Fast Fiction 2008: The Petrified Florist
Title: The Petrified Florist
Word: emasculated
Word Count: 250
Requested by: Andy McDonald
“Originally cast in plaster around 1860 - one of Fiorelli’s earliest. This one, smaller, less damaged. You can clearly see the facial expression. Over here, a later discovery. These days we use resin to preserve the remains; more durable than plaster.”
The guide stepped back, and the touring party moved in.
“Naples museum was better, Effie.”
“Someone’s knocked this one’s foot off.”
“Gran, someone’s knocked this one’s - ”
“Thank you… the word is emasculated.”
“Castrated, actually.”
“Bernard, this one’s got flowers!”
“Look like daisies.”
“He doesn’t look anything like Daisy, you are so rude.”
The guide shut his ears to the chattering. Even with the noise, here in the Garden of the Fugitives, he could be happy. Peaceful.
Why Apollo - it had to be Apollo - had saved him, he didn’t know. Sympathy, perhaps? The rush of heat and the darkening sky, the sheer panic. He’d sunk to the ground, crouched against a wall in the market, unable to find Gaius - or anyone else.
Then he’d woken up here.
Nobody was as well-informed as to the ruins as he; wowing archaeologists, inspiring scholars. Careful though, changing his appearance every fifty years or so. Beards, long hair, glasses.
He turned back to the statue. He couldn’t recognise the flowers any more.
Gaius Livius Caecus. Preserved in resin, his surprised sightless eyes turned to the ashen sky.
“Meus amicus,” he said, plucking a real flower from the grassy bank and placing it in the crook of the statue’s arm. “Ego diligo vos.”
Word: emasculated
Word Count: 250
Requested by: Andy McDonald
“Originally cast in plaster around 1860 - one of Fiorelli’s earliest. This one, smaller, less damaged. You can clearly see the facial expression. Over here, a later discovery. These days we use resin to preserve the remains; more durable than plaster.”
The guide stepped back, and the touring party moved in.
“Naples museum was better, Effie.”
“Someone’s knocked this one’s foot off.”
“Gran, someone’s knocked this one’s - ”
“Thank you… the word is emasculated.”
“Castrated, actually.”
“Bernard, this one’s got flowers!”
“Look like daisies.”
“He doesn’t look anything like Daisy, you are so rude.”
The guide shut his ears to the chattering. Even with the noise, here in the Garden of the Fugitives, he could be happy. Peaceful.
Why Apollo - it had to be Apollo - had saved him, he didn’t know. Sympathy, perhaps? The rush of heat and the darkening sky, the sheer panic. He’d sunk to the ground, crouched against a wall in the market, unable to find Gaius - or anyone else.
Then he’d woken up here.
Nobody was as well-informed as to the ruins as he; wowing archaeologists, inspiring scholars. Careful though, changing his appearance every fifty years or so. Beards, long hair, glasses.
He turned back to the statue. He couldn’t recognise the flowers any more.
Gaius Livius Caecus. Preserved in resin, his surprised sightless eyes turned to the ashen sky.
“Meus amicus,” he said, plucking a real flower from the grassy bank and placing it in the crook of the statue’s arm. “Ego diligo vos.”