The Garden Muse, part 1.

For February, I’ve decided to share with you a four-part story. It’s a simple story that I wrote to a friend in a letter two years ago so it probably could grow more. But I hope you enjoy this story!

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“Son, I’ve enrolled you at my prestigious alma mater.” Jackson’s mother clicked across the floor in her low-heeled black pumps.

Jackson hated those shoes. They announced her leaving and her coming, which in retrospect occasionally had its up sides—like when he was scrolling through porn. A click of her heel and he was clicking away from those sites.

He also had no intention of attending his mom’s alma mater. Jackson strode to the door and grabbed his backpack as he went out into the garden.

Jackson skirted the vegetable garden and climbed through the bushes of the garden maze. One good thing of being born to a family of wealth was a garden. Sure, he didn’t have a father, but he had a garden big enough to get lost in.

He rounded the willow tree and plopped into the white metal chair with itty bitty table. He doubted that any other male relative had ever used the chair, but he didn’t care.

Jackson unzipped his bag and pulled out his sketchpad and pens. He flipped to the page he had been working on. A miniature garden bloomed in ink and paper, sprawling across the page. And he lost himself in the curve of the flowers.

When the last dip of pen on paper satisfied him, Jackson leaned back in his chair almost toppling backward. The light had changed drastically. He checked his work, but the time showed true. The wind blew and pushed his pages.

The book fell open to the space where he had ripped out pages. The edges were ragged and multi-leveled. Those had been his favorites—maybe never to be seen again.

He shut his sketchbook and shoved it into his bag, trying to push the invading thought of Emerson Ann out of his head. His childhood playmate had long flown from this garden community of bankers and lawyers pretending to be la crème de la crème. To quote The Great Gatsby, they were merely “new money” and held none of the esteem of “old money”.

Emerson Ann, a year older and most definitely his muse. Her face structure engraved in even his eyelids. When he drew solely for fun, all the freely drawn women were of her.

She haunted his pen.

And he hated it. Because she was gone, countries away living her dream. Her Facebook lay dormant; she had no cell phone number that he knew. So he couldn’t contact her and ask her what she’d do if her tyrannical mother forced him into a career that he never wanted.

Emerson Ann would have had a plan.

She always did. That was why it hurt when she left not making him even a part or knowledgeable about her plan.

Did you love Part 1? You can now check out Part 2, Part 3, and Part 4! Happy Reading!