friday flash fiction

Hey, all

here's a micro tale of love and sadness for friday.

Willow

There was once a girl who lived in the forest with her mother and father. One day the mother died and the father buried her in the garden near the stream, where she grew into a beautiful willow tree. Although the daughter was sad that her mother had died, she loved to go and sit under the tree and remember her.
Eventually the father married again, but it was not to a nice woman. It was not that the woman was wicked: there was just something missing in her brain. When the father was at home, she treated the girl well. When the father was away, she treated the girl cruelly.
One summer’s morning the father told his family that he had to go away for work, and would not be back for some days. The woman kissed him goodbye. The girl kissed him goodbye and held on tight and tight.
Once the man had gone, the woman locked the girl in her room. The girl did not mind. All her toys were in there, and the sun dappled in through the window. She sang softly as she played. The noise of the girl’s happiness was like toothache to the woman, so she took the girl’s toys away, and locked the door.
The girl did not mind. In her room was a bed and a chair, and so she pretended one was a ship and one was an island. As she played, the sun dappled in through the window, and the girl sang softly. The noise of the girl’s happiness was like toothache to the woman, so she took the girl’s furniture away, and locked the door.
The girl tried hard not to mind. As she sat on the floor of her empty room she saw that the sun was still dappling through the open window. If she held her hands in a certain way she found she could make butterfly shadows on the wall. If she moved her hands this way and that she could make the butterflies dance. She began to hum softly. The noise of the girl’s happiness was like toothache to the woman, so she got a cleaver, and took the girl’s hands away, and locked the door.
Weeping, the girl climbed out of the window and ran to her mother. Wrapping her arms around her soft trunk she wept and wept until she died.
But if ever you were to play under them, under the weeping willow, you would hear them singing.