Tales of the Tree - In an enchanted park, in the heart of a modern city, an ancient oak whispers the tales of the ages. Listen carefully...you are invited to send us the tales you have heard, whispered on the wind.

Under a tree in the park is where I live today. It wasn't always this way... It was a hot day when I was about eight years old. My Dad was always gettin' sloshed and hitting my Mom. I cried a bit, but he never did hit me. Not until that day...

He walked through the door with a smile on his face. Mom went over to say "hi" and take care of the black-eye he got at the bar. Dad said the other guy was much worse. When she started to touch his eye, he got all crazied up and yelling at her! He made no sense. Then he slapped her, hard, across the chin, but she didn't scream, not my Momma. She was toughened up by now. Why give the man the satisfaction, right? Well, he must have been real bad that day, 'cause he came over to me.

I ducked, so he knocked me in the head. It hurt so bad. I can still feel that one spot. I ran out the door and decided I ain't never goin' back. Walked around for awhile and thought about it. Why did he hit me? Why did he hit Momma? We wasn't bad, was we? I guess I must be bad---why else would Daddy hit me? I kept thinking about it and realized it got dark. Seein' as I must be bad and deserved the beatin', I went home.

Where else was I goin' anyway? Eight years old and it's night. On the way home through the alleys and streets, I met some people. They were so nice. Always offerin' something. So I tried a cigarette. I choked, but got the hang of it. Then I started to feel all weird, so I left. Gotta go home so my Momma can fix me up.

When I got home, the door was open and Dad was gone. Momma said she hit him back right across the nose with a pot and called the cops. I never did see Daddy again. I guess it was because I was so bad. At least I think that's why he hit me, and Momma...

Oh, about that cigarette. When I got older and all, that summer, I tried another. It was better. More fun.

Then, look where it got me.

I just can't help thinkin' about Daddy. I wonder if he's sleepin' next to me out here somewhere. Or is someone beatin' on his head?

At night I sometimes re-read a novel I found on the street some time ago. It's quite old, but it's my book. My own possession. It's tough to keep things out here, with everyone watching...and waiting. Waiting for what, you ask? They're waiting for me to fall asleep, so they can "borrow" an item or two (And not ever give it back).

You see, a few years ago, seems like forever, I was thrown out of school for drug dealing. No no, I didn't do that sort of thing. I was hanging out with some friends and we were just having a good time. The cops found us by the bleachers at school. Sure we were "smokin' up", but we weren't bothering anyone. Well, we all ran and some of us got caught. I happened to have a bag on me and, when they searched me, I was busted.

You might think, "Hey, no big deal, right?" Tell that to School and my Mom. They weren't too pleased with me.

So I got kicked out of school! Big deal. I had other ways to get by. Only selling wasn't all it's cracked up to be. I didn't mind the sneaking around, it was just that those police were always on my back. They never let loose.

I spent a few months in a cell. They weren't too great either though. Jail ain't too fun. Lots of rules. When to eat. When to shut the lights. When to get up. When to talk, and you'd better hope you're not saying something with an attitude to the guards or the others.

When I got out, I found that my Mom wouldn't take me back cause of all the problems. What was her deal anyway? Can't she see I have no way out? It's all about choices. You make the right ones and you can do alright, like me.

Oh yeah, so I re-read that book every now and then. I need a point to go back to just like everybody else. The book's about a young boy who's in a tough spot. He can't decide whether to stay with his crowd or not. They get in trouble a lot, but they're cool. He also has a chance at college, but then he can't stay with them. He has to study and read and stuff. [That takes too much strength.]

So much pressure... So many choices.

The nightmares never stop...

During those first few months the police were at my back door, a friend gave me a gun to protect myself. I didn't usually carry it though. My knife and I were together. "It ain't no big thing. Got to protect myself, ya know." I never thought about killing no one. It just wasn't part of the scene.

So when the argument started, the buyer got all angry and such. Started coming at me all crazed. The world went all "slow - mo" like it does in the movies. He made the first move, sliced me across the arm, but it wasn't too deep. I didn't think I could get hurt, I mean, it was me. Even though it wasn't deep, it hurt a lot. When I saw my own blood, I went crazy too. Then I got into a good spot and took my shot. I cut him real good in the stomach. The man let out a cry of pain like I never heard before. As he fell to the ground, his mouth spurt out a few drops of blood and he dropped his blade.

I didn't know what to do! Should I call 911, get an ambulance? I didn't want to get caught. So, I left the guy in the alley and went home. After I patched myself up, I went for a walk and called the cops. Told them there was a man stabbed to death in between the apartments on 6th Street.

After that, I started carrying that gun my friend gave me, as well as the knife. After all, it had saved my life. I read about the guy in the paper, too bad.

Then, I thought about it. That guilty feeling. Why did I feel that way. I guess I fooled myself into thinking that killing someone wasn't no big deal. I was wrong, real wrong.

Even though I never got caught for it, that fight stays with me wherever I go. I guess sometimes we don't think too hard about killing a person. One life don't mean too much, right?

Yeah, right. Tell that to someone who don't know better.

Even as I sleep with my book tucked under my shirt and my newspaper over me, I still dream about the man's face. I still hear the "thump" and the "clink" from when he hit the ground. It haunts me.

Michael W. Schwartz (Bluemaan) is a third grade teacher on Long Island, NY, who got inspired a few years ago while substitute teaching in the sixth grade with "at risk" students. He enjoys Skiing, Horseback Riding, AIKIDO, Reading Science-Fiction, playing Guitar and Writing.