The Ribbon Tree

By Leah Cutter

Oneia wakes to the sound of weeping.

She discovers that the maple tree in her tiny backyard is responsible for all that racket.

But what can she do to ease the tree's sadness?

A charming tale of magic realism and chasing dreams.

Originally published in: "Fiction River: Haunted".

Be sure to read the prequel to this story, "A Box of Taels."

• Language: English
• Publisher: Knotted Road Press
• Release date: Sep 21, 2017
• ISBN: 9781386311874

Leah Cutter

Leah Cutter--a Crawford Award Finalist--writes page-turning fiction in exotic locations, such as New Orleans, ancient China, the Oregon coast, ancient Japan, rual Kentucky, Seattle, Minneapolis, Budapest, etc.  Find more fiction by Leah Cutter at www.KnottedRoadPress.com. Follow her blog at www.LeahCutter.com.

Book preview

The Ribbon Tree

The

Ribbon

Tree

Leah R Cutter

Knotted Road Press

Contents

The Ribbon Tree

About the Author

Also by Leah R Cutter

The

Ribbon

Tree

Oneia woke to the sound of weeping .

Her ancient quilt held her in her bed, its welcome weight comforting in the chilly San Francisco morning. Red, blue, green, and gold ribbons held the faded squares together—ribbons from her children, her grandchildren, her numerous birthdays, even one wide, yellow ribbon from her own, now long-deceased mother.

Oneia cautiously snuck one hand outside the quilt so she could trace the smooth satin of the ribbons with her fingers while she tried to figure out where the noise was coming from. It was an old habit of hers, and why she’d had to replace the ribbons more

than

once

.

The weeping wasn’t coming from her tiny room, with its beautiful white wallpaper that had hummingbirds and blueberries dotted across it. Her iron-framed bed took up most of the space, along with the carved chest-of-drawers that still smelled of cedar that her father had given her oh-so-long ago. A large window took up much of the wall to her right. The seat cushions under the window were frayed, and the pillows needed darning. Maybe this winter she’d find her darning egg and fix the corners, add more lavender to the cushion stuffing.

She listened closely, holding her breath.

The weeping came from outside, beyond the window, from her postage-stamp-sized backyard. The sound filled her with a sadness she hadn’t felt for a decade