For You, Lady Flower...

Fiction Three: Awakening the Morning Glory

There was once a lonely writer who lived in his small apartment, with only the orange glow of the candlestick served as his light. His typewriter used to make tapping sounds from morning until evening, sometimes he doesn't even get to sleep at all.

"I must finish this. I must finish this," he always muttered as his eyes focused on the words traveling on the empty white paper attached to the machine.

The writer devoted his whole life creating new worlds, and new people, far different from the reality he's been living. He was like a witness from numerous phenomena of people he could either consider his children (because he was the one who made them), or just mere strangers. Tiredness never seemed to lay its touch on him, which gave him enough reason to keep going.

Knock. Knock.

At first, the writer ignored the sound outside his room, or rather his home. He desired to get his work done immediately, and he didn't want any interruptions.

Knock. Knock. Knock.

"No one's here!" he shouted furiously, yet his eyes remained on the paper, as well as his fingers continued on typing.

"Excuse me, this is Mrs. Sire. I just want to hand you something," a voice of an old lady echoed through his room, which somehow made the writer stop a while from his activity.

The writer pushed his glasses on the bridge of his nose and went over the door, where he was greeted by Mrs. Sire, an old woman who was much shorter than him and the landlady of the apartment. Frustration slowly faded on the writer's face and tried his best to remain composed, "Good evening, Mrs. Sire. What brings you here at this hour?" he inquired.

The writer noticed that Mrs. Sire was holding a pot with a tall plant and closed purple flowers in it.

"I apologize for disturbing you, but I just dropped by to give you this," Mrs. Sire put the flower pot in the writer's hands, which he almost failed to catch.

"Umm...t-thank you, I guess?" The writer was still confused on why Mrs. Sire would bother to come in the middle of the night just to give him a flower pot.

The old lady smiled back, and bid goodbye to the writer. He sighed, and was about to shut his door when suddenly Mrs. Sire spoke, but not looking at him, "Make sure to not let those flowers eat you up. They can be very playful," and with that, Mrs. Sire was gone from the apartment.

As the writer was used in the game of words, he found Mrs. Sire's reminder is a bit uncanny. He held up the flower pot once again, trying to examine what kind of flowers were there. When he failed to recognize it, he put the flower pot on the floor, near his cabinet and returned from his work. But little did he know, one of the purple flowers suddenly bloomed.

Hours. Days. Weeks. Months.

The room of the writer was almost an ocean of crumpled papers. He was tapping on the keys furiously, as if he's being chased by some monster just to get his work done. He was catching his breath, and made several grunts as he eyes roamed on each letter being put into the paper.

"Darn it. Darn it. DARN IT! ARRGGHH!" the writer screamed, ignoring the thoughts of his neighbors about the loud noises he made, as long as he got to finish his work.

"Why, why am I being punished?! My brain...i-it was full of images. W-Where have they gone?!" He kept on asking the same question to himself as he continued to transfer his thoughts to a piece of paper in front of him.

Up and down. Right and left. Stopped. Pulled the paper, crumpled it, and threw it in the depths of his room.

That's the current lifestyle of the writer living in this apartment. It's as if he was permanently locked in his own imagination, in the own world he created. However, instead of a fairytale, that world was nothing but madness and pure evil.

"What the heck is this?! I must repeat this again!"

While the lonely writer was busy, he hadn't took notice for a very long time on the flowerpot Mrs. Sire had given him. Many purple flowers had bloomed, and somehow these alluring beings continued to grow the same way as the writer continued on being consumed by madness over his writings.

His situation right now was far from the peaceful poets from ancient tales. He was also far from the best-selling authors he used to idolize when he was a kid.

Write. Write. Write. It's easy, and why are you still doing it wrong?! Were the only thoughts that ran in his head.

This kind of madness carried on for days. Loud smashes and crashing objects were heard not only in the whole apartment, but in the neighborhood as well. Some of his neighbors grew concerned about the loud noises coming from the old apartment nearby.

"We should report this to the authorities. I'm worried about the loud noises coming from the place," said a woman named Elsa, as she peeked from her window.

"I'm more surprised that someone still lives in that place. It looks like an abandoned establishment," replied her husband.

Back in the apartment, Mrs. Sire roamed the halls, with an empty flower pot in her hand. She was about to knock on the writer's door until she noticed that it was unlocked. It was odd for him to leave his door open, even a little bit.

When she opened the room, all Mrs. Sire witnessed that the writer had his face buried in the typewriter, as if he was a soulless being. Mrs. Sire calmly walked inside and grabbed the flower pot she once gave to the writer when she last arrived at this place.

She caressed the delicate and smooth petals of the purple flowers, and suddenly turned her attention to the unconscious writer, "I warned you before that they can be playful. I also told you to not allow them to eat you up," Mrs. Sire said sadly, and picked one flower from the plant before walking away from the writer's room.

Mrs. Sire took one last glance, a wicked smirk started to form in her lips, "Never ever wake my morning glories. I hope this will serve you a lesson," before finally shutting the door behind her as the old lady disappeared in the shadows once again.