TREE
It was a dark and stormy night. The tangled branches of an ancient oak scratched against the window, as if trying to break the pane, reach through the glass, and crush the rumpled writer busy destroying the English language. The oak sighed, its extremities creaking. It looked out over the idyllic pastoral landscape—the kind that felt incomplete without Marie Antoinette sitting in the middle on a small stool, milking a cow—all under the ominous dominion of great mountainous storm clouds, the mountainous encroachment of a meteorological Mordor on a peaceful country setting. The cold made the tree stiffer, and the rain was making its trunk warp. Maybe it would become the pages for the author’s book. It prayed silently that it would give numerous paper cuts to whoever read it, that vengeance would reach its long winding branches out from the grave and slap humanity across the face. The grass hadn’t been trimmed in years, and it made its roots itch, the itch of terribly chafing. If the rain kept up like it had been the grass would all be drowned, and then there would be no point in trimming it. Though in an existential sense, maybe there was no point to trimming it anyways. The tree shook these thoughts out of it’s foliage, and instead fixed two knotted eyes on the gothic pile sitting next to it. Having a nemesis kept one alert, and that damned writer and his dilapidated Victorian monstrosity had the tree’s complete attention. Didn’t he have any idea? The oak tree had known the shingles and framing for the east side of the building. The whole thing was a cemetery, a perverted cathedral of bones and innards, a hollow mockery of the thing growing in its yard—and the tree had to stare at it every day. Fucking humans. Next time one of them was close enough it would drop an acorn on their head.
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