Revenge of the Weeds

We are not in control.

The fastidious man, long obsessed with perfect grass, finally conquered his lawn. The crabgrass was gone. Trees all pruned. Weeds whacked. Tall fescue mowed down. Best-looking yard in town, neighbors all said.

That very night–two weeks before the diagnosis–he dreamed weeds growing out of his own head. He tore out handfuls of green-leaved hydras by the blood-soaked roots. They only cascaded out faster from underneath his scalp. He awoke with a wail his wife never forgot.

© ChairmanWow 2023
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Great story. I know a man just like that down the road; he’s on his hands and knees with a pair of tweezers pulling at the weeds. Lawn is like a putting surface, but i’ve never seen him smile.


Mother Nature’s revenge. She moves in mysterious ways. The day of the Triffids come to mind.

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