Tournesol By SJI Holliday
It wasn’t the first time I’d found something dead in the back garden.
The last time it’d been a bird. I heard the dull thud from downstairs and ran up to see what had happened. A smoky grey, pigeon-shaped silhouette decorated the bedroom window like one of those stick on Christmas decorations that doesn’t get fully washed off until March. I came down to find the pigeon lying inches from my basket of fresh laundry and could do nothing but cover it with an empty cardboard box until Isabelle came to visit and carried it gingerly to the bin, where it festered until the bin men took it away the following week.
This time it was a mouse. It lay on the decking, prone and bloody. A smug ginger cat sat in the flowerbeds watching me. I fought my revulsion and scooped the tiny animal up with a long-handled spade and began to carry it with outstretched arms to its final recyclable resting place. The cat bolted from its patch and I spotted the hole it had made. Something, I don’t know what – maybe it was a reaction to the cat and its carefree digging of my garden – made me change my plans. I walked over to the hole and dropped the mouse in, then stared at it for a moment before pushing the disrupted earth down on top. I flinched as I tipped in the last batch of soil: a tiny clawing foot had pushed through to the surface. The cat stood next to the path and eyed me suspiciously. I shooed it with the spade and looked down at the new grave and the wilting rose bush behind it.
An idea struck me. I found the packet of sunflower seeds at the back of the shed; four were left from the year’s earlier planting. I loved these flowers, but Isabelle always said that bad things happened when sunflowers were around. It was probably too late to plant them now, but I felt that I should mark the grave somehow, if only to spite the intrusive cat. I pushed the seeds down into the flat earth and patted another pile of soil on top, then promptly forgot about them. I pondered what to do about the cat. I didn’t think about the mouse or the sunflowers again until spring, when a single green shoot appeared. I watered it frequently and realised that the cat hadn’t been back since.
Then one day the flowers appeared; the weedy green shoot had become a six-foot high stem, thick like a bamboo cane. Two giant flower-heads swayed in the breeze and when I looked at them closely, I felt something cold creep up my spine: it looked like they had eyes. I became aware then that the cat had returned, but it was timid now and it stayed well away from the sunflower.
On further inspection, I realised that the flowers did have eyes; small, dark and unblinking, like those of a rodent.
Copyright SJI Holliday 2011
http://www.feedbooks.com/userbook/23485/tournesol for free download to Kindle /iPhone etc
The last time it’d been a bird. I heard the dull thud from downstairs and ran up to see what had happened. A smoky grey, pigeon-shaped silhouette decorated the bedroom window like one of those stick on Christmas decorations that doesn’t get fully washed off until March. I came down to find the pigeon lying inches from my basket of fresh laundry and could do nothing but cover it with an empty cardboard box until Isabelle came to visit and carried it gingerly to the bin, where it festered until the bin men took it away the following week.
This time it was a mouse. It lay on the decking, prone and bloody. A smug ginger cat sat in the flowerbeds watching me. I fought my revulsion and scooped the tiny animal up with a long-handled spade and began to carry it with outstretched arms to its final recyclable resting place. The cat bolted from its patch and I spotted the hole it had made. Something, I don’t know what – maybe it was a reaction to the cat and its carefree digging of my garden – made me change my plans. I walked over to the hole and dropped the mouse in, then stared at it for a moment before pushing the disrupted earth down on top. I flinched as I tipped in the last batch of soil: a tiny clawing foot had pushed through to the surface. The cat stood next to the path and eyed me suspiciously. I shooed it with the spade and looked down at the new grave and the wilting rose bush behind it.
An idea struck me. I found the packet of sunflower seeds at the back of the shed; four were left from the year’s earlier planting. I loved these flowers, but Isabelle always said that bad things happened when sunflowers were around. It was probably too late to plant them now, but I felt that I should mark the grave somehow, if only to spite the intrusive cat. I pushed the seeds down into the flat earth and patted another pile of soil on top, then promptly forgot about them. I pondered what to do about the cat. I didn’t think about the mouse or the sunflowers again until spring, when a single green shoot appeared. I watered it frequently and realised that the cat hadn’t been back since.
Then one day the flowers appeared; the weedy green shoot had become a six-foot high stem, thick like a bamboo cane. Two giant flower-heads swayed in the breeze and when I looked at them closely, I felt something cold creep up my spine: it looked like they had eyes. I became aware then that the cat had returned, but it was timid now and it stayed well away from the sunflower.
On further inspection, I realised that the flowers did have eyes; small, dark and unblinking, like those of a rodent.
Copyright SJI Holliday 2011
http://www.feedbooks.com/userbook/23485/tournesol for free download to Kindle /iPhone etc