Michaela Wright

“Yeah, not exactly the most understanding of women.”

“Ah, well that’s karma for ye.”

The man glanced at Garrett, his brow furrowed. “What’s that?”

Garrett leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “You ever hear the sayin about the man who cut down the most glorious tree in his forest?”

The man shook his head. “I can’t say that I have.”

Garrett inhaled through his nose. “Well, it goes somat like – there was a man who owned a great piece of land, covered in beautiful trees. One day he decided tae cut down the greatest, most magnificent tree he had. He thought, ‘this one is great now, but soon all of my trees will be this magnificent.’ So he cuts down the tree and sells the wood tae a matchstick company.”

“Matchstick company?”

“Aye, and they pay him well, using the wood to make a million matches.”

Garrett paused.

“Well, what happened then?”

“One day, some old dodger decided to sit a spell under a tree on the man’s land. Lit his pipe with a match, and tossed it into the forest. Burned the whole forest to the ground.”

“That’s a grim story.”

“Aye, it is, but I think it applies here.”

“Why’s that?”

Garrett watched the man trying to still his shaking leg. “Yer name’s Walter, right?”

The man’s brows shot up. “It is. God, how do you know that?”

“Because you’re the one who cut down the best tree in your forest to make a million matches. Tell me, is yer forest burning yet?”
― Michaela Wright, Writing Mr. Right