short | botanist, delicate

Three snatches of writing for a story idea I developed during the first writers' session this term. The adventures of Mrs. Bogolyubova will continue once exams are over. You'll also see how this blog got its name - at the expense of the story, which has no title.

For this, we selected prompts from a box, and I got "botanist" and "delicate". I was thinking limerics at the time, and got two lines ("Her fingers were delicate / till she joined the syndicate") which then provided enough of an idea to write from.

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The meeting was in uproar - fur flying, quite literally, as the tiny Mrs. Bogolyubova, a Russian specialist on the more obscure breeds of Arctic nettle, was picked up and hurled bodily across the room by Mr. Craklow, the chairman, in a bundle of expensive furs and pearl necklaces. She landed, remarkably, on her feet and teetered precariously on her heels for a second, then rocked forward again and reentered the debate with redoubled fury.

"I tell you, Macavity, you will not recover the box as long as I live! Sokolov trusted its secrets to me, and I will take them to my grave!"

"Only be reasonable, Ilena," implored Carathon, joining the debate for the first time, his moon face open and eyes dancing green with worry. "If we do not get the box, we will never succeed in building the time machine ..."

"What is it to me? Pah! We will all die in the end, time machine or no!" ....

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Hotel Bellissima sat nestled in the foothills of the Alps, tiny and wooden and solid. Tourists came - and left, two weeks later, happy and refreshed, regaling Rosa and Benito with promises of returned hospitality should they ever be in the country. Rosa and Benito loved the hotel too much to leave, though. Rosa sat plump and swaddled behind the reception desk, day in, day out, chcatting and laughing with any who passed. Benito mastered the kitchens, shouting with mock fury at his sous-chef and enjoying his own culinary genius. And nothing disturbed the contented rhythm of Bellissima - nothing, that is, until Ilena Bogolyubova arrived.

Rosa thought her akin to a small Russian teddy beaar at first - round and wrapped in fur, dragging two suitcases, either of which could easily fit her inside. ....

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Ilena ripped two leaves from the nettle, grasping its stem firmly to avoid the sting. Tossing them up in the air, she watched them float back down slowly, drifting between the golden dust motes falling in the window light.

Cupping her palm upwards, she let the leaves fall together and smiled as a familiar shape took form between the creases of her hand.

"Ah, there you are ....


[Arctic Nettles (c) 2008]