500 Words about a blade of grass

A week or so ago, during a discussion, a friend suggested something about writing a flash fiction about a blade of grass ~ sort of a challenge. I stayed up an extra hour and did it! Here are 500 words about a blade of grass.<gg>

Blade



Soft morning sunlight narrowed to a slim green line that comes straight up then arches toward whence it had come; beneath it, right on its base, a small dark bug seems at rest on the shady side. “So much labor as to need a rest so early, eh?”

Ah! I see what stopped brown bug, it is early yet, and the grass is damp with dew. The bug has not labored, but is wisely waiting for the moment when sun wins the day.

I sit back, stretch, and yawn. I look again, sure enough the brown bug has moved to the top of the blade as the sun rose; the bug and the sun have traveled an equal arch.  Are those edges sharp? I blow on it and the bug spreads tiny wings and flies away. The blade sways in its wind wake.

I pick the grass near the ground and run its cool green between my fingers and feel how sturdy it is; its spine is strong. I bring it to my nose and it tickles. I like the smell.

A sound distracts me. I look up; there is a woman walking by on the sidewalk. I wait for her to pass. Then I bring the grass and lay it across my thumb. I look around to be sure the woman has gone and no one else has come.

I smile a secret smile. I lick my lips remembering. I feel a little bit silly being grey haired and wrinkled sitting in the grass preparing. I smile and without any other sound except the Cardinal chittering at me from the birch across the street, I stretch the blade on my left thumb and hold it with my right. I can see the straight blade of green in the space between my thumbs.

I take a breath and bring my thumbs to my mouth and blow. A loud high squeal! I laugh and laugh. I am so pleased with myself. The Cardinal has gone quiet.

I try it again aiming for a deeper tone but loosening the blade string just a tad. I remember my old piping teacher telling about tuning reeds; he said about the bridle on the reed, “You don’t really move it, you just pretend to move it.” That’s what I did. And lo, I dropped the blade’s pitch by a third.

I was going to try again, but the grass broke in my hand. I tried the longer of the two pieces but it was not long enough. My thumbs are much bigger than they were when I was a child. I feel just a little sad.

I roll the blade between my hands and the smell bursts forth as the green stains my palms. And I recall green stains on my knees and clothes and relish the fact that there is no one here to yell at me now.

I say thanks to the grass and the sun and the day for this joy.