Original Story - 'An Ordinary Ritual Until...'

Penned – or, more accurately, pencilled – this short story from a writing prompt, ‘an ordinary ritual in which something goes terribly wrong’. I hardly spend any time gardening, so don’t know why I decided to use that as my starting point…

(Image - summa on Pixabay)

An Ordinary Ritual Until…

Another glorious morning, another day in the garden. Hands on her hips, she surveyed the half-tamed, half-cleared area laid out before her. Squaring her shoulders, she grasped the handles of the wheelbarrow and trundled it forward, walking away from her newly purchased house.

Adjusting the wide-brimmed hat on her head, she armed herself with the long-handled fork and began attacking the weeds.

Stab the earth, ease under the weed, lever it loose, yank it out, toss in the barrow. Stab the earth, ease under the weed, lever it loose, yank it out, toss in the barrow…

Every now and again, she’d pause for a swig of water. Not for the first time, she marvelled at how quiet the area was. No sound but the call of birds and the occasional distant drone of a vehicle. Yet, she was surrounded by houses. As much as she relished the quiet, it still took some getting used to when most of her adult life had consisted of constant noise.

She smiled at the robin that had been tweeting at her since she’d started. Each time she stopped, it seemed as if it tweeted louder, occasionally flapping its wings. But it remained just out of reach, perched on the bare branch of the stunted tree.

Squinting up at the sun, almost directly overhead, she grasped the fork and re-entered the fray.

The rhythm of work was almost hypnotic. Stab-lever-yank-toss, stab-lever-yank-toss…

Until a thorn penetrated her glove, skewering her finger. She cried out from the shock of it, the unexpected violation. The fork thudded to the ground.

Unable to pull her hand free, she dropped to her knees. The pain… Her vision blurred with tears as she struggled to free herself.

Gingerly holding the offending black-green branch with her other hand, taking a deep breath, steeling herself, she pulled in opposite directions. Her trapped hand came away with a sickening squelch as the thorn relinquished its hold on her.

Falling back to sit on her butt, she gasped for breath, fighting nausea that welled up. Swallowing hard, she peeled off the torn glove, dark and wet and already starting to stick to her finger. Beads of deep red kept forming on the punctured pad, running down her finger and staining her palm.

She stared, mesmerised by the jewel-like blood as if her finger was miraculously forming garnets. How could there be so much blood in one finger?

Realising she’d better clean it – who knew how filthy that thorn was – she pushed herself to her feet. Only to fall. Her legs felt too fragile to hold her weight. She tried again. Fell again.

Clenching her jaw, her gaze fixed on the house, she got to her knees. Holding her injured hand to her breast, her other hand on the ground, she began to crawl.

So focussed on getting to the house, she failed to notice the growing quiet. Even the birds had fallen silent.

She failed to notice the soft rustling through the undergrowth.

She failed to notice the sinuous, thorn-laden, black-green branch reaching for her.

It circled her ankle. And bit down. Thorns thrust through the skin, penetrating the bone.

Her eyes bulged. Her body hit the ground. She screamed.

Half-turning, clawing the ground, the air, there was nothing she could do to free herself.

She bashed the ground with her fist, pain robbing her of her voice.

Sliding along the grass, she came to an abrupt stop. It took her a moment to realise she’d moved… she’d been moved. As she struggled to form coherent thought, she was pulled again, toward the tangled mess at the bottom of the garden.

Gulping in air, she managed a guttural moan. Her darting gaze kept returning to the wheelbarrow before the thought formed, The cutters… Get to the cutters… in the barrow…

Turning on her side, her lips drawn back, she started to drag herself towards the wheelbarrow.

She was yanked back. Flailing, trying to grab hold of something – nothing but dirt – she screamed, “Leave me alone. Let me go!”

How did someone get in the undergrowth without her noticing? What did they want?

She didn’t want to know what they wanted. She just wanted to get away… please…

On her front, erratically tugged backwards – drag, stop, drag, stop, drag – she blubbered, gibbered, gouged her fingers in the dirt, not caring about the hole in her finger anymore.

Her cries reduced to sobbing whimpers. Her movements turned feeble. Her surroundings gradually darkened as the overgrown bushes reached over her to blot out the sun.

Still, she whispered, “Help… help me…”

A larger, thicker, thorn-laden vine snaked past her vision, lifting her to gently wind around her before slowly tightening.

A blanket of cascading agony covered her body. Mouth stretched in a silent scream, her eyes widened before her mind began to, mercifully, shut down.

Her last sight, the robin on a sun-dappled branch, watching her.

The last sound, its tweeting… except now, it sounded like, “Stop. Said stop. Stop…”