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202 Words
Thin, spindly, mean looking pine trees stood as far from each other as they could. Each of them noxious, their bark sloughing off of the trunks, the rot and sap oozing and bubbling like puss.
They leered down towards the forest below, their knots and scars like heavy lidded scowls of discontent. Exasperated,the trees were grouped because nothing could grow from the poisoned earth between them.
The farmer, emaciated, stumbling, pulled his ax behind him like a stubborn puppy. It’s pingy bark called out each time it bounced off rocks and fallen logs. His pale face reflected the sun as though it were glass. The trees squinted against the intruder’s glow.
One season in this land, and the ground refused to yield to his soft hands. Now, wood was needed.
“I’ll be cold, but have money.” His blood had been spilled for less, so the farmer trudged into the venomous glen. He’d convinced himself the tree was dead, already seasoned and full of sap that would burn easily.
Its blood pouring freely from the ax's teeth, the tree screamed, snap
ping itself off at the waist, its open eyes meeting the farmer’s before embedding them both into the rotten loam.
- Writer
