Under The Oak Tree Amazon Novels & Stories

The bracket was redirected — she could see that even in the dark, even in the storm, the downspout angled away from the foundation the way he had described — so he had finished, he had done what he came to do, which meant he should have been inside already, which meant — Where is he. She turned. And then she heard it. Not over the storm. Under it. The kind of sound that bypassed the ears and went straight to the spine — a deep structural crack that she felt in the soles of her feet and the base of her skull simultaneously, the sound of something enormous making an irreversible decision. She turned toward the forest edge. She saw the oak move. Eighty feet of tree and the root ball had let go

“He hasn’t released me.” “He will.” The certainty in her tone leaves no room for doubt. “What if he never does?” Her head tilts slightly. “He will.” Silence hums between us. “Where?...Where can i find you?” I ask. The clearing shifts. The trees blur and rearrange. The vision expands outward like a map unfurling. I see forest stretching westward denser, darker. A narrow trail barely visible beneath overgrowth. A river cutting through stone. Then a massive oak tree. Its trunk is split clean down the center, blackened along the jagged seam as if lightning once struck it from sky to root. The top half leans precariously but still lives, branches heavy with leaves.

“The tree stands as a human being, in other words, it explains the inner self of a person, the part which wants to remain hidden. You must have noticed the strong branches and the frail barks in the body. It means the strong branches are our outer self, that we use in our every day to day lives, to show others. But the barks, they are frail and rotting away, because of all the effort it goes through to hold the branches ahead. We never know, but the fake self that we display to the outside world, often ruins who we are in the inside, so that’s what this means. And the leaves? They just play the part to make it look more triggering.” I nod and turn pages after page. Half the book is taken ov

"He was stubborn. He was loud. He took up space. He did not die easily. He was not supposed to die at all." Damon stood up. "Come on." "Where are we going." "To the nursery. We are buying an oak tree." --- The nursery was crowded. Even on a Tuesday. Even in the fall. People buying mums and pumpkins and bags of soil. Damon walked to the back. Found the trees. "Oak," he said to the man behind the counter. "What kind." "The kind that lasts." The man looked at him. Looked at me. Did not ask questions.

As soon as the car stopped rolling, Dominic gave Leesa a quick thumbs up—the signal they had agreed on that she should proceed as planned. She grabbed the ivory box from her bag and got out of the car. After waiting for a truck to flash by, she hurried across the road and found the spot Dominic had described to her. The old oak tree—almost twice as thick as any of its neighbors—was just barely visible from the highway. Its gnarled branches spread wide in every direction, and Leesa could imagine the huge canopy of shade they would provide when the leaves grew back. She imagined the tree had probably been left standing sometime far back in the past while its neighbors were felled for lumber an

He offered his wide hand, “Let me help you.” “I can help myself.” I stood, and shook off the dirt off my skirt. He just shrugged, “Okay.” He continued and went under the oak. It was only a bit higher than Gabriel, but taller for me that I was able to raise my head high and see its perfect oddity. Its shrunken trunk and all that was connected to it had perfect shade of homey brown and its foliage was thick, but there were spaces that allowed rays of sunshine to pass through it.

The trunk snaps in the middle with a loud boom, the top half crashing into the dirt. Then, the air changes. A strange pulse vibrates through the mud. It feels like a heavy heartbeat throwing a wave through the entire forest floor. The water in the creek stops flowing downward. It begins to lift, tiny silver droplets floating up into the air toward the canopy. The ground beneath my paws rumbles. The roots of the giant trees groan, bending and twisting as if they are made of soft wax instead of old wood. The oak tree holding Betty begins to lean, its top branches dipping low toward the ground. She is clinging to the bark, her body shaking violently.

[So as I was saying, those oak trees were capable of predicting the future. Nero gave his master a side glance to check if she had any plans to interrupt him again. It was only when he confirmed that Audrey was already behaving like a good child, did he went on telling his story again. By that time, only the sound of Nero' soft meowing, as well as the sound made by the turning of the pages of the book, could be heard in the library. "MEOW... MEOW... MEOW... MEOW.." [One day, one of the talking oak trees saw that one from my race, the antediluvian cats, will going to bring utter distraction to the world by releasing all the creatures of the dark from their restriction.]

Most striking is the tree's response—its leaves shiver and rustle though no wind stirs them, branches bending subtly toward Maris as if straining to hear her better. I pause at the clearing's edge, unsure whether to interrupt what appears to be a private communion. But as I watch, thin tendrils of golden energy flow from the tree into Maris's palms, spiraling up her arms like living vines before disappearing beneath her skin. The sight is both beautiful and unsettling. Before I can retreat, Maris speaks without turning. "The oak remembers when this land was ocean floor." Her voice carries easily across the clearing. "Its roots touch water that hasn't seen sunlight in ten thousand years."