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The New Eve |
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Her home was nestled in a thicket of wild roses, and when their petals fell, she collected them in Mason jars to preserve whatever was in a name. She walked naked through waterfalls eating melon and apples, and added the seeds to her Virgin concoctions. Then, Vicki created her own new alphabet. On her desk, clients would enter for help with their taxes, and leave convinced it was time to build arks. "What are the seeds for?" A large woman with a heavy face, painted perfectly, asked one day. She crossed her legs, smug, confident. "Have you no use for growth?" Vicki stared and the woman cried. A stolid gaunt man questioned the dried and faded flowers; Vicki flicked her tongue. He ran from the office, a trail of receipts fluttering behind like carnival confetti. One afternoon, she took a dip in the lagoon, and a man happened upon her. Vicki returned to a life without her amphibian, and began teaching people her alphabet. The language of Eden. At times clients remarked, when they gazed into the jars; "Those petals and seeds, such odd variations. Species of another kind." The ones that really saw, began hissing, cooing, tamping in a completely foreign dialect, and Vicki knew she'd germinated. |
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