{short story}
There was something about the soft lavender scent of the sweater that reminded her of home, and helped her make peace with the adrenaline-fueled scene of insanity she had come to be known as a fixture of in the bright, sparkling city of L.A.
Part I: March 16th, 1968
The eager orange sunlight trickled through the open windowpane and onto the face of an auburn-haired maiden with sparkling cerulean eyes. Her birth name was left a complete mystery to her Californian confidantes, but they were more than happy to refer to this gently resting girl with her delicately fluttering eyelashes as “Flower”. Sensing the world was now awake and ready to be played with, Flower emerged from her shallow slumber and gazed longingly at the multi-coloured boutiques which sat opposite her window. She knew many of the women who worked at those shops, as she was enamored by the rich fabrics they sold: crushed velvet and pleated satin in tangerine, emerald and mulberry.
Flower rolled onto her side and fiddled with the bronze latch of her pine-wood dresser, aching for a morning dose of her favourite herbaceous pick-me-up. Once opened, she expertly navigated her fingers around the overly-cramped drawer, making sure to avoid the fuchsia feather boa she intended on wearing out to the clubs that night, and the envelope she had recently received from her guitar-wielding Romeo while he was away on tour. Flower’s index eventually settled on the smooth glass bottle which held her sinful collection of masterfully rolled blunts, and she lit one up in honour of the raucous night she had just had with a couple of her groovy girlfriends from San Francisco.
As the serene morning sun gave way to a subdued midday cornflower, the fair maiden abandoned her lush nest of frayed bohemian blankets and feather-downed puffy pillows in favour of an oak chest in the corner of her room. Flower was positively enchanted by fashion, and she fed this absurd obsession with the most modern styles from all around the globe: tweed-miniskirts and collared shift-dresses, fringe-lined vests and paisley bell-bottoms, dragon-printed kimonos and corduroy culottes. Cowboy boots lay atop kitten heels and thigh-highs on her closet’s bottom level, while pendant necklaces entangled themselves with flower crowns and pearl earrings in baskets on its top.
Flower’s absolute favourite garment however, was not one of her chic European numbers nor a trendy Angeleno piece, but a cable-knit baby blue sweater her grandmother had made for her the day before she left for California. There was something about the soft lavender scent of the sweater that reminded her of home, and helped her make peace with the adrenaline-fueled scene of insanity she had come to be known as a fixture of in the bright, sparkling city of L.A.
Part II: July 4th, 1968
The multicoloured strobe lights echoed through the smoke-filled club and illuminated the movements of one freckle-faced maiden with an elegantly slender frame. Amidst the pulsating sounds of psychedelic rock and coy giggles from adolescent groupies, came the confident voice of a young man addressing the maiden who swum in kaleidoscope lights: “Hey, hey Flower!” She spun to face him, and when she twirled, her knee-length lacey dress and daisy-embedded hair twirled along with her. Flower’s sapphire eyes widened at the sight of her dearly beloved, as it had been approximately four and a half months since she had delighted in the cigarette-scented presence of her very own rock-and-roll god. “Dean!” she shrieked before leaping into his arms and devilishly attacking his neck with a fervent constellation of delicate, champagne-soaked kisses.
He caressed her shoulders like an angel, but gripped her thighs like a Greek hero, as he too was irrefutably enamored by the slice of strawberry shortcake he could finally call his again after months away on an overwhelming, overcrowded tour bus. “So so so! Tell me everything, you have to tell me absolutely everything! What was New York like? Wait no, forget that, what was Chicago like?”, Flower giddily squeaked out while holding onto her boyfriend like he was a life raft and she was an adrift floater terribly afraid of water. Dean set the hysterically elated young woman down on a marble bar counter and stood directly in front of her so that she could wrap her legs around him, and he could stare up longingly into her glimmering doe eyes. “Oh darling you know how much I love playing live. The roaring crowds, the blaring lights - it’s all so invigorating my love”, he crooned to Flower, “But you know, nothing beats coming home and seeing my little girl in our big, bright L.A. home”
Flower blushed a deep rose as she ran her fingers along her lover’s jawline: “Well, you know how much I love it when you come home. I missed you, a lot. More than most times I think.” Dean smirked with content as he teasingly bit her index finger when it neared the corner of his mouth: “More than most times? How so, my love? Please tell me, so that I know how to do things better the next time I leave. I would hate to think of my precious flower as overly lonesome in my absence.” Flower hopped off of the bar counter and laced her arms around Dean’s neck, pulling him into such a tight embrace he could smell her faint lavender perfume and cinnamon flavoured chewing gum: “Don’t worry it’s fine, just please make it up to me now.”
Part III: November 5th, 1968
The sullen glow of dusk filtered through a rigid set of woolen curtains in wisps, and lent a faint scent of early winter crispness to an otherwise stuffy living room that an otherworldly maiden in a richly decorated ensemble served as the centrepiece of. She radiated an indescribable energy as she sat curled up in front of an olive-green television set, eyes emblazoned with anxiety and feet rhythmically tapping to static, until an unknown voice called out, “Flower!” As though awoken from a trance, Flower readjusted her posture and lent forward to masterfully fiddle with the clumsy dials no other being in her apartment could comprehend. “Have you got the signal going yet, Flower,” an exotically tall girl with smooth chestnut skin and entrancing emerald eyes inquired.
“Just about Willow,” Flower chirped while working upon the irritatingly challenging piece of technology with all her might. “Hey, give her a break Will, it’s a hard job being both intelligent and gorgeous,” Dean jested while joining the company of his beloved seamstress girlfriend and her avidly political best friend. “I know, I know this is just, a big day for me… for all of us really,” Willow stated matter-of-factly while pacing up and down the ornate carpet, “It’s a miracle none of you bit the bullet.” She was referring, of course, to the draft President Johnson had instituted a year before Flower had moved to L.A.; a non-negotiable deal with the devil that loomed longingly over the heads of every male artist, poet and musician currently situated in her apartment.
The room grew eerily still and Flower paused her handy-work to gaze dolefully at her dear Dean; tall, slender and charming, with ivory skin, seafoam eyes and long, blonde hair: beautiful, but no match for a war tank. Tears began to well in her cerulean eyes, and Dean took her into his arms; allowing Flower to bury her head in the crook of his neck and soak his mahogany collar in rivers of passion, sorrow and fear. “Oh, I um, perhaps I should have used a more delicate tone,” Willow ashamedly uttered while glancing apologetically at the crowd of creatives who slowly streamed into the eclectically decorated living room. A suave young man with mocha skin and glimmering hazel eyes emerged from the flock to assist in Flower’s dial-fiddling duties, as she had promptly abandoned them to lament the evils which threatened her lover’s life instead. Dean peppered Flower’s cheek with kisses and traced lines down her back as she lay completely enveloped in his warmth; unwilling to budge and unable to let go.
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