The Orchid.

Sprawled across the table were the heads and arms of tired men: Their foreheads rested on their forearms in an effort to limit the amount of grey light that trickled into their eyes through the windows. Styrofoam cups half full of cold coffee dotted the table like chess pieces in the midst of a game. The men who were awake were slouching in the plastic chairs, appearing about thirty pounds heavier due to the multiple shirts and jackets on their bodies. Their tired, red eyes cast a cursory glance over passing individuals. They frowned.

In the corner, a group of three women engaged in asymmetrical conversation: An overweight woman wearing a faded white tee-shirt splattered with stains resembling coffee and ketchup pontificated to a young lady with pigtails, acne, and several missing teeth. The third woman, a brunette with glasses that occupied half of her face, occasionally looked up from her newspaper to nod at the orator.

The women afford greater protection within the homeless shelter if they remain in groups.

The floor, though freshly mopped, did not appear clean. The soles of those within the shelter had tracked in the grunge and frustration of the city streets. The Seattle cloud cover prevented any beams of sunlight to illuminate the space. The walls were a drab hue of institutional beige and discolored from years of abuse from overstuffed bags, heavy shoulders, and disgruntled fists. The fluorescent lights overhead drained any remaining color from the space and harshly illuminated the emptiness within.

People stared listlessly at the walls, waiting for the time to pass.

On a table sat a white orchid. It captured the attention of everyone who walked past. They all slowed down, mesmerized with the flower’s audacious presence and silent beauty.

The slender plant gracefully arched forward from a small plastic pot. From its green-brown stems bloomed soft white flowers, each petal reminiscent of a rising full moon. The blossoms looked out in all directions, like the curious eyes of young children examining the world.

Everyone looked away. Such innocence did not belong there.


16 Feb 2008 |



3 comments »


The omniscient narrator, here, has proven unreliable. By my count, there were at least two orchids at the shelter mesmerizing with “audacious presence and silent beauty.” And although they may have seemed incongruent, I don’t doubt they served a purpose.

Comment by primer | 17 Feb 2008 @ 6:13am



I never think of orchids as innocent. beautiful, but not innocent.

interesting.
:)

Comment by lynnc | 17 Feb 2008 @ 8:57pm



this is a lovely piece of writing and sets the mood beautifully.

Comment by Rae | 19 Feb 2008 @ 10:41pm




Say something.

|