I was too tried to do anything. It had been a long week and the only thing I wanted to do was curl up in bed and go to sleep. However, I couldn’t. There were too many things still left to do. I had to pack for my holiday in Greece, I had to find my passport, print all the tickets and information etc. I stared at the computer screen willing myself to stay awake, but it didn’t happen and I fell sleep.
He liked to make things out of wood. People said he was talented, but it had never brought him money or fame. He lived a humble life on the edge of the woods in the countryside. He looked after an abandoned farm and was a handyman for the town which brought in extra money. His garden was covered by his wooden sculptures which was mostly hidden from the public. So, it wasn’t until his death that he actually became famous, like it seems with every creative person.
It was her favourite thing to do after work. She would sit back, put the headphones over her ears and find some music to suit her mood. Sometimes it would take a few tries, but then she would hit a smooth song that would be sweet to her ears.
She would relax and let the sounds carry her far away. She’d leave everything behind; her troubles, her thoughts, her dreams, her body. She would drift on a cloud of notes, high above everything, where nothing could touch her.
He watches and awaits by the front door, listening as footsteps go up and down the street. He growls as he hears the mailman approach and a shuffling of papers. The letter flap is fluttering and it’s raining inside the house. He jumps, catching white and brown papers which he rips and throws about. He snatches the last few out of a hand he can’t see and tears the letters up.
Afterwards, he sits, tail wagging and tongue lolling, his task of defending his home and family complete.
There was just something about The Eden Project in Cornwall that spoke my soul. Breathing in the warm flower scented air, I watched a school group going by. The children were all chatting loudly whilst their teachers and helpers were trying to point out things to them.
One boy pulled a flower up, glee on his face. A female teacher swooped down behind him and even though I couldn’t hear them the child was clearly being told off. The boy placed the flower back and the teacher marched him off with the tail end of the group.
I shook my head. How do teachers cope?
I paused in my water hosing of the bushes and went to see if anything could be done to save the poor flower. Searching through the bedding boarder, I found it and saw that it had been plucked from the stem. Nestling it against the greenery, I went back to watering.
Gift wasn’t sure how long the town had been abandoned as the records only went back fifty years. Crunching glass and fallen plaster under her boots, she entered what had once been a living room.
Looking through the breathing mask’s visor, she spotted the white flowering plant on the window sill. Smiling, she walked over and picked the plant pot up gingerly.
You’re safe now, she thought, clutching the plant, but you’ve got a big job ahead, flower.
Gift stepped outside and back into the war torn grey landscape. Hurrying towards the safety of the underground city, she hoped that one day she would be able to see the green surface world that she only knew from the legends.