A Certain Type of Decisive

United States

Just your unfriendly neighborhood disaster, bringing you bi-weekly updates from the bottom of my own shoe!

Message to Readers

Sometimes I write too small and can't see the wood for the trees- how am I supposed to know when I'm barking up the wrong one? I'll go out on a limb, but I won't find any money, that's for sure. If I hang out with you long enough, maybe I'll see some Jell-o nailed to one- but I'll probably just fall.

Time Passed Differently There

February 27, 2020

FREE WRITING

4
    A breath in. The air was colder than it had been in days. I suppose summer was ending. But the gardens here never wilted, a constant state of spring, summer, and autumn, all at once. The trees were adorned with flowers as well as fruit. Impossible, yet here it was. All of it scented the air, an endless concoction of indistinguishable aromas. Most of it just felt cold. It stung my lungs, but it was good. 
    A breath out. I could hear the birds chirping from hidden perches. They don’t like the bird houses, too unnatural for them. The greens of the leaves around me were too dark for spring, the flowers contrasted them, pure white petals pressed against leaves so dark they might've been black. Bees danced through the air to music I knew but couldn't hear. Their buzzing was quiet compared to the people somewhere in the garden, talking. 
    A breath in. I didn’t see any of the other people, but I could hear them. Laughing, singing, playing, young and old, close enough to hear, but too far away to understand. Their words sounded like a foreign language. One I didn't know and didn't care to decipher. It was just noise. I could hear water dripping from a fountain somewhere close, but it felt far away.
    A breath out. The bench beneath me was made of wood. It was smooth from what must have been thousands of years of sitting on it. Though the air was cold, the bench was warm from sitting in the sun. My hands rested on the bench, drinking  in its warmth. I watched as a pure yellow butterfly floated past.
    A breath in. The butterfly had landed on an orange blossom. I could see a bird now. It was blue, like a child’s drawing of a bird, but unlike any I had ever seen before. I knew most types of birds, this one was none of them. It wasn’t extravagant in any way. Somewhere between a wren and an auk, but blue, and too large. It really did look like a child’s drawing.
    A breath out. The tree to my left was twisted. A trunk made of eight separate trunks swirled together like an ice cream cone. It branched out symmetrically over my head, a perfect umbrella of dark wood and leaves so opaque that they let the sunlight though like lace. I could see the dust fall slowly towards the ground in spirals through the sunbeams. 
    A breath in. At the base of the orange tree, an impossible stack of rocks. It could be the product of patience or magic. In this garden it could be either. It could have been there for hours or centuries, there was no way of knowing. It could be both. Time passes differently here.
    A breath out. The stack of rocks could be from the monks. Many of them practiced in this garden. The garden wasn’t for everyone, of course. Everything had it's limits. Not all who were in the garden were monks, but all monks could enter the garden. 
    A breath in. I wasn’t a monk. But all children can enter the garden. Innocence, I guess. The old people can enter the garden, too,but only after death. Others, well, those who needed the garden could always find a way in. Somehow. They walk on the path, trying to find something to help them. Help them find peace. Find wisdom. Find innocence. Find help. Some don’t know what they're searching for, but they all end up here someday. Walking.
    A breath out. The bird in the orange tree was singing. Not just chirping. Birds in the garden were different from other birds. They don’t eat the butterflies. I could see now that there was another bird in the orange tree. They were singing to each other. An echoing duet, joined by others in trees father past. I wondered if a child had drawn them and a monk had made them real.
    A breath in. I was starting to feel the warmth from the sun on my own skin, though the air was still cold. I could feel every muscle in my body start to release. My hair over my body was less on edge, my mind starting to soften as well. Every tear and cut was starting to heal, with only the air from the garden. 
    A breath out. The others in the garden sounded happy, but not obnoxiously so. Like teenagers, mostly. I could also hear younger children playing some kind of game. I knew from experience, the wound be old people reclining in chairs, not far down the path. Some would be talking, some playing games, others just resting. I knew monks would watch from bridges over the youngest children playing in the river, but they didn’t need to. The garden was safe. 
    A breath in. The leaves mimic that of summer. The flowers are ones of spring. The fruits are things of autumn. But I could feel the winter in my lungs. A little sting that felt fresh, tinged with the scent of the flowers. The air was colder than it had been in days.

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4 Comments
  • Loser

    Lovely description. I like the hint of danger at the end.


    9 months ago
  • WishfulKittyKat1

    This is so pretty! You use repetition so so well and it's excellent! Also the simple beauty in your descriptions is perfect, I can hear the people talking and feel the 'winter in my lungs'. Great job!


    9 months ago
  • Anne Blackwood

    Okay so your comments on my work aaaaaahh! Thank you!!!


    9 months ago
  • Anne Blackwood

    The imagery in this is to die for! I can't get over the line "The tree to my left was twisted. A trunk made of eight separate trunks swirled together like an ice cream cone." I found myself breathing in sync with the words. Beautiful.


    9 months ago