Cicadas were chirping merrily in the long grass, which lay weary from growing, turning brown under the sun’s heated gaze. Laughter, light on the wind, like rustling tinsel decorated the country air with the sound of youth. Splashing is heard as teenagers wrestle in a small creek, surrounded by the subtle buzz of insects flourishing in the hot weather.
If, at the time, you had walked along the muddy bay, then further up the meadow, pushed through the long grass, and searched for shelter from the elements. You would have met a grand estate. A mansion so splendid only a glance told you the owners were a part of that elite rich and upper-class circle.
There were several tall, white, turrets extending from the building, stained glass panes between the triple glazed ones, the expansive land around the estate- acres of greenery, horse stables, and leisure courts. Gates made of steel and iron separated the area, and perched on each gate a camera was swivelling on its pivot, probably bored as no one dared approach it. But if you had dared, stretched your neck and peeked through one of the spiked, tall, iron, fences into the front garden. You would have noticed a mother and her child. For all day, until the sun hid, the lady of the estate and her child would play and relax.
The aforementioned son. Born with a silver spoon in his mouth, a twinkle in his green eyes, and cherubs in his cheeks. I can claim that that child is me, and that this story is about myself. But don’t be fooled by the wealth I’ve shown you, it is only an elaborate cage that I spent my youth trapped in.
T’was sometime in September, summer was still lingering. I remember the lush hue of my mother’s rare flowers – collected from all around the world- seeming livelier or more alluring than usual. At the time I often heard Mothers maids praising her for having talented ‘green fingers’ able to bring any plant she cared for to life. It’s no surprise that in the future I would see my mother with her doctorate in Botany write several papers on the subject.
Like a nursery rhyme I can recall the names of each flower in order of how they were arranged around the perimeter of the front garden. Strongylodon macrobotrys, ‘Corpse flower’ Rattlesia arnoldic, Gilbraltar Campion, Franklin tree, Parrot’s Beak, Chocolate Cosmos, Koki’o, Ghost Orchid, and Middle mist Red. All very fancy and ironically ‘flowery’ names, that when I stared at each even now, it feels like I’m at another of Mother’s witty tea parties, where everyone was dressed unnecessarily extravagantly. The women flocking to me like hens, grabbing my cheeks, smothering me until I was red in the face and gasping for air. Too active.
Those flowers annoyed me despite their stunning ambient colours, so yet again I’d been trying not to look at them, as I sat with Mother in the front garden. She was sipping ice-tea, myself a chilled orange juice, relaxed, together, on a rather large striped beach chair. A parasol above us protecting from blinding rays, whilst we revelled in the heated breeze. My Mother wore an old straw hat, which apparently belonged to my grandfather, on her eyes were orange tinted sunglasses, which matched the orange colour of her hair that slightly drifted in the summer wind.
Hello I’m Alexia- This is the first chapter of a Webnovel I am writing. It is titled ‘A Fairy Tale Prince’. This is a suspense filled thriller. Stay Tuned!