Hal sighed. Just the one son, and he had to be a weirdo.
“Trees don’t cry, Joe.”
“’Course they do, Dad. What about weeping willows, weeping figs… elm? There’s lots of them.”
“Whatever, it’s good as dead, son,” said Hal, fingering the rust brown sap oozing between the ashy grooves, “rotted so’s it’s damn near hollow up the back there, see?”
“Please don’t chop it down, Dad.”
Hal flexed his shoulders and swung his axe, shaking his head as Joe crashed headlong out of the forest.
Come nightfall, Joe was still missing.
But the Baxter twins weren’t.
Not any longer.
This tree, growing in the coastal village of Kimmeridge a few miles from us, reminded me of a weeping reindeer, with an elongated nose. Thankfully I resisted going down that path – you wouldn’t have enjoyed it. I have used a theme I’ve used before though, bodies hidden in trees. I have a thing about that… 🙂 Thanks to Rochelle for all her hard work – sorry I’ve not been around for a couple of weeks. Inspiration is still in pretty short supply but I think I see a light at the end of the tunnel.