The Out of Her Tree House Story

Once upon a time there was a young woman named Molly. Molly would drive to work every morning through the grey and sinister suburban streets and despair. She was several months pregnant with her first child and every day grew in girth and grimness over the sketchy state of the area her little love would grow up in.

One particularly gloomy morning she was stuck in traffic – adjacent the school her unborn academic would one day attend. It was a fairly unassuming school and was in the process of an upgrade. Molly had driven past a hundred times paying no notice – until this day.

As she wound up her window to silence the decoratively coloured banter coming from commuters, workers and randoms – she noticed something shimmering brightly from afar. The day was sunless and not much shined in this place. Molly was intrigued. She honed in on the object being dragged along the asphalt.

Barbed wire.

Glimmery and new and rolled atop the cyclone fence, wrapping around the entirety of the school like twinkling Christmas decorations – for a prison.

Molly reached for the flip phone and called her husband.

“I think we need to move.”

“Righto. Today?”

“As soon as possible. I’m not bringing a child into… this.”

“Is ‘this’ one of those crazy hormone things, or just a you thing?”

“Not sure. By the way – rude. Regardless, I’m over it. I think we should move to the hills.”

“I see. Do I dare ask why?”

“Barbed wire.”

“They don’t have barbed wire in the hills?”

“Not on their schools, at least I hope not!”


“They’re rolling it out on the school our children will eventually go to. It’s serious.”

A long pause. Molly could hear her husband dissecting the information and coming to his own level headed conclusions minus the irrational madness she often brought to his table.

“Alright, that seems fairly alarming, not sure it warrants a total upheaval of our lives…”

“…and with global warming being ignored, we need to get to higher ground… you know, tsunamis and stuff.”

“Aaaand there it is. Can we discuss this tonight when I’ve got a beer in my hand?”

“Sure. But I am serious.”

“I know, that’s why beer.”

Nearly a decade later the pair managed to pull it off. Sort of. Molly and her little family set out on their barbed wired, tsunami free path to the hills.

While they may have escaped the fear mongering life Molly had imagined – the cost of hills living would stunt things for a bit. Living on the flats had its advantages – the main one being – a wayyyyyy smaller mortgage.

So they kissed goodbye – holidays involving planes, buying things they wanted over needed and other extravagances like liquid soap, trips to the hairdressers and real fancy stuff – new underwear, shoes, linen, occasionally petrol… And said hello to much canned food, a shell for a home and a bra that really did its brand proud.

The sacrifices were worth it. The kids would awaken to the sounds of kangaroos booming past their window down the same path they’d taken for twenty thousand years. Molly refused to put fences up just in case it confused them – the roos, not the kids. Hubs shook his head. He’d be shaking his head far more frequently over the following years.

The majestic forest and the valley seemed like a painting. None of it felt real and Molly kept waiting for a letter in the mailbox explaining there’d been a mistake – you don’t  belong here – time to leave. But as wild, unruly and echo-y the family were, thankfully the letter never came.

As Molly stood high on the deck of her half finished home in a polyester knitted coat from Millers that her Nan gave her seven years prior – she pulled the collar over her shoulders that kept slipping because there was a hole that she fiddled with, making an even bigger hole and then she had to pull the entire edging off and even then she would not throw this raggy looking thing away – and inhaled the never-ending sweet, earthy air  in and smiled.

This crazy life in the forest would be all her children knew. This would be their childhood. Greens and golds and clean air would be the hazy memories locked somewhere in their make-up. That alone would be worth whatever struggles came. That alone was fCking mint.

Molly is a pen name.

Molly is a character.

Molly is sometimes real.

Molly is a writer.

Molly writes.

Love letters to her favourites.

About her nutso life.

About her mental state.

Of being out of her tree house – constantly.

And trying to remember how to write…
About the struggles she faces dipping back into the writing world…
About the writing path she abandoned twenty years before.

These are her mad musings.


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