Elli was a gardener. She knew the score. No one ever planted a tree thinking further ahead than its sapling strength; its lush maturity. No one ever anticipated the withering, the succumbing to disease. The time when the beauty of younger, healthier plants around about called attention away from denuding branches. That was when the garden altered so much the old tree became close to invisible. After invisibility only the toppling remained. All that was left was to fall. To be cut into convenient lengths. To be carted away. And, because the tangle of old roots that remains prevents new growth coming through, the grinding out of the stump. Elli knew the score.
Published by Richard Holt
A writer from Melbourne, Richard maintains a number of blogs exploring very short fiction and text-based art practices. His stories and poems have been published in both mainstream and alternative journals and collections. He is also a visual artist and was co-founder of both Platform Artists Group and zine store, Sticky. He continues to publish very short fiction and conduct microfiction workshops for practicing writers, students and others. He has created numerous text-based installations and artworks for public spaces, including at Federation Square, Melbourne and in conjunction with the 2017, Newcastle Writers Festival. View all posts by Richard Holt