Written for Christmas of 2008. I hope everyone had a nice holiday. This story is dedicated to the thousands of pines who every year give their lives to make Christmas magical.

Tale of a Tree

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My first memory is of darkness. My second is of warmth.

I am now a small sprout, hiding beneath all of the others, unnoticed. The warmth soon turns cold. I shiver at night, when the sun is not out. All of the other trees are buzzing with excitement though. Christmas is coming.

What is Christmas?

Christmas is a special occasion, I am told, that occurs once a year. Near that time, a special few of us are chosen to become Christmas trees. The very sound of the name makes me want to be one. I tell the others that I want to become a Christmas tree.

They laugh at me. I am too small, too puny, to become a magnificent Christmas tree. Only the largest and fullest are chosen. I don't mind waiting, I decide.

Soon, strange creatures begin to appear, sizing us up. I am told that these are the beings that will take us away to become Christmas trees. I stand up taller, push my branches out wider, hoping to be chosen. I am not.

One day though, the tree next to me is chosen. Three beings have gathered around it. I am happy for my fellow tree, if not a little jealous.

My roots run cold though when I hear the tree's screams. One of the beings has begun to chop away at the its trunk. I watch in horror as the tree falls to the ground and is dragged away. I stare at the remains of the trunk sticking feebly out of the snow. I don't think I want to be a Christmas tree anymore.

When it begins to grow warm again, I am still standing. Many of my fellow trees are not, though. I miss their company; the patch of grass around me feels sadly empty.

Five more cycles of cold and warmth pass. Each time Christmas grows near, I hunch down, hiding my glory from the beings. I do not want to be a Christmas tree anymore. The warmth comes again.

The sixth time it begins to grow cold, I begin to grow nervous. I am strong now. I am tall. I fear the Christmas selection. Snow begins to settle on the ground, signaling the coming of the beings. Indeed, within a few days, the first one appears, chopper in hand. It passes me by, disappearing into the tangle of other trees. For now, I am safe.

Days pass, and I am not chosen. I hold my breath each time a being comes along, trying to make myself look feeble and desolate. No success though. I, finally, am chosen to be a Christmas tree.

Being separated from my roots is the most painful event I think I shall ever experience. I'm being physically torn apart. I can feel my roots crying in agony. Then, silence. I don't receive any other messages from my roots, and I never shall again.

I fall to the ground, which is much harder than I ever would have imagined, and I am dragged away through the snow, the beings utterly careless about my branches and needles. My mind begins to wander at this point, my lower half having gone numb now. At some point, I am heaved into the air and forced through a loud machine which binds my branches against me. More pain, more agony.

I do not want to be a Christmas tree.

One of the beings picks me up and ties me to the top of another loud machine, and I am transported to a gathering of shelters. The machine stops, and I am removed from the top. Again, I am dragged across the ground until I reach one of the shelters. It's warm inside, I notice.

I am set up straight again, the remains of my trunk fit into a small bowl with some form of bracing keeping me upwards. My bindings are cut, and my branches are released. The beings pour some water into the bowl. It's only then I realize how thirsty I have become. I drink it all. I am left alone for the night.

The next day, the beings are back. My branches have settled, though are still sore and stiff from the ties.

Shiny things are hung all over me. The beings look happy - their actions seem loving. I begin to relax. Soon, I am covered in all sorts of trinkets and lights. I am beautiful. So this is what it means to be a Christmas tree. I am proud now; I can not help it. I have never looked so magnificent.

The days following, the beings all gather around and appreciate me. I am glad I have become a Christmas tree, I decide. Then it is Christmas day, and many packages are placed under me, all of them covered in bright colors. What I sight I must look with those wonderful things beneath me! I watch with pride as the beings gather around again, marveling at the view.

The day after that, I am almost forgotten. My daily water is late, and when I finally receive it, I find I can not drink. I begin to panic. The water in the bowl is plentiful, but I can not seem to drink it. The day after that, I do not receive more water because my bowl is still full from the day before. I begin to grow weak. I can not drink. My branches begin to sag. I can not drink. I begin to die.

By the time I am hauled out of the shelter and into the bitter cold once more, I am so weak that I barely notice the change. I shiver in the wind. Night comes, and I am drowned in darkness.

The following morning, a large machine arrives beside me. I barely have the strength to look at it. A being in blue hauls me into the air and I am thrown into the back of the machine. There, I find many more of my kind, all of them in the same state as my own. We try to whisper greetings to each other, but our voices have grown tired, just like our needles.

My last memories are those of when I stood covered in beautiful decorations, admired by all who saw me. I truly had loved being a Christmas tree.