We skeletal attendants, shorn of flesh and worldly concerns, and clad only in our rough black robes, tend the Garden of Death with infinite care. Here, time is permitted to pass so seedlings can push through the rich soil — we are never short of compost — and uncurl to their fullest beauty.
Our bony fingers cannot feel the pulse of sap, and we no longer inhale the ripe fragrance of their blooms, but whenever we cradle a flower to our chests we recall incarnate joy.
Our mistress visits daily, to oversee our efforts, and to suggest what stem to prune and what vine to favour — she always knows what will prosper and what will fail. She reaps the flowers at their best and gathers them in splendid bouquets for her home. Those among us who labour with the most diligence, and nourish the lushest plants, are chosen by her to depart, and assume a mightier task.
Yet, there is peace here, and the contentment of simple work; some of us never leave.
We cultivate life, but without suffering its sudden ravages or its slow, lingering waste. A few of us cannot endure that cycle again.
If ever we yearn for more we press a fresh bloom to our ancient ribs.
This story was written as part of Fantasy Magazine’s flash challenge, to see if writers could write a story in a maximum of ten sentences inspired by an artwork. ‘The Garden of Death’ was picked for their top ten.