It had taken Robyn several months, but she finally gave in; the ancient oak had to go.
Since she was a girl, it had always stood watch.
Silent, unbent, unyielding.
Time stripped it of leaves long ago, its branches naked and swaying overhead, groaning with the breeze.
What little remained, anyway. Winter had brought many crashing down.
She placed her wrinkled hand on the withered bark. How many years had it been?
Hollow shells of cicadas clung to its trunk, long since moved on.
Robyn picked one off and cradled it in the palm of her hand.
“Goodbye, old friend.”
Hey, thanks for reading!
Drabble is a type of microfiction in which stories are 100 words--no more, no less. This story was based on a single randomly generated word. My plan is to revise this story according to any feedback it receives, then put together a writer's note documenting the process and publish it along with 29 other stories in a collection.
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Until next time…
- Josh
My current thinking: This is a very sensitive story. Robyn feels the connection with the shell of the cicada and the husk of the tree. This is her story. It is the last “old friend”, the cradling of the cicada shell, the hand on the trunk of what was once a flourishing tree that tells me this. It’s not Josh, telling me he believes old people in general become shells of the people they were. No, it’s the character, Robyn, feeling the kinship. The kinship of the trio is powerful.
What will she do now?
As usual, I find myself reading and rereading. Considering, reconsidering, connecting.