Sunday, October 05, 2003

An account to rival Mike's.

The Sad Little Flower
Sarah Close

Once upon a time there was a miserable wretch of a flower, living in a miserable, cracked and broken pot. The flower was bitter for once the sun had given it suck, and the sweet soil of the earth had enveloped it in its warm, dark brown breast. But now it sat inside a black and gloomy shack. There was no loving, nutritious sun now; no blanket of warm all-encompassing earth; no gentle dew of morning.

The only comfort for the lugubrious flower was its certainty of death. Oh, surely, once there had been a will to life. At first the flower had sat, dreaming of a time when its roots might morph into legs and carry it away. But as days passed, the flower realized slowly that this hope was in vain. The shadow of death crept silently over the little creatures face. Eventually, it began to think of death as a cold but welcoming friend; a constant companion through the painful withering of starvation.

And then, one day it seemed certain that the flower should live no more. It expended in a blast its final cells of energy. And no sooner had it done so than it felt a strange sensation that, it seemed somehow, it had felt once before. The sensation was warm and comforting; the little flower longed to stretch its petals toward it, whatever it was. And in the midst of the scorching heat came a cool trickle of something wet.

On the floor stomped some creature. The little flower felt the tremor of its footsteps. The flower hated the tremors; hated the creature. But the coming of the creature had meant the coming of warmth. The little flower began to wonder if it had indeed died; but it did not feel dead. Inside, new life seemed to spring everforth, as long neglected cells received energy for the first time; but so many cells still felt dead, as if they could never wake from the long starvation. But the flower was not going to complain about this blissful new existence; that not all petals were as instantly alive as others. This flower had lived, had died, and now had life again! It sang praises, outstretched toward the sun!

And then a hideous wave of sound shot through the air.

“Damnit,” said the creature, “I’m trying to sleep. Who left the curtain open?”

Suddenly, all was cold. A terrible awakening occurred inside the little flower’s mind. It had been here before; it had known the sun, fresh earth and water. It had seen these things and loved them. And it had more than once been denied. For no sooner had the oblations been offered than these sweet blessings had been ripped away.

There was a tremor in the flower though no cruel wind was blowing. Thought the little potted plant: “My life is shit. I want to die.”