Poor Tree
A Story of Private Revenge
The empty branches made no sound in the breeze. They hadn’t shed leaves in over three decades. Each summer I visit this place where, as teenagers, we experienced passion for the first time under the shade of the leaves. I touch the now diseased trunk and whisper an apology each time I come, before I sit down and let the copper nails he used scratch my back through my shirt. It wasn’t the tree’s fault. It was mine. I was the one who cheated. But you don’t go to prison for exacting revenge on a tree.
About the Creator
Lacey Dearie
Indie author 📚 Blogger 💻 Humanities student 👩🏻🎓 Editor of the 27th best blog in Scotland apparently 🏆 Unapologetic daydreamer 😑 Natural introvert/selective extrovert 💃🏻 Member of the Cat Writers Association 🐈⬛
Find me on Komi
Reader insights
Outstanding
Excellent work. Looking forward to reading more!
Top insights
Excellent storytelling
Original narrative & well developed characters
Heartfelt and relatable
The story invoked strong personal emotions
Compelling and original writing
Creative use of language & vocab
Keep reading
More stories from Lacey Dearie and writers in Fiction and other communities.
The Queue
I'm not sure how it's possible, but my hands feel even dirtier after I've washed them. I always feel this way after using that sink. I dry them and once I get downstairs, I reach for the hand sanitizer that we keep on the counter. It's supposed to be for customers of the bank, but we also use it since our job is to handle cash. I turn to Jean. She's busy balancing her till, but looks over at me, raises her eyebrows and gives me one of those close-lipped smiles that tells me she knows exactly what I'm thinking right now - that we need a new cleaner. I open the email software and bash an angry email to the boss requesting a meeting. Somebody needs to speak to him about this.
By Lacey Dearieabout a year ago in Fiction
Black Marks
Cities never sleep. Not really. Even in the dead of night, parts of them are still fitful and awake. Junkies prowl the back alleys, looking for a score, or a mark. Red light clubs run like bad dreams, their flashing lights and pulsing sound systems melting everything into surreal nightmares. 24-hour grease spots waft their smoke into the air, and the trains run, and run, and run. Cities are predators, and like all the most dangerous creatures, even when they look like they’re sleeping, all it takes is one wrong move for them to eat you alive.
By Neal Litherland6 days ago in Fiction
Comments (3)
This was great...sad, but well written!
Nice ❤️💯‼️
Fantastic story!