Catching Fireflies
(you keep her heart in the jar with them, don't you?)
She watches him put the bugs that flash every other second - she's counted - in a pretty, shiny, clear jar. They twinkle even in said jar.
They sigh and scream inside of it.
Claire's sure she can hear them. Perhaps it's only herself, though, as her mother harshly removes whatever dirt and grime Claire's got caked under her fingernails now.
Claire's mother is what you would call 'old money', unlike the new rich people - 'new money', she and the rest of her empress gang call them - she knows how to be, feel and act rich. Their family is not poor, and they are very well off. Claire's fancy dresses are sewn by what her mother would call "Rumpelstiltsken's" in a dungeon. Claire, in this case, is the princess he is sewing for.
"Claire," she says, firmly, "You must stop planting flowers and playing in the dirt. How many times have I told you, that is the gardener's job?"
"Fifty-nine," Claire answers dryly, in that southern accent that makes her mother cringe.
She continues talking in it anyway. "But mama -" and then her mother glares, so the twelve year old blonde changes her voice from her southern drawl to some fancy bullshit that she can't even classify.
"I want to plant flowers, mother. I want to be a farmer, like grandfather was," Claire states.
Her mother glares and goes back to polishing the girl's fingernails.
Claire sighs out in frustration and stares longingly out at the beautiful boy - gardener - catching fireflies.
.
.
She runs out to meet him two years later.
It's time for a change.
He smiles and holds out the jar, leaving Claire to realize that she has caught her very first firefly.
She places it in the jar with a smile and a confession:
"I've never caught a firefly before,"
"Really?" the brunette boy asks, an eager smile on his face, lifting his features.
"Really," Claire nods, her accent - southern and strange on his ears - strong.
"I'm Jack," he says.
"I'm -"
"Claire, I know. I like your accent, by the way. Always wanted one, but I'm just plain old, boring Jack,"
Claire falters. Has her gorgeous boy that she loves always been so modest and sweet?
"Well, I don't think so. I love your job. I love plants, but mama says I can't go near them anymore,"
Jack frowns, "That's too bad. I never got that impression from you. You seem too pretty a girl to even talk to a boy like me,"
She places the next firefly in the jar, this time with a blush and another confession:
"Hey Jack, I think I'm in love with you.
.
.
The next year, she runs away with the boy, leaving a note with the ring from her arranged engagement on top of the piece of paper. She leaves her fancy dresses and high heels behind because the only thing she needs is Jack.
.
.
(but, you do realize you can't keep them in the jar forever. when are you going to release her heart? you do know you're the wrong boy, don't you?)