The Memory Garden

Chapter 4 by Robert J. Parizek  The water was as surreal as real and felt like the finest silk upon your body. Its colors were a wash between deep greens to unbelievable blues, even when close to shore, all was crystal clear. The reeds on the shore stuck out long, hard and seemingly looking to reach the heavens by noon. Stones and shells imbedded into the shore each had their own unique look and story, if one were to grasp one of them, they would be told a ballad of that stones or shells existence within the placement of the mathematical madness known as this world. This reality.The grass had its own mind, its own control of the environment around it, and swayed to the gentle winds that would caress the entire visuals. Agreements between the grass, the woodlands and the trees caused for a wonderful mixture of greens to earthy browns to the grace of the grays that only the ancient and wisest of trees could combine to be craft into being. Animals and insects found the grass and its reign over the visual as the calling card to come out and play in the daylight cast upon them.Then, a fracture in reality happened and from this fracture, something emerged. It looked as though someone was standing above the waters. Its very presence gave ripples into the empowering reserve of the waters grace. Forming within the moment of thought, clothing began to blow into smaller whisks of fabric, shoe leather and metal to weave itself into being. As if an invisible being was standing within this clothing, shoes and a very bright and glowing pendant, was what the visual presented. Then the fracture became a tear, a black star-speckled tear with ragged edges and floating visage. As if an embossing happened upon the tear, features slowly rose and in its composition, it formed a face upon the tear. One side embossed and the other embedded, it turned, as if looking right at you. Its hands waved in the air, one high and one low, pointing. Does it see you? Could it? You feel ill. Cold chill races up your spine, that is what are the questions and feelings that this can cause and often does for this was the... Begetting.And this was its game. It was no afoot, as they say, a shot blown high into the sky, which began this race. Now the pieces are in play and one must wonder why the forces would call upon the... Begetting.With a final moment, everything froze still, as if it were a snapshot. As if you were seeing it differently, pulling back and watching it upon something, something like a piece of canvas. The paintbrush touched up the deep blue suit and its reflection in the unreal waters, somewhat rippled, and then the artist put down his brush. He stepped back and took a look at his work. He liked what he had done and with that, he quickly wrote down its name upon a scrap of canvas which would later be properly adhered to the back of the painting, along with his signature and piece of hair in the oils. This was his; he named it theMemory
Garden.And the key was cast into the fires.