i wrote a thing while i was on the bus and then when i got home and then right now so yeah i kind of like it quite a bit im trying to work on developing characters and giving them dialogue and junk
You Should Be Kinder To The Flowers
It’s not the small boy picking the flowers that makes Marge uncomfortable. It’s the way he’s picking them; breaking the entire head off, leaving the stem barren and lonely in the ground, before crushing the heads of the flowers, the smaller petals disintegrating between his meaty digits, their fellows strewn around his tiny sneakers like so many fallen soldiers. “It’s none of your business, Marge,” she tries to remind herself, “It doesn’t concern you. That is not your child or grandchild, and those are not your flowers.” Still, she watches and cringes as he totters over to a row of yellow tulips, sunning themselves by the path, and before she knows it, she’s kneeling beside him, holding out a hand for him in good faith. “You should be kinder to the flowers.” He looks up at her, mouth agape, great brown eyes ogling her wrinkled face, grey hair, and paint splattered smock. She reaches for a tulip, plucks it properly, twirls it in her fingers for him. “See how the petals catch the sun? And they’re soft, like velvet,” she tells him in a quiet voice, looking not at the boy, but at the perfect yellow tulip in her fingers. It reminds her of fourteen, of leading cattle home through fields of fireflies the same color as the tulips tickling her ankles. Taking his tiny, pudgy hand gently in her own large, wrinkled one, she places it against the petals. He touches them and pulls his hand away, peering quizzically at the strange yellow toy, before trying to snatch the head off again. But Marge is quick for her age, and pulls the tulip out of harm’s way just in time. “Gently, gently!” she warns him kindly. He puts his hands to his mouth in a huff, which is screwing up into a sour pinch, and Marge knows he’s about to wail. “Smell,” she mutters quickly, thrusting the flower under his nose. He breathes in, bursting into giggles when the petals tickle him, and smiles up at her again, the imminent scream forgotten. Hoping against hope he won’t stomp on it or put it in his mouth, she hands him the tulip. He takes it quickly and burrows his face into it, his head popping up in a giggle immediately, looking at Marge excitedly, like he’s amazed it worked on his own. She grins at him with all of her false teeth. “You be good to the flowers, and they’ll be good to you,” Marge tells him, ruffling his dark blonde hair with a paint-stained hand. “Edgar! Edgar!” A woman in a business suit walks frightening fast towards them. Marge is certain she’ll turn her ankle, nearly running in pumps through the grass. She reaches the pair in no time, taking a moment to straighten her jacket and pat down her still-perfect hair before extending a manicured hand to Marge, which she promptly ignores until the woman finally puts it down again. “I’m so sorry he bothered you, he’s so precocious, always wandering, I was right in the middle of a phone meeting- HI SWEETIE!” She scoops up her son, who had wandered over and tugged on her pant leg while she was rambling at Marge. “Well, sorry again. We’d better be getting home, huh buddy?” Before Marge can register what’s happening, the boy’s mother swings him onto her hip and starts walking back across the park. He squirms around expertly in her arms to wave at Marge. She sighs before smiling and waving back at him. She notices he has the yellow tulip still gripped in his small fist.
sooo i decided to actually record the flash piece i wrote because its fun??? so if you’ve ever wanted to hear me narrate, there you go ok
I often catch myself daydreaming about curling up inside your ribcage, fantasies of bathing in the fluid in your lungs, warm, safe, nestling deep in your arteries, leisurely swimming through your stomach acid, skin bubbling pleasantly, digesting into you, holding your heart in my clumsy hands; bloody, vulnerable, powerful, alive, ba-dump, ba-dump, conversing with your kidneys, asking them what you think of me, if you want our bones to clink together as badly as I do, pulling out your hair follicles, like petals, “he loves me, he loves me not,” hoping to someday know what it’s like to lay between the folds in your skin, but I suppose, for now, this will do; legs entangled, my head on your chest, smelling of sweat, the taste of your mouth settled in mine, hands running through your curly hair, the sigh and shiver you can’t help when they brush your neck, feeling your vocal chords vibrate my whole body as we sing, voices melded together in almost perfect pitch: “Let me hold it close and keep it here with me.”
You want a physicist to speak at your funeral. You want the physicist to talk to your grieving family about the conservation of energy, so they will understand that your energy has not died. You want the physicist to remind your sobbing mother about the first law of thermodynamics; that no energy gets created in the universe, and none is destroyed. You want your mother to know that all your energy, every vibration, every Btu of heat, every wave of every particle that was her beloved child remains with her in this world. You want the physicist to tell your weeping father that amid energies of the cosmos, you gave as good as you got.
And at one point you’d hope that the physicist would step down from the pulpit and walk to your brokenhearted spouse there in the pew and tell him that all the photons that ever bounced off your face, all the particles whose paths were interrupted by your smile, by the touch of your hair, hundreds of trillions of particles, have raced off like children, their ways forever changed by you. And as your widow rocks in the arms of a loving family, may the physicist let her know that all the photons that bounced from you were gathered in the particle detectors that are her eyes, that those photons created within her constellations of electromagnetically charged neurons whose energy will go on forever.
And the physicist will remind the congregation of how much of all our energy is given off as heat. There may be a few fanning themselves with their programs as he says it. And he will tell them that the warmth that flowed through you in life is still here, still part of all that we are, even as we who mourn continue the heat of our own lives.
And you’ll want the physicist to explain to those who loved you that they need not have faith; indeed, they should not have faith. Let them know that they can measure, that scientists have measured precisely the conservation of energy and found it accurate, verifiable and consistent across space and time. You can hope your family will examine the evidence and satisfy themselves that the science is sound and that they’ll be comforted to know your energy’s still around. According to the law of the conservation of energy, not a bit of you is gone; you’re just less orderly. Amen.