Perfect (Watty Awards 2013)

Chapter 6.50: A Sepal And A Petal

Chapter 6.50: A Sepal and A Petal

        Pictures flip with different proportions. Each one saying a simple message; heterochromia: my mother.

              “She flew,” a croaking voice started. “But she loves you.” Serena felt a tear.

              The album temporarily locked away the memories, refraining it from pulling away tears and collecting sorrow.

              “She’s gone,” the croaking voice continued. “I miss her. Please… Serena, make her stay.” Another tear fell.

              Serena nodded. She hugged her grandmother, dearly. “I will. I will,” she uttered, for every tear that cascades each by each.

              …

              Our sepals, generating our beauty, protect us as we grow. We bloom a beautiful flower as time passes by. Since our iridescent soul is welcomed to flutter over the horizon, our sepal’s there to support and hold us firm throughout our life’s factor.

              Our petals are in numerous numbers more than our zealous foundations. It attracts pollinators to make us even more known to the mass of similar proportions. They’re big. They’re our beauty.

              As we grow, petals maximize, sepals hide. Sepals lie still underneath, guiding our direction and vascular poise. We are poignant. We were close. We are firm. We have petals. Now, it is all because of our sepals; the hands and feet of our whole being.

              …

              Dribbles, the ball did. It traveled with Albern’s dictatorial movements as it flew and entered a short lived goal. The breeze caressed him. It was cold. He gazed beyond his backyard, scattered with organized patterns of flowers and herbs. It flattered him. The amaryllises welcomed him as he approached and touched it softly, slowly.

              “Red… Sorry…” he thought, plucking the flower out, removing it from the stem yet gone with its sepal.

              He whirled it peacefully. It twirled in delight. It compensated depression with its evident bashfulness.

              Albern dropped his ball to hold it firmer. He spinned it with both hands, closing his arms tight to make a perfect circumference with the amaryllis. He frowned in awe. He shed a tear. It slowly dropped on the center of the beauty. He frowned.

              “Albern!” a shout called.

              He turned, loosening the grip over his flower. It fell in slow motion down the rough Bermuda grass. It died. It lay beautifully, motionlessly cold and free.

              He bowed. The shout faded out of his sight. The flowers swayed in convenient motion, sympathizing his heavy stuffed heart.

He fell on his knees. His palms were wet as his tears continue to rush drastically. The breeze swayed. It hugged him. He looked at the amaryllis with shame and rational humiliation. He dove, wanting to embrace it dearly yet no luck as it withered faster in his hands.

              “Why?” he asked.

Tears frantically tried to revive the fallen flower. No luck. That trophy, those lights, those shouts… they all vanished. They all decomposed no matter what. They faded. They were crushed. The wind blew harder, waking him from his resenting aisle. He resented himself. His fastidious tears never wanted anything. It dreamed of those lights, trophies, shouts and distorted handwritings of his name.