Aesthetic short stories

pressed flowers

As the darkness from the night flooded the world, layed a girl on her bed. A blunt in between her black painted fingers, thick smoke swirling around. Her eyes spilled star's down her red tinted face, as the lips quiver a lip sync movement.

"I fly like paper get high like planes.

If you catch me at the border i got visas in my name."

A soft puff of smoke from a cigarette, swirling into the air. The girl giggles, high as a kite. Eyes wide as cherry pies this girl isn't got a clue what reality she's in.

"If you come around here, I make 'em all day
I get one down in a second if you wait"

The smoke form into little planes flying all around the room leaving trails of white. She giggled again, while sweeping her hand in the cloud of planes as they all go away in every direction fading away.

"Sometimes I think sitting on trains
Every stop I get to I'm clicking my gun
Everyone's a winner we're making that fame
Bonafide hustler making my name"

The sound of a screeching train could be heard from outside, rumbling hard on the track's vibrating the small town. Car horns beeping from impatience with possible frustration due to the train barreling down as loud as it can.

The light from outside lamps illuminate into the dark room, casting black shadows while moths flutter around it. A night sky full of stars with sparkles twinkling, smoke planes swirling delicately. The girl is high up in the sky, with the stars and planes floating into a blue moon.

An escape from a disturbing reality, one could say.  Like picking a flower from a crack in the sidewalk, and thinking it's so pretty you want it to last forever.

The trick to that is to get a book, and put the flower in between the pages and close it. Give it a few days and there. A perfectly content flower with its beauty persevered. Yes it was picked, and once any plant is picked it automatically slowly starts to die.

But there are ways to always keep it from losing it's worth, like pressing it flat in a book.