I really don't know what this is. Some short, short story that just kind of popped into my head.
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Larkspur sat solemnly underneath the large, leafed oak tree. The bark was rather smooth apart from a few small natural ruts. The base was littered with rotting leaves that smelled fresh and woody. Over Larkspur's simple cloth shoes climbed a trail of tiny ants, carrying crumb-sized items.
Larkspur waited for the sun to rise, for night to be gone, for freedom from unthinkable horrors. The sky was already lightening, a soft grayish haze resting on the horizon. Larkspur was of impatient temperament, but today she waited quietly, patiently, plucking dandelions from the dewy ground and slicing their stems. A syrupy, sticky liquid seeped from the stem of one little yellow weed and then the next, and the next, and the next. Larkspur let a droplet fall onto her tongue, letting sweetness overwhelm her. She suddenly felt warm, full. Yellow like the sun.
Now taking the dandelion's head, bright like a golden halo, Larkspur pinched it off from the stem. She yanked a few unnecessary buttery petals out, letting more soft pollen push outwards. She rubbed it against her cheek, blond blush adding an angelic glow to her thin face.
The dew was making its way through Larkspur’s clothes now. Her skirt began to feel damp, the hems of her sleeves drooping ever so slightly, her shoes one shade darker than originally. But Larkspur did not rise. She wanted—had—to wait.
Done with the dandelions, the girl flung them off to the side, leaving them lying in the dirt to grow once again another sunny patch of weeds. Larkspur sifted the damp, dark dirt that hid beneath the fallen leaves in her hands. Unceremoniously ripped leaves, leaving behind scraps of green, brown and yellow, stems placed in rows before her.
Larkspur dared to look again to the horizon, the sun only a smidge higher. Not enough, though. Not enough. The girl stared for awhile, perhaps taking in her surroundings or gathering thoughts.
And then she sang. At first, her voice was a little hoarse from disuse, not quite hitting the right notes. But after warming up, it became loud and clear, ringing like a bell for Sunday church. All chatter of woodland creatures ceased so they could listen to this dazzling voice, wonder at who could possess such beautiful chords. So it was then that he appeared. Larkspur brought her singing to a halt.
He was handsome, of the dark kind. Tanned skin illuminated his shady brown eyes that were flecked with gold. Hair, black like freshly burned coal, was swept away from his high forehead. His jaw and cheekbones were lovely, chiselled. He came closer and closer to Larkspur with each step. Then, his lifted his arms, browned hands reaching out to her.
“Wait!” Larkspur’s melodic voice startled the birds nearby which set them flying in a flock high into the sky.
“What?” Even his voice was attractive, deep, a tad caring, and maybe a little sinister.
“Let’s talk, okay?”
“For a little bit only.”
So Larkspur began. “I grew up in a little village. I had a sister, a mother, a father. My parents both dealt in horticulture, and so us, their children, held names according some of their favourite plants. My sister was Dandelion because its healing abilities and provided food in the greatest time of need. She was the better of us, encouraging and pushing me to strive for anything.
“We lived happily, serenely, for a short amount of time. But then the fires came. Destroying everything, my parents and my Dandelion. And then I came here to wait for you. You met my father once long ago, during a very harsh winter. He told me. Dandelion and I were only infants.”
“So you speak the truth.” The handsome man smiled without humour.
“Oh, just have mercy on me, please,” Larkspur begged. She reached sideways, pulling a dandelion untouched by her slicing and yanking of petals. She held it to her heart. “Please. For my Dandelion.”
