A Gardeners Forum Forums Members History Forum Life 2004 Violet and Friends - a little story

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

I like it, Carly! It's funny.

Thank you, Carly! It's a wonderful little story and so well done.

Merme

Carly...Wow... thats the cutest little story, and so creative. Got anymore?
I just love it!!!!!
Linda

I loved your story It was quite original. Do you have any more?

G-Mom

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.

very good carly...

That was such a wonderful story. I cant wait for more!

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 . . .

June 19th

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.

Here's a June poem . . . no title yet

June rain falls easy
and you can almost hear
the new shoots bursting
from the soil.

I'm out there mourning
those who haven't done well,
proclaiming my joy over that which
has flourished.

Toronto's population
of misquitos has converged
on our front yard today.

The last one tonite . . .

Cultivation

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.