A Route Forty-Four Chainsaw Massacre

by Victor S. Smith

What kind of asshole would do that in the middle of the morning, people rushing hither and thither going to work, or school, or an AA Meeting and this asshole is outside with a fucking chainsaw. Normally, I don't give a rat's ass what a man does with his chainsaw, but it is spring and this damnable two stroke motor is drowning out everything; the birds, the sound of the breeze rolling in from the bay, the sound of the water lapping up on the rocks of the tidal pools, even, the sound of spring itself, the buds of the trees slowly opening with the tell-tale pop that is usually only heard by faeries and sprites. It wouldn't bother me so much if he had just waited. Two more days is all it would have taken, the petals would have fallen and the newly green leaves would have all come out and they would have been... well they would have been just trees. But they weren't, they were giant bouquets, nature's way of rewarding everyone — but me specifically — for putting up with the snow that comes up to my hips from October to mid-March. Now, they are all slowly toppling, the canopies shaking and then settling on their sides, as the inconsiderate man walks from tree to tree and slowly methodically wrecks my day.

6S

Victor S. Smith, author of The Prologue to My Life's Flashback, is a recovering economist who caught a writing bug penicillin isn't clearing up. His two blogs are Like Pollution and Marlowe's Sketch Pad.