When you’re a few months late with a birthday present, there’s only one way of saying “I’m sorry but I seriously do love you bunches!”. Now let’s be honest here, what’s better than cupcakes, flowers, gifts and caramel macchiato?
Tag Archives: flower
Once upon a time there was this charming girl…
Once upon a time there was this girl who wasn’t afraid of loneliness. She was charming and well-mannered, she always did a little curtsey and men greeted her with a bow. They would occasionally kiss her hand but she disliked it most times. She never turned her back on someone and always assumed the best about people. She hid the way she felt and her words were as pleasant and polished as a porcelain swan but just as plain too. She never dared to say no and always knew the proper thing to do. Her hair was always smooth and tied up in a chignon. She only wore long dresses with delicate lace and small ribbons and never came down to breakfast in pajamas.
She took long walks in her tame garden because it was the place she felt safe in. Her skin was fair, and her cheeks were never rosy. She never liked afternoon teas or balls or dinners and just like every Tuesday night, she was sitting in the grass outside her faithful butler’s window, waiting for him to play the piano. She didn’t know what the song was but he always played it at the same time every Tuesday evening. Every evening until that day; he would never play again.
She never felt pain like that before. Or maybe she had but she never showed it. She spend a gloomy day and a grievous night looking at that grey rusty piano. In the late hours she heard a neigh outside, the one horse she didn’t know it was her job to take to the stable now. She gently walked towards him, while he stepped mercilessly on her fragile iris flowers. She didn’t know how to ride a horse so she just grabbed the harness and went wherever he took her. They walked out of the garden and into the tempestuous wild woods surrounding it.
They walked long hours and never-ending miles, with her holding him tight while the gentle flowery lace on her dress got caught in rough hedges and torn branches. He finally stopped in a wild flower meadow, full of half-faded poppies. She lay down on the ground and watched the stars. They looked different in her garden, the sky didn’t seem endless anymore but the green tree tops seemed to embrace and caress it softly. It might have been the most mesmerizing thing she ever saw, the blinking lights, the rough grass, the faint trill, the intoxicating smell, the fascina…
In the early hours her dress was shredded and stained and her horse wasn’t anywhere in sight but she never felt more safe and affectionate, like in a cherished lucid dream.
Once upon a time there was this lovely girl…
Once upon a time there was this girl who always said the right thing. She collected buttons and postcards. She always lost her umbrellas. She loved flowers and always wanted a bicycle with a little basket to carry them around town on Sundays. She never bought one. She wore dresses only on weekends and only read books with a happy-ending. She never believed in fairytales but never lost hope. She went to the market every Saturday morning, unless it was raining and she had lost her umbrella.
One Saturday, as the traders hastily packed what was left of their apples and carrot crates, the rain started pouring like an angry mountain cascade. If only she hadn’t forgotten her red dotted umbrella in the clockmaker’s workshop last week. She could run to the post office across the street to seek for shelter. She did. It was closed and the gentle bunch of lillies of the valley got half-wet in her hand. She sat on the stairs, hanging over her precious flowers and watching drops falling down from the tips of her brown hair. There was no noise, no cars passing by, no thunder. In the happy-ending novels there could only be two similar scenarios: one where they stand alone and heartbroken in pouring rain on a moonlit night or one where two silly lovers dance in the rain like they could never catch a cold and water never gets into their eyes. This third one proved much less poetic.
She could hear a slight rustling sound coming from the street and a brown and yellow shadow fighting with the rain. It stopped suddenly and moved towards her. The tall blue-eyed shadow opened a purple umbrella and sat next to her on the wet steps. The yellow shadow had two big wheels but no flower basket. She never needed another one anyway.
Coming soon…
“A man’s face is his autobiography. A woman’s face is her work of fiction.”
The Wednesday Society 