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March 11, 2009

Wednesday

What makes this garden unique?

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The roses glisten with morning dew. The old woman tends them diligently, rising each day with the sun to unkink and unbend and fight rigor nocturnis.

Franny watches from her bus stop. Despite her mother's warnings, she is drawn to the roses that throb red and orange and lavender.

The old woman has prepared the rich brown earth, soil spilling gently into the fresh hole. All that waits is the blade, sharp and slender, to cut the beating heart from Franny's chest.

The roses glisten with morning dew. Today a new bush grows, flowers pink like a young girl's lips.

Posted by: R.A. Porter at March 11, 2009 2:41 AM · Permalink

She stood amongst the rows of squash and tomatoes, wondering how she had gotten here. She loved him, she did. She just didn’t know if she believed in what had led them there in the first place. She missed her family. And if she were honest with herself, she missed grocery stores. And McDonalds. And not sharing a shower with 15 other people.

She didn’t have money to leave. She could hitch back. One last non-conformist hurrah. Maybe she’d talk to him over dinner. It was her turn to cook. She picked some squash for the empanadas and went inside.

Posted by: Kate at March 11, 2009 12:06 PM · Permalink

"See this?" The old man pulled at the webbing between his forefinger and thumb. "This is just dirt and dust. It's what's inside that makes all the difference."

"And what is that?" I sneered.

"The soul, it's like a seed. It grows, blossoms, endures through the harshest of seasons and thrives in the fairest weather. And like all flowers, all plants, it too faces towards the sun."

"Right, right. Gotcha." He scowled and poked at me with his walking stick.

"Young people these days have no sense of the mystery that surrounds them. No matter. Time for your lessons, minstrel."

Posted by: Shawn at March 11, 2009 2:33 PM · Permalink