Germinating a Tiny Hope
Germinating a Tiny Hope
A Flash Fiction by Stephanie Percival
Looking out from my high-up tenement window, I whisper to the wind: “I miss the trees of home.” The wind sighs. It is not softened and soothed by spikes, shards, mirror glass of city buildings. Like me, it’s not at ease without foliage and branches.
The sky-line is grim blocks and squares. The clouds, swirling charcoal scribble. Everything is hostile. Winter frigid. Even the smell is sharp, stabbing my skin, abrasive as acid. Week in, week out, I go to work, return to my tenement, send money home.
On Christmas Day I make myself make an effort: microwave a turkey ready-meal for one. Unwrap my single present. ‘Found this and thought of you.’ My breath catches in my throat as I open the package. Green tissue paper rustles away, revealing a single acorn.
I sniff. The scent of the field where it was found lingers. The feel of home pulses through me like a hug. The acorn lies on my palm, rusty hued, the colour of my stained kitchen lino. I search for instructions on my tablet. I need sand. Below the tenements, cowering in shadow, is a children’s play area. An island of graffiti and rust. I fetch a scoop of grit from the pretence of sandpit. I secrete the acorn with the sand in a bag; put it in the fridge as instructed.
January brings frost; rimes window panes. Water seeps down into woodchip paper. The radiator rattles scant heat. I shiver, the flat remaining colder than the fridge.
I tick off blank squares of calendar, willing time away. Finally, ‘Planting Day,’ arrives.
The acorn looks unchanged, perhaps more speckled; bloated.
Filling a yoghurt pot with soil, I make a hole using my thumb. Grains of warm dirt cling to my skin reminding me of a faraway garden. I nest the acorn in. Wait again.
Days later a white shoot appears, more worm than tree. I peer at it, forehead furrowed. I ache with fatigue, unable to summons the energy of optimism.
But Spring’s arrival does make my mood lighter. Returning from work; I step over pavement cracks spilling green weeds. Below my window, dandelion stars bloom against tarmac.
Today, I awake to a wash of watery sunshine. And a proper shoot.
A cry of joy escapes my mouth, a song-bird, beating wings creating breeze. In response, two tiny leaves giggle on the oak tree stem.
Author: Stephanie’s writing journey began after being shortlisted for the BBC End of Story competition. Stephanie enjoys writing in a variety of styles and genres. Her work has been listed and won several creative writing competitions. Her first novel, ‘The Memory of Wood,’ is set in her home county of Northamptonshire.
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