For Best Results ...

I'm writing this as further proof that inspiration can be taken from anywhere. This particular piece was inspired by a post I saw on Facebook. I was struck with a question: What if someone broke the rules? And this was born: *I've attached the actual image to the bottom of this if you're interested*

“They don’t mean it,” said Grandmother, “You father’s a stubborn one.”

            Blaine dropped the last name into the jar, and Grandmother added the Roses, Lavender and Sweet Pea. The scientific name of each spilled from her lips like that of an auctioneer, and she sprinkled it in sugar. Her hand shook as she gripped the jar of honey and began to pour. When it was filled to the rim, she sat the jar down, and screwed on the lid. “Three days in the sun,” she said, “And we bury it beneath the Willow.” It stood in the corner at the edge of the garden, sheltering the ground foliage. Blaine stood from his chair, and eyed the garden. He’d helped her expand it last summer, digging into the dirt that made up the backyard. Plastic spoons stuck from the ground, Grandmother’s cursive script labeling each and every plant.

Bring peace and harmony to a squabbling family, read the piece of paper containing the recipe. Patience wasn’t in Blaine's vocabulary, and he smiled weakly at his grandmother.

Three days later:

They walked through the maze of the garden, Grandmother cooing at each flower, and touching the heads of the new blooms. It was the morning of the fourth day, and Blaine had barely slept. He stifled a yawn, and followed close on his Grandmother’s heels, his pajama pants dragging the Earth. The Mason jar was tight in his hands and he cradled it like a delicate artifact. Grandmother stopped at the trunk of the tree, swiping the hanging willow branches out of the way, and motioned Blaine beneath. “Give me the jar, and start digging,” she said.

It had rained overnight, and the ground was damp with it. Blaine clawed into it, like a frantic puppy digging for a bone, and pushed the dirt to the side. He unearthed several night crawlers, and they wriggled in panicked bursts.  “That’s deep enough,” said Grandmother. She pushed the jar into Blaine's raised hands, and Blaine tucked it snugly into the ground. He covered it in dirt, and rose, wiping his hands on his pants; mud packed beneath his fingernails.

“Now we wait,” said Grandmother, and grasped Blaine's hand. “How does breakfast sound,” she said. 

“As long as there’s coffee,” he said, a rough laugh escaping his throat.

The days passed slowly, and since he’d been caught at the tree once already, he avoided it like a plague. Grandmother said it wouldn’t do any good, but he caught her watching it from the kitchen window each morning as she steeped her tea. “Mother Nature will take care of it she said,” and winked. She didn’t have any doubt, but Blaine had never put much stock into spells.

On the eighth day, Grandmother entered the kitchen and began shooing Blaine from the kitchen. He was hovering over the coffee pot, waiting for the last drops to fall into the pot. “It’s time, she said, and ushered him out the back door. They approached the tree, and from a distance, it didn’t look any different, perhaps it had wilted a little, but Blaine couldn’t be positive. He found himself paying more attention to the rhythmic hum that pulsed like a heartbeat. Up close, it was a different story. The small buds that had marked the Willow’s branches had shriveled into black notches, and Blaine pressed one tight between his fingers. It burst, seeping a syrupy, black liquid that stung his skin. He spit on his hands and rubbed it away, but the flesh had already turned a light shade of red. The foliage that had been tucked beneath was gone, and the roots of the tree had shredded the earth, and sat nearly atop it. Night crawlers streamed from the dirt, carving trenches, as they fled.

“Peace and harmony should grow day by day,” said his grandmother in a hushed tone. 

She screwed up her face, and touched one of the branches as Blaine had. The pods were growing bigger by the minute, and had begun to burst without being disturbed. The inky liquid rained to ground, and what landed on the exposed roots stained it, and traveled up the trunk in veins.    

“Something’s gone wrong,” said Grandmother.

She wiped her hands on the bottom half of her dress and took a step back. Blaine had taken to the dirt, his knees tight to the earth, and had begun digging at it furiously. After several raking motions, the brassy lid of the jar was visible, and Blaine dug his fingers around it until it began to unhinge.

The contents of the jar had gone black; the flowers released a rotten sweetness even though the lid was still tightly in place. Blaine ran his hand around it in a circular motion, and pulled it close to his face. Hair line fractures had begun to accumulate on the jar, and he could feel the roughness beneath his fingertips. Grandmother had extracted the weathered piece of paper from the pocket in her dress, and studied it with her glasses balancing on her nose. “Did you bother the jar, Blaine,” she said, but didn’t bother looking him in the face. He pulled the jar from his face, and thumbed at the lid.

“I added your name,” he said. His tone had dropped, and he side-eyed his grandmother. “After it was placed in the ground?” She’d moved her eyes to stare at Blaine, and pushed a shaking hand to his shoulder. “You dug it up?”

Blaine nodded. “I forgot to add your name,” he said.

“You weren’t supposed to touch it boy. It’s turned into a damned curse!”

Blaine stooped to the ground once more, shoved the jar into the hole, and began frantically covering it in dirt.

“It’s too late,” said Grandmother, and she moved from the tree, and towards the table. Blaine ignored her, and packed the dirt firm beneath his palm. He held his breath tight in the pit of his stomach and had begun to go dizzy when he realized she was no longer there. Grandmother sat in her favorite chair, the one that was facing the garden, and watched as the rot stretched across it in tendrils. It grabbed at the flowers, encircling them in thin, black veins.

“Spells aren’t meant to be messed with,” she said.