I used to know a gardener. He was a man that didn’t speak much english. He loved to stare at me and my little brother when we walked home from school. It frightened me. I remember feeling vulnerable as a child when he was around. My mom didn’t pay much attention to it. Or anything for that matter.
I remember my Dad gardening. That’s how I think of him. Wearing his red, plaid jacket, old jeans with a trowel in hand, smelling of earth and sun. He’s always been an avid gardener.
The gardener was a man who had never known anything else in his life. He was raised on the manor by his father who was the gardener for a very long time before he was born. He had never knew his mother, but people had told him that she was a wonderful person. The gardener had no idea what he would do now that the manor was being sold and all of the workers were being laid off.
A gardener is a person who works in a garden. My grandmother is a gardener. In her garden she grows veggies. We also have a garden, so I guess I’m a gardener.
I want to be a gardener, most, on these winter Tuesdays. I long for the frozen ground to be workable, tillable, touched, raked through my fingertips, under my nails. If I wince hard enough, this snow is an Alabama cotton field. The naked Redbud tree outside the classroom window is blooming a fiery fuchsia. The dead grass is now my favorite shade of green–southern Illinois early-summer green, vibrant, jungle-wild. Wakes you up. Brings you back to life. I am no gardener. Three different times I’ve tried, but I’m not the kind to keep neat rows. The weeds creep up on me. I’m a gardener only in the adventure of discovery. The first sun-ripened tomato. The okra blossoms. The peace of picking fruits of easy labor. The therapy of snapping green beans.
Tending to the flowers was always fun. It gave them a sens of serenity, something they didn’t get much. Being the ruler of a kingdom was hard after all. It was full of pressure and things like that. This, however , let him escape from all that stress.
not gonna lie, i wanted to keep a garden when i was younger. not of flowers or anything, that wasn’t my thing. i wanted to grow fruits so i wouldn’t have to depend on my mom to buy anything i wanted. i remember buying a pineapple and trying to grow one, but i got impatient enough to unearth the fruit a week in instead of the twenty-two it takes for the fruit to completely grow.
Erin Gardener. That’s what she said as she went down the list of the twenty plus students. Gardener. A teacher, one that I presume obtained a teacher degree, pronounced my last name, Gartner, Gardener. I am not an employee of Mother Earth. I do not tend to the weeds that run-a-muck in the old lady’s flower patch. I do not have brown, dirt colored stains pressed on my black pants. I am not a Gardener.
We have a teacher, Mr. Gardner. My brother used to draw comics on his board every morning, before his class even started. His comics usually played off of his name.
Gardner. Gardener. A middle-aged man with wooly gloves, working tirelessly to pick strawberries from a small patch of land. An, honestly, kind of terrifying guy slaving away at what many stereotype as a woman’s pastime.
Everyone can be made into something not so bad, even the weird history teacher down the hall.
I stand at the window, watching him plant the flowers in the ground. Waiting for him to mess up. Any moment now and he will be caught. Any moment and we will have our killer. He stands up and starts to turn towards the window. I swiftly move to the side. I wait for the soft sound of his footsteps, but they never come. When I am almost ready to give up, I hear them. I sit patiently, I hear the door open. “If you didn’t want to be seen at the window you should’ve moved quicker.” I sighed, “My fate is inevidable, isn’t it?” The gardener looked straight through me. “I’m afraid so.”
The gardener, the painter, the maid. Who could have done this thing? I examined the wreckage of my kitchen, wondering what it all meant. The tomato stakes in the refrigerator and the trowel stabbed through the flour obviously pointed to a guilty party – but who?
I’m not really good at this but I’m hoping that this website can help improve my writing skills. I have a knack for writing stories so if you could tell me what you think. tell me what I need to improve on or something I guess and if you have ANY advice AT ALL I would love, love, love, to hear it.
The body found in the basement was the gardener. How he came to reside in this remote old house is another story. Long ago a stout old man of 50 lived here by himself. He was tired of all the hard work so he decided to hire a gardener. One day a man passing by the fence
The old man was called a gardner but he really hated plants all whether they be green or yellow no matter. Still the crazy old lady hired him for the job. Surely he could provide her at least some enteriment at failing mismerly
the gardener went to work on the new couples garden he made it so pretty that every summer night the new couple sat out on the bench kissing and talking and having fun in the moonless night
There was a gardener who did gardening in Owen’s garden. The gardener decided to fuck the nearby gnomes. Owen saw and decided to write about it in 60 seconds. Unfortunately he didn’t ask how the gnome was feeling. Owen is a monster. Don’t be like Owen.
“So plant your own garden instead of waiting for someone to bring you flowers” A quote that spoke to me a lot whenever I was looking for my happiness in all of the wrong places. There are too many people putting their happiness in the hands of other people. True happiness cannot be found in anyone but yourself. So make a movement towards treating yourself the way you want to be treated.
The gardener sat, sun-hat covering his face, the sun beating down on him as it did every day during the summer months. If you look close enough, you can hardly see the glint in his eyes, always towards the horizon, always trying to get out of the life he now lead.
He watched from the back row of the town hall meeting as they ripped each other apart. Nasty accusations flew like fists and men who had been friends for over twenty years threatened the kind of bodily harm usually reserved for enemies. He tried to look troubled, but inside he gleefully sowed the outcome from the seeds of mistrust he’d planted last spring.
I used to know a gardener. He was a man that didn’t speak much english. He loved to stare at me and my little brother when we walked home from school. It frightened me. I remember feeling vulnerable as a child when he was around. My mom didn’t pay much attention to it. Or anything for that matter.
an evil gardener is planting an army of man eating plants to rule the world.
I remember my Dad gardening. That’s how I think of him. Wearing his red, plaid jacket, old jeans with a trowel in hand, smelling of earth and sun. He’s always been an avid gardener.
the gardener sunk his fork into the steak, it was nice to be holding a smaller fork after a long day in the garden with the big fork.
The gardener was a man who had never known anything else in his life. He was raised on the manor by his father who was the gardener for a very long time before he was born. He had never knew his mother, but people had told him that she was a wonderful person. The gardener had no idea what he would do now that the manor was being sold and all of the workers were being laid off.
A gardener is a person who works in a garden. My grandmother is a gardener. In her garden she grows veggies. We also have a garden, so I guess I’m a gardener.
My history teacher.
I used to work out in the garden with my grandpa. Mud and dirt. Playing with worms. I miss it.
I want to be a gardener, most, on these winter Tuesdays. I long for the frozen ground to be workable, tillable, touched, raked through my fingertips, under my nails. If I wince hard enough, this snow is an Alabama cotton field. The naked Redbud tree outside the classroom window is blooming a fiery fuchsia. The dead grass is now my favorite shade of green–southern Illinois early-summer green, vibrant, jungle-wild. Wakes you up. Brings you back to life. I am no gardener. Three different times I’ve tried, but I’m not the kind to keep neat rows. The weeds creep up on me. I’m a gardener only in the adventure of discovery. The first sun-ripened tomato. The okra blossoms. The peace of picking fruits of easy labor. The therapy of snapping green beans.
Tending to the flowers was always fun. It gave them a sens of serenity, something they didn’t get much. Being the ruler of a kingdom was hard after all. It was full of pressure and things like that. This, however , let him escape from all that stress.
not gonna lie, i wanted to keep a garden when i was younger. not of flowers or anything, that wasn’t my thing. i wanted to grow fruits so i wouldn’t have to depend on my mom to buy anything i wanted. i remember buying a pineapple and trying to grow one, but i got impatient enough to unearth the fruit a week in instead of the twenty-two it takes for the fruit to completely grow.
Erin Gardener. That’s what she said as she went down the list of the twenty plus students. Gardener. A teacher, one that I presume obtained a teacher degree, pronounced my last name, Gartner, Gardener. I am not an employee of Mother Earth. I do not tend to the weeds that run-a-muck in the old lady’s flower patch. I do not have brown, dirt colored stains pressed on my black pants. I am not a Gardener.
We have a teacher, Mr. Gardner. My brother used to draw comics on his board every morning, before his class even started. His comics usually played off of his name.
Gardner. Gardener. A middle-aged man with wooly gloves, working tirelessly to pick strawberries from a small patch of land. An, honestly, kind of terrifying guy slaving away at what many stereotype as a woman’s pastime.
Everyone can be made into something not so bad, even the weird history teacher down the hall.
I stand at the window, watching him plant the flowers in the ground. Waiting for him to mess up. Any moment now and he will be caught. Any moment and we will have our killer. He stands up and starts to turn towards the window. I swiftly move to the side. I wait for the soft sound of his footsteps, but they never come. When I am almost ready to give up, I hear them. I sit patiently, I hear the door open. “If you didn’t want to be seen at the window you should’ve moved quicker.” I sighed, “My fate is inevidable, isn’t it?” The gardener looked straight through me. “I’m afraid so.”
Again the garden where all those beings are supposed to live. I can feel… I can’t see. So many things with masks…
My dad use to be a gardener, i use to go out and help with the plants all the time, it was a fun time when i use to help him be a gardener
When I see gardener I think of my cousin/teacher. Or someone who takes care of plants and flowers.
Jim Gardner is my hero.
flowers
trowel
working hard and tending fields
Not to be confused with Gardner.
The gardener, the painter, the maid. Who could have done this thing? I examined the wreckage of my kitchen, wondering what it all meant. The tomato stakes in the refrigerator and the trowel stabbed through the flour obviously pointed to a guilty party – but who?
I’m not really good at this but I’m hoping that this website can help improve my writing skills. I have a knack for writing stories so if you could tell me what you think. tell me what I need to improve on or something I guess and if you have ANY advice AT ALL I would love, love, love, to hear it.
Thanks
BSD.
The gardener was proud to see that Ms. Blossom loved her roses this spring. He left and never looked back.
cool
The body found in the basement was the gardener. How he came to reside in this remote old house is another story. Long ago a stout old man of 50 lived here by himself. He was tired of all the hard work so he decided to hire a gardener. One day a man passing by the fence
fun
The old man was called a gardner but he really hated plants all whether they be green or yellow no matter. Still the crazy old lady hired him for the job. Surely he could provide her at least some enteriment at failing mismerly
the gardener went to work on the new couples garden he made it so pretty that every summer night the new couple sat out on the bench kissing and talking and having fun in the moonless night
There was a gardener who did gardening in Owen’s garden. The gardener decided to fuck the nearby gnomes. Owen saw and decided to write about it in 60 seconds. Unfortunately he didn’t ask how the gnome was feeling. Owen is a monster. Don’t be like Owen.
How did I get here? Sitting in my lounge chair watching the gardener weed the garden.
Likes to work in a garden, has got to like beautiful gardens, but it’a very tough job too, but it should be considered an art.
I am not a very good gardener so i hired one to do my front yard for me and she did an amazing job.
“So plant your own garden instead of waiting for someone to bring you flowers” A quote that spoke to me a lot whenever I was looking for my happiness in all of the wrong places. There are too many people putting their happiness in the hands of other people. True happiness cannot be found in anyone but yourself. So make a movement towards treating yourself the way you want to be treated.
The gardener sat, sun-hat covering his face, the sun beating down on him as it did every day during the summer months. If you look close enough, you can hardly see the glint in his eyes, always towards the horizon, always trying to get out of the life he now lead.
He watched from the back row of the town hall meeting as they ripped each other apart. Nasty accusations flew like fists and men who had been friends for over twenty years threatened the kind of bodily harm usually reserved for enemies. He tried to look troubled, but inside he gleefully sowed the outcome from the seeds of mistrust he’d planted last spring.