The Hobbit’s Tree

This is part of Free Write Friday Prompt

Her eyes looking at the opening of the tree, the rounded edges, the dark circle as the opening, the trunk not straight up and down, but swirling of sorts as it went high the sky, the branches long and thick, leaves as big as a sheet of paper. She walks slowly toward the tree, her eyes darting around, pulling in all the light, colors and her ears trapping the sounds. Her feet soft, and cold against the rocks below her, the smell of rain, not close enough to feel the mist, but the humidity was on the rise.
She stopped quickly about the second rock from the entrance, her eyes locking with his, “are you sure about this, how do I know you’re real? Do you live here?”, she asks him, her fingers outlining the bark on the tree. He grabs her hand as he holds her still, with one swift movement he steps one rock closer to the tree, the darkness of the entrance casting a shadow over his shoulder, he says, “For I am the one that lives here, why would I ever lie to you. You are a lot bigger than myself.”
She smirks as she looks down at him: his ears are pointed, his eyes bigger than any normal person, his hands are small, but aged, clothes smelt of mold and slightly hung off his shoulder, his hair danced in front of his face, the shade of an orange sunset. She sighs, “I can trust you?” He pulls her into the darkness of the entrance before he answered.
She tightens the grip of his hand, holding herself still, her eyes adjusting quickly to the light. The room is huge, candles darting up the walls, flames dancing shadows, mirrors scattered throughout, she steps to the side. She notices a piece of furniture with a picture frame sitting on top, picking up the picture she noticed the frame was probably handmade, branches as the trim, some kind of string at the ends, holding it together, wax melted at the corners, her eyes go back to the furniture, it wasn’t quite level, one leg longer than the others, her thumb brushes over the picture as her eyes go back toward the frame. “who is this”, she holds the picture out, but down a bit so he could see. He clears his throat, “Oh, well, that is my brother, he was a normal kid”

He talked about his brother for hours it seemed, his eyes lighting up as he remembered the memories of him. We never talked again after that day, the tree is no longer where I remember it, not even the rocks that led up to the entrance.

 

 

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4 Comments

  1. Your writing style is one that paints vivid pictures of each scene. Subtle things that bring the story to life. I enjoyed this little tale!

    Reply
  2. wow! I adore this piece! You have such an impeccable way with imagery that is so dreamy! I especially love this part: “She smirks as she looks down at him: his ears are pointed, his eyes bigger than any normal person, his hands are small, but aged, clothes smelt of mold and slightly hung off his shoulder, his hair danced in front of his face, the shade of an orange sunset. She sighs, “I can trust you?” ” Just lovely! Thanks so much for writing for FWF! xoxoxox

    Reply
    • Awwe thanks Kellie! I am glad you liked it. I read you comment with all smiles. Thank you so much and you are completely welcome. I had a lot of fun with this prompt

    • My pleasure! Looking forward to having you join us again next week =)

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