Image taken from Pixabay
The cinnamon-roll tree
A hundred Andalusians ran across the Kazakh steppe toward a forest patch. The Bolsheviki were on their heels. They wanted to murder them, to execute the escaped prisoners and those who helped them escape. But no one screamed, they tried to be as silent as they could. They could not slow down, their feet slipping on the wet weeds, worrying that a hundred people running might be too much noise. But finally, they made it. They scrambled looking for somewhere to hide from the Bolshevik hounds and when they found the cinnamon-roll tree, they hid under its skirt without hesitation.
You mean, a cinnamon tree?
Shut up! You weren’t there. You could not know what I saw when I hid from those men. Do you know why they couldn’t be found?
The smell from the cinnamon tree disguised their trace?
No! Noooo! It was not a cinnamon tree, I tell you. The cinnamon-roll tree stood from its place and left them uncovered. But as it saw that they were pitiful, it sympathised with them and rose as a titan to meet the Bolsheviki. Its branches were like giant sledgehammers that shook the entire forest patch. The Bolsheviki stood no chance against that tree. With every step, dozens of cinnamon rolls fell from its branches and satiated the Andalusians’ hunger. It was their salvation, their glorious hero.
