Shelline had been warned to stay away from the door. Her blind grandmother had related tales of horror that supposedly occurred behind the leafy stone walls. “It’s a devil’s garden,” Nana had whispered hoarsely late at night when Shelline couldn’t sleep. “And a labyrinthto darkness from which there is no escape except by sacrificing that which you hold most dear. How do you think I lost my eyesight?”
But it had been a year of terrible adversity with the death of Grandmama in January and Shelline’s parents in the summer. The creditors would soon come to take this house and gardens, and Shelline would be shipped off to nasty Aunt Philippa. Shelline began to cryagain as she wandered back to the stone wall and the vine-covered doorway. What could be worse than this life, she decided.
The air beyond the door was damp and cool, smelling faintly of mint. This isn’t so bad, Shelline thought… maybe I could stay here and be happy. A brook with bubbling fresh clear water caught her attention and fruit trees abounded. Beyond them, she discerned a vegetable garden and skipped off to investigate further. A scampering golden puppy joined her, licking her hand with its warm tongue.
“I shall name you Angel!” Shelline told the puppy as it wagged its sweet little tail.
Shelline and Angel strolled through rows of tomatoes and cucumbers and strawberries galore. Down the line was a scarecrow, but he wasn’t the least bit scary and bluebirds twittered around him. Angel woofed at the birds and Shelline giggled. Further back was a hut that seemed to be filled with gardening supplies.
As Shelline and Angel walked around the wooden structure, a familiar figure greeted them. “What took you so long?” hissed Aunt Philippa. “There’s much work to do.”
Cats are soft and cuddly sweet; Dunno why they’re mixed with trick or treat. I guess a witch had one way back when While casting spells inside her den. But that was never kitty’s fault, So take this myth with a grain of salt. All the felines that I know, Whether black or white or calico, Are little darlings left and right— Let’s keep them safe inside tonight! 🐱
Melanie is back to “normal” this week with her own four questions and nothing on HP.
1. Where do you feel most at home? Please be more specific than “at home, doh” please. It could be a room in your home, a person, a location… 😝😁😇
I enjoy being home and feel comfy sitting at my kitchen table with laptop, phone, cuppa tea, and Gatsby nearby.
2. Would you rather ride a bike, ride a horse, or drive a car? 🐎🚗🚲
Car, I guess, if I have to. Definitely not a horse because all that bumping would kill my back, and so would a bike these days, probably. Last time I rode a bike, I had massive neck and shoulder pain for a week after.
3. What song would you sing on “Karoke Night” (if you were forced to do so)? 🎤🎶🎻🎷🎺🎸🎵🎹
I have sung at karaoke and done a terrible job too. My voice is horrible plus idk when to even start singing! I think I attempted “Bang Bang” by Cher and a few others. Blocked it from my memory mostly…
4. University or life experience, which do you feel best prepares you for life? 🎓
First, I don’t think the “traditional” college experience of living away from home with a bunch of other clueless teenagers, being thrown into social and sexual situations you’re unprepared for, and drinking booze like a maniac is a good thing. Don’t even get me started on the travesty of “Greek life.” Second, I think trade schools have been way undervalued the past several decades while people rack up ridiculous debt to get a 4-year degree. The trades should be much more respected ~ we need plumbers more than marketers! That said, if someone takes a well-rounded slate of college classes and exposes their mind to literature, philosophy, art, psychology, etc., this all can be helpful throughout your life in order to better grasp history, logic, and human behavior. But ultimately, nothing better prepares you for life than living it and transforming your bad choices into learning experiences.
5. What are you grateful for?
This week I’m grateful for delicious pluots. Mmm, so good!
The mind makes only a mediocre container for memories. Some sneak out the door the day they arrive, crafty as a cat, while others drip down the drain in a slow leak. When you search for them all you find is debris. Some memories mutate every time you examine them and never appear the same way twice. My mind used to have a large storage area for facts, stacked neatly, easily accessible during tests, but I visited the warehouse recently and everything had been cleaned out. Helloooo, I called, but there was only an echo. Old memories turn up like random socks stuck in a sleeve. Hey! What are you doing in there? There are times I am absolutely certain of the accuracy of a memory, but it’s wrong. Then there are feeling memories… how I felt when something occurred, and how I perceived someone else’s feelings. These are hopelessly tangled up like a pile of crazy string. What if I only think I felt something because I used it in a poem, but it transformed in my imagination? Can I revert back to the original? I need to visit the Container Store!