gossiping with the flowers

... just a tale for the girl with the flowers

I walk this route home everyday. I havent been anywhere special or anywhere at all. Just to the park, just to sit on the swings and let the wind blow thru my hair. Its not even dark yet, so ill take my time to walk, alone just like every other day. I glance over at the little gardens i pass on the way, the bushes all cleanly cut and groomed into little animal shapes, the flowers blossoming happily, nothing like my garden the weeds all over grown and not a bud in sight. I reach over and stroke the petals on this beautiful white rose, so rare to find a white rose these days and i wud kno i have a rose of each colour on my wall, i replace when the wilt, but there stuck there in a neat little line , 1cm between each. I take this white rose, plucking it tenderly from its bed, nolonger does it lie with its brothers and sisters. But ill keep it safe. As i walk home the wind picks up and im thankful for my little beanie hat upon my head, my hair swirls tenderly around my shoulders as if it was possesed by a strange sea creature desperate to swim away from some hidden enemy. my hand clasped around the strong green stem of my new flower, i wonder if flowers can hear us i think to myself. Or if they can understand our thoughts. Its hard to believe they just sit there watching the world pass them buy, watching the little children play cops and robbers down the street and the couples stumble buy after drunken nights out there hands locked together by there love. I stare intentily at the flower, admiring the way its petals weave between each other, the way the tips are tinged with a faded yellow. I can almost feel it breathing between my hands, speaking the lanuage of mother nature. How i long to hear them, to listen to the secrets of the world i lie amongst a field gossiping amongst the flowers. But its just a dream the flower is alive but it dosent hear me, how cud it. I poke it gingerly hoping deep down for some response but knowing i wont receive one.

The air around gets tenser and i kno without even looking up that my house is nearing my lonely feet. I reach out for the crumbling wall that lies infront of my garden , and run my fingers over the harsh bricks piled one on top of each in an endless pattern. Simetical . I like patterns when they all meet and copy themselves time over time with no errors. Constant de ja vo in a way. My hands run across the rusty gate that has been in need of a good polish ever since i rember it existing, i push upon it , the shrill echo of turning metal fills my ears and its all i can do to stop myself screaming out in fear. I dont like loud noises , i never have they make me scared they fill me with fear. I like the silence, the silence that comes from being alone.  I dont like being alone tho , but ive never been very good at making friends, people dont understnd me and i dont understand them. But i have my flowers , i tenderly look at that white rose in my hands and i smile a small smile. I take the last few steps toward my faded wooden door, there are no flowers here, the paint is chipping. And it looks almost as if noone has lived here for years. But i live here. This is my house. i reach into my pocket with my free hand and i pull out the old gold key that i have placed in this lock many times since i was born.

Three clicks to the left. A little jiggle. One turn right and then pull it out. I place the key back in my pocket and push the door slowly. I poke my head my round the door looking for a small sense of movement. Carefully all the way open the door swings, hitting the wall and making the painting of an old maestic horse dance upon the wall. I pull it shut quickly and take a seat on the bottom step of the staircase. Placing the flower next to me, i go about undoing the intrecate patterns of my laces with my fumbling fingers. Each knot carefully planned out so that they wudent come loose while i was walking, two loops for extra strenght. Once the knots are undoe i playfully kick my shoes of my feet and leave them scattered in the hall way, Pick up my flower and 2 steps at a time scramble up the stairs, eager to make this rose a new addition to my collection.

My bedroom is the only coulorful place in the house. Ive created it just how i wanted it right from the colour on the walls to the floor and bed sheets. Each item layed out in its specific place, following its specific order. An order that only i understand, imprinted into my head. I kno when things have been moved it makes me uneasy and fearful, i cant sleep when even small adjustments have been made to my room. Above my bed on the celiling strapped on with cellotape is my rose collection , the most important thing i have ever had. I climb onto my bed and take the tape pre layed out for the white rose and tape it to the celieing amongst the others. And then i lay down my collecton finally complete and my days work over. I let the silence and saftey flow over me. nothing can hurt em in here, everything is quite and where it shud be, patterns i have planned and designed. I lay there staring at my roses, laid out in there order and shimmering with that living beauty flowers do. I watch them for hours, until my eyelids begin to get heavy and i begin to fall asleep. and then i wish them goodnight. "goodnight my friends, one day ill understand you" and with that my eyes fall closed and i dream of my flowers, lieing in a field gossping with the flowers.

 

Author's Note

Just a little osmething i was working on that i finally fhinshed

Reviews

[Jibey]

You manage this well, describing the walk home with enough detail to make it live for us... It's always powerful when the ordinary things of our existence take on a significance or are celebrated in our words.. and then the white rose - a beautiful image of hope and beauty, a striking contrast to all the mundane elements of the word picture, a thing of fragrance that brings pleasure into the loneliness of your room... so that we are left with a poignant feeling, a longing for life's fullness... A wish for your heart to find joy

[Taylor H]

Like the last one I checked, this one also has a lot of typos and punctuation mistakes. I'm wondering if you use Microsoft when typing or notepad?? that's ok though. Just go back and check for errors.

this was a great story. Your character was so quirky and your imagery was fantastic. I don't think I've ever read so much detail in my life. Your main character was kind of crazy sounding to me, but i liked that. this really was a great story...now just fix the typos lol

[Twilight]

Actually, the title could be a metaphor, for a woman thinking or posing questions to herself. It's also a lovely story, quite eloquent and honest. Although I can't be certain, it does seem as if you are describing a real scenario? Or at least, your perspective of a real-life scenario?

"Each item layed out in it's specific place". This suggests, that the protagonist has a strong awareness of the need for detail, or perfection. I like your concept of regarding the beautiful roses, as friends. This has a slightly surreal and romantic aspect, don't you think?

Personally, I also see both perfection and grace in many aspects of nature's beauty, and the charm of an attractive woman. And of course, roses (particularly red) are often associated with romance, and the joy of love...