Old curmudgeons
sooo..I'm mostly just looking for any feedback people have to give. I've reowrked this a couple times
The hallway is dim, but in the scant light that drips heavily from sooty windows the green of his shirt stands out clearly, rippled and patterned in uneven diamonds like the skin of a child’s snake; the one we all draw. That’s were known schema breaks into fractured pieces - at the opening of the back door. The light first hits like a spike in the eye. After a life under the hazy twilight smog of the city this pure, unfiltered sun is a terrifying burning spectre. But he’s already leading on and I can do nothing but follow him out into the garden that should have been lost long ago.
We aren’t allowed to be here, warned away by grandmother’s stories and grown-up commands that were made to keep us wary of this gardener and his work. But today, by his side, I know it’s alright. I know this with that deep natural learning: The sun will rise tomorrow, the leaves fall in the winter, today I walk in light.
There’s very little grass among the plants, only a thick path so soft underfoot and so unrelated to the prickly brown of parks that I can feel my throat twisting, forcing up clear drops to blur my sight of the green. The gardener reaches down to take my hand in his own, plasticy-smooth like all his hairless skin and I follow down the springy path in my short-lived blindness. The smells compel me the smear tears aside; first is turned earth with sharp hints of must and damp. Above this, sharper still, is the grass crushed beneath two sets of feet, large and small.
I look up at this man, his skin blending with the bleached out sky where it isn’t marked with birds, and gasp as the large swallow on his unhaired head stops its flight to watch me back. Then the gardener points and I turn to looks at the plants that now surround us.
The flowers here are huge, seeming giants of their kind; not that I truly know what they are. Great blooms of purple and red tower above, filtering sunlight translucent petals that leave the path ahead marbled with colour. Among these, gathered on vines that twist around thick stalks, the tiniest buds cling in the hundreds. The colours are vibrant crayon hues, yellow and blue-green. From somewhere nearby, among or behind them I can’t tell which, comes the faint bubbling trill of water. The sound fills the air around us, tiny fairy bells of drops hitting pool.
As I look, and listen, the flowers begin to give off perfume to herald the sun’s sinking low; a faint, sweet musk from the miniature buds and something agonizingly close to cinnamon from the giant petals overhead.
We walk as I take this all in, following twists and turns along the path that reveal and hide rose of the same blueish-white as the gardener’s skin, and magenta bells dripping with the scent of raspberries. Then, finally, straight ahead is a curtain of vines. They stretch between the smooth brown trunks of two trees whose branches spill with cobwebby moss, then weave themselves into a myriad of threads speckled with silver stars.
The man beside me parts the flowers with one hand, motioning me to follow him through. I hesitate here; feeling that to pass is to tread hallowed ground.
“Come” he urges in a breathy sibilant voice and continues forwards without pause. I have no choice as he calls, and follow the green of his snakeskin shirt, to see the tree.
This is its home, this small clearing in a garden too big for its wall. A ring of the brightest grass grows tall around it, trunk clothed in a web of the starred vines and it’s brilliant; it’s fantastic, it’s beautiful, it’s terrifying. The forbidden tree.
It’s covered in flamingos and I feel I’ve come home. The birds sleep, each wrapped in their wings with necks tucked in and beaks hidden. They hang from the branches upside down, like one-legged, feathered bats. Every inch, every smallest space on branch or twig is grasped by a foot, the tree alive with its soft pink foliage.
Then, the sun finishes its downward arc to land blazing over the wall. What should plunge us into abrupt darkness merely succeeds and eerie twilight as a faint glow leeches colourfully from the towering flowers to light the tree; mixing with the soft twinkling of stars that seek to outdo their cousins above. So few words have been spoken that I jump when the gardener leans to hiss softly in my ear
“I’ll bring us some tea, yes?”
There’s no need for an answer, by the time I turn he’s already slithering away. Then all is quiet, all is still, except for the gently rustling wings of the flamingos.
But this is long ago. I remember; I see it again every time I look out my window. I’ve come back here, you see, after so long living in the grime and smog of the city; back to dim hallways and cracked windows. Many things have happened since that holiest of nights. The garden is nearly dead now, buries under a mass of dried brambles and black soot so deep I can’t reach the tree, can’t see those stars. And now, the swallow has taken flight, leaving its sky of blue to the dirt of worms. But it’s found a new sky to wing across, a field of snow bubbled by rolling ribs. A lot of work is needed to bring paradise back, buts that’s alright now; everything’s alright now. Yesterday my hair started falling out
what do you know..I might even post some of the things that are actually happening again someday.
The hallway is dim, but in the scant light that drips heavily from sooty windows the green of his shirt stands out clearly, rippled and patterned in uneven diamonds like the skin of a child’s snake; the one we all draw. That’s were known schema breaks into fractured pieces - at the opening of the back door. The light first hits like a spike in the eye. After a life under the hazy twilight smog of the city this pure, unfiltered sun is a terrifying burning spectre. But he’s already leading on and I can do nothing but follow him out into the garden that should have been lost long ago.
We aren’t allowed to be here, warned away by grandmother’s stories and grown-up commands that were made to keep us wary of this gardener and his work. But today, by his side, I know it’s alright. I know this with that deep natural learning: The sun will rise tomorrow, the leaves fall in the winter, today I walk in light.
There’s very little grass among the plants, only a thick path so soft underfoot and so unrelated to the prickly brown of parks that I can feel my throat twisting, forcing up clear drops to blur my sight of the green. The gardener reaches down to take my hand in his own, plasticy-smooth like all his hairless skin and I follow down the springy path in my short-lived blindness. The smells compel me the smear tears aside; first is turned earth with sharp hints of must and damp. Above this, sharper still, is the grass crushed beneath two sets of feet, large and small.
I look up at this man, his skin blending with the bleached out sky where it isn’t marked with birds, and gasp as the large swallow on his unhaired head stops its flight to watch me back. Then the gardener points and I turn to looks at the plants that now surround us.
The flowers here are huge, seeming giants of their kind; not that I truly know what they are. Great blooms of purple and red tower above, filtering sunlight translucent petals that leave the path ahead marbled with colour. Among these, gathered on vines that twist around thick stalks, the tiniest buds cling in the hundreds. The colours are vibrant crayon hues, yellow and blue-green. From somewhere nearby, among or behind them I can’t tell which, comes the faint bubbling trill of water. The sound fills the air around us, tiny fairy bells of drops hitting pool.
As I look, and listen, the flowers begin to give off perfume to herald the sun’s sinking low; a faint, sweet musk from the miniature buds and something agonizingly close to cinnamon from the giant petals overhead.
We walk as I take this all in, following twists and turns along the path that reveal and hide rose of the same blueish-white as the gardener’s skin, and magenta bells dripping with the scent of raspberries. Then, finally, straight ahead is a curtain of vines. They stretch between the smooth brown trunks of two trees whose branches spill with cobwebby moss, then weave themselves into a myriad of threads speckled with silver stars.
The man beside me parts the flowers with one hand, motioning me to follow him through. I hesitate here; feeling that to pass is to tread hallowed ground.
“Come” he urges in a breathy sibilant voice and continues forwards without pause. I have no choice as he calls, and follow the green of his snakeskin shirt, to see the tree.
This is its home, this small clearing in a garden too big for its wall. A ring of the brightest grass grows tall around it, trunk clothed in a web of the starred vines and it’s brilliant; it’s fantastic, it’s beautiful, it’s terrifying. The forbidden tree.
It’s covered in flamingos and I feel I’ve come home. The birds sleep, each wrapped in their wings with necks tucked in and beaks hidden. They hang from the branches upside down, like one-legged, feathered bats. Every inch, every smallest space on branch or twig is grasped by a foot, the tree alive with its soft pink foliage.
Then, the sun finishes its downward arc to land blazing over the wall. What should plunge us into abrupt darkness merely succeeds and eerie twilight as a faint glow leeches colourfully from the towering flowers to light the tree; mixing with the soft twinkling of stars that seek to outdo their cousins above. So few words have been spoken that I jump when the gardener leans to hiss softly in my ear
“I’ll bring us some tea, yes?”
There’s no need for an answer, by the time I turn he’s already slithering away. Then all is quiet, all is still, except for the gently rustling wings of the flamingos.
But this is long ago. I remember; I see it again every time I look out my window. I’ve come back here, you see, after so long living in the grime and smog of the city; back to dim hallways and cracked windows. Many things have happened since that holiest of nights. The garden is nearly dead now, buries under a mass of dried brambles and black soot so deep I can’t reach the tree, can’t see those stars. And now, the swallow has taken flight, leaving its sky of blue to the dirt of worms. But it’s found a new sky to wing across, a field of snow bubbled by rolling ribs. A lot of work is needed to bring paradise back, buts that’s alright now; everything’s alright now. Yesterday my hair started falling out
what do you know..I might even post some of the things that are actually happening again someday.