Glinting. Cold. Metal. Shiny. The moment he laid his eyes on her, Young Terry knew that he'd met his match. His partner. The one that resonated with him.

A head of pure iron, a body of only wood. One side, sharp, and ready to cut through any lumber that he may so direct.

Perfect. He thinks.

He looks up, tearing his eyes away from the perfection in front of him. A middle-aged man with dark-brown hair, dark-brown eyes, and a slight beer belly stands in front of him. "Pops." He starts, a bit overwhelmed, "What is this?"

The man's belly rumbles as he chuckles a few times. "That, Terry, is an axe. The mother of all tools." He takes the axe from the hands of Young Terry, who stares at his hands for a few seconds longer, unable to believe in it's absence.

Young Terry's Father walks over to a tree ahead. To show him the axe, he'd taken Young Terry behind the farm's fields, and all the way over to the trees.

The walk was harsh on Young Terry, being only an eight years old child, but he persisted. For every time he fell behind, his father would shake his head in disappointment.

Young Terry did not want to be a disappointment.

Upon reaching the first tree, Young Terry's Father speaks to him, "Watch carefully. You will be doing this in addition to harvesting, milking the cows, and feeding the pigs from now on."

Young Terry's Father takes a couple of deep breathes in and out, before letting out an explosive shout, "Hmph!"

His muscles tense up as he swings the axe from his side straight into the tree. The tree shakes and leaves fall from the impact.

Young Terry watches in awe as his father lets off the aura of a beast in human skin, swinging his axe at the tree at a speed almost impossible for the human body.

A faint cracking noise echoes throughout the small forest. A smile appears on Young Terry's Father's face. He takes a few steps back and looks up at the tree.

Young Terry looks at his father, wondering why he's not chopping the tree anymore. He's soon alerted by the cracking noises coming from the tree in front of him.

The tree, almost in slow motion, plunges to the ground with a resounding thud. The jagged trunk appears lonely without the rest of it's body attached to itself.

Young Terry watches as his father turns to him. "And that, my boy, is our way of life. The way of the axe." He walks over and puts a hand on Young Terry's shoulder, his face solemn and serious like never before, "These masterpieces of Mother Earth, must never be disrespected. Work hard, my boy, work hard. Do you understand?" At this, he stares straight into Young Terry's eyes, piercing his bright-blue eyes with his own dark-brown eyes.

Looking from the tree, to the axe, to the tree, and then back, Young Terry doesn't understand. But he says anyways, "I understand, Pops."

Young Terry's Father just looks at him for a few seconds and then shakes his head. "No. No you do not. Maybe with time you will, but you don't understand right now." He peers off into the distance, "Come, boy. We must begin harvesting."

Young Terry and his father walk past the fields, back to the farm.

Months and years pass, and before Young Terry knows it, he is 12 years old. Maybe chopping wood has helped his mind; he doesn't know, but he's grown up a relatively calm and peaceful child.

Young Terry wakes up, gets dressed, puts his straw hat on, and walks down the stairs for breakfast.

This morning he glances at the wall of the staircase on the way down. He immediately freezes, the only thing keeping him from tumbling down being his strong physique gained from working in the fields.

On the wall that he could never recall looking at before, a picture of a woman looked back at him. With the same bright-blue eyes that he has, along with his dusty-brown hair. She's wearing a straw hat on her head, tilted forward very slightly by her hand. A bright smile looks to be forever etched onto her face.

When Young Terry looks at this picture, only one word comes to his frozen mind. Mom?

All he can feel around himself is silence, even though he knows it's not real. On a farm, nowhere is silent. He can hear his heart gently thudding.

Ba-bump Ba-bump Ba-bump

He instantly breaks down. He rushes upstairs, back to his room, straight to his toolbox. Soon we'll be together again, Mom!

Young Terry rushes downstairs with his toolbox, halting in the middle of the stairs and practically cracking open the box. Ready to take down the picture, Young Terry instantly halts when he takes upon his sights a certain object's glory.

The axe.

There she was, now nowhere near as pristine as four years ago. Not exactly filled with age, but teemed with the echoes of the many trees that she has felled.

He stopped rushing. He put down his hand reaching for his screwdriver. Instead, he reached out for his partner, brushing but a finger against her handle. The wood, filled with lines but strong, is traced by his finger all the way until the butt of the blade.

He removes his finger from the axe. Young Terry takes a few deep breaths in and out, in and out. Then he sighs. "What was I thinking just now? I can't go busting up Pop's house all random like that, now." He closes his toolbox, walking up slowly to his room to put it back away.

Young Terry walks back down the stairs to the dining room for breakfast. I'll just ask Pops about Mom. Finally.

When he reaches the dining room, he sees a plate of food with scraps on it, and a plate of food filled to the brim.

He marches up to the second plate and grabs it. He then starts stuffing his face furiously.

His father looks up from his rocking chair in the corner of the dining room.

"What's wrong, son?" He asks.

That's all it takes for Young Terry. Not bothering to finish his food, he slams the table in front of him, sending his plate, food and all, flying with a crash.

He keeps his head lowered for a moment, panting. His head suddenly snaps up. "Pops. What happened to Mom." He asks bluntly, an edge to his tone like never before.

His father is shocked for a moment. His eyes sharpen, becoming as piercing as a hawk's. They stare almost right into Young Terry's soul, but this time Young Terry doesn't flinch. He stares right back.

Young Terry's Father stares for a few moments, like he's searching for something, before sighing and relaxing his stare on Young Terry. Young Terry lets out a breath of air that he didn't know that he was holding in.

"I was wondering when you would ask about her." He paused, eyes looking at something and nothing at the same time, "I almost thought that you would never ask about her. It must have been that picture on the stairway that led to this, right?" He did not look at Young Terry, so sure of himself he was. "Let me tell you a story."

"Once, there was a young man named Plank. He worked at a farm, day and night, turning his haul in peacefully. He was never curious about the going-ons of the nearby town until one day, when his father finally deemed him old enough to go himself."

"Curious, Plank walked into the town, and was shocked at how illuminating and full of life it was. But most importantly, he was enraptured by the girls there. Before that day, he'd never seen one before. To him, they were merely myths and legends from his father's tales."

"This strange personality ended up attracting as many girls to Plank as he offended. In the end, he made one good friend before he left. A girl a little bit younger than himself called Ghana. He promised to come see her the next time he came."

"Many years later, Plank and Ghana fell in love. They got married and decided to have a child, settling in Plank's farm next to the town. The marriage celebration was filled with happiness, joy, and good comings. The baby boy that Ghana birthed brought even more joy to the little family."

Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

"But the joy was not to last long. It's easy to catch disease on a farm. Soon after the birth of the baby boy, Plank's father silently passed away. He requested to be buried in the soil under the fields of the farm, so as to allow for better harvests in future seasons. His request was granted, and Plank and Ghana mourned for three days and three nights before the fields."

"Ghana too could not handle the disease-ladden farm for long. As her son reached three years of age, she passed away from both disease and stress of birth. The town had no doctors, and as such she could receive no aid."

"Plank despaired, the only thing holding him together and keeping him sane being the little bundle of warmth always by his side."

"The end." As Young Terry's Father finishes his story, a silence settles over the area. He raises his eyes, dry and tearless, to look at Young Terry.

Overwhelmed, Young Terry is already in tears. He can't control himself; the pain is too much. He runs to his father and buries his head in his chest, hoping beyond hope that he will never disappear.

Rubbing Young Terry's back, his father whispers, "It's okay, it's okay, just let it all out." What Young Terry can't see is the small tear that slowly gains life in the corner of his father's eye, gently sliding down the side of his face.

"It's not okay." Young Terry cries, his voice muffled by his father's shirt, "I'm not okay." His father just keeps rubbing his back.

Ever since his father told him the story of his life, and how his mother and grandfather died, Young Terry started to take life more seriously.

He didn't skimp on his farm work anymore. He wouldn't taunt the animals when he fed them. He'd always chop the trees with all of his strength, to give nature the respect it deserves.

Like this, four more years passed by, and Young Terry turned 16 years old, now officially an adult.

Although an adult, this didn't mean that Terry couldn't grow bored. listening to the oxen's hoofs click and clack along the road, staring into the green grass, Terry confirmed it. He's bored out of his mind.

He turns to see his father, sitting on the other side of the oxen cart. He whines, "Pops, when will we get to the town? We've been in the middle of nowhere for hours already!"

His father glances over at him, focused on controlling the oxen. "We'll be there soon. Now, quit whining. It's unseemly for an adult such as yourself." After that, he goes back to ignoring his son and focusing on the oxen.

Terry mumbles a few incoherent curses under his breath. Stupid logs, 'they need to be sold to the townsfolk,' so why do I need to come on this trip?

Nevertheless, they arrive at the town half an hour later. Upon arrival, Terry feels like he's been granted reprieve.

He immediately lets himself go, only becoming cautious whenever he sees a woman around. Which, he soon finds out, is very, very, often.

Deciding that he isn't going to get anywhere like this, he politely asks one of the men for directions to the only bar in town, called Sunken Dream. His legs are shaking, ready to take off at any time if the man shows any shady signs.

But the man turned out to be trustworthy. He walks off soon after, directions memorized.

Moving along in a cautious manner, avoiding all of those who look suspicious, Terry quickly makes it to the Sunken Dream; the place was recommended to him by his father, and Terry is eager to find out why.

Right after pushing open the short half-doors, Terry has to duck. A wine bottle goes soaring over his head and shatters out on the streets. Shocked for a moment, Terry looks up and is about to get angry when he is shocked once more.

All he can see in front of him is total pandemonium. Beer bottles and wine bottles are flying all over the place, hitting those unlucky enough to get in their path. People are wrestling on the ground. One guy is getting punched in the face. A three way brawl is going on in a corner of the bar. And much, much, more.

Too much for poor Terry to take in. What he doesn't know right now is that he just walked in on a bar fight. And reacting by standing in the doorway dumbly is not a good way to react.

Someone from outside of the bar shoves him inside from behind, sending him skipping in, completely off balance. A beer bottle come flying in from his right, and this time he's not so lucky, too disoriented to dodge.

The whole right side of his face is drenched in beer, and cut up by tiny glass shards. Miraculously, it doesn't start bleeding, but he slowly falls to the ground, dizzy, disoriented, and injured.

The next morning, Terry wakes up inside the oxen cart with a huge headache. He immediately panics when he realizes that he can only see out of one of his eyes, only calming down when he feels the bandage over his head.

What did happen yesterday? Why do I feel like this? As soon as Terry tries to remember, his throbbing headache gets a few times worse. "Agh!"

The oxen cart slows down to a stop after his shout of pain. His father's head peeks in one of the flaps of the oxen cart. Seeing Terry, he shakes his head and then smiles, coming inside to sit beside Terry.

"Boy, you really enjoyed yourself in there. I heard it all from the men." He gives Terry a slap on the back, "First you got into a bar fight, winning some, losing some, then you played truth or dare. Really, you've got one-up on this old man on that, I'd never play that scandalous game. All those old boys are cheaters, anyways. And then, to top it all off, you participated in the traditional drinking contest." He puts a big smile on his face.

"Boy, I hear that you put down five drinks. On your first time! Oh I'll make a drinker of you, I will." Getting excited, Terry's Father starts to spout out all of the ways that he'll make Terry a great drinker.

Terry listens, his head still spinning at all of the things that his father just revealed. He interrupts his father, "Wait Pops, wait! What's going on? How did all of that happen last night? Why don't I remember it?" He fires question after question at his father.

Finally realizing his folly, Terry's Father reveals a look of slight embarrassment for a moment before switching back to his calm and confident look, "Ahem, yes, that. Well, it's simple actually, son. Right now you're having what's called a hangover. Because you drank too much wine, you're getting a headache. And because you fought too much, you're injured. Don't worry, you'll feel better soon. In a few hours."

Although he suspected this, hearing the words from his father made Terry feel infinitely better.

But there was one thing that he could definitely remember.

"Pops, you're the one who recommended that bar to me!"

Something that Terry suspects is that age passes by differently for trees than it does for humans.

Now 22 years old, even though 14 years have passed since he first observed the trees beside the one his father chopped off for him, to him, they barely changed at all.

Except for the ones that he chopped down, of course.

Terry bows to the fields, remembering the times when he tilled it with his father, whom passed away two years ago. No tears come out of his eyes, as he is already used to his father's absence by now.

He walks behind the fields to the trees, taking in their exuberant energy of Mother Earth.

No part of nature supports life more than trees. It gives to us the air that we breathe, the paper on which we write, and the chairs on which we sit.

So... What do we give back?

At some point in the last year, Terry had begun wondering. What did humans actually give back to these mighty trees that protected them, took care of them, and allowed them to live? What?

Terry started chopping into the bark of the tree in front of him with his trusty axe as he pondered. It cannot be the soil. For the soil has long existed.

He continues chopping at the tree, his mind totally elsewhere.

Water? But water is also a blessing that came with the soil. So it cannot be that.

The chopping noises fade out into the background.

No wonder father and grandfather could never find this out. Perhaps I will have to spend the rest of my life contemplating as well.

The sound of a tree falling echoes out, but Terry is too distracted to pay attention: until a looming shadow appears directly above his head. He looks up, and there he sees it. His end.

And he understands. In the end, we give the trees ourselves. For that is the cycle. As the trees give themselves to us, we give ourselves to them.

He closes his eyes, fully ready to embrace his end.

But it never comes. The tree smashes down just slightly to his side.

Not feeling himself being enlightened, Terry turns to see that the tree has fallen beside him. He immediately doubts himself. Could I be wrong? Does the tree not want me?

He then pushes away this doubt, concluding that he wasn't granted enlightenment because he didn't accept the tree with all of his heart. His eyes were closed.

Moving to the tree next to the one in front of him, he swings at it with chops full of power, full of feelings, and most of all, full of his heart. Full of a heart to connect to Mother Nature.

Terry feels like he can feel the tree, the ground, everything resonate with him, but he isn't sure. But he chops, and chops, and chops, until the telltale cracking noise comes.

He opens his eyes wide as his judgement comes. The tree, slowly at first, but faster and faster later on, falls straight towards him. He smiles. The tree hits him.

A green light flashes, enveloping both man and tree. Soft and thin as water and yet as tough and flexible as rubber, this green light flashes a few times before it starts to shrink, shrinking everything inside it with it.

It continues to shrink until it is only the size of a chicken's egg. At this time, storm clouds gathers in the sky. They roar and thunder with power, rumbling with prestige.

The green egg shoots straight towards the storm clouds. Before it reaches the cloud, it's struck by a bolt of pure golden lightning. The lightning knocks it back slightly, but the egg is not to be deterred. It continues rushing forward.

Several more strikes of lightning, each more intense and intimidating than the last, strike the green egg, finally halting it's momentum. But no damage is visible on it's surface.

The storm clouds seem offended by the lack of damage wrought on the green egg by the lightning bolts. The next round of lightning bolts are even more intense, forcing scratches and scrapes to appear on it's surface.

The injuries, however, heal the instant after the damage is done. The green egg isn't intimidated and keeps charging upwards.

The storm clouds grow even darker for a moment, rumbling noises growing louder despite no lightning coming out of them.

The green egg has a foreboding feeling, so for once, it stops charging and holds it's ground.

Its turns out to be a good decision, as the storm cloud send down one huge lightning bolt, striking the green egg dead center. A wail seems to echo out from Mother Earth, and the green egg goes hurtling back, burnt and full of holes on more than half of it's surface.

The storm clouds disperse and the sky returns to it's original blue color. Something strange happens in mid-air. The sky tears open, leaving a space just a little bit bigger than the green egg colored differently than the rest of the sky.

Colored purple, and distorting, this spot in the sky clearly isn't a normal spot in the sky, and it screams abnormality.

For now though, the green egg ignores this spot, focusing on healing itself. This process takes several hours, unlike the split second it took while it was fighting the storm clouds. Those clouds damaged it a lot.

Finally healed, the green egg decides to go into that strange purple spot of sky that's been beckoning it for a while now.

Needless to say, it would not be coming back anytime soon.