#[ flora ; threads ] | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

faunandfl0ra · 2 years ago

Text

TIMING: Backdated, somewhere in late summer LOCATION: Inflorescence PARTIES: Conor @faunandfl0ra & Inge @nightmaretist SUMMARY: Conor and Inge work on making some seed bombs to increase biodiversity in town and chat about a variety of things, from ventures into art to how the Youths ™️ speak these days. A soft start to a friendship. CONTENT WARNINGS: N/A

It was near closing time when she arrived, her bag clinking with the sound of glass bottles as she got in the store. A wave of green and bright colors burst around Inge as she glanced around, her lips curving appreciatively. Sure, as an artist her color pallet was darker and a lot more desaturated, but that wasn’t to say she didn’t like a burst of color in real life. That of plants especially was welcomed, her apartment filled with dark and lighter greens. When she’d move, she’d get rid of most of the plants save a few, but that didn’t mean she wasn’t always down to add another to the collection.

As she perused Inflorescence’s wares, she considered the online conversation she’d had with the shops owner and their mischievous plans. There wasn’t a lot besides art Inge was passionate about, but since the nineties – when she’d stopped eating meat – she had grown a lot of heart for the environment. If she was to inhabit this world forever, she’d rather not see her home country sink and everything go to ruination because of the greed of a rich few. Which wasn’t to say she was passionate enough to make their lives hell, as art still took a precedent over all other things — but she had once tried very hard to try and find Jeff Bezos’ house from the plane.

At the sound of footsteps her head popped up, falling on the man she’d spoken to online. Conor did, at least, look like his profile picture. Inge waved, fingers tickling the air. “Hiya. We spoke online? I’m here for the seed bombs.” She lifted her bag, which made a clinking sound once again. “And I made good on my promise.”

—

“Sorry, I was working in the back,” Conor took off his gardening gloves, shoving them into his apron to approach her and shake her hand. “Ah, yes. I remember,” he glanced down at his wrist. Where had he put down his watch again? Patting at his apron, he found it there. It was five minutes before closing time. He doubted anyone would show up in that time lapse, still, he didn’t feel like it would be fair to close early.

“I’ll get everything ready,” his eyebrows furrowed. “You wanna work here or outside?” he motioned toward the door he came from, his fingers slipping through his hair as he attempted unsuccessfully to tame it. “Considering the time of the year, we’ll be doing aquilegia, campanula, coreopsis, delphinium, myosotis, penstemon and pansy seeds,” that’s what made the most sense to him, at least. “Though if it doesn’t rain at all until September, I doubt we’ll get much out of these,” his nose wrinkled at the thought, and he gave Inge a look. “Still worth a try, though.” A smile etched itself on his lips. That would hardly be the worst he had done for the good ol’ planet.

___

She shook her head at his apology, rejecting it on sight. “No need to apologize. I’m a little early.” When Inge’s cold flesh met Conor’s warm, she hoped there was no part of him that cared to notice. “Good to meet you in real life, Conor. You’ve got a nice shop here. I’ll have to get something for my place.”

Her hands traveled, fingers rubbing the rubbery leaves of a plant. Maybe these were the only living things she could be trusted to take care of. She wanted no more children, the gap Vera had left too significant to even consider it, and there were no pets that tolerated her. Plants, however, were easy enough for an immortal. Besides, with plenty of care they could grow and live with her. “Just let me know if you need any help. And I’d prefer to work inside, please.” The sun was hard on her eyes and skin on these summer days, and Inge had already walked here the regular way. “It will rain. This is Maine. They named it so to make it rhyme.” She grinned at him, winking. “And otherwise we’ll just have to rebelliously water them.”

___

She ran a bit cold, but it wasn't what troubled Conor the most, nor was it the clear lack of a heartbeat. He'd seen it before.

He tried to conceal his puzzlement, eyes fixating on the floor briefly as he attempted to try and make sense of it, of this feeling of unease he had had as she had approached him, like something crawling underneath his skin. Conor tried to relax his stance. They'd spoken online, Inge seemed nice then. Even better, she seemed great. It was one of those times he didn't want to trust his gut feeling.

"Alright, I just hope you're not allergic to cats," he mentioned, in passing. The animal wasn't around now, probably too busy hunting mice in the backyard or far beyond his fences. "Taoiseach will probably be back later though," with a shrug, he took out a tray, setting down a couple of large plastic bowls, powdered clay, and a couple more things for them to get started. He picked up another apron beneath the counter. He never used it, it was here in case his current one ended up ruined or too dirty for the day, but Conor for all he was clumsy, was clever enough to get an apron that was dark green.

"Alright, put this on, and then we can get started."

___

Godver, this guy had a cat? Inge let out a breath of air, frowned a little. “I am a bit allergic, yes. We’ll figure it out when we get to it, hm?” There was no cat around as of yet, and so she had no interest in forcing the two of them outside where the summer sun was sure to tire her out. Maybe they should have set this appointment after sundown.

As Conor continued wha he was doing, she produced two bottles and opened them by using a third, extending one to him as he held out the apron. That was hung around her neck and tied behind her back with ease. Inge took a sip and looked at the other expectedly, eyebrows raising.

She didn’t want to admit to it, but it was nice to have a goal for the summer. To do something that could be considered a contribution in another way than art was. Selflessness hardly fit her, but she liked projects. Whimsical spontaneousness. A little act of eco-rebellion was exciting. “Let’s do this. Tell me what to do, chief.”

—

"Ah. Well, I'll just have him go upstairs then, it's alright," he brushed it off. She said she was only a little bit allergic, so it couldn't possibly be that bad. "Don't worry, he won't be back for a bit. It's not his hour yet," funny how cats managed to have a schedule despite being asleep most of the day. Conor wondered if that was what the cat did out there, just sleeping somewhere cozy only to return back home for food and pets.

She'd brought drinks along, which he found rather considerate. He took the beer she gave him with a polite nod, having thrown thanks to the bin and replaced them with more fae friendly phrases.

"Alright, so. It's quite simple. We're gonna be mixing up one cup of soil, one of clay and one of water for each pack of seed. As you can see, I have prepared a bunch of them so," they'd have to make a sizable batch. "Lots of work ahead of us, but hey, we're in good company, with excellent food," he motioned toward her beers. "Should be fine."

—

That was a point in his favor, she decided. “I appreciate it. Cats are cute, but I just … don’t respond to them very well. Biologically speaking.” Technically true, though it was more accurate to say that the cats didn’t respond well to her. Annoying and dull, she thought it, the way animals were afraid of mares. She liked them in dreams, though. People dreamt of their cats a ton. “What kinda cat do you have, though?”

With her apron tightened and instructions being delivered, Inge found herself smiling despite herself. This was going to be fun. She took a sip from her beer and put it away for now, grabbing a measuring cup.

“Doable.” Good thing she didn’t get tired and didn’t need sleep, she figured. Left plenty of time for activities like these. “And hear, hear!” Lips spread wider as she dug into the soil, getting ready to mix it with clay and seeds. “When should we drop them, then? This does need a sequel, I think.” Inge glanced at him. “We can’t keep our efforts limited to just one night.”

___

“That’s a shame. Cats are great companions,” her misfortune earned her a sympathetic smile. “He’s a red cat, his coat is fluffy, full of long hairs, you know?” Overall, he’d have described the little animal as regal.

While she was getting ready, Conor headed to the front of the shop to turn the We’re Open sign around and pull onto the curtain. Even with that sign, he knew for a fact people would try to get in if they saw him on the other side of the front windows. How perfectly normal.

“Doable? Music to my ears,” his smile broadened. It was nice to have met someone who took issues such as biodiversity so seriously. Picking up a bucket behind his counter, he set it there and turned around to pour water into a jug. “Go on, add everything in, we’ll stir and then we’ll make bombs the size of a golf ball. They’d put them on a tray and leave them to dry in the sun tomorrow. “Oh this won’t be enough to get the city back on tracks,” he agreed. “We could meet once a week if you want, change seeds depending on the season.

—

Sure, cats were great companions, except when your sheer existence had them flying in curtains or attempting to claw you open. Inge had had a cat when she’d been a girl and she’d loved the thing, despite it’s grumpy nature. But four decades of immortality had put her off the creatures. “He sounds like a beauty,” she said, which wasn’t entirely insincere. Pretty cat. Nice to look at. That’s it.

As she started mixing everything, the familiar feeling of solids mixing underneath her hands made her smile vaguely. Inge worked with clay with regularity after all, molding it into shapes meant to terrify and inspire. (To her, those words were often synonyms.)

It was good work, easy work. She glanced up at Conor. “Indeed. And maybe do more than just seed bombs. I’ve always wanted to do some lobbying.” She had done lobbying. Back in the 00s and the 90s. She’d gone onto the streets, had huddled together with like minded people, Sanne on her side. Wicked’s Rest was not the epicenter of the world and thus not the place where most change could be made, but wouldn’t it be fun to try and shake things up? “Those lawns must change. The common needs to change, too, while we’re at it.”

“He is. I’m not sure why he decided that this was his home though,” he wasn’t Conor’s cat. Or well, he was now. He had even checked with the vet to get him IDed. It was his cat, officially so.

Watching her work with her hands, he noticed that she wasn’t shy about it, or afraid to make a mess. She wasn’t making a mess, which had to be the most impressive part. Conor might have worked with plants for a long time, he was always making a mess, moving too abruptly, too urgently. He’d have preferred being agile, careful, but that wasn’t him. “That’s not your first time doing this?”

He looked at her, and her words made him smile. “I would love that. I haven’t been doing activism in a bit, but I’d be up for it,” now the objective wasn’t to make an enemy out of the city council, but Conor agreed that the town could have done a lot more for biodiversity, starting with the god awful common. Grass and a bunch of trees. Boring. “How much are you willing to bet people would like it better covered in wildflowers?”

—

“So he’s like a stray that just decided to settle here? Adopt don’t shop, huh? Or, I guess he adopted you in that case.” She would like a pet, sometimes. A pair of large hounds would suit her well, or a siamese cat. But alas, Inge only had her birds in the dreams she gave others.

His observant comment was pleasing, and she looked up as she nodded. “No. I work with clay a lot. I’m a sculptor.” And how her works had transformed! There had been that line of bowls and vases when she’d just started taking things more seriously, glazing them in furiously bright colors. Now, Inge was sculpting birds, molding wings and scary beaks, hundreds of them.

“Quite a lot of money, honestly. People must come here for the nature, and then right in the middle of town there’s just that large piece of green grass. Dull! We humans want to frolick in the flowers.” With we humans she did mean herself, in this case. Desires like these were very human after all. “We need to get more people on board. And we do need a name for our initiative. Should get one of the youths to do social media for us, even.”

“I suppose he did adopt me,” he agreed with a small smile. The cat stubbornly showed up in his flat every day, not even asking for food, but rather offering up mice and a set of unlucky birds Conor had buried in the backyard. He now had a plate of food in the backroom of his shop, and his watering can had become a drinking source of choice for the red haired feline.

That made a lot of sense, he thought. “Oh, you’re an artist !” The realization seemed to please the faun, who hadn’t smiled so bright in a while. “That’s great. I’d love to see those sculptures of yours sometimes,” he beamed. It wasn’t often that he smiled, no, but the subject of arts always brought out the warmth in him.

“The worst part is, they must spent even more than that maintaining it in that condition,” because he might have hated what that entailed, he didn’t hate the look of it all that much. It lacked verticality, sure, but it didn’t lack skills. A great lawn was hard to achieve and Conor admired people who could achieve that perfectly even coverage, but it was too damaging to bugs and biodiversity in general for him to sit and applaud those green surfaces. “I’m willing to bet there’s a bunch of young people who would feel invested. The new generation is a lot more aware of these issues, right?”

—

“Cats are known to do that,” she said, though the words were empty. Cats only chose Inge to hiss at or scratch, with little interest for scritches of her manicured nails. She was just glad the creature wasn’t here, because she definitely didn’t want to insult Conor by telling him his cat was an annoying creature with bad judgment. (All animals had bad judgment, for not liking mares.)

She smiled at his next words, of course, her ego something that was always clamoring for some more applause. “You could always come by my studio sometime. I have an online portfolio, but the real thing …” She shrugged. “It’s better. Ah, like the plants, you know? Better in real life. Do you make art yourself, or anything of the sorts?”

Inge nodded, “Of course they do. Such perfection takes effort, even if it looks absolutely dull. Perfection often is, if you ask me — why would we want such boring symmetry in our nature, anyway?” She tutted. “Absolutely, they’re the ones who will have to inhabit the world down the line.” Along with her, of course, and her unaging body. Inge cared for the planet because she intended to live on it forevermore. “It shouldn’t be hard to recruit, but we need something snippy. The seed bombs will definitely be a good way to get people’s attention, too! Who doesn’t like wildflowers?” Well, plenty of people, but fuck them.

“Art? Like painting or sculpting? No,” he wrinkled his nose. Conor didn’t have much of a culture regarding those things. Visual arts were nice to look at, he supposed, but he didn’t get much of it. It wasn’t that he didn’t care, but he lacked the codes required to understand it. “I mean, I play music, but I don’t really make the partitions. I play them,” he rubbed at the back of his neck. “But anyhow, I would love to have a look at it. Let me know when’s a good time to stop by.” Because he agreed that plants weren’t the most interesting in photographs and he was intrigued now.

Nodding along, Conor picked up a handful of the mixture and tried to roll it into a ball between his palms. “I’m gonna add a bit of water and then I think we’re gonna be good to start the fun,” fastidious, repetitive, “part of this.” At least they’d be doing something good here. Saving the town from being dull, one flower at a time. “I spoke to this guy the other day who seemed interested. He didn’t sound young. As in, I understood everything I was saying. Young people are…” He cut himself off. He didn’t look much older than 35 and he supposed she didn’t need to figure out just yet that he wasn’t entirely normal, or that he was plain weird. “Anyway… I don’t care if people don’t like wildflowers if I’m honest. I’m mostly doing it for insects and biodiversity in general,” with a shrug, he poured the water in, and left it to her to stir and make the first seed bomb.

—

She was still glad he did something that was artistically inclined, “But that’s wonderful, too! What instruments do you play?” She went for plural, because she hoped for the best. Inge wasn’t much of a musician herself (she could not carry a tune, for one), but she was a big enjoyer of music. There had been plenty of concerts she’d snuck into over the years, after all, and her record collection was quite vast. “I’ll let you know! And if you’re ever down, I’d be thrilled to hear you play whatever music you’re fond of playing.”

The fun part would be going out on the streets and pulling off some kind of creative process, but rolling up seed bombs was far from a boring way to spend one's time. “Sounds perfect,” she said. She considered what the other was saying — he looked her age, perhaps a tad younger. Inge didn’t want to think too much of it. “Oh, I get it. I feel removed from the younger generations at times too.” Which were most generations, at this point, and it wasn’t like Inge felt particularly connected to her fellow boomers, either. “Ha, agreed. If they like them that’s sweet, but it’s not for us.” She started stirring once the water had been poured, only stopping when she figured everything was mixed well enough. She took some of the mixture and started rolling it into a ball. “So, you’re like an old soul, then?”

“Oh, I play the violin,” and he could dabble with a viola and a cello (he’d never tried the bass) but that wouldn't have counted as being able to properly play those. “I’ve played it since I was six years old,” old enough to hold a fiddle with his chin alone and let his mother pass onto him all she knew about it. Up until he left the house in a hurry in the midst of his teenagehood and selfishly took along with him his instrument as a rare souvenir of people he’d never see again. He regretted only taking one picture of his mother along with him. Not even them together, just a portrait of her. Yes, Conor had a lot of regrets regarding his early life, but not any bigger than having ruined his chance of seeing his mother grow old and letting her see him grow. She had his brother, and his father in law, she was not alone. That was his consolation.

“Well then I'll just bring my violin along. One way to break two windows with one stone.” Because he’d never liked how cruel the original expression was.

“Yeah… the younger generations are … well they are a lot of good things, but I often wonder if they're not just trying to make us confused on purpose with their lingo. Nothing quite like that to make me feel like a bozo,” he shook his head, and dug his hand into the container, aligning on a plastic platter the seed bombs he made. An old soul. The expression made him pause. It felt a bit pretentious at first but he couldn't precisely deny it without lying and suffering for it. “I suppose I am. Me, and my violin, my flowers, my cardigans and my baseball games,” he realized he could have just been someone's grandfather with those sorts of interests. Owen didn't hold back on the old man nicknames for sure, which wasn't very nice, but it wasn't a lie either and Conor figured that was a joke anyway.

—

“Oh, that’s wonderful!” It was. Inge loved a good violin in all kinds of music, thought its versatility and dramatics were the perfect ingredients to a good song. “I wish I’d learned to play an instrument at that age.” But with one dead and four alive kids and too little money, there had been little space for creative pursuits at home. Maybe that was why she had ventured into drawing: that only took a pencil and some paper, or even her writing slate back at school. None of those drawings had survived, she figured, or maybe they were rotting in some storage box of her deceased parents. It was more likely that her siblings had thrown it out, though. “A great idea. Don’t actually break my windows, though.”

She tried to stay with the times, which she succeeded in in some regards — but when it came to the lingo, even Inge was often quite lost. “Ah, don’t let them make you feel inferior! That’s how they win. Besides, plenty of their lingo makes absolutely no sense.” She was amused by his answers, figured he really was an old soul – either figuratively or literally. She continued to roll balls. “My students, they make me feel ancient. Every week it seems they’ve introduced new words to their vocabulary.” She chuckled. “I do like to think I’m hip. And flowers, violin-playing and cardigans are perfectly fine.” Albeit a bit boring. “But I guess there’s always gonna be a new generation to shake things up, huh? Can’t really complain about that.”

The faun tilted his head down and smiled. “It’s not too late to learn, you know.” He paused. “What would you have liked to play?” His eyes darted toward her and he brushed his hands together above the mixing bowl. “I won't, I pro-” his lips pursed into a line and he cleared his throat. “I prefer not to upset you.”

It was unlikely that he would have ever broken one of her windows but he didn't want to find out what would happen if he accidentally did.

“Oh no, not inferior,” feeling that way didn't make much sense to Conor. You couldn't grade people or organize them by worth. That was unethical and rude. The only place where he accepted and understood hierarchy was within orchestras. He’d been in one and he knew how these things worked. He supposed it made sense in the army too, or in institutions, but out there? Absolutely not. “Maybe you should just hit them with archaic or obscure words. You seem like the sort to have extensive vocabulary,” the commentary was neither meant as a compliment or a complaint. It just was how he felt about her. She seemed clever. Anyone who taught had to be.

“It’s fine. I don't care much for being hip,” as long as his bouquet stayed up to date, he was more than glad to keep on making more. “Generations should work together for things to properly shake. There's not much weight in a divided mass,” he noted, setting down the last seed ball of another row.

—

It probably wasn’t too late to learn, especially not in her immortal state of being. But it was frustrating to not be good at something when she was skilled in other areas. “I would really like a bunch of synthesizers and master them all. Or the piano … or the cello …” She thought for a moment. “Bass.” Inge squinted slightly at the way he cut off his own sentence, not sure if it implied anything. “I appreciate that very much.”

She shrugged, “Bozo sounded inferior,” she pointed out, but it didn’t matter much to her. “But if that’s not how you fell, all the power to ya.” At his compliment (at least, that’s how she decided to take it), Inge let out a sound of amusement. “That would be one way to go about it, yes. I don’t know if I do, but I have always had a bit of a knack for languages. I enjoy learning them, in and out. The bad and the ugly, you know?”

She laughed in agreement, “Neither do I. It’s much better to be yourself, however cliche that is to say. I think I’m plenty for my age, anyway.” In this case she was speaking of her actual age, of course — the one where she was nearly 78 years old. Not the thirty-something years she appeared to be. “Exactly. This pitting boomers against the current youths is not helping anyone. We’ve been shouting about the environment needing improvement for decades.” Inge hoped that sounded like she was talking about humanity in general. “Every generation has those who don’t care, though — but ever generation has those who do, and we should move together. So, more youths in our group are needed, yes?” As if they weren’t both relatively young-appearing themselves.

“I could teach you the cello,” he glanced her way. “Don't tell anyone I said this, but it is like playing with a big violin,” with a couple differences. He found it easier, perhaps because by the time he first touched a cello, he had already mastered using a violin. There was also the fact that you needed to be seated to play it, and had a better view and control of what you were doing, at least during the first few years of learning. Bass worked the same so he didn't bother repeating himself. Instead he smiled and went back to their hard work.

He supposed Bozo wasn't such a kind word to hear these days but back in the 60s when he was a little boy, he’d found the expression more amusing than anything else. With a shrug, he let her know it was alright. “Yeah? I’d be the opposite I guess. I ain't got a fucking clue on how to write half the shit my family taught me about Irish. I can speak it, but I can't write it.” Come to think of it, he wasn't sure whether his grandparents or his mother ever did. “I suppose I never saw the point in learning. Or learning any other language,” which might have appeared like close mindedness. And maybe it was. Conor hadn't been to school for that long and that might have killed some of his curiosity. That, and realizing monsters were real, because both things occured at the same moment.

“I don't know about cliches but the status quo never really ever was my thing,” which wasn't to say that he was a marginalized person in society (though he once had been) : Conor had missed being around people even if some of them were dickheads. “I know. Back in the 90s people were already commenting on that shit,” he brushed his hands together above the bowl again, and turned around to rinse them over the sink. “Do you want a cup of tea? I’d offer coffee but it’s terrible.” Pause. “ When I make it. You’re allowed to like coffee.” He grimaced. “Anyway. Tea?” He figured that might be nice to have on hand while discussing the terrifying fate of their planet.

—

“Now that’s an idea. I must admit I don’t have a great sense of rhythm, though. Can’t be good at every area of art, huh?” Inge laughed despite herself, not that bothered with her inability to hold a note. She had at least managed to find a good way to move her body on music, and that was what mattered most. “I’ll keep your secret though. And maybe I can teach you some things about my trade.”

She tried to withhold judgment against his disinterest in learning languages. Different worlds, she reminded herself. “Fair enough. English isn’t my native tongue to begin with, and I traveled a lot around Europe, so there was always a push for me to speak the language of the country I was in.” It was crucial to at least know the basics: some flirtation, how to order a cab and the directions to the museum. “But you know, English is widely used. I understand not really bothering.”

Inge nodded and let out a chuckle, “Nor was it mine.” A woman who left her husband in the 70s, who shared a home and life with a woman after her divorce, who was dead but still roamed this earth. She had once minded being an anomaly, but her days in Wanneperveen had long passed. “Even earlier than that, mind you.” She rolled a final ball, patting it lovingly as she put it down. It would do great things. “Tea sounds good. I don’t tend to drink caffeine this late, it keeps me up.” How delightfully human that sounded! As if it was caffeine that kept her from sleeping. “This is nice, Conor. I think we’ll do great things together.”

“I suppose not. I’ve never really given drawing much thought but I reckon I’d be terrible at it,” he was however quite a gifted dancer, or so he had been told. It was a shame he refused to indulge into the activity. Too much excitement could easily lead to a feeding accident, also referred to as mass murder. Once was too many times for a lifetime. It happened over 40 years ago but Conor couldn’t shake it off of his mind.

He believed that he most likely never would.

The papers at the time spoke of a cultist event, unexplainable deaths. Conor didn’t linger around and at the time sworn off feeding himself like this. Believe it or not, this made it even worse.

“Meanwhile I’ve never left New England states,” he commented. That didn’t exactly push someone to try and learn another language. “So you can easily understand why I never really bothered,” the occasion never prevented itself, and Conor might have had a life span that allowed him to learn a lot more things than the regular person, most of it had been dedicated to learning all he could about crops, flowers, the violin, and the Red Sox.

“I’ll fix us a cup of rooibos then,” he offered with a slight smile, and catching a towel to dry his hands, motioned her to follow behind. “I have great hopes for our collaboration,” he agreed.

#faun and flora | threads #inge threads #flower power #wickedswriting

5 notes · View notes