Dec. 23rd, 2022 12:20 am
23122022 A Fairytale.
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donesinging As Florence dictates it, so do I act! Who now is employed? Haha. But she is weak, as so often she is at this confluence of life and death. Worry not. She will recover. In the meantime, a story she wrote, a fantasy and romance with life, death never courted. She dreamt it.
Once upon a time, there was a young lady, only twenty-one years of age. She had grown up in a stone house, cutting flowers to bring to her family. Acorns in baskets, white carnations aplenty, even dead leaves when that was all there was to collect in that little enclosure on the river of the rainbow goddess. Oh, fanciful, Florence, but I digress. This is your little fairytale.
The home was warm in the winter, and the lady flicked her hands back and forth across a loom, fingertips burning with creation and tingling blood running down her palms when she embroidered wrong. Florence, that's nonsensical. Oh, a Miracle? That's better.
Anyway. The young lady would leave periodically, learning a craft of plants from a woman down the lane. As she grew, she learned more, from more and more people, until she left to sew bouquets of new linens for men to hold.
There, in the valley, with her bouquets and her sisters in the service of their God, the young lady felt, ironically, at peace. She was twenty-one then, with a penchant for listening to birdsong. Even when it flooded, the valleys were where she felt she was meant to be. Occasionally, she would dart into the woods, on the coldest days, to find a lost boy, too young to be wandering the valleys like that, helpless. She would give him bouquets of linen and patch his clothes and teach him all the birds. And there were many boys like that, and her fingers grew tired by night, but still, she sat up, needing to create, to help, to save the poor lost boys from the brambles and the gardeners, to hope to find acorns to perhaps make into a stew, to craft a wine, even, if she stayed in the valley for long enough to see it age. But she did not know that was what she needed.
One chilly day, the gardeners were flinging daisies, chopping their stems, and the young lady, in her panic, saving a boy from the forest far beyond the valley, caught one. She had not meant to. These were mutations of blooms, sharp to hold, like white roses, dark crimson roses, red-and-white roses, but they were daisies. They were not meant to hurt. But the gardeners had grown the plants with a brew of hostility, and there they were. And the young lady cut her fingers on the thorns of the flowers, and the boy she had tried to save had to save her, panicked as she was by that daisy. She dropped it, and a piece of a whistling star, of hatred, gleaned from a flower, landed. Florence, please, this is ridiculous! The star grew, and grew, and where it grew, roses and daisies grew, twisting and slicing each other with their thorns, one mutated to evil and one a tempting and vile creation. Night fell, and the man carried her back to her home in the valley, to care for the cuts she had suffered from those abhorrent daisies.
Is that quite enough?
Lovely. Full stop. Haha.
Once upon a time, there was a young lady, only twenty-one years of age. She had grown up in a stone house, cutting flowers to bring to her family. Acorns in baskets, white carnations aplenty, even dead leaves when that was all there was to collect in that little enclosure on the river of the rainbow goddess. Oh, fanciful, Florence, but I digress. This is your little fairytale.
The home was warm in the winter, and the lady flicked her hands back and forth across a loom, fingertips burning with creation and tingling blood running down her palms when she embroidered wrong. Florence, that's nonsensical. Oh, a Miracle? That's better.
Anyway. The young lady would leave periodically, learning a craft of plants from a woman down the lane. As she grew, she learned more, from more and more people, until she left to sew bouquets of new linens for men to hold.
There, in the valley, with her bouquets and her sisters in the service of their God, the young lady felt, ironically, at peace. She was twenty-one then, with a penchant for listening to birdsong. Even when it flooded, the valleys were where she felt she was meant to be. Occasionally, she would dart into the woods, on the coldest days, to find a lost boy, too young to be wandering the valleys like that, helpless. She would give him bouquets of linen and patch his clothes and teach him all the birds. And there were many boys like that, and her fingers grew tired by night, but still, she sat up, needing to create, to help, to save the poor lost boys from the brambles and the gardeners, to hope to find acorns to perhaps make into a stew, to craft a wine, even, if she stayed in the valley for long enough to see it age. But she did not know that was what she needed.
One chilly day, the gardeners were flinging daisies, chopping their stems, and the young lady, in her panic, saving a boy from the forest far beyond the valley, caught one. She had not meant to. These were mutations of blooms, sharp to hold, like white roses, dark crimson roses, red-and-white roses, but they were daisies. They were not meant to hurt. But the gardeners had grown the plants with a brew of hostility, and there they were. And the young lady cut her fingers on the thorns of the flowers, and the boy she had tried to save had to save her, panicked as she was by that daisy. She dropped it, and a piece of a whistling star, of hatred, gleaned from a flower, landed. Florence, please, this is ridiculous! The star grew, and grew, and where it grew, roses and daisies grew, twisting and slicing each other with their thorns, one mutated to evil and one a tempting and vile creation. Night fell, and the man carried her back to her home in the valley, to care for the cuts she had suffered from those abhorrent daisies.
Is that quite enough?
Lovely. Full stop. Haha.