Cracked leather thigh-highs, coffee-stained waitress skirt tiptoes in after midnight. He triggers the lights, spewing rye-fueled hate.
“You’re late,” hickory handle slapping cupped palm erupts; lightning splitting trunks.
“Put the axe away.”
“I’m taking that oak come morning.”
“Leave it; that tree’s survived hundreds of years.”
“It’s funny, using an axe to fell a tree, just to make more axes.”
“My father always hated you.”
“Get over here!”
Nerve endings pulsating, stress fractures suffering under knotted burls, nicotine manicure swings liquor bottle as leaves rustle with the tempest.
“Dad used to sing, ‘hickory or ash, not oak for an axe.’”
“You’re late,” hickory handle slapping cupped palm erupts; lightning splitting trunks.
“Put the axe away.”
“I’m taking that oak come morning.”
“Leave it; that tree’s survived hundreds of years.”
“It’s funny, using an axe to fell a tree, just to make more axes.”
“My father always hated you.”
“Get over here!”
Nerve endings pulsating, stress fractures suffering under knotted burls, nicotine manicure swings liquor bottle as leaves rustle with the tempest.
“Dad used to sing, ‘hickory or ash, not oak for an axe.’”
