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The Garden of
The one sentence pitch for this story:
The one sentence pitch for this story:
An overdose of literary techniques bring associations between a garden
and the old lady who tends for it...
An overdose of literary techniques bring associations between a garden
and the old lady who tends for it...
The sun beamed down on the garden of Mrs. Daisy Greene. The long lawn spread out like a giant living carpet, which the trees and shrubs that ran along its edge hung over and stroked with the breeze.
The sun beamed down on the garden of Mrs. Daisy Greene. The long lawn spread out like a giant living carpet, which the trees and shrubs that ran along its edge hung over and stroked with the breeze.
The rose bushes were in full bloom, and their blood red petals reached up to sap the sunlight of its life giving energy; the thorns down the stems guarding against any but the most respected animals, defending the petals from anything that could mar the blood red satin.
The rose bushes were in full bloom, and their blood red petals reached up to sap the sunlight of its life giving energy; the thorns down the stems guarding against any but the most respected animals, defending the petals from anything that could mar the blood red satin.
The oak tree that stood by the rear gate looked like a mighty fairground candy-floss, its soft rounded leaves swaying in the sunlight, its acorns beginning to develop, the life being restored and the new generation being moulded while the tree still stood in its prime. In its branches two birds could be heard calling to each other, singing their conversations like an opera; and what an opera it was. Soft and melodic like the woodwinds when it wanted to be, yet sharp and direct like the dramatic violin chorus when the talk took a turn; and loud a pompous like the brass while the male was musically beating his chest.
The oak tree that stood by the rear gate looked like a mighty fairground candy-floss, its soft rounded leaves swaying in the sunlight, its acorns beginning to develop, the life being restored and the new generation being moulded while the tree still stood in its prime. In its branches two birds could be heard calling to each other, singing their conversations like an opera; and what an opera it was. Soft and melodic like the woodwinds when it wanted to be, yet sharp and direct like the dramatic violin chorus when the talk took a turn; and loud a pompous like the brass while the male was musically beating his chest.
Next to it was an old tool shed, its door lopsided, its roof cracked and rain beaten. And next to that, towards the tree, a spade and a fork lazed the summer away. The fork standing straight in the ground, while the spade leant against the shed, like a pair of old friends talking over a drink.
Next to it was an old tool shed, its door lopsided, its roof cracked and rain beaten. And next to that, towards the tree, a spade and a fork lazed the summer away. The fork standing straight in the ground, while the spade leant against the shed, like a pair of old friends talking over a drink.
With a gentle hum, a nomadic bumblebee danced its way through the roses, stopping periodically for a sip of the sweet, sweet nectar. It made its way along the bed, past the fried egg plants, the mace like hyacinths, the star studded dandelion clocks which swayed in the breeze, spreading their spinning, dancing seeds along the wind paths towards a new, unknown garden, and a new undiscovered world.
With a gentle hum, a nomadic bumblebee danced its way through the roses, stopping periodically for a sip of the sweet, sweet nectar. It made its way along the bed, past the fried egg plants, the mace like hyacinths, the star studded dandelion clocks which swayed in the breeze, spreading their spinning, dancing seeds along the wind paths towards a new, unknown garden, and a new undiscovered world.
And in the centre of it all, standing erect in the middle of the lawn was a fountain whose water dropping, together with the birds and the bees, made up the only sounds on that still summer’s day.
And in the centre of it all, standing erect in the middle of the lawn was a fountain whose water dropping, together with the birds and the bees, made up the only sounds on that still summer’s day.
Nothing could compare with this garden in this moment – it was life personified.
Nothing could compare with this garden in this moment – it was life personified.
And surveying it all, in an extended conservatory on the northern most end of the garden, sat its creator: Mrs. Daisy Greene.
And surveying it all, in an extended conservatory on the northern most end of the garden, sat its creator: Mrs. Daisy Greene.
Her name and her were made for each other. She had snow-white hair that came from her head like the petals of a daisy, while her face beamed and shone like its yellow centre. And the green? Well, her hands were green, or her fingers at least. Her garden was tended and loved and cared for and supported. Its life was found within the old lady that lived to see it flourish. She was like Arthur over her domain: if she were well then the garden bloomed and was fresh; but if she was feeling her age, or if for some reason the colour was gone from her cheeks, then the roses lost their shine or the mighty oak drooped its branches as if offering them as aid.
Her name and her were made for each other. She had snow-white hair that came from her head like the petals of a daisy, while her face beamed and shone like its yellow centre. And the green? Well, her hands were green, or her fingers at least. Her garden was tended and loved and cared for and supported. Its life was found within the old lady that lived to see it flourish. She was like Arthur over her domain: if she were well then the garden bloomed and was fresh; but if she was feeling her age, or if for some reason the colour was gone from her cheeks, then the roses lost their shine or the mighty oak drooped its branches as if offering them as aid.
When her friends and family asked why she worked so hard on her garden she would often remind them that ‘it will be here long after I’m dead and gone. But I won’t go until its perfect.’
When her friends and family asked why she worked so hard on her garden she would often remind them that ‘it will be here long after I’m dead and gone. But I won’t go until its perfect.’
The seventy years turned into eighty and the eighty moved into ninety, but still Daisy Greene would not give up on her garden.
The seventy years turned into eighty and the eighty moved into ninety, but still Daisy Greene would not give up on her garden.
The men from the old folks’ home came to see her, to tell her than she really should think of spending the last of her savings with them, and spending her few remaining years in the peace of the rest home. She thanked them, and made them tea and cakes, but insisted that she could never leave her garden. They left eventually and stopped bothering her, but as they walked away for the last time, one said to the other ‘It amazes me how some people keep going. Can’t she see we are offering her safety and security.’ But already she was sitting under the oak tree, on a bench, protected from the midday sun. And the men left without her savings.
The men from the old folks’ home came to see her, to tell her than she really should think of spending the last of her savings with them, and spending her few remaining years in the peace of the rest home. She thanked them, and made them tea and cakes, but insisted that she could never leave her garden. They left eventually and stopped bothering her, but as they walked away for the last time, one said to the other ‘It amazes me how some people keep going. Can’t she see we are offering her safety and security.’ But already she was sitting under the oak tree, on a bench, protected from the midday sun. And the men left without her savings.
Not that she had much left anyway. It had all gone on her garden. And as she sat in it she knew why. The tree sheltered her from the sun and wind, the daisies smiled up at her from the grass, while the Dandelions with their golden crowns saluted her with the broad leaves as she passed. The Roses were the life, while the birds in the trees sang their operas to the beat of the rain in the fountain. It was all here today, all together. The carpet of grass shone and glistened, while the water droplets danced through the air like shooting stars. The Birds were merry, the oak stood tall. Even the shed took on a certain pride in its weather worn scars. The garden shone like no other … and so now Daisy died.
Not that she had much left anyway. It had all gone on her garden. And as she sat in it she knew why. The tree sheltered her from the sun and wind, the daisies smiled up at her from the grass, while the Dandelions with their golden crowns saluted her with the broad leaves as she passed. The Roses were the life, while the birds in the trees sang their operas to the beat of the rain in the fountain. It was all here today, all together. The carpet of grass shone and glistened, while the water droplets danced through the air like shooting stars. The Birds were merry, the oak stood tall. Even the shed took on a certain pride in its weather worn scars. The garden shone like no other … and so now Daisy died.
She lay back in her chair, looking over her garden and sighed. ‘Yes… you will be hear long after I’m gone,’ she whispered to herself with her final breaths.
She lay back in her chair, looking over her garden and sighed. ‘Yes… you will be hear long after I’m gone,’ she whispered to herself with her final breaths.
And the Garden wept.
And the Garden wept.
Their mother was dead. Yet remembering the old lady’s dying wish it stood tall and proud. The grass, the tree, the fountain. The old friends stopped their talk in tribute. The Dandelions stood tall, but hung their golden crowns in remembrance of the old lady. The Birds’ opera became a melancholic tragedy, while the two creatures cried over their fallen Lady, yet remembered only her care and love and devotion. And the Roses, one young one in particular, could not hold back their grief, and for just a second a single bloody tear fell, floating to the ground as she silently wept for her dead.
Their mother was dead. Yet remembering the old lady’s dying wish it stood tall and proud. The grass, the tree, the fountain. The old friends stopped their talk in tribute. The Dandelions stood tall, but hung their golden crowns in remembrance of the old lady. The Birds’ opera became a melancholic tragedy, while the two creatures cried over their fallen Lady, yet remembered only her care and love and devotion. And the Roses, one young one in particular, could not hold back their grief, and for just a second a single bloody tear fell, floating to the ground as she silently wept for her dead.
Notes on the writing:
Notes on the writing:
I wrote this when I was a teenager - I think I was doing my A Levels - and I harboured a secret desire to write like Oscar Wilde. For those who don't know, he was a very lyrical and elegant writer from Victorian England who wrote plays and one novel, but was probably just as famous for his personal life and razor sharp wit.
I wrote this when I was a teenager - I think I was doing my A Levels - and I harboured a secret desire to write like Oscar Wilde. For those who don't know, he was a very lyrical and elegant writer from Victorian England who wrote plays and one novel, but was probably just as famous for his personal life and razor sharp wit.
As a child, however, I fell in love with two stories he wrote: The Selfish Giant and The Happy Prince, both of which use lavish extended passages of really gorgeous, technique heavy writing to bring the natural world to life. It was colourful, vibrant and lyrical - and I loved reading it! This story, basically, came from a desire to write like that.
As a child, however, I fell in love with two stories he wrote: The Selfish Giant and The Happy Prince, both of which use lavish extended passages of really gorgeous, technique heavy writing to bring the natural world to life. It was colourful, vibrant and lyrical - and I loved reading it! This story, basically, came from a desire to write like that.
This is a story I look back on with fondness, but the barrage of techniques in it can come across as being a little sickly sweet. It's like a cake with too much icing, that looks great but actually makes you feel a little sick afterwards!! Having said that, there are some lovely images in it: the birds' opera is nice; and I am still really fond of the spade and the fork lazing the summer away "like old friends."
This is a story I look back on with fondness, but the barrage of techniques in it can come across as being a little sickly sweet. It's like a cake with too much icing, that looks great but actually makes you feel a little sick afterwards!! Having said that, there are some lovely images in it: the birds' opera is nice; and I am still really fond of the spade and the fork lazing the summer away "like old friends."
Overall: it's not 'great' writing by any means, but there's some value in exploring the moments where the techniques work and the times when they don't.
Overall: it's not 'great' writing by any means, but there's some value in exploring the moments where the techniques work and the times when they don't.
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