||[Feb. 7th, 2005|08:09 pm]
Bowser's Dungeon of Words
|||||the shins_kissing the lipless||]|
Feb. 7, 2005
A short short-story about some lady, some flowers. Ya know, the usual haha.
A breeze crashed into the closed window of the third-story apartment building. The scent of dried vomit and cough drops floated throughout the cramped rooms, and forced its way through each crevice it could. The flowers in the windowsill would shake as the nauseating aura superceded the window’s cracked pane; they would stretch their delicate stems toward the bright atmosphere of the city below and stars above, blissfully glowing with joy as they left behind the hideous soil from which they grew in favor of spreading their seeds into the cool of midday. From inside the apartment, however, a flower lived against the wind’s wishes, preferring to lay, half conscious, upon her parent soil rather than break forth and shine bright in the rays of the sun.
And Emma would plant herself upon a bed of dry dirt, opting to pass the years with the company of a chattering television to the chirping of birds. And one day Emma’s husband passed away, June 14, 1995, and she wept as best she could between her favorite programs, taking the time to console herself in its warm gentle glow. It gave her the sustenance she needed to live her life, offering her cloudless skies when she felt like rain. “Oh, how beautiful you’ve grown!” it told her, and she glowed blissfully, as it had glowed at her.
(Oh, sunshine! You’ve turned the walls so off-white; I’d never dreamt that your beauty would shine light upon others’ faults! Please, oh, sunshine! Don’t shine upon me!)
Near daily, Emma would bring water to her babies on the sill. “A little for you, a little for you,” she’d tell them from behind the shadows, gawking at their beauty. “But don’t grow proud! You’re only flowers, you know.” And her babies would devour the water, or, devour it as best flowers could.
”Thank you, thank you!” they cried. “We’ll live to see another day beneath the glow of the sun in the summer sky!” The more water they were given, the more impatient they became. Days would pass and Emma lied awake at night, throwing pillows into the air, hoping to rid the air of the noises that filled it. “We thirst you,” they’d say, “bring us what we want, we need, to grow.”
But no! “No,” said Emma, “that's not what you want! You want the sky, the trees, the sun, the stars! That is what keeps you alive! Foolish flowers, you’ve grown green in your ignorance!”
They giggled helplessly from the windowsill.
Emma sat in front of her television, soaking in her rays, and enjoying her blindness. A tap-tap! would remind her to turn the volume up; she didn’t like visitors and, in fact, she hadn’t had any since the day her husband had died. No one yet knew, but they would soon enough. Her slippers clapped against the dusty floor as she walked to the window’s pane. She threw the pane open, and the odious smell of corrosion poured from the opening almost sinuously. The flowers shrieked in agony.
“Please, we beg you! We haven’t eaten in days, and we swear, we are no longer green!” One pointed to his golden stem. “See! I’m withering away to nothing in this heat, this light. Give us the water we need, please! Just shade us from this light!”
Emma felt the wizened flower, careful not to snap its writhing body. She cackled marvelously, and throughout the flowers’ weathered forms flooded an unmatchable surge of fear; their veins cooled in the blistering sun, and their leaves trembled uncontrollably despite the tranquil air. “My beauties, it’s best to not reach for the stars. You might forget yourselves.”