THE PLANT

DELETED SCENE FROM THE BUSHMAN…

“It was a typical Tuesday morning as the man cautiously walked to his office. The gray granite city towered above him like a stone forest as he made his way through the thick of the workday pedestrian crush of crowded sidewalks. As he moved along, well focused on the path he was going, something in his peripheral vision caught his eye, and he stopped.

Through a smudged storefront window, he spied a flash of florescent color in the form of a lovely plant displayed in the far corner of the store. After entering the business and looking at the thing for several seconds, the desire to possess her was overwhelming. She was exactly what he was looking for, and he had a special place in mind for her.

Carefully he carried her down the hectic street securely in his arms as the passing people gazed and were totally amazed at her innate beauty. Feeling a familiar sense of pride in his decision, devouring the eyes of attention like candy—walking on air, his ego beamed like the morning sun.

Exotic in appearanceshe was lush and green and full of life. Overflowing with loveliness and flowering with effervescent splendor—strong, sleek slender stems with lovely fragrance and vibrant colors. Arriving at his office, he sweeps up some dirt on the floor where she would go and places her in the corner of the cold gray office, then he told her in no uncertain terms what was expected of her, and it was well understood.

“Your name is Abalone, and flourishing is your sole purpose,” He commands. Pleasing him as he went about his day to day business. All his friends, factory workers, and visitors were so impressed with her immaculate beauty. She soon became a conversation topic for her colors drew the eyes of the viewer into a vortex. Catching the light—changing interpretation of all who gazed upon her so that they each saw something different.

At first, the man spoke kindly to her with the sweetest words of love as he caressed her soft petals, breathing in her lovely fragrance, and raising her onto an expensive pedestal for all to appreciate. She had bright green eyes as leaves of grass—with blue, purple, and turquoise tone radiance in all its brilliance, filling his dull gray office with life and color.

Reigning with arrogance and ego, the man was the center of his world. In a short period, he began ignoring her as he worked through his day. Every so often, he would look over to her from behind his over-sized ebony desk, with steel-eyed menace, emotionless like one of the stone gargoyles adorning his building.

One day he would sweetly whisper to her as a friend or lover—other days degrading her with contemptuous eyes, impatiently mumbling under his breath with disapproval. Still, at other times he would not touch her and would have nothing to say, then all at once bearing down on her to thrive as if his sudden violent demeanor would force her to fill his gray world with the colors he desired.

A gentle beauty placed there for his enjoyment—her sole purpose was to offer him true devotion without words—silent in her loveliness, waiting patiently in her corner, hopeless and longing for affection.

This was his room, world, and universe, which she occupied. She could not speak, but if she could, would the man listen? He would do all the talking, ordering this one, yelling at that one, screaming into a phone until finally, the day would end, and he would leave her alone in the darkness.

A slave to impulse, the man was blinded by her beauty, drowning in his ego, lost in his world of want, depraved in his possessions. It became sadly apparent that she was just another thing. Never caring if she was thirsty, never noticing her gently wilting, wrapped up in his business as she was quietly starving. She did not thrive, nor could she grow in the corner of the man’s room without one simple thing. The one thing he could have given her so effortlessly, but he was too self-absorbed to know better. Was the man insane? Did he know he was slowly killing her?

Raising his voice as he did on the phone or to his workers, his true nature surfaced, telling her how horrible she looked, what an eyesore she was becoming. Berating her with degrading questions—what’s wrong with you? Why won’t you flourish? Why can’t you grow? Every day, he became more and more impatient with her, screaming his commands as his frustration festered until her beautiful colors faded to gray like the rest of his room—like the rest of his world. Finally, in disgust of her condition, the man picked her up and threw her out into the trash.

The next day, he found another just as beautiful, luscious, and thriving with brilliant green leaves and beautiful colors. Her lovely fragrance filled his senses and sparked his pride, and he was ecstatic in his decision. Cradling her securely in his arms, he moved through the dirty street, feeling so many eyes like flies watch him and his ego beamed like the morning sun. He brought her to his dull gray office and lovingly placed her in the corner of his room on the expensive pedestal, telling her in no uncertain terms what was expected of her, and it was all well understood. The end,” He says, looking for my approval.

“So—the plant is a metaphor for a woman—the man is abusive and treats her as property—anyone you know?” I ask, studying his face.

“The man in the office is my Father with his money and things he’s collected and abused—his pretty stories written all for a show—all lies.

From the novel “The Bushman” 

If you enjoy Psychological Mystery and Poetry, you will enjoy this read…

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