Sunday, March 13, 2011


A green-skinned woman clung to the wooden post. Overhead, the sign read, "Sycamore Lane."

"You know that's not a real sycamore tree, right?" said Donny.

The dryad turned nut-brown eyes to him. She nodded.

"Don't you gotta live in a tree?"

Another nod.

Donny scratched his head. "So how come you're here?" The dryad turned to look down the street. Donny followed her gaze. "My house is the fourth one down," he said.

"I am the last," said the dryad, not turning around. "The others... did you not wonder at the name of your street? This is our only memorial."


The Words Crafter said...

Oh, how very sad! And beautifully haunting!

Scattercat said...

I remember hearing a joke a ways back about how suburbs were places where "they cut down all the trees and then name the streets after them."