A grinding metallic noise pierced through the stillness of the chilly morning air. My heart froze, my lungs seeming to have stopped working. They were back. So many had fallen in their path, so many had tried to escape. I was the only one. The last one. The final one.

Parrots squawked, fluttering through the leafy canopy – I wish I could fly away as effortlessly as they could. Instead I was stuck. I had no choice but to scramble for cover; I tore into the wildness willing that they wouldn’t follow me.

“These trees can go,” a voice shouted above the pandemonium of saws, drills and almost every other thing imaginable. He was brandishing a bottle of red spray paint and squirting the cluster of trees that I use to call home. I felt as if someone had punched me in the stomach. A huge machine drove towards them: it was driven by a lady (wearing a hi – vis jacket) who looked tired. The machine drove closer and closer to my precious home. I had to do something, and quick. I would die anyway, with almost no rainforests left, I would have no food and nowhere to live.

Hundreds of stories have been passed down generations but the only one that interested me was about the past of the rainforest; the Amazon one to be precise. Apparently, in 2023 the rainforest was huge, covering a massive 6% of the globe! It says in the story, humans had the chance to make it better, they had the chance to right what they did wrong. They didn’t change their ways, so my kind have suffered. It is now 2099.

I had no choice. I pounded into the open, in front of the huge saw and hoped for the best.