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Writing Resources from Fifteen Minutes of Fiction

The following is a piece of writing submitted by AlaskaEverfall on October 12, 2012
"Quite possibly my weakest story. :P"

Long Life Span

My branches feel week. The leaves hanging from every part of me are ripped, shredded. Humans gather around, taking photographs of this sight.

All I want to do is go home. Home to my plant-family and where the sun shines, and my branches engulf under the pleasurable rays. The birds fight over my elegant arms, and start their own family. I watch their generations pass by.

Some of these animals stop to speak to me.

"How're you going, tree?"

"Good," I'd reply in my deep voice. "Have a wonderful day."

"You too!"

Alas, everything was perfect.

Now, as I recall the last few days of my life, I can't help comparing these generations of animals. It seems there's less of every species. No longer do animals have to fight over my branches; in fact, I always have several extras.

It confuses me. The species haven't changed. So what could possibly be the cause?

The last thing flashing in front of me is a man with an axe. In a daze, I fall to the ground. My roots are ripped from the ground. For the first time, my eyes remain on the ground below, where the sun never shines.

All my 4,000 years, I've been up in the clouds. The beautiful sun, the endless showers and the first breakage of spring. It was, in two words, peaceful bliss. Never have I witnessed just how tranquil, quiet the ground below is.

A deer lies on the ground, side-on with a bullet in its leg. Blood pours out of the wound. Several birds lie beside the deer, and the beautiful peacocks I've always admired so much have darts stuck into them.

I feel sick. What is this? How did this happen?

"Where are we gonna sell the peacocks?" says a man with a beard and gruff voice. "I reckon that small shop in the corner of Henry Street? They're always in need of peacock feathers."

"Depends. If we get a good load for it, maybe. We can always sell it on eBay," says a woman with feminine features but masculine thighs.

"Righto. The deer's skin's valuable, so there's no denying how much we'll be getting."

"We'll be rich," says the woman, her eyes in sly slits. "Oh, and dispose of the birds. They're of no use: I thought they were a rare species or something."

"Done," says the man.

My heart sinks as he dumps the lifeless corpses in the bin. So much has changed, I realise. And nothing for the better.

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