Wildflowers
Matthew Wagner The wildflowers stood like skyscrapers as we ran towards the rickety garage. Our eyes darted like swallows, soon fixated upon the rustic looking shears. I think holding such an item brings pride to a young boy with the opportunity to succeed or fail against danger. That day I aspired to succeed. My grandparent’s house brought the smell of swisher sweets floating above the grass and into our young and tender nostrils. That old house begged for adventure. Ancient toys had seen their days come and go; their primary coats of paint chipped and passing like old disappearing friends. New journeys were almost demanded. We were there to conquer. Some of us wielded garden clippers, while the older, more experienced cousins firmly grasped the shears themselves. That yard stretched further than a football field, with the strong oaks positioning themselves like goal posts. We darted towards the jungle in full strides, disregarding the proper way to carry anything but our exhilaration. The fence, quickly approaching, proved useless against our skills, always forgetting the opening on its wounded left side. We evaded its sharp claws every time. The task set before us was simple: cut. Little did we know, our elbow grease chiseled out a utopia mapped out by the king himself. Not even the snakes could stop us. Every detail was considered, including the bathroom; a simple task for four boys. The living room was large enough for a party, too. Our television picked up wonderful signals of cars passing by. Although I wasn’t a musician, the shears played wonderful melodies. The quick and fatal blow of their two fragments gliding together mimicked that of a well-oiled machine, moving fiercely at 30 rpms. The wildflowers didn’t stand a chance, I would say, as their weak stems bowed down at the very sight of our glistening brows and shears. As the sun began to set we retreated. Returning home, the old fence still cursed us as we drove through its weak and open side. We didn’t mind. Passing by the goal post trees, we gathered our weapons and placed them back in their mysterious home. The peagreen shag carpet greeted us warmly, treating us to rug burns that glowed like the setting sun.
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