Treespirit [Flash Fiction]
The trembling aspen watched from a distance as the sharp teeth of a chainsaw cut cruelly into the weathered bark of the old sycamore. Trunk was reduced to stump; branches, to twigs. Sawdust bled onto bare ground before being borne away by the cold caress of winter zephyrs. Nearby, grey smoke puffed out from the chimney of the cabin, curling towards the heavens, and the aspen knew the time would soon come for its own spirit to dance on the east wind.
I went in the opposite direction to James, and saw something grim in the fallen tree. You can read other stories for the prompt by clicking the frog. The picture is copyrighted to Rochelle Wisoff-Field.