(Please vote for the following entry with a Yes or No)In the shadow of the lemon tree He peered through the white wooden shutters of his bedroom window. He could see the corpse of the large black dog hanging from the branches of the old lemon tree. He stared nervously at it’s long ghostly shadow, cast across the sun bleached path, moving as the warm breeze rocked the sagging old beast, the tree’s arms creaking under it’s weight. He stepped back; his feet clammy on the cold stone tiles, his hands trembling as they slammed the shutters closed: to keep out the midday heat, to keep out the death flies, to keep out those shadows fingering their way towards him.
He went into the kitchen and uncorked last nights bottle of red wine. He took a great swig, some of the wine escaping from the corners of his mouth and dribbling down on to his bare chest. On the table: a chunk of bread, a slice of ham, a blunt knife plunged into a grapefruit. These things were familiar, yet the violence of their arrangement: torn, hacked, violated, left an uneasy feeling in his wine stained belly.
The alcohol having calmed his nerves, he stepped outside into the courtyard, under the glare of the hot Mediterranean sun. The pungent smell of the lemons crept up his nose, leaving a bitter taste on his tongue. He took a swig of wine to cleanse his pallet; to calm his thumping heart. Grasping his pocket knife, he cut the the dog free from it’s gallows, its limp body thumping to the dry earth. Six feet below was his father, the dog’s master, his master. Loyal to the last, the dog’s face looked content in death.
He lit a cigarette and watched the smoke arc off into the clear blue sky. With only birdsong in the air, he had finally found peace, away from the shadow of the lemon tree.
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