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Oracular Trees also happen to be a mite bitchy dramatic.

Clearing my throat, I decide the surest path to success is naturally, flattery.

‘Hello, great O,’ I begin, with a deep bow and outstretched hand. ‘I, a humble mortal, come to you to⁠—’

‘Oh, cut the shit, I’m not in the mood for human grovelling today. What do you want?’

My eyebrows shoot near high enough to touch my hairline. I thought fawning would be a sure-fire tactic. Right. Cracking my neck is my nervous tick, I hope she doesn’t take it as a rally to brawl. I release a deep exhale through my lips and prepare to change it up.

‘Well, I was just wondering… well, I’m just trying to settle in here you see, and your… beating… is rather loud.’ I look at the cracked wood and cringe. ‘And damaging… Do you think you could perhaps, possibly, stop?’

The Oracular Tree stares at me with apathy, or, if I’m honest, it’s closer to disdain.

‘No.’ Her peach and lilac mop of leafy hair whips me in the face as she turns back to face the subject of her ire.

She raises a branch. I swear the house actually trembles. Oh, that’s all I need – my new place collapsing before my stuff has even arrived.

‘Please!’ I jump between her and the house, my current unemployment forcing me to risk bodily harm before further financial damage. ‘There’s gotta be a way we can work this out,’ I supplicate. ‘I’m sure it’s very sorry.’ My hands motion to the two-storey nightmare, inviting it to join me anytime it likes to apologise.

Her eyes drop ever so slowly (too slowly) to look at me. A slight pink hue tinging her pale bark. ‘You… you think I’m feuding with this rotting hunk of wood?’

My nose crinkles when I frown. I want to ask: Would that be such an outlandish assumption? But quickly think better of it.

‘No, no⁠—’

She cuts me off.

‘You think I’m some sort of headcase just out here conjuring inanimate relations with this piled heap of shit you call a house?’

Um, ouch.

See, this is why I turned writing into my profession. Because it gives me time to think of exactly what I need to say. I’m usually writing about rather boring things. Boring things aren’t very scary to write because they don’t ever really require my own thoughts. There’s no fear of humiliation or personal offence when there’s no room for originality.

‘No, of course not! My mistake, I was meant to say he, *he didn’t*. Obviously. I’m sure he’s a complete fool, whoever he is, and is very sorry to have hurt you.’

Jeez, talk about laying it on thick.

I’m talking shit. I know it. She knows it. It doesn’t matter.

A look of vulnerability briefly flickers over her hard features, and amber-hued sap pools in the corners of her hollowed eyes. The line between anger and sadness are such closely set paths, sometimes you can’t tell which one you’re actually walking. If she weren’t a tree, I’d say she has a foot quite firmly placed in both. I suppose it doesn’t matter who you are, no one is safe from being a casualty of another’s free will. I watch her pretty face try and fail to be schooled back into a look of indifference. The peach flowers peppering her mane of lilac leaves wilt. Sadness wins – as it so often does.

‘Stars, I’m such an idiot,’ she laments, leaves falling with the shake of her trunk as she sobs. She covers her face and cries.

I’m struck by a sudden wave of sympathy for my abode’s abuser. After all, we’ve all been there. My dating record is abysmal at best.

I chance a step closer and rest a consoling hand on the hard, rough texture of her branch (arm?) ‘Would you like to talk about it…’ I wait for her to supply a name.

‘Lavender.’ A bit on the nose – but okay.

‘Lavender,’ I repeat with a nod. ‘What happened?’

‘That fucking asshole. I should have known. Forest Fae think they’re so fucking clever. He said he’d be right back!’

‘Maybe he got caught up with something…’

‘It’s been six months!’

Well, shit.