Journal of Student Research 2018

The Tips of Fingers, the Falling of Things Growing Pears, Planting a Pear Tree

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A countryman had pears sold, sweet and fragrant, at exceedingly expensive prices in a market. A man in tattered clothes, a Taoist monk or priest, begged him to give a single pear, yet his presence only angered the entrepreneur, and off he cursed, he abused, the Taoist. There are several hundred pears on the cart, and a price is still high, as if industrialization doesn’t exist, and the simple growth of plant warrants special treatment. One gone would be unnoticed, especially one sub-par, one of less pride. I am a less-than-wanted pear, the tattered clothes, / fingers slipping away from/ the tattered robes. I don’t understand anger and am confused by it, am given up on certain things are relatable or definable. The known taught unknowns are ignored, me ignorant. A looker-on passes me a purchased pear, and I process it through a bow. I promise to make a tree of it, and have enough pears to feed the crowd. Skeptical, the crowd worried it was impossible, but / fingers slipping away from/ the seed and pip allows this future. The thought alone was able to grow a tree, and the tree manifested itself in a true form of imagery in front of everyone. Now the vendor’s pears were gone, after my seed had been boiled-over and grown, and his cart had been broken as I had chopped down the immediacy of the tree that had grown in a collective thought. / fingers slipping away from/ The specialness of the pears of mine were more so, an ideal set individually yet togetherly. With the limbs of the tree cut down, the Taoist sauntered away, dropping the handle of the now-broken-cart in an alleyway by a wall. All of the countryman’s pears were gone and what was left was his anger. When all his material things had vanished, he was estranged from the world. There were no traces of the monk, only anger remained.