sanded, oiled, and bolted to four smaller pieces of me. I felt small again, despite three humans being needed to carry me into a van and place the table in the center of an office.

The office belonged to Dr. Vernon Grimwood, director of the Connecticut Cookware Company. He had an-inch-too-long brown hair, glasses the size of cupcakes, a thin smile that exposed his two outward-facing front teeth, and four striped ties he rotated. His Yale classmates were managers at Fortune 500 companies while he guided his small family business disgruntled. On his desk, he kept a rotary phone, five piles of paper, two piles of newspapers, at least a dozen cooking and business books he had never read, a shiny copper plate with his name, and a handful of coffee cups whose content often spilled on my smooth surface.

“Vernon!” his secretary, Miss March, would shout while storming into his office while Vernon was solving his third daily newspaper crossword. “Have you already signed the order for the cutting knives from Kyoto? They were calling.” Vernon would stare blankly at his three-year-younger employee, sigh, and sift through the to-read and to-sign piles. Then he would review the 10000 dollar contract – peanuts compared to his classmate selling IBM computers to massive government agencies – and sign it with his golden fountain pen. Miss March would fax it, and Vernon would return to his crossword puzzle.

Due to his work ethic, Vernon often had to catch up at night, and Miss March would usually join him. He wanted to avoid diapers and dishwashing, and she despised her lonely, moist apartment. They drank Chinese tea and ate leftover cherry cake as Vernon searched for motivation to do the tasks well below his education level.

“I should tie you up and only release you after you finish reading,” Miss March threatened one evening. “You wouldn’t dare,” Vernon laughed until she brought homemade brownies and a hundred feet of thick jute rope. “Sit down,” the blonde with unnaturally curly hair commanded, and her boss complied. Miss March chuckled. Vernon’s torso was glued against the bronze leather backrest, and his legs were stuck to his chair’s legs. “Now, write the report.” She sat down and ate a brownie. “I cannot …” Vernon tried, but his secretary interrupted him. “Should I stuff a dishcloth in your mouth? Start working.” A smile curled around her red lips as she sipped from her tea. She was still awaiting the right man to marry.

From then on, when the sun had set, one room was lit at the Connecticut Cookware Company’s headquarters and distribution center, and the duo worked hard on encroaching deadlines and pondered the firm’s direction. Who should be promoted to a store manager? Which frying pan should be advertised? Do muffin tins generate enough profit? Meanwhile, Vernon would be tied in his chair, or Miss March would stand on her black heels with her hands tied behind her and an aluminum pan covering her head, or she lay on the table with each limb connected to a table leg, resting her head on a copy of Culinary Cakecraft: Advanced Baking for Passionate Sugar Addicts.

A malfunctioning toaster in the warehouse next to Vernon’s and Miss March’s office ended their evenings. Sparks landed on packages of lemon cake mix and copies of Microwaves and Mega Waffles. The fire destroyed most of the building, including all filing cabinets and the inventory. The burning paper on me left dark marks, but I was a thick, old oak tree and endured the pain until the local fire brigade soaked me in cold water and foam. The Connecticut Cookware Company decided to rebuild near a new highway and left the remains to rot.

Years passed before two students entered the remains, more curious and bored than professional thieves. “Scott, Scott, get here. Director’s office,” one cheered, Bradley. He dove into the blistered cabinets beneath me, finding rotten cigarettes. Others had stolen the loose change, unopened liquor bottles, the golden watch, and the box with handcuffs and cotton rope already. Scott entered with a package of novelty shot glasses in his hands. “That wood’s still decent. It’s oak. Looks expensive.” Bradley laughed. “It weighs a ton.”

The following week, they returned with a gas-powered circular saw, which Bradley had borrowed from his parents. He cut out two crackfree pieces. “Not enough for a coffee table,” Scott mumbled back in their musty living room with green wallpaper and equally colored sunken fabric couches. “It’s worse than I remembered.” Bradley grabbed a cigarette, which paired well with the box of wine. “I still owe you a birthday present, Scott. Give me a week.”

Bradley dried my wood and cut the two pieces into rectangles of equal width. In each, he made three half-circles, the one in the middle bigger than the two on the sides. He sanded all edges and put three layers of a dark finish on all exposed edges to cover my burn marks. The young student, with black hair that needed a haircut 10 months prior, completed his artwork by adding a long steel hinge between the parts, like a clapperboard, and a thick steel clamp to close it with a hole for a padlock on the other corners. He packed me into a cardboard box and Christmas packing paper and placed it on Scott’s pillow with a note: Open with Maddie.

Scott complied, regretting trusting his roommate when he saw the pillory. His nerdy brunette girlfriend, wearing a thin white summer dress, smirked and allowed herself to be locked in. Scott thought out of pity. Maddie’s warm wrists and neck leaned against me, and I did not feel anger but her nervous excitement. Was this my purpose in life? The wood was three inches thick, and I grabbed tightly around her neck and forearms. She could not bend her arms, and the closing clamp was out of reach. I had imprisoned her.

After releasing Maddie and kissing goodbye, Scott stormed into Bradley’s room. “What were you thinking! Idiot!” he screamed. “You could have ruined everything!” A cigarette swayed between Bradley’s lips. “She liked it, and you’re too much of a chicken to buy anything fun yourself. Fancy some gin?” Scott stormed out.

I hugged Maddie several times before a disastrous joint essay project made her break up with Scott. The pillory was retired and hung above the living room couch. Frequently, Bradley recounted the story to guests, and then one ended up locked inside inevitably. Scott would sulk in his room or stare at his feet, cracking a forced faint smile.

After graduating, Bradley kept me and moved in with Maddie, calling herself Madison now. The pillory got used but did not belong to the couple’s favorites. I spent my time in a box with leftover navy blue bathroom tiles beneath the camping supplies and was merely referred to in reminiscing jokes. They had two children, Sarah and the two-year-younger Taylor.

“Mommy, what’s that wooden block beneath the tent?” a seven-year-old Taylor questioned during dinner one night. Madison spit out her French quiche. Her daughter should not be snooping around in the basement. “It’s for witches and ill-behaved children,” Bradley replied rapidly. His hair was short and tidy now. “It’s ancient, from the 17th century. Never tell anyone we own one. They’re dangerous!”

Bradley fetched me for his confused kids. “You see,” he spoke in a deep, scary voice. “Witches cast spells with their arms. The Wood disables that.” Children cannot keep their mouths shut, so he opted for incorrect nomenclature. He locked Madison’s wrists and neck again between me. Taylor tried as well, but her thin arms and head slipped through the holes while Sarah could only wiggle her hands out.

The Wood remained an inside joke for years. In the family, one was locked in the pillory for ten to thirty minutes after a minor mistake like breaking a plate, missing the school bus (often Taylor), or receiving a speeding ticket (often Bradley). It was a playful ritual of admitting guilt and moving on, not a punishment or humiliation. Bradley and Madison still grounded Sarah when she returned home drunk aged 15.

During her junior year, Sarah scored a significant role in the drama club’s spring semester musical. She played a young woman from Salem who was prosecuted for witchcraft. While brainstorming a terrible fate for her, she joked about the Wood to her fellow cast. Therefore, the school witnessed her singing about her character’s hopes and dreams while wearing dirty white tights and a torn black dress with me around her neck. They had bolted rings in the four corners of me, and chains held her up while the witch awaited trial alone in the town square.

A stagehand named Dave took liberties and lifted the chains higher during the closing night. Sarah was pulled on her toes while I pressed against her chin. Not breaking character, she finished her song as her dad filmed everything on his camcorder.

The following morning, Sarah could not find me in the pile of costumes and props. Dave had stolen me as revenge for Sarah’s outburst the previous night. Not having appreciated his prank, she had called Dave names her parents had never taught her.

Dave did not bring me to his dad’s trailer but hid me in his girlfriend Natalie’s farmhouse. When her parents attended a neighborhood barbecue, he tightened the clamp with her arms and neck between my teeth as they enjoyed the latest Star Wars movie on DVD. She giggled each time he fed her popcorn or a sip of cola as his arm clenched her midriff. The barbecue’s beer had run out early, and Natalie’s family returned before the final lightsaber duel. Dave lied he had found me in the ruined warehouse because Natalie’s mom was furious about the “unholy devil’s device”. She desired to destroy me, but her husband saved me by gifting me to an antique store. One does not throw out real oak.

Mrs. Lancaster was 4 foot 6, 83 years old, and opened the shop in her shed every Tuesday and Wednesday from 9:30 to 12 to sell all kinds of out-of-touch paraphernalia. From bowler hats and signs of bars long closed to lead toys from the Victorian period and taxidermy owls, she sold it all for modern prices. Mrs. Lancaster specialized in dolls, especially mice wearing dresses and costumes. On a shelf in the corner, she positioned her expensive rodents on me. A few sat in the middle with their legs dangling in the middle hole, while others sat on the edge or played in the smaller holes.

For years, nobody dared to explain my purpose to the innocent senior. Only when Mrs. Lancaster tripped while hanging a painting of a goat. She broke her hip, and her son sold everything on eBay.

Micheal and Sasha, two architecture freshmen and roommates, took me in. They fooled around with me a lot. Sasha, with his thin black hair, tried to cook spaghetti with me around his neck (the Bologna sauce hit the floor), and thin little Micheal used me as a serving tray. Sasha let him wait with a glass balancing next to his cheek for an hour (it broke). They drilled holes into me and bolted me to the foot end of their bed, and many evenings, Micheal would lie in bed on his stomach with his head and hands hanging over the edge. Sasha would tape his socks in Micheal’s mouth and tickle his feet or watch TV as my wood hid the ginger curls.

Sadly, this honeymoon period ended after four months. Soft ropes, silky scarves, and a dog kennel replaced me as I collected dust on the bottom of Sasha’s wardrobe. I was almost jealous.

Weeks before graduating, Micheal hung out at his favorite bar. “Micheal, it’s just suffering.” Alicia, the bartender, whispered. “Ever since landing that job, Francis has been working. There’s no time for the children and even less for me. I never expected marriage to be this dull.” Micheal laughed. The idea of being responsible for children seemed distant. “Spice it up, Alicia. That’s my advice. Ever tried bondage?” But Alicia shook her head and refilled his white wine on the house. “I cannot knot, nor does Francis have the patience.”

The first evening in Alicia’s and Francis’s house, she planted me on their bed. At ten, when they got upstairs, Francis shoved me under the bed and gave his wife a kiss on the lips. “Not today, babe. I’m tired.” Alicia wept in bed, foreseeing that day would never come. I again rested on the bottom of a closet for a long time. When I finally saw the light, Francis gifted me to a friend running a scout’s group.

Cleaned and polished, I was unveiled during their week-long summer camp. Inferior spruce wood carried me as I stood in the middle of a grass field surrounded by brown tents. In these times, counselors could no longer force children into a pillory. However, the rascals eagerly bullied each other into being duct taped to the flag pole, tied in their sleeping bags, or hidden in the bushes. Or they stood before everyone, leaning forward with their wrists next to their neck. I kept them there. Other boys drew a mustache on the victim’s face or forced them to drink milk mixed with lemonade. I never felt more appreciated than when the losing group of an escape race had to lock a team member between my teeth for the entire evening.

All weeks, even the best, end. I was stored in the attic of the scout’s clubhouse, between giant chess pieces, surfboards, and car tires. It was dusty, but every Saturday, I hoped they would pull me down. It happened a few times a year, but the summer camps were the highlight of my year.

Around Christmas three years later, a few of the older boys, 14- to 16-year-olds whose necks I had all held, were having a sleepover. They watched a superhero movie with a talking tree and played video games. Losers were gagged, blindfolded, and bound or had to resort to violence to get the winner in that position. It was all good fun. They solely used rope, tape, and zip ties and kept me upstairs.

But I was not alone. Two girl scouts, Olivia and Spring, were hiding beside me, observing the boys below through the cracks in the ceiling. Their fellow Girl Scouts had dared them, and their smartphones recorded everything. They gained footage of a bare-chested, sock-gagged Quintin tied to a table such that his huge abs and biceps could not free him. They obtained proof that James and Wolf called them “lousy cookie girls” and that Jacob had a crush on Emma (although torture had been used). Using their 4G internet, all were sent to the girl’s group chat, who had a sleepover in the adjacent building. Olivia and Spring were their heroes. They foiled the boys’ plan of spying on them! Now sneaky Thomas was their prisoner and was put in make-up, a pink nightdress, and a hogtie.

Olivia and Spring had not planned an exit. They had no way out after crawling into the attic at 6 PM. They were cold, hungry, thirsty, tired, and had to pee. They had expected that the boys would go to sleep, but they continued gaming vigorously. Their adrenaline had run out, there were no more scoops, and the group chat stalled. The nods and smiles became bobbing heads and squeezing each other’s hands. At 3 AM, they left the group app and deleted all evidence before opening the trapdoor and lowering the ladder. There was one way out.

“Hey guys, having a good evening? One game of Tekken. If I win, I may go,” Olivia announced. Wolf, Henry, and Arthur ignored her challenge and fastened her to a support pillar. Spring did not fare better, or even worse, one might argue. The other Girl Scouts picked Olivia for the ensuing prisoner exchange. She had also erred by denying all the videos, even allowing a phone search. “Stupid, Spring,” Quintin hissed. Thomas had told them about the gathered evidence. “You thought you could outsmart us that easily? Time for a lesson.”

Spring could go to the toilet and was fed a hotdog and warm chocolate with whipped cream before I was forced around her neck and wrists. Three padlocks locked the clamp, and Quintin, Wolf, and Wesley each had a key to ensure Spring could not charm one person into freeing her. Her light blue eyes begged like a puppy, and her stance resembled a damsel sacrificed to a dragon: sad and betrayed. She had accepted her approaching doom. She was hoisted into a sleeping bag, gagged with Wesley’s spare socks, and forced to stand on her tied legs. Henry, liking Spring, gave her woolen gloves and a Russian-style hat to aid her during her night bent-over in my jaws.

Six hours later, the boys had breakfast and roped their captive in a ball, forced her in a duffel bag, and brought her to the Girl Scouts before all headed home. Terrified by their daughter’s ropemarks, Spring’s parents threatened to go to the police and sue the Boy Scouts. As a compromise, the counselors banned tie-up games. I had become obsolete.

Henry, sporting thick, straw-like hair and playful brown eyes, freed me from my spruce stance and smuggled me home. A few months later, he began dating Spring, and I rested on her shoulders during his first real kiss. She was not angry with the boys – it was fair game – and she had it coming, but with her parents. Being blamed for pathetic fun-killing rules is humiliating and a social nightmare. For eight years, my embrace graced Henry’s other girlfriends and himself, and he took fantastic care of me.

In a month, Henry moves to Germany and cannot bring me. Hence, his faithful pillory needs a new home: a place for me to force people’s hands up and make scratching their noses impossible. Although used and old, I am in sublime condition and cost 40$ plus shipping, a bargain for a high-quality oak pillory.

[Caesar73]

That is quite the creative Idea which founds the Foundation of this Tale. I know, the Comparison might be a bit off - but the Narrator reminds me a bit of Treebeard. At the moment I have no Idea where you will take this Tale. Either Way? I am looking forward to it. Carry on @Beaumains !

[lilshinefan]

Super creative, all-around great story!

[Beaumains]

Super creative, all-around great story!

Thank you so much!

That is quite the creative Idea which founds the Foundation of this Tale. I know, the Comparison might be a bit off - but the Narrator reminds me a bit of Treebeard. At the moment I have no Idea where you will take this Tale. Either Way? I am looking forward to it. Carry on @Beaumains !

Thanks so much for your comment! I am indeed a bit unsure whether Treebeard is the right comparison as I think the only think they have in common is that some piece of wood has feelings . This is a oneshot and I am not continuing it. It was just a stupid idea to write a story from this perspective that I deemed funny for a short story. Nothing more will be coming

[tiedinbluetights]

Such a wonderfully well crafted story. It was a great joy to read; pity it is a one-shot. In consolation, I will re-read it many more times I'm sure, occasionally taking a sip of fine bourbon or whisky, perhaps aged in relatives of this fine acorn.

[Ovi1]

Great story, very interesting take. And a very enjoyable read

[copperfox]

Well, that was certainly different…as well as uniquely creative and exceptionally well-told. Quite an emotional journey, actually!

I don’t know if it had any influence on you as you were writing, but I find great comparison between the acorn-turned-pillory in your story and the tree in “The Giving Tree”. They both fondly reminisce of good times past, but also recount earlier eras in which they were neglected or abandoned. Ultimately, it would seem…both continue to find the courage and strength to face whatever the future has in store.

Thanks for sharing!

[Beaumains]

Such a wonderfully well crafted story. It was a great joy to read; pity it is a one-shot. In consolation, I will re-read it many more times I'm sure, occasionally taking a sip of fine bourbon or whisky, perhaps aged in relatives of this fine acorn.

Thanks a lot. Just like you, I will return to this comment many times just to read these kind words again.

Great story, very interesting take. And a very enjoyable read

Many thanks!

Well, that was certainly different…as well as uniquely creative and exceptionally well-told. Quite an emotional journey, actually!

I don’t know if it had any influence on you as you were writing, but I find great comparison between the acorn-turned-pillory in your story and the tree in “The Giving Tree”. They both fondly reminisce of good times past, but also recount earlier eras in which they were neglected or abandoned. Ultimately, it would seem…both continue to find the courage and strength to face whatever the future has in store.

Thanks for sharing!

Thanks a lot for your very kinds words. They mean a lot to me.

I am not American, and although I have heard of The Giving Tree I have never read it. My inspiration was "The Sad Tale of the Sconce" by Camilla Grudova (I do not really recommend it. It is wacky and quite a lot), where a candle-holder is followed while being passed on.

It was actually not my intention to feel emotionally for the pillory itself, but I thought it was funny to give the pillory a little pride. The abandonment more followed from me not being able to figure out how a pillory is used a lot during a five year time skip, except for a ren fair or bdsm dungeon. But in hindsight, it is quite funny if one would consider the feelings of their bondage equipment. The emotional part was more meant for some of the persons whose relationships were far from ideal within the story.