Flash fiction

Originally published on Medium.

They didn’t used to be so close.

The trees.

Come with me, let me show you. Room to room. Window to window. Do you see? So close now, so close.

A long time ago I used to call it a wall of green. Back in the days when people were still a thing, and I’d do the gardening on sunny Sunday afternoons. Every now and then I’d stop and rest, rub the small of my back and grin at the trees.

‘Look at that wall of green,’ I’d say.

Because it was. Firs taller than the house, giant oaks, poplars, willows, sycamores and ash. So many trees. In the winter most of them shed their leaves and looked sorry for themselves. They looked barren and stark, nothing to offer but the impressive silhouettes they made against a silver moon.

But in the summer it was something… A wall of green I called it. From the huge trees lining the bridge across the road, to the endless rows of oaks, beech and hazel lined up along the lane, to the trees that edged our garden. Even the trees we added, the pear, and the apples, the plum, the cherry, the buddleia and the lilac, they grew so fast and were soon so tall they joined that great green wall.

And beyond that, sat us, surveying our huge green lawn, smiling smugly at the borders left to go wild, at the constant buzzing in the borage and the buddleia. Oh, we were smug, weren’t we? Thought we were doing our bit.

And oh, I did love those trees, that wall of green. We felt sheltered behind it, like nothing could ever touch us, like nothing could get through. And though a busy road ran past us, it didn’t feel like that in the garden, behind that ever growing wall of green.

We could hide there. Live there. Lie back on the grass and stare at the clouds. Listen to the robins and the blackbirds and the tits. Watch the crows see off the buzzards, and gasp in delight whenever a red kite hovered over us.

But things are different now. That life, that world, over. Only ourselves to blame, and all that. Of course. We always knew it was coming, always knew we were doomed. Why? Well, because people are mostly just awful that’s why.

Anyway. It doesn’t matter.

Things are different now, that’s all there is to say. That’s all I need to worry about. And the trees are closer. I know that. I feel it in my bones, in my blood. I suppose I could go out there with a tape measure, make an experiment out of it, prove myself wrong or right, but really, what would be the point?

I know.

The trees are closer now. They’ve crept in. Bit by bit. They’ve grown, multiplied, reached higher, spread wider. The green is startling, I can tell you that. It hurts my eyes. It makes my vision blur if I stare too hard. I start to get lost in all that green. I think about opening the door and letting it in. Or wandering out to join them. I think I can see faces in the trees — maybe people who felt that same longing, people who opened their doors.

They didn’t use to be this close, filling every single window. I can’t escape them now. Every window is covered. They stand like sentries, turning my home into a prison. And I am not free. I cannot simply leave.

Every window, I tell you, every single window. The green fills the space and there is no room for anything else. The green taps its fingers against the windows, asking to come in. The green scratches and scrapes, prods and pokes. The green is only pretending to be shy.

The green is terrible and beautiful and it is only what we deserve, after all, we slaughtered them, hacked off their limbs, uprooted them, burnt them. The green just wants to say hello. And oh, I am tempted to open the doors, open the windows. Let it touch me. Wander barefoot and mad into it’s inevitable embrace.

I tell myself to hold on. To wait. To try to live. I might be the only one left…

I tell myself to be brave, to try to survive.

I tell myself the green is patient and wise, but maybe it doesn’t mean to hurt me.

But I also tell myself that perhaps the green is the better option, the kinder end, because something darker and uglier and thicker and gnarlier roars and rumbles to life under the very house I stand in.

The roots are awake.

The roots are closer now.

The roots want to come in.

Thanks for reading! This was written in response to the prompt ‘from a window’ on The Wild Writers Club. Initially I wanted to take a photo from every window in my house showing the close trees, bushes and greenery and writing a non-fic piece about how much I love it. However, I started to get an idea for a creepy story instead so that’s what I went with…