The Stolen Story OR the woman of flowers

“I can’t keep pretending I don’t even know you…”
– Anywhere by Evanescence

MORNING BURST OVER the hills, bright and spilling with golden fortune. The trees gleamed with yellow and white glamour; the sweet grass sparkled with jeweled dewdrops. Rainbow glittered off their crystal likeness.

The world was renewed and so they told her she should be thriving with happiness. Her blood should be burning with life, eager and vivacious to slurp from the cup of freed living. But her heart was weary and her soul was sore; her eyes were too tender to cry.

Her body they had fashioned from flowers of all kinds. Her whims they had fashioned to their liking. She was their light, airy soul trapped through their words and deep minds within a frame as soft, pale, and sweet-smelling as flowers.

And so she was flower-born. She was a being made solely from flowers and she was not supposed to be of a mind to care for anything else. Or at least that’s what she thought they wanted to her think. But now…

Her husband was dead, driven away into the throngs of unbeing like her brother and she was to blame, just like before.

And they would never know the truth, for they would ripe her voice from her, until only her pitiful hoots echoed in the dreary recesses of the night when no ears were awake to hear the tale of her sorrows and her love…her sadly misunderstood love and her bright moonlit lion, her Lleu.

Word Count: 231

Written: 23 March 2011

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