Flora
Virginia Marie Conrad sat alone in her parlor, peacefully dozing. Other than the faint intake of her breath, the room was silent. No neighborhood sounds penetrated her carefully crafted solitude. To glance at the room, a stranger might think they had stepped into Victorian England.
Miss Conrad—as she insisted forcefully on being called—was wrapped in a volumous dress from her ankles to the top of her neck. An antique brooch perched on her breast, slightly hidden by a meticulously detailed lace shawl. The knitting needles, crochet hooks and miscellaneous yarns and strings next to her chair hinted at the shawl’s origins. Her face was lined with wrinkles, a testament to the anguish and pain that had defined her past.
The “back parlor”—as Miss Conrad insisted forcefully on calling this room—looked out at green foliage on every side. A first impression might have labeled this view as a jungle, but closer scrutiny revealed careful cultivation of the flora. The huge ash tree was pruned into symmetrical perfection and led the eye to beautifully shaped antique roses, grapes crawling purposefully along a trellis, and masses of foxgloves reaching for the sky.
The faint rev of an engine nearby was the only hint that this paradise was, after all, in the middle of modern suburbia. Miss Conrad had always been a very light sleeper, and frowned vaguely at the reminder of the city that had grown up around her.
A louder sound abruptly pierced the air. This sound reverberated from within the Victorian incongruity. Miss Conrad, already partially aroused from her nap by the engine noise, opened her eyes immediately, suddenly animated into life. Her lips drew together into a thin, almost invisible line and her eyes were dark and sharply serious. Although blazing with fierce intensity, they admitted to a groggy confusion as her mind was expelled from the land of imaginings into the stark light of reality.
Miss Conrad noted her state of mental confusion and was annoyed by it. As the jarring sound invaded her serenity again, she pulled her eyebrows together in disgust. “Michael!” she screamed in an autocratic tone of voice. The power of the voice resonated in stark contrast with the frail frame that produced it. There was no answer.
The sound pierced her ears again. She looked at the originator of the sound—a small, wireless telephone—feeling offended and annoyed. It’s sleek design and modern contours contrasted sharply with the house surrounding it. Miss Conrad felt somehow affronted and tense as she looked at it.
“Michael!” she screamed again, “Answer the telephone!” She didn’t seem to consider the idea of picking it up herself. As it commanded her attention again, she covered her ears to dull the intrusion, leaning away from it. Her face weakened and she moaned softly, rocking back and forth. “Michael…?” she whispered, suddenly looking small and vulnerable. “Where are you, Michael?” The phone continued to ring.
Then she remembered. Michael was gone. “I’ll never see him again,” she gasped slightly. She choked softly as she repeated the word “never” in a barely audible whisper.
She felt shockingly alone, vulnerable and weak. Then, just as suddenly, her strength of character seemed to awake and revolt. She fought off the creeping depression. As the last echoes of the phone faded away, Miss Virginia Marie Conrad gingered picked up the offending item and hurled it forcefully across the room. Two things then happened.
In the heat of her emotion, she had misjudged rather badly her state of health and suddenly felt her arm burn with pain. She had no idea what she had done to herself, but felt a series of painful contractions in her arm and chest. She gasped loudly in unexpected pain as she watched the telephone descend. It flew in a picturesque arch and landed in the middle of Michael’s forehead. She screamed loudly now, absorbed in what she saw, not noticing until Michael’s head seemed to shatter into dozens of pieces that it was merely a framed photograph.
She wanted to run to where the picture had fallen to assess the damage, hoping only the glass had been broken, but the pain was too intense. Battling both physical and mental pain, she whispered, “I’m sorry, Michael. I lost my temper and I hurt you and I don’t know how much. But you know I didn’t mean to. I love you.” The words faded away as more sensations of pain ran through her body. The intensity left her breathless for a few moments and she leaned back and fainted.
Virginia Marie Conrad sat alone in her parlor, peacefully dozing. Other than the faint intake of her breath, the room was silent. No neighborhood sounds penetrated her carefully crafted solitude. To glance at the room, a stranger might think they had stepped into Victorian England.
Miss Conrad—as she insisted forcefully on being called—was wrapped in a volumous dress from her ankles to the top of her neck. An antique brooch perched on her breast, slightly hidden by a meticulously detailed lace shawl. The knitting needles, crochet hooks and miscellaneous yarns and strings next to her chair hinted at the shawl’s origins. Her face was lined with wrinkles, a testament to the anguish and pain that had defined her past.
The “back parlor”—as Miss Conrad insisted forcefully on calling this room—looked out at green foliage on every side. A first impression might have labeled this view as a jungle, but closer scrutiny revealed careful cultivation of the flora. The huge ash tree was pruned into symmetrical perfection and led the eye to beautifully shaped antique roses, grapes crawling purposefully along a trellis, and masses of foxgloves reaching for the sky.
The faint rev of an engine nearby was the only hint that this paradise was, after all, in the middle of modern suburbia. Miss Conrad had always been a very light sleeper, and frowned vaguely at the reminder of the city that had grown up around her.
A louder sound abruptly pierced the air. This sound reverberated from within the Victorian incongruity. Miss Conrad, already partially aroused from her nap by the engine noise, opened her eyes immediately, suddenly animated into life. Her lips drew together into a thin, almost invisible line and her eyes were dark and sharply serious. Although blazing with fierce intensity, they admitted to a groggy confusion as her mind was expelled from the land of imaginings into the stark light of reality.
Miss Conrad noted her state of mental confusion and was annoyed by it. As the jarring sound invaded her serenity again, she pulled her eyebrows together in disgust. “Michael!” she screamed in an autocratic tone of voice. The power of the voice resonated in stark contrast with the frail frame that produced it. There was no answer.
The sound pierced her ears again. She looked at the originator of the sound—a small, wireless telephone—feeling offended and annoyed. It’s sleek design and modern contours contrasted sharply with the house surrounding it. Miss Conrad felt somehow affronted and tense as she looked at it.
“Michael!” she screamed again, “Answer the telephone!” She didn’t seem to consider the idea of picking it up herself. As it commanded her attention again, she covered her ears to dull the intrusion, leaning away from it. Her face weakened and she moaned softly, rocking back and forth. “Michael…?” she whispered, suddenly looking small and vulnerable. “Where are you, Michael?” The phone continued to ring.
Then she remembered. Michael was gone. “I’ll never see him again,” she gasped slightly. She choked softly as she repeated the word “never” in a barely audible whisper.
She felt shockingly alone, vulnerable and weak. Then, just as suddenly, her strength of character seemed to awake and revolt. She fought off the creeping depression. As the last echoes of the phone faded away, Miss Virginia Marie Conrad gingered picked up the offending item and hurled it forcefully across the room. Two things then happened.
In the heat of her emotion, she had misjudged rather badly her state of health and suddenly felt her arm burn with pain. She had no idea what she had done to herself, but felt a series of painful contractions in her arm and chest. She gasped loudly in unexpected pain as she watched the telephone descend. It flew in a picturesque arch and landed in the middle of Michael’s forehead. She screamed loudly now, absorbed in what she saw, not noticing until Michael’s head seemed to shatter into dozens of pieces that it was merely a framed photograph.
She wanted to run to where the picture had fallen to assess the damage, hoping only the glass had been broken, but the pain was too intense. Battling both physical and mental pain, she whispered, “I’m sorry, Michael. I lost my temper and I hurt you and I don’t know how much. But you know I didn’t mean to. I love you.” The words faded away as more sensations of pain ran through her body. The intensity left her breathless for a few moments and she leaned back and fainted.
Holy cow! My heart is racing. I felt like I was there. I could see the whole thing. That was amazing.
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