I see a bulb of tulips in my table last night.
As I ponder on who placed it there, I decided to plant it in the flowerpot beside my bed.
The next morning, I left the pot outside and promptly forgot about it.
After a many months, I found it again, a tulip sprouting in the middle.
Life goes on, whether you like it or not.
I stared at that bulb for hours. It mocked me, and my helpless tears. Flickering in laughter the light stared down at my worthlessness. At my ruined flesh, at the cuts that through my sheets, I stopped caring about the stains, and my dad did too. Heck, nobody cared. To be honest, I loved the pain because it made me feel something real. Each incision excited me, and I would watch in awe as blood appeared all over my scarred arms, so would the bulb.
Bulb. We associate this word with light bulb, and associate light bulbs with ideas. What are ideas? New beginnings. New worlds just in our heads. With the flick of a switch. Just turning on that bulb. Could change your life, or even the world forever.
Tulips. Daffodils. Hyacinths. One bulb at a time planted last fall.
In two months, maybe more, the miracle of Spring will make my flowers appear.
Of course, one or two dandelions always show up first without an invitation.
I patted the ground, the tulip bulb now sitting comfortably under the dirt. “Thank you for doing this with me,” I peered up at him, sunlight filtering through his mousy brown hair. “I know you don’t exactly have a green thumb but the garden always meant a lot to her.”
The light bulb flickered off, and she cursed under her breath. “That’s the second one this week! What’s going on here? We’ll have to go to the store again.”
I stood on the ladder and twisted. Once. Twice.
“Can’t you go any faster?” Caleb mubbed in his low Irish accent.
“I would if your hands weren’t shaking so bad.”
“Listen. It ain’t me that’s going to jail if they come. I’m dropping this ladder and running.”
The sole lightbulb illuminating Diana Hanley’s cramped studio apartment flickered on and off, but she paid no mind to it. She was far too focused on penning the next bestselling novel to give a shit about her less-than-luxurious lifestyle.
There was a knock on the door, cautious and quiet at first and then louder, and Diana rolled her eyes. Shutting her laptop, she examined her reflection in the blurry mirror quickly. Slightly greasy brunette waves paired with wide blue eyes, a large nose, and high cheekbones. She hadn’t changed her clothes in two days, but it would have to do.
She rolled the hard thing around her mouth and pushed it against her cheek with her tongue. It had a bit of a give, a bit like the hard rubber of a small, yellow bouncy ball that crushed brittle rather than flat.
I didn’t want to use a tired cliche, but a light bulb popped up above my head as I watched my friends scramble to jump start the van. I knew that we didn’t have jumper cables, but I wondered if a little bit of scientific finagling would do the trick.
“Wesley!” I cried. “Get me a screwdriver and a paper clip!”
Wesley stared at me like I had two heads. Everyone else furrowed their brows.
The old woman moved slowly along the flower bed, a rubber pad beneath her knees, digging deep, narrow trenches into which she placed four tulip bulbs each.
Lights on, who the hell cares? i know i don’t. They say some people do. But most people are idiots in my book. End of story, i would say. How about you? Oh, you don’t agree? Tough…
It was one of those fashionable bulbs where you could stare at the filament without it burning a white dot into your vision. So you cannimagine the rest of themplace, right? Open and industrial full of people talking about important things all the time, but nothing really getting done. We decided that it was better to try and talk about things that meant nothing like the weather and the future and when friend became a weaponised word.
I see a bulb of tulips in my table last night.
As I ponder on who placed it there, I decided to plant it in the flowerpot beside my bed.
The next morning, I left the pot outside and promptly forgot about it.
After a many months, I found it again, a tulip sprouting in the middle.
Life goes on, whether you like it or not.
The bulb in life is the sun and the moon is not the switch of the earth but a shaded room in the system. It has a side of fun
bulb buried in soil, earth. planet earth. discovery channel? I’m not sure. but I am sure that a lightbulb is usually an idea.
I stared at that bulb for hours. It mocked me, and my helpless tears. Flickering in laughter the light stared down at my worthlessness. At my ruined flesh, at the cuts that through my sheets, I stopped caring about the stains, and my dad did too. Heck, nobody cared. To be honest, I loved the pain because it made me feel something real. Each incision excited me, and I would watch in awe as blood appeared all over my scarred arms, so would the bulb.
Bulb. We associate this word with light bulb, and associate light bulbs with ideas. What are ideas? New beginnings. New worlds just in our heads. With the flick of a switch. Just turning on that bulb. Could change your life, or even the world forever.
Photons shooting through the sky to a receiver in my head. I can see.
Tulips. Daffodils. Hyacinths. One bulb at a time planted last fall.
In two months, maybe more, the miracle of Spring will make my flowers appear.
Of course, one or two dandelions always show up first without an invitation.
I patted the ground, the tulip bulb now sitting comfortably under the dirt. “Thank you for doing this with me,” I peered up at him, sunlight filtering through his mousy brown hair. “I know you don’t exactly have a green thumb but the garden always meant a lot to her.”
The light bulb flickered off, and she cursed under her breath. “That’s the second one this week! What’s going on here? We’ll have to go to the store again.”
I stood on the ladder and twisted. Once. Twice.
“Can’t you go any faster?” Caleb mubbed in his low Irish accent.
“I would if your hands weren’t shaking so bad.”
“Listen. It ain’t me that’s going to jail if they come. I’m dropping this ladder and running.”
The bulb sprang to life with the touch of the button. It flooded the room with light. I wish I hadn’t seen the room fully lit. It was a sick mess.
The sole lightbulb illuminating Diana Hanley’s cramped studio apartment flickered on and off, but she paid no mind to it. She was far too focused on penning the next bestselling novel to give a shit about her less-than-luxurious lifestyle.
There was a knock on the door, cautious and quiet at first and then louder, and Diana rolled her eyes. Shutting her laptop, she examined her reflection in the blurry mirror quickly. Slightly greasy brunette waves paired with wide blue eyes, a large nose, and high cheekbones. She hadn’t changed her clothes in two days, but it would have to do.
She rolled the hard thing around her mouth and pushed it against her cheek with her tongue. It had a bit of a give, a bit like the hard rubber of a small, yellow bouncy ball that crushed brittle rather than flat.
I didn’t want to use a tired cliche, but a light bulb popped up above my head as I watched my friends scramble to jump start the van. I knew that we didn’t have jumper cables, but I wondered if a little bit of scientific finagling would do the trick.
“Wesley!” I cried. “Get me a screwdriver and a paper clip!”
Wesley stared at me like I had two heads. Everyone else furrowed their brows.
The old woman moved slowly along the flower bed, a rubber pad beneath her knees, digging deep, narrow trenches into which she placed four tulip bulbs each.
Lights on, who the hell cares? i know i don’t. They say some people do. But most people are idiots in my book. End of story, i would say. How about you? Oh, you don’t agree? Tough…
It was one of those fashionable bulbs where you could stare at the filament without it burning a white dot into your vision. So you cannimagine the rest of themplace, right? Open and industrial full of people talking about important things all the time, but nothing really getting done. We decided that it was better to try and talk about things that meant nothing like the weather and the future and when friend became a weaponised word.
There was a woman crying at another table.