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Blue Flowers, Chapter 4.
Zoë Birchmiers House
As I rubbed my eyes, I looked at her palace, the gates outstretched around the vast gardens, high above the ground, and as William closed the car doors, he escorted me down the elongated path, to my side, green freshly mowed grass, with flower beds, so bright and colourful that they created an illusion of dancing rainbows. Trees and freshly cut hedges created patterns on the grass as if it were it's canvas, and the smell, the mix of the aromas; freshly cut grass, flowers in the bloom and the fresh air, it all hypnotised me. I could see gardeners watering plants, they waved to me and I waved back, they all wore their uniforms, black and white like a chess board, but they all seemed perfectly working under the likes of the Birchmiers, they were kind, rich and powerful, but they used their money well, helping contribute to rundown parts of the city and improving communities, they were the good rich people you wished to s
Blue Flowers, Chapter 3.
The VooDoo Shack
The keys were on the table, I locked up shop, picked up my stuff and left, not knowing what to do for the rest of the day. I had a really strict schedule, weekdays working, and weekends looking for cheap apartments, I didn't plan on living on the streets all my life. I decided to start my search for a house early. I looked at my watch, 8:30; I could probably catch the subway if I was quick.
I jogged down the sidewalk, passing a street performer, a man dressed as a hotdog, and a group of teenagers setting fire to a post box. Knowing this city, nothing out of the ordinary, just New York as it is. I turned the corner, rushing past a biker, almost knocking him over. The last corner, it was almost 8:40, I could make it. Suddenly, to no surprise, my tatty sneakers failed on me, and I slid and fell to the ground. I rolled to my side, the fall wasn't that bad, just a graze.
As I looked up, a car was at a stop light, and in the open wi
Blue Flowers, Chapter 2.
May 5th 2009, New York.
I was in a cold sweat, the 5th time this week; it was starting to annoy me. I sat up and wiped away the sweat from my fore head then took a long breath. I always hated November 5th, I hated all first five days of May, ever since I was 7. Those days were the five days are the ones I dread, the days I remember fresh in my mind, those days are the ones leading to the death of my mother, the death I witnessed with my own eyes.
Ever since I could remember, my mother looked after me, while my father, the drunk she married, was out gambling and getting thrown into jail. The days he was thrown into the slammer were the exceptional time were I and my mother spent nights on our own, safe and happy, I was able to fall asleep peacefully like all children my age could. However, those days were uncommon, so most of the time, my father came home, and on those days my mother would lock me in my room and tell me to cover my ears and sle
Blue Flowers, Chapter 1.
May 5th 1997, Penzance.
The room grew darker and colder, the sun set slowly, only to leave the weak fire as their only light and heat source. Blue flower petals lay crushed and soiled with blood on the floor, a white vase broken into piece by the flowerless stems. The sound of whimpering was the only interruption to the cold silence, along with the fast paced breathing of a blood soaked girl, and the crunch of boots along the hard ground. The silence was then broken by the man, who had just stopped pacing around the small room.
"It never was enough for you, there always was something that was wrong with me, I was never the man you would have asked for, not in a million years." The man said in a deep gruff voice to the pale woman sitting at the end of the room. The woman remained silent, keeping her gaze to the floor. The man kept his eyes on the woman. "Well, answer me!" The man banged his fist on the miniature tea table, breaking i
if you need help making it through the dayremember:
The Coffee GodThe Coffee God behind the counter shuffles foot to foot, a dance of steam and espresso. Black painted fingernails, inch gauged ears and a gray striped sweatshirt, hood crooked on his back. There's a cigarette tucked behind one ear; it bobs and twitches with each step.
“Non-fat caramel latte,” he calls, just as he always does, part of a spell, part of a mantra, toneless (just a tuck at the end). I reach. He looks up.
The espresso maker hisses.
There's something like a grin, something like a spark, something like a shared secret linked eye to eye. When he passes over the drink (rough cardboard sleeve hot to the touch), he lingers. Our fingers brush, a shiver, a jolt, a ten-watt shock.
The Coffee God tilts his chin, shouts, “Hey, mind if I take my break now?”
and ducks around the counter without waiting for a reply.
He slips his cigarette between his lips without taking his eyes from mine. I follow him out the door.
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