by Turkish Stringfellow
The morning breeze, although cool, hinted at the tropical heat to come. Its wafting flutter was thick with a salty brine and the chattering of gulls a few miles away. The sun's orange-yellow glow barely peaked over the dormant giant in the distance, a smoky ring of fog meeting the light at its hazy peak. Lush landscapes of rippling palm tops and waist-high grass met the volcano on one side, where the eternal blue of the sea crashed against the ancient ebony ore on the other.
Tensile toes gripped the tip-edge of the fifteen-story height, snapping gray robes canvassing in the wind. The rough-hewned brownstone of the apartment complex was still warm with yesterday's sun under his feet. The night was always sharply cool, the chill of the sea constantly rolling through moonlit streets. But, as with most tropical climates, it was merely an equaling force against the sweltering heat that accompanied most days, heat that clung to stone and soil hours after Earth's star had travelled into the horizon.
And Turkish Stringfellow smiled. Opening his arms out wide, he breathed a quiet, "Good morning!" to the paradisical view. Then, casually stepping down from the edge, his feet rolled along the surface of the equally rough stone of the rooftop.
It was large, to say the least, yet not enormous. The stairwell housing sat to the far left of the roof, scattered metal vents and exhaust pipes lining its top. To the right, a small greenhouse took up the far edge. Having no door, the green-tinted fiberglass shelter sat open, a few dozen types of domestic and exotic plants perched under the effervescent glow of a similar fiberglass roof.
Turkish walked to the opposite edge of the roof that he had previously been standing at and released his outer robe. Folding it with meticulous care, he spread it forth into a spot next to the greenhouse. He studied the makeshift pallet for a moment, then, with a nod of satisfaction, turned and walked back to the edge.
Surprisingly enough, he didn't stop at the edge this time. Taking a fluid step forward off the roof, he placed the sole of his foot against the side of the building. Then, with an impossibly inverted stance, walked casually down the vertical climb.
Inside, Dirk Bell hobbled from the kitchen, his leg wrapped tightly in a cast. He lazily scratched his ass, his boxers crumpling against his fingers. In his other hand, he clutched a bottle of Mr. Pibb and an apple. Walking by the bay windows of the lounge, he paused, his eyes catching a shadow play across the gleaming light of the morning sun.
Peering out through the glass, he watched as Turkish walked past, heading toward the ground. After a brief pause, contemplating how in-stride it was to see a man walking down the side of a fifteen-story building, he simply shrugged and walked toward his room.
The monk's feet stepped lightly onto the soft grass. He walked a few feet toward a litter of trees lining the estate. His feet casually stepped along the surface of the now-crusted mud that had been produced a few days ago. Of course, none clung to his feet for long. Coming to a stop, he slowly bent down, studying a small, tropical flower. Its blue petals, spread wide, slowly faded to white as the spiral neared the center bud.
Turkish smiled again. And, with a whisper, the soil parted, exposing the clean, fresh roots of the plant.
Back on the roof, Turkish held the flower with care, entering the open greenhouse. The far-off sound of the morning commuter traffic was as muffled as the haze of light within the structure. Turkish found a small clay pot filled with dead soil. He studied it for a moment, then lightly blew against the dirt. The soil itself seemed to inflate a bit, as if taking a breath for the first time. He carefully placed the flower down into the pot, the roots of the plant crawling upon its own accord, writhing into the fresh, newly rich black soil. Having securely found a hold in the pot, the plant seemed to sway for a moment. The blue of the petals, ever so slowly, suddenly began to deepen in vivid beauty.
Taking the pot in hand, Turkish walked back to his pallet, sitting down upon it in his usual cross-legged posture. Pulling the pot up to eye-level, Stringfellow began to run his fingertip along the front of the dark red holder. And, though he didn't apply force against it, his finger began to etch a word, carving it into the side.
Satisfied with the work, he sat the pot up on the ledge directly behind and to his left. He stared at it for a moment before his lips parted to speak.
"Meditation won't be the same without you," he softly spoke. Then he turned his head back around, closing his eyes for his normal morning trance.
The breeze fluttered along the bright blue petals of the exotically beautiful plant, one word lining its pot: Naecken.