09
Dec
10

freewrite 23 January 2010


Present Tense

Opens in a Garden
Owner of garden does not know who the narrator is
Ten. Twenty. Thirty. Forty.  The bills in my hand stacked; each a respite from the desolation of my labor.  I had toiled, slaved, rejoiced: each in accordance with my mood.  Whether or not she knew the bloom of her robust tomatoes was my art, the tomatoes would be eaten.  The presumed joy of their consumption satisfied me.
Ten. Twenty. Thirty. Forty.  It’s hard to make a living feeding people with real food.  I should know.  I tried for years to find an apprenticeship online.  I searched by every funky keyword you could imagine.  My mother criticized my efforts saying, “What about x; what about z; y could put a hole in your r.”
I fiddled for my jacknife –freshly sharpened as it was– and cut the tips of her cauliflower clean off.  Not a sound.  I breathed in my own relief and smelled the fresh vegetable’s promise of healing.

NOW! I shouted to myself.  I darted out past the celery patches and through the rows of raspberries, always watching her, until I hit an oak stout with my nose.

As I awoke from the daze, I remembered the sun setting just beyond a strange silhouette.  There was an omnipotent lord of all, but I feasted to my own indulgence, based on my own will.  A benevolent landlord she, and I the faithful steward of sweat and grime; forever abandoned to my toil.  I rose to my feet, blew my nose, and torched the blissful wings that held fast the shut door: MY FLAME!
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