The Flower Stalker
Rusty’s window overlooked the windswept panorama that jutted raft-like from the sleepy sound. The water there was always cool and deep even on a sunny day. But today, the weather was in a dark mood, perfectly gray around the edges, speaking of despair in blustery notes to anyone with an ear for such things. He’d watched the day drift towards a ghostly white moon, while he scribbled, mused and bit his pen, floundering on the abyss of creative emptiness.
The notepad was a chaos of doodles, not a sensible word anywhere at all.
Rusty waited. The fairground to the left of his view began to glitter lazily. Soon it would be all action and lights, mock enthusiasm and sparkle in an attempt to draw a crowd. He marveled that the dreadful rides always managed to command an audience, no matter the weather.
He stared at the pergola-type, framed entrance and waited.
Then like magic there she was. A shadow against the strobes. She just stood there, her yellow polka dot dress tearing at the wind and billowing, fetchingly against her slight frame. She never went in, that was the thing of it, she just stood and watched as if fun might be had by that action alone. She intrigued him; showing up the way she did, every evening.
He wanted to talk to her, discover her fascination; quell his own.
Forgetting all about his deadlines and his negative bank balance. Rusty bounded from his desk in a purposeful trajectory. He had to catch her before she disappeared.
The night, although neon-rimmed courtesy of the dipper-rides, was icy and dim, but his curiosity baited and drove him forward.
But she was gone…
A dank wet patch stretched mournfully towards the sound from the spot he’d seen her at.
“What are you doing lad?” Rusty jumped, his heart aflutter, he spun on his heels towards the voice.
“Nothing, just looking...just looking, that’s all.”
The voice belonged to a tall man with a long, fair-ground inspired beard. He wore a dark suit with stars-and-stripes patches and a pair of three-quarter boots. He smiled a yellowed, toothy smile at Rusty and cocked a wickedly hairy eyebrow in the direction of the mist-covered sound.
“Gone, she is. You’re not the first. Heavens you won’t be the last. But boy, let me tell you she was as toxically perfect in life as she is now. Turn yourself away, my dear fellow. Her pain cannot be stilled.”
Rusty laughed.
“Old man are you mad? I don’t believe in nonsense.”
He heard the man say suit yourself as he swung himself against giant rain drops that heralded a massive storm.
Rusty ran through the wind to the water, and there she was…
Slight, dainty and pale against the rushing sky.
“I love you know? I really do.”
Rusty looked behind, he looked left, then right, but there was no one else to be seen. He felt a cold dread infuse his bones.
“What can I do for you?” He sprouted, without knowing why.
She looked at him with dark, fathomless eyes.
“Why don’t you bring me flowers anymore, my love, why?”
Rusty felt her insanity grip him, he felt her pain ride straight through his heart.
But he knew what to do, how to put her to rest.
A haunting gift of perfection.