The Shining Poppy - A Story I Wrote For School And Ended Up Liking

The Shining Poppy - A Story I Wrote For School And Ended Up Liking

The streets are lined in colour, bright but politely asking for my attention. The sky provides a warm caress, paired with soft wind which comforts my every step. Towering shadows from those around pattern the sun’s rays but still bless me with a warmth not unlike a gentle embrace.

There are no dark shadows here, only the evidence of my company. The light emanating from my skin is proof enough of the sunshine already inside me, yearning to feel the soft touch of scarlet petals against it.

Every smile or gesture is a wave of warm red, a wave of kind electricity through my body, energizing the next step I take.

Over worn footpaths. Over softened gravel.

My steps do not falter, only taking me where I’m supposed to go. Following the ever-changing paths weaving before me, created by determination.

I continue on. Over cerulean puddles. Over unheeded grass.

Through this field of poppies.

= = = = = = = = = =

Nothing has really changed, yet it’s all different. There are still poppies in every direction. Uniform and swaying with the world. The very same world that looks at me with distain.

The poppies curl away from the sunshine barely dribbling from my lips, the light still seeping from my gift. I bring it to my chest, forcing the light through my wounds but it doesn’t hold, it falls with the red deep inside me and litters the floor with fading beams of light. The wall in front of me is gone, replaced by another poppy, petals loose but facing away from me as if in disgust.

The sun no longer holds me in its warmth but burns me like firewood.

I stand in the field, lit aflame like a wildfire, but the poppies around my feet do not catch, do not spread the flames and burning. They whisper, blowing my fire around like rope, pushing it to wrap around my limbs and seep into my skin.

Every breath or glance is a wave of hot, sharp red, a wave of harsh fire through my body.

Over cracked glass. Over shattered asphalt.

My steps falter, taking me further into the field. The path is gone, only poppies in my way.

Over pools of red, crimson not scarlet. Over burning paper and flesh and light.

Through this field of poppies.

= = = = = = = = = =

The present, a gift of language and letter, is accompanied by the tentative morning light. No less than thrown to me but still gifted with an air of importance and significance. I open it, and the room is lit by the comforting sunshine contained within. With every word I read, the room gets brighter. The sun begins its trek across the once starry sky, and I feel warmer every second.

The world is brighter today.

The sky and the grass smile at me, each step leaving my sunshine in its wake. The poppies along my journey seem to turn to greet me, even if I miss the subtle curl of their petals in aversion and the swish of their stalks in whisper. The sun watches, extending a shining hand out to reach the light I can only call my own. Like calls to like, just as the sun calls to my sunshine. And like the sun itself, I shine my light onto the world beneath me.

I run through the crowds of people, the stalks of flowers, excusing every jostle or shove when I push through. The patches of shadows sway with my movements, ruffled but unbothered, their owners standing solid.

Among the red, a wave of familiarity hits me like a firm embrace. Warm, strong, and familiar. The sunshine under my skin claws at me, dragging its warmth through my body. It presses against my tongue and teeth, pushing for release. It grows brighter with each step towards the normality in an ocean of innocuity.

The passive waves crash on a shore of neutrality, and I walk to my sandcastle of connectivity. Another scarlet red, uniform but unique.

My steps come to a halt, my sandcastle before me, and the gentle waves do not stop. The sunshine pushes harder now, threatening to tear me open, but at the slightest shimmer from the castle, I relent.

My mouth opens and sunshine pours out, shining and twinkling with each movement of my lips. It’s warm and soft and welcoming.

But rather than the soft but strong sandcastle or a blooming poppy like the crowds around me, the sunshine meets a wall. It’s harsh and grey and rough like concrete, and the light disappears when it meets.

I falter at the stillness, the sunshine going with it.

Then the wall opens, just a crack, and razor blades fly. The little remaining sunshine reflects off each pristine blade, glaring in my eyes as the blades shoot and soar past me. They slice my skin when they pass and leave crimson slashes all over my body. It’s burning, my skin and my eyes are burning, and I wish I never let the sunshine out to begin with.

= = = = = = = = = =

Before me are the fields of red, where poppies grow. I watch them climb and bloom, impossibly fast but yet slow enough to watch each unique flower spread its flushed red palms. The tops brush against my mid-calf. No higher, and no lower. A sea of uniformity, moving together in the wind.

My eye is caught by a certain poppy in the distance, daring to reach past the rest of the red sea. The shine of light emanating from the bloom draws me to it and I begin to step closer; the flowers rooted at my feet shifting to avoid me. I stop when I reach the shocking scarlet bloom, bigger and brighter than the rest. Warm light, not unlike sunshine, pours from between the petals. It feels familiar, but makes me squint my eyes in disgust, the light now uncomfortable and unwelcome.

My hands go cold as the wind turns, and I harshly yank the flower from the ground.

The stem snaps, an unclean pull, and I watch the flower in my palm.

I watch as the light drains from the petals.

I watch it, and it wilts away.