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Green fingers - a very early draft.
Former Member
Posts: 1,876,323 The Mix Honorary Guru
Started a new idea This is the first page, though i think it will end up as twice or three times this length. Any thoughts on how it might end?...
They lived in a small house with two rooms. The house had more than two rooms, but those were the two that mattered. They had a room each. She the kitchen; he the garden. The house was not their home, but these rooms were. He lived in the sparsely planted flowerbeds between the geraniums and the beech hedge, and she at the sink, pink carpet slippers slip-slapping on the linoleum floor.
They were separated by an impenetrable barrier, which muffled their feelings and inhibited their words. Even when together, their hearts still belonged on either side of the wall, and neither could see a way through. So they knocked it down and replaced it with a window. Hearts still lay in separate places, but division between them was no longer opaque. Their differences were made visible, and with a smile and a wave, became meaningless.
Standing with hands submerged in acrid lemon bubbles, she would gaze through the window into his world, content as an onlooker. She didn?t enjoy scrubbing crockery, but revelled in the plunging of rough fingers into scalding water, burnt red crinkled fingertips curling and uncurling, furling and unfurling around the plastic scrubbing brush. She never wore gloves.
The miniature waves slapping at the side of the basin reminded her of the sea; of the womb. The folk memory of that throbbing, pulsing place was awakened by the plunge of her arms into the basin of suds. Often the soapy water slopped over; running down the sides of the counter to stain her pinafore with heat ? the warmth reaching her own empty womb, pressed hard into the cupboard front down which the water ran.
He had always been fond of the garden ? green fingered even. After a rain, he left his big grey dirt encrusted boots by the backdoor, peeled off his sweaty woollen socks, stuffing them inside the shoes? cavities, and padded through the dark earth amongst the plants. His bare feet squelched through the oozing, viscous silt, curling and uncurling, furling and unfurling. Sucked into the moist blackened earth, rainwater trickled through the gaps between his toes; separating from the mud to make foot-shaped puddles.
The rush of the wind into the tree leaves reminded him of the sea; of the womb. The throb of life pulsing through a single cord. The dark warmth and the blood, pulsing slowly, ever stronger. The mud squeezing between his toes.
After a particularly messy dinner party, and a rather torrential rainfall, they stood in their respective places, enjoying the earth, enjoying the water. Through the window, they gazed at each other, smiling, busy limbs hidden from view, clenched and curled and plunged and squeezed. They stayed there for an entire afternoon, barely moving. It comes as no surprise, therefore, that after so long in the earth, his feet began to take root. His toenails sprouted swiftly in the well nourished soil. She had to dig him out with a fork and a trowel.
They lived in a small house with two rooms. The house had more than two rooms, but those were the two that mattered. They had a room each. She the kitchen; he the garden. The house was not their home, but these rooms were. He lived in the sparsely planted flowerbeds between the geraniums and the beech hedge, and she at the sink, pink carpet slippers slip-slapping on the linoleum floor.
They were separated by an impenetrable barrier, which muffled their feelings and inhibited their words. Even when together, their hearts still belonged on either side of the wall, and neither could see a way through. So they knocked it down and replaced it with a window. Hearts still lay in separate places, but division between them was no longer opaque. Their differences were made visible, and with a smile and a wave, became meaningless.
Standing with hands submerged in acrid lemon bubbles, she would gaze through the window into his world, content as an onlooker. She didn?t enjoy scrubbing crockery, but revelled in the plunging of rough fingers into scalding water, burnt red crinkled fingertips curling and uncurling, furling and unfurling around the plastic scrubbing brush. She never wore gloves.
The miniature waves slapping at the side of the basin reminded her of the sea; of the womb. The folk memory of that throbbing, pulsing place was awakened by the plunge of her arms into the basin of suds. Often the soapy water slopped over; running down the sides of the counter to stain her pinafore with heat ? the warmth reaching her own empty womb, pressed hard into the cupboard front down which the water ran.
He had always been fond of the garden ? green fingered even. After a rain, he left his big grey dirt encrusted boots by the backdoor, peeled off his sweaty woollen socks, stuffing them inside the shoes? cavities, and padded through the dark earth amongst the plants. His bare feet squelched through the oozing, viscous silt, curling and uncurling, furling and unfurling. Sucked into the moist blackened earth, rainwater trickled through the gaps between his toes; separating from the mud to make foot-shaped puddles.
The rush of the wind into the tree leaves reminded him of the sea; of the womb. The throb of life pulsing through a single cord. The dark warmth and the blood, pulsing slowly, ever stronger. The mud squeezing between his toes.
After a particularly messy dinner party, and a rather torrential rainfall, they stood in their respective places, enjoying the earth, enjoying the water. Through the window, they gazed at each other, smiling, busy limbs hidden from view, clenched and curled and plunged and squeezed. They stayed there for an entire afternoon, barely moving. It comes as no surprise, therefore, that after so long in the earth, his feet began to take root. His toenails sprouted swiftly in the well nourished soil. She had to dig him out with a fork and a trowel.
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