The Gardener of Whims

The Gardener of Whims

The air smelled of candied thorns, sharp and sweet, as I woke on the first day in a meadow stitched with dandelion lace. My hands were dusted with pollen, golden flecks clinging to my skin like secrets I hadn’t yet told myself. Above, the sky churned, a vanilla breakfast swirl, folding and unfolding in slow, syrupy waves. I was no stranger to dreams, but this one felt heavier, like it had roots sinking into my bones.

I stood, my bare feet sinking into granola sands that crunched softly, each grain whispering of chrysanthemum summers. The horizon pulsed with a melting poison apple sun, its crimson light dripping into pools that reflected my face—except it wasn’t mine. My eyes were laser-discs, spinning blue mountain berries, softening in the heat of a sunflower blaze. I blinked, and the pools fizzed, soda-pop bubbles rising six miles high, popping with a giggle that wasn’t mine.

“Welcome, Gardener,” said a voice, cool as whipped cream, from a cloud-piled throne. The Thunder Queen descended, her gown of icily anointed mist trailing behind her. She was not cruel, but her eyes held storms, and her crown sparked with lightning that never struck. “Tend my garden,” she said, pointing to a tangle of roses, their thorns hungry, their buds snapping like impatient children. “Seven days. Make it bloom. Don’t hide the thorns.”

Day two, I snipped. The roses fought back, their thorns biting my fingers, drawing beads of blood that turned to frozen tears, sticking to my skin. I whispered apologies to each bud, my voice trembling—not from fear, but from the weight of their wanting. They craved light, but the garden of indecision was a maze of shadows, and I was no cartographer. I sang to them instead, half-remembered lullabies from childhood, my voice cracking on the high notes. The daisies thronged, tossing petals carelessly, and I laughed, a sound too raw to be rehearsed.

By day three, the garden shifted. The roses softened, their petals blushing scarlet, but they whispered lies—stories of lovers who never were, of promises I hadn’t made. I painted them anyway, my brush dipped in jealousy’s glaze, each stroke a confession I didn’t mean to make. The Thunder Queen watched from her staircase of clouds, her smile a flicker of approval or pity—I couldn’t tell which. My hands shook as I worked, not from cold, but from the fear I might be painting myself into the canvas.

Day four brought a shower of maple screams, viscous and sweet, puddling around my ankles. I waded through, the granola sands soaking up the syrup, making my steps heavy. The palm fronds gushed, ungloved, their tips brushing my face like a mother’s touch I couldn’t recall. I wanted to cry, but my tears were already frozen, clinging to my cheeks with golden pollen. I ruled in her stead, or so I thought, but the garden ruled me, its whims curling around my heart like ivy.

On day five, I found a dandelion, giant and defiant, its fuzz launching from a pendulum that swung between worlds. I climbed it, my hands slipping on its stalk, and landed among swampy reeds. A cat with a stress-frayed tail hissed, and I rode it, screaming, through reality’s open gates. Nine times I passed through, each gate a mirror showing a different me—braver, softer, angrier. I was dizzy, my laser-disc eyes spinning faster, reflecting flames that leaped across an ice-creamy soda-pop sky.

Day six, I baked. Not bread, but dreams, hand-rolled in a vanilla breakfast sky. I kneaded memories—fluffy flapjacks, apple American pie, a childhood dog named Clover who chased dandelion fuzz. The garden smelled of sunburned wheat, toasty and sweet, and I scattered grains like offerings. The Thunder Queen appeared, her throne now a stack of clouds dripping whipped dreamy cream. “You’re close,” she said, her voice a gust of wisdom. “Don’t stop talking.” I didn’t know what she meant, but I kept whispering to the roses, my secrets spilling like petals.

On the seventh day, I stood before the icy palace in the sky, my bouquet of roses and lies clutched in trembling hands. The staircase was steep, each step a memory I’d buried—fights with my sister, a job I quit too soon, a love I let slip through the gaps. The Thunder Queen took my bouquet, her fingers brushing mine, cold as truth. “You’ve tended well,” she said. “The garden grows in you now.” I looked down, and the meadow was gone. My chest bloomed with roses, their thorns pricking my heart, their petals soft as forgiveness.

I woke on my own pillow, the air no longer candied, the sky no longer vanilla. But my hands were still dusted with pollen, and my mirror showed laser-disc eyes, spinning faintly. I’d been a gardener, a liar, a dreamer. I’d kept talking, kept nothing hidden. And somewhere, in a palace of clouds, the Thunder Queen smiled.