This trifle of a post springs from an assignment where we were asked to compose our own little stories in a true Austenesque style. No matter how we fared, the exercise surely brought forth the novelist in all of us!
She stopped to smell the wilted flowers on her way and wondered what it would be like to drown in their nostalgic scent, to be able to hope, live and laugh again. If only she could feel the throb of that once ticklish ache of life in the fragile petals. Couldn't she, of all people, understand beauty anymore?
She had wiled away many a summer on this river bank, lying under the spread of an azure sky, breathing in the verdure as the elfish clouds fluttered past her languid gaze. When she was a wild child, she would wear a straggly crown of these very flowers and dance under a pagan sun, one that did not judge her every carefree step. These flowers, must have been their scores of ancestors then, had been her mainstay to reconnect with life and faith. They had been her moral that guided her back to a fearless world where she could stand undaunted by the demons of society, and a few others that lived in the lair of her own soul. What happened to them, the lessons that she had learnt and spurned alike?