This story was prompted by the photo of Deep South Writer who shared it in my free subscriber chat for any and all to take part. I recommend checking out Deep South Writer, they’re new on Substack, but have a great style and a kind hearted honesty to their writing.
This story was written originally with a specific structure to create a certain effect while reading it. If you wish to read this story in its original form for free please follow the link below:
https://sincerelyseb.substack.com/p/the-old-fig-tree
-
They’re coming at last.
Oh no they’re coming
Someone’s coming!
Oh my God!
Not again!
My Betsy was chosen to pick the fruit!
I don’t who this girl is but she’s got a ladder
Every Sunday.
Every Sunday
Every Sunday
I can’t do this anymore!
Every Sunday.
Another Sunday morning of horror
Every single Sunday they come with the rising of the sun.
She’s going to take one of us
I hope it’s not me
Not me!
Please don’t pick me, Betsy
I hope it’s not me
Please don’t be me
Not me please
I can’t wait for one of these damned, wailing voices to go.
She has a ladder, it could be any one of us
I wish I could hide further up
I wish I could dodge her hands
Damn, she has a ladder I’m still not safe
Why has this happened to me?
I’m not safe yet
Even though it’s only one, one less voice is a blessing when your trunk is echoing with foreign thoughts. They all stop for a moment once the chosen one is taken.
Here she comes
Here she comes!
She’s so close
Why every Sunday, WHY?
It didn’t used to be like this, before they buried bodies beneath my roots I had nothing but peace and quiet. I didn’t know how good I had it.
The ladder is in position
It won’t be me
Not me, please!
It won’t be me, thank God, that’s the wrong side
It could be me
The ladder’s on the other side of the tree thank God
Oh God please no
But then the first was laid to rest and a few weeks later, the voice came. It blundered into my thoughts and spoke over me. It was exhausting just to stay sane.
She’s standing on the first rung of the ladder
She won’t be able to reach over here, I’m saved!
She’s coming right towards me!
She’s too small to reach me
Guess I get another week!
Betsy, please don’t pick me
Then I spawned this hellish fruit, that wore the face of the dead one. The humans didn’t seem to notice. They buried another, and another. The bodies just kept coming. The thoughts become a cacophony, and the horrid fruits filled my branches.
She’s on the second rung
Oh sweet Jesus, she’s coming
It could still be me
Please don’t be me
Ha! Thank heavens, good luck suckers!
I wonder who it will be
I guess it’s my fault for sucking on the corpses, but I didn’t know what was happening at first. By the time I did it was too late. The consequences were unavoidable. The more bodies they buried, the harder it was to avoid them.
It looks like she’s going to old Bill
She seems dead set on Bill
Thank goodness she took another step
She’s on the third rung!
Oh thank God she’s passed me
That’s right, reach right up there, ignore us down here
They echo in my trunk like rambling lunatics. Their incessant whining, their eternal worries. I can feel their emotions resonating through my being. Poisoning my life with their selfish, ignorant thinking.
She’s on the fourth rung I’m saved!
Another day of life!
She’s not looking this way
Thank goodness she’s passed me now
No Betsy, it’s me! Don’t you recognize you’re old Grand-pa?
I look forward to Sunday because they come for the fruit. Some ritual they have, where someone is chosen to pick a fig for their ceremony. And one of the voices is silenced. Thankfully forever.
The rest shut up for a little, not out of any decency mind you. And still, it’s just a little, but that’s all I get these days.
I’ll live to see next Sunday!
I can’t take another week of this
I wonder what happens to the ones they take?
She’s reaching passed me!
I’m grateful for what I get. It’s not much, but it’s something. A single moment where I don’t have to fight just to hear myself think. Where I don’t struggle just to remember who I am. Once a week, but it’s worth it when you consider the alternative.
She’s going for Old Bill!
It’s about time someone took Bill, good riddance
I can look forward to each day knowing I’m safe this week
Not me!
Another week!
It’s not me!
Not me!
NO BETSY, PLEASE!
.
.
.
There it is.
.
That blessed silence.
.
I can feel the consciousness depart when it’s severed from my mind.
It’s such a soothing sensation.
They can all feel it too. Maybe it doesn’t feel as nice for them.
But in their abject horror they are finally quieted. I only get a few minutes.
.
But my goodness, these are the best minutes of my week.
I wish they would just pick all of the cursed figs and leave me be.
Sadly the bodies keep coming, some sort of plague. And with each new burial, another distressed voice invades my mind.
(Photo credit: Deep South Writer )
-
Hey there! Seb here! I just wanted to thank you for choosing to spend your time reading my work. I’m so grateful that you chose to come on this journey with me and I hope it has prompted some fun questions for you to enjoy thinking about in the future.
Thank you.
If you enjoyed that, check out my Substack for more stories: https://sincerelyseb.substack.com/