Skip to main content

Scout on Flowers/Smooth Blues

 

A man in a stiff black suit holding flowers and cheap chocolates walks into a well-lit dining room with untouched plate ware, chandeliers, and landscape paintings. A dull, empty vase and a cold rack of ribs sit on the table by a sad yet otherworldly beautiful woman. Her red lipstick is stained on a wine glass, with the evidence of an empty champagne by her side. Their eyes meet as he places the bouquet into the vase and the chocolates beside. He walks off down the long, dark hall, and the woman grabs the flowers. A thorn cuts her finger, and she calmly wipes the blood on the pristine white tablecloth. Tears drip down her unmoving face as she grabs the rack of ribs and walks off into the dark kitchen behind her. A single petal falls from one of the roses. The hallway in front of the dining room lights up as the television plays a sultry romantic comedy, drowning the woman’s hysterical crying. The sun rises, and the house is unchanged except for many fallen petals. The woman, in a formal updo and silk dress, walks into the hallway carrying an ironed black suit and stands by the stairs, staring ahead, expressionless. The man slowly walks down the stairs in his boxers, takes the suit, and returns. The woman stays motionless as her husband moves around her, eating breakfast, grabbing his keys, and leaving. When it shuts, she pulls her hair down and rushes to eat the chocolates gifted to her. The woman picks a rose, carefully this time, and picks the few petals it has left one by one. She throws her head back and laughs loudly as she places the last chocolate on a small golden plate. Dissonant jazz plays as she dances around the dining room, tearing her dress off and climbing over chairs. The woman brings out the leftovers and eats them messily, laughing madly as sauce covers her face. She leaves the room and returns in a short dress with makeup in her arms. Just as she finishes her red lip, the door opens, and the man enters. She walks over to him enticingly, with the plate of chocolate. As she raises it to him, she falls onto her back with a large thud. The man calmly steps over her, and the hall is lit once again by the television.

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

Scout on Cycles/Without Fail

      And so I return, back to the black and white letters and the soft clacking of the keyboard. I return after the rejection of my fragility, knowing now that the escape is temporary. How can I find meaning in this obscure trouble? How can I continue to be angry at the fleeting wind? When all is said in done, I sit in crowded rooms alone and listen to phones ring without an answer. I look around only to count how many people have run from me, mistreated me, and spit on my name. Shallow walls swallow me in whenever I walk, cloudy air consumes my sentences whenever I speak. That pit in my stomach doesn’t leave because it is my soul; broken, abused, self-pitying, and pathetic, but still my soul. It and I long for the day that it will be free to find its purpose. Today, I watched the breeze shuffle through the leaves, and I remembered the days when I would stare up at it and wonder if it was all the same. Every road had trees almost exactly alike, which I learned from...
1 comment
Read more

Scout on Knowing/Tamo

  Tamo had hair that stuck up like it was animated, and probably the biggest eyes that I had ever seen. He used to cry almost every day, and just as often, I would get frustrated. Shouldn’t a six-year-old be past this stage? I wanted him to apply himself, to use the intelligence he clearly had. I taught him and the other seven or eight kids alone for almost a month, and eventually, the crying stopped. I told myself that it was I who had gotten him here, and my efforts had a true effect on him. There I was, feeling so proud about how good he was doing, when he went and started crying again. It hurt me when the waterworks came, and he wouldn’t explain why, just stare at me for periods as if he had something to say. I would ask what’s wrong, and he would shake his head, and I couldn’t do anything to get him back to his seat. Today was different, though; he hardly had any energy to cry. He lay on the floor, watching me again, but something had changed. No matter what teacher or parent ...
Post a Comment
Read more

Scout on Trying/Mud

  The mud was the first sign. It was freezing outside, and I couldn’t find my gloves, so I tried to push the ice away from my car with my bare hands. They were numb, but it felt good. I was told my car would have trouble because of the ice, but it was the mud that kept swallowing it back into the ditch. I think that sums up maturing pretty well because what people tell you will be a problem almost never is. The ‘virtues’ of life come in as Trojan horses, and I naively let them in with an open heart and a blank mind. My mind was blank then, too, when I was pressing the gas as hard as I could, and instead of moving, I was treated with the fine smell of gas and burnt rubber. They told me to get rid of the mud so I could get out, but I couldn’t get rid of the mud unless the car got out. I was met with the same paradox that my therapist had presented me with: to become happy, you must practice the things you love, but I could only practice the things I loved once I was happy. Eventual...
Post a Comment
Read more