Happiness and freedom begin with a clear understanding of one principle: Some things are within our control, and some things are not.
—Epictetus
WITH TREMBLING HANDS, I write this document in a home that feels timeless because it is filled with warm beds; these beds are accompanied by people with little time left. I am one of these people now, and I refuse to attend my date with the reaper until my story is told.
Dear reader, please know that my weary heart tells this tale with no intention of daunting yours. I am merely admonishing the foolish actions of the heart, for it left me doltish and—with envious hatred—deprived of my wits. Even the most cavernous of wounds can heal; however, I must protest that a scar left upon the heart is ceaseless, the pain it inflicts, relentless, and the memory behind it, haunting.
Seventy years have passed and—even with my deteriorating mind—I have not forgotten my detestable mistake. So, before my flesh wears away and my heart refuses to beat, I must honor the people I’ve hurt. I must write every word they spoke, every step they took, every laugh they laughed, and every beat their hearts sang like a timeless symphony. Then, may my soul lay to rest.
…
My story begins when I was a boy.
“Luke! Please help your brother with the couch!” my father, waving his hands erratically, shouted from the front door.
It was a new day in a new home, and no more than a day later I would take my first step into middle school.
“Get over here, Luke!” my brother hollered, grunting as he lifted one side of the couch off of the ground.
To clear any assumptions, no, my brother was not an abhorrent beast; however, I did envy him with a passion that burned in my stomach like the flames within an oven. Not because he was strong and athletic, but rather because of his striking luck with girls. He was in his freshmen year of high school and I couldn’t help but to convey the impression that he stole the heart of a different girl every day. It was as if all he had to do was lift a finger and a girl’s heart would begin to beat expeditiously. And although his luck infuriated me, it was not the only reason I wanted a girlfriend. No, love was a mystery unexplored for me at that age; my desire for love was influenced greatly by my curiosity, much like the way a child yearns for a forbidden sip of alcohol.
I joined my brother and lifted the other side, but my scrawny arms made this task terribly difficult and a squeal escaped my mouth.
“You break a limb or something?” he asked with a smirk on his bright-red face.
“Shut up—it’s heavy,” I replied, only to receive a chuckle in response.
No, I thought. Please no. I tried to keep my eyes open but the couch was so heavy; my body insisted that I shut them. And with great hesitation, I complied.
Click. Click. Click.
The clicking sound had returned, and as always, the blinding light followed. It grew brighter as the clicking echoed through my ears like gunshots in the night until darkness could no longer be seen. Growing brighter than it ever had before, it made me feel as if I were falling into the sun; however, this trance was abruptly interrupted by the sound of my brother’s yelp.
“Ow!” he shouted in agony. “Are you trying to kill me!”
“No—no, I’m sorry. I’m just not used to lifting.”
He smiled, “Well, can we please get this up the stairs now—without injuries?”
I nodded and assisted him once more, this time without failure. After moving the couch and everything that was deemed important into the house, my father suggested that we stop and resume the next day.
Which was good, because water began falling—little by little—from the delicate clouds in the sky. The droplets of rain appeared transparent, like the purest tears of an angel. The air grew crisp and the surrounding woods became calm. A thick blanket of fog fell onto the forest and, within minutes, our little world in the woods grew despondent. And above, the sound of roaring thunder tore the sky in two.
…
My father strongly advised against directionless wandering in the woods after school the next day, but the audacious spirit of youth grabbed me firmly by the wrist and ran blindly into the woods. I followed my spirit like a shadow, without resistance, and without saying a word.
Walking forward, I looked back to see my new home being swallowed by every tree I passed. It was still raining, but that didn’t stop me; it did nothing but aid my spirit by calling my name with the continuous sound of droplets hitting the ground. Oddly, the farther I walked, the more I felt at home.
The fog made it hard to see much more than diminutive branches ahead of me, but when I looked down I could see my feet hastily moving along the forest’s carpet of branches and small plants.
Dog-tired, my young heart became faint, and my legs began to collapse. I felt as if the ground had suddenly disappeared from beneath me. I knew that I badly needed to rest. So, heaving hysterically, I searched for a place to lie down. Shortly, I sought refuge beneath a weeping willow, then rustled through its long branches and in doing so, saw small droplets of water glide down their leaves before falling gracefully to the soil. A sight so beautiful was irrelevant to my arrogant mind, however; all that was important to me was a comely sight I would soon behold: a cold bed of grass beneath the towering willow.
My exhaustion struck me down like the cruel anger of the sourest enemy, but an enemy was most certainly not who I would awake to see. For the second my eyes slammed shut, they awoke to see the light-blue eyes of a chubby-faced boy staring directly into them. His hair was as orange as the crumbly leaves of autumn, and as curly as carrot shavings. He was wearing a checkered flannel and dark-blue basketball shorts, peculiar attire for such rainy weather.
“H—hi, I’m Luke. What’s your name?”
My introduction seemed pointless for, after staring at me for several seconds, he diverted from my question.
“Are you new around these parts?” he asked in a voice that was seemingly the blend of a mouse’s squeak that’s been ripped from its throat and the voice of an eleven year-old boy.
“Y—yes, my family moved into a house not too far from here,” I said, pointing in what I thought was the direction of the house. However, I simply pointed in a random direction.
“Is this your first time under the willow?” he asked.
His question bewildered me. “Yes, yes it is.”
“So you haven’t been beyond this tree then, correct?”
“No, why?”
His eyes observed me with caution, as if I was an intruder on his land.
“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” He rested his hand upon the trunk. “My name is Gabe, by the way.”
“Nice to—” I was interrupted by the sound of my father’s voice calling me to dinner.
“You never answered me—is it beautiful?” Gabe asked once again, this time facing away from me.
“Yes it is,” I said with urgency. “I’ve got to go.”
I turned around and ran with haste. Once a few feet away, I could hear him say something that—at that time—I didn’t understand. What he said would ring through my mind that night like the viscid rhythm of a favorite tune.
“The willow is beautiful—just not as beautiful as the garden.”
Thank you for reading this excerpt from my recently published short story, Trinity’s Garden. The full story is available on Amazon for FREE 5/31/18 through 6/4/18 and I would deeply appreciate any feedback. Thank you, and happy reading!
My Facebook is: https://www.facebook.com/MichaelRhodesAuthor
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You’re really great at dialogue, but my one piece of advice would be to use more description. What does our narrator look like, for example? I know he’s old, but that’s it.