The Solarium By Night
Down the Garden Path (Miya and Foxglove)
Lost in the Woods
"The only people for me are the mad ones ... mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn....." - Jack Kerouac
Canada: Poisonous Plants / Common Names
Foxglove... sweet-smelling and venomous... to touch her is to know the scintillating sting of pretty poison, hidden behind the delicate facade of a garden of delights... she wears a closely tailored jacket of lavendar satin, ornamented with tufts of marabou at the cuffs and collar, and her hands are always adorned with kidskin gloves of deep lilac that wind up far past her wrists, their palms embroidered with a series of rough-textured French knots that form the belled blooms of her namesake, the fingers weighted with all manner of jewel-encrusted rings... rich purple hair, striking in its contrast to the porcelain of her complexion, is fastened back in a long braid, the end of those silken tresses allowed to swing loose and nip around her waist... wide, soulful eyes the color of fresh raspberries gaze out in almost childlike reflection on the world... around her neck is a thick silver rope chain, and dangling conspicuously at its end is a simple vial of amber glass, no longer than the tip of her pinky, its liquid content sloshing aimlessly with every step she takes... slaver and collector at the Realm of Thorns...
"Into every girl's life a little marabou must fall."
Not every denizen of the grand MorCon estate is confined to the hedonistic veil of night... in fact, one or two are most comfortable with the sun's warming rays, particularly when that solar glow makes its rare appearance in the cloud-addled winter sky, enriching the soil and feeding the foliage so that it can grow up big and strong.
And so it is that Foxglove makes her slippered way around the outside of the estate property, eggplant braid swinging idly over one shoulder as she bends to the ground, searching out those few wildflowers that have not withered under winter's blight.
"Big and strong," she mouths over and over, with the desperate, muttering whisper of a madwoman, as slender lilac fingertips dance a nimble fairy waltz over the greenery. "Big and strong... big and strong... hang in there, my little lovelies... for winter's almost gone"
Step by step she goes, the cream of her cheeks dotted with raspberries of fever, caressing each leaf and brushing away the hindrance of frost with the tenderness of a mother's love.
"There's rosemary, that's for remembrance... and there is pansies, that's for thoughts..."
So intent is she on what she sees as vital work, a mission not to be hampered by anything so pedestrian as awareness of the world outside her own delirium, that she hardly notices the tree, or the figure leaning against it, for that matter...
"You must wear your rue with a difference... There's a daisy... I would give you some violets..."
...until, in her rambling, she collides with him so abruptly that he can no longer be ignored, and the impact sends her toppling to the ground. It's a short fall, but a fall nonetheless, leaving her shaken and bristling with indignance as she lands on the padding of open, gloved palms and a satin-draped posterior.
Her ire is stopped short, however, as her gaze travels up the length of his bulky frame, amethyst eyes widening to ever greater proportions with each passing moment.
"...but... they... withered away..." is all she can think to say.