[story] unconventional messengers
author: ariel naughtwell (allseeingusagi / exorealistic)
The flowers first appeared two weeks ago in her dreams. Dyta didn't take much notice to them; she knew that they were there but didn't take them as anything special. Their significance was buried among other things - starring in a play, seeing an old friend, or meeting a handsome dandy she later found was a woman. If it weren't for her dream journal, she probably wouldn't have remembered the flowers at all.
They started to take center stage five days into those two weeks. Dyta remembered the small café her dream self was working in. It was an intimate affair. The café itself was tucked at an intersection but was still easy to go to. The lighting was a dreamy mid-afternoon (in another dream, it was early morning), and there was only one customer left for her to attend to. They talked without words. He read the paper while she polished off a few dishes under the counter. He folded his paper and nodded to her. She smiled before turning her gaze down to his empty coffee mug.
Dyta stared in disbelief at the flower he had left behind. It was a beautiful, yellow carnation. It looked real, maybe freshly plucked. Despite the kindness of the gesture, she didn't feel appreciation or adoration fill her chest. Instead, she was caught off-guard and was stuck in a stone-like state. Her hand hovered over the dirtied coffee mug, and she never took her unblinking green eyes off the flower. When she woke up, she felt loss. Not because of the flower but her reaction to it. Dyta placed a hand on the back of her neck, rubbing there idly before she logged it in her dream journal. She spent fifteen minutes reading some of her older, stranger entries, had a laugh with each one she found, and finally pulled away from her bedsheets. She tried not to think about the yellow flower or her odd reaction towards it.
Two days later, Dyta dreamed of seeing the handsome quaintrelle on a sidewalk. They stood next to a boulevard in some nameless, breathtaking city. Dyta felt at ease; the place was like home to her. The visual frame of her dream was limited. People and cars drifted in and out of the frame, never settling for long. She could only see a slice of the street as well as a lake in the distance. It softened the atmosphere (and upon waking, she wondered if she had ever seen the place before). The handsome woman had come with a bouquet in her arms. It was large enough to cradle. There was a closer view of their faces as Dyta marveled at the gift and held it with the same carefulness when the dandizette handed it over.
They talked about the flowers. Again, there were no words, just silent gestures and broad smiles. The handsome woman left after a shallow bow. Dyta gave a wave of her fingers and turned away. A wave of petals fell as she turned away; a coloured mix of white-pinks, burgundies, and deep reds. Dyta frowned and watched as the petals disintegrated before touching the ground. When she woke up, she described the flowers to her younger brother. She could only recall them as vibrant, falling, floral shuttlecock. Civet sketched it quickly with one hand; he had an iced mocha in his other hand. When he turned the sketchbook, he lowered his drink to talk. "They're cyclamen," he said. "I only know that because they're our substitute's favourite - and she brought them to class, so."
The train continued with flowers delivered, falling, or dying. Her reaction was always some shade of disbelief, bordering on horror. She began to look up the meaning of the flowers, never once having an interest in the practice beforehand. "Rejection" "Resignation/Good-bye" "Beware" "Sadness" (Okay, that she could have figured on her own, considering a small girl showered her in dead leaves.)
Those two weeks went by quickly and mostly quietly. There was a wave a bad news that followed; she was hesitant to say it was all more than just a coincidence. The flower dreams were beautiful, but she couldn't accept that they were all signaling such bad change in her life (and in the life of those around her). Dyta dug her fingers into her hair and gripped the curly tresses, trying to sort through all the discord in her life. Her brother was great reassurance, but even his hope lessened after a wave of bad news. She found it hard to be his shoulder to lean on when she felt so disconnected from reality herself.
She wasn't sure how long things had gone on for - a month, maybe more? Her only solace was sleep. There was no crushing sense of failure. There was no hopelessness or rejection. She didn't dream at all, and she wasn't sure if that was a blessing or a curse. The first time she dreamt in a long while, it felt like a breath of fresh air. She sat in a dress in an open field. It was so typical, maybe, but she was glad for the simplicity. As a spectator to her own dreams, she balked at any beauty or cinematic setup. For a while, she feared the worse. Tonight was blissfully different.
At least for a while.
The handsome woman was bad with a garment over her right arm. Dyta rose to her feet, running backwards in surprise. The woman reached out for her before revealing the garment. It was a white suit jacket with a long coattail covered in flowers. Dyta was skeptical but couldn't resist an offered gift. The nameless woman described the flowers, telling this name and that. Carnations, pink this time, joined the decorations of azaleas and crocus. Dyta felt at ease as the dandizette recited each name and as nimble fingers smoothed out the cloth over her arms. There was no incredulity, no awe. She leaned her head forward as she was crowned with cacti and dandelions. She expected them to hurt, but it sat comfortably upon her head. The quaintrelle nodded her head slowly. When their eyes met again, Dyta was happy to wake up.
She wasn't sure what any of those flowers meant, though that wouldn't be the first time. She rubbed a hand over her shoulder and sighed out heavily. She was glad to be awake. She didn't feel any stress, confusion, or hesitance like before. Today felt different somehow. No point in questioning it. Dyta smiled softly to herself. She had to face the day ahead. It would be tiring, but for one reason or another, she felt ready.
The flowers first appeared two weeks ago in her dreams. Dyta didn't take much notice to them; she knew that they were there but didn't take them as anything special. Their significance was buried among other things - starring in a play, seeing an old friend, or meeting a handsome dandy she later found was a woman. If it weren't for her dream journal, she probably wouldn't have remembered the flowers at all.
They started to take center stage five days into those two weeks. Dyta remembered the small café her dream self was working in. It was an intimate affair. The café itself was tucked at an intersection but was still easy to go to. The lighting was a dreamy mid-afternoon (in another dream, it was early morning), and there was only one customer left for her to attend to. They talked without words. He read the paper while she polished off a few dishes under the counter. He folded his paper and nodded to her. She smiled before turning her gaze down to his empty coffee mug.
Dyta stared in disbelief at the flower he had left behind. It was a beautiful, yellow carnation. It looked real, maybe freshly plucked. Despite the kindness of the gesture, she didn't feel appreciation or adoration fill her chest. Instead, she was caught off-guard and was stuck in a stone-like state. Her hand hovered over the dirtied coffee mug, and she never took her unblinking green eyes off the flower. When she woke up, she felt loss. Not because of the flower but her reaction to it. Dyta placed a hand on the back of her neck, rubbing there idly before she logged it in her dream journal. She spent fifteen minutes reading some of her older, stranger entries, had a laugh with each one she found, and finally pulled away from her bedsheets. She tried not to think about the yellow flower or her odd reaction towards it.
Two days later, Dyta dreamed of seeing the handsome quaintrelle on a sidewalk. They stood next to a boulevard in some nameless, breathtaking city. Dyta felt at ease; the place was like home to her. The visual frame of her dream was limited. People and cars drifted in and out of the frame, never settling for long. She could only see a slice of the street as well as a lake in the distance. It softened the atmosphere (and upon waking, she wondered if she had ever seen the place before). The handsome woman had come with a bouquet in her arms. It was large enough to cradle. There was a closer view of their faces as Dyta marveled at the gift and held it with the same carefulness when the dandizette handed it over.
They talked about the flowers. Again, there were no words, just silent gestures and broad smiles. The handsome woman left after a shallow bow. Dyta gave a wave of her fingers and turned away. A wave of petals fell as she turned away; a coloured mix of white-pinks, burgundies, and deep reds. Dyta frowned and watched as the petals disintegrated before touching the ground. When she woke up, she described the flowers to her younger brother. She could only recall them as vibrant, falling, floral shuttlecock. Civet sketched it quickly with one hand; he had an iced mocha in his other hand. When he turned the sketchbook, he lowered his drink to talk. "They're cyclamen," he said. "I only know that because they're our substitute's favourite - and she brought them to class, so."
The train continued with flowers delivered, falling, or dying. Her reaction was always some shade of disbelief, bordering on horror. She began to look up the meaning of the flowers, never once having an interest in the practice beforehand. "Rejection" "Resignation/Good-bye" "Beware" "Sadness" (Okay, that she could have figured on her own, considering a small girl showered her in dead leaves.)
Those two weeks went by quickly and mostly quietly. There was a wave a bad news that followed; she was hesitant to say it was all more than just a coincidence. The flower dreams were beautiful, but she couldn't accept that they were all signaling such bad change in her life (and in the life of those around her). Dyta dug her fingers into her hair and gripped the curly tresses, trying to sort through all the discord in her life. Her brother was great reassurance, but even his hope lessened after a wave of bad news. She found it hard to be his shoulder to lean on when she felt so disconnected from reality herself.
She wasn't sure how long things had gone on for - a month, maybe more? Her only solace was sleep. There was no crushing sense of failure. There was no hopelessness or rejection. She didn't dream at all, and she wasn't sure if that was a blessing or a curse. The first time she dreamt in a long while, it felt like a breath of fresh air. She sat in a dress in an open field. It was so typical, maybe, but she was glad for the simplicity. As a spectator to her own dreams, she balked at any beauty or cinematic setup. For a while, she feared the worse. Tonight was blissfully different.
At least for a while.
The handsome woman was bad with a garment over her right arm. Dyta rose to her feet, running backwards in surprise. The woman reached out for her before revealing the garment. It was a white suit jacket with a long coattail covered in flowers. Dyta was skeptical but couldn't resist an offered gift. The nameless woman described the flowers, telling this name and that. Carnations, pink this time, joined the decorations of azaleas and crocus. Dyta felt at ease as the dandizette recited each name and as nimble fingers smoothed out the cloth over her arms. There was no incredulity, no awe. She leaned her head forward as she was crowned with cacti and dandelions. She expected them to hurt, but it sat comfortably upon her head. The quaintrelle nodded her head slowly. When their eyes met again, Dyta was happy to wake up.
She wasn't sure what any of those flowers meant, though that wouldn't be the first time. She rubbed a hand over her shoulder and sighed out heavily. She was glad to be awake. She didn't feel any stress, confusion, or hesitance like before. Today felt different somehow. No point in questioning it. Dyta smiled softly to herself. She had to face the day ahead. It would be tiring, but for one reason or another, she felt ready.