#Franklin Y. Journ

[abutterflyscribbles]

I don’t even know how these characters are, they just showed up on my doorstep today and we’re still getting acquainted.

“What are you?”

It was winter and the ground was frozen. Snow had not yet fallen but frost lay lightly over the naked branches of the trees and shrubs. The whole garden had been stripped of its flesh reduced to a skeleton of brittle brown bones. The pathways of patterned brick wound their way through the squares of dead lawn, and short walls of stone indicated where flowers bloomed in the warm seasons.

The day was dry, the sharp air cutting at Franklin's lips until he could taste the few drops of blood welling up from cracks. There was the smell of inhospitable cold in the air. Chilly, almost metallic. The bare garden and the cold had joined forces to drive away animals and humans both so that the wind could whistle around the space, chasing leaves back and forth in front of the hollow shell of the abandoned house.

Franklin defiantly stayed, cracking the frost under his boots as he walked around the garden with his hands in his pockets and the hood of his jacket pulled over his ears. The place really was empty. In this sort of area Franklin would have figured there would be a few homeless people squatting in the flimsy remains of the house. Instead it seemed to be one of the few places left in the area that was truly empty.

Excepting Franklin.

It was just so noisy. The house was full of loud voices, the streets full of cars, the parks full of joggers, dogs, bands . . . everywhere was full and Franklin couldn't breathe. He put on his headphones and blasted music to block out everything else, pulled his hood up so that his vision narrowed to what was directly in front of him. He drew himself further and further into the safety of the little bubble he inhabited in the middle of a frantically rushing world.

In this garden he could take off his headphones and listen to silence. He couldn't even hear cars from here. Nothing but the wind.

And footsteps.

If it hadn't been so quiet Franklin would have never heard the footsteps. They were light, the muted sound of bare feet on the brick path.

Franklin could smell . . . flowers.

Not a perfume, no, this smelled like spring flowers opening under the sun. It was a scent he had caught whiffs of, from his mother's window box, and from the park. Even at the park the flowers were overwhelmed by the smell of plastic play places getting hot in the sun, smoke from barbecues. This smell was the smell of an entire garden full of flowers, fresh and clean.

When he turned toward the sound of the footsteps he thought he was looking at a bush that had miraculously bloomed when he wasn't looking. Purple roses, dark and velvety. Living color in a dead world.

Franklin blinked and realized the rosebush was looking at him.

Glaring at him.

Because it was a woman and not a bush at all. A skirt of roses brushed down to her knees, a collar of them around her neck, and tattoos of roses painted from the knuckles of her hands and up her arms, disappearing under the collar. Her knuckles were turning white, slender hands balled into fists. The undisguised scowl belied the delicate lines of her face, cracking it with dark frown lines, her head tipped down to cast a shadow over her eyes.

“What . . .” Franklin's eyes scanned up and down the woman's arms, trying to see where the tattoos ended and the dress began, “Who--?”

“You shouldn't be here,” The woman said, petals rustling softly when she took another step toward Franklin. She was at least five inches taller than him, and he was almost six feet. Beautiful, soft flowers aside, the woman was somewhat terrifying.

“Nobody lives here,” Franklin shrugged, “Nobody cares if I'm here.”

“I live here. I care.”

“You live . . . here?” Franklin looked at the house, shattered windows boarded over, front door sagging in its frame, “You've got to be kidding me.”

“If I were joking,” the woman walked around him, her footsteps light, but her shoulders rounded forward like a prowling animal circling its prey, “you would be certain that I was. Now get out.”

Franklin twisted and turned to keep up with her circling, still not managing to get a good look at her tattoos. If this encountered ended with any degree of friendliness he had to ask her who did her ink. The spinning and strong smell of flowers was making him dizzy.

“Go back!”

The woman pointed a finger at the broken gate Franklin had entered by. The silence of the garden ripped open like the torn bars of the gate, letting the sound of nearby traffic rush through like a wave slamming into the beach. It slammed into Franklin, knocking him off his feet, making him so dizzy he dropped to his knees, hands clapped over his ears. All the noise of the city was pouring through the gates and screaming at Franklin.

Too much, too much. He was choking on the perfume of roses, gagging on it. The noise scattered his thoughts and he could not collect them again. All he could do was crouch on the ground, rocking back and forth, trying to make the world go away.

Go away, go away, leave him in the silent garden, just leave him in the quiet . . .

The rumble of cars died away. Stillness settled over everything, light as flower petals.

Franklin cautiously pulled his hands away from his ears. It was quiet.

“I suppose I'm not the only one who needs peace,” the woman said, her tone less harsh now. She sat on the cold ground, her skirt of roses resting on the ground in a careless tumble, “I'll let you be for today. And if you can find your way here again then you're welcome to visit.”

Still getting his breath under control, Franklin stared at the woman's shoulders. The flowers . . . the flowers were blossoming from her skin. The tattoos that ran up her arms pulled their petals free on her shoulders and bloomed into her collar. Or . . . was she simply made of flowers, shaped like a person? He was still so dizzy he couldn't be sure.

“What are you?”

“A recluse,” the woman laughed, pushing a mess of straight brown hair back from her forehead, “a winter boarder. A lost soul.”

“I . . . I'm Franklin. What's--?”

“Don't give names so freely,” the woman stood up, showing that her legs were patterned with roses too, “if you want to call me something you'll have to pick it. That is, assuming we actually meet again.”

Franklin was still too scattered to think. He stood up and followed the woman up to the house, brushing dirt off his pants. Her feet were caked with dirt and she left dark footprints on the rotting porch.

“Is it always so quiet here?”

“If I want it to be.”

“Um,” Franklin couldn't even begin to think how that worked, unless she paid off the neighbors not to play loud music, “so it's okay if I come back?”

“If you can find you way back, like I said.”

“Uh, thanks.”

“Don't thank me,” the woman said, grasping the handle of the door, “it puts you in my debt. If you come again remember not to use your name so freely, or to express gratitude so easily.”

“Yeah, okay,” Franklin shrugged.

“Good day,” the woman pulled the door open. It swung open smoothly, the handle sparkling and the door shiny new. Franklin caught a glimpse inside the house of an entryway carpeted with dark green, and light fixtures that looked like blooming flowers.

“And if you do pick a name,” the woman said over her shoulder, “do not pick 'Rose' or I will make sure you never find your way back here.”

The door shut behind her.

The door was sagging in its frame, splintered and stained. The wind was whistling through the boarded up windows. When Franklin peered through a crack he could see nothing but piles of broken wood and drywall.

The only thing left from the encounter was the faint smell of roses.

Franklin walked the garden until night fell but saw nothing else.