There it was. The unearthly

visage,

as if it were a pulsing,

flowing tide —

as if it lived and breathed.

My eyes struggled to explain

the cosmic ray of light,

A coffee-stain upon my vision,

in ways my mind could grasp.

The image burned itself

into my retinas

so I could see it still

with every tiresome blink.

I became horribly aware

of the nature of color —

Amalgams of blinding lights

Existing at different frequencies

Being absorbed and reflected

endlessly.

What power, what exhaustion

our minds must be privy to

to process it all

so seamlessly?

What strength, then,

Must the color before me hold

To defy the human brain?

I'm sitting here on my couch. My forehead feels warm and my throat feels scratchy. But not feeling 100% has been a pretty regular part of life lately. Of course it's all for a goal. The feverish state is from my recent vaccination, an effort to protect myself. And all the other aches, pains and weight gains are part of the process of creating a life. These are far better reasons to feel unwell than I've experienced in the past.

…is a metaphor, of course.

A canvas of glass called what if hangs before me. Through it, the world appears as it is, but I can paint over it and make changes. Make one alteration—remove or add a constant—and explore how different life in the world can be.

Now, to render this change. I dab my brush in one word. Like color, the word has a set definition, but it also has a feeling, a mood, a tone, and its definition grows with context. I sample other syllables, and when I find the right tint, I sweep it on the glass.

More colors follow, shaped into images that move and jump off the canvas. They form a hologram standing next to me, still hollow, still too easy to see through. To make them real, I need special paint.

I take more what-ifs and grind them into sand, then stir this with the hued powders of how and the juices of why. This textured paint fills in the world with history, culture, and purpose.

Leftovers sit in my palm, clunky and dull. My fist closes, crunches, and uncurls, revealing remnants and hints of backstory. With a slow, gentle breath, I blow this glitter of emotion onto the canvas. It wafts and whispers into the peaks and valleys, delineating highlight and shadow, just enough to enhance the tones already there.

The piece is as complete as I can make it, for the final ingredient must come from you—your interpretation, your reason, your imagination. Will you see beyond the lines and tones of a two-dimensional glass plane?

I kiss

your

anointed

head

a thousand

times.

Chew

both

ears

with

honey

glazed

kisses.

Rip off

the emptiness

clouding

your forehead

with my tongue

serving

as the

mediator

of love energy

transfered.

Suck your eyebrows

with lots of jelly,

as it drips

into your

eyes sockets.

I recover

and purge

your cheek

with more

of the same

nectar.

Sweep the

rims of

your hair,

till it dries

away your fear.

I only stop

when your

smile can't

comprehend

how deeply

I care...

Saved your lips

for the tough

test,

as I examine

your chin

and tender

breath

with

active jel.

Petunia

unzips

his conscience

by

embracing

the bolts

of electricity

surfinia

purple

vein

tempest...

Creme!

Creme!

She sees their wings as she looks up to the heavens, beating against the earth, as searing as the sun. As her son. Feathers of gold and white and pure holy light. As sweet and clamouring as church bells. The trumpets of holy God fill her ears, crystal clear music. Every sight, every sound, is like a kiss upon the lips. She reaches up her arms, kneeling at the cliffs edge, there is a churning sea below her. The water glows golden as it reflects the sun. She reaches up, up, reaching out to the angels. Stretching her bones as far as they will stretch. There are voices behind her. Voices. Voices she once knew. Now all she knows is the angels. She leans out, over the chasm, she leans forward. She teeters, she falls, twisting and tumbling in the air. Eyes fixed on the heavenly flapping of wings.

Chapter 1

It starts with the earth, with the bones that rest beneath the surface, and it ends the same way. Somewhere in between is the garden.

Miranda works in the sun, as she does every day and has for lifetimes. Bare hands in the soil, pushing and pulling. She tugs up old roots and discards stray weeds as she digs, but they always seem to grow back. Black dirt builds beneath her fingernails and sweat beads on the back of her neck, like dew. The roots of her hair are slick with it. Strands of red, ringleted hair, fall in front of her face as she works. She lets the hair hang there, framing her vision. She relishes these stolen glimpses of herself, in a garden without mirrors.

Above her, perched on the leaf of a tangled rose bush, is a lithe little robin. The red breasted bird sings as she works, hopping across pink petals and watching her with its glossy black eyes. Miranda whistles back a merry little tune.

The garden itself is more like a forest. Overrun with flowers the size of trees, rosebushes that tower at ten feet tall. Climbing foxgloves and lilies. The garden is a winding labyrinth. Open glades and dense patches of tangled flora. All circulating around a central oak, an ancient beast of a tree. Its dark branches hang over the entirety of the garden, dripping with wisteria and honeysuckle. Sunlight washes over the landscape, honey-thick and bright, casting inky shadows in the undergrowth.

Only when Miranda is tired and stiff, is she satisfied with the grave. It is just deep enough to cover him. He has been strangled by the thorny branch of a white rose. He lies beside her on the grass. His grey eyes are blank and staring thoughtlessly up at the sapphire sky. His hand rests limply on his breast. Blood drips from little cuts in his neck, imprints from rose thorns, onto the soil. Thick and red like the velvet lining of his jacket. Miranda looks over his face, deep lines from age distort his skin, like the cracked bark that covers the oak tree. From the deep wrinkles around his mouth, she can tell that when he was still living, he was always smiling.

Now comes the hardest part. Hauling his body into the grave. Over the centuries Miranda has built strength in her back and shoulders, but death’s weight never seems to ease. She drags him across the glade. His limp body splays out in her arms, limbs outstretched and saintlike. When he is settled, face down, she begins to cover him over.

---------------------------------------------------------

Title: The Garden

Genre: Gothic

Age Range: Adult

Word Count: 50,300 total

Author: Maya Sharp

Hook: What is this garden? Why is this woman burying a body?

Synopsis: Miranda has been trapped in a supernatural garden for 3000 years. The garden murders those that visit - Miranda is left to bury the bodies and the roots of the garden eat them. Miranda begins to befriend outsiders who convince her to leave the garden, she does and begins to realise the evils of the garden. Being away from the garden she begins to slowly die. Miranda returns to the garden and burns it down. This kills her.

-------------------------------------------------------

I am an unpublished, young, female writer of gothic and fantasy fiction based in the North of England. I am currently undergoing a Masters Degree in Creative Writing at the Manchester Writing School and am being mentored by Nicholas Royle. I have a degree in Photography which informs much of my writing, along with my knowlege of art history - primarily Victorian art. The Garden is inspired by the Pre Raphaelite movement.

I am a person that respects every being’s existence. I like people despite apparent flaws. I’m not an extrovert but I connect on individual levels. I may say something goofy or lame at times. Yet, a lot of times I’m just a person striving to be understood… Not by everyone but at least the people I live with.

Family. Those are my people, regardless I’m oftentimes misunderstood. It’s like the years of living together has taught them nothing about me. They are patient with outsiders, but a single act or deed I do pisses them off.

I question my existence most of the time because of their behaviour towards me. I had prayed for a rescue but my saviour over time disappointed me.

Now I believe my only escape from this constant strife is writing. But the ability to do that too is questioned in almost every argument.

I got this far surviving through my words. Why does that get questioned is beyond my understanding! Why provoke me to discard the one thing that keeps me sane and happy?

Strangers are kinder and more understanding than the people we feel we belong to.

I want to strive no more. I’m tired of proving myself. I’m exhausted from showcasing my existence.

That’s when I break down. I cry to be understood… by my own people. The people that I want to care about but disregard my knowledge, understanding, abilities and capabilities.

I don’t mind a world of fame but what is fame if you can’t share it with the ones you love? If they care a damn about how you get there, it’s no point letting them in on your success, right? They didn’t believe in you anyway. Yet, me being the kinder person would want to let them know about my successes, not to rub it in their faces because of their lack of support, but because they are “family”.

To me, family is the power that makes me cry every single time that I do.

The rug as

been nice to

us.

And I won’t stop

massaging

your amazing

double lollies.

You won’t

stop laughing

as my touch

has a

rhythmic

class

of note.

Every

radius

of your

hemispherical

tender cherries

is like light

travelling

as a particle

and a wave

at the same

time.

Nothing less

than extraordinary,

as they twinkle

and emit vibes

that vibrates

like a thousand

band of ripples

across your body,

while they

pass through

my slitting heart

and find an

obtuse angle

to provoke petunia

to sit up still.

Wow! They’re amazing.

I switched from

my hands,

lubed the meso

pores and micro pores

with my berry

berry frictional

jelly.

You sighed deeper

when I concentrate

the jelly on

your crunchy cherries.

The wave

rose as

my

jelly

headed

downstream.

The current

of the

lollies

flushed

me to

surfinia

territory.

My hands

conducted the

electrons from your

cherries electrode,

further activating

the jelly

for the next feast.

A whole bite

of the burger,

nearly all

of the

labia buns

and the

inner labia steak

fit into my mouth

as I pulled

them apart.

Hmmm!

So tender

and chewy.

Your moaning

deepened

as I tried

to take

another fill...

Asian pigeonwings

sauced

with

your strawberry jelly.

Medium rear!

Oh! Yeah!

Huh! Huuuuh!

You won’t stop

breaking

the record

of your peaked

screams.

Bubbaargh!

Hmmm! Hmmm!

The lushy valley

explosives

started detonating.

Petunia

sets the

timer running

as he crushed

the walls

of your purple

vein like

lightning

strikes

metal sheets.

Fast dips...

No Bubba!

No! Huh!

Nooooohhhhh!

Kiss cream

spills.

We have had a vegetable garden for the last 25 years. Each year my husband has battled with wildlife. The first year, he called me wild-eyed (granted, it was a phone call, and his eyes could not be seen, but the sound of his voice made the state of his eyes quite clear).

Anyway, I was in the middle of teaching a Spanish literature class and we were interrupted by the PA system: Mrs. Tezcan, please come to the main office. At the same moment, the office secretary came in my room to watch my class.

“It’s your husband. He sounds really upset.”

Thinking immediately of my son, I ran down the hall to the main office. I picked up the phone. “Canim?”

“He ate my tomatoes!!” he screamed.

“What?”

“That woodchuck! He ate my tomatoes. And he didn’t even have the decency to eat a whole one; he just took a bite and tossed the rest on the ground. All my hard work!”

“You called me because the woodchuck ate your tomatoes?”

“Yes! At least 20!”

“Is Anka okay?”

“Anka?”

“Our son?”

“Of course.”

“Good. I have to go back to class now. Sorry about your tomatoes,” I said, hanging up before he could hear me, and the rest of the office burst out laughing.

Over the years, my husband has built a fence, added chicken wire, netting, dug trenches, and even filled woodchuck holes with roadkill. One year he caught one…and set it free. He can’t hurt animals. Not even ants or bees, so how could he harm a fuzzy fellow with big, sweet eyes? Impossible! And so, every year they return…along with the rabbits, squirrels, chipmunks, skunks, possum, birds and deer.

Given all the time on his hands during the lockdown in 2020, he dedicated a great deal of time to the garden. He built raised beds, bought more soil, and perfected the combination of chicken poop, cow manure, and peat moss that he uses. Last year and this, we have had tomato plants on steroids. It’s quite spectacular. Both years, the little creatures did away with the cucumber, parsley and zucchini with relative quickness. My mint plants are growing profusely (apparently, none of the little fuzzies like mint). And the tomatoes? The tomatoes have grown to tower over us, weaving their way through the netting that was added last year when birds joined the group of crop destroyers. Even so, they have begun to eat tomato plants and green tomatoes.

A few weeks ago, my husband cursed the garden and swore that this was the last year he would ever plant again. The sweet furry garden creature(s) had bitten and discarded at least ten plants. Dismayed that he was so distraught, I decided it was time for me to get involved.

I suggested the time-honored custom of farmers everywhere: a scarecrow.

All the how-to sites suggested newspaper or straw as stuffing. Lacking both, I decided to use old clothes stuffed in garbage bags (so only the outerwear would get wet in the summer rains). I scavenged the bins under my son’s bed where clothes had been gathering dust since he left home three years ago. I found jeans, lots of old underwear, t-shirts and socks. Needing more shape, I found some lackluster pillows in the attic to fill out the upper body. Fully stuffed, it weighed more than me, so I nixed the stake idea and sat him in a chair in the midst of our beautiful, ten-foot tomato plants.

We named him Jason. (That was probably stupid on our part.)

It looked way too real.

I screamed multiple times when entering the garden. My husband got to the point of chatting with Jason while working in the garden. We joked about having nightmares and the scarecrow taking midnight walks.

We were only joking. Ha ha, wouldn’t that be funny, ha ha, just like a horror movie, haha.

Until yesterday we found Jason with one leg over the fence, in the act of climbing.

Yeah, so maybe the four-legged fuzzies got together to get back at the two-legged ones.

It could happen.

But, just in case, Jason has been reduced to his original pieces which have been laundered and packed away, separately, in labeled boxes in the attic.

Maybe we should build a greenhouse…