In order to fully appreciate the writing set before you, you must first be privy to the wry intellect of our narrator. She will often appear to be keenly naïve in the realm of reading people, but intrepid reader, I am here to inform you of the veil our narrator wears. This appearance of naivety is precisely her intent. For it is this look of innocence which allows her to skirt past the drabbles of power struggles that two or more imposing egos inevitably ferment. Rather than fight outright with her competition she elects to slither her way under their radar and pounce on their coveted power.
You will meet our narrator through the contents of her journal. I am mostly certain she purposely left said contents strewn open on her writing desk for any passerby or snooping eye to see. All who knew her (such as I) knew she had a locked box (a physical box with a lock she tucked away in a corner of her closet) where she kept her (at the time) growing collection of written secrets. She was paranoid and disturbed by the idea that someone might pry into her inner most thoughts, ideas, feelings, and truths. Because of this I am not convinced that the ajar journal was her actual personal journal. Moreover, our narrator had all of her previous journals embossed with her initials, “JS” whereas this abandoned journal was blank from such branding.
These are some of the contextual circumstances I felt it was my duty to elucidate to you the most recent prying eye. So, dear reader, whomever you may be: take the following words into your heart and mind with great caution. If your hands tremble along the edges of these pages you are almost adequately armed.
The man that clutches the green stem—
He rests beneath earth’s continental crust.
A man so lonely and insidious in nature—
leveraged his slumber and festered throughout the ages.
When one fateful night—
A lady took flight—
Whose whisper is heard in these pages…
May 13th
When I drew my curtains back after waking I finally understood the beauty of a sunrise. Since we moved to this far and remote realm I’ve struggled to find a “silver lining,” as mother calls it, to our new home; but this morning the light had a way of surfing along the rim of each water bulb hanging from the frame of my bedroom window. There were pageants of droplets dancing their way to the earth—guided by gravity and the melting properties of our sun. It was in the midst of my admiration when I noticed the first vestige of my rose.
I write this down now, on the eve of my discovery, because I believe I happened upon something truly magnificent. When the sun climbed its way further across the earth and its light finally became visible from my bedroom window, the sun beams’ trajectory drew my eye to a dark outline in the shape of a flower (I couldn’t tell what type at the time) at the top of a grassy hill some yards away from our estate. I am curious by nature so I set out for the hill as soon as breakfast finished and my morning household duties were attended to. I dressed light and packed lighter because spring is here and I only expected my journey to take half a day.
In order to get to this new object of my curiosity I had to cut through the valley which ran through the center of town. I chose to view this as an opportunity to get to know my new neighbors, and was I ever disappointed by what I discovered. The first woman I spoke to owns a threads shop. I thought I might buy a pair of mittens for myself in the off season at a discount, but when I shared my morning’s escapade I was turned off by the whole idea of ever purchasing anything woven by her! I can hear her lecturing tone now, “You shan’t go up there lass. All that will meet you is a shattered ego and a lousy view for all your efforts.”
Through some light questioning of the townspeople I realized her’s was the popular opinion! I swear, the insularity of the whole lot is unmet. As soon as I shared the object of my quest they scoffed and pointed me back down the path I’d already taken. Wanting to be done with them all I purchased a fresh cider from a stand on the outskirt of the town’s center and kept my head down until I was out of eyeshot.
Before I made the assent up Winwood hill—the name of my shadow’s home—the only useful information I clawed out of my neighbors—I pulled a ham and cheese sandwich from my travel satchel and refueled. The rain from the previous night left the earth smelling sweet with the promise of new growth. The sweetness mingled with every bite—making a meal out of a snack. By the time I was ¾ of the way to my shadow the sun clawed its way to a new point in the sky. It was as if each blade of grass held out a hand for the gaseous beast to take hold and reach its next highest potential. In the dawn of this upward struggle my rose was revealed. The day’s sweetness climbed up the sunlit hill with me. Surrounded by saccharinity I stood in awe. I imagined my feet were planted at a true mountain top and it was time to take it all in. A vast landscape containing mountains and hills of its own is the usual reward for the toil of climbing such a brute. My rose was all the landscape I got. It was all I needed. Take that weaver.
I must admit, it did look strange—like it had sprouted out of a whim, or sheer will in the center of a mile of grass. The closer I drew the more it looked like it belonged in a bouquet with twenty of its twins. Yet it was full of a natural vitality—had everything a rose needs to thrive: six hours of full sun per day, loamy soil, and about 1-2 inches of water per week (the town kept close watch of such measurements). The only curiosity about it was its isolated state. Everyone knows roses typically grow in bushels. Yet my rose sprouted straight out of the ground like a stock of corn or a sunflower. No other vegetation, aside from the bed of grass covering the sloping earth, came within a mile of him. I can’t tell you why that is, neither can anyone in town, but I don’t think that’s any reason to write a thing off.
Yes, I know my rose is a him because he told me so himself—didn’t even have to ask. What a wonderful rose he is. Plus I know I can believe all he tells me because I am no fool to the significance of colors in literature. The many tutors father hired throughout my adolescence taught me many things about the literary tradition. So I am privy to the fact that white is a literary representation of purity, and darkness obviously represents the opposing force. Since art and life mimic each other (and vice versa) I had all my bases covered. It was as though I knew him my whole life—but I’m leaping ahead when I should be guiding you through the chronological course of events.
As I stood soaking in the vision of my rose I quickly attuned to the air of terror at the top of my rose’s hill. I instinctually lowered my body to the bed of grass with mechanical precision. Why; remains a mystery. As my body met the earth, green blades folded under the weight of me and I began to fill my fists with the stuff of chloroplasts. Borrowing the sun’s strategy; I pulled Earth closer to me with an army crawl movement—inching my way closer to my fascination.
I took a swig from my waterskin after several minutes of maneuvering through the blades. My rose was closer than ever, but there was no need to rush the process. All was unfolding as it should. I am no prescriber to the self-appeasing ideas of fate and destiny. I do however, draft plans and stick to them, and this plan was falling into place splendidly. My rose was no longer a hill’s crest away from me. We were finally on level ground when the elevated earth began to tremble and a whisper wilted through the air. It did not seem to emanate from a singular source, rather it strangled all the free air atop Winwood. The more concentrated effort I made to hear its voicings the more energy was drained from my body and mind.
At first the whisperings were so gentle and aflight I couldn’t make out what they were saying. With limited reserves I mushed myself onto my elbows so I was eye level with my rose. My hypothesis of elevation revealing the whispered tones was correct and I heard a voice say, “holster,” in reference to my satchel, but that made no sense to me because there was nothing of value in there to anyone but me. I lumbered forward on my elbows and swung my legs under my body so my knees were tucked under my abdomen—a rapidly draining effort, but I had much more control from that position—if I sensed a threat I could easily retreat to my previous crawl with a swift swing of the legs. My head buzzed with anticipation as I elevated myself inch by inch. The word wasn’t “holster,” it was closer!
Come closer dear…Closer now…That’s it…inch by inch.
But who did this voice belong to? There was no one to see within a mile of the field atop the hill. It was then that I thought I saw a figure dash through the woods, but a moment’s observation revealed a murder of crows fleeting from their respective nests to the forest floor in preparation for their hatching season. A brawl was unfolding given the limited amounts of twigs and leaves. Still the voice continued;
Closer dear…Come to me now…Yessss….Closer.
It couldn’t be? Could it?
When this impossible thought scurried across my mind like a feral animal homing its next meal, a cloying spring breeze ambushed my senses and everything diminished to darkness. When my eyes flickered open they were greeted by a world of someone else’s making. I understand now that I was dreaming, but at the time I felt my five senses reach the outskirts of their limits, and assumed I must be awake because I never felt so alert as I did then. In the real world (or at least the world I was most acquainted with) my eyes were shut and the syrupy air sedated me in blissful unconsciousness. In my dreamy sub-consciousness I sat alone in a room as black as an unlucky cat; devoid of a single guiding star. Fear was the natural emotion, but I felt secure—protected.
Hello dear.
A voice from the inky mist seeped through the perforations of my mind and sent a hot shiver down all 24 of my vertebrate.
It’s lovely to meet you.
Each muscle in my body uncoiled as though I sat in a sauna wrapped in a scratchy white towel at some earthly country club.I wondered if we met before because the voice ricocheted familiar through my ears. I did not vocalize this question yet I received a response;
Knowing a soul such as yourself is not something I would forget my dear. Perhaps we have meet where lovers do before they know of each other’s existence, but that is not a place I have been. Have you?
The suggestive language was strange, but calmness continued to envelope me. I volunteered a response this time;
I have traveled there once, but the person I traveled there for never visited with me.
Silence.
A purple hue overtook the lowest layer of the cat—like a bruise slowly forming a ring around a freshly wacked eye, but instead of that broken blood vessel look, the attitude of a sunrise took shape. My eyes blinked incessantly trying to focus on the sudden light source. Pink followed the purple, the black cat turned tabby as blazing orange tailed the pink; a subdued red was caboosed the freight train of colors. It was as if the earth curled in on itself and the peak of the most vibrantly vital sunrise I ever saw surrounded me on all sides like a threat of enlightenment.
Before I had a chance to take in its full beauty my eyes opened for a second time and I saw my rose wilting under the pressure of the sugary air. I reached out and caressed each petal. As my fingertips lightly brushed the fibrous extremities the blank canvas that is a white rose received an artist’s touch. Colors I recognized from my dreamlike state funneled from my hands onto each petal and the sun rose on my rose. I naively thought this touch of color—of life! would rattle some curiosity into my new neighbors to embrace my rose, but my hopes (like most hopes) were followed by disappointment.
My rose resuscitated. A deep breath rippled across his body and my eyes grew heavy like a blanket filled with water. I wanted more of that alert unconsciousness, and embraced the porous feeling. I placed a hand against the earth and rested my head in my palm replaying the celestial events I witnessed in my mind and hoped I would fall under whatever spell was responsible for my unconscious escapade for a second time.
I cannot recall the details of my journey home, yet here I sit at my writing desk fresh off the adventure I just relayed to you. This is the spirit I draft this entry in—I will return to my rose under the yellow eye of that same cat. Perhaps I will see what I saw before. Perhaps I will not need to close my eyes this time…
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