What are Ozlandish Writings?

From July 2010 to December 2014 we ran OZLAND PICTURE STORIES as described below. Sadly though the number of writers reduced over the years and we decided to call it a day. We leave these as a record of the good times we had.

Are "You" ready to challenge your writing skills? Then participate in our OZLAND Picture Stories writing series at The Ozland Art Gallery.

Each month a new picture will be picked, from our OZLAND Artist of the Month collection, with different themes. Your goal is to write a 500-1000 word... poem... essay... or story about the picture picked. This is a chance for you to challenge your writing skills each month. Story can be written in ANY genre... sci fi... romance... ghost... fantasy... fiction... non-fiction... biography... mystery... historical... whatever your writing genre... feel free to experiment. Send your writing inworld to Sven Pertelson as a notecard to have it included on the web site. We meet at the The Ozland Art Gallery each Wednesday at Noon and 6pm SLT to read the latest submissions on voice. More Information

Tuesday, April 16, 2013

*** A Delicate Blossom *** by Teri

*** A Delicate Blossom *** by Teri

She found the letter in her mailbox at work, late on a Friday afternoon. It had been hand-delivered and placed there sometime during her lunch break. The floral envelope and matching paper, made from heavy cream vellum, was infused the delicate scent of lavender and lilac. The note was hand-written with a flowing cursive script and deep blue India ink, obviously using a fountain pen, probably a Waterman. Of course it was unsigned, but then, after being the most intimate of friends for over half of their lives, they could recognise each other’s hand writing with only a glance. The envelope, sealed with red wax, bore only her first initial, “K.”

“Darling; I’ve been a bad girl. I’ve had a dream and I need to share it with you. Please meet me this evening in my meadow. I have a bottle of Cabernet for us to share. Let’s enjoy some win in the sunset, as we help the birds and the bees in their pollination efforts. I will see you soon my love.” She knew who it was from, where the meadow was, and what it meant. Their deep and intimate history had come to be filled with its own special vocabulary based on past conversations and shared dreams. Each phrase held multiple meanings, on multiple levels, only understandable in the context of their common experiences. No reply was needed since only action would truly respond to the letter writer’s requests.

*first Interlude*

Her bedroom was the product of a lifetime of efforts. At first, her fascination with flowers had been limited to a few potted plants sitting in the window. However, over the years, selection of the perfect linens, window treatments, wall paper, and other such details, had lead to a sophisticated and elegant ambiance. The room had jokingly been called “her garden” by one of her friends who had been helping her move some furniture. She had inwardly smiled at how close this innocent quip had come to the pet name that her lover had given the room.

*second Interlude*

After work, K. took a long, hot bath before heading out for the evening. As she had lounged in the lavender scented water, she had nibbled on some fresh grapes and pita chunks generously coated with a warmed Asiago and artichoke dip. She had been tempted to have a glass of wine, but she knew she would be having some later and she didn’t want to get too tipsy. The invitation had said sunset, but her body was saying “now.” She didn’t want to delay, but the rules of their game were never broken. She was being made to deliberately wait so that her need would swell and grow until finally she could only beg for the inevitable conclusion. She decided that she was going to push the limits and arrive fashionably late, even if it almost killed her to do so. Just the thought of her lover, alone, waiting, getting just as needy made her knees clamp tightly together.

*third Interlude*

She heard footsteps before she smelled the scent of perfume. It was familiar and comforting, -- Light Blue, by Dolce and Gabbana. When mixed with the vanilla scent of the candles she had lit and the musky odour of desire, the three blended into a most delicious and intoxicating mixture. She had poured the wine already, into a pair of large mouthed crystal glasses. A strong vintage needed time to breathe to fully develop its intense flavours. She was lounging on a deep pastel green blanket, her creamy, flawless skin almost iridescent in the glowing orange light of the sunset. A scattering of wild rose petals surrounded her. The sun’s warm rays warded off any feelings of exposure but were unable to block the vulnerability she always experienced around K. She glanced guiltily at the half finished bottle beside her, consumed in impatience while she had waited in growing desperation.

Finally, the torment of anticipation over, she felt the penetrating gaze of her lover. “I need... I need help with my garden. I had a dream and you were in it. I need you. I...” Her plea was interrupted and went unfinished.

“Shhhhhhhh. I’m here now. It’s OK, I know what to do.”

Nothing more was said between the two women. Words only served as a distraction. Each knew exactly how to tend their flowers without bruising the petals or pressing too hard on a delicate bud. Careful hours of practice had allowed them to develop their own little specialities and tricks for achieving the fullest blossoms.

Some tasks required the most gentle of touches while others needed a firmer hand. At times, fingers were too rough and an even lighter touch, almost as soft as a kiss, was necessary to achieve the best result. Each blossom had its own schedule and couldn’t be hurried or forced with some taking longer than others to bloom.

As darkness fell, their gardening became easier in the fading light. They were no longer distracted by visual treats, such as the deep pink hues hidden behind the outer petals. With their eyes being of less utility, they relied more on their other senses, such as smell and touch. They became more attuned to the natural muskiness of wild meadow flowers or the feel of dampness caused by dew settling on the stems and outer leaves.

Tonight it was as though the waiting had somehow given the task a sense of urgency. Results came quickly and almost without effort. Though they worked in the darkness for a while, ensuring that nothing was missed or left unfinished, it did not take as long as some nights for both of them to feel the satisfaction of a job well-done.

As they finished cleaning up, gently wiping away any nectar that had dribbled from the blooms, they curled up in each other’s arms and sipped their wine in silence. To ward off the evening chill, K. pulled a blanket up over them. Soon, dreamland beckoned with the promise of another bad girl’s dream, because after all, dreams do come true.

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