Literary Lion. Bloom.

I might be fighting off the temptation to play sleeping lions here today but my feeble fingers have just about managed to pluck a piece of paper from my little jar.

The word is the very beautifully penned ‘flower’.

There are some exciting things on the horizon for Literary Lion, but in order to make room for the approaching antics the event is now becoming a fortnightly affair. So from this week onwards I am giving you 14 days to craft your post of 400 words or less. Please remember to pingback to this post, include the ‘Literary Lion’ tag and of course give me a tinkle on Instagram and twitter.

As part of the new and improved Literary Lion I will be choosing a favourite tale each week to link to in my next prompt piece, so have your writing hands at the ready…

Here is my floral affair…

 

Bloom.

This time he bought me roses. Their razor thorns grazed his face when I cracked them across his skull. They swung so smoothly through the air, whistling as they went.

Twelve bunches of flowers in the last sixty-four days. But the roses were lavish. She must have been special. His guilt oozed from every petal.

The first time was a bunch of weak wilting daisies. Puny and pathetic. She probably had mousy brown hair. Plain Jane.

They got better looking each time. One day it was elegant, slender tulips. The next week was bright beaming amber sunflowers. That bunch hurt. I wasn’t the smiling type.

But the roses were the finest of them all. Blossoming pink spheres. Velvet to the touch. Plump, ripe and undeniably beautiful.

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Chunk.

day12

Overheard conversations and foreshadowing…

 

Chunk.

The audience is prompted in gooey noises of sentiment as she talks about her incessant will to love him. A studio light sparks and a less rehearsed reaction sounds across the space. It flickers amidst raining fire as the crew run to its aid and plummet the room into darkness.

Mere moments pass and the set is saturated with white light. As the pupils of the audience constrict, her face is poured with unforgiving illumination. Her eyelids are painted with thick turquoise, the powder spreads unevenly from her eyelashes to her brows. Through bulbous lips she chatters of a lifelong search. Painted in a clashing shade of scarlet, they sit shiny and gloopy atop of three chins, they jabber of finally finding the one. The audience coos. We are expected to ingest this, the greatest of loves. Her nails are gnawed with remnants of red. She could have washed her hair on account of the TV appearance.

The other woman struts onto stage ready for a face-off. Like hyenas they scrap for his infatuation. They reveal adulterous moments, back-alley liaisons, untold truths. Their painted faces start to fall as they wrestle to be his only.

Behind a marbled screen his gormless mug is indulged in the moment. His mouth sits open in horror but his eyes are fed by the deed. He feeds on a gluttonous diet of their misery.