A Garden Variety Contract

Well, that was an embarrassing fall. Stella looked at her feet. Nope, definitely still have a left and a right one — not two left feet. At least Aunt Genevieve can reasonably make that excuse. She actually does have two left feet. Ever since her simp of a fairy godmother misunderstood her request to have her right foot look more like her left because she wanted a bunion removed. NOT that she literally wanted them to look the same, which is exactly how said fairy godmother understood the request.

Regardless Stella just lived up to her nickname everyone in this pit-hole of a hamlet gave her, Unstable Stella, by unceremoniously tripping and falling over the embankment that bordered the deep forest. They could’ve at least gone with Unsteady Stella. It’d be more accurate and a better use of literary devices. But because she wouldn’t put her fellow residents in the category of those terribly concerned with semantics, she tried not to waste the energy thinking too long about it.

But hey, the bright side is she landed on a cushy patch of moss. Turning her head, the sweet smell of decaying leaves shrouded in mud wafted around her, which was punctuated by a pungent stink of mold that caused her to bolt straight up. There, sitting directly at her feet, was the source of the regrettable stench. A frog that she could only describe as voluminous boldly stared back at her.

“You know you nearly took my life by falling so carelessly,” the frog indignantly fired the accusation at her.

“That seems a little dramatic, but I am sorry if I hurt you.” Stella returned with equal indignation. Frogs could be so touchy.

“Women.” The frog huffed under his breath.

“What?!” she demanded appalled.

“Your type is always either kissing us or shrieking at us. A simple ‘how do you do’ would go a long way, you know,” the frog offered back.

Stella sighed, softened her gaze and asked, “ Well, how do you do?”

“Not so well, thank you very much,” the frog countered. “An uninvited stranger just tried to kill me and in MY garden no less!”

Incredulous, Stella snapped, “Well, this was fun. I’m out of here. Bye.” She pulled her knees toward her and began to stand. “What garden are you talking about anyway? This isn’t…”

Her voice trailed off as she glanced up and beyond the frog’s sizable head. It WAS a garden. How had she never come across it before? She hadn’t lived here long, but surely she would’ve seen it by now.

Yellow roses peaked and glowed over poppies of every color dotting a labyrinth of pathways. A stonewall as old as time itself held the tranquil scene together with a large nurturing oak tree sheltering a red gate at the far right corner of the wall.

“What is this place…” Stella wondered aloud in hushed awe.

“Well you could be here then suddenly here isn’t here anymore and here becomes there,” the frog puzzled.

Rolling her eyes, Stella retorted, “You're talking in utter nonsense, frog. What’s your name anyway?”

“Rude, girl. But it's Lewis if you're really asking.”

“I asked, didn’t I?”

“It appears you have,” Lewis sighed in agreement. “Though tomorrow that name may no longer fit me for sometimes the me I am isn’t the me I want to be and I have to become another me.”

“Well, I’m Stella. Although the longer we talk the more I wonder if I shouldn’t be Alice,” she wryly joked.

And with that, Stella turned around to climb back up the embankment she had fallen down. However, instead of the embankment behind her, she only saw the same stonewall that stretched out in front of her.

“You can’t go backward — only forward when time is involved.” Lewis chastised. “But I can hel—”

Stella cut him off, “Nope. I can help myself thank you very much.” She turned on her heel, leaving the frog of great volume — along with his ridiculous commentary — behind her. She didn’t know it then, but she was headed on a fruitless journey. Walking through the yellow roses on the paths dotted with every color of poppy while white daisies waved at her, she arrived at the red gate and pushed it open. Walking through it, she found herself right back in front of Lewis.

Without making eye contact with Lewis, Stella kept walking like she'd meant to do that all along. So she continued on her path with bold, albeit false, confidence.

Time and time again, after walking through the red gate, Stella continued to find herself in front of that insufferable frog. He just kept sitting there not in mockery but seemingly in anticipation.

Before long it was day after day, and that turned into a full week. She tried different combinations  — walking backward, on one foot and with her eyes closed, climbing over the gate, rolling under it and leaving it open — all to no avail. So giving up, she threw herself down in a huff in front of the ever-present frog whose darting eyes shifted along either side of his enormous head.

“You win. I can’t do it. How in the world do I get out of here,” Stella exclaimed exasperated and defeated.

Lewis repeated what he’d said no fewer than seven days before, “You can’t go backward — only forward when time is involved, but I can help.” He paused, “There’s simply the little issue of our agreement.”

“You got it. Whatever. Just get me home.”

“So many of your kind have kissed me. And without my consent, you should know. As retribution and if I help you get out, you must agree to become my wife.”

Stella looked at him with disgust. “You’re gross. You literally have an infestation of mold thriving on your back. Nope. No way. Not going to happen.”

“Of course you can continue walking in circles for all eternity...” Lewis offered up.

“Well, if kissing you without your consent is so bad, this is way worse,” Stella hissed at him. “It’s blackmail, extortion, it’s words I don’t even know!”

“I’m giving you an option. It’s just a contract. You get out of here. I get a wife to fetch me flies and take care of this mold issue you so indelicately called to attention. What will it be.” Lewis simply stated with a hint of bored expectation.

While Stella's response was once again a hard no, 542 more times of walking through that red door right back to Lewis’ stupid face decided it, especially since it seemed she would find herself coming back to him for all eternity regardless. At least this way, she’d be out of this forsaken place and back home.

So on the 543rd time, Stella signed the contract.

Search of Silence

Most others she knew listened to music. They listened to it everywhere they went - providing their lives with a soundtrack. She had no soundtrack. She rarely listened to music because there was not a fashion in which it spoke to her that necessitated the dependency on it.

That's what she liked to think.

The truth was that her constant inner dialogue wouldn't shut up long enough to appreciate it. It was loud, incessant and rather opinionated. Giving her little opportunity, she rarely listened to the world around her - only that what was inside of her.

This morning, however, she stopped. She shut up. She listened to the quiet.

Listening closely, silence was not actually silent at all. Perhaps a fact that she knew once but long ago forgot. In the quiet, she found the hum of Earth. She could hear it and was quite certain even in the absence of electronics, cars and the wind, she would hear it vibrating in her ears. Thinking the noise of silence is what the science community calls "Earth's Chorus," she could only call it "company."

They say that darkness is the absence of light. Logically, silence is the absence of sound. Endlessly hearing Earth's Chorus in the quiet, she wondered... where could she find it? Certainly not here, not on Earth. If she couldn't find it, she'd bring it to her. Her ears. Without them, she could find silence.

Her hands would not block the sound. Pillows wouldn't either.

Van Gogh came to mind. Cutting off one's ear didn't seem so outrageous. But that surely wouldn't keep out the sound. Her eardrums held the key. There she could find silence. One's ears. They are not so necessary.

"No, no. I don't think I need them."

Aloud. She heard. I don't need my ears.

Where did this stream of consciousness come from?! This inner dialogue just will not stop. Even in the quiet it goes on. Perhaps this narrative; this ambling narrative is her soundtrack.

Night Story

Tonight, it returned. On the summer air, the evening beckoned me to explore the night wind. My white cotton sheets gathered around me as I sat up to peek out of my curtains to the wonderland before me.  A shimmering full moon above the nearby forest made everything glow with an ethereal illumination. The air became thick with the anticipation of my participation in the awaiting world.

Slipping out of bed, I followed the dim glow of moonlight flooding my bedroom window. The moon hung high and full in the sky – plopped amidst a sea of silvery stars. They seemed to ripple in endless circles around it. My arms reached to lift the heavy wooden frame. My fingers slipped on it bringing peels of white crackling paint with them. My lavender nail polish chipped on the aged wood. Sighing and grasping firmer, I heaved the stubborn frame up until it came to a grinding halt.

A gust of cool breeze rushed in, encircling me in the center of the bedroom. Twirling at the center it, I raised my arms, tilted my head toward the ceiling and contentedly inhaled its sweet splendor. I was entranced, helpless at its beckoning.

A soft glimmer glided past the open window, followed by a sparkling parade of light. The trickling stream began to swirl in figure eights around my tiny, enchanted bedroom. The glimmering orbs quickly fell into the revolving current of air gently twisting around me. It was a fanfare of fireflies, and I was the delighted core. My milky white nightgown spun around me like a Victorian party dress in my clandestine dance. Then a whisper softly floated to my ear.

Photo by me, 2010. Please request permission before using.

“Come and stay with us,” a firefly quietly coaxed.

“Not tonight,” I returned.

On cue, the firefly parade floated to various places amidst the darkening room as though they were always there like white Christmas lights hiding beneath a freshly fallen snow. They led a path back to my lonely bed. Hovering along my window sill, headboard, shelves and ceiling, the creatures stayed, magically suspending themselves in air and time.

“I will though,” I promised, and soon, I did.

A Perspective by Observation

Nothing strikes me quite so much as the young Maple tree. Alone in a meadow where no other trees dare grow.

At the very tip top is a branch that reaches with all its might. It soaks in all of my warmth with one leaf high above the others beginning its bloom.

Day after day it uncurls just a bit. Green gleams through. In a very short time, it is broad and welcoming. A conduit of health for the maturing tree.

As breezes come and go, it waves at me. I smile back. Warming the air in which it sways. Alone. At the top. Doing all that’s expected of it. Joined by many other leaves, it looks down at them and up at me.

The thickened breeze carries with it inevitably long days, which I come to treasure. The Earth displays her proverbial feathers to show me all of the good she grows with me. Like the diva she is, bathing in my spotlight.

But as the endless cycle goes so must she. The days shorten. Spring’s glory melts in the heat of summer, which now slows on the brink of fall. But then there’s the young Maple. The one in the meadow where no other trees dare grow.

Atop the tree’s tallest branch is the leaf that long ago became a familiar friend. Still it sways on the chilled currents of autumn. For in its youth, it reveled in crowds of friends – never really being part. And as they went their ways, it stayed.

For what, you ask.

Cold nights. Gray days. Harsh survival. I watched as it curled. I winced as it browned.

But come tomorrow.

It will still be there because it knows no other place to be.

Photo by me, 2010. Please request permission before using.