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deernet2021-09-24 10:17 pm
hauntedsavior) wrote in deernet2021-09-24 10:17 pm
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Lobrede für eine Blumengarten // anonymous text post
This is a story of six sisters. Flowers, each of them, unique and dangerous and loved by all within their garden, despite what their thorny stems and twisted roots may say. A curious collection of plants indeed. Those who enter the garden can no longer relate to those outside it, and those who leave do not recall what made life inside the gate so special.
A tangle of Jasmine binds the gates of the garden closed. She is clever, whip-smart and prickle teeth, and her roots descend deeper into the ground than she knows. A slow growth, but a careful one, one that looks down every possible path of the trellis before deciding which direction to spread, to take over. And once she decides, may anything in her way be damned. She will have control, understanding, complete knowledge. Even if she cuts a red line through each and every one of her sisters to get there, she is loved.
We cut a leaf that we may remember how she bled.
Weeds grow along the floor, golden flax spinning its roots and stems across each of the sisters. Blue blossoms, two leaves to a flower, grow only ever around the others and never once alone, as though it does not know which identity it should have. It provides color and fragrance, and the light it takes in is used only as fuel for the other sisters. Somehow, fragile Commelina persists as her world changes around her. Or is Carmelina the one who changes? Does it matter? She remains herself despite it all, and she is loved.
We cut a leaf that we may remember how she bled.
Hidden away in a dark corner is Violet, iridescence only shining at the most particular time of night. Her flowers remain closed, though when they do bloom, they will give the most mystifying sense of calm. Normally, the leaves are sharp as shears, but when she's opened herself up she will show the gardener who cares for her exactly that same level of care in return. She is a creative one, her bed strewn with the detritus of the garden twisted by her own hand into beasts and dolls of bone and dirt. Her cleverness borders on obsession, and though few understand her, she is loved.
We cut a leaf that we may remember how she bled.
Patches of Clover fill the holes in the bed. She springs from the walls, seeps into the soil of other pots. Chokes out the Commelina and begs its forgiveness in the same breath. If she grows thick enough, she can hide her true nature. Hide that she believes herself to be nothing more than a weed that should be burnt out. But she never understood how the sight of her can be comforting, nor how precious seeing her real form is. Maybe she doesn't know who she is, beneath everything. Or maybe she does, and that's what terrifies her. Whoever she is, she is loved.
We cut a leaf that we may remember how she bled.
And furtive Venus, so easily forgotten. Venus, who never crossed the threshold. She bloomed at the gate, an insatiable growth, the heart a bundle of tightly wrapped vines not to keep others out but to take others in. Opening the vines would reveal a home, a hearth for the field mice and crickets who might normally be terrified of her teeth, her jaws. But as she never entered the garden, she never learned to use them. None remain who can tell her whether this was the better outcome. She is not with her sisters, but she is not alone; she is loved.
We cut a leaf that we may remember how she bled.
Those who paid close attention in the beginning may note that one flower in this garden remains unaccounted for. She is not ready yet. Until then, tread carefully among the flowers. Pay them respect. Leave your offerings.
Remember their stories.
((any replies to this post will still be anonymous.))
A tangle of Jasmine binds the gates of the garden closed. She is clever, whip-smart and prickle teeth, and her roots descend deeper into the ground than she knows. A slow growth, but a careful one, one that looks down every possible path of the trellis before deciding which direction to spread, to take over. And once she decides, may anything in her way be damned. She will have control, understanding, complete knowledge. Even if she cuts a red line through each and every one of her sisters to get there, she is loved.
We cut a leaf that we may remember how she bled.
Weeds grow along the floor, golden flax spinning its roots and stems across each of the sisters. Blue blossoms, two leaves to a flower, grow only ever around the others and never once alone, as though it does not know which identity it should have. It provides color and fragrance, and the light it takes in is used only as fuel for the other sisters. Somehow, fragile Commelina persists as her world changes around her. Or is Carmelina the one who changes? Does it matter? She remains herself despite it all, and she is loved.
We cut a leaf that we may remember how she bled.
Hidden away in a dark corner is Violet, iridescence only shining at the most particular time of night. Her flowers remain closed, though when they do bloom, they will give the most mystifying sense of calm. Normally, the leaves are sharp as shears, but when she's opened herself up she will show the gardener who cares for her exactly that same level of care in return. She is a creative one, her bed strewn with the detritus of the garden twisted by her own hand into beasts and dolls of bone and dirt. Her cleverness borders on obsession, and though few understand her, she is loved.
We cut a leaf that we may remember how she bled.
Patches of Clover fill the holes in the bed. She springs from the walls, seeps into the soil of other pots. Chokes out the Commelina and begs its forgiveness in the same breath. If she grows thick enough, she can hide her true nature. Hide that she believes herself to be nothing more than a weed that should be burnt out. But she never understood how the sight of her can be comforting, nor how precious seeing her real form is. Maybe she doesn't know who she is, beneath everything. Or maybe she does, and that's what terrifies her. Whoever she is, she is loved.
We cut a leaf that we may remember how she bled.
And furtive Venus, so easily forgotten. Venus, who never crossed the threshold. She bloomed at the gate, an insatiable growth, the heart a bundle of tightly wrapped vines not to keep others out but to take others in. Opening the vines would reveal a home, a hearth for the field mice and crickets who might normally be terrified of her teeth, her jaws. But as she never entered the garden, she never learned to use them. None remain who can tell her whether this was the better outcome. She is not with her sisters, but she is not alone; she is loved.
We cut a leaf that we may remember how she bled.
Those who paid close attention in the beginning may note that one flower in this garden remains unaccounted for. She is not ready yet. Until then, tread carefully among the flowers. Pay them respect. Leave your offerings.
Remember their stories.
((any replies to this post will still be anonymous.))
Text | UN: ClickClickBloom
Question though about the last sister- How is she not ready? Did they forget to plant her? Or has she jus not bloomed yet?
These are important details that you're leaving out here.
no subject
Does knowing what's keeping the sixth from being remembered like this stop you from remembering the other five?
no subject
But she's part of the story too.
I don't think she should be left out.
no subject
Still. You have a heart of gold.
Don't let them take it from you.
no subject
Awww thanks!
People have tried and may even have come close before.
But it's no going away without one heck of a fight.
I promise.
text - UN: Onelthes
A tale of your homeland, or this place?
If I may ask that, oh anonymous one.
no subject
In English, a eulogy.
It could well be a eulogy from this place.
You've all spent so much time caring for flowers lately, haven't you?
What's a few more?
no subject
My, my friend Fern would approve of that, I think.
Though I suspect there's some metaphor at work here.
Still, it's a lovely eulogy regardless.
no subject
Certainly none too complex.
It's not helpful to make eulogies too incomprehensible to understand. Then how will anyone know what's even being said?
no subject
But, I daresay you should tell a few poets that. They do so like to make things complicated from time to time.
no subject
Here is where I might warn to be wary of plants that seem too aware of their nature.
Be they violet, venus, or fern.
Aber mit diese Lobrede, I don't believe we'll need to be worried about that.
As long as no one digs too deeply within this garden.
no subject
But should another sentient plant happen across I will keep the concern in mind. Fern is just a young boy with all the normal problems, who happens to have a body made of vegetative material.
That can turn it into a razor sharp sword.
Perfectly normal.
no subject
Let us hope the roots binding this family together have not spread beneath him.
The sisters were all once young women with normal problems, too.
no subject
Fern's always been pretty much alone in this place in my experience.
But if one of them happens to come along, I'll keep it in mind.
He's an impressionable one.
[One of them might actually have been in the nightmare briefly, unbeknownst to the two of them, but it had been only for the shortest of moments and their influence hadn't spread.]
Voice; un: efkdjJS
[Almost like a tale from the Book of the Moon, which was fitting given it was full of tales of flowers and wolves.]
no subject
What message did you get from it?
I'm curious if it was effective.
no subject
no subject
These sisters had a habit of tearing and clawing at each other and still meeting for Thanksgiving every year.
It's what split Carmelina apart. She could no longer handle the stress.
But the roots of family run deeper than any one flower on its own. Or... they certainly should.
As long as no one is uprooted.
no subject
no subject
To my understanding, this is the case with the sisters, as well.
Orphans, all of them, banding together to form their own family.
Though the last sister has not yet told her story, I can say that she was faced with your decision, as well.
It ended poorly. It's fortunate that things were different for you.
no subject
no subject
Hold them close. Do not let them go.
Lest they one day end up in a garden similar to this one.
no subject
[There was no telling how many of the wolves would actually make it to Paradise in the end. Tsume would hold onto his pack as long as he could.]
text | un: diggs
I hope the last sister is ready soon enough for the rest of us to hear her story. Until then...
We should dry these leaves to keep them safe.
no subject
But I suppose there's not much difference.
When the gardener is the sole remaining steward of their stories, who is left to stop them embellishing?
[there's... a pause here. the anonymous person, this gardener, needs a moment. and anna worries that she may be letting the mask slip when she types out her reply.]
You would take the time to remember them?
These women who have held no sway over your life?
no subject
I can keep these leaves and remember these women. After everything else...
It's the least I can do.
no subject
Hm. Interesting.
You aren't responsible for anything that led to this. No, you couldn't be.
And yet...
Perhaps the gardener will let you inside.
no subject
Only if the gardener truly wishes it. Things like this can hurt. A lot.
And not in ways that can be fixed with a bandage.
no subject
Keep the opportunity open, will you?
She is not ready yet.
no subject
Everyone's story deserves to be heard... When they're ready.
My name's Oscar. You can tell the gardener to find me when she's ready.