initial response?
The old man’s stick followed his gaze as it moved down each row of earth, taking stock. The chives were looking well. Healthy, happy and watered. It was hot. The old man had a mug in his lap. The edges burrowed past his trousers, into the flesh of his legs. The chair he sat in had no arms. A younger man had made it. The kind that gulp their coffee. Men such as himself had time to kill. It was a funny thing. Meanwhile the sun was killing his chives. He imagined them sweating. The old man had perspired through his shirt.
The chives waved at him, reminded him of his children. Were they really dead? But he’d watered them.
Coffee lapped the rim of his mug. The chair, he thought, the chair had heard him. So it was alive then. Ah. He ran his hands over the lacquered wood. Dead. Had just one tree become the chair? Or two, or three. He preferred three, the soul of just one tree. Hid inside the wooden rings.
A knife would save its soul. There, beside the coffee cup. What a wonder, he thought, pressing into my leg without my noticing. The handle so solid against his palm. Never in the business of saving souls, he thought. But with this one screaming; the sound grew. Now his ears were bleeding. It ran in chains down his chest, collecting in the hollow of his stomach, spilling down his legs. Blood? The curls of cherry wood filled his lap. Chives would grow here, he thought. And he twisted the knife deeper.
what it signifies?
not mine. class
The old man’s stick followed his gaze as it moved down each row of earth, taking stock. The chives were looking well. Healthy, happy and watered. It was hot. The old man had a mug in his lap. The edges burrowed past his trousers, into the flesh of his legs. The chair he sat in had no arms. A younger man had made it. The kind that gulp their coffee. Men such as himself had time to kill. It was a funny thing. Meanwhile the sun was killing his chives. He imagined them sweating. The old man had perspired through his shirt.
The chives waved at him, reminded him of his children. Were they really dead? But he’d watered them.
Coffee lapped the rim of his mug. The chair, he thought, the chair had heard him. So it was alive then. Ah. He ran his hands over the lacquered wood. Dead. Had just one tree become the chair? Or two, or three. He preferred three, the soul of just one tree. Hid inside the wooden rings.
A knife would save its soul. There, beside the coffee cup. What a wonder, he thought, pressing into my leg without my noticing. The handle so solid against his palm. Never in the business of saving souls, he thought. But with this one screaming; the sound grew. Now his ears were bleeding. It ran in chains down his chest, collecting in the hollow of his stomach, spilling down his legs. Blood? The curls of cherry wood filled his lap. Chives would grow here, he thought. And he twisted the knife deeper.
what it signifies?
not mine. class