Notes

The floor had succumbed to the recent heat, its wood crinkling and wearing as though it bore the resemblance of ageing wrinkles; an ebbing polish. And within the corners often untouched by Brant’s care, was the carelessly thrown cigarettes buds. They would often call to Brant, their dirtied grimaces a manifestation of his bad habits. But still, Brant could never quite dust the corners to erase the sickly ash, hesitance pursued his thoughts, and instantly he returned to fumbling in his pocket. He slipped out a cigarette, and haunched over, one hand covering the other, masking his ill deeds from his awaiting loved one - beyond the nicotine. Of course she would always catch him, either his muffled breaths would give away his crime, or it would be the overpowering stench rinsed in Febreze. In fact, Brant was just disposing of the evidence when Aisha caught him yellow-handed. She had stealthily snuck up to the cottage door, and without knocking, slammed it open, tumbling in, steadying herself, caught her balance and looked up. She had indeed imitated a predatory animal aiming for its prey, her eyes poised with awareness and accusation before she had even laid eyes on the crime. Startled by this bursting behaviour, he dropped his cigarette and held up his hands, a heavy sigh fell from his lips, and it covered the ground in gloom, as though trying to block the pathway between him and Aisha. Yet Aisha kicked off her school shoes, darted forwards, and grabbed her father by the arm. Letting out a pout, her eyes pin pointed the misconduct that had taken place, the cigarette still lightly aglow before it was smothered by Brant’s quick step, a punctual man when it was needed. Upon its destruction, the cigarette hissed, its wounded flame receding, choking on the father’s guilt, unwanted by the man whom had once tenderly held its poison. Brant looked away and mumbled under his breath, wrapping his arms around his daughter, encouraging her to nestle into him. ‘It was just the one Aisha, Daddy promises you, he will stop.’ Aisha pulled away distastefully, wrinkled her nose. ‘You smell Daddy.’ He laughed soothingly, both to calm himself and to weaken Aisha’s righteousness. Finally giving in, a half smile leaked from Aisha’s frown, and upon this, the flow of truth transformed her sternness to giggles, flourishing her cheeks and eyes with lifted happiness. ‘There, thats the gorgeous smile I’d love to see more often’ He winked and when Aisha so rebelliously stuck out her tongue, he pinched her nose playfully and shook his head. With lifted tone, she spoke hopefully. ‘Can I go outside to play today? Its sunny!’
‘Sure sweetheart, just dont stray too far from home alright? Do you remembe-
‘Yes, yes Daddy, I remember, I’ll bring you a flower if I find a pretty one okay -Ooh but only if you stop with the smelly stuff?’
He looked away.
‘Of course, this time Daddy will stop for sure.’
She kissed his cheek and ran off, barefooted, her hair springing lightly with every step. And like a mesmeric dancer, her swaying movements had distracted Brant from her bare feet. ‘Aisha your shoe-’ The door shut.

Light pin pricked into red cedar leaves nipped by a cycle of growth, a sacrifice for the spurt of wings. And the gapes, tampered green, although now browning in the face of winter, induced no sense of death. The sun’s warmth filled the holes and shone through in a spectral, pleating the bare dirt with gold delights. It often paralleled the image of a sea, waves subtly changing yet brash in some instances as the wind fell to its wild instincts, a discourtesy to the peace, but a freedom unrivalled. For Aisha, this illuminated world was an escape from the fog of smoke and the everlasting remnants in the air of the sickening smell. Always outside in exploration she had lived as a child to this way of life, and often mirrored the notions of the wind, being wild and free. Beyond the smoke, Aisha lived raised by the sounds of inhuman chirrups; crickets which slipped beneath the bracken to silence upon her arrival.

Most of her time was spent tracing the waves of light with her toes, capturing the movement with every step, a dance where the routine was never quite the same. Her footprints often disrupted the light’s path, but in retaliation, it simply embroidered her toes with light, entwining her skin with a voyage. It explored upwards and with every flicker it hesitated at the newly found being. Yet the light would always take the bait of the untouched, and soon it would slink up her ankles to her legs as though carried by her wild blood, a sign the light recognises, and takes as consent to go forth. Chased by the sun’s perpetual observing, Aisha would dart and scramble for the dark, either beneath the dense thicket or a shadow in its prime. Usually, the latter. The shadows would stand strong against the ferocity of the sun’s glare, and they would battle with an impenetrable darkness Aisha wholly admired. In the morn, she had soon discovered that the sun would strip the dark of its armour, disarm its sword and leave it a coward to the idea of death. But, no matter how vulnerable, the darkness maintained its honour and would gradually return to its feet, blocking the light’s invasion and bringing an end to the sun’s reign. The sun would fight back of course, and this repetitive cycle was a battle Aisha had grown to love. A dual of immortality. Whilst she felt inclined to watch the end, she knew this would not be so; Her father had educated her on the short lived life we all share. Yet this short life was more than enough in her childish eyes, so she willingly joined in on their battles, her feet worn from stained dirt and cuts, hands rough from branches clutched.

Aisha had learnt at a young age that nature did not grow to be admired by human eyes; it grew as any other human. In spring, it would be born, learn, stumble, but still grow and crawl, and that crawl will soon turn to a walk, a jog, a race to reach the full bloom. However, as soon as their petals spiralled the stem, their beauty was stolen by the envious air and the spiral abandoned the stem to glide, reach a small height, fall and then rest. The cycle began again. A ceaseless repetition which formed the hands of time.

But Aisha was human, and the realisation of natures true self did not stop her from pressing the petals upon paper. To penetrate the cycle, to prevent the decay. For Aisha, although in love with the world around her, had a much greater love, and that was of her father. Her father, although with his many flaws, had equally done his best to provide the best life for Aisha. At times he had struggled, brokedown, turned to smoking, even at a young age she was aware of the sacrifices he had made for her. She had done her best to support him, both in trivial chores and the night time hugs and tears. But cigarettes always seemed to lurk back into her father’s pockets, no matter how many times she had thrown them away. Instead, Aisha had turned to flower pressing in hope that a present she would give her father, would last a little longer than his empty pockets. But the red of the flower always lost its fire. Aisha kept it alive and prolonged its wilt, but the petals she provided were chosen with naivety. They were never enough to maintain the fire for long, and soon the petal’s pigment fell into death’s arms.

A newspaper shrouded Brant’s face and his frustration. He had flicked desperately through each page, scanning preciously each and every inked word, as though the words themselves were sacred knowledge. His foot was tapping unrythmically and the pace would keep increasing only to be disrupted when he traced his finger along a sentence, before sighing and continuing to flick to the next page. Every now and then, his eyes would dart upwards and his hands would shake. Drowning in self-doubt, Brant had become hesitant. The words were monsters rather than stepping stones, and battling them without a weapon had indeed stripped him of his pride and dignity. After countless of failed interviews and rejections, weights had been placed upon his feet, and walking towards a future became a painful task. He had become addicted to the warmth of home, the gentle laughs of his daughter, and the world of work ripped away the time he had with Aisha. Brant feared turning up to his door and finding Aisha sleeping within the hallway, a flower petal stuck to her cheek. He feared seeing the burns on Aisha’s wrists from the countless attempts to cook a meal for his return, and the yawns which surfaced as she left for school. Brant did not want her to carry his burdens, but equally he hesitated to call the numbers listed in the ads. A sigh fell. He leaned back, and his glance shifted away and fixated on the cigarette packet. It was nearly empty. His stomach began to turn. It was like his insides were being eaten away, his sins bloating him graticiously before leaving him starving and infesting any self control he once had. He bit his lip. He pushed the packet away.

Books were scattered around the Hersts household, some of childhood literacy, and others of classic literatures. Their pages were often sprawn, but clean nevertheless. It was perhaps Aisha’s fond love of reading that had inpsired Brant to pick up a book, and whilst Aisha, baited by curosity, enjoyed the manifestation of a new world, Brant instead would typically become frustrated, and give up after the first chapter. But for Aisha, he would spend his days reading to her, voicing the characters of fairytales like Red Riding Hood, growling Oooooh! for the wolf. Of course, his sound effects received muffled laughs from Aisha. She had even begun to write her own fables, some of menacing creatures that hum to lure their prey, and others of kind hearts who gave children protection from nightmares. These hand-writ stories were not found sprawled across the floor or the desks, but instead they were placed neatly in the glass cabinet. The glass cabinet in contrast to the stench of smoke, had a light incense of polish as though its purity had left it ignorant to Brant’s poor habits. Although its handles were indeed worn, the glass itself appeared brand new, and it reflected the passing days of Brant and Aisha, silently watching. Brant let out a heaving sigh, he pushed back the stray strands of hair which had shrouded his gaze in stripped darkness, and the paper fell from his hand. The glass cabinet, in its beauty, was strikingly attractive, an allurance amongst the surrounding half cleaned shelfs. Unmissable. Eyes would often be drawn, and Brant’s were no exception. Quietly walking towards the cabinet, his hand instinctively grasped upon the handle. Hesitance endowed his fingers. A trembling, even an nauseous aura omitted from his tense clasp. He gulped and pulled the handle. The glass panes slowly opened. Brant reached his hands inwards, and retrieved a framed photo. He traced his finger upon the indents of the frame, a floral pattern inscribed, carrying with it the nostalgic scent of youthful springs. The plated silver revived upon the touch of sun rays, and a dancing light shattered its once monotone colour. It echoed the sunset sky, bursting with colours once unbeknownst to the vibrant blue.
Within the frame, a photo resided, an old photo, but one kept very carefully. It was a photo of Brant, his daughter and another figure. His wife. They were surrounded by long grass, lusciously healthy, and flowers of all kinds bloomed and encased them. Azalea, Bluebells, Buttercups and blossom trees swooned in the background. A picteresque gallery of nature, and his wife, in her cloche hat, truly resembled the nature’s beauty, her hair gracefully being pulled by the winds demmands. And her smile? A contagion which had circulated through to both Brant and Aisha in the picture. Brant caressed the glass, and baited by the warmth, he found himself holding the photo tightly to his chest, his arms wrapped around the frame, shrouding it from any danger. Tears sprung like new buds, and they coated his cheeks in past memories, spilling out from his locked up mind, being revealed once more.
His tears first dripped like the early signs of rain, and they soon tumbled, his face contorted. The picture was held tighter, and a muffled sound arised discordantly from his throat. Memories were surfacing, and although he had tried to turn a blind eye, they would tug upon his heart, gently tugging at the threads, untying the protruding knots.
Now his eyes were looking beyond the glass cabinet and towards the photo-like snapshots of the past; his hand interwoven with his wife’s, the mystical foreign-lands of culture she had relentlessly encouraged him to explore and the seductive kisses illumined by the moonlight. The europhic days passed whimsically, but not a single day was forgotten, the lazy days, the upbeat ones, their time spent together was undeniably treasurable. But then- then the sky, red, blue, searing light, unclasped hands, weeds engulfed, dragging, dragging, drowning in solitutde, silently screeching, screaming, save her save her, the red roses, their thorns pricked; ensnared, thrown against rocks, splintered flesh, loosing sight of her, the smiles, paralysed, arms thrashing; futile, nothing. There is nothing left. Just the darkness, the mocking, crude darkness, but - No. A light, a dim one, but nevertheless it flickered far away. The nostalgic scent was leaking through the darkness, destorying its barrier. Rustic perfume touched with vanilla cradled Brant, it pressed gently against his lips, ushering slowly of a homely love. And the overwhelming scent grew stronger, holding him, pushing his quivering face into a smile, and Brant leant forwards to capture the scent within his palms, to feel the gentle fingers, eloping with the past once more. He reached, reached, and he was comforted by the same perfume, stronger, purer and he held on tightly, her curled hair laced around his fingertips, the softness a reassurance, stability in his storm-filled heart, and shaking his head, weeping softly ‘Anna, forgive me, forgive me.’
‘Daddy, I forgive you.’

His eyes opened. The photo dropped, cluttering against the ground, and the floral surroundings dissipated into the familiar walls of their home. He felt a gentle breeze pinch his neck, rushing through the now agape door. The air had swarmed inwards, crushing his delusions, but equally raising him to the once unreachable hands above, they held out, their small fingers shaking, but aglow against the dullness, the dreary darkness of left behind shadows. He clutched the tiny hands, and flowers once again wove around his arms, providing him the taste of life beyond the endless mourning, the weeping heartbeats.
‘A-aisha?’
Her trembling smile, a reddened nose, within her tiny palms; pressed flowers.
Aisha lightly placed the flowers within Brant’s large palms and pressing against his fingers, she pushed his hands closed, the flowers shaded, but equally blossoming and chasing the emptiness away.