The Consent Tree

Paul could see Jupiter rising on the Horizon of Europa.

“Oh look, it’s Mars!” Mark yelled.  Paul got mad.

Interplanetary dominatrixes were always so temperamental.

They had too much experience (if you know what I’m saying) for my meager problems.

He walked away slowly, dejected and confused.

Why had the laurel tree rejected his advances?

Nonetheless, he did not lovingly pick its fruits again, acknowledging the power of consent.

“Thanks man,” the tree told him.  “Not everybody respects my right to say I don’t want my lemons picked.”

From that day on, the tree taught his lessons about consent all who passed by.

“No means no,” said the tree.  “And that’s that.”

“Robert Frost said that in one of his poems, I think,” I said to sound cool and hipster and know what I’m talking about.

“He said a lot of stuff about horses, and how they don’t like stopping in the middle of nowhere.”

“Well, I think I know more about horses than him, and I happen to know that they love taking a break.”

“I also know how to speak to them so I could very easily convince one of the horses to kick him in the spine and break his back.  This thought fills me with some amount of joy.”

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