The Lullabye Tree

So the sky scrappers went up around the tree as suburbia was swallowed by the city. A reporter stopped by.

“This is the tree?” he asked scornfully, standing well away from it.

“This is the tree,” the worker responded. He and his coworkers had eaten many a lunch in its shade. Even the most stressful days could be washed away by its song. “The Lullabye Tree.”

“Lullabye Tree?”

“Aye,” the worker walked up to it and gave the trunk an affectionate pat “it’ll sing to you, when you need it”. He left the reporter staring up at its branches.

The reporter stared at the tall tree critically. He took out his camera trying to capture it on film. He took pictures of it from every angle. He even road up one of the skyscrapers to capture it from above. But none of them, not a single one, gave the tree any sort of menacing look. Every angle, every picture only portrayed a majestic and inviting Oak tree.

He left in frustration, taking his 200 digital photographs home to his ten thousand dollar computer. He poured over the photographs, manipulating each one, but he could not get the result he was looking for. How could a tree, a tree with so many deaths surrounding it (and he had researched them all) be so resistant to looking menacing.

The next night he found himself staring at the tree. It was the witching hour. The construction was eerily silent amid the city noise. The reporter tried yet again to photograph the tree. A breeze rustled its branches as the reporter eyed it angrily. At last he gave up and sat against its trunk. The breeze blew and he heard the song.

don't you cry
go to sleep my little baby

His eyes could not stay open. He slept until the first piece of construction equipment was started in the morning.


“I heard he used to be a famous Tabloid writer.”
“Oh yes. They used to compete to have him write for them. He could find the dirt on anybody or anything.”
“But he doesn’t now?”
“Nope, they say he spent a night under some named tree and only writes for children’s magazines now.”

The End

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