The Garden

“Stop touching that!” “But missssss, it’s so much fun, all nice and smooth with those jagged edges, and it’s oozing! Look at it ooze!” “That’s fucking gross.” “You’re just jealous that no one wants to break your arm!” “Why would I—ugh, dolls …” They’re stumbling, leaning against each other; one drunk on pain and the other simply drunk. The street isn’t making their lives easy: the undulations which drove them off the sidewalk have begun to spread across it, soft snakeskin ripples pressing up against their soles. Probably there’s something wrong here; probably the ground is angry at the bloody marrow dripping from her arm or the silver cursework carefully threaded through his leather jacket. Probably their minds are too hazed, too lost, unwarily willingly poisoned— ...

It is understood that ⸤distillation⸣ is a process by which ⸤slimes⸣ maybe be both concentrated and made more amenable to their ⸤purposes⸣. However, this process does not reduce their ⸤curative properties⸣ when applied to a ⸤garden’s components⸣. Through the application of a ⸤purpose-made object⸣ to a fully ⸤distilled slime⸣ a form of thread may be produced with minimal cost to the surrounding ⸤garden⸣. Such thread is suitable for lacing through any ⸤damaged components⸣, and noticeably prolongs their ⸤life⸣. ...

A ⸤garden⸣ was once a place with plants and paths, ordered according to forgotten aesthetic principles. It was generally understood to be undesirable for the garden’s ⸤components⸣ to retain their eyes, so as not to unsettle visitors and to provide them with drinks. The drinks offered by paths were typically rich and metallic, sometimes fortified with ⸤powdered calcium⸣. Those presented by plants were delicate and floral, full of tender salt and spice. They were considered more intimate, and needed to be replanted more frequently. ...

Someone has left a flower in the silence between moments, that secret place where you long ago learned to go to hide from the world. A place which you had always thought only you could access. Because, well. It’s inside your mind. Right? The flower is pale, almost immaterial. It looks like a pencil sketch. You gingerly pick it up and sniff. It doesn’t smell like anything. Which does make sense—smells have always been the hardest things to imagine with any sort of accuracy—but it’s still a bit disappointing. ...