The Deep Prick

~Introduction~

I never share what I write. I’m sharing this in hopes of leaving my comfort zone. I wrote this in 2009 or maybe even earlier…  it’s just been locked away in a far distant land called my hard drive. I thought, if it's going to just sit there, it’s kinda useless. (it might as well try and get a little action, right?)

Anyway, imperfections are bound to happen as this is the first thing I have ever written on this scale, so please be patient and gentle 😊

Friendly disclaimer: sexual content, profanity, violence

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                           Introduction

 

            ~ And they lived happily ever after... those six words barely stray from the lips of a girl in love. For it’s those six words, which could devour the senses of any girl who has heard a good fairy tale. ~

 

        The rumble of a horse’s gallop, motivated quite swiftly, the legs of a young twelve-year-old English girl, named Petra Sinclair. She ran up a plush grassy hill, in an English country side, along a fence, barefoot and draped in an angelic rose printed dress. Freckles sprinkled her nose, which sat just below her deep brown eyes and long thick eyelashes. Her youthful beauty matched that of the horse that trotted right beside her, on the other side of the hilltop fence.   

       Petra reached the very top of the hill, out of breath and curious as to what was inside of a decorative box. The box sat alone in the grass and was wrapped with shiny black wrapping paper and black velvet ribbons. Petra walked close to the shiny black box, curiously taking in its mysterious nature. Petra reached for the box and picked it up, only to find it to be bottomless and empty; and just beneath, sat a dark and mysterious flower sprouting out from the earth. It was a Black Iris flower; the height of a daisy, but with much more dramatic petals. The Iris flower was so mysteriously black, with rippled petals draping down towards the earth. It held a magical quality, producing subtle glimpses of iridescent hues in the sunlight. It undoubtedly hypnotized the eyes of Petra.

            Petra picked the Black Iris flower from the ground to breathe in its scent; and if the color black had a smell, then that is surely what this Iris would smell like… like a sweet black mysterious powder. And like the last leaf falling from a coming of winter tree; Petra fell to her knees, and then softly laid back in the grass, entranced by the scent. Petra closed her eyes for what seemed to be for all eternity, but in reality, it was only for a few minutes. In these few minutes, a young boy of thirteen had made his way up the hill and to Petra; still sound asleep in the grass. He tapped Petra on her shoulder, but it did not yet wake her from her sleep. The boy stared at Petra's closed eyes intently, and Petra finally opened hers and looked directly into the boy’s eyes, which seemed to mimic that of a deep pool.

        The boy helped Petra up from the grass, and they both walked their way down the other side of the hill, leaving the flower alone on the ground, and never once taking their eyes off one another.

        A dainty twelve-year-old English girl, named Telly Everheart, wearing a poufy pastel pink dress, with long blonde sweeping hair and a porcelain doll face, had walked her way up the hill, right as the boy and Petra walked their way down the other side. Telly noticed the Iris flower resting lifeless in the grass, yet still very much magical and shimmering. Telly picked it up; examining the subtle color transformation that occurred from the sunlight’s rays. Telly's eyes twinkled with great wonder. Telly then began to peel off the six black flower petals one by one, dropping them to the ground, and staying engaged very deeply on the petal-less stem.

 Telly’s mother, Eena Everheart, stood far down the hill, petting a horse across the fence. Her hair fell down long, nearly touching the grass. She was beautiful and exquisitely dressed; quite possibly mistaken for a queen. She looked up to the top of the hill at Telly and yelled, “Telly, come!”

          Telly was still engaged deeply on the Black Iris's stem, which still held the pollen, that looked as though it had been roasted an ashy black. It almost felt like time stopped as Telly was saturated in confusion. Her breath halted and then she finally released the stem and let it drop to the ground. She ran down the hill to her mother, where her younger ten-year-old sister, Madeira Everheart, also waited. Madeira wore a beautiful floral dress, with a face not yet known, but with hair, full, brown, curled, long and lustrous.

        Back home where the Everheart's resided in a small cottage in the forest; Telly ran fast out of her cottage and to a greenhouse, right next door. She hurried through the greenhouse, packed quite tightly with an array of different colored flowers on every inch of the glass walls, ceilings and moss layered ground. Telly quickly picked the flower petals off roses, lilies, dandelions. She hurried to the end of the greenhouse, where a table sat, cluttered with different colored glass bottles filled with oils and herbs. Telly dropped the petals she had collected into a mortar. She began to mix up the petals with the oils and herbs, to then drop the mysterious mixture into a soiled flower pot. Telly looked nervous and anxious at the potential outcome.

     The next day, Telly sat on her bed, finishing up her stitching on her colorful patchwork notebook she hand-made. Telly ran out of her house with the notebook and into her greenhouse, as if she had been running all night long in her sleep. She found the flower pot that she had saturated with her special mixture, and she dug her way into the soil. A smile appeared on her face, as she looked at the clear bead like seed, she held in her soiled hands.

                    
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              A Sense of Enchantment

  To hear things of beauty so as to be touched;
To touch things of beauty so as to smell,
and to smell things of beauty so as to taste;
may take the soul prisoner, may make you unwell.
 It can blur the mind,
induce the senses for further want.
 It can make you cry,
   fill your heart with a certain enchantment.
But to see,
  now that is a breathtaking pleasure indeed.

 

            ~ I'm not a poet, and I don't claim to be, but sometimes I question my eyes the most. They seldom tell me the truth... we all have eyes, some are impaired with blindness, some contented with sight; but can the seeing eyes truly see? My name is Caroline Rose Sinclair. My story tells the tale of love; the love that twists and turns, weeps and hurts. I welcome you into my tale that begs the question - will happily ever after exist?  ~