Part 3 of my serial story. Probably one more to go.
Matthew stared at the second less than impressive tree in as many days. This time just a stump with a new sprout. It didn’t explain anything. He sat down on the stump and thumbed through the pages of his father’s journal. Flicking past leaf after leaf, each covered in spindly lettering spelling out stories from all across the world. This must have been one of the trees the storytellers had got their leaves from. Perhaps all the storytellers had been wiped out on cocktail night. Matthew knew the story well, his father had constantly reminded him of his role as a scientist during the water restricted years.
freyawrightbrough 