miyako73
05-26-2009, 04:37 PM
I have used up my creative juices. I don't know how to fix this story about love, solitude, and premonition. Any suggestion?
The Skeletal Tree
Miyako I.
The sun rising at eight o'clock drenched the foliage that looked like flame dancing with the northeastern breeze. The morning of that late fall froze the night's leftover droplets clinging stubbornly on the edges of maple leaves. Unusually up early, Anne ran the rake and swept the ground under the tree that had begun to shed. She had always done this chore every late afternoon until the branches turned completely bare ready for the snow of Maine winter. The chipping sound of trowels hitting rocks woke her up and led her outside to her garden. It was a nice day to do a yard work.
Everyone in the neighborhood did their plants as if it was a planned weekend schedule. Some pruned while others watered. It was a community of retirees trying to keep themselves busy.
"Don't you think that tree needs some trimming?" the woman next door suggested as she refilled her rose garden with more organic soil. Friendly to Anne, she usually gave her a bundle of cut roses, and Anne, in return, would give her a basket of pinkish flowers scattered on the bermuda-grassed lawn. Her neighbor stringed them into leis.
"I like it shady for the swing," Anne said. The tree had never born fruit. It only flowered. She had no idea what kind it was. Its dagger-shaped leaves appeared in sporadic intervals. Dwarfed by the maples lining along the sides of the narrow asphalt street, it was the only tree in her iron-gated backyard. A few steps away was the swing that no longer swayed. The rings and chains stuck and hardened from rusts.
Anne bought the property using most of her dwindling retirement funds. She liked the two-bedroom cabin because of the rusty look of the stacked logs of oak. The triangular façade fit to the zigzagging metal fence walled by wedged bushes.
Before Farmington, she had lived in Oahu, stayed in Anchorage, and camped somewhere in the Midwest. She was originally from Southern California. She changed her address quite a bit since her husband, a plant biologist, disappeared. He went to China to collect a fruit specimen for his genetic research and never returned. Officials told her that he was kidnapped and killed since no ransom was given, but she believed the rumor that he left because she could not give him a child. From then on, she had moved from state to state looking for him. She had been tracing the places her husband would love to settle down and quietly retire. "I don't care if he already has another family," she once said. "I just want to know if he's not dead and he no longer loves me."
Anne hoped that he would stick to the plan, he expressed before, of moving to New England to buy a cabin and to pursue a study on maple trees. Maine, she thought, would be the right place if he was still alive. When she bought the house, the solitary tree in her backyard attracted her most. Her husband surely knew a lot about it. He was a tree expert, and it was only him who could tell her what kind of a tree it was.
"Let me shake it," the same neighbor offered, "so you don't have to struggle everyday." She interrupted Anne's tired but pursuing hands scooping falling flowers.
"I'll do it," said Anne with a grateful smile lost on her wrinkled face. She shook the tree. All remaining blossoms hugging the branches let go and fell with the drizzling perfumed mists. She looked up. A reddish pink fruit remained in the bosom of the tree. It was a Chinese peach. Feeling strange, she sat on the swing and fixed her gaze towards the street hovered by tall trees, fiery leaves, and jumpy branches. "If that's you, make those maples bear fruits," she lisped to herself. She thought of the red roses in Garden Grove her husband engineered before to bear fruit berries. "I don't want to move again."
The Skeletal Tree
Miyako I.
The sun rising at eight o'clock drenched the foliage that looked like flame dancing with the northeastern breeze. The morning of that late fall froze the night's leftover droplets clinging stubbornly on the edges of maple leaves. Unusually up early, Anne ran the rake and swept the ground under the tree that had begun to shed. She had always done this chore every late afternoon until the branches turned completely bare ready for the snow of Maine winter. The chipping sound of trowels hitting rocks woke her up and led her outside to her garden. It was a nice day to do a yard work.
Everyone in the neighborhood did their plants as if it was a planned weekend schedule. Some pruned while others watered. It was a community of retirees trying to keep themselves busy.
"Don't you think that tree needs some trimming?" the woman next door suggested as she refilled her rose garden with more organic soil. Friendly to Anne, she usually gave her a bundle of cut roses, and Anne, in return, would give her a basket of pinkish flowers scattered on the bermuda-grassed lawn. Her neighbor stringed them into leis.
"I like it shady for the swing," Anne said. The tree had never born fruit. It only flowered. She had no idea what kind it was. Its dagger-shaped leaves appeared in sporadic intervals. Dwarfed by the maples lining along the sides of the narrow asphalt street, it was the only tree in her iron-gated backyard. A few steps away was the swing that no longer swayed. The rings and chains stuck and hardened from rusts.
Anne bought the property using most of her dwindling retirement funds. She liked the two-bedroom cabin because of the rusty look of the stacked logs of oak. The triangular façade fit to the zigzagging metal fence walled by wedged bushes.
Before Farmington, she had lived in Oahu, stayed in Anchorage, and camped somewhere in the Midwest. She was originally from Southern California. She changed her address quite a bit since her husband, a plant biologist, disappeared. He went to China to collect a fruit specimen for his genetic research and never returned. Officials told her that he was kidnapped and killed since no ransom was given, but she believed the rumor that he left because she could not give him a child. From then on, she had moved from state to state looking for him. She had been tracing the places her husband would love to settle down and quietly retire. "I don't care if he already has another family," she once said. "I just want to know if he's not dead and he no longer loves me."
Anne hoped that he would stick to the plan, he expressed before, of moving to New England to buy a cabin and to pursue a study on maple trees. Maine, she thought, would be the right place if he was still alive. When she bought the house, the solitary tree in her backyard attracted her most. Her husband surely knew a lot about it. He was a tree expert, and it was only him who could tell her what kind of a tree it was.
"Let me shake it," the same neighbor offered, "so you don't have to struggle everyday." She interrupted Anne's tired but pursuing hands scooping falling flowers.
"I'll do it," said Anne with a grateful smile lost on her wrinkled face. She shook the tree. All remaining blossoms hugging the branches let go and fell with the drizzling perfumed mists. She looked up. A reddish pink fruit remained in the bosom of the tree. It was a Chinese peach. Feeling strange, she sat on the swing and fixed her gaze towards the street hovered by tall trees, fiery leaves, and jumpy branches. "If that's you, make those maples bear fruits," she lisped to herself. She thought of the red roses in Garden Grove her husband engineered before to bear fruit berries. "I don't want to move again."