posted
Here's a wee story I was inspired to write - it's all dialogue and needs quote marks, he saids, she saids, etc.
. . . .
Violet & Friends
by Carly Svamvour
What's she doing? Do you know?
Talking to herself? I dunno' - maybe she's chanting . . . ever hear her? She does that 'thing', y'know?
Do you understand what she says - the Malvese? It's repetitive - there's only about four or five syllables to the whole stream that comes out of her. But it sounds like a million dragonflies talking at once. Where's her family from, anyway? Is she native?
Definitely not! Her ancestors came over here on . . . shhhhh! Here she comes!
Excuse me? Ladies? Did I hear my name mentioned? Excuse me?
Oh, hi there, Ms. Malva - haven't seen you around for a while. How's your folks?
Well, if it's anybody's business, most of them are well below the root by now - as you know we tend to retire early. We're one of the first up come spring, you know.
Heh! Heh! Well, it's like I was just saying to somebody at the Vervie's party this summer - the early bird gets the worm. And they should know . . . of course, they've got the best part of the lot this year.
Well, they need it, nobody begrudges them that - they need well drained soil, the kind that holds the rain. The ones down by the river are three times the size of the ones we know. One of the gardeners brought a few home once and they had to be moved from the rock garden - they took over everything.
Rowdy buncha' scumbags, that lot are. Very intrusive - you can't even breathe when they're nearby. In-troosive!
Ha! Speaking of intrusive - did you see those Balms this summer? All over the place - multiplied to ten times their number in the spring. And the smell! Well! No wonder the bugs don't like them.
The humans like their smell, I've heard.
Yes, it's funny but what smells awful to us, is pleasant to humans.
Well, I must be going - I'm way past my bedtime.
See ya' in the spring, Malva - say hello to everybody.
Y'know, Violet, it must be awful to have nowhere to go in the winter. Here we are on the windowsill getting watered twice a week; we don't have to worry about being outside vulnerable to the elements till at least May.
Yeah, I know what you mean. But it would be kinda' nice to be free - just let our seeds blow wild and pop up somewhere in the spring. Ahhhhhh! Guess ya' can't have everything, can ya'?
No, you're right - oh! Look!
Where?
Right there in the driveway - there's a squirrel by the rock garden - digging up some bugleweed the gardener put in.
Oh! I can't look! Don't tell me anything!
Makes you realize just how lucky you are.
Yes, you're right. Goodnight, Violet.
Goodnight, Mum.
Carly Svamvour - November 20, 2k4
bbbbbbbbb When sorting seeds, do not whistle.
From: Toronto, Canada | Registered: Jul 2004
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posted
Carly...Wow... thats the cutest little story, and so creative. Got anymore? I just love it!!!!! Linda
From: midlothian, illinois | Registered: Oct 2004
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gardenmom32210
guests
posted
I loved your story It was quite original. Do you have any more?
posted
Thanks for your encouragement, folks - you probably will see more.
I can only do these things when I'm 'in-the-zone' if y'know what I mean. I usually do flower stuff in the form of poetry - it rarely comes out in prose.
I'm working on my writing files right now, so if I see any more I'll pop it in here.
bbbbbbbbb When sorting seeds, do not whistle.
From: Toronto, Canada | Registered: Jul 2004
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Thankyou, I loved your story.Now I'll be thinking of you next time I'm out pruning.
May I share a quote with you?
"There is no greater agony than bearing an untold story inside you." M. Angelou
That really is so true.I'm not a good writer. But I've been keeping a journal since I was 12. If nothing else,it really has helped me to get my thoughts and feelings out.
I hope you will share with us again.Kinda scary huh?Don't worry.We are your friends.Promise
bbbbbbbbb
From: Missouri | Registered: Mar 2004
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posted
Oh, I'm not scared to share - I've been doing it for years - I am a writing workshop leader and am quite used to doing that.
I just shared this here cause it has to do with gardening, so I thought you'd like it.
Here's some poems . . .
Visions of Poppies
by Carly Svamvour
Out there walking in the yard, eyeballing all the places the sun favours, cogitating on tomorrow's dig, my mind's eye recording images for tonight's dreamweaver, the cool Sunday night wind blowing through my uncombed hair.
I come inside, visions of the poppies I plan to sow tomorrow, peeking from the rungs of the fence, their upturned faces to what I'm sure will be a hotter sun.
Carly Svamvour - June 6th, 2004
Ready for another - see next post . . .
bbbbbbbbb When sorting seeds, do not whistle.
From: Toronto, Canada | Registered: Jul 2004
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Something breathed out there; it was like the voice of a large mammal panting in the silence of Friday afternoon.
I held my breath thinking it might be my own smoke-addled rale and clawed through years of memories etched in the dirt of ancient pines, scrub maple and discards of old families.
When I hit the edge of the buried stone, the ground opened and I was under the spell of the woodlands.
Myrtie seemed to be the maddest hatter of this wonderland here beneath the native soil.
He whistled tunes from the fifties, all of them songs I wished I'd written and seemed to know the words to everything - words I'd long forgotten.
bbbbbbbbb When sorting seeds, do not whistle.
From: Toronto, Canada | Registered: Jul 2004
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Her life, a place where new blooms flourish; some weeds are hawked up by their roots, but more often as not, allowed to cast seeds to the summer breeze, becoming sore bane to other gardeners.
Sometimes the wild things encroach the borders of contrivance, find a way to crawl into her bed, upsetting the cautious order of her days.
She's has been known to cultivate their growth, set aside whole plots that they might flourish, praise the scant beauty in rotting branches.
She feeds their bark to the lovelies - observes their progress like an anxious mother eaves- dropping on daughters romancing their beaus in the living room.
In autumn she covers her jewels with rust, remembers each face, long after the snow lays heavy on the vine, places her trust in the Earth's Goddess, for even She is willing to give over Her powers and wait till spring when winter's old main retreats to the Sun Lord's palace to sleep through the gentle seasons to come.
He dreams of sculptures in ice, under which the beasts sleep with maidens, out-of-bounds for mothers' ears; the dreaming no one's business but their own.
bbbbbbbbb When sorting seeds, do not whistle.
From: Toronto, Canada | Registered: Jul 2004
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Celebrating 10 years of helping your gardens grow!
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It's funny.
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It's a wonderful little story and so well done.
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