Under The Oak Tree 272 Novels & Stories

--- I told Damon about the tree. He was in the study. Reading something on his computer. He looked up when I walked in. "A tree?" "A tree. For Sam. In the garden." "What kind." "I do not know. Something that will last. Something that will not die." He thought about it. "Oak." "Oak?" "Oaks live for hundreds of years. They grow slow. They get big. They do not die easily." "That sounds like Sam." "How." "He was stubborn. He was loud. He took up space. He did not die easily. He was not supposed to die at all."

She was smiling at him from the surface of the water. *“Don't just stand there, Rowan,”* her voice whispered in the wind. *“The world is waiting.”* Rowan looked up. A hundred miles away, in the center of the new world, a single, massive oak tree stood. It wasn't made of marble or silver. It was made of wood and leaf. And carved into the trunk, high enough for everyone to see, was a single word. **[START]** But as Rowan turned to join the others, he felt something cold in his pocket.

My body betrayed me with a warm ache between my thighs. 'Alright,' I said finally, voice steadier than I felt. 'But where? Right here on the road?' 'Nah, too exposed.' He jerked his head toward the woods. 'Follow me.' We trudged into the trees, branches snagging at my jeans, the ground soft and muddy underfoot. Moonlight filtered through the canopy in silver slivers, casting shadows that danced like secrets. He stopped maybe fifty yards in, by a massive oak, its trunk wide and gnarled. The air was thicker here, alive with the scent of wet earth and pine. Far enough from the road that no one would hear...or care.

I climb off her back and thank her for giving me a ride here. “Are you staying?” I ask but she is already on her way back to the castle. That’s strange, why was she in a rush? Turning I see an enormous tree. It looked to be an old weeping cherry tree in full bloom with its pink spring flowers. The moon illuminated the bright colors and magical fireflies flew all about. There looked to be lighting coming from the center where the trunk of the tree should be. I stepped forward and moved a flower branch to the side so I could walk under the tree. I continued until I found the tree trunk. Lanterns were carefully placed all around underneath the weeping canopy. It’s simply breathtaking. I was so

The sun beat down hard, urging them toward the wide patch of shade cast by a sprawling oak tree at the edge of the grounds. “Jesus, Lila. How can you be fine staying with someone like that? He looks so terrifying, and I still haven’t gotten his cold face out of my mind. Jeez,” Tessa said, shaking her head as they both sat on the backless bench under the tree. Lila chuckled. “I told you, didn’t I?” she said, lifting her cup of iced coffee and taking a sip.

They walked in comfortable silence, the only sound being the rustling of leaves and the soft creaking of tree branches. Meanwhile, under the sprawling oak tree near the soccer field, Tyler's friends huddled closer, their voices barely above a whisper as they planned their next move. The darkness seemed to amplify their intentions, casting long shadows that stretched like grasping fingers. The tree's branches loomed above them, its leaves rustling ominously in the wind.

The oak tree loomed over us all, an ancient monarch shivering on its last morning. Talon fired up the chainsaw again and pushed it into the wound. The blade screamed. Chips and dust flew at him, clinging to the sweat on his arms and face. Jake crouched at a careful distance, reading the fractures where the trunk was splitting. His voice was urgent — “Angle it! You’re veering right!” — and Talon corrected, sweat running in sheets down the back of his neck. The saw chewed deeper, and a shudder ran through the trunk. The leaves above began to rattle. In the hush between engine bursts, I noticed Mike seemed to be breathing hard — short, sharp, rapid. Was he crying? Or was his chest just hitching

" He reached into his rags and pulled out a handful of dust. It wasn't gray dust. It was red. Rust-colored. He blew it up the shaft. "Go," he whispered. "Blight the roots. Starve the Stone." THE BLIGHT MAYA’S P.O.V. I sat in the branches of the Great Oak the Martha Tree on the porch of the farmhouse ruins (now a shrine in the middle of the city). I was listening to the roots. Usually, the roots sang. They hummed with water and nitrogen and life. Tonight, they were screaming. Thirst. Thirst. Thirst.

he backed up and took hold of my hand to lead me away. We left the concentration of tents and came to a lonely old oak tree seated in a field. It cast a perfect amount of shade and the wind blowing softly kept the heat from the still rising sun from making it too uncomfortable. The wind, I sighed feeling the light breeze against my skin. It was offering me a comfort beyond compare. It was calling to me to just accept that it could carry me away from all my troubles and I could have taken it up on that freedom if it wasn’t for the two figures sitting at a small table beneath the tree.

Thorne: It had been five years since the death of his mom and abduction of his mate, and just as he had spent every evening since her funeral, Thorne stood before at the tree planted where his mother was buried, in her honor. The tree, a sturdy silver oak, stands tall and proud, its bark shimmering with a soft, ethereal glow. Despite being only five years old, it has grown remarkably fast, its branches stretching towards the sky like outstretched arms, providing a canopy of shade and comfort. The leaves, a vibrant green, rustle softly in the breeze, releasing a gentle whisper of wisdom and peace.