{"id":36811,"title":"Gardeners World","description":"Change. Too little and we suffocate. Too much and we are lost in chaos","content":"

The Garden<\/span><\/strong><\/p>


<\/p>

Change<\/span><\/strong>. Too little and we suffocate. Too much and we are lost in chaos. The rate of <\/span>progress has<\/span><\/strong> to be in the Goldilocks zone. And by some miracle, it is. Something holds the tempo. <\/span>An invisible<\/span><\/strong> metronome -\u00a0 tick ticking to sync the pace of our thoughts with the pace of the world, <\/span>so that<\/span><\/strong> <\/span>we <\/span><\/strong>inhabit <\/span>n<\/span><\/strong>either a fast forward nor a slow motion reality. tying\u00a0 together the<\/span> rate of<\/span><\/strong> <\/span>decay<\/span><\/strong> with the rate of growth, so that life can flourish and blossom before <\/span>it festers<\/span><\/strong> and recedes.\u00a0 Regulating the progress of all systems, to balance night with day, <\/span>so that<\/span><\/strong> neither the light nor the darkness emerges triumphant; jubilation and despair <\/span>existing<\/span><\/strong> in juxtaposed concert.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>

But\u00a0<\/span><\/strong><\/p>

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0what\u00a0<\/span><\/strong><\/p>

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0if the\u00a0<\/span><\/strong><\/p>

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0thread<\/span><\/strong><\/p>

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0that\u00a0<\/span><\/strong><\/p>

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0ties\u00a0<\/span><\/strong><\/p>

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0one\u00a0\u00a0<\/span><\/strong><\/p>

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0rhythm\u00a0<\/span><\/strong><\/p>

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0to\u00a0<\/span><\/strong><\/p>

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0another,\u00a0<\/span><\/strong><\/p>

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0Weaving\u00a0<\/span><\/strong><\/p>

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0an incessant,\u00a0<\/span><\/strong><\/p>

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0unrelenting\u00a0<\/span><\/strong><\/p>

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0regularity\u00a0\u00a0<\/span><\/strong><\/p>

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0<\/span>\u00a0in nature,\u00a0<\/span><\/strong><\/p>

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0Strapping\u00a0<\/span><\/strong><\/p>

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0the rate\u00a0<\/span><\/strong><\/p>

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0of\u00a0<\/span><\/strong><\/p>

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0progress\u00a0<\/span><\/strong><\/p>

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0of one\u00a0<\/span><\/strong><\/p>

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0system\u00a0<\/span><\/strong><\/p>

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0to all<\/span><\/strong><\/p>

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0others\u2026<\/span><\/strong><\/p>


<\/p>

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0<\/span>Broke.<\/span>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>


<\/p>

Or was\u00a0 broken.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>


<\/p>

Snapped.<\/span><\/em><\/p>


<\/p>

Sabotaged.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>


<\/p>

Bent.<\/span><\/p>


<\/p>

Dysregulated.<\/span><\/p>


<\/p>

Impaired.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>

The Garden<\/span><\/strong><\/p>


<\/p>

Folk discourse would have it that we<\/span> sit upon the earth<\/span><\/em>, <\/span>or walk upon it or rest upon it.<\/span><\/em>\u00a0 But such descriptions lack sophistication, for they are one-sided and miss the reciprocity that is central to the sense of place and belonging that is ours for the taking, if we can catch it with the proper mindset; <\/span>not only do I walk upon the earth; the earth holds onto me: it draws me towards it; with a force that is neither too strong for bones and flesh to bear nor too gentle to\u00a0 prevent me shooting into space debris. Tender. Embracing. It wants me. That I know.\u00a0\u00a0<\/span><\/em><\/p>


<\/p>

The seeds tumbled down the lines in her palms towards the earth. In her mind she envisaged the verdant green of the hedges coming into leaf, enclosing her and the garden womb-like, glowing as sunlight filtered through chloroplast membranes. She saw the saplings in their maturity, waving their hundred limbs above her; great kraken of the land. She saw the wildflowers undulating to the rhythms of the winds.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>


<\/p>

[Illustration of a woman in garden ]<\/span><\/strong><\/p>


<\/p>

In the time it takes the average human to send 40 emails, walk 5000 steps, and absorb 4 cups of coffee (38mg of caffeine) a tree grows 0.006cm.\u00a0\u00a0<\/span><\/p>


<\/p>

( illustration made of 1s and zeros\u2026 people in a coffee shop.)<\/span><\/p>

Away from the caffeinated rapids of 1s and 0s, lies the garden. - its slow motion frenzy of growth and consumption hidden by the veil of our attention deficit.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>


<\/p>

Our inability to tune in renders us blind,<\/span><\/p>

To the coils and windings to face the sun\u2026\u00a0<\/span><\/p>

To the pulsating cycle of petals in synchronicity<\/span><\/p>

welcoming in the day and withdrawing from the night<\/span><\/p>

(I'm afraid of the dark too)<\/span><\/p>

To the slow strangulation of vine\u00a0<\/span><\/p>

snaking upon trunk.\u00a0\u00a0<\/span><\/p>

Only tuning in at tipping point,\u00a0<\/span><\/p>

When the micro humm has built to a macro\u00a0<\/span><\/p>

That is not only within our perceptual range,\u00a0<\/span><\/p>

but prefaced by its own prelude,\u00a0<\/span><\/p>

of strain and crack,<\/span><\/p>

as roots succumb,\u00a0<\/span><\/p>

like ropes of a ship snapping in a storm,<\/span><\/p>

by the roaring rustle of leaves,<\/span><\/p>

as they quiver and shake to successive jolts<\/span><\/p>

To the silence as it gathers momentum above us,<\/span><\/p>

\u00a0in dread-laced air,\u00a0<\/span><\/p>

Before, (curtains up) it crashes into awareness,\u00a0<\/span><\/p>

Demanding full attention as it ruptures,splinters\u00a0<\/span><\/p>

and destroys\u2026\u00a0<\/span><\/p>

exuding a final exhalation as leaves and timber settle;\u00a0<\/span><\/p>

(Do you see me now?)\u00a0<\/span><\/p>

A great brown corpse,\u00a0<\/span><\/p>

Lying fractured and impotent,\u00a0<\/span><\/p>

A thing thrown out of its world.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>


<\/p>

(Not yet.<\/span><\/em>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>

For the saplings are young and the garden is tranquil,<\/span><\/em><\/p>

She whispered.)<\/span><\/p>


<\/p>

The familiar comfort of lower back pain spread across her consciousness as slowly she rose to\u00a0 full height. In the tea stained twilight she walked back inside.<\/span><\/p>


<\/p>

\u201cYou okay?\u201d<\/span><\/em><\/p>


<\/p>

\u201cYep, you know, my back\u2019s a bit funny you know\u201d<\/span><\/em><\/p>


<\/p>

\u201cYeah, i know\u201d<\/span><\/em><\/p>


<\/p>

\u201cWhat do you mean YOU KNOW, why say it like that?\u201d<\/span><\/em><\/p>


<\/p>

\u201cI\u2019m not saying it like anything\u201d<\/span><\/em><\/p>


<\/p>

\u201cReally? sounds like you\u2019re pissed off to be honest\u201d<\/span><\/em><\/p>


<\/p>

\u201cHonest?\u201d<\/span><\/em><\/p>


<\/p>

\u201cLook, you\u2019ve dropped earth and leaves and stuff all over the\u201d<\/span><\/em><\/p>


<\/p>

\u201cOh, piss off.\u201d\u00a0<\/span><\/em><\/p>


<\/p>

Anger and sadness overwhelmed her - disproportionate to any harm done, like a possession. She trailed upwards, floors away, retreating to the plush, red, damp-stained pile of their room. (These fights impinge upon my dignity. they make me less human. They make me slink and lurk and creep up the stairs. They send me scuttling for safety.)(sequence of her ascending stairs, on each step to becoming gradually less human\/more of a creature - )<\/span><\/p>


<\/p>

She sat in front of the dressing table mirror, resting her head - her hands pulling back her cheeks - the folds of flesh receding until her younger face looked back at her.(who were you and what did you do to my life?). She slowly released, watching as the lines and excess flesh again took over as the dominant determiners of appearance.<\/span><\/p>

[thought bubble to accompany illustration below]\u00a0<\/span><\/p>


<\/p>

(No one ever told me how it would feel. Being an in-between thing. in the chrysalis. Neither one thing nor the other... Lacking both the vigour of youth and the freedom of old age. Where the recent loss of beauty still stings, and yet lingers in ephemeral vestiges about one\u2019s face.)\u00a0 Picture of a young face looking out of a mirror, and the back of an old head looking in.)<\/span><\/p>


<\/p>

Year by year, season by season, we change but the garden wins. After every winter comes spring, but there is no such loop for us. The wrinkles do not get replaced by the skin tight optimism of youth as spring, there is only the slow march to winter.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>



<\/p>

Cornwall<\/span><\/strong><\/p>


<\/p>

Gulls hung in the air. Suspended stationary above the precipice; surveying her through dead, glass eyes. Close enough to touch.\u00a0 She had never held a bird before, but somehow she knew exactly how it would feel. The barely-there feathers and the lithe warmth of the bony little bodies beneath. Flesh pulled skimpy and tight over skeleton inside an opulent down coat.\u00a0 She stretched her hand out over the drop, through the push and pull of the gale; reaching \u2026.reaching\u2026.. until her centre of gravity teetered: Just an unexpected breeze would have tipped her over, or a cough or sneeze. It felt good.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>


<\/p>

But before she had one within her grasp, the noise came.\u00a0 Like a scream and a rip and the end of the world. The boundaries came crashing down around her; boxing her in; encasing the whole panorama inside her head. Covered in sweat, she struggled to free herself from the clammy cotton sheets that embalmed her body. At first, she thought the noise had been part of the fabric of the dream; but then she saw it. on the landing where the door had been left open a crack; leaves, branches, a tree.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>


<\/p>

IS THIS A DREAM? Is this a dream? This must be a dream\u2026<\/span><\/p>


<\/p>

She made her way towards the door with a timidity of step that was familiar from childhood. The midnight auto-pilot was disrupted. As she pushed the door there was a leafy crackle and coiled-spring pushback. She pushed harder, fighting against what she now realised was a tree, or at least part of one, in her hallway.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>


<\/p>

It took her a while to compute the scene.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>


<\/p>

The tree had not fallen through the roof.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>


<\/p>

The tree had not fallen\u2026<\/span><\/p>


<\/p>

The tree had grown through the house.<\/span><\/p>

Rising through the cellar and spiralling upwards, outwards, from room to room, clawing and puncturing the furniture, the barked tentacles had made their way to the landing and beyond.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>


<\/p>

[ cut through drawing of the house, side view of tree having grown through it]<\/span><\/p>


<\/p>

A tree has grown through my house. Overnight.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>


<\/p>

Kids.<\/span><\/p>


<\/p>

Darren.<\/span><\/p>


<\/p>

\u2018Unicorns only\u2019 <\/span><\/em>- She trampled across the branches, as the wild snapped and rustled beneath her feet. \u2018Unicorns only\u2019. She was only feet away from their door, and she felt a tide of emotion rising up from within her. The surreal invasion beneath her feet, slipped into oblivion and all she could focus on was the badly drawn pony in indigo crayola with a horn on its head.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>


<\/p>

Ordinarily, the sight of her two children, at midnight, headphones on, still awake, fused to their Ipads, would have been yet another parental disappointment. But right now all she could feel was relief.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>


<\/p>

\u201cI know, i know, yes, it\u2019s a bit weird but these things happen, sometimes trees fall through things and, lets go and find daddy, come on\u2026\u201d <\/span><\/em>\u00a0In some ways the muscle memory reflex of re-configuring reality for her children was comforting. She had done the same thing when they were burgled (some naughty foxes snuck through the catflap for a party while we were away) and after their arguments <\/span>\u201cSometimes we have misunderstandings, and we shout but we still love each other\u201d .)<\/span><\/em><\/p>


<\/p>

According to a never written report by the ONS\u00a0 they only had to increase their \u2018retreat to separate rooms\u2019 frequency by a further five percent in order to qualify for the near statistical certainty of separation within 2 years. And according to a personality test never taken, her disposition towards prolonged bouts of depression, coupled with his tendency towards openness, causally determined (from the outset) the strings of adulterous texts presently lying hidden in his phone; the verbal caresses of curves, the linguistic approximations of nebulous feelings directed towards idealised representations of misremembered women only briefly met, the lurid yellow emojis blowing love to souls-not-hers\u2026 all the flotsam of a marriage on the rocks, lying hidden in the digital spacescape of his phone. Using a not yet invented <\/span>\"realities\" <\/span><\/em>app, she would be able to plug herself in, to inhabit the VR manifestation of the adulterous words he shielded from her nightly - to witness the kissings and strokings and (worse) the gazing into eyes of avatars pieced together by shards of data, texts and photos from dating apps. But for now, all she had was a man at the opposite end of the sofa glued to his phone while she watched the latest scandi Noir. Series 1 (Rachel ..curvy and a little filthy), Series 2 (Lucy - pretty but fractured), Series 3 (a hunt for someone new.)\u00a0<\/span><\/p>


<\/p>

And\u00a0 then\u00a0 with the two saplings in tow she wound her way towards the spare room. Why hasn't he come out yet? Why isnt he awake?\u00a0<\/span><\/p>

\u00a0\u00a0<\/span><\/p>

\u201cLet's wake him up mummy, come on!\u201d<\/span><\/em><\/p>


<\/p>

\u201cHe needs his sleep so let me just check, wait there a sec, yeah\u201d<\/span><\/em><\/p>


<\/p>

She edged open the door open a crack and beheld a scene in which shapes were distinguishable only by nuanced gradations on the monochrome palette that falls between the ethereal beam of silvery moonlight, and the hollow charcoal of pitch night.\u00a0\u00a0<\/span><\/p>


<\/p>

What should one feel? When confronted with death\u2026<\/span><\/em><\/p>


<\/p>

Her heart catapulted upwards. (<\/span>Tick)<\/span><\/strong>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>

Dread <\/span>(Tick.)\u00a0<\/span><\/strong><\/p>

Nausea (<\/span>Tick.)<\/span><\/strong><\/p>

Loss and pain and sorrow coursing through her with a (<\/span>Tick<\/span><\/strong>)<\/span><\/p>

\u00a0<\/span><\/p>

But there was also the lightness of relief, the excitement of freedom. The regaining of\u00a0 a degree of autonomy that she hadn't possessed since before her marriage.\u00a0 And worst of all,<\/span> the feeling that she had won.<\/span><\/em> THe universe had kept her. All their squabbles, their debates, their conflicts, his affair, his rage, his disinterest in the magic she had offered up to the world, in the form of two tiny beings, each with more neuronal links than there are stars in the Universe. ( for fucks sake\u2026 what did one have to do to get a thank you around here)\u2026 Who was still here at the end of it all. What was winning if not that.<\/span><\/p>


<\/p>

( I am a bad person. I am a cold person. I am mentally unwell.)<\/span><\/em><\/p>


<\/p>

She resumed her role\u2026 \u201cHe\u2019s still asleep my lovelies, let's go down stairs, come on\u201d<\/span><\/p>


<\/p>

No electricity? No electricity. Nothing.<\/span><\/p>


<\/p>

\u201cMy tablet isn\u2019t working\u201d<\/span><\/p>


<\/p>

\u201cWhy are there plants on the windows?\u201d<\/span><\/p>


<\/p>

\u201cAm I awake?\u201d<\/span><\/p>


<\/p>

\u201cWhy is there a tree in the living room?\u201d<\/span><\/p>


<\/p>

\u201cCan we wake up Da\u2026.\u201d<\/span><\/p>


<\/p>

\u201cJUST GIVE ME A FU, minute, please my lovely\u201d<\/span><\/p>


<\/p>

\u201cHere, you\u2019re ipad\u2019s still working why don\u2019t you play that game with your sister?\u201d\u00a0<\/span><\/p>


<\/p>

\u201cBut there\u2019s a tree in t\u201d<\/span><\/p>


<\/p>

\u201cJust sit next to it, it\u2019s just a tree\u201d<\/span><\/p>


<\/p>

The two small figures retreated out of view, and sat hunched over the screen, hemmed in between the arms of the sofa and the leaves and the bark of an oak on the coach. But the kids adapted. The strangeness of the room melted away and they disappeared into minecraft.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>


<\/p>

Ok ok ok ok ok. There\u2019s a fucking tree growing, that has grown, through my house. There are vines everywhere, there\u2019s undergrowth and weeds all the way up to and over the windows.\u00a0 There\u2019s not internet, no electricity. And Paul.<\/span><\/p>


<\/p>

She was sick into her hands, found the sink, and stayed there. Leaning over the window\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0<\/span><\/p>


<\/p>

\"Without faith there's just decay, and then nothing,\" Her mother\u2019s knowing Scottish lilt whispered to her from memory. \" And who would choose to believe in that?\"\u00a0<\/span><\/p>


<\/p>

I would. She thought.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>


<\/p>

Death. An ending. And then nothing. Cold and rationalistic; it was a comfort. She knew: (absolutely knew),\u00a0 what was coming: a return to the earth - the garden. And without deviating from the brute fact of it, she could embellish that certainty, or perceive it through any aesthetic lens she chose, so that her nihilism worked to her advantage;<\/span><\/p>


<\/p>

A\u00a0 peaceful sigh into sediment that welcomed and embraced her [illustration]<\/span><\/p>


<\/p>

A slow-motion explosion and redistribution of atoms, the death of a star. passing through the bodies of grubs before dispersing all around the\u00a0 world. [illustration]<\/span><\/p>


<\/p>

A blossoming\u00a0 of her body with a million other lives\u00a0<\/span><\/p>


<\/p>

Decay has a gothic beauty to it,\u00a0 if you strip away the fear .\u00a0<\/span><\/p>


<\/p>

But her imagery had changed since the surge. things that had once gently beckoned her to join them, now sought to entrap her. \u00a0 There is nothing Gentle about Being ripped out of your place and entombed within an earth that hates you.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>


<\/p>

Last summer I tried to remove ivy from the garden wall. Have you ever tried to peel off a vine? There's a violence in the strength of its hold. The suckers cling on so doggedly that application of sufficient force destroys either the vine, or the object within its grip, but never the bond between the two. The bricks gave way first: the porous coraline structure revealed by the unrelenting hold of the skeleton plant - clinging on from beyond the grave. <\/span><\/em>[Italicize all inner thoughts]<\/span><\/em><\/strong><\/p>


<\/p>

In the upstairs bedroom her husband\u2019s body was slowly constricting and mummifying within the grips of such a creeper. She kept meaning to free him from it. To peel the suckers off his spongy skin. But something else always came up;\u00a0<\/span><\/p>


<\/p>

It slipped her mind.\u00a0<\/span><\/em><\/p>


<\/p>

There was always so much housework to do.\u00a0<\/span><\/em><\/p>


<\/p>

Even if she remembered to write a to-do list, she would lose it.\u00a0<\/span><\/em><\/p>


<\/p>

She hadn't even started on the ironing.\u00a0<\/span><\/em><\/p>


<\/p>

Every time she entered a room it was a new mess to deal with.\u00a0<\/span><\/em><\/p>


<\/p>

By the time she got to the top of the stairs she had forgotten why she had gone upstairs in the first place.<\/span><\/em>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>



<\/p>

\u00a0And now it was too late. The room was thickening with briar and bramble and the sight-lines were constricting. She could barely see him any more. She had given up, she knew.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>


<\/p>

A new soundscape surrounded the house, since the fall, when the world of the canopy had been transported to their level; the birds, squirrels, the tree top insects;\u00a0 an explosion of life which might, in another time, have rekindled something primitive - a sense of integration and belonging to an indivisible whole - , instead felt invasive - almost predacious. It impinged the otherwise pristine order of her patio.\u00a0\u00a0<\/span><\/p>


<\/p>

She found herself living in avoidance of the world outside; involuntarily turning her head from\u00a0 windows and doors as she moved about the house - just as she had closed her eyes in childhood games of hide and seek, or\u00a0 when trying to extricate herself from a situation that threatened to overwhelm her - as though by keeping things dark inside, the darkness would radiate out into the world to protect her. But there was no avoiding this. Her children saw it (Why is the garden so close mum?) And The atmosphere inside the house was altering. her hands glowed green, as they pushed the wooden spatula through the beans and tomato sauce, with light that was filtered through a chloroplast veil that threatened to cocoon them. Had she looked, she would have seen it: latticed and cobweb-like on the windows,\u00a0 exposing its terrible underbelly.<\/span><\/p>



<\/p>

It was hot inside the house. The air hung with the scent of old sealant as the wooden building exhaled.\u00a0 She could taste the sap of the vapour as she drew the eminations inside her. She loved this house. The beauty of it: the wood and the green, and the trees that grew so close to the windows (I\u2019m nesting). Something about its wooden flexibility, rocking in a storm, rinsed out by the winds which gusted through the cracks.. (I wish the wind would rinse me out too> enabled her to elevate herself and to see the house and their life within it as An intricate organic system: several components together functioning to create something that worked and survived and enabled the survival of all its constituent parts. It gave some meaning to it - to the drudgery.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>


<\/p>

The children needed feeding, and she knew that the ritual of it would be a comfort. Just a series of rituals; you could live your whole life like that. That was all you really needed to do; Feed the kids, clean the house, wash the clothes\u2026<\/span><\/p>



<\/p>

Mum\u2026 coke!\u00a0 Called\u00a0 her boy from the other room\u2026..<\/span><\/p>


<\/p>

Coke. Here they were, at the finale, the climax,\u00a0 and he was asking for coke.\u00a0 Sometimes with just a sentence or a word, she was granted a glimpse behind his eyes. His mental model of the world was freeing and beautiful - trippy -\u00a0 a quilted patchwork of blanks, partially filled,\u00a0 both by his own wild fabrications and imaginative leaps, and the information and misinformation implanted by the adults who had surrounding him - who, despite their desire to educate to the full extent of the capacity of the human brain, also bought wholeheartedly into the cult of childhood in which innocence and naivety must be treasured and preserved against the bruter facts of reality at all costs. His parents , grandparents - their legacy protected for the next generation inside his small seven year old skull. Coke. They had no coke. Nor would they ever have any again. <\/span>(Picture of the coke factory - roof decimated by fallen trees and creepers., with deers wandering inside it, like the remains of an ancient ruined cathedral - like a ruined shrine to consumeris<\/u><\/span><\/strong>m<\/u><\/span>.)<\/u><\/span><\/strong><\/p>



<\/p>

Over the last few days dawn had got used to IT. The absence of electricity gave way to the presence of candles, and the gothic romance of their vine covered grotto. The orange glow flickered back and forth across the room, with only shadows of vines and the general leafy debris hinting at what may be outside. She laughed with the kids as they strained to read the scrabble words in the dim light. She had got used to IT. The woodburning stove, another middle class triumph, meant that they had warm food, (although the reserves and quality was rapidly declining). <\/span>I knew it would be useful<\/span><\/em> <\/span>one day..<\/span><\/em>.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>


<\/p>

She was getting used to IT. Blocking stuff out? Easy. Really easy.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>


<\/p>

I don't think we love eachother anymore. BLOCKED Search for lampshade on Etsy.<\/span><\/p>


<\/p>

Is this messaging up the kids, like are they ok? BLOCKED. Phone mum discuss Gardening<\/span><\/p>


<\/p>

We havent had sex, I haven\u2019t had sex, for so long. BLOCKED. Argue with Gary<\/span><\/p>


<\/p>

Putting on weight. BLOCKED. Load the dishwasher. Failure. BLOCKED. Longing, lust, dreams,desire, purpose, meaning -\u00a0 BLOCKED. Love, lava, fire, and\u00a0 lightning BLOCKED.\u00a0 Swimming with manta rays in a nameless ocean - BLOCKED. Weeding the garden. Again. Energy cannot be created or destroyed, it can only change form.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>



<\/p>

The house was surrounded. Some of its walls punctured - the rest of it gripped and wrapped in a green embrace. Only 3 days earlier it was a pristine as the day they fell in love with it. (Number 42a Western Avenue, 2 bed victorian conversion, garden flat, good schools, farmers market. \u00a3310,000. Perfect). The house \u2018needed work\u2019: it needed money, and lots of it, but they had money. Everyone on this street had money. There really needs to be a word for the perfectly balanced combination of pride and shame, that this street, and others like it, feel in relation to wealth. Money, the silent subterranean river flowing beneath the brik-a-brak aesthetic delights - it was never spoken of, never seen, but ran silently below it all like London\u2019s sewage system. Disgusting but necessary, and hidden. In 72hrs this was literally and metaphorically destroyed, all of it. What was once the brick and mortar manifestation of radio 4 had transformed into something quite different. Tombraider. Where once there was\u00a0 order, now there was now disorder. A new order. Wabi Sabi. Everywhere.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>




<\/p>

I can manage fear.\u00a0<\/span><\/em><\/p>



<\/p>

I can turn my head away from the object and make it disappear.\u00a0<\/span><\/em><\/p>



<\/p>

I can use my imagination to escape\u00a0 - \u00a0 thinking myself into new and gentler places.\u00a0<\/span><\/em><\/p>



<\/p>

Swimming with whales as big as mountains, gentle monsters in the dark. Click click click their morse code chorus - guiding me down into the black through fizzing sea tangles\u00a0 and huge columns of reed. neon blue krill set my body alight, so that I glow with the fish - electric insides light up filigree fins and laced gossamer tails, illuminating the solid brittle rock-lace of corals and the tubular jelly of anemones and sea slugs.\u00a0<\/span><\/em><\/p>



<\/p>

But this isn\u2019t a fabrication, what\u2019s happening now. The green web over my house is real. I\u2019ve tested it. So is the crashing of trees I can hear in the distance, falling like giant corpses or suicide bombers. I have blocked it out for some time now. But I can\u2019t carry on turning my attention away, because the cupboards are bare and the children\u2019s eyes are dulling.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>


<\/p>

She was weak. She could feel her rib cage protruding as her death\u2019s form gradually took hold. Her skin was grey from malnourishment. Grey Like a ghost \u2026 and like a ghost she\u00a0 looked out on a world she was unable to inhabit. But she was not yet without power. Not only the everyday power of strength and courage and force of will, but also the reality bending power of cerebral superimposition: overlaying reality as it was delivered to her by her senses with the narrative glaze that transformed it into something tolerable.\u00a0 And she was able to wield it\u00a0 - a lifetime of blocking out or respinning enough of reality to make things easier on her mind, without obscuring so much that she was unable to navigate a successful path forwards - had endowed her with a mastery of the power to overlay.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>


<\/p>

Aged 3, locked in the bathroom, it had become a fortress to keep her safe from the trolls that gathered in the surrounding streets<\/span><\/p>


<\/p>

Aged 21, heartbroken and lonely in university,\u00a0<\/span><\/p>


<\/p>

Aged 37, entombed by an apocalyptic anomaly,\u00a0<\/span><\/p>


<\/p>

She and the boys needed to be (and could be), adventurers not refugees (The narrative had it.). they needed to leave the house as heroic survivors, not as victims.( it\u2019s all in the story). If they floundered, they needed to do so not as failures, but as brave crusaders who were merely unfortunate in the circumstances they encountered. (That was the superimposition that was going to save them) Heroes. adventurers. Explorers. Survivors. <\/span>It was all in the spin.<\/span><\/em>\u00a0 All she needed, HERE AT the tipping point\u2026 THE FINALE\u2026 THE boss\u2026 was one good story. Less - a story a child could buy into. And children were easy. They embraced fiction with a radical, joyous suspended disbelief that was more potent than the grudging and laboursom adult variety. The barrier separating reality\u00a0 from\u00a0 fantasy was more permeable for them. They existed\u00a0 prior to the calcification that comes over years in which, invariably, dreams and ambitions are deflected off the brute facts of the world. You can imagine something fantastical as a child, and it seems more like a wish or a plan -something that could actually come to pass, rather than an indulgence of thought. It should be easy to make this an adventure for them.\u00a0<\/span><\/strong><\/p>


<\/p>

But every good adventure has a goal; A destination. a prize.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>


<\/p>

She needed something to aim for\u2026.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>


<\/p>

The lighthouse\u00a0\u00a0<\/span><\/strong><\/p>


<\/p>

My Uncle \u2026.\u2019s lighthouse always had a certain magic to it, a symbolic beauty.<\/span><\/p>


<\/p>

Towering above the rocks and the salt-spewing sea. standing tall and bravely alone, amidst the torrent and swell of a wild world.\u00a0 Holding steady through storm and gale, altruistically shining its light onto an inky surface - distinguishable from the black of the night sky only in virtue of its glassy reflectivity.\u00a0 Light in the dark, a singular point of hope, beckoning from out of the darkness, Like the light of a star.\u00a0 He was that once for me too.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>


<\/p>

\u2018We are going to the lighthouse, kids.\u2019\u00a0<\/span><\/p>


<\/p>

Packing\u00a0<\/span><\/strong><\/p>

She swept tins out of the cupboard into her acid yellow hiking bag. Selecting the high value calorie laden items first. <\/span>It\u2019s a high stakes episode of supermarket sweep<\/span><\/em>. She whispered to the cupboard.<\/span><\/p>

2 minutes to go and so far it's only desserts for Alice Folks! the voice of Aynsley Harriet, faint, from the the other side of the lucidity border. The audience laughed as she crammed in <\/span><\/em>cartons of custard and pots of honey - it\u2019s a high stakes supermarket sweep.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>

It's to keep us alive!\u00a0<\/span><\/em><\/p>

splash - a tear landed on the wooden floor<\/span><\/p>

Its to give us energy to keep us alive.<\/span><\/em><\/p>

Pull yourself together Alice.<\/span><\/em> She slapped herself, hard. And moved on to the tinned veg.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>

\u00a0<\/span><\/p>

We\u2019re going kids\u2026\u00a0<\/span><\/em><\/p>

shoes on,\u00a0<\/span><\/em><\/p>

don't forget your coats,\u00a0<\/span><\/em><\/p>

make sure use the toilet before we go\u00a0<\/span><\/em><\/p>

We have a long journey ahead of us.\u00a0<\/span><\/em><\/p>


<\/p>

She ushered them out of the house, just as she always had, with phrases that had metamorphosed into dual purpose mantras - commands to mobilise and chants to soothe - sounds from a bygone time. prayers to stability. Nostalgia and nausea swept through her.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>


<\/p>

This new time, this<\/span><\/em> rip <\/span><\/em><\/strong>we are now inhabiting, needs a new mindset,\u00a0 and a new language. The old vocabulary, the old phrases and expressions and\u00a0 locutions don't\u00a0 fit here. NOt only are they so thoroughly imbibed with nostalgic familiarity, that their present usage cannot fail but to make implicit reference to the bygone time in which they originated\u00a0 - one that is perhaps more potent than the reference they make to he present moment they are intended to capture, what\u2019s more, they do not stretch to cover the full range of the experiences to which I am subjected in this new place\u2026\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0<\/span><\/em><\/p>


<\/p>

The fear I feel here isn't just fear. Nor is it terror. Nor dread. It is something more powerful than any of terms, or even any adverbial modification of them. The thing I feel now is sanity-thwarting, reality crushing; <\/span><\/em>\u00a0a feeling so intense and all-consuming - it's macabre manifestations so vivid in my mind hat they threaten to overtake my perceptions of reality, or (isn't it the same) reality itself. What is the word for that?\u00a0\u00a0<\/span><\/p>


<\/p>

And the love i feel for them\u2026It isn't the same thing I made reference to when I called \u2018I love you\u201d as they passed\u00a0 through the school gates each day,\u2026 nor is it the thing I felt when I whispered to their tiny bodies asleep in their beds at night. It is my lifeforce: as vital to my continuation as my heart, or blood or respiratory system. It is the thing that is keeping me going. The thing without which I would fall. The thing that enables me to fight the hallucinatory power of my terror. It radiates out of me. Like a forcefield. my body is alight with it -\u00a0 glowing luminescent against the terrible darkness. What is the word for that?<\/span><\/em><\/p>


<\/p>

(picture of her as a superhero,surrounded by horrific forms reaching for her from out of the darkness, a glowing warn light radiating out from her heart and forming a protective barrier around her)<\/span><\/p>


<\/p>

INSERT SCENE (To be drawn and\/or written of description of the street and struggling to get the garage door open. Supplies. Tins of fish etc).<\/span><\/p>


<\/p>

Run<\/span><\/strong><\/p>


<\/p>

She remembered the last time she had driven down the M25. it had been dark. There had been a simplicity to the scene that she had found both soothing and beautiful: black road, grey sky, white cats eyes entombed in cement, and that was all. Kids sleeping in the back.\u00a0 Henry looking at his phone. (She had wished that he would sleep too, so that she could be alone.) She had been bored, but not bored enough to speak. She had welcomed\u00a0 the intrusive OCD instructions, for they gave her challenges.\u00a0 <\/span>Blink twice between every lamppost and its successor. Blink twice. <\/span><\/em>And she had done it. All the way home. Rather than alleviate the boredom by speaking to him.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>


<\/p>

Remember that Alice. You can't regret the loss of that. <\/span><\/em>She told herself, in a mental whisper. <\/span>Where this faded out, the internal voice took over:\u00a0<\/span><\/em><\/p>



<\/p>

D<\/span>rive faster, or it will start again.\u00a0<\/span><\/em><\/p>


<\/p>

Drive faster Alice<\/span><\/em><\/p>


<\/p>

It\u2019s coming.\u00a0<\/span><\/em><\/p>



<\/p>

Drive<\/span><\/em><\/p>


<\/p>

Flee<\/span><\/em><\/p>


<\/p>

Run<\/span><\/em><\/p>



<\/p>

She pressed her foot down on the accelerator, thankful for the power of the surge. She avoided the rearview mirror.\u00a0 Afraid of what it may show. The road being eaten up behind them. Cracked and broken by 1000 green tentacles, cement taken down - engulfed inside the earth.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>



<\/p>

\u201cShall we play the yes no game kids?\u201d<\/span><\/p>


<\/p>

Her heart was beating so hard, she could feel the pulse in areas that didn't usually throb - behind her eyes, the roof of her mouth\u2026<\/span><\/p>



<\/p>

\u201cokay mum.. I'll go first\"<\/span><\/p>



<\/p>

If you don't drive faster...something very bad is going to happen to you and your children. To you and your children\u00a0<\/span><\/em><\/p>



<\/p>

Do you like playing this game with me?\u00a0<\/span><\/p>



<\/p>

I do like it Daniel.<\/span><\/p>



<\/p>

Are you sure?<\/span><\/p>



<\/p>

I'm sure.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>



<\/p>

Do you hear me?<\/span><\/p>



<\/p>

Do you want to get to the lighthouse?<\/span><\/p>



<\/p>

I do<\/span><\/p>



<\/p>

Do you like lighthouses?<\/span><\/p>



<\/p>

I love them<\/span><\/p>



<\/p>

Can you drive any faster than this<\/span><\/p>



<\/p>

I certainly can\u2026 come on you have to try harder than that to catch me out!\u00a0<\/span><\/p>



<\/p>

Are you accelerating because of what's behind us?<\/span><\/p>



<\/p>

Her son's head was corkscrewed around to face behind them. DREAD. nausea. Something foul coursing immediately and intensively through her body. She Still couldn't bring her eyes to the rearview, in case it reflected a small rectangular slice of something she wouldn't be able to cope with.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>



<\/p>

(I told you to drive faster)\u00a0<\/span><\/em><\/p>


<\/p>

And you didn't listen. And now it\u2019s too late.\u00a0<\/span><\/em><\/p>



<\/p>

Alice pushed her foot down on the accelerator.. hard. As far as it would go. She felt the car straining at the limit of its power. This was the only protection they had. This was what the years of expansion and growth and development had left them with. A small metal box. Frail. Juddering and throbbing at its terminal velocity. Were one cog to jar, or one bolt to loosen, the whole machine would fail to function. That was frailty, when Juxtaposed with the burgeoning forces of growth and renewal. You could sever a limb of a plant, and it would be reabsorbed into the earth, only to better noiurish the growth of the next 50.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>



<\/p>

The Toyota Corolla was performing remarkably well under pressure. It\u2019s mildly smooth suspension absorbing bump after undulating bump across the rewilded M25. In 5th gear at an average speed of 45mph ( the roads were a little cluttered), it slowly worked it\u2019s way towards the coast.<\/span><\/p>


<\/p>

=[[[[[=<\/span><\/p>


<\/p>

\u201cMum!!\u201d<\/span><\/p>



<\/p>

\u201cWhat? Do you want to play the yes no game? Yes or No?\u201d<\/span><\/p>



<\/p>

\u201cMum, you just said Yes and you just said No\u201d<\/span><\/p>



<\/p>

\u201cI know but\u2026\u201d<\/span><\/p>


<\/p>

\u201cMummy why is that man underneath the cows? Why are their leaves and branches and plant\u2019s on the r\u201d<\/span><\/p>


<\/p>

\u201cI\u2019ve told you already\u00a0<\/span><\/p>


<\/p>

DRIVE IT, JUST DRIVE IT OVER THE EDGE. CRASH. GET IT ALL OVER WITH. NONE OF IT MEANS ANYTHING ANYWAY. YOU\u2019RE DOING EVRYONE A FAV<\/span><\/p>


<\/p>

\u201cI\u2019ve told you already, the authorities forgot to tyding up the trees and branches, that\u2019s why it looks so messy\u201d<\/span><\/p>


<\/p>

\u201cWho are the authorities? What about the man\u201d<\/span><\/p>


<\/p>

\u201cWhat man?\u201d<\/span><\/p>


<\/p>

\u201cThe man under the cows Mum, why can\u2019t you see him? Mum\u201d<\/span><\/p>


<\/p>

Omg if I hear the word \u2018Mum\u2019 one more time, I swear I\u2019ll \u2026i\u2019ll do nothing other than age and calcify that little bit more quickly. Infact I\u2019ll<\/span><\/p>



<\/p>

In the jungle surrounding the main site at Palenque there were more than 300 unearthed pyramids. The ones that had been painstakingly, but partially, excavated now stood surrounded by clumps of humans intent on dissociation via smartphone photography. Through the pristine lens of the Samsungs and Sony\u2019s and Motorolas the roots and moist earth gripped the crumbling stucco. An endless funeral pyre of 1s and zeros streamed above the canopy to cloud oblivion. Helpfully sanitised via Inda Jones and Laura Croft the reality of failure, death and starvation of the Mayans had, over time, become a meme. Nature has time on it\u2019s side. It\u2019s only because of its slowness that it\u2019s unrelenting violence goes largely unnoticed. In time lapse sloth, intentions hidden. But in the end it get\u2019s it\u2019s way, it\u2019s really just a matter of time. Like 10,000 sycamores all deciding suddenly to pollinate, it was all about timing. The ruins had had the luxury of centuries, the M25 had been overwhelmed in 72hrs.<\/span><\/p>


<\/p>

The fuel gauge read empty. she read the same - in the dullness of her skin, the blue hue under her eyes.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>



<\/p>

Campsite 2 miles.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>



<\/p>

If she could get there before the fuel ran out, they would have shelter, shelter and possibly food. If she could just make it to the campsite\u2026 One step at a time. When things are overwhelming.. just narrow your time-frame. Just GET THROUGH THE NEXT DAY. The next hour. The next ten minutes. You can always manage the next ten minutes. She just had to get them to the campsite. 1 mile. And then she could reassess.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>



<\/p>

Eco driving. That\u2019s what she needed to do. Spinning out the remaining oil.\u00a0 She had switched off when Henry had tried to explain it to her. Bored and irritated at being taught, and by the hypocrisy of it\u2026 \u201cShall I learn to eco-drive while in a state of waking sleep, uttering true falsehoods?\u201d she had replied terseley. Eco driving - contradictory - like someone like you, (radiant, glowing) enmeshed with someone like me (empty, a\u00a0 vacuum.) He had been so kind to her. A tear pooled on her lower lid. Before spilling over and rolling\u00a0 hotly, wetly, down her cheek. A pop art tear (plop.)\u00a0 And then she was crying, but without noise or the facial expressions of grief, as though her eyes were the only part of her that felt it.\u00a0 <\/span>Let it cruise.<\/span><\/em> He had said. <\/span>You can just let it cruise in neutral. <\/span><\/em>His voice from beyond the grave. Looking after her still. And that's what she did. They cruised. All the way to the junction of the campsite. Where the car juddered to a halt and stopped.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>



<\/p>

\u201cSUNNY SIDE UP\u201d - \u201cWe make the outdoors great\u201d, read the sign. Unapologetically and authentically 70s.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>


<\/p>

She knew they didn't have long. They needed to find another car, quickly.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>


<\/p>

\u201cGrab the bags from the boot, Daniel. And the knives. The big one is for you. You\u2019re my strong boy aren't you? You can swing that, at whatever you see that scares you\u2026like in those games you play, \u201d (A sword that had hung on their wall for months. She didn't even know if it was sharp enough to cut a twig.)\u00a0 Now I don't want to scare you, but when we open the doors,I need you both to RUN. Are we ready? Let\u2019s go.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>


<\/p>

Adrenaline pumped through her. And just for a brief second, she felt she was right where she was meant to be. Struggling to survive.\u00a0 sitting on the edge of things. Fighting the demons. real ones this time.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>


<\/p>

But the kids couldn't open their doors. Something was blocking the way. The thing she had been blocking, was blocking their way. She pushed at her door, hard. The mechanism released, and it opened a chink, but pressure from the other side stopped it. She struggled to hold her calm. She twisted 90 degrees in her seat, until the soles of her feet were flat on the door. And then started kicking. The tears were back. And as she kicked, a noise came involuntarily from inside her into the car. It was the sound of an animal in pain. Which is exactly what she was. It had grown around them, she realised. In the time she had been talking, it had got its grips on the car. Surreptitiously. Sneakily. From underneath them; So she wouldn't notice.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>


<\/p>

a rip\u00a0<\/span><\/p>

and a tear,\u00a0<\/span><\/p>

If the tissues of the thing that trapped them<\/span><\/p>

and the door swung open.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>


<\/p>

\u201cQuickly!\u201d She screamed, pulling the kids into the front. We are going to play a different game now. She whispered, urgently. \u201cWe are not Alice and Daniel and Macy any more. We are warriors now. Okay?\u201d She gasped, as she pulled them by them out in front of them. And we have to fight. It was already inside the car. Twisting up over the gear stick until it was completely covered, sending out green shoots at the top, entombing the plastic and metal within a perfect mimicry of a bonsai tree.\u00a0 Making a fibonacci spiral around the break stick. Covering the interior with beauty at such breakneck speed, that it seemed to mock her.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>



<\/p>

Now you see what I can do.<\/span><\/em> Said the voice.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>


<\/p>

I can cover you all in perfect beauty, faster than you can hack and severe and chop at the endlessly iterative growth of my limbs.\u00a0<\/span><\/em><\/p>


<\/p>

\u00a0\u00a0<\/span><\/p>


<\/p>

Alice gave up reaching for the food that had fallen on the back seat, and leapt out of the car. She grabbed two small shaky hands, and they ran.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>



<\/p>

You are fast, but we are faster<\/span><\/em><\/p>



<\/p>

She shouted, turning her head briefly to loover her shoulder. at the car, which now resemble nore of a topiary imitation of a vehicle. Vines writhed and clutched at caravans already submerged in brambles - the pressure drawing them deeper downwards against the steadfast earth, the ground always there, never giving way. It looked like the stop motion trickery you\u2019d see on a comforting David Attenborough I Player moment, showing the wonder of nature. Tiny hands clutched hers and she re-assured them without even thinking about what she was saying. PARKING. PARKING> CAR PARK. Faster and faster they ran. Something HAD happened in the Car Park but nothing WAS happening. What was once a place for cars to rest, to pause inbetween duties, was now a wabi-sabi automobile graveyard. The gleaming arrogance of a \u00a390k Range Rover had been taken down a peg or two. It lay bent and punctured behind a thorny tangle of nettles and vines. It\u2019s owners had been \u2018glamping\u2019 in tee pee luxury until their unctuous midnight suffocation. Mondeo\u2019s, BMWs and Fiestas once symbols of their owners status and attitudes were now submerged beneath a blanket of green that now covered, NEARLY, all of the car park. Just near the exit, door open, engine still running, recently waxed\u00a0 Audi A4. Little Hands? Check. Little hands?Check. Still have the kids. Little hands. Little hands.

\u201cCome on! It\u2019s perfect\u201d

\u201cMummy what\u2019s going on why are we running? And what\u2019s all the grassy stuff?\u201d

\u201cOh come on it\u2019s nothing it\u2019s just\u2026\u201d she grabbed the little hands harder as she wondered how could this have happened, where was the owner, how did we get here, how did it come to this? Here questions aware answered.

David, 65, Male, White, (Grandfather who had popped by to visit the family on holiday for the day), lay motionless on the floor beside the drivers door.

\u201cMummy what\u2019s wrong with him? Is he dead?\u201d

\u201cNo ofcourse he\u2019s not he\u2019s probably just tired, i think, yeah\u201d

\u201cMummy, why are you saying that, he\u2019s dead! He\u2019s dead, there\u2019s a plant round hisneck and he\u2019s not moving\u201d

They slowed down, pressure around little hands released.<\/span><\/p>


<\/p>

\u201cGet in, just get in!!!!\u201d

She bundled the little hands and little feet and little minds into the back of the car. She bundled the striplings, the seeds, into the back of the car. Door shut. As she slid into the front seat she caught further movement happening behind her, and heard the normally reassuring sound of rustling leaves, jarringly combined with shattering glass. She didn\u2019t\u2019look back, choosing to go forwards only away from this gomorah. Forwards only with the little hands. Forwards only.\u00a0\u00a0<\/span><\/p>




<\/p>

When she later tried to remember what happened as they raced to the campsite, there was nothing. Just nothing. Later, a picture came to mark the place where the memory should have been:of a svelte greyhound running a course, chasing a prize rabbit only to laterdiscover later it was nothing more than a box covered in fake fur. Though whether this was a memory of what she had been thinking at the time, or something she had superimposed in retrospect, she couldn't tell. Memory was like that. It wasn't a snapshot, but a process, organically changing and shifting over time, modified slightly on each recall. But what she did remember, was the scene that confronted them on their arrival.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>



<\/p>

Forwards only.<\/span><\/p>


<\/p>

The engined hummed, the route unravelled, time passed and eventually they arrived. She had watched enough and read enough to not be carried away with romantic hopes for the future and the potential offering of this moment but still\u2026 part of her imagined Uncle Vernon shuffling unmistakable down the steps to the door and greeting them with middle of the road but comfortable radio 2 breeziness.<\/span><\/p>









<\/p>

Arrival<\/span><\/strong><\/p>


<\/p>

She had always found arrivals hard. Arrivals and departures\u2026They had a power and an intensity that was both disproportionate to their duration and greater than that of the often lengthy string of the experiences sandwiched inbetween. The first words spoken, the first gestures exchanged - set the tone for what was to come and so constricted possibilities for those ensuing events - greetings were future possibilities impeding. Similarly, a\u00a0 farewell provided a retrospective summary of an encounter, that would play a weighty role in determining the character of the whole in memory,\u00a0 - a role that was equal if not greater to that played by the nature of the body of the visit itself. \u201cI\u2019ve loved this, when can we meet again\u201d, would place the whole visit firmly in the camp of experiences to be repeated.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>

But this time,more hung in the balance. Was he alive or dead? Were there any other residents residing therein? Natural or supernatural? (although the distinction had somewhat collapsed of late?) malevolent, beneficent or neutral?(although of course everything was capable of being any one of the three, in the right circumstances.) HOw could an entry be crafted to span this range of possibilities?\u00a0<\/span><\/p>


<\/p>

\u201cHello\u201d she whispered to the gloom beyond the door.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>



<\/p>

With her two saplings kept back in the car where they were protected from experiencing the familiar anticipation of imminent horror, she waited expectantly after knocking on the door. Aside from the white noise of the tide there was a dead end silence. The lack of human, or animal, ambient sound was eerie not least in part because it offered no reflection of the events of the last week. The only signs of the Change was the fact that the coast line, once an angular rockscape, was now completely submerged beneath Seaweed and other marine plants that once lay hidden from view. The tangled and matted mess of kelp, saffron, reeds and mud engulfed the area surrounding the house but luckily we have chosen to tell the tale of the person that stood out as the statistical anomaly, unlike the millions of others world wide (by now that had failed). Instead of:\u00a0<\/span><\/p>


<\/p>

Brad,(54,Minnesota, Real Estate Agent), who reached the end of his life with the certain knowledge he had failed to protect his entire family from leafy asphyxiation (as the car park he had driven them too was overrun), we chose Alice.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>


<\/p>

We could have chosen Winnie. Who survived the oak which fell on her favourite old rocking chair on the veranda - (rocking the house, which rocked the dresser, which rocked the fine bone china into shards) - only because she had risen to make a cup of tea for her daughter - with whom she afterwards sat, sipping tea, murmuring about the danger of tree preservation orders,\u00a0 mumbling about how \u2018something really must be done\u2019, mulling over alternative ways things could have been, as possible realities flickered behind her eyes on the projector screen of her imagination, while like silent vipers the vines that would eventually pull them beneath creeped up through the floorboards and spiralled around their shoes. But instead, we chose ALice.<\/span><\/p>


<\/p>

Instead of Jonah, who despite his biblical import drowned because his daughter had used his car keys as a weapon against godzilla who was trying to attack the pokemon space station. The additional two minutes required to find the keys was the sole reason for their sitting in the middle of the road behind a fallen trees after the damn had broken and before the rapids of mud and concrete engulfed them. We chose Alice.<\/span><\/p>


<\/p>

Alice .. currently a survivor. The more or less likeliness of survival isn\u2019t a literary trick. The history of humans is full of people that have survived plane crashes, invented antibiotics, and broken the world free falling record as opposed to those who have slipped into oblivion, smothered by the law of averages.<\/span><\/p>


<\/p>

\u201cAlice?\u201d<\/span><\/p>


<\/p>

\u201cYes! Errr, Uncle?\u201d<\/span><\/p>


<\/p>

\u201cI think so\u2026yes, it\u2019s me haha, hold on whilst I just\u201d<\/span><\/p>


<\/p>

He must have fallen because all Alice could hear was a muffled yelp and a clatter of objects (one of whom was Vernon), which eventually came to a halt.<\/span><\/p>


<\/p>

\u201cYou ok?\u201d

\u201cAhhhhh\u2026. Errrr\u201d<\/span><\/p>


<\/p>

She the kids managed to eventually get their host back on his feet and soon enough they were together, in the living room, as safe and sound as you could be whilst in the midst of an apocalypse.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>


<\/p>

Uncle Vernon was an environmentalist and whilst his activism, and the efforts of many like him, had achieved nothing in the attempt to redirect the worlds fate, it did mean that he was perfectly kitted out to survive off grid. The wood burning stove kept them warm, and the kettle hissed and eventually boiled. The first cup of tea since they fled the suburbs was only minutes away.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>





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