A Short Story by Jana Putrle Srdić Translated by Jana Putrle Srdić and Sue Vickerman

Lunch under the naked sky

by Jana Putrle Srdić

co-translated with Sue Vickerman

What day is it?

The first of Microseason 46. 

Ok. In four days, all insects will be underground, then it’s our next shift.

Four days. Hang in there. Check the comms before you go out.

Sure.

And stay away from the rodents.

I disconnect the communication, pull some basic overalls made from vegetable pulp over my boxers and the washed-out T-shirt I’ve had since the era of cotton, and put on a pair of boots Martin stitched from the hide of a moose carcass he salvaged. I don’t need your pious reminders, I know the regs.

Leather boots are a treasure.

Outside, one of the wildest parts on the planet awaits me with its dense, all-enveloping copper beech trees. Now, with nothing limiting them, deciduous trees in my climate zone have spread across the plain. I’ve been here a long time and sometimes I’m tempted to go for a hike—an obsolete term from the database—to take a look beyond the forest’s fringe, but my duties here are important. Though with winter coming the vibrations get weaker, the curves lower, and I feel more alone. Sometimes, I miss having other people besides Martin around.

The wall behind me silently restores itself. Raised from the ground, my old pod, with its rounded cube shape, is reminiscent of the portable research stations built by the Old Civilization in Antarctica. The translucent material of the station has already collected enough solar energy today and is now intercepting tree vibrations. My atunement with the copper beech is my raison d’être, the single justification for my presence on Earth.

*

Twenty-six, twenty-seven… sometimes I mimic unusual sounds in the forest, like Antarctic recordings of seals under the ice. Warm up your vocal cords; you know our chattering isn’t enough, I hear Martin say, then, to the relief of everything that intercepts and processes sound waves, I switch to owl hooting. Today I’m sleepless, so I just count out loud the usual number of fallen leaves on the morning walk. I use my wooden stick to collect a sample from the leaf-mulch to analyze its volatile organic compounds. Gently raking soil off the roots with my gloves, I collect another sample. There’s a small hole that wasn’t there yesterday, probably a shrew. I leave it undisturbed.

I watch the swaying branches high above, their dense, interlacing multi-layered web reaching far into the sky’s gray glow. I’m tired, but still amazed at the complexity of my tree’s canopy, how her every leaf and plane catches the light, shifting with each breath of air, receiving and transmitting, exchanging vapor with her siblings, lightly touching them as they encroach into her space. I lie down and feel them under the ground, all intertwined, dense and active, mycelium clinging to their roots, swapping phosphorus and carbon with sugar. I feel my body encompassed by the interconnections below and above the earth, and something vital flows through me. Martin, this is better than that brew of yours, the walnut brandy.

*

When I return to the station I don’t light the glowing orbs Martin put in my hands. These are for you, he’d returned from the deserted city, their orange light doesn’t attract insects. He wanted to get close again after leaving his walnut trees, but I haven’t spoken to another human in five out of seventy-two microseasons. I know what gifts mean, sex is another kind of connecting, albeit a pretty brusque one, like all our communications. I take off my clothes, I like to lie naked in the open air in the middle of the woods. Trees trigger a sequence of volatile exchanges and molecular reactions under the bronze leaves at night. During the day, my transparent station’s membrane enhances the captured, condensed vibrations from the trees, and I can feel them on my skin, expanding deep into the tissue. As the tips of the branches grow into the neighboring canopy, tree vibrations interfere with the oscillation of my core and fill me with energy. But this time I am focused on my being. In the darkness, my fingers slide along the edges of my body, my collarbones, my ribs, over the ridge of my pelvis.

*

Other people have not kept their bodies at any price. We have not survived the age of individualism, but trees have always known that loners can’t achieve immortality. When we disrupted the communication with the environment, Extinction occurred, and among other catastrophes heat drove most of us into the Upgrade… the rest is known, our history is recorded in the helix of all surviving biological organisms, but it is irrelevant. Since the Upgrade, things have changed on Earth; only a few embodied beings remain. Now our existence is in the Cloud, our constant interaction brings almost endless possibilities, which most people prefer. The body is too vulnerable, too easily traceable; it was once exposed to both authorities and diseases. Martin sometimes tells me twisted stories about bodily punishment from the past which are supposed to scare me, but they’re just tales. As one who still has a body, my role is one of constant interaction with other biological beings, with trees. Trees are important, they are the survivors.

*

I was assigned the role of a communicator, the most important task that remains. You with your ethereal thoughts are the most suitable candidate. All I know is that no one wants traumatized trees. Before the Extinction even our noise harmed them. What exactly are ethereal thoughts? I didn’t ask that, of course, but I do like communicating with them; these exchanges are the cherry on the cake of my forest walks. (I’ve never actually eaten cake, old data again. There are no cherry trees in this forest, who’s ever heard of fruit trees among six-hundred-year-olds?) With a copper beech, we exchange continuous streams of electrical, chemical, and acoustic signals, which I monitor through algorithmic transcription. Algorithms are my tools, they help me understand what my sensory and neural systems cannot decode.

There’s no fear of invaders; the smell of them would have spread long before they arrived. The weather is stable now. In this climate, beech trees are immortal, to them we are fruit flies. My short messages are constantly being lengthened and their long replies are compressed. How do we speak to eternity from the moment? 

They’re not your kind, there’s no point trying.

Of course there is—why else would we be here?

To do the analysis, that’s your job. Just that.

So what’s in it for you? Don’t say you don’t feel those waves vibrating through your body before you fall asleep. It’s a different kind of Upgrade.

You’re crazy. What have people ever got out of vibrations?

Some gain a lot? Others nothing. I don’t know. But really—why are you here?

Because you need me. I stare at Martin. So I can breathe and walk, he laughs, I’m old-fashioned. I’ve sensed a glitch. It would be easy to overlook, but it’s too late.

*

He’s right; our chatter is not enough, and being one of the last might seem a bit sad, but it’s only sad in linear terms. Trees emit an infinite number of moments at the same time, and these moments are compressed into tree rings. I’m constantly learning. Lying below the copper beech I feel her spiraling time, which has no beginning or end; everything is now, and all is simultaneous; every part of the forest is the center, I feel it all. Martin might think I’m high, but it’s not that. I feel I’m transcending, becoming more real than my body here.

I can’t recall a single tree dying, nor find one on the database. There is time aplenty for them, they have no natural enemies, the weather conditions are favorable; only a bolt of lightning might affect their longevity. The translucent atmosphere, which I call the blue sky and which makes me happy, means a feast for my copper beech, means photosynthesis; sugar is produced by sunlight. Lunch all day long, and both of us happy. 

*

For the remaining materialized people, the situation is different from the trees. We are disappearing; this handful of us who are still here exists for those who Upgraded. We are a reminder for them, an answer to the question where do we come from?

As I lounge below the coppery leaves under the blue sky, her omnipresent and enduring murmurings of the big questions and answers are greater than my thoughts, than the range of my perception…  Am I only imagining my body? Am I imagining even my tree, the clear details of her rough bark, the vibrations of her signals?

I’m not the doubting type. I don’t want these suspicions, that lying on this earth, smelling her pungent resin, feeling her pulsing veins are illusory sensations. That I’m in the Cloud.

Kosilo pod golim nebom

Kateri dan je?

Drugi. Sedeminštirideseta mikrosezona.

Aha. Čez tri dni bodo vsi insekti pod zemljo, potem greva na obhod.

Še tri dni. Prečekiraj komunikacije, preden greš ven.

Itak.

Ne šetaj okrog brez zaščitne obleke. In pusti glodavce pri miru.

Prekinem pogovor, čez boksarice in povsem sprano majico z luknjami, ki je našla pot do mene še iz časov bombaža, navlečem grobo obleko iz rastlinske celuloze in obujem šivane škornje iz kožuha najdenega trupla losa. (Škornji so prava dragocenost.) Ne rabim Martinovih ukazovalnih pripomb, poznam delovna pravila.

Zunaj me čaka en bolj preraščenih koncev planeta in dragocena bližina bakrenih bukev. Zdaj, ko jih nič ne omejuje, so se listavci v mojem podnebnem pasu razrastli po vsej nižini. Dolgo sem že tu in včasih me prime, da bi odšla na potep ali potovanje, kot temu rečejo v starih podatkovnih bazah, se sama prepričala o robu gozda, o tistem onkraj, vendar vem, da je moja prisotnost tu nujna. Nimam dopusta, spet ena izumrla beseda, nihče me ne bo zamenjal, ko bom prestara za še en obhod. Moje delo je pomembnejše od potovanj, od česarkoli drugega. Prihaja zima, takrat se počutim bolj zapuščeno, vibracije dreves postanejo šibkejše in krivulje nižje. Včasih pogrešam druge ljudi.

Stena za mano se neslišno zaceli, to je moja stara bivalna enota s svojo zaobljeno kockasto obliko, dvignjena od tal spominja na prenosne raziskovalne postaje na Antarktiki, tiste ki jih je zgradila Stara civilizacija. Polprosojen material bivaka je danes že zbral dovolj sončne energije in sedaj prestreza vibracije drevesa. Uglašenost z bukvijo je bistvo mojega bivanja, samo to upravičuje mojo prisotnost na Zemlji.

*

Šestindvajset, sedemindvajset… včasih oponašam razne za gozd neobičajne glasove, na primer Antarktične posnetke tjulnjev pod ledom, razgibaj glasilke, veš da najino čvekanje ni dovolj, slišim Martina, potem na olajšanje vsega, kar sprejema in procesira zvočne valove, preidem na sovje hukanje. Danes sem neprespana, zato zgolj glasno štejem povsem običajno število odpadlih listov na jutranjem obhodu. S suhim koščkom lesa podrsam po njihovi površini za analizo hlapnih organskih spojin in vzorec previdno zavijem. Z rokavicami nežno razgrebem zemljo do korenin, potem spet podrsam, spravim. Spodaj zagledam manjšo luknjo, ki je včeraj ni bilo, verjetno rovka. V to se ne mešam.

Gledam nihanje vej visoko nad zemljo, njihovo gosto prepredeno mrežo v več nivojih, ki segajo globoko v žarečo sivino neba. Utrujena sem, a me še vedno čudi, kako kompleksno se razraščajo, kako njihove površine, listi, veje lovijo svetlobo, premikajo se z zračnimi masami, sprejemajo in oddajajo, menjajo hlape z drugimi iz družine, rahlo se jih dotikajo, ko posegajo v njihov prostor. Uležem se na zemljo in čutim njihovo prepletenost pod površino, gosto in aktivno, micelij se oprijema korenin in izmenjuje fosfor in ogljik s sladkorjem, čutim svoje telo, obdano s povezavami pod in nad površino zemlje. Nekaj vitalnega steče skozme. Martin, tole je boljše od tistega zvarka tvojih prednikov, orehovca.

*

Ko se vrnem v bivak, ne prižgem žarečih kroglic, te so zate, mi jih je položil v dlani, ko se je vrnil z nenapovedanega izleta v zapuščeno mesto, njihova oranžna svetloba ne privablja žuželk. Spet se mi je hotel približat, potem ko je zapustil svoje orehe, jaz pa pet od dvainsedemdesetih mikrosezon nisem spregovorila s človekom. Vem, kaj pomenijo darila in ja, tudi seks je neke vrste povezovanje, čeprav precej robustno – kot vsa naša komunikacija.

Slečem se, tokrat tudi spodnjice in majico, rada gola ležim v zraku sredi gozda. Drevesa ponoči sprožijo zaporedje hlapnih izmenjav in molekularnih reakcij. Čez dan zajete, zgoščene vibracije z dreves prosojna opna moje postaje ponoči ojačuje, da jih čutim na koži, čutim njihovo širjenje globoko v tkivo. Kot se konice vejic razraščajo v sosednjo krošnjo, vibracije drevesa interferirajo z valovanjem mojega jedra in me polnijo z energijo. A tokrat sem fokusirana nase, v temi drsim po robovih svojega telesa, ključnicah, rebrih, čez rob medenice.

*

Drugi ljudje so opustili ohranjanje svojih teles za vsako ceno. Nismo preživeli dobe individualizma, drevesa vejo, da samotarji ne morejo biti nesmrtni. Ko smo prekinili komunikacijo z okoljem, nas je zajelo Izumrtje vrst in med ostalimi katastrofami je vročina večino pregnala v Nadgradnjo… ostalo je znano, naša zgodovina je zapisana v vijačnici vseh preživelih bioloških organizmov, vendar je nepomembna, od Nadgradnje so se stvari na Zemlji spremenile, ostalo nas je le malo utelešenih. Sedaj je obstoj povezan z Oblakom in v nenehni interakciji, materializem je za nami, možnosti so skoraj neskončne, kar je za večino bolj privlačno. Telo je preveč ranljivo, lokacijsko dostopno, v preteklosti je bilo izpostavljeno oblastem, podvrženo boleznim. Martin mi včasih pripoveduje izkrivljene zgodbe o kaznovanju teles, ki naj bi me strašile, a to so pravljice. Moj status v Oblaku določa povezanost z drugimi organskimi bitji, z drevesi. Drevesa so pomembna, ona so preživela.

*

Dodelili so mi delo komunikatorke, to je najbolj pomembna naloga, ki je še ostala. Najprimernejša kandidatka ste s svojimi eteričnimi mislimi. Samo to vem, da nihče noče travmatiziranih dreves, pred izumrtjem jim je veliko škodo povzročil človeški hrup. Kaj točno so eterične misli, tega jasno nisem vprašala, res pa je, da rada komuniciram z njimi, te izmenjave so češnja na torti mojih gozdnih sprehodov. (Ne da bi že kdaj jedla torto, spet stari podatki. Češenj v tem gozdu ni, kdo je še slišal za sadna drevesa med šeststoletniki.) Z bakreno bukvijo si izmenjujeva neprekinjene tokove podatkov o električnih, kemičnih in zvočnih signalih, ki jih spremljam s pomočjo algoritemske transkripcije. Algoritmi so moje orodje, pomagajo mi razumeti vse, česar moj senzorni in nevronski sistem ne more dekodirati. Tu ostajam zaradi bakrene bukve.

Strahu pred vsiljivci ni, vonj o njih bi se razširil že mnogo pred njimi. Vreme je sedaj ustaljeno. V tem podnebju so bukve nesmrtne, zanje smo sadne mušice. Moja kratka sporočila se nenehno podaljšujejo, njihovi dolgotrajni odgovori pa se krčijo. Kako se iz hipnosti pogovarjaš z večnostjo?

Niso tvoj vrsta, nima smisla, da se trudiš.

Ima smisel, zakaj sva sicer tukaj?

Da narediš analizo, to je tvoje delo. Samo to.

Ampak kaj pomeni njihovo valovanje?

Zakaj bi karkoli pomenilo? Kaj imamo mi od valovanja?

Nekateri veliko? Nekateri nič. Ne vem. Ampak to je neke druge vrste Nadgradnja.

Zmešana si.

Zakaj si pa ti tukaj?

Ker me potrebuješ. Zastrmim se v Martina. Da lahko diham in hodim, se zasmeji, staromoden sem, vendar je prepozno, ujela sem razpoko, nekakšen glitch. Najlažje bi jo bilo spregledati, ampak, ko se pojavi dvom, je že prepozno.

*

Sicer ima pa prav, najino čvekanje ni dovolj in to, da sva med zadnjimi ljudmi, je malo žalostno, ampak samo v linearnosti. Drevesa oddajajo nepregledno veliko trenutkov hkrati, skompresirani so v drevesne letnice in jaz se učim. Ko ležim v temi pod bukvijo, čutim njen spiralni čas, ki nima začetka niti konca, vse je zdaj in vse hkrati, vsaka točka v gozdu je središče, vsako čutim. Martin bi mi očital, da se zadevam, ampak ni to. Čutim, da prehajam, da sem bolj resnična kot to moje telo tu.

Odkar se spomnim in glede na bazo podatkov ni umrlo niti eno drevo. Obdobje izobilja je zanje, brez naravnih sovražnikov so in vremenski pogoji so zanje ugodni, samo še nevihte s strelami lahko prekinejo njihovo dolgoživost. Prosojna atmosfera, ki ji rečem modro nebo in me navdaja z veseljem, za mojo bukev pomeni kosilo, pomeni fotosintezo, s pomočjo sončne svetlobe nastaja sladkor. Pojedina cel sončni dan, takrat sva obe srečni.

*

Za preostale materializirane ljudi je položaj drugačen kot za drevesa. Izginjamo, ta peščica, kar nas je še tu, se ohranja za tiste, ki so šli v Nadgradnjo. Zanje smo opomnik, odgovor na vprašanje, od kod prihajamo.

Lebdenje pod bronastimi listi pod golim nebom, med mrmrnjem velikih vprašanj in odgovorov dreves je širše od mojih misli, od spektra moje zaznave… vseprisotno je in trajno. Si svoje telo samo domišljam? Si domišljam svoje drevo? Jasne detajle hrapave skorje, oster vonj po smoli, črpanje žil skozi liste, širjenje signalov?

Nočem dvomiti, dvom res ni v moji naravi. A zdi se mi, da je moje telo, da so tudi drevesa neke vrste iluzija – tu so zato, da ostajam zaposlena. Mogoče… mogoče živim v Oblaku.

Jana Putrle Srdić has published four poetry collections, a short novel, short stories, essays, and articles on emerging art. Her poetry was shortlisted for the national Slovenian awards three times, published in West Branch, Fourteen Hills and Tupelo Quarterly among others, and selected for Ten Books from Slovenia three times. Her books are available in multiple translations, and she’s read her works globally, from South America to US, Canada, and Europe. Her queer novel Across the Plain Beneath the Sky is forthcoming in Spanish (Gog y Magog, 2025) and English (Generous Press, 2026). janaputrlesrdic.eu

Sue Vickerman‘s sixth poetry collection will be published by Broken Sleep Books in 2025. She has published four works of fiction and edits for Naked Eye Publishing (UK). Her poems, translations, and articles have appeared in The Rialto, The Guardian, TES, Poetry Review, Oxford Poetry, The Stockholm Review, The Shanghai Review, nomansland, The Los Angeles Review, Trafika Europe, and Metamorphoses. Her translated works include Twenty Poems by Kathrin Schmidt (Arc Publications, 2020) and It’s Over. Don’t Go There. Short Stories by Kathrin Schmidt (Naked Eye Publishing, 2021). suevickerman.uk

25 September 2025