The garden that grew backwards

 


Experimental Short Story #9

The Garden That Grew Backwards

Welcome back, dear readers, to our magical series of 60 experimental short stories, where imagination knows no bounds! We are thrilled you are traveling with us through realms of mystery, wonder, and emotional depth. Remember, these stories will eventually blossom into a rich eBook and hard copy edition—a literary treasure chest that you, our cherished community, are helping to shape with every visit and comment.
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Now, let's dive into today's story:

The Garden That Grew Backwards

When Amelia inherited the house at the end of Thistledown Lane, she thought the best part would be the overgrown garden hidden behind the crumbling stone walls.
She had always loved gardens: the hope in a seed, the faith in a sprout, the joy in a blossom.

But this garden... this garden defied all logic.

The first morning, Amelia walked among the withered stalks and brittle brown vines, sighing at the decay. She knelt to pluck a dead rose, and to her astonishment, as her fingers brushed the crumbling petals, the flower blushed back into full bloom.
A deep scarlet, velvety and fragrant.

The garden grew backwards.

Dead trees straightened their crooked backs. Fallen apples floated back to branches.
Leaves unfurled into tight buds. Tiny seeds flew upward from the soil and disappeared into the stems.

It wasn’t just plants.
Birds flew in reverse, their songs starting with a final note and ending with a chirp.
A broken sundial on the ground mended itself before her eyes.

At first, Amelia was enchanted. She spent hours strolling among the backwards blooms, marveling at the resurrection of what she thought was lost forever.
It was a place where grief reversed itself, and even the saddest decay could be undone.

But soon, she realized the garden had rules she could not escape.

When she planted a new seed, it withered immediately, unplanted itself, and was flung back into her hand.
When she pruned a rosebush, the cuttings reattached themselves.
Nothing could grow forward.
No progress. Only retreat.

As days turned into weeks, Amelia felt herself changing.
She woke up younger, somehow.
Her memories blurred backward — her heartbreaks unwinding, her triumphs fading into blank pages.
Her latest journal entries vanished. Letters un-wrote themselves.
Photos showed an earlier, more naive Amelia.

The garden whispered to her in languages she no longer remembered learning.
It was offering her something: the chance to go back. To forget the pain. To undo her regrets.
All she had to do was surrender her future.

One evening, standing under a sycamore tree that was un-falling its golden leaves, Amelia made her choice.

She left the gate open behind her and walked away from the garden, feeling its pull like a tide she refused to drown in.
With every step, her memories sharpened again.
Her heart, heavy with both sorrow and hope, beat a little faster.

Because real gardens, real lives, she realized, are messy. They are painful.
They bloom, and wither, and bloom again.
And moving forward—no matter how imperfectly—is the true miracle.

Why We’re Loving This Journey Together

Dear friends, isn’t it amazing how experimental stories like this one allow us to play with the very fabric of storytelling?
This is the heart of our blog’s mission: to explore creativity without limits, to cherish emotions in all their complexity, and to celebrate the endless possibilities of the written word.

Stay with us!
Every story you read strengthens this growing garden of words, and someday soon, you will hold in your hands the beautiful collection we are crafting together.
Follow, comment, share—and help us build something unforgettable!

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Because stories are seeds—and together, we are planting a future.


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