Inside the Ivy

"A little house, Mum," Jeremy says.

A crappy inheritance, I think. Thanks, Grandad. A tin roof held up by empty windows and doorframes. Ivy slides through each orifice. The garden is brutally vibrant against the faded walls of Grandad's 'weekender.' The ruin smells of rich earth and rot.

Not surprising, really. Grandad had a green thumb, marred by shallow cuts and old scars. As a child, I'd run my fingers over them, marvelling at their texture of old bark.

'Love's like that,' he'd say, opening a new cut over his garden.

I catch Jeremy's small, unblemished hand in mine, and kiss it in the dappled shade of the ivy.

The plant grows restless.

Just a breeze, I think until the ivy strikes. We cry out, and the plant lances our tongues, and quickly threads us together. The invading stems force our mouths wider. New leaves sprout and sucker upon our faces, till our vision has a green tinge. Our blood pearls upon its leaves.

Jeremy sags upon my hip. The ivy pulls us towards the little house that Grandad bequeathed us, before he disappeared. With its smell of rich earth. With its smell of rot. A good smell, I think, and wonder how much of me is left. I snake my branches tighter around my son as we reach the doorway. I can see part of a ribcage, a femur, protruding from dark humus. Grandad, here to greet us.

Love's like that, I think, as we tumble to the ground.

THE END

Bio: S. E. Gale has had work published in a variety of peer reviewed periodicals, including Overland Magazine, Hecate, Danse Macabre and Ideomancer.

E-mail: S. E. Gale

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