Creative Writers Club

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&lt;WRAP > <em>&lt;WRAP right size-medium wp-image-232  ><a href="/lib/exe/detail.php?id=cwc%3Athe-oak&media=cwc:fnoak-300x225.jpeg" class="media" title="cwc:fnoak-300x225.jpeg"><img src="/lib/exe/fetch.php?w=300&h=225&tok=abfb6b&media=cwc:fnoak-300x225.jpeg" class="media" title="fnoak-300x225.jpeg" alt="fnoak-300x225.jpeg" width="300" height="225" /></a>&lt;/WRAP>
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&lt;WRAP >It was 400 minutes past November. The sun dangled in the freezing sky like a ripe onion peering through slicked thin clouds of smeared grease. The forest leaves crunched underfoot but the air was deathly still. Even the birds were quiet.&lt;/WRAP>
&lt;WRAP >He stepped lightly into his trusty Lagonda, flicked the switch, revved the engine and broke the magic spell as he pointed his vehicle back in the direction of civilisation, dropped the clutch and drenched the engine in fuel.&lt;/WRAP>
&lt;WRAP >As he sped away, back in the forest, all fell again to stillness. All was cold except in one patch where the leaves had been disturbed, and a fading warmth from below dismissed the frosty dew. The patch was a few feet from the old oak where he and Angelo had played as children, long past their teatime, worrying their parents to death.&lt;/WRAP>
&lt;WRAP >They were happy days. They had been like brothers even though their families had come from opposite ends of the world. Their difference from the natives of this island had driven them together and they had found solace and support in each others company as they struggled to adapt to their new home.&lt;/WRAP>
&lt;WRAP >It was strange how these two young boys had chosen an oak to play in, of all the trees in the forest, the most British. Perhaps there was a significance in that, but perhaps, in those days at least, they were ignorant to the significance of this tree on the alien British psyche.&lt;/WRAP>
&lt;WRAP >Around the tree, the swirling vibrations of a history of youthful exuberance faltered, and with a deeply sad shudder the tree shed its last few remaining leaves, which fluttered to the ground and caressed the shallow grave.&lt;/WRAP>
&lt;WRAP >Two weeks earlier, there was no sign that this tragedy would unfold. Although their lives had grown quite separate, they had always kept in touch, kept their childhood friendship alive and swapped notes about the various prejudices they had overcome.&lt;/WRAP>
&lt;WRAP >There was no doubt about it Yusef was angry, and he was taking out his anger on the throttle pedal of his car, weaving its mighty hulk around obstacles both inanimate and animate and scaring them in equal measure. There was a point where he even left a large stone shaking.&lt;/WRAP>
&lt;WRAP >As he re-entered the town he was confronted by a traffic jam and was rapidly trapped within it. His anger turned to boiling frustration.&lt;/WRAP>
&lt;WRAP >Yusef was angry because Angelo had been deported 3 days before, the same day Jem, the golden retriever that owned both of them, had died. As a result he had to bury their beloved Jem under the oak tree they both loved without his dearest friend, Angelo, by his side.&lt;/WRAP>
&lt;WRAP >As he sat in amongst the traffic, he started to sob.&lt;/WRAP>
&lt;WRAP > <em>A short story by Chris Jeffries.</em> &lt;/WRAP>
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Authored by: writeradmin;  Last updated: 2018-06-23T23:24:36(UTC)
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