A #microfiction for lovers and dreamers.
As Nick walked through the market, taking care to avoid stepping in discarded goblin fruit with his bare feet, he noticed a woman with roses for hair.
Seeing him staring, she stopped and stared back. Her eyes were two bulbs that nonetheless swivelled in her head and were very clearly looked right at him.
Slowly, she walked up to him. The thick stalk of her body sashayed back and forth as she approached.
“Here,” she said, “for you.”
And in one swift motion, she plucked a rose from her head and held it out to him. The rose was jet black, but had little flecks in it like stars that glowed in the moonlight.
“Didn’t that hurt?” He said, his eyes wide in surprise and wonder.
“Oh yes,” her voice rose around him like spring mist, “if it hadn’t then it wouldn’t be worth anything.”
“Besides,” he felt faint and light-headed, all wrapped up in her treacle voice and the musk of the rose, “blood makes the best soil for stories.”
And he saw across his thumb, where the thorn had pricked him, words beginning to write themselves in blood and starlight.
“Oh,” he said, fascinated by the flow of red light across his canvas. “I’ll look forwards to reading it later.”
“You’ll have to come back and tell me about it.” Her smile was all pale roots, glowing like a milky galaxy. “I’m excited to hear how it ends.”