I've not posted for #MondayBlogs in forever! I've done it several times before, and it's always fun to be one of the earlier bloggers, but I've been fascinated by the response I get: many more readers , and a whole lot more retweets. For this Short Story Weekly post, it'll also be a Monday Blogs post, and it's looking to be perhaps my most complete, and perfected story yet, despite its length. This short story is unique to anything else I've written so-far, not that the stories I've done are really that similar to begin with, this one is special.
I wanted this story to showcase the sort of progress one can make when they perfect their craft over time. Over the past year, I've done stories that span all sorts of genres, all kinds of moods, and they are some of my favorite, and hated writing I've ever done. I want this story to be wonderful. It will not be my magnum opus, but I hope it becomes the example of excellence for the Malacast Editorial, and Short Story Weekly respectively,
So here is this week's Short Story Weekly, and #MondayBlogs post:
In a Garden Most Divine:
"If there's a bustle in your hedgerow, don't be along now, it's just a sprinkling for the May Queen."
-Led Zepplin, Stairway to Heaven
And as I wandered through the forest night, a trinket of souls gave off a vivid light. When the bodies began to shine, a lucid dream of supine waking, quaking, condiulted voracious matters. The faires fluttered in nightingale flight, all through the garden most divine. What beatitude shining lit from Mother Moon, emblazoned by the sun' slight, reflected in humble humility by her Mother, lighting my way through the soft wet grass of the garden most divine. She held such light, that I saw the carapace of the world, shielded by invisible cloth, swaddling us all in some gesticular bubble.
The night was long, but tempered in this garden most divine. Rabbits bobbled from out their burrows, to take a sampling of daisies, and a playful tug on taproot. Those nightingales sang of sweet serenity, pummeling the winds with symphonic noises of angels in the garden most divine. Tortoises sigh and smile with ancient wisdom, owls unprecedented with googily eyes veer outwards on the most silent of wings, peering above the garden, angels of death, but angels nonetheless, keeping a balance most divine.
I settled amongst the wicked leaves of thorny bushes covering rose-petaled walls. Shrubs of red and hybrid white, overshadows much smaller hibiscuses, whist glistening with man-made porcelain shine. In a garden most divine, even Beatrice would blush, even Dante would sin. Nature in its sophilsim, naivety of childhood bliss, running through the sod, the earth one's shoe, is all one can stand, the garden most divine, so heavenly, it's somber death.
So with one last trudge, with a gallant leap, I float on light air, and nestle on semisolid verdant joy, I fall in a deep, immortal embrace, in a garden most divine.
Thank you for reading the Malacast Editorial. This "short" short is one of just a couple I've done over the last two years, and it's a humble return to contributing to Monday Blogs. I'll be doing several posts like this for Momdays over the next few months, but I'll be quite busy, and things will become very, very interesting, especially for June. Either way, thank you for the support, it's always appreciated, and it'll be exciting to make sure all my posts land at the right time.
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