Edible Flowers
The last writing challenge was 350 words on "Edible Flowers".
Her husband’s name was Gdansig Kallorifax, but that was the least of her worries. Twelve years of marriage had changed him; she had married an athletic young man with an ardour of passion and vigour that had spread from his heart and his loins to fill every inch of their home, but over the years he had doused these flames with beer and filled the hole they left with food. Now he was a bloated walrus of a man, his skin stretched tight by his burgeoning gut, and he wallowed on the sofa like a beached whale waiting to be floated back to the sea.
The love of food that had replaced his love of her led him down many culinary cul-de-sacs, and, though the sight of him repulsed her, his wife dutifully indulged his variable gluttony. His journey as a gourmand had taken him past raw sea urchin roe, deep fried frog, stinging nettle leaves, chocolate-covered wasps and goat brain curry to his latest stop – flowers. And so she prepared meals for him that, although as unappetising to her as his usual fare, at least had the benefit of being sweetly fragranced.
It wasn’t the flowers that made her snap; she had decided some time ago that something needed to be done. She’d already made the decision. The flowers were just a happy coincidence.
That evening, though, she looked at him as he ate and remembered the good times at the beginning, before he had lost interest in her and in himself, and a doubt surfaced in her mind that asked her if she was doing the right thing. He can change, it said, but she forced it back under, starving it of oxygen, and looked at him as he really was: a lazy, corpulent caricature of the man she had once loved. The doubt had arrived far too late anyway; the nightshade petals had been the first thing on the plate to pass his lips.
Her husband’s name was Gdansig Kallorifax, but that was the least of her worries. Twelve years of marriage had changed him; she had married an athletic young man with an ardour of passion and vigour that had spread from his heart and his loins to fill every inch of their home, but over the years he had doused these flames with beer and filled the hole they left with food. Now he was a bloated walrus of a man, his skin stretched tight by his burgeoning gut, and he wallowed on the sofa like a beached whale waiting to be floated back to the sea.
The love of food that had replaced his love of her led him down many culinary cul-de-sacs, and, though the sight of him repulsed her, his wife dutifully indulged his variable gluttony. His journey as a gourmand had taken him past raw sea urchin roe, deep fried frog, stinging nettle leaves, chocolate-covered wasps and goat brain curry to his latest stop – flowers. And so she prepared meals for him that, although as unappetising to her as his usual fare, at least had the benefit of being sweetly fragranced.
It wasn’t the flowers that made her snap; she had decided some time ago that something needed to be done. She’d already made the decision. The flowers were just a happy coincidence.
That evening, though, she looked at him as he ate and remembered the good times at the beginning, before he had lost interest in her and in himself, and a doubt surfaced in her mind that asked her if she was doing the right thing. He can change, it said, but she forced it back under, starving it of oxygen, and looked at him as he really was: a lazy, corpulent caricature of the man she had once loved. The doubt had arrived far too late anyway; the nightshade petals had been the first thing on the plate to pass his lips.
Next week's challenge will be 300 words with the title "Roland, The Dog-Faced Boy".
posted by Ecks Ridgehead at
6/27/2005 09:10:00 am
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