Flowers

This is an exploration of a writing style that is non-linear and obviously not universal in its structure. That's exactly what I like about it.

 

Taking a deep breath, he closed his eyes and took in the sounds of his surroundings. The entire world was in a harmonious balance in his head. The sounds of the milling crowd quieted as the woman approached the circular area. Stepping up to the microphone, she began to sing. The lyrics never sounded more poetic, the melody never so beautiful. The lush grass smelled perfect, a harmonious unison with the waft of freshly popped corn and his white, newly issued uniform. When she finished singing, he returned his cap to his head, and lifted his glove to smell the oiled leather. Everything was perfect.

 

            The common flower, as related by the human eye, is scientifically called an angiosperm or magniophyte. Although being revered poetically, abused by capitalism, or deified theologically, the simple little flower is merely an evolutionary trait used to attract insects, which then helps the pollination process.

 

            “Oh lawdy, how things was different back then!” The young journalist looked across the room at the old man, who cackled. Bespectacled and very wrinkled, the old-timer personified the historical aspects of what the young man was looking for in his article. He glanced about as the old man droned on about change in society, noticing the sepia-colored photos from generations gone by on the walls and old dressers against them. His eye caught one photo in particular; a young strapping lad in suspenders standing with his hands on his hip and grinning widely, apparently next to… Babe Ruth?

 

            Walking out to the pristinely manicured field, he glanced up into the sky. Looking left and right, he could count only three small wisps of clouds lazily floating off into the distance. He took another deep breath and smiled brightly. He heard a feminine shout from behind him. “Hey Busher!” He squinted, tracing his gaze into the direction of the sun. Shielding his eyes, he looked for the face that matched the familiar voice. When he found her, his smile broadened. She returned a radiant smile back to him, expressing a love that cannot be articulated.

 

            Scientific records indicate that flowering species of plants existed over 120 million years ago. Some evidence may indicate that they existed even as far back as over 200 million years ago. Whether it be by innate response to beauty or merely that which is different, the flower was adopted as an important symbolic piece of culture in even the earliest humanoid civilizations. The most ancient burial sights have remnants of flowers among its graves.

 

            The old man continued to drone on about early twentieth century culture; ranging from nightlife to religion to the workplace. The young writer shifted in his chair, slightly bored. “You see boy, back then baseball was just a game. There sho’ as hell weren’t no millionaire ballplayers! Hah! No sir. We all had other jobs when the weather wasn’t right for the season anymore.” The old man donned a grim, serious look suddenly. It made the young man suddenly uneasy. “That don’t mean that it wasn’t important, when I say it was just a game. Back then, things was different. You respected the GAME. You respected the MEN that played.” He paused, having emphasized his primary words with slaps from the back of one hand to the palm of the other. “And when things went bad, boy…then things went real BAD.”

 

            Adrenaline surged from every pore as he stood out in the green field, and he desperately tried to suppress it. Every muscle in his body seemed to alternately cajole and command his mind, seducing him to burst into hyperactivity; to run about like a madman flailing his arms and shouting with glee, but he harnessed it. He could feel the shudders of his body and the pounding in his heart. Between the distant popping sounds from ahead, he would lower his eyes to the ground and take a deep, relaxing breath. Eyes that had been honed to the precision of an eagle traced each vibrant blade of grass and even detected small flowers of clover, too miniscule for the keepers to remove. Defiant and successful despite their lack of stature, this made him smile inside as well. It was a metaphor for his life.

 

            Perhaps the most heralded flower in American culture is the rose, a perennial flower. Perhaps it’s perennial nature has solidified its exalted status, symbolizing an undying- a never ending- love. It is doubtful that one could exist in today’s society without encountering or being able to identify the rose, whether through the medium of literature or television. So abundant and cliché has the rose become, many halves of couples find that their significant other had developed an indifferent nature to it or prefers a different particular species of flower. Regardless, more than 100 million roses are sold yearly on Valentine’s Day.    

 

            Now sitting; enthralled, the young journalist watched the grainy old footage the codger had produced. Here, a baseball game was played. The field looked little like the diamonds used in professional baseball today; the base paths were merely worn dirt tracks, the “mound,” no more than a bare spot. A makeshift backstop was up, and people sat in the bleachers. There was no outfield fence, only speckles of onlookers sitting on blankets hoping they were out of range. Watching the pitcher throw, the young man arched closer to see the ball strike the head of the batter. Despite the lack of sound, the writer could almost hear the cries from the fans as they rose out of their seats. The batter dusted himself off, and began to yell silently at the pitcher. When the pitcher retorted with a universal obscene gesture, the batter ran after him. Chaos ensued. The writer was lost in thought now, amazed the batter had gotten up- they didn’t’ wear helmets back then.

 

            The young man trotted from the field back toward the dugout. As he passed third base, he stole a glance into the stands. His wife smiled her indelible smile at him as he ran by, and he found it impossible not to return it. Thanks to his quick speed and small stature, he was at the top of the order today. His first professional game, his first professional at-bat. He grabbed his bat, brought with him from the “bush leagues,” and trotted up to the plate. The umpire slowed his enthusiasm. “Not so quick, busher. Relax a little and let him warm up.” He backed away, noticing the smirk on the pitcher’s face. It didn’t matter. This was paradise, and he was in it.

 

            “Why did he hit him?” the young man asked. The old man scowled. “Because he was a wanker!” The young man was puzzled. “A busher, you know, a new guy! He was an outsider in an insider’s game. That’s the way it was. You wanted respect, you earned it. Part of that earning was by gettin’ your battle scars, if you understand my meaning.” It sounded archaic and a bit medieval in nature, but the young man only nodded.

 

            In a strange dichotomy, flowers are used in sociological situations that range from weddings to funerals. Anthropologists have often marveled and philosophized as to how a mere plant can be adopted and utilized for such an array of events. How is it that a simple plant can symbolize grief but elation, death yet compassion or exuberance though despair? 

 

            He lightly tapped his bat on home plate, dug in his back foot, and raised his head to the pitcher. He could see the contempt on the pitcher’s face. The pitcher began to rock his arms, and said loud enough so that the young man could hear him, “Eat this, busher.” Before realization dawned on him, the pitch came. Though his reflexes were stellar, his concentration had eluded him from the events of the day. Too late, he saw the ball coming at his head, crashing into his temple before he could dodge. He heard the crackling sound of bones in his head, and white light exploded in front of his eyes. Before all went black, he heard a young woman scream- his wife.

 

            As she sat stoically in her chair, the black veil guarding her stone face, she watched the stream of sympathetic patrons walk up to his casket. In her daze, she found her mind drifting from senseless thought to senseless thought. She looked at the beautiful flowers; all the beautiful flowers that adorned his lifeless body and black wooden box that would hold him for the rest of her life instead of her arms, and wondered how the tradition of sending flowers to a funeral began.

 

Afterthought

 

            Ask any loving couple or parent what their greatest fear would be and they generally tell you the loss of their loved ones. As a species humans expect a certain order, or balance to occur in nature. Loving couples might have playful arguments that border on the macabre about it. “Who will die first?”

“I will.”

“No, I will.”

“We’ll die at the same time, holding each other.”

            How sweet. The reality is, there is no “natural order,” that exists. Loved ones are tragically ripped from each other’s arms by Death daily. Fathers and mothers routinely bury their sons and daughters. Such is the true face of nature, and it can be horrifying.

Reviews

[H]

I like that about it too. It was refreshing, had my attention all the way through.

Sometimes I thought you used too many modifiers and it weighed the piece down.

"Walking out to the pristinely manicured field, he glanced up into the sky." -- pristinely manicured seems out of place (and heavy) in a simple sentence.

If you shaved the piece down a little I think it'd be even better.