“You know, most people don’t do that,” the farmer remarked off handedly as he tilled his vegetables.
“What?” the girl asked, genuinely curious, as always.
The farmer stood up straight, wiped his brow with his red kerchief and locked eyes with the girl. “Walk around with a flower in their mouth,” he replied, nodding to the phenomena.
This gave the girl pause, she tried to look down at the flower but her eyes got all crossed and made her dizzy. She looked up at the farmer and asked tentatively, “Why?”
He gave a long sigh and continued with his tilling, “‘Cause it’s strange, that’s why.”
“Oh…” She thought for a while, her bare toes stabbing idly at the dirt as she balanced on the other foot. “But it’s not strange that people don’t have flowers in their mouths?”
The old farmer snorted, “That’s right.”
The girl considered this further and said, “What do you call it when a girl has a flower in her mouth and yet is able to speak without it falling out?”
The farmer grinned and looked up at her, “Bad story-telling.”
photo by alois
text by kindelingboy
There’s something outrageous in the soft budding implications of the right kind of whorled red roses. My fingers want to slip inside the warm coloured heart of them and stroke outward. Then lick. Usually I am a sane girl, careful in my associations, not prey to flighty fancies, but occasionally there’s just something about flowers. The impulses leap, as if from a slipped leash, and land, quivering, in front of a garden of alluring possibilities, fiercely demanding meaning to be applied to simple explainable mundane things.
“I bought him flowers here before I left. I wonder what happened to them. They were beautiful enough to eat.” She’s standing, weight on her hip, with her head slightly tilted to the side, one hand making vague gestures in the air. In her pocket was a gun made of black ink, a paper paged monstrosity of honest secrets, his phone number. He hung the moon. Her eyes tighten. “No, I don’t want to know.“
zombie make-up tips.
a bloodsucking dalek
zombie infection simulation
The owner of Love’s Touch is a pleasant coppery woman, friendly and prosaic. She’s asked me to start tomorrow for a short shift beginning at eleven. In my interview she asked my age and after my family. Both of which are usually not allowed, but in this case I understand. Significant others or parents are known to threaten girls who work in such places, as if the sex toys on the back wall mitigate them from all social responsibility. All bet’s off, there’s latex present. “You don’t have the kind of boyfriend who would crash in and grab you by the neck, yelling, if he found out you worked here, do you?” My first reaction is, “Dear me, people would put up with those people?” before I remember, well, yes. Of course they do. Everyone does at some point or another, it’s just a matter of extremity, how willing one is to be victimized.