
The flowers weren’t blooming and that caused only mild distress. Bae watched them valiantly, hands fisted at his thighs as he stood over them. Thelma had told him once already that they would open up just fine, but he couldn’t help the uncertainty that crept into them. The others - a jasmine of some kind that he couldn’t remember the name of - had already bloomed. Another yellow flower - a tulip? - had opened up and glowed a buttery color. But yet the pale pink petals of this particular bunch of flowers remained closed. The mortalborn had moved them from one spot to the next with the shift in the day as the suns traversed the sky. They went from one window to the next and it was in this latest move that he felt it.
A strange pulse that left his whole body thrumming with pain. It had been a few bits since he’d felt it, tears still at the corner of his eyes as he moved on from it. But then it came again, more intense than the first time. A punch to the gut was what it felt like, a headache following not long after. And the tears - they came on more easily with each pulse. Like something had ripped inside and taken every sad part of him, the tears came and they did not stop. Not as the clay pot slipped from his hands and shattered with the next pulse. Not as he felt every part of his body tense up as though it were trying to keep from being torn apart.
A whimper left him as he fell, curling into himself. Thelma might have heard him, or maybe she had not; her hearing wasn’t all that great. But when she turned around he would gone, with the broken pot and soil scattered about in his place.
A strange pulse that left his whole body thrumming with pain. It had been a few bits since he’d felt it, tears still at the corner of his eyes as he moved on from it. But then it came again, more intense than the first time. A punch to the gut was what it felt like, a headache following not long after. And the tears - they came on more easily with each pulse. Like something had ripped inside and taken every sad part of him, the tears came and they did not stop. Not as the clay pot slipped from his hands and shattered with the next pulse. Not as he felt every part of his body tense up as though it were trying to keep from being torn apart.
A whimper left him as he fell, curling into himself. Thelma might have heard him, or maybe she had not; her hearing wasn’t all that great. But when she turned around he would gone, with the broken pot and soil scattered about in his place.
Speech | Thought




