When an Agave Loves a Ficus

She's done it again.   this is from writing instructor Ann Linquist:

The Secret Life of Plants

I once knew an agave cactus who admitted to me that he was in love with a ficus fig.  He knew the romance couldn’t last since he only bloomed once a century, and Ms. Fig was expecting some sort of overt display of affection.

And my response: 

 “Angus, if you don’t stop your moping about, your leaves will freeze in that position.”

“Mother, that’s an old wives’ tale,” said Angus, even though he suspected it might be true because every day he noticed that though his leaves were growing longer, they were starting to droop at the tips.

“What is the matter with you, son?”

“It’s Francine, Mother. I simply can’t think of a way to get her to notice me.”

“Francine? Francine!!! You mean that ficus fig down the street? Why, Angus, you can do much better than someone from that Moraceae family.”

“But, I love her. I’m thinking about going to the hardware store and getting some fertilizer high in phosphorus so I’ll bloom young and she’ll notice me.”

“Oh, my Monocots! I’ve never heard of such a thing. You know what happens after you bloom, don’t you? What would any woman want of a Silversword about to die, even a ficus?”

“What? What did you say? Did you call me a Silversword? I thought I was an Agave.”

“Only on your father’s side, Angus, and that was many generations ago. Look at your leaves, you foolish boy. Don’t you see how silvery there are? And do you not see how you have no spines like your father has?”

“Yes, but I thought they were his whiskers.”

“Angus, just go Google Silversword.”

Weeks later, Angus mustered the courage to speak to Francine Ficus. 

“Francine, I have been wanting to talk with you for a very long time. Is this a good time?”

“Why, Angus Agave, I thought you’d never speak to me,” said Francine. Angus was too nervous to pick up on that clue, so he blundered onwards like a teenaged boy.

“Francine, I know it is customary for suitors to bring Miracle Gro fertilizer or See’s Chocolates or 1-800 Flowers when calling on a lady fig. I, however, cannot carry any of those items. I thought about forcing myself to bloom, but then I would shrivel and die and that is counter to my purpose.

“Therefore, dear Francine, I would like to ask your father, Franklin Ficus, if I may have your hand in what amounts to marriage in the Kingdom Plantae. Being a careful planner, I wanted to discuss this with you first.”

“Why, Angus, this is such a surprise. I’ll have to consider this. Where would we live? In the harsh desert with the scorching sun and blasting sand? That would be so hard on my complexion.”

“No, my love. A tropical kingdom awaits us on a distant island, the island of my forebears, on my mother’s side. I plan to travel there with you and live in Paradise.”

Riding through a rare and protected Silversword forest.

“But, Angus, the agave families live in deserts or in xeriscape yards.”

“My sweet Francine. Not long ago I found out I was but a distant relative of the Agave Family. I am a specimen of the rare Silversword and we will live with my brethren in our ancestral home, The House of the Sun. I can promise you an island in the sky where the clouds spread out below us like a second layer of ocean,” said Angus, plagiarizing his Google research.

"A second layer of ocean."

“I promise you soft showers that will keep your complexion always young.

I promise you all the colors of the rainbow within your view, colors that shape-shift as the sun moves from side to side.

 In the evenings as the sun sets, you will see the ropes of hair that Maui used to lasso the sun and bind it to the earth. It is there that Maui lives and keeps vigil so the sun does not move too quickly across the sky, causing the kapa cloth not to dry and the fruits not to ripen.”

In Hawaiian legend, the rays of the setting sun are the ropes that Maui used to bind the sun to the earth.

“Maui!” exclaimed Francine. 

“Yes, dear Francine. I promise you Haleakala Crater on the island of Maui if you will marry me.”

“Oh, Angus, I’ve always wanted to go to Hawaii.”

A Writing Prompt from Ann Linquist

(Another break from the road trip while I gas up the truck.)

The prompt:

The postcard showed five women in jazzy hats.  The backdrop was a dappled pink.  Not a scene, just something painted in.   June started to throw the postcard away, and then she hesitated.

The response:

Molly held the postcard in her hands and marveled at the background rendered in pink bokeh. She had another postcard like this somewhere in the house, with the background in aqua. She should put this one with it, she decided. Molly liked putting apples with apples and oranges with oranges, or, in this case, postcards with postcards.

Simetimes, though, the effort required to do that was just too much and Molly gave up. Her intentions were good, but with the way things were these days, she simply couldn’t manage.

She looked around the room, wondering where her postcard collection was. “If I were a postcard,” she asked, “Where would I be?” She decided to start her search in the second bedroom, the one she hadn’t been in for years. She vaguely recalled seeing some postcards in there a long time ago.

Molly struggled out of her chair and slowly made her way to the hallway and the second bedroom. She never called it a “guest room” because it had been so many years since she’d had an overnight guest, well… She just couldn’t remember when. That’s how things are these days, she thought.

She stood at the door opening and said “Postcards, postcards, where are you?” A few minutes later, Molly decided she would save the search for another day, and made her way down the hall to the kitchen where she slipped the postcard under the edge of a stack of magazines on the counter—the ones she meant to read some day.

“The keepers” she called them, but it seemed she never had time to get at them. That’s how things are these days, she thought.

Exhausted from her efforts, Molly sat down on the pile of clothing in front of the washer and dryer. I really should get to these clothes, but I just don’t have the energy, she thought. After a while, Molly fell asleep on the pile.

When she awoke, Molly thought she should make an effort at tidying the house because she was expecting guests the next day. It seemed such an overwhelming project that she was exhausted just thinking about it. It was so difficult to move these days, and, well, that’s just how things are now.

Molly realized she was hungry and decided to order pizza. Now she had to find her cordless phone.  She tried to recall when she’d used it last and figured it was the last time she’d ordered takeout.

When was that? Was it last night? This morning? Two days ago? She couldn’t remember. Well, she thought, that’s the norm these days.

She struggled through the few parts of the house that she actually used and finally found her phone in the living room on top of a large package of paper towels she’d left by the front door. At least I could put these paper towels in the pantry, thought Molly, but by the time she’d speed-dialed the pizza parlor, she’d forgotten about the towels and putting them away. Just like always these days.

Molly woke up the next morning and grabbed a slice of left-over pizza for breakfast. Her guests would be here any minute, she realized. Whatever will they think? This is frightening, she thought, and realized she didn’t think she could go through with this. She jumped when she heard the knock at the door.

“Hello, Molly. I’m Dr. Laurel Baines. I’m a licensed psychologist and I specialize in hoarding disorders. I’m here to help you today.”

“Come in,” said Molly, “If you can find room.”

A-Galumphing We Shall Go

NOTE:  Galumphing is an exercise in creativity for writers in which several unrelated words are woven into an entertaining story.  At her online site recently, writing instructor Ann Linquist offered the following words for us to play with:

Remara Bearwafter, steamroller, envelope, secrets, food fight


And my result:

Secrets don’t like being kept secret.  Secrets like to take the short route from ears to  tongue, not bothering with circulating through the brain and tangling with all those niggling ethea that hang out there and threaten to derail any sense of fun.

Moreover, if the tongue doesn’t rid itself of a secret quickly enough, the secret lands in  your stomach and commences burning holes in it, threatening worse if not freed ASAP. Keep it long enough and you’ll find your guts steamrolled into a squishy food fight.

Such was Remara Bearwafter’s plight after that old busybody Gladys Docushredder told her about Elsie Pinchpenny filching a donation envelope from the church offering plate last Sunday, first swearing her to absolute secrecy, which only means that the sooner you’re rid of the secret, the better off you’ll be.  Like, pass that responsibility for secrecy on to someone else and let them bear the weight of it.

But Remara was the type of woman who remained true to her word.  If she said she’d keep a secret, then, by golly, she’d keep it.  And she did, after she verified from a blushing and hesitant Gladys that she was, in fact, an eyewitness to the pilferage and not just passing on unsubstantiated purple-prosed  gossip.

So Remara was conflicted.  On the one hand, she liked Elsie and hoped the scurrilous accusation was not true.  On the other hand, she knew Elsie was in a financial pickle due to her husband’s illness and inability to work.  Thus the possibility of truth tumbled around on her conscience as she watched Gladys walk down the sidewalk with a bit more of a swagger than she usually had.

Secrets will do that to you, too.  Put some flounce in the bounce and some sway in the old sashay. 

Remara being Remara, she did the only thing she could–she went right to Elsie’s house and knocked on the door.  But Elsie didn’t answer, not even after her second, third, and fourth knocks. Remara leaned over the handrail and peeked through the living room window.  Her sight was somewhat obscured by the sheers, but she saw Elsie’s husband Bob sitting in his Lane recliner with the butter-yellow leather.  He looked asleep. She leaned over a little farther and saw Bob’s face more clearly.  His eyes were open and unblinking.

Suddenly Remara was frightened and she banged on the front door with her fists, begging Elsie to open the door.  Then she tried the latch and found it unlocked.   Remara rushed to Bob and saw that he was unconscious.

“Elsie!” she yelled.  “Elsie, are you here?”  The house was silent.  If Elsie wasn’t tending to Bob, something was definitely wrong.  She reached for the phone next to Bob and dialed 911, then sat on the front stoop and waited for help. 

And that’s why Remara wasn’t surprised when a patrolman checked the rest of the house and found Elsie hanging from a rafter in the attic. 

No, not surprised at all, because secrets, though so very mischievous when kept, can turn quite murderous when loosed upon the innocent.

 

A Writing Prompt from Ann Linquist

Writing instructor Ann Linquist has an online site where we go to play.  She gives us story prompts and we fill in the blanks.  Her latest:

Jana knew she had been totally drunk and crazy the night of the high school graduation party.  And that night she hadn’t cared.  “Bring ‘em on,” she’d thought.  Her parents had died in a freak car accident one week before high school graduation.  Their savings and proceeds from the house had just about covered their debts.  Now she lived with Uncle Lars, the monosyllabic old bachelor, on his dairy farm.  After nine months of grieving and her own work at reducing life to monosyllables, she had given birth to a lovely baby girl. 
 
Three possible fathers circled her life.  Jana didn’t want to see any of them.  Her daughter was unexpected blessing, and spring had come.  She was a mother now.  What was their role in her life, anyway?


 As is usual, the Muse got me out of bed at 2 A.M. for this:

I have no use for any of them, but I am linked to the three of them until I can eliminate two as the father of my precious Kaitlyn.  Until that time, I have to remember their names.  Someday she will want to know who her father is.  

What will I tell her?  Shall I tell her how crazy I was after Mom and Dad died under the lead engine of the CR&NW Railway just a week before graduation?  Is that a good enough reason for acting so out of character at the school’s graduation party?

If I’m honest with myself, as I’ve come to be these past few months, it was more than being drunk.   I just didn’t care about anything anymore.  

First, my date Paul.  We’d dated a couple times—nothing serious.  He’s off at UCLA now, pre-med, I’ve heard.  Schmuck.  He walked away after realizing how drunk I was and so out of control.   Wasn’t even man enough to see that I got back to Uncle Lars’s farm safe and somewhat sound, though no longer a virgin.  He was my first and not because I loved him.  I didn’t.  I did it because everyone else was doing it and I was tired of being a virgin.

Then there was Ben from 5^th hour History.  I knew he had a crush on me so I gave him a night to remember, even if I can’t remember it very well.  He’s a stock boy at the Safeway store.   Going nowhere.

And then there was Derek.  Or maybe I should call him Mr. Michaels.  I wonder if you still have to call your Sophomore  English teacher “Mr.” after you’ve had sex with him?   Anyway, Mr. Derek Phillip Michaels is already married.  With two kids.

I can hear Uncle Lars grunting in the next room.  He’s watching “Swamp People” on TV, though what he sees in that program is beyond me.  He never says anything,  just grunts.  When he does have to ask me something, it’s one word.  It’s catchy.  I’m doing the same.

Except with Kaitlyn.  To her, I pour out my heart.

Has anybody here, seen my old friend Paul?

Can you tell me where he's gone?

He left me drunk and bleeding and should have taken me home.

But I just looked around and he's gone.

Has anybody here, seen my old friend Ben?

Can you tell me where he’s gone?

He calls and writes and leaves messages for me,

But I don’t answer and turn off the phone.

Has anybody here, seen my old teacher Mr. Derek Michaels?

Can you tell me where he’s gone?

I hope he’s not Kaitlyn's daddy

But every day I see her hair turning more blonde.

I have no use for any of them, but we are linked until I can eliminate two.

(There's a link to Ann's site in the right sidebar if you'd like to see more of what happens when a bunch of writers go out to play.)