Saarah Jappie
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A Gardener in a Graveyard of Birds
Despite the cool autumn wind, and the familiar crunch of foliage underfoot, the gardener’s pockets were weightless. The leathery fingers awkwardly buried themselves in voids dusted with breadcrumbs, his neck bent as he scuffled along, swaying and then regaining his footing. The pills he took that morning, entirely harmless, are said to put one in a state of deep, resplendent slumber, by inspiring dreams so vivid, he sometimes couldn’t tell sleep from wakefulness. If he was ever asleep, or dead. Sometimes he was filled with conviction, in a state of palpable dreaming, that this was it, that his subconscious finally merged with his soul, deserting his body. Discovering that he was very much alive, he took them again this morning, finding them scattered on the gritty countertop. The aftertaste was bitter, and he always felt like it was lodged in his throat whenever he swallowed. Sticking his leathery fingers as far as they could go behind his bruised throat, he could never find them. No matter how far he pushed with his hands and thrashed with his throat, nothing could stop him from going there. The pharmacist increased his subscription with each visit, along with something for his sore throat, to smooth his deep, scratchy voice. It is not uncommon to grow to hate the things you need, he needed to go there and thus he hated it. Some call it a loss of control, some a lack of meaning, and others say it’s a lack of God. Perhaps it was because space was concentrated, and all light collapsed on itself, and the dust irritated his eyes and colored his teeth. Whatever the reason, he would never see it, and if it blinded him, he would believe he was only dreaming in oblivion.
By Saarah Jappie3 years ago in Fiction