Issue #1: June 2008
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Issue #1: June 2008
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» page TWO
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» page FOUR
» page FIVE
on this page: little house [photo], soup [poetry], buzz off beeyotch [art], garden [prose]
she arranges the flowers, cataclysmic mixtures of red and yellow and blue and every other color of the after rain sky, extra special just for him, just for him to give away. she puts a particular touch of her own in each bundle of otherwise weeds that she hands him, knowing they are meant for a very extraordinary girl.
He says to her, "today's her birthday."
He says, "today's our one month anniversary."
"today is valentine's day; but I would rather be the one giving her the chocolate.
but because I can't give her the taste she loves so much, I can only make do with the colors."
so she wanders to the back of her shop in search of the sky blue roses that she has kept secret. those drenched in the unnatural, subtle abnormalities of nature.
"here you go," she says slowly, almost reluctant.
"Blue roses." A small hint of surprise in his voice reveals his suspicion. "But why?"
"she deserves it." her voice is tinged with millions of fragments. her eyes break as she hears the bell ring. a signal to show that she can only stay a spectator, she will never be with them.
she tends to her little weeds daily. without her care, they would stay just that; unwanted things, a chore to pull out in the fields of being. she makes an ugly prickly thing transform into a masterpiece; she weaves magnificent daisies and sunflowers out of the plain yellow-petaled stuff of blandness.
the weeds she tends to are not unlike herself. lost in the middle of countless others more beautiful, more wanted, more perfect. the rest will blossom, the rest will be picked; and she alone will be left behind, to be caressed by the surrounding grass (and who puts grass in a wondrous, fragrant bouquet to be given to a lover?-- she and grass, they share the same fate), to sway in the wind and wither away with winter, unused.
The boy talks of his dreams while she works.
His mind can only be filled of the girl; so, his reveries are simply her essence swimming in his world. The dreamstuffs of his life.
"She is beautiful."
Plain and simple.
she stuffs the little wildflowers side by side, wraps them in patterned paper and cellophane, sprinkles cinnamon on top as if it constitutes a cake. a pang of envy pierces her as she straightens the stems.
"She must be," she says softly.
she watches him leave, wondering if someday, she could leave, too. leave with him and see what he sees.
He does not miss a day. Every day is a day to give the girl a little more magic, a little more beauty.
"These flowers are beautiful."
"But they can't compare. Not with her, with who she is."
He laughed sheepishly. "No offense." He looks around the shop, smiles coyly. "You've done a great job."
"not really," is her reply.
"you should bring her in someday," she manages to force herself to say. "i'd like to see her, maybe, one day."
"a girl who deserves flowers every day from her lover must be truly special."
A beam, and he replies, "Well. Of course." His voice is low and easy, weaving a melody of tiny letters.
The flowers are finished and handed to him. He turns around. With a couple of steps, he leaves, and empties her heart with him.
"You're beautiful," she would like to hear one day.
but every time, in the moment it takes for him to touch the cold, cheap metal handlebar resting upon the glass door, she realizes that she cannot be filled.
One day he finally brings the girl in. The girl gasps and swallows the view of all the wild things-- flowers that might otherwise be the one-second potential bedding for a quick and careless foot, the stuff that might prick the foolish children that get it in their minds to collect hideously unwanted plants.
"It is far more beautiful than I imagined," she whispers. "It is impossibly gorgeous."
The girl turns to the boy. "Thank you for taking me here," she says.
behind the counter, the color of her face has rapidly elevated to a deep, freshly ripe strawberry. suddenly she has lost all ability to move, to speak, to use her flimsy little thing of a voice to convey anything.
The girl is far more beautiful than anything she can imagine. She is impossibly gorgeous.
Her eyes are the exact shades of blue of her unnatural roses, those carved out of the unwanted, made to be desired and rare.
"Thank you for showing me."
The girl turns to face her.
"You're the one that made it, aren't you?"
she cannot speak, cannot bring herself to answer.
"You were the one that crafted it," the girl says thoughtfully.
The boy is forgotten. Cast aside, he is only able to watch the girl, amazed, cast into stone by her image. He does not move, cannot hear what either is saying now.
"It, I love it," the girl says quietly. "It brings me peace."
she shatters.
"i am what it is."
The boy leaves with the girl, arms linked.
she no longer was.
They return the next day, and every little plant and weed and flower has erupted into a sea of blinding splendor. There is no longer a building, the small jingling bell has disappeared. A field that extends for unfeasibly long stretches reveals a rainbow of foliage.
the azure roses had bloomed. in the rapids of the river of cerulean, a short stub of some orange weed struggled to reach the weak sunlight.
Upon spotting it, the girl reached down to save it.
pluck.
"This is the most beautiful flower," the girl said simply.
The girl and the boy were connected through their hands, their palms, ten fingers in harmony. The boy knew.
One by one, his fingers lost grip as she held the delicate flower daintily in both her hands, fragile stem a bridge between her palms.
"The most beautiful flower,"
she repeated,
"and I love her."