Trull's Garden by Aruemos

Trull’s Garden
When strolling through Trull’s Garden one must tread pensively, ruins of ages past lying underfoot. A fountain left from Roman days sits weathered in the sun. Busts of long-gone men coddler around the fountain, their faces shattered in deep thought. The white marble is soon contrasted by the black walnut drawing perspective skyward, and jolting the nasals open to the popery of desiccated twigs and sunflowers waft in the air. As I step forward to observe the raised features of the reptilian bark, fallen leaves mash underfoot. A voice bade me forward. The keeper of the grove, his weeping locks glistened in the shadows. The lips were always moving, searching for the words with which to condense his feeling, though he rarely spoke. Trulls lead the way to his hut. His black dog, Argos, nipping at my heel with slobber tickling as it ran down my calves. Trull pushed back the curtain as I entered the chamber. Herbs hung around tied in faggots, tore at my suit as I drooped below the ceiling. His delicate fingers picked up a ladle and held it up to me.
“For what ales you.”
The pepper-tonic burned as it flowed down my throat, and my larynx repulse upon contact. The world grew lucid, as my eye grew wide and my lungs released. I peered down at an old man with his eye pin on my awe, and his homely grin masking a chuckle deep within his gut. His hand patted my back as I glided out the door. The shadows looked as children, dressed in white and dancing.
“Look not to the ground only dead things lay there, the sky is what you want my boy, more over the stars. Go now grow.”
McMurray Park
The city has been obstinate in preventing my purchase, of McMurray Park though several years of persuading. I found out of late the reason for the obstruction, a homeless man lives in the park and has refused to leave. Normally not a problem, but the police refuse to evict him. Apparently, he has acted as “good Samaritan” stopping purse-snatchers and such. Such boyish heroics wouldn’t be necessary if the blight cause by his presence hadn’t corrupted the area; brigands hide in the rubble he protects so vehemently waiting to pounce on those he “saves”. So I must go to this Trull and transplant him myself. As I exit my car an over-baring stench of burning asphalt and tires adheres to me. A gate hangs on its last hinge, and an antiquated mosaic cries out “Procul Roma” to the sky. The clouds overhead sit low, signaling their heavy burden. All the more reason to do this quickly, as a droplet falls and shocks my hand with a pang. As I approach the hut subtle coos and purrs turn violent as felines bolts, and the crows squawk while bobbing up and down. A figure is knelt over in the lighted doorway, Trull. I approach and announce myself.
“Charles Hennly, of Hennly Reali-state, are you Mr. Trull?”
His jagged teeth flash from his copious mouth, and a ghastly laugh poured over his words.
“Only if I am what they call me Mr. Hennly, now you want to talk business so step into my office.”
His hovel was filled with a light smoke which tasted like boiled brussel sprouts and onions. Hulks of dead plants swung on the rafters, as the wet cardboard sank low. I argued with him for hours, about how it was public land, he was hurting the neighborhood, and all the rest. Every insult and personal attack I threw at him seemed to make that smirk grow wider, and those pitted, yellow teeth bare more gum. He smirked, and smirked, until he couldn’t contain his cackling laugh, and mocked me with it. Rage boiled inside of me, as I rose from the chair and towered over the man. The laugh continued as I smothered him with my hands, the oily feel of his skin slipping through my fingers.
I wake up and emerald green eyes are staring back at me. I am sitting down at a table holding a couple of tea.
“Well Mr. Hennly, you had a point to make or would rather I get you another cup of tea.”