Under The Oak Tree

• Deves Manoji, Grade 6
• Short Story
• 2021

‘Twas was the night, twilight it was. He was there. The door creaked as it languidly opened, revealing an old man. As he opened the door, glass shattered, and there was blood on the floor. The man turned around and realised he had murdered an innocent living thing. He stood as still as a stone. They had been together for years; how could it end this way?
“Don’t leave me, buddy, you promised me so!” the old man cried, but he knew it was too late.
He headed to the garden shed whilst carrying a heavy spade that glistened in the light of the sun's faint first rays and the last ray of the moon. On the other hand, he grasped the bag containing the lifeless body. Carefully, the old man stepped out of the door and trudged gloomily down the path with his eyes fixed firmly on the alley in the cemetery. He placed the bag on the ground under a gloomy oak tree in the cemetery and started to dig a grave.
All around the old man, life was sadder than usual. Depression was in the air. There were whispers and cries as for the old man’s misery. Things would be normal soon. There was a cold breeze that evolved to a zephyr. Cars raced on the road. The street lights flickered.
Finally, the grieving man stabbed the fertile soil beside him and let out a groan of both sorrow and pity. Now, the grave was complete. The time had come to lay the lifeless body in its final resting place. He grabbed the bag from the ground and placed it near the grave. He took the body and placed it in the pitiful grave. The back of his trouser was dirty from the soil, and his knees were in pain from the gravel jabbing into his soft flesh and bone. He was in pain, rather than the wound but rather the death of a friend. The old man had to use the muddy wooden spade to lift himself off the ground.
Looking down at his watch, he realised he needed to hurry up. With sharp strokes of the spade, he refilled the grave to the very top. The old man finished the task by briskly patting down the surface.
Stepping back and looking over the scene, a silent tear threatened to spill over his eyelashes. It was time; he knew it was, the time, the day his friend was born. “Do me a favour, do well in your next life.” The two of them had been through so much together, but he knew it was time to depart and enter two different ways. He bought a headstone and a chisel too. He hand-carved the words with blood and care ‘Rest In Peace: Gilbert the Goldfish’.
“Goodbye, old friend, goodbye,” he muttered under his breath. He placed the stone in front of the grave and headed home without turning back.