A Twisted Tale

One night, at the beginning of summer, a drunken man stopped by a small copse of trees, in a park, really needing to take a piss.

He stumbled up to a tree and stood, unzipped his trousers – and proceeded to get out his old fella.

He stared up at the full moon, shining above him, as, wobbling about a bit because he was so fucked – and seeing two more willies than was natural for a man to possess- he greeted the warm jets , with a faint, but fulfilled ‘arrhhh’.

He finished, and was about to whip his todger back into his pants, when he heard a rustling, coming from some undergrowth just beyond the tree where he’d urinated.

He couldn’t quite believe his beer goggle covered eyes, but extending from the undergrowth, was a hand, beckoning him forth.

He wobbled towards the undergrowth, completely forgetting about his ding – dong, swinging from side to side like a pendulum.

He was, even in his half cut state, mesmerised. It wasn’t its actions, which captivated him, and he responded to-but the nature of the hand, itself.

It was like no other hand he’d seen before; a pretty, lithe, feminine hand which surely belonged to a lusciously beautiful woman.

So he followed it-as men in a state of intoxication do, still beckoning him, deeper and deeper into the dark of the little wood.

I dare say that he felt a bit handy, with his wanger wiggle waggling about – and a warm summer breeze licking around his balls.

Yes, very quickly this mans mojo began to rise- pointing the way forward.

In the state he was in, he’d lost all sense of his surroundings and, for a moment, it seemed like he lost consciousness also, as the hand fondled his cock and balls, and gently coaxed him forward with every heavenly caress.

He couldn’t help himself. He had wood and –

He’d never met a woman like her, before….

In a light breeze, she swayed and danced, seductively. The drunken man, as drunken men do, believed that she danced only for him – that she was his – and that, with every movement, she confirmed this .In his assumptions, the drunken man wasn’t wrong.

He whipped his arms around her trunk- and they kissed. She could taste cigarettes and alcohol, stale on his breath – and he could taste the morning dew- and a faint tinge of exhaust fumes, on hers – if, indeed, that was breath.- and a weird, ancient, drafty taste, akin to the smells you get in old castles- and churches.

In response, she entwined her branches around his body .A bush started quivering, and, with a fumble –and a few drunken attempts, he entered her, his dick sliding roughly into her sappy opening.

Inside, she was cool and moist with dew. She continued to sway towards him, and he towards her.

Her leaves rustled. Her branches quivered with ecstasy – her alert timbers crackled and creaked, as they both came to climax – his man paste trickling into her cracks and crevices.

As you can imagine, by the end of it, the man was wasted, and with little bye or leave, he stumbled, wearily, away from her, and passed out on the woodland floor.

*

The following morning,, the small woodland grove was quiet, and the trees seemed unnerved by the activity that’d gone on the previous night .

The man woke, with a splitting headache, and, seeing his trousers undone- and his willy hanging out of the open gap in his flies, he quickly put it back in his pants and did up his trousers, before some one ventured into that part of the park, and saw him: or some woodland creature emerged and bit the exposed member off.

He didn’t quite clearly remember what’d happened –and what recollection of the event the man did have, he thought he’d dreamt. .

He stumbled out of the woodland, feeling a little worse for wear-out of the park, and into the clumsy, slipshod broken dreaminess of the human world waking the morning after the night before.

*

Now, it may, to the mere passer by, seem like the end of the story .The man returns to his little life, in the concrete jungle, with a hazy, sketchy, half remembered dream, clogging his hang over.

However, what happened to the man is only half the story, for in that woodland, strange things were aloof.

Almost with the flick of a coin, summer turned into autumn .The leaves faded from deep and gentle greens to yellows, oranges and reds- and fluttered from baring branches, like tears, onto the rotting winter soil

All but one of those trees set their alarm clocks for the following spring, and went to sleep for the duration.

But that one tree, the one that’d so desired the company of man, that drunken night – way back in the summer, didn’t jettison her summer dress-and turn to her naked slumber. For, even in that anorexic season, she had plans a foot – and was already making preparations.

The other trees became irritable and found it difficult to sleep, with all her fidgeting, about the spinney.

But, being the passive beings that they were, by nature, they resisted bickering about it, even to one another.-and individually concerned themselves with the task of trying to get some shut eye.

Winter lasted for far too long, though not long enough for the trees, who pressed the ‘snooze’ buttons on their alarms, when they went off in mid-February, and didn’t start stirring until the end of March.

But that one tree, she was having a strange old time of it – and, like what human mothers have when they are with child, she was going through a weird form of morning sickness.

Having not slept a drop, the entire winter, she felt that she was rotting inside – that a great mould was taking hold- and that the grip was getting tighter and tighter.

The ‘whatever it was’ that was forming inside her wasn’t as pleasurable as she’d anticipated –and certainly didn’t feel like the great incarnation that the tree felt would unite those ape-like wayward cousins, sitting in their concrete caves, with the rest of nature and its mother.

No, the tree’s spirits were turned –and she felt that the thing that was inside her had to be quickly dispensed with, before it quickly dispensed with her. It just didn’t feel natural, at all- and she doubted, deep inside, whether it ever would.

As the blossom came, she mustered the last of her strength, and pulled the strange child from her belly, before cradling it in her arm like branches, and dropping it softly to the wood land floor.

That was her done- and, to all, she seemed to have died, at that moment.

The baby wailed and wailed .Its cries echoed throughout the spinney.

It was only a small cluster of floor leaves, left over from the autumn, and a passing anti cyclone, that kept it from dying of exposure, in that early spring breeze.

As you can imagine, the other inhabitants of the wood land, quickly grew tired of the child’s perpetual crying, and decided that it belonged not of their world.

Squadrons of birds, already building their own nests in the bowels of trees, crowded the child, and wove a giant one around it.

As the winged ones fluttered away, the vines slithered from branches and tree trunks, and lifted the babe, and the nest, from the forest floor-and escorted the dreaded half human wriggler to the bright lights of the concrete jungle.

Now, our friend the drunken man, accepting that the incident in the park had all been a drink induced dream, lived not far from the woodland- and the park- and the vines could still smell his stale beer, cigarette stained musk, which lead them directly to his house.

They wrapped themselves around the sides of houses, and fences and gates, and posts, until they came to his front door, where they placed the child, on the doorstep, before ringing the doorbell and creeping back into the undergrowth.

The man came to the door in his dressing gown and, seeing no one there, and, thinking that it was kids playing tricks almost shut it again. It was only when the green child started grizzling, did he look down to the door step, and see the little rug rat, wriggling like Moses, in his nest of leaves, mud and twigs..

He glanced at it, for a moment, in horror- swiftly recollecting that drunken night, early the previous summer – and realising that, maybe, it all hadn’t been a dream after all.

Feeling a little shocked by this crying revelation, he picked the tot up, and cradled it, with bewilderment, in his arms.

“What is it babycakes?’ his girlfriend asked, appearing at his side, in little more than her under wear.

The man turned to her, still holding the green kiddy

‘I think it’s my- my son’ he said, absently.