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With This Ring: Fiction by Hillary Lyon
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Jet Fuel: Fiction by Cindy Rosmus
Princess of the Silent Kingdom: Fiction by Fred Zackel
Relationship Status: Fiction by Greta T. Bates
A Dish Best Served Cold: Fiction by Shari Held
The Face in the Tree: Fiction by Joan Leotta
Shower Scene: Fiction by Ben Newell
The Dreary Detective: Fiction by E.E. Williams
Deadly Meating: Flash Fiction by Jacob Graysol
Full, From the Grave: Flash Fiction by Craig Kirchner
Leave Me Alone: Flash Fiction by Roy Dorman
Free Key Day: Flash Fiction by William Kitcher
The Night the Monster Came: Flash Fiction by Tim Tobin
Some Things That I Learned in the Army: Poem by Richelle Slota
Double Negatives: Poem by RC Potter
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Last Night: poem by Luis Cuauhtémoc Berriozábal
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His Gallery: Poem by John Grey
Beachwood Canyon: Poem by Damon Hubbs
Stick Horses: Poem by Damon Hubbs
she blew me a kiss: Poem by ayaz daryl nielsen
so much in common: Poem by ayaz daryl nielsen
After I Turned 40: Poem by Richard LeDue
The Alarm Clock: Poem by Richard LeDue
Sentimental Love Poems Shown to No One: Poem by Richard LeDue
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The Deadly Shoes: Poem by Dawn L. C. Miller
The Sands of Inanna: Poem by Dawn L. C. Miller
Angelic: Poem by John Short
Robophobe: Poem by John Short
Worry Beads: Poem by John Short
not even Baudelaire: Poem by Craig Kirchner
Dream Doctor: Poem by Craig Kirchner
Neon Poem: Poem by Craig Kirchner
Another Chapter in Life:Poem by Amirah Al Wassif
The Same Old Story: Poem by Amirah Al Wassif
to bury a curious girl: Poem by Amirah Al Wassif
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Dark Tales from Gent's Pens

Joan Leotta: The Face in the Tree

Art by Henry Stanton © 2024

The Face in the Tree




Joan Leotta



About a year ago, in early spring, as I got out of my car in the pharmacy parking lot I heard a strange noise, a humming, or was it a moan? The sound was coming from the tree directly in front of my bumper. There were no birds. No groups of swarming insects. I stared at the tree and saw a face seemingly emerging in the bark of the tree trunk. The noise appeared to be coming from the mouth, the eyes were staring right at me. I was curious and a bit afraid. My grandma, a folklore enthusiast had told me that such things existed, that men are sometimes trapped inside trees as punishment.

I turned away. Why would a tree man want to confess to me? As I tried to shake off the strangeness of the encounter, I let my feet carry me into the store. When I got back, I didn’t have time to ponder on the tree, for fanciful ideas of punishment and confession.  I left, but the face stayed with me. Over the subsequent days, I ended up parking by the tree quite often. The noises continued and began to resemble words. Were they his garbled, wooden, staccato speech?

The more I thought about it, the surer I was that the man in the tree was trying to speak to me. After a few weeks, I began to drive to that parking lot, parking by the tree even after the store was closed. I got out of the car, stood looking at the tree, struggling to understand the man’s voice. I wanted to learn what he saw as a tree man, how he saw the seasons and why he was inside the tree instead of out in the world, driving, shopping.

Suddenly, one day, the words became clear: “Spring melts winter’s hard resolve with her flagrant colors, promises, will truly brighten hearts, and bring new life from the seeds. Treat her gently,” I was charmed. He was a poet! I fancy myself a poet. This seemed ordained.

I found myself visiting more and more often. Not wanting to wait until evening or after closing, I went early in the morning before the store opened to be alone with the tree. Summer’s excess of leaves hid his face a bit, but never muffling his speech.  He told me that summer is tasked with, must fulfill spring’s pale green promise with fullness of leaves to shelter baby birds and so that longer days of light, should not burn out delicate flowers that need shade. His wisdom inspired me. I began to crave even more time to listen to him. I began to think of him as a master of the environment, holding the key to all earth’s ills.

That autumn he whispered the secret of coloring leaves, so they appear to have caught on fire. He said it was more than a loss of chlorophyll. He said, “Fall colors heralds the need for warmth in the next season when winter will chill all around us.”

“Winter will come all too soon,” he announced one morning in late October, adding “as the bark thickens to safeguard the tree, I will no longer be able to push my face out from the trunk, to see the outer world, to speak with those who like you have compassion on me. I will be truly trapped. My tears will become sap and my cries, simply an echo of the wind in the branches.”

My heart, by now had indeed taken compassion on this person. I had forgotten about asking what sins had trapped him there, forgotten about seeking his confession. So I simply asked, “How can I help?”

The bark-lined lips turn up a bit. He explained that my touch could save him. I reached out my hand to trace the outline of lips. A testy response vibrated through my fingers. “Not your hand, your lips!” He was strident, sharper.

A sudden cool breeze and the cawing of a crow from high in the tree shook me from my reverie, my bond with the bark crusted eyes, the clipped voice from the bark lips. A frisson of warning shook me. Should I be wary of such magic? I touched the lips with my fingers once again and I felt the lips move and try to claim my fingers, to suck them into the tree!

In that moment, I realized he had no love for me, no desire to help me understand nature, no desire to confess and release himself. With his flowery words he wanted to trap me in the tree, so he could escape, for me to take his place, pay his penalty and he would be released. Deception was certainly an art he was practicing on me. Were lies the reason he was in the tree? I didn’t really have much time to wonder—fear outweighed my curiosity. I knew I had to escape.

I jumped back, and with all my strength pulled my fingers away from his bark-lined lips. Out they came, with scratches. I was glad I had the strength for that and had not put lips to bark. If he had pulled me in by the lips, it could have been impossible to pull away. I hurried into my car and drove home as fast as I could. For several weeks I didn’t go anywhere near that place. When I did return, for an errand, I parked far away from that tree.

In the fullness of winter, I dared to glance again at him. The bark had thickened, and that face was just barely visible. From deep inside the tree, I heard groaning and knew it was not the wind. It was the wicked cry of one mourning for himself and for his inability to succeed at his attempt to trick me into changing places with him. 

Postscript: This past spring, as I drove by the parking lot one day, I saw that the store I frequented was closed and a sign proclaimed that the building and its parking lot were to be repurposed into a community center. Many of the trees had orange ties encircling them, marking them for cutting. The tree with the face was one. I did not shed a tear.

Joan Leotta plays with words on page and stage. She performs tales of food, family, strong women. Internationally published as an essayist, poet, short story writer, and novelist, she’s a multiple Pushcart nominee, Best of the Net, and  2022 runner-up in Robert Frost Competition.  Her new chapbook is Feathers on Stone, 


Henry Stanton's fiction, poetry and paintings appear in 2River, The A3 Review, Avatar, The Baltimore City Paper, The Baltimore Sun Magazine, High Shelf Press, Kestrel, North of Oxford, Outlaw Poetry, PCC Inscape, Pindeldyboz, Rusty Truck, Salt & Syntax, SmokeLong Quarterly, The William and Mary Review, Word Riot, The Write Launch, and Yellow Mama, among other publications. 

His poetry was selected for the A3 Review Poetry Prize and was shortlisted for the Eyewear 9th Fortnight Prize for Poetry.  His fiction received an Honorable Mention acceptance for the Salt & Syntax Fiction Contest and was selected as a finalist for the Pen 2 Paper Annual Writing Contest.

A selection of Henry Stanton's paintings are currently on show at Atwater's Catonsville and can be viewed at the following website www.brightportfal.com.  A selection of Henry Stanton’s published fiction and poetry can be located for reading in the library at www.brightportfal.com.

Henry Stanton is the Founding & Managing Editor of The Raw Art Reviewwww.therawartreview.com.

In Association with Black Petals & Fossil Publications © 2024