A Damn Tree

By M.P. Newman

A detective obsessed with wrestling. A man with a fetish for inflatable sheep. A Japanese-speaking alien. These are just a few of the bizarre individuals that the protagonists in A Damn Tree encounter. In the twelve stories that make up M.P. Newman's magnificent debut story collection, we follow these protagonists as they struggle to find stability and fulfillment in an increasingly bewildering world. Characters like Benny, a man who stands in the park pretending to be a tree, Bill, a watchman at an illicit business, and Steve, a voyeur keeping an eye on his neighbors, are witnesses to the confusion of the world, powerless against the violence and heartbreak that surrounds them. And yet, whenever all seems lost, there is peace to be found in the people they grow close to.

 

A Damn Tree is a dazzlingly creative collection, comic and frightening, but always with a deep appreciation for the world, nature, and above all the love that people can share in their friends, family, and romantic partners. So when you find a hair in your soup, take heart—it may have fallen from the head of a friend.

 

Synopses:

In "One Time in Africa," a wealthy Londoner travels to rural Ghana in search of the woman of his dreams—literally—and the purpose of his life, only to find that neither is what he expected.

"Of Life and Death" tells the story of a Bill, watchman at a mysterious, illicit business, and the choices he must make between his duties to his employer and to his humanity.

"Baghdad-Manhattan" examines the turmoil of an Iraqi refugee trying to make a new life for himself as he fights against his past, his inner demons, and the unfamiliar temptations of New York City.

In "Super Spy," we witness a voyeur's obsessive surveillance of his neighbors, including a kind-hearted Vietnamese family and their pigs, a webcam-modeling business, and a German couple hosting a perpetual, and increasingly debauched, party.

A man arrives at the hospital with an unusual complaint in "The Alien Anal Probe"—and neither the police nor the on-call psychiatrist believes him until they receive another surprise visitor.

"A Damn Tree" is the story of Benny, a man whose sole responsibility is to wake up each morning, dress in camouflage, and stand so still that even birds see only a tree, and of his neighbor Nathalie, a single mother who is determined to see him as a man.

"Coo—Wings of Peace" takes place in the pit cave into which eighteen-year-old Harry has fallen after a drunken night. With only the pigeons he despises as company, Harry meditates on the choices that have brought him here, and the changes he will make—if he survives.

"Rose's Luck" is the tale of a single night in the life of a heart-broken woman named Rose: the night that she intends to be her last. But fate has other things in store, for both Rose and the people around her.

"Lost Corpses" depicts a series of mysterious occurrences at a local hospital, and the frightening aftermath that sends a young man on a journey across continents and into a world of secrecy that leaves him and everyone around him second-guessing reality.

In "Bob is in the House" we follow an aging bachelor named Bob as he navigates the world of inflatable sheep, Native American costumes, prostitutes, and fake names that he anonymously invites into his home for a secret party every weekend.

"Fish Soup Fantasies" is a short, comic tale of three strange hairs in a soup—hopefully placed there by the three lovely waitresses who served it.

"The Revolution" is the story of a hungry cat, three revolutionaries at odds with each other as much as with the world, a woman in labor, and the celebration that for one night leads all these struggles to be forgotten.

• Language: English
• Publisher: M.P. Newman
• Release date: Apr 19, 2024
• ISBN: 9798224933068

Book preview

A Damn Tree

M.P. Newman

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 2024 by M.P. Newman

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or used in any manner without written permission of the copyright owner except for the use of quotations in a book review.

First ebook edition 2024

Book design by Daniel Greenhalgh

www.mpnewmanauthor.com

To Norman Gorek (R.I.P.)

CONTENTS

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Thanks to the editors Christopher Noël, Henry Gifford and David Yurkovich, Daniel Greenhalgh for the design of the book cover and Elena Saygo for the web page.

Special thanks to: David Simbsler, Katia Simbsler, Hakim Laari, Robert Miessner, Christine Gorek, A&A Kaffka, Tobias Stillger, Mathias Litfin, Alexander Kramer, Göran Kirchner, David Wentz, Jerry Bailis, Lou Bozza, Kenneth Feinour, Paul Roane, Pamela Haines, Chuck Esser, Jerry Herman, Emmanuel Chatelus, Émile Monnot and Ujjwal Dey.

Also thanks to: Julio Delgado, Willy Pinto, Saulo Carrión, Rafael Camacho, Graziano Pellegrino, Hiurma Gil, Ayoze Gil and Ombretta D’Aura.

ONE TIME IN AFRICA

Oh, my. Ted sighed, stretched out on the bed in his flat in London. He had just woken from a recurring dream, the only dream he had, or the only one he was capable of remembering; he wasn’t so sure about anything anymore. 

There was this beautiful Black girl with long dark hair lying on a bed in a hotel room. She was naked the way God had made her, and she wasn’t shy either, smiling seductively, inviting him to make love to her. He walked over to the bed, and when he tried to touch her, her body disappeared, disintegrated. Only her head remained, still smiling and looking at him with love and understanding like she knew him, like she had known him all her life, but when he tried to kiss her, her head, her face, disappeared as well. At this point he usually became agitated and woke up.

Sometimes, however, the dream continued: He would run out of the hotel room; downstairs in the lobby sat a big older African woman in a traditional yellowy orange dress smoking a shisha, a Middle Eastern tobacco water pipe. She looked at him for a moment first, then turned away to peek out the window, though he himself only got a glimpse of a busy street life outside. The dream never went further than that before he woke up.

After a couple of months, with the dream still tormenting him, he decided to go there: Africa. To find out.

He didn’t know exactly where, but followed his instincts, tried to go where his mind wanted him to go. He took a plane and another and another and another until he landed in Accra, Ghana. In Africa.

From there he rented a car and drove to Winneba, a smaller coastal town. He came to a hotel, booked a small room, and in the evening, went downstairs to have dinner and a drink or two.

The lobby was just like the one in his dream, and there she was, the beautiful young woman, but she didn’t smile when she saw him, didn’t recognize him at all. She was working in the hotel reception.

Hi, my name’s Ted, and I feel like I’ve seen you before, he said.

Where? the woman asked back, with a typical African accent.

I don’t know.

I’ve never ever left this place. Either you’ve seen me here, or you’re imagining things, sir.

I feel like I know you, Ted said charmingly.

Well.

Would you maybe like to have a drink or two with me after you get off?

I don’t know you, sir, she said.

You would get to know me. My name’s Ted, what’s yours?

Sandra. I have a boyfriend.

Just one drink, please.

Alright, one drink, she conceded. Across the street. The Salassas. It’s a bar. Be there at eight.

Ted wanted to tell her about his dream. Desperately. He checked into his room, went to the bar early, and had a couple of whiskies straight. She showed up and ordered a beer, but still didn’t smile, just sat there, calmly listening to his story, his dream.

I’ve dreamt of this place and you. Many times, Ted said.

Oh, Sandra replied, still not smiling. I see.

The same lobby, you: the same hair, the same face. Everything. See, I’m self-made, Sandra. I invented a new printing process which is now used around the world, all over, provides me with a constant cash flow.

Impressive.

I live in London. Soho, the best place on Earth. Have my own apartment and a beach house in Brighton.

Again, impressive.

I’m not married; I’m not in a relationship either, Ted said hastily What do you do, Sandra? I mean, not for a living, but besides working in the hotel?

What do you want, Ted?

I don’t know. I guess to get to know you better.

I told you I have a boyfriend. Thanks for the beer, Sandra said, then stood up and left.

Ted ordered two more shots right away and was soon drunk. He slept well, and for the first time in months, he didn’t have the dream. The next morning, hungover, he went downstairs for breakfast.

There in the hotel lobby sat the big older African woman, in her traditional yellow-orange dress, smoking her shisha, like in my dream. What is this?

Africa’s where everything started, she said between two drags from her shisha, not looking at him. I mean everything. Everything.

Ted nodded absentmindedly, but deep down he didn’t know why. He didn’t care either way, but he wanted to know whether all of it, everything, was just a dream and nothing else. He had booked a room in the hotel for a week, so why not make the most of it? I get drunk every night and sleep during the day when the heat is unbearable anyway, so I might as well do it here.

That’s what he did.

Three days later, in the morning, he woke up face down in a puddle of mud, with two white dogs licking his ears. He stood up, cleaned himself as much as he could, and checked his watch, his shoes, his jacket, his sunglasses, his wallet. All there. The money, everything. The dogs barked and ran off.

In his wallet, he found a card:

The Kakuggi Bar

125 Old Story Square

He walked down the road until he found a taxi that would take him there.

When he reached the address, he found that the building was burned down to the ground. The fire had been recent, embers still smoldered in the ashes. In front sat a little girl with a white kitten on her lap. When she saw Ted, she shrieked.

What happened here? he asked.

With big eyes, she began to cry, and ran off wailing. The kitten stumbled behind her, looking back at Ted a couple of times.

He turned around and walked back along the road, into town. It was noon now and the sun was burning, scorching him mercilessly.

In the ditch beside the road, he saw a dead brown dog covered in black flies., a moment later the carcass of a burnt-out truck and three rusty steel drums. After five minutes of walking, he came to a small hut. An old woman sat in front on a broken wooden chair. She was blind, her eyes milky white from cataract, but she heard Ted approaching.

Hello, mister, how are you? Where are you from?

How does she know I’m not from here? Can she see me? I just passed by the Kakuggi Bar, but it’s burnt down. Do you know what happened there? Ted asked her.

One pound for twenty cedi. Between her legs, the woman had a bucket filled with fresh fish.

Alright, I’ll take a pound, Ted said.

She took out three fish, wrapped them up in newspaper, and handed him the package.

Ted gave her the money. At the hotel they’d know what to do with them. He stood in front of the hut, then, watching the scenery. Everything was scorched by the hot sun, everything was dry. The grass and the bushes. Hardly any green trees. There were only a few houses—the outskirts of town. The dusty road Ted was on connected it to some of the surrounding villages.

Vultures were circling above them in the sky. It was unbelievably hot. He was sweating profusely, kept wiping his face.

Another hot day in Africa.

Africa’s where everything started. Ted remembered the older African woman’s words.

Everything? Really everything? Ted asked himself, incredulous.

Walking back, he kept hearing her voice and continued to stumble on, hungover. One more step and I’ll go crazy.

… and where everything will end, the woman had concluded.

End? Ted wondered in disbelief. He heard her voice and her words repeating themselves over and over in his head, until he had a headache.

He put on his sunglasses, shuffled down the road, clutching the package of fresh fish in his hands, and for a moment he felt out of place, completely out of place—but only for a moment, right?

Why am I even here?

Trying to focus, he hurried back to the hotel. He wanted to talk to someone, felt lost, alone, was desperate for some company. The older woman in the lobby wouldn’t do, she was too mysterious for his taste, but Sandra?She was perfect.

When after twenty minutes he finally made it to the hotel, sure enough the older woman was sitting once more by the window smoking her shisha. Ted went to reception, put down the package of fresh fish on the counter and asked for Sandra, but it was her day off. She might be at the Salassas, a young man whose name tag read George said.

Without going up to his room, and forgetting the fish, Ted crossed the street. Already from the entrance he could see her sitting at the bar, talking to the barman, drinking a Coke.

She seemed put off, but he ordered a scotch on the rocks and sat next to her. The barman left, though she looked like she wanted to keep chatting with him. Like among colleagues. The service industry.

I wanted to talk to you, Ted said.

Why? she asked him with big wondering eyes.

Because.

You’re totally missing the point of your visit here. Anger rang in her voice.

How do you know? You’re not me. I came here because of a dream I’ve been having.

All the Westerners who come here are chasing dreams. Sex, money, power, adventure. For centuries they’ve been coming, and they keep coming.

I don’t understand.

That’s it. You finally get it; you don’t understand and you will never understand. Go home and never come back, Ted. You’re a fool.

I’m a fool?

You just told me.

What?

Forget it. Go home, alright?

Disconcerted, Ted shuffled back to the hotel, went to his room, went to bed, and slept. Once again he didn’t have the dream. The next morning, he packed his bag, checked out of the hotel, booked a flight, drove his rental car back to Accra, and flew home.

At home, he went back to his old life, but something didn’t feel right. After a long month of thinking back and forth he made a decision. Impulsively he sold everything: his apartment in Soho, his beach house in Brighton, and then, one sunny afternoon, with a big fat suitcase of cash, he walked down a road.

It hadn’t been an easy decision. Far from it, but it was like an inner voice had kept telling him repeatedly and insistently to do so.

At times it felt to him like a logical decision, the only logical decision, but based on the kind of mathematical logic followed by a machine that was programmed to complete a task. To Ted it made sense and didn’t at the same time, but then it was the only little bit of sense left in him, like a glimmer of light in a big black void.

He kept walking until it rained and night fell. Soaked and unsure, he kept trudging on. If there hadn’t been a road to walk on, he