|
These are the singing trees. They sway to and fro to the memory of her face. And every time I come here from my house in the city, and sit with my legs up, on this Veranda, I think of her. A young face walking up across the grass instead of the gravel path. - she had been here so many times before, she knew the way. The chef of the town diner insisted over tears that he didn't know that the shipment of mushrooms was toxic, but nobody blamed him, as he wept, inconsolable, his tears dropping like condiments of sadness. a rare coating of fungus had crept over the mushrooms even before they had been shipped - and that coating was clear. She was only eleven, and spent her last forty minutes convulsing, although I did not see it. The front screen door creaks from across the house, and I should be going in, my mother's home. How I miss these infrequent visits to my childhood home. |
Copyright ©2009 Ashi Shadow -10/25/09,
on fictional, based on seeing some trees somewhere (maybe in my head), started a few months before actually written, not as good as emotion in my head.
[should it be protozoa instead of fungus over the mushrooms? too much fungi could confuse people.
Should poisonous be the right word? or toxic? change condiments to something else? spices? Seasoning? Marinade? Sauce?
Ending is not how it should have been. Considered "and sniveling" after convulsing, but decided not to keep that.
Considered "looking at them" as a line before "I think of her"]