Sometimes, I write about things that aren't furries. One of those things was recently published in my college publication! It's got an ISBN and everything. ^^

I just received my prize money today, so I figured I'd post it here as well! As always comments and questions are appreciated. I know it's quite far from my regular stuff but I actually really really love writing things like this! I don't strike people as a horror kind of dragon (because I'm not) but some good ambience and tone setting is a blast.

This is a creepy stylistic story about growing up and realizing that maybe childhood memories fade for a reason.

Enjoy. ^^


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Goldenrod


Before he was born, his mother stayed at the cabin, drinking in the fresh air, the sound of storms, the smell of the river. She imagined her child running through the flowers, pulling at their petals, scattering the birds and coming home with scraped knees and bent twigs. She told this to his not-yet-grandmother, who wished to see her daughter’s dreams herself. His father wasn’t there.

When he was four, his mother brought him to the cabin for the first time, and he was intimidated by the looming, dreadful trees, the twisted bushes with loathsome thorns, the dry, cracked dirt in the thin mountain air. He remained on the porch.

When he was nine, his grandmother pulled the head from a goldenrod and crushed it between gnarled palms, its life running through the wrinkles in her palm like blood down the grooves of a sacrificial altar. She showed him how it made a dye that could color homespun cloth, and he marveled, and he stepped off the porch. His grandmother watched her daughter, watching him, and smiled as her dreams began to take shape. His father was there. He was not watching.

When he was fifteen, he matured enough to see where his parent’s faults drew cracks in their lives. He spent days in the trees, past the bushes, walking. He loved them; he couldn’t stand them. He ran; was running. Away. To the cabin.

When he was sixteen, he matured enough to begin to see where his own faults lay instead.

When he was sixteen, his grandmother disappeared into the sounds of the storms and the twisted bushes with their loathsome thorns.

When he was sixteen, no one visited the cabin.

When he was sixteen, he fought.

When he was nineteen, he apologized.

When he was twenty, he cleared the cabin of its dust, its false coating of age. He left footsteps in the cracked dirt. He left footsteps in the kitchen made of dirt. He left the trappings in their places, the mice in the walls, the lights off, the windows open.

He remained on the porch. For a while.

Until he ventured from the porch. He walked his old paths. He saw trees and rocks and shapes that bore a resemblance to a life long past. He remembered forgotten memories. Buried memories. Memories forgotten for a purpose.

He remembered a cave. He remembered the path. He remembered the disquieting stillness. The stale water of stagnant ponds. The whispering. He tried to forget again.

He did not run to the cabin. He walked - walked further. He wished he did not. He saw the cave. He heard the whispers. He took a step out of the shade into the blinding dark. He discovered fear. He discovered a square of cloth, embroidered with his name. He discovered a fingerbone, dyed garish yellow. He walked. He ran. Away, again.

When he was twenty, he left.

He did not return.