tagNonHumanA Floral Espionage

A Floral Espionage

byjthserra©

As I approached the garden I heard sounds cascade into the morning. The roses' crimson screams proclaimed beauty, by shear audacity, as if they expected all other colors to bow to red. Acquiescent marigolds sighed in the shadows of red. Pansies gossiped amongst themselves in multicolored languages, patchwork faces not noticing the muted colors in the shade. They maintained themselves in the random mottling of their togetherness. And the geraniums, proud red geraniums aspired to rosedom but they lacked the arrogance of thorns and faded in pink tenderness.

Amid this cacophony I felt eyes upon me, a silent presence crouching in the flowers, spying through the leaves, tracing my every footstep. Unaccustomed to espionage, I wandered deeper into the garden searching the source of my apprehension. In the kaleidoscopic din of pistillate conversations I drifted down fragrant pathways searching the unordinary, anything that lent me a clue to my follower.

The twisted paths got narrower and narrower the deeper I wandered. The voices around me began to blossom in a rhythm, a rhythm I couldn't help but imitate with my feet. My movements became a dance to the rhythm of the flowers. The light breeze rustled in a soft melody. I drank the fragrance surrounding me until my face seemed to tingle. I felt lightheaded as I stumble -- danced in the garden. The rhythm bloomed faster and faster, the melody quickened as finger-like leaves seemed to twitter across piano keys, and I whirled and danced, finally in a breathless pirouette I collapsed onto a bench.

As I caught my breath and surveyed my surroundings I felt strangely serene, my apprehension was gone. The strange thought of espionage seemed so foolish, especially amid such a beautiful opera of color. Here, deep in the garden, the flowers harmonized so much better than at the fringes. Roses spoke in a myriad of colors, from the soft blushing whisper of cream, to lyrical songs of pink, to the soft-spoken oratory of shaded red. Pansies held hands as they swayed together in the wind's melody, and the geraniums proudly smiled in pinks and muted reds.

Amid this harmony, I heard a singular voice, a beautiful voice that blended with the symphony, but of itself it lent a depth, a substance to the music. In the pure clarity of tone I gazed up from the garden floor and found it: a single magnolia blossom in an aria of white. A stunning, fragrant solo took my breath away. I drank her fragrance in slow, swirling sips, like the finest wines. I listened to the flowing rhythm of her petals, inescapably drawn to her seductive whispers. Time seemed to lose definition in whiteness, and in an instant of eternity I realized it was time to return to my world. I quietly wandered out of the garden knowing I would return the next day.

And I did return, the next day, and the next, for over a week I kept returning to the same place in the garden. Each time, I lost myself in the subtle harmony of the flowers and in the gentle purity of the magnolia blossom. My head spun as I sipped the fragrance of the day. I would dream of the beauty of the garden, of the earth, of the mysteries of mankind. For hours I drifted in thought, as I shared my most intimate secrets with the flower, with the white aria of magnolia. I caressed her gentle folds, tasted the moisture as it dripped from her, and I languished in her fragrant moans. Again, lost in time, I awoke just in time to return to life.

For ten days I returned to the garden, to the magnolia to our secret tete-a-tete. We'd love on the soft undergrowth. I felt the infinite softness of her blossom. But then, on the eleventh day, things were strangely different. Entering the garden, I scratched myself on a rose thorn. The pansies seemed to cackle at me as they gossiped. As I went deeper into the garden, the harmony seemed gone. The flowers shouted at me in angry reds, petulant yellows, and belittling oranges. When I reached my bench, my heart sank: the magnolia blossom was gone. There were no petals strewn about, no sign of her ever existing, just an empty branch. She had simply disappeared.

As I left the garden that day the flowers laughed at me in contempt, as if they knew something about me, some deep dark secret to my very soul. I ran as fast as I could, with rainbow laughter echoing in my ears. When the noise finally faded, I fell to the ground catching my breath. The trees frowned their shadows over me, and the grass felt hard and prickly. I moved away and sat down on the sidewalk. People looked strangely at me, almost in disdain. I noticed how they stayed away from the trees and grass, as if avoiding their clutches. I saw people sneezing and coughing, and felt a strange tickling in my nose. It was as if the plants declared war upon humanity.

War? War? My head spun, my ears began to ring. I finally understood! I was guilty; I had betrayed my species. Seduced by Mata Hari dressed strangely in white, I sold out humanity for the soft white kisses of magnolia.

I couldn't face them; I couldn't bear the way they looked at me. I knew what I had to do. I walked out through the shadows and into a field. Gripping the barrel I slowly lowered my head, and breathed deeply. Then searing heat ran through me, as my brain, my sinuses exploded at the impact. I fell to the ground. The ragweed, still smoking, laughed mockingly at me.

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