a picture my son drew of a wave on a beach


On Friday I finished an essay for Uni. It was a routine piece of rigmarole. I submitted the file to the University system without a reread. I have no pride. My weekend was free. That was a joke. My weekend is never free. There is a cost for everything.

We have a vast mongrel tree directly outside our house. It spews sticky mucous onto anything that pauses beneath its diseased branches. I’ve been ignoring it for a year but the fucker keeps growing. If cancer could be a tree this would be the very definition. I almost destroyed a cheap Bunnings chainsaw and risked my time on this mortal coil hacking through the bastard. I lopped off only two of its massive gnarled branches and stacked the ute with over half a ton of slimy wood. The next morning I’d intended to take Davis to pick up Agrippa. A ute full of young muscle could help me dispatch the twisted tree parts into Coffs Municipal Dump. Agrippa predictably did not answer his phone so it was left to Davis and I to dispose of the fucker. We took Winnie with us because she was heartbroken to be left at home alone with the cancer tree. The Dump charged us forty-five bucks to take it. I don’t blame them it is a horrible tree.

Afterwards Davis and I visited an old haunt, Mullaway Beach. The waves were glassy, large and lazy. Perfect for washing off the satanic tree. We bobbed over the curling breakers fending off Winnies claws. She is an enthusiastic dog. We swam and dived in the fragmented light. I have sunburn and a dirty claw scratch on my arm. As I write the tree continues to crouch over the house.

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