Dandelion Clock
Written for the prompt 'dandelion' on story_lottery. When I saw it, and realised that this was prompt number 19(the age I turn today) out of the prompts I'd chosen, I decided to write this as a birthday present to myself.
She lay back in the field, counting the number of puffs it took her to empty the dandelion.
One, two, three…
All alone, with the setting sun near, it felt like the end of time. It felt like nothing existed but the girl, the field and the wind blowing away the dandelion seeds.
No one but herself.
No one to torment her, or scorn her, or deny her existence.
No one to look at her oddly, or turn away, or say, “What a freak.”
Just herself, whiling the fading sunshine away, the queen of all she surveyed.
Four, five…
The moon had appeared, a little over half a circle of silver that barely stood out on the opposite end of the sky from the sunset. Between the day and the night; the time of twilight, of dusk, of edges… the symbolism would have worked better if the moon had waned a little more to be a proper half-moon, but no matter. She liked these little things, things that said to her, “there is a purpose. Life is not random; there is an order and a reason to our being here, being now.”
Six, seven, eight…
Puff after puff of dandelion seeds flew away. She had propped herself up on her elbow to watch the wind carry them away into the reds and oranges of the sky, little bits of fluff with promises of new lives.
A new life…
She chewed a while on that thought. If she was someone else…
If she had been a boy, would he be as awkward as she had been? Would he fit in better with his gender than she had with hers? Would he be more comfortable with the opposite gender than she was?
Would he be better than her?
If she was the younger sister, would she be as resentful of her sibling as she was now? Would she have done well with the opportunities that she could not have had by virtue of age? Would she have a better relationship… or worse?
Would her sister love her more, or less?
Nine, ten…
The sky got darker by degrees, eventually startling her out of her reverie. She sat up and looked around, at the flowers and the grass, different as the light faded, almost alien. It was as if she wasn’t on Earth anymore, that the only links between this and the Earth she knew were the sunset and the dandelions in her hand, by her side.
She held up a new, whole one in her hand and began counting off the hours again. Puff after puff…
Eleven…
The question from before drifted back, and now she turned it around. If she weren’t anybody, if she had never existed, would the lives of her loved ones be any different? Her friends? Her enemies? Anyone she had ever met?
A better life? Or worse?
Wheels within wheels within wheels. The ripples in a pond. The butterfly effect.
One person never had an elder sister, and so was the focus of all the parental attention, and so was more stressed, and so was more unsocial, and so met fewer people.
One person never met a girl who didn’t talk, and so never had a friend who could tell all she knew of the world were she but asked, and so never wanted to travel to a spot in the world where lights danced in the sky, and so never met her true love.
One person never…
The world would be changed, ever so subtly, if she had never existed. Wouldn’t it? Or would it be much the same, but for one little hole, something that said, to those with the ears to hear, the eyes to see, “someone is missing from the world”?
Twelve, thirteen…
She crushed a handful of dandelions, and then opened her fist to blow away the seeds. It was getting colder now, and the sun was beginning to dip beneath the horizon. She rubbed her arms absently, to warm them, and stood for a moment, stretching her limbs. Joints crackled as she moved.
She found herself suppressing a chuckle at the reminder of her physical self, and then wondered why she was suppressing it at all. There was no one else around to hear her, after all. So she let her laughter ring out, soft and cheerful, in the fading light of the field.
No one else.
No one to judge her, or criticize her.
No one at all…
She suddenly felt desperately lonely. The wind blew harder now, and she wrapped her arms around herself.
No one to smile at her.
No one to say, “that’s great!”
No one to laugh or joke with her.
No one, even, from across the globe, to type a few words of encouragement or hope that might brighten her day for no reason at all.
Fourteen, fifteen…
She rubbed the back of her hand over her eyes, and turned away from the wind. It was blowing in her eyes, making them sting; that was where the tears were coming from, she told herself. She would have to leave soon; it was getting late.
In the east, the moon was brighter now, and there was one twinkling dot that she knew wasn’t a star. In the west, the sun was almost three quarters below the horizon.
Time was running out. Now she began walking across the field, back to the crowds and the people who loved her.
Sixteen, seventeen, eighteen…
There was a patch of mimosa along her path, so she rubbed her foot across it and watched the leaves slowly fold. The ‘shy-shy’ plant, her mother called it; the plant that she had always thought of as her own. Beside it was another patch of dandelions; instead of plucking a bunch this time, she took just one, and walked with her back to the wind, sheltering it. She started the count of the hours again, keeping each puff gentle and soft.
Nineteen.
Seven in the evening; just right. No time past that of the dandelion clock, nor time left on it.
Nineteen hours of being nineteen. Nineteen hours of being in between being a teen and an adult. Nineteen hours, of which the last two had been spent alone with herself.
Perhaps the next year would be easier.
===
If you grew up on Enid Blyton, you'd probably have come across mentions of the dandelion clock in her stories. Basically, you blow on it, the number of puffs it takes to empty the dandelion is the current hour. Obviously, it's usually inaccurate.
Of the people mentioned here, most are real, but a few are not.
She lay back in the field, counting the number of puffs it took her to empty the dandelion.
One, two, three…
All alone, with the setting sun near, it felt like the end of time. It felt like nothing existed but the girl, the field and the wind blowing away the dandelion seeds.
No one but herself.
No one to torment her, or scorn her, or deny her existence.
No one to look at her oddly, or turn away, or say, “What a freak.”
Just herself, whiling the fading sunshine away, the queen of all she surveyed.
Four, five…
The moon had appeared, a little over half a circle of silver that barely stood out on the opposite end of the sky from the sunset. Between the day and the night; the time of twilight, of dusk, of edges… the symbolism would have worked better if the moon had waned a little more to be a proper half-moon, but no matter. She liked these little things, things that said to her, “there is a purpose. Life is not random; there is an order and a reason to our being here, being now.”
Six, seven, eight…
Puff after puff of dandelion seeds flew away. She had propped herself up on her elbow to watch the wind carry them away into the reds and oranges of the sky, little bits of fluff with promises of new lives.
A new life…
She chewed a while on that thought. If she was someone else…
If she had been a boy, would he be as awkward as she had been? Would he fit in better with his gender than she had with hers? Would he be more comfortable with the opposite gender than she was?
Would he be better than her?
If she was the younger sister, would she be as resentful of her sibling as she was now? Would she have done well with the opportunities that she could not have had by virtue of age? Would she have a better relationship… or worse?
Would her sister love her more, or less?
Nine, ten…
The sky got darker by degrees, eventually startling her out of her reverie. She sat up and looked around, at the flowers and the grass, different as the light faded, almost alien. It was as if she wasn’t on Earth anymore, that the only links between this and the Earth she knew were the sunset and the dandelions in her hand, by her side.
She held up a new, whole one in her hand and began counting off the hours again. Puff after puff…
Eleven…
The question from before drifted back, and now she turned it around. If she weren’t anybody, if she had never existed, would the lives of her loved ones be any different? Her friends? Her enemies? Anyone she had ever met?
A better life? Or worse?
Wheels within wheels within wheels. The ripples in a pond. The butterfly effect.
One person never had an elder sister, and so was the focus of all the parental attention, and so was more stressed, and so was more unsocial, and so met fewer people.
One person never met a girl who didn’t talk, and so never had a friend who could tell all she knew of the world were she but asked, and so never wanted to travel to a spot in the world where lights danced in the sky, and so never met her true love.
One person never…
The world would be changed, ever so subtly, if she had never existed. Wouldn’t it? Or would it be much the same, but for one little hole, something that said, to those with the ears to hear, the eyes to see, “someone is missing from the world”?
Twelve, thirteen…
She crushed a handful of dandelions, and then opened her fist to blow away the seeds. It was getting colder now, and the sun was beginning to dip beneath the horizon. She rubbed her arms absently, to warm them, and stood for a moment, stretching her limbs. Joints crackled as she moved.
She found herself suppressing a chuckle at the reminder of her physical self, and then wondered why she was suppressing it at all. There was no one else around to hear her, after all. So she let her laughter ring out, soft and cheerful, in the fading light of the field.
No one else.
No one to judge her, or criticize her.
No one at all…
She suddenly felt desperately lonely. The wind blew harder now, and she wrapped her arms around herself.
No one to smile at her.
No one to say, “that’s great!”
No one to laugh or joke with her.
No one, even, from across the globe, to type a few words of encouragement or hope that might brighten her day for no reason at all.
Fourteen, fifteen…
She rubbed the back of her hand over her eyes, and turned away from the wind. It was blowing in her eyes, making them sting; that was where the tears were coming from, she told herself. She would have to leave soon; it was getting late.
In the east, the moon was brighter now, and there was one twinkling dot that she knew wasn’t a star. In the west, the sun was almost three quarters below the horizon.
Time was running out. Now she began walking across the field, back to the crowds and the people who loved her.
Sixteen, seventeen, eighteen…
There was a patch of mimosa along her path, so she rubbed her foot across it and watched the leaves slowly fold. The ‘shy-shy’ plant, her mother called it; the plant that she had always thought of as her own. Beside it was another patch of dandelions; instead of plucking a bunch this time, she took just one, and walked with her back to the wind, sheltering it. She started the count of the hours again, keeping each puff gentle and soft.
Nineteen.
Seven in the evening; just right. No time past that of the dandelion clock, nor time left on it.
Nineteen hours of being nineteen. Nineteen hours of being in between being a teen and an adult. Nineteen hours, of which the last two had been spent alone with herself.
Perhaps the next year would be easier.
===
If you grew up on Enid Blyton, you'd probably have come across mentions of the dandelion clock in her stories. Basically, you blow on it, the number of puffs it takes to empty the dandelion is the current hour. Obviously, it's usually inaccurate.
Of the people mentioned here, most are real, but a few are not.