“Time to count my rosies,
pocket full of posies,
they all fall down.”
Margaret skipped through the garden, singing her little tune. She wore a yellow cotton dress with several small daisies sewn around the neckline. It was something her mother made for her on her 9th birthday last year. As she moved through the garden, she dropped flower petals over her crops. Though her crops were not the usual type you would expect to see growing in a vegetable garden.
She had on a white leather belt that looked like it was five times too big for her. Her little white shoes were torn and tattered and stained red from playing outside, in the hard Georgia clay. She carried a small denim satchel with a worn out smiley face on it. She used some mud to fix his smile, though it looked more like a flat mouth with drooping eyes. Almost like a face with an expressionless grin.
Margaret was never very good at keeping her plants alive, and at some point she gave up on the little garden her daddy laid out for her. Besides, she never liked to eat her vegetables anyway. Now her garden contained old toys. A Barbie doll missing an arm and a leg. An old, red, deflated kickball. Her brother's plastic dump truck that had been mangled and melted. Her fluffy bunny that had the stuffing beat out of him, literally.
As the hot sun blazed down on her garden of toys and clay, she continued to adorn each piece with a few flower petals until she got to the center of her garden. This trinket was a bit bigger than most of the others, and it was covered in a thin, white, mesh veil. Surely, this was the pride of her garden.
As Margaret approached her prize, she could see dried out flowers stuck to the veil. She also noticed fruit flies, house flies, and gnats surrounding the plaything. But it did not seem to faze her.
When she reached the centerpiece she just stopped. No more skipping, no more careless singing. She just stood there silently, staring intently at it.
“Your filth disgusts me,” she said.
Margaret placed her satchel on the ground, and with both hands, she lifted the veil off of the item. The object was old, and a pale gray color, even blue in some spots. It looked much older than the other toys, and not very well taken care of. It was hard to distinguish.
About this same time every day the sun would reach its highest point in the sky and shine down in a full blaze upon Margaret's garden. The piece was now very clear, and appeared to be even worse. It looked beaten and bruised, worn out and exhausted.
Margaret was always rough with her toys, but this one looked like she'd taken personal pleasure in destroying it and causing it pain; even after she had put an end to its existence and stuck it in the garden.
Margaret brushed its hair back with her hand. She flicked off a cockroach that was crawling across its nose. The face of this toy seemed to droop, and it was missing one eye. Margaret watched with wild enthusiasm as the sun fully covered, and lit up, her prized trophy.
Margaret slowly stood up and stared down with a maniacal grin on her face. She cocked her leg back like a punter getting ready to kick a field goal. With one quick motion she kicked her toy as hard as she could. It shook and wobbled, but it did not fall over. Margaret had made sure to plant this particular piece firmly in the ground.
As Margaret turned and started to walk away, a sinful expression came over her face, and she let out a little giggle. She stopped and paused for a moment. She glanced back over her shoulder, to see her centerpiece once more.
“No flowers for you today. Mother!”
Thank you for reading Toy Garden. This is the first in a series. Look for more of Margaret's stories on Smashwords and at Barnes & Nobel. Check my profile to connect with me, and get the latest updates.