Seeing as I’m also someone who enjoys writing fantasy things for the fun of it, I’ll be posting random writings and things I’m working on. This little thing is something that came out of a rather interesting conversation had while walking my dog after dinner.
Apparently it is common knowledge that grass can become stressed and turn brown because of it. I, not being a lover of lawns, thought that perhaps the grass needed something to help relax it. This led the conversation to the topic of beer being used as lawn fertilizer which led to hipster grass, and then somehow to the idea of the grass walking away. Like I said. Random.
This little bit of writing below is what came out of that strange walking grass idea.
It all began the morning the grass left. Each individual blade stood, shook itself free of dirt, and, in single file, began to march away. Their tiny singular roots split and stretched in minuscule strides across the pavement. Carol didn’t quite know what to make of it, but since thousands of blades of grass marching single file down a street takes a while, she had time.
The first, and possibly most startling, realization she came to was that the grass had been alive. Well, obviously it had been alive. You know, it had been really alive, like, human alive. This is not something generally accepted as common knowledge. Second, if they were marching away, she’d done something terrible to make them decide to leave her. Third, even her grass couldn’t stand to be around her anymore. Apparently even her vegetation found her to be a bore.
Carol turned away from the spectacle of her militaristic lawn towards the window into the back yard. She’d half expected her azalea bush to have uprooted itself and started the process of rolling away or however it was that azaleas moved. Distantly she also realized that Tolkien had been more than onto something with the ent thing.
Her coffee sat forgotten on the kitchen table nestled cozily in front of the kitchen window. Carol pushed her glasses up her nose and decided she’d had enough. She was not going to be walked out on by her own lawn. In a furry teal bathrobe and bare feet, she marched herself out into her driveway. By this time, the neighbors had begun to notice the spectacle of her traitorous lawn.
At the end of the driveway, Carol stopped. Her hands pressed themselves into the ample girth of her hips. Her watery blue eyes darted back and forth behind her large framed tortoise shell glasses.
“What exactly do you think you’re doing?” Carol demanded in what she thought was a mothery voice. She didn’t actually know. If grass would walk out on her, it isn’t exactly a stretch that men would too.
The grass shivered. Bristled and recently shorn tops folded and bent. A herd of grasslings stopped and turned to face her. Carol couldn’t see any faces, but thought that if they’d bothered to turn around they must have them somewhere. Her lawn had paused. It now stood half emptied. The top half was only dirt. Carol had her lawns attention, but she wasn’t exactly sure what to say next. Silence stretched between them.
“Go on. Get back onto my front yard.” Carol didn’t think it’d work, but she thought she’d give it a try anyway.
Not exactly sure how’d I’d like this to end. I might just file it away for later. If, for some strange reason, you have a suggestion for how this should end, I’d be more than happy to write it.