Story-A-Day #201: Under The Ferns

UNDER THE FERNS

They sway gently in the breeze, a peaceful tattoo of sunlight dancing across their leaves. From the back steps of the house they looked as they should, a small patch of greenery lining the slated fence.

It wasn’t until I got a little closer that I could see that it was more than the gently breeze that was making the ferns move.

I approached them slowly, not wanting to scare whatever it was underneath them. With small, tentative steps, I approached, then slowly lowered myself to the ground.

I could feel the moisture from the lawn slowly seeping into my shirt, the remnants of last night’s dew not yet burned away by the sun. It actually feels nice, almost soothing.

I lie prone for a moment, waiting to see is the source of the rustling is aggressive, or scared. At first, there is nothing. It knows I am here, just as I know of its existence. I wait patiently, then I hear it, a small chirping sound.

I cautiously extend a hand and part the greenery. At first, all I can see in the dappled light is the grass and earth beneath, but then a subtle movement catches my attention and I see it – a small pink nestling, fallen from the safety of its home.

Its beady black eyes roll towards me and its beak parts in an almost mute cry.

It is trembling, its naked flesh raw and clean. There are no feathers yet, giving the creature a somewhat alien appearance.

I know it is doomed if I leave it here, unprotected and immobile. And yet, if I were to remove it, the fate would be the same. Any contact will result in abandonment.

I scan the tree above and spot the nest, a small bundle of twigs and dirt woven into the crook of two branches.

What it must be like to be so close to home, yet so far away.

I decide to leave the bird for now, hoping that maybe the mother will come to collect it. I will make sure that no predators get there first.

On the fence above, a fat red-breasted robin surveys me appreciatively. There is no warning calls, no shrill threats, just a calculating glance and a quick blink of the eyes.

Maybe it will be okay. Maybe the bird will live, and maybe it will perish. I realize that unfortunately, the result is not a choice into which I factor.

I slowly stand up and return to the steps of the house. I sit down to wait, and to watch, hoping that that little pink bird will have a chance to live.

Story-A-Day #200: Psychics

PSYCHICS

What would you ask a psychic? Think about it seriously for a minute. What would you want to know?

Some people want to know if they will find true love. These people tend to be lonely and a little shy. They might wonder if the opportunity has already passed them by, or whether their perfect match is waiting for them outside, at the bus stop, in the produce section of their neighbourhood grocery store. Would it embolden you to approach a stranger if you were told that they were out there, and that they were looking for you as well?

Some people want to know if they will be rich. These people usually want a quick fix to their financial situation. They ask about lucky numbers, tricks, and other means of accessing the unreachable. If you found out that you were indeed destined to be rich, would you walk straight out to the nearest convenience store and buy up your lottery tickets? Would you play those lucky numbers? Would you work harder, or seek out a better job to replace the meagre one you have felt trapped by for so long? Some people would just sit back smugly and await the rewards.

Some people get a little more esoteric and want to know about their past lives. These people tend to live in the past already, revisiting their glory days and clinging to happier times. What would you do with the information if you found out that you had once lived your life as another? Would you try to model your current one after that person? Would you seek to learn everything you could about your former self? Would you dive into that other life so hastily and deeply that you left your current one behind? If you did, what would you do in your next life if you discovered that your previous one was nothing but a shell of the one that came before it?

Some people want to know when and how they will die. These people are usually worriers and shy away from anything that could cause them illness or death, whether it be sunshine, alcohol, or certain types of food. If you were told the exact date and time of your demise, would you live every moment to its fullest, seeking out new experiences, adventures, and encounters to create a full life? Would you hide away, being safer than ever knowing that your days are finite?

Most people turn to psychics for answers, a way to help them make sense of their world. They want answers to the questions and dilemmas that hold them back, and a bit of hope to go with it.

What if a psychic answered all of your questions and removed any doubt you had about the different aspects of your life. What would you do with that omniscient self-awareness?

You would not love, prosper, learn, or live, because life is about mysteries and the steps we take to solve them. We have the ability to think, process and analyze. It is what makes us human, and what allows us to grow. We need to develop our own answers and provide our own solutions.

Without doubt, intrigue, and mystery, there is just a void.

Story-A-Day #199: Spider Webs

SPIDER WEBS

The life of a spider, one full of constant toiling and work.

Not only is it about spinning web to catch a meal, but there is the sculpting of the home, that enforced funnel that calls at the end of each industrious day.

The web is spun and the spider prepared, a silky net spun between two trees.

Soon, with any luck, it will be feeding time.

The spider sits on an extended branch, casually surveying the web below.

The space between the trees is full of fluttering flies. It's only a matter of rime before one of them touches down and gets tangled up.

It's only a matter of time before the spider can repel down and claim its reward.

The sun filters down, highlighting the silky net. Is it too much? Will they see it?

No. There's one now - a single leg glued into the web, a potential meal.

It strains upward, then settles down. The trap is complete.

The spider slides down a slender tendril and touches down, it's nimble legs plucking across the weave to the floundering fly.

It's feeding time.

- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone

Story-A-Day #198: Lilac Wine

LILAC WINE

It's a perfect spring evening, warm and sultry. The woods are full of croaking, cheeping frogs, a chorus of night; a symphony of darkness.

We sit quietly on the deck, the sounds of looming summer surrounding us. A closer listen reveals crickets, rustling leaves, and a hint of cricket.

It's too early in the year for cicadas, and too late in the day for them as well.

We sit quietly together, comfortably absorbed in our own little worlds. I watch as she turns the pages in her book, engrossed in the story unfolding before her. The light from the kitchen window behind her bathes her in a warm yellow wash.

I turn back to the lake and watch as the sky settles through a tiered progression of oranges, pinks, and magentas. It will be dark soon.

I sip from the glass by my side, a sweet nectar that we brewed earlier today. There is a subtle aftershock of booziness, but a nice one.

There is a radio playing quietly on the background, and when it switches from an old standard to a nearly unknown gem, a smile crosses my face.

Jeff Buckley. Gone too soon for sure, but what a fitting tribute to our day.

When I notice my wife smiling at me, I know I'm right.

This is the perfect end to a perfect day.

- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone

Story-A-Day #197: Apple Sauce

APPLE SAUCE

The field is littered with them. You would think this was an orchard, but as far as the eye can see, there is only a gently rippling blanket of short green grass – that and the apples, shrivelled little shells.

It’s like a dehydration experiment gone wrong, like someone was trying to create the opposite of applesauce.

Each one of them if a small browning globe slowly caving in on itself, like the pressure is too much to handle. It’s a surreal sight for sure, not just the apples in the grass, but the symmetry with which they are dispersed. Each one lies approximately four feet from the next, in every direction, as far as the eye can see.

It crosses my mind that someone half inclined to create an orchard might have done this; half inclined because they got the spacing right, but the apples are easy prey for the circling crows above without the shelter of a few inches of earth.

I cannot figure out the motivation, just as I can’t look away. There is no way this was an accident, a spilled truckload or something of that ilk - it is too symmetrical. Someone has done this intentionally.

The question is why, and to what ends?

It could be modern art, but where’s the audience? Where are the supporters and deriders discussion the merits or inanity of the display? Where is the artist?

It dawns on me then. The field must be ringed with cameras. I picture the looks that have surely crossed my face since I first paused here almost an hour ago; the befuddlement as I entered the field, the brow etched in perplexed thought, the enlightenment and defeat of each new potential solution to the riddle. There would be a show in there, but again, who is the audience.

I watch a pair of crows crash down into the field about twenty yards away. They scramble at each other for a moment before one flies off to the nearby tree line. The victor drives its beak vicious into a nearby apple, quickly reducing it to a pulpy mash.

Perhaps there is no solution to this riddle.

Perhaps it was an act of boredom.

If the last is the case, then the irony is rich because this odd display has provided a cure to mine.

I make my way back to the dirt road and set off back for home. I’ll probably check back in a day or two to see what has happened. Will the apples be gone by then? Maybe they will have been replaced by oranges, or possibly steaks. Maybe the field will be empty once more.

I’ll be sure to find out in a couple of days.

Story-A-Day #196: Treerings

TREERINGS


Every ring another year, that’s what we were taught as children. If you count those rings within the trunk of a tree, slowly working your way outward from the dense spot in the middle, to the broader wave concentric patterns that follow, you can figure out the age.

Like people though, even with this simple formula, it can still be hard to tell. The rings, and by extension the years, are never perfectly aligned. There are harder years where the rings almost bleed together in a blur of time brought on by bad weather, stagnant stasis, infection, and disease.

Other rings are wide and proud, good years of prosperity and growth. They vary in colour as well, some of them darker and almost pocked with effort, other light and solid.

Like trees, we go through similar cycles. We have periods of prosperity and excellence, and moments of sickness and despair. The signs of our growth tend to be externalized those. Rather than rings, we have wrinkles. Rather than barren branches woven throughout those that flourish, we go bald.

Most trees change colours on a seasonal. Our hair tends to change gradually; sometimes we start of blonde at birth and slowly transition to a darker colour. Most of us see our familiar shade slowly infused by grey. Unlike trees, more of us still are too vain to accept these changes, adding colours of our own selection to mask the results of the life we have lived.

A fallen stump will gather moss and fungus, strange delights that sprout from its course outer layer. We gather liver spots, moles, freckles. When we have fallen, we disappear, back into the dust.

Trees and people alike both start to droop towards the end of their cycles. Sometimes pieces fall off, the skin grows frail and no longer protects us the way it once did. This is the cycle of life, and it is the same for all things living.

It can be sad to be witness to the ravages of age, but it shouldn’t be. There is majesty in those broad trunks. Etched with the initials of young romantics, those elderly giants represent a life lived. The remnants of old tree forts that dangle forgotten from their limbs represent the guidance, support and generosity. Their ominous sprawl contains the wisdom of ages.

A long life should be celebrated. A bell should ring for each passing year. Even when a tree has been felled, when it has been cut and sliced into smaller pieces, it continues to give. It provides heat on cold winter nights. If left at peace, it slowly fades away, giving back to the surroundings from which it first sprouted.

Every ring, another year, another reason to celebrate.

Story-A-Day #195: The Chair

THE CHAIR

It’s sad to see it hear, out in the middle of the wilderness. Not sad that someone left it here, but sad that this was my chair. I know it was, because there is a little fleck of paint up towards the head end, a deep green splotch that fell there several years ago.

Looking at it, you can tell it wasn’t the best chair. I have no recollection how much I might have even invested in those strips of plastic nylon and aluminium tubes, but a chair is a chair, and this one holds certain value.

I read some of my favourite books while reclined in that chair; was transported to different worlds where I made whole new groups of friends, heroes, and lovers – however fleetingly. I relaxed by the lake in that chair and watched my wife wade through the water tossing out handfuls of breadcrumbs to the ducks, relishing the way her bikini shifted just so with each new motion.

This chair has always been a fixture in my life, especially here at the cottage. Sure it isn’t the greatest most expensive chair, but it was my chair. I had learned to optimize its settings, to shift myself just so, so that the aluminium supports wouldn’t dig into my ass, or neck, or lower back.

I loved that chair for all its faults, just as I love my family and friends. Who would want a perfect chair anyway? If you were to find such a thing, no other chair would ever be sufficient, and that would just create a whole new set of problems. You would need to take that chair everywhere, burdened by the knowledge that no other chair would fit you just right.

We all know how things worked out for Goldilocks. The thing is, this isn’t even about the chair. It’s about what it represents, twisted and abandoned out here in the wild.

This chair was a fixture to a place I loved, our home on the lake. That place is gone now, demolished in a freak hurricane; an act of God that is not covered by any form of insurance. An act of convenience for my insurance agent to be sure – thirty-five years of payments, and not a penny for my outstretched hand.

This chair represents those better days, and abandoned and battered as it is, way out here in the woods, it is a reminder that perfection is not a destination - it is a frame of mind.

We’ll rebuild the cottage of course. We’ll tighten our belts, refinance a few things, maybe cancel a few of our insurance premiums. We will rebuild because this place was as close to perfection as we ever wanted to be.

When it’s ready, I want to make sure my chair is there.