Prosy: A Conversation of Thought & Mind
Sep. 20th, 2011 05:22 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
clare_dragonflyTitle: A Conversation of Thought & Mind
Word count: 463
Rating: G
Prompt:ysabetwordsmith's: I would like a ficlet featuring two characters holding a conversation with all the dialog in the language of flowers.
Notes: Yay! The first Garden of Prose prompted piece! ::does a little dance:: This story is incomplete, but I know how it's going to go (the hardest part is keeping track of all the flowers I want to use); more can be posted for additional donations (from anyone!) of $1/~100 words.
Pansy stalked out into the garden. It was empty, just as she’d hoped. It was too late in the year for much to be blooming, but too early for the gardeners to have cleared out all the dead vegetation. It had rained that morning, and threatened to do so again, so most of the plants looked either dead and black or the glistening green of poison. It suited Pansy’s mood. She paid no attention as her skirts draggled through puddles; she was moving too fast to notice the chill in the air. She just wanted to be alone.
Unfortunately, after a moment she heard footsteps crunching in the gravel behind her. She glanced over her shoulder, ready to take whatever path her new companion seemed disinclined to, but it was Clematis. Pansy clenched her jaw and stared straight ahead. Her footsteps sped up as she tried her very best to pretend she hadn’t noticed her love—ex-lover—behind her. Clematis must have followed her; and after Pansy had clearly said she wouldn’t speak to her and had retreated to the garden, where she always went when she wanted some time alone!
Pansy turned down a narrow path, trying to lose her pursuit, but the footsteps behind her only sped up and followed her. Sighing with frustration, she cast about around her for something—anything—to help her discourage Clematis. She had tired of arguing. There was nothing more to say. But her eye lit on a bed of annuals, faded and damp, but once brightly colored. Red balsam. Perfect.
As she was leaning to pick it, Clematis caught up to her and touched her shoulder. Pansy shrugged off the touch and, turning, thrust her handful of dying flowers into Clematis’ hands. Clematis stared down at it, her lips pursed and her eyebrows drawn together. Then, as understanding dawned, she looked back at Pansy, her eyes wide. Pansy turned away from the hurt in that expression. The flowers’ message was clear: touch me not.
Unfortunately, when she started walking, Clematis started following again. She told herself she was going to smack Clematis if there was another touch, but there wasn’t; instead, she heard a throat softly being cleared behind her. Reluctantly, she turned, to see Clematis holding out a bunch of soggy, dead flowers.
Curiosity overcame Pansy, and she reached out to take the flowers, carefully not brushing Clematis’ fingers. It reminded her of the beginning of their courtship, and she shoved the pleasant memories away roughly. She took a moment to recognize the flowers, their once rich, golden petals faded and shriveled, and a moment longer to understand Clematis’ message. Once she realized they were wall-flowers, signifying fidelity in adversity, she dropped them to the muddy ground, sickened by the insincerity.
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Word count: 463
Rating: G
Prompt:
ysabetwordsmith's: I would like a ficlet featuring two characters holding a conversation with all the dialog in the language of flowers.Notes: Yay! The first Garden of Prose prompted piece! ::does a little dance:: This story is incomplete, but I know how it's going to go (the hardest part is keeping track of all the flowers I want to use); more can be posted for additional donations (from anyone!) of $1/~100 words.
Pansy stalked out into the garden. It was empty, just as she’d hoped. It was too late in the year for much to be blooming, but too early for the gardeners to have cleared out all the dead vegetation. It had rained that morning, and threatened to do so again, so most of the plants looked either dead and black or the glistening green of poison. It suited Pansy’s mood. She paid no attention as her skirts draggled through puddles; she was moving too fast to notice the chill in the air. She just wanted to be alone.
Unfortunately, after a moment she heard footsteps crunching in the gravel behind her. She glanced over her shoulder, ready to take whatever path her new companion seemed disinclined to, but it was Clematis. Pansy clenched her jaw and stared straight ahead. Her footsteps sped up as she tried her very best to pretend she hadn’t noticed her love—ex-lover—behind her. Clematis must have followed her; and after Pansy had clearly said she wouldn’t speak to her and had retreated to the garden, where she always went when she wanted some time alone!
Pansy turned down a narrow path, trying to lose her pursuit, but the footsteps behind her only sped up and followed her. Sighing with frustration, she cast about around her for something—anything—to help her discourage Clematis. She had tired of arguing. There was nothing more to say. But her eye lit on a bed of annuals, faded and damp, but once brightly colored. Red balsam. Perfect.
As she was leaning to pick it, Clematis caught up to her and touched her shoulder. Pansy shrugged off the touch and, turning, thrust her handful of dying flowers into Clematis’ hands. Clematis stared down at it, her lips pursed and her eyebrows drawn together. Then, as understanding dawned, she looked back at Pansy, her eyes wide. Pansy turned away from the hurt in that expression. The flowers’ message was clear: touch me not.
Unfortunately, when she started walking, Clematis started following again. She told herself she was going to smack Clematis if there was another touch, but there wasn’t; instead, she heard a throat softly being cleared behind her. Reluctantly, she turned, to see Clematis holding out a bunch of soggy, dead flowers.
Curiosity overcame Pansy, and she reached out to take the flowers, carefully not brushing Clematis’ fingers. It reminded her of the beginning of their courtship, and she shoved the pleasant memories away roughly. She took a moment to recognize the flowers, their once rich, golden petals faded and shriveled, and a moment longer to understand Clematis’ message. Once she realized they were wall-flowers, signifying fidelity in adversity, she dropped them to the muddy ground, sickened by the insincerity.
Did you enjoy this story? You can see all my fiction posted at Dreamwidth!