FFF - Bloom

 

Mama always said, "Protect your bud, darlin'. Don't go showing it off for no man." She took me aside on the day it sprouted and told me all about the growing things, about new life and old earth. And when the time was right, she said, my little sprout would blossom into something magical.

Now try telling that to every boy who tries to get to third base and gets a handful of thorns. "Oh, someday it'll be magical," ain't what a guy wants to hear when he was kind enough to try to fingerbang you behind the Sno-Cone stand at the fair, or in his car on prom night, or any other of a million places a gal might go to be with the one she'd decided could deal with her little growth.

I came to hate my bud, hate all it stood for. I went further and further looking for someone, anyone to pluck it, despite the sharp prickers all around. But even the most desperate of gentleman callers was weirded out by the thought of sharing me with, what, a nature spirit? What was it, even?

I was drinking, as usual, trying to get up the courage to try one of the dispirited guys at the bar, as usual. Maybe one of them... And I saw her, and I swear my little bud twitched in my jeans. Our eyes met, and no words were necessary. She took me back to her place, and when she pulled down my pants, she didn't even comment on the beautiful rose, apart from stroking it lightly. Not a thorn in sight. I had bloomed at last.

---

silken petals
and the smell of floral perfume
and she's
drawing me closer
drawing me in
her garden in full bloom
root
stem
and bud

I'm inside her garden walls
and we can frolic
in the long grass
rain
or
shine

later
as her bower cools to twilight
and fireflies dance
I wonder
is she really here
with
me

to wake would be pain
she murmurs
drift away mortal
drift away
to hurt
no
more

---

Two this week, a little magic in both. I don't really have much to say about the first one, apart from it being several months too early for Pride, I guess. Coming out is coming out, though.

I should mention that both of these fulfill the minimum word requirement exactly, for their respective lengths (there are two length requirements to choose from this week and far be it for me to let that challenge alone again). So I couldn't have deleted any words. They're all necessary. So there.

The poem... I've always been partial to La Belle Dame Sans Merci as both a trope and a poem, but I think you need to understand the faerie's side of the story. Is she really without mercy, or is she simply of different stuff than we are? Anyway, this poem's not really about that, it's about death.

Kidding, not kidding.

The end of each stanza trails off in a languid way, which I quite like. If I were in better form and had more energy I would have tried a Keats pastiche, but you get what you get.

---

Speaking of getting what you get, you can make it so we get what you give if you head over to Max's blog and enter into this madcap world of flash fiction with us. Was that a segue or what? Yeah, all the cool kids are doing it, and you're a cool kid, so why aren't you doing it? Jeez, what do I have to do, draw you a map?