Competition Brief: Write a short story of no more than 300 words inspired by this image of a hollow tree.
Mar 08, 2026
Hi there.
My first competition entry in 2026 was a ~300 word flash fiction piece called ‘The Tree Keeper’. The prompt provided by the judge, author Vanessa Gebbie, was:
Write a short story (no more than 300 words) inspired by this image of a hollow tree (as oblique as you like).
Since I was surrounded by the ancient New Forest at that time, I went for a wander in search of another hollowed-out tree I could talk to and gain permission to touch. It didn’t take too long (they’ve seen me before) and it was good to bathe in the atmosphere around them and listen to their stories.
I hope you enjoy the resulting piece I penned below. It didn’t resonate with the judge this time, but you can read the inspired stories which did here.
Until next time…
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In the moss-cloaked wood which clung to their valley, an elderly man sat on a stump beside a hollowed-out oak. A scrawled sign dangled from his neck: ‘Repair Broken Hearts’.
He’d refused to say if it was a plea or offer. The villagers thought neither were possible, but treated him with wary affection. So a young woman had sought him out.
Mira hadn’t left the village since she’d known. She still carried the ignominy without naming it. Like the father of her misfortune, who’d escaped the shame daubed on her body.
She found the Tree Keeper for a second time, despite the low mist clinging to the broken bracken. Wrapped in a tattered cloak, wisps from last night’s embers rose over his hunched body.
He looked up as twigs snapped underfoot, his eyes autumn yellow. “Hello again,” he said in phlegm-cracked greeting.
“Does the tree help you forget?” Mira asked. Yesterday, he’d claimed a hollowed-out heart held lost memories, including some the villagers could ill-afford to misplace. Mira wanted to forget some of her own.
Grasping a yew staff, the man coughed. “Such forgetting means facing up to the truth.”
Mira gazed up at the ancient tree. Its boughs extended over the woodland floor, its roots drawing on countless discarded leaves. Released like discarded dreams; food for deeper thought.
“You need to say his name, Mira,” he said, voice now beeches in a summer breeze.
Mira faced the tree. The gnarled bark surrounding its cavity was all crevices. Perhaps to hold untold memories: pasture and plough; famine and fear; painful beginnings and a cut-throat end.
When she called the seed owner’s name, the wood fell silent. Within the ancient oak, something tightened then released, like a loosened knot. The weight of consequence inside her body shifted and grew lighter.
The next morning the Tree Keeper was gone, his stump and embers sodden. Instead, between her fuller body and the hollow oak, Mira felt a steady, warm glow of comfort.
I like this old, timeless nature thing. It is very much alive (even when appearing dead), and the sooner humanity remembers that, the sooner their sorrows will be at an end.
Civilisation is overrated. There is far more civilised existence in the natural world.
I like this old, timeless nature thing. It is very much alive (even when appearing dead), and the sooner humanity remembers that, the sooner their sorrows will be at an end.
Civilisation is overrated. There is far more civilised existence in the natural world.