The Dying Tree

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Mystery and Crime  |  House: Booksie Classic
The Dying tree is a short story about how people enjoy judging other people's books simply by it's cover and not by it's pages.

Submitted: November 03, 2011

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Submitted: November 03, 2011

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It was always there, looking lifeless. Even when the wind blew, it never moved; so sad and so alone. It never once thought to just fall; it just stood; fighting through decades and decades to stand tall. That poor dead tree.

When the little children came out to play, they would run around the broken branches of the dead tree, and sing the nursery songs their mothers and grandmothers taught them. But when the sun falls, the wind grows cold, the owl hoo’s, and creepy crawlers start to appear; the children go home in fear.

Sometimes when the moon is out, the tree would creek as the wind blows by, sending crying whistles to the windows of the children’s room. As they hear the cries of the old broken dead tree, they hide under their covers waiting for it to pass, but it never does; they fall asleep.

There were no stars to shine above the tree, no moon to enlighten it; only the fog with a sweet caress, and the creepy crawlers to keep it company. Nobody loved the old broken dead tree, because it was that; dead.

People tried to tear it down, saw it in the middle, and rock it to the side; whatever they do, that dead broken sadden tree kept standing tall. Nobody understood how or why it went against them to be broken down, so they just left it there.

“Let’s try tomorrow.” They say.

When tomorrow comes, the tree does not budge. They couldn’t understand why something so awful would want to keep living. They spoke to the saddened tree, they promised it promises unkept. The tree ignored their please, and stood even taller. The men who came to take it down turned around as soon as they saw the fog.

“It’ll die. Soon.” Said the elder.

Fall came. Orange, brown, and red leaves falling everywhere. Releasing they’re children, as I say, to the wild of the road. The old tree had nothing to give or to release, so it watched the others go.

Winter approached. Cold, wet, and white; the dead tree loved this season because it wasn’t the only one without it leaves. It was more saddened when no squirrels’ came to nest in its trunk, making a home in the heart of the tree.

It was at the beginning of spring that the people from the village traveled up the mountain to bring down the tree. This time it didn’t hesitate; it was so sad and pitiful looking. There was a little girl among the group, who walked away from the crowd approaching the tree.

“Linna, come back!” her father shouted.

“Wait papa, I want to say goodbye.” The little girl said.

“Why would you want to say goodbye to something that is already dead, Linna?” her uncle asked, curious by the little girls’ will.

“Because everybody deserves a farewell.”

As she said her goodbyes, touching the tree like a pet dog, it trembled under her touch. She gasped, and shouted that it was alive. Nobody believed the little girl. She sobbed, and shouted for them to stop. But the dead tree had already given up.

As they chopped it off, the smell of flowers aroused their nasals. As they approached to take out the roots of that dead awful tree, the old elder gasped, as he counted the rings of the trunk. The tree was older than time itself, and it held beauty within. Everybody left, leaving the roots in the dirt, hoping that it’ll grow again.

But it never did. The dead tree gave no shelter. And no bird sang.


© Copyright 2018 Luna Hades. All rights reserved.

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