Nothing’s Sacred

By Cardigan Broadmoor

‍We were taking the ornaments off our Christmas tree when my daughter, Ashley, gasped, “Daddy, look!”

She pointed to a strange lump on the red felt mat beneath the tree.

It was about the size of a pinecone but had a faintly human face; the dead spirit of a dead tree, yellow sappy tears coating its cheeks.

I knelt down and gently wrapped the tiny corpse in tissue paper. Still, some hair fell from its head like wilted pine needles.

“Put this in the box with the other ornaments, sweetie,” I said. “We’ll hang it on the tree next year.”