Anyway, I came across one that I had written a while ago in between uni classes. I found it hidden away in one of my folders (which contains HEAPS of these stories I write and then forget about) and thought I might as well post it.
Oh yeah; hate to do this, but: This is an original work, written and owned by the author of this blog and fully copyrighted by Australian law standards (such as they are). It may NOT be reproduced, distributed or reposted (wholly or partially) ANYWHERE without my written consent (plagiarism is bad, mmm’kay?). Not that I’m particularly worried; but better safe than sorry, as they say.
Better put this too, just in case (damn lawyers, freedom of speech my arse): Do NOT read this if you are feeling depressed or are susceptible to morbidity – it is not a happy story (in true Brothers Grimm style) and it contains mild suicidal themes.
Okay, now that the annoying red tape’s out of the way, here it is. It’s a tad long to put into one blog post, so I’ve decided to divide it into four parts and post them separately. Enjoy!
Sorrowbloom
“Sorrow blooms in the absence of tears”
There is a tree that the village speaks of. A tree, by the name of Sorrowbloom, that stands sentinel atop the hill. Its twisted body still, whilst clawed fingers seek to beckon with the breeze. The ‘hanging tree’ some call it, but its name is Sorrowbloom all the same.
A certain young man; a nameless traveller, one day sought shelter beneath its branches, his feet burning within their padded confines. He was a salesman, the very embodiment of a traveller, seeking to impart his wares on those he would encounter. And quite well he did, not for lack of foot sores - he had indeed sold all he had taken and echoed a heavy jingle with his footsteps. His lot was satisfying. He had no lack of money or of love as he was engaged to a beautiful woman and lived in a less than humble abode. And upon this day, he quickly sought to return to them. But first he required to rest. So here he sat beneath this same tree, letting the shade blanket him cool, his eyes shut in reflection.
He had not eaten for lack of foresight upon his journey and his stomach, apt to rend itself, wrought its displeasure in burbles. Having nothing to fill it, he wistfully cast his head back against the contorted hollows and gazed upwards. Dangling above him, black gourds danced about, clanging silently against one another with their slick sides glistening in the sun. A soft scent drifted towards him; a sweet tang that illuminated his senses and set his nose to wonder as to its exact genre of flavour. He stood up and reached for the fruit, wrestling it from the bony grip of its branch and smelled it closer. The scent was far more powerful now, though it defied description. It seemed not so much a scent as a memory; it cast his mind back to playing in the fields as a boy, to earning his first wage and to his first love. He opened his mouth and prepared to eat, when he heard a voice ring out: “That is not wise.”
He turned towards the voices' departure and saw someone who looked to be a man of eighty winters sitting nearby, slowly scribing upon a piece of parchment. His eyes were deep and sullen and his silvery mane laid testament to his years. Without casting a glance, he called again: “Eat not the fruit of that tree, lad. It cannot fill you; it is emptiness.”
A certain young man; a nameless traveller, one day sought shelter beneath its branches, his feet burning within their padded confines. He was a salesman, the very embodiment of a traveller, seeking to impart his wares on those he would encounter. And quite well he did, not for lack of foot sores - he had indeed sold all he had taken and echoed a heavy jingle with his footsteps. His lot was satisfying. He had no lack of money or of love as he was engaged to a beautiful woman and lived in a less than humble abode. And upon this day, he quickly sought to return to them. But first he required to rest. So here he sat beneath this same tree, letting the shade blanket him cool, his eyes shut in reflection.
He had not eaten for lack of foresight upon his journey and his stomach, apt to rend itself, wrought its displeasure in burbles. Having nothing to fill it, he wistfully cast his head back against the contorted hollows and gazed upwards. Dangling above him, black gourds danced about, clanging silently against one another with their slick sides glistening in the sun. A soft scent drifted towards him; a sweet tang that illuminated his senses and set his nose to wonder as to its exact genre of flavour. He stood up and reached for the fruit, wrestling it from the bony grip of its branch and smelled it closer. The scent was far more powerful now, though it defied description. It seemed not so much a scent as a memory; it cast his mind back to playing in the fields as a boy, to earning his first wage and to his first love. He opened his mouth and prepared to eat, when he heard a voice ring out: “That is not wise.”
He turned towards the voices' departure and saw someone who looked to be a man of eighty winters sitting nearby, slowly scribing upon a piece of parchment. His eyes were deep and sullen and his silvery mane laid testament to his years. Without casting a glance, he called again: “Eat not the fruit of that tree, lad. It cannot fill you; it is emptiness.”
Though his words were stern, his face was one of complacency and he seemed to mumble to himself unconsciously whilst continuing his craft. The young man turned about his gaze. Surely this old man's mind was at the mercy of his years and his tongue works of its own accord. His stomach was not to suffer for lunacy and he called for the old man to mind his own business. He rebelliously gnashed at the fruit's black pulp and curiously rolled it about upon his tongue.
The flavour, as the scent, was not one that the palate could discern. It was of its own flavour and it tantalised him with an almost forbidden, sensual nature. He stared at the fruit through the hole he had made. It was indeed empty as the old man had said; hollow and with no trace of seed. Darkened juice pooled inside it from the severed pulp surrounding it and the young man, treating it as to its gourd like shape, drank. The juice itself had an even stronger flavour, different even. It screamed something ethereal, like nothing of this world. It was midnight ambrosia. Before long, to his amazement, he had finished the entire thing and his stomach rejoiced. He then sat in awe of his experience, wiping his mouth with a kerchief, when the jingling of his pockets jolted him. He stood silently for a moment as his mind raced furiously; his eyes dancing with glee. He phrased his thoughts aloud, declaring: “If I were to sell this fruit, this delicacy; I'd be rich! I could marry my darling Isabelle and retire!”
With renewed vigour, he readied himself to harvest the onyx baubles when a familiar voice called again: “To eat it is to be a fool. To give it to another is to be a murderer”
The man of eighty winters was now looking directly at the young man; a look that seemed to imply piteous correction.
“What nonsense do you speak, old man?” the traveler inquired, “I have eaten the fruit and my constitution gives proof that it contains no poisons nor gives reason to run.”
The old man sighed and spoke as if it were rehearsed: “That fruit's poison does not inflict upon the body, lad, but the spirit. To eat it is to invite untold sorrow. Sit and let me tell you about the tree's origin, so that you may gain understanding….”
The flavour, as the scent, was not one that the palate could discern. It was of its own flavour and it tantalised him with an almost forbidden, sensual nature. He stared at the fruit through the hole he had made. It was indeed empty as the old man had said; hollow and with no trace of seed. Darkened juice pooled inside it from the severed pulp surrounding it and the young man, treating it as to its gourd like shape, drank. The juice itself had an even stronger flavour, different even. It screamed something ethereal, like nothing of this world. It was midnight ambrosia. Before long, to his amazement, he had finished the entire thing and his stomach rejoiced. He then sat in awe of his experience, wiping his mouth with a kerchief, when the jingling of his pockets jolted him. He stood silently for a moment as his mind raced furiously; his eyes dancing with glee. He phrased his thoughts aloud, declaring: “If I were to sell this fruit, this delicacy; I'd be rich! I could marry my darling Isabelle and retire!”
With renewed vigour, he readied himself to harvest the onyx baubles when a familiar voice called again: “To eat it is to be a fool. To give it to another is to be a murderer”
The man of eighty winters was now looking directly at the young man; a look that seemed to imply piteous correction.
“What nonsense do you speak, old man?” the traveler inquired, “I have eaten the fruit and my constitution gives proof that it contains no poisons nor gives reason to run.”
The old man sighed and spoke as if it were rehearsed: “That fruit's poison does not inflict upon the body, lad, but the spirit. To eat it is to invite untold sorrow. Sit and let me tell you about the tree's origin, so that you may gain understanding….”
*continued in next post*
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