Heading back to the apocalypse. What can I say? This was one I almost scrolled by before discovering an interesting little nugget. Definitely worth the stop.
Thanks for reading.
Artwork by Michał Sałata
https://www.artstation.com/artwork/xJrP0O
DISCLAIMER: This work has not been edited beyond what is done in the video. The goal is to capture a story in a short amount of time and keep it as raw as possible.
The Story
She had a garden. Flowers, not vegetables. Every morning, it called to her from an open window. A little dust and a few insects never hurt anyone. The sun billowed the curtains as much as the wind did, infusing it with a glow she could only describe as heavenly. A silly word, since she didn’t believe in heaven, but no one was here to judge her.
Breakfast could wait. Petals buoyed by the morning were much more filling. She kept her nails short. Dirt didn’t like long nails, and she loved the dirt. Worms nuzzled her fingertips as she buried roots. She smiled. She had smile lines from a good, long life. Sixties? Seventies? It didn’t matter. Age was a number. That was a cliche, but no one was here to judge her.
Not too hot today, so she could stay out here awhile, enjoy the warmth on her skin. She wasn’t afraid of aging, anyway. She was already aged. Whatever that meant.
A metallic ringing from upstairs through the open window. Why did she set an alarm if she was always up before it? She’d read something about circadian rhythms once, and how it was important for your health. She had heeded the advice, and was happy for it. Awake with the sun, only candlelight in the evenings, or a fire when it was cold. It was rarely cold.
She went upstairs to turn off the alarm clock. It was one of those old non-digital ones, and never seemed to turn off on its own. She supposed they didn’t make them like they used to. She smiled at her new cliche, hoping the thought would mark another line on her face. She decided lines were beautiful. If they were good enough for trees, why not her? Trees had to show their age on the inside while she flaunted it for everyone to see.
Upstairs, she picked up the teddy bear that rested on the nightstand behind the alarm clock. He slumped. Yes, he. Terrence. Terry for short. That’s what her daughter had named him. Yes, a daughter. She was off at school getting her philosophy degree. She knew it was useless in the real world, but it filled her daughter with such passion, and that’s all a parent could want for a child. Something that would make them feel alive inside.
Like her. With her gardening. Another useless talent. Flowers wouldn’t feed anyone. Except her heart. She went to the footboard of the bed, because it was such a beautiful view. Three windows, one directly behind the headboard and two angled on the left and right. This house was made in a time when people still considered the direction of the rising sun before building.
The age of the house was apparent in the wood floors, the walls where wallpaper seams bubbled. She could have changed it, fixed it up, but why? She viewed all things like she viewed herself. Let the years show. Some called it character, but she didn’t like that expression. Characters were fictitious, at least to her. She found that when anyone said someone or some thing had character, they really meant caricature. And this house was anything but that.
Outside the window, tree leaves looked like flowing kelp in a transparent ocean. She smiled. Another line? Of course oceans were transparent. Water was transparent. She supposed oceans weren’t really. Depth and silt and all that. Krill for the whales. Her daughter, Millie, because she hated Mildred, always drew flying whales. She asked her once why she drew flying whales instead of underwater ones. Millie had replied, “Because they have wings and a tail, like birds.”
She had never considered the genius in that statement, from a child of six. But now, looking at the picture above the nightstand of her, about that age, she appreciated it more than ever. Vestigial traits weren’t something children usually understood. She knew Millie didn’t, but her noticing is what mattered. Deep down, we all know where we come from.
Where did she come from? A place? Yes. A time? Of course. Those things weren’t a concern, though. Now was. Live in the moment because you’ll never know when it will be your last. Someone must have said that at one time.
She touched a spot on her mussed bedsheet warm with sun. She walked her fingers to it, pretending it was a pool of pure warmth. Dry but soothing.
Then it was wet. Her hand tickled with warmth, then was cold again, against metal, one finger resting on a trigger.
She was Anna again. In the rotted room with the dead woman who gardened lying in a garden bed. The dog she hadn’t named looked up at her with perked ears and doe eyes.
“I know,” Anna said. “We’ll leave soon.”
Curtains flowed. Heavenly, Anna supposed. She smiled. She went to the footboard where sheets clung like old cobwebs, careful to not distrub the shoe that looked so comfortable on its side. A couple of books were stacked at the edge of the grass. Her hand hovered over one, to dust them off and pick them up. She always loved those scenes in adventure movies. Instead, she decided to leave it. The woman liked to read by candlelight. Sometimes in the mornings, too, if the flowers didn’t pester her through the window.
Tonight they wouldn’t. They were with her now. She was one with them. Even though Anna couldn’t see her smile on the bleached skull, she knew she was, with a face full of beautiful lines that were drawn across a map of time, much more beautiful and complex than the world in which Anna found herself. A world of death and hunger and ruin.
Anna plucked a flower from the garden grave, felt the wind through the broken windows.
The woman wouldn’t mind. She had so many. Anna twirled it in her fingers, smelled it. It smelled of a garden, and a woman who had lived.
Leave a Reply