A Collection of Short Stories

The Tree

She knew it was time to send them back. The caterpillars softly wiggled in her hand, spelling out "goodbye." Across the plain stood the old oak tree, mystified by the ominous breeze. Its leaves shook, growing violent against the air. The tree sang a hollow tune, calling for Sammy to come. The caterpillars had gone limp and pale. She could not send them back this way, not when the sun disappeared from the sky. A black hue blanketed the atmosphere; no stars could be seen, only the full moon. The once peaceful tune became a croak, a long, hollow croak. Sammy stepped forward, being pushed by the wind. It was forcing her.

"No!" she cried.

The tree seemed to grow, screeching and groaning as its branches reached to her. Sammy wasn't stepping any longer. Her feet were off the ground. Her legs pulled back. Her arms scrambled in front. She levitated slowly toward the tree. An opening grew. The tree was to consume her. She shrieked. All Sammy could afford to do was bawl. Her echo reached no one. It was just part of the breeze. Her mouth was almost wider than the tree's gap. She could feel the branches wrapping around her. The prickling and roughness only caused her excruciating pain. It gradually seared her. The branches wrenched her into the gap. Teeth-like points germinated from the opening. It pierced her skin, breaking into her. Blood ejected from her torso. Sammy wasn't wailing any longer. She wasn't able to. Her lungs were carved by the teeth before she could let out a last shrill. Her eyes rolled back as she went limp. Her body, a pale ragdoll, resided inside the tree. The opening closed. A low scratching noise rang from inside the tree before a loud crunch. Sammy's flesh tore, similar to that of a mushy beef stew. Her bones snapped like a tree in a windstorm. A wet whine came from her as blood rained on the newly-red grass.

A red waterfall splashed.

"OH MY!" he gasped.

"I'll call a waiter!" she quickly responded.

"Looks like I got some 'blood' on my pants," Greg stewed.

"It's quite the delicious blood, if I do say so myself," Lindy grinned.

Greg looked to the side; a smashed bowl lay. He felt bad. Lindy had brought him out to discuss the possibility of retirement. Though he had been in the detective unit for almost four decades, Greg could not bring himself to leave his coworkers. Lindy was his young boss. Greg himself was in his late fifties while Lindy was at the ripe age of thirty.

"Another tomato basil soup, please," she whispered to a waiter.

Greg excused himself before heading to the bathroom. He patted his pocket and plucked out his phone. The narrow, compact buttons were formidable to press, but after fumbling for a bit, he was able to call his daughter.

"Amy! Could you be a gentlewoman and drop off a fresh pair of pants at Dorsia's?"

A reddish young man meandered into the room and scanned Greg before entering a stall. He smelt of alcohol. Greg, unimpressed, strolled outside to resume his conversation.

"Dad, I'm at my son's soccer game, I can't just leave," Amy urged.

Greg, however, ignored his daughter.

"Thanks sweetie, buh-bye."

Greg snapped the phone shut and slipped it into his pocket. He searched his suit pocket for a pack of cigarettes and opened the box. Inside was one last stick. Greg slid it into his mouth before lighting it. He inhaled sharply before arduously exhaling, which devolved into a cough. Puffs of smoke curled out of his lips, dissipating into the air. Greg overheard a conversation between two men, and he stepped towards them.

"Ah, Gregory! You left full already?" one noticed.

Greg laughed, "No, I just spilled a bit of tomato soup on my pants."