a short story about blooming gardens and buried secrets

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Rustling Green

a short story about blooming gardens and buried secrets



At first it was just a foot that grew in my garden, so soft and supple in the rustling green.

Soon the rest took shape: a leg, long and delicate, hips blooming outward like an ink blot test, a spine, knotted and bowed like a string of bluebells.

Finally I could see my strange fruit, her hair as brown, her dress as bright, her eyes as dark and wild as the day she was planted.

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Short story written by Peter Chiykowski

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Story prompt taken from a photo by Matthew Henry

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