another story along the same lines as https://aviewfromacarpark.wordpress.com/2008/09/03/rope-trick/ but shorter.
The tree-dwellers noticed him arrive, and observed the newcomer with suspicious eyes from their leafy abodes, high in the temperate, ochre canopy of the old forest. They saw him before he had arrived, also, treading a determined, if not somewhat stumbling path away from the cities to the west. He wore synthetic fibres to keep out the north-easterly winds that were kicking about the forest floor, throwing leaves and deciduous debris up against the knotted yews that creaked and kissed each other’s fingertips above. The stranger carried a bag with him. He had the ability to make fire; he heated water above a tiny contained furnace, and drank not from his hands, but from delicate, white cups he hooked around a belt on his waist. The tree-dwellers saw him construct a rudimentary shelter on the forest floor, hacking away at the young yews to bend and tie a frame on which he rested the saplings, and leaves, and a shiny blue skein of another man-made material which whipped and curled around his flustered face as he tried to hammer it into the soft, peaty soil. The stranger spoke into a box he held in his right hand.
“Day one,” he said. “Today, I have escaped the trappings of material life to live in the forests, alone, where no other man lives or walks. I shall become one with the soil, and learn to listen to the whispering voice of the roots that tangle beneath my feet. I shall escape my life, here, beneath the dancing of a million, sun-soaked leaves. I am of the same blood of the great European woodsmen, my ancestors, who needed not automobile or telephone, who knew nothing of social networking websites, wrap-around sunglasses or revolving doors.”
The people of the boughs far above his head gathered closely to watch, with mournful eyes, what they had seen in silence many times before. Within forty-eight hours, the stranger had laid a path of cut flint through the trees towards the river bank that lay frothing with soaps and detergents. He had made eighteen different tools with which to kill, and the tools lay bloodied around the entrance to the hut that had sunk into the soil, tilted and stilted from several attempts to maintain some straight lines. Carcasses of four different animals crawled with blowfly, as only the flank meat had been removed while the rest was left for the air to weep on. The remains of many fires spluttered and spread around the forest floor, catching onto the ravaged young trees that had been trampled and thrashed around the site. The tree-dwellers watched the stranger sit, place his head in his bloodied hands, and then stand up to walk back the way he had came, a north-easterly breeze spinning ashes around his freezing legs.