Originally written for the Ray Bradbury Title Challenge
Sitting on a porch swing breathing in the scent of apple blossoms, Lana thinks that she is a living anachronism. A caricature of small town summer interludes from days gone by. She's not sure if the tickle at the back of her neck is just from her hair, or ghostly fairy wings ruffled by the breeze.
The hum of bees in the apple trees is diminished from a week ago; spring is melting away as summer comes on slow. Before she knows it, there will be apples ripe enough for pies and cider, and dandelion wine simmering in Nell's kitchen.
Nell says it's a family tradition handed down from Lana's grandmother, and her grandmother before that. Lana takes Nell's word for it, because there isn't anyone else to ask.
Whitney would never taste the wine. He said nothing good could come from common weeds. But Lana likes the sweetness and the sparkle, that little surprise of flavor locked tight in a tenacious yellow flower.
Lana remembers days and days of wishes blown into the summer wind. Self- propelled dandelion seeds tossing gently along the road, carrying her dreams on their feathery backs. She supposes that they must have put down roots in distant places. They certainly never came back.
Nell likes to say that in winemaking, patience is the highest virtue. For two months the wine jars will sit and ferment, milky golden and sweet- smelling, until the day comes when they suddenly fall clear. Lana has only been lucky enough to see this happen once in all the years, the process of settling, pigments and yeast sinking to the bottom leaving behind a startling clarity that Lana envies.
Whitney found clarity in a dusty box of war medals. Lana had thought she'd find it in her mission to save the Talon, but what she really discovered was a lot of hard work and frustration that almost wasn't worth the preservation of sentimentality.
Almost.
To kill a dandelion you have to rip it out by its roots. Lana's roots are deep, deep in the tainted soil of this town, wrapped around her dead parents and pinned under a chunk of unearthly green stone infinitely larger than the one Whitney carried away in his pocket.
She envies him, really. At least he has an objective, a mission. Whitney's ripped himself out of Smallville and set off down the dusty road, spurred on by the desire to be something more than he's been. It wasn't enough for him to be Whitney Fordman, small town champion, devoted son.
It wasn't enough for him to be hers.
Beyond the safeguarding of the Talon, Lana doesn't know if she has a larger purpose. Whitney's leaving has left an empty space inside her she doesn't think she's complete enough to fill by herself. Being the fairy princess without a prince doesn't feel much like royalty at all.
The distant roof of the Kent's barn shimmers in the rising heat. She thinks about a sunset that never was.
Lana's roots dig down deeper into the earth, and she knows she isn't going anywhere.
Sitting on a porch swing breathing in the scent of apple blossoms, Lana thinks that she is a living anachronism. A caricature of small town summer interludes from days gone by. She's not sure if the tickle at the back of her neck is just from her hair, or ghostly fairy wings ruffled by the breeze.
The hum of bees in the apple trees is diminished from a week ago; spring is melting away as summer comes on slow. Before she knows it, there will be apples ripe enough for pies and cider, and dandelion wine simmering in Nell's kitchen.
Nell says it's a family tradition handed down from Lana's grandmother, and her grandmother before that. Lana takes Nell's word for it, because there isn't anyone else to ask.
Whitney would never taste the wine. He said nothing good could come from common weeds. But Lana likes the sweetness and the sparkle, that little surprise of flavor locked tight in a tenacious yellow flower.
Lana remembers days and days of wishes blown into the summer wind. Self- propelled dandelion seeds tossing gently along the road, carrying her dreams on their feathery backs. She supposes that they must have put down roots in distant places. They certainly never came back.
Nell likes to say that in winemaking, patience is the highest virtue. For two months the wine jars will sit and ferment, milky golden and sweet- smelling, until the day comes when they suddenly fall clear. Lana has only been lucky enough to see this happen once in all the years, the process of settling, pigments and yeast sinking to the bottom leaving behind a startling clarity that Lana envies.
Whitney found clarity in a dusty box of war medals. Lana had thought she'd find it in her mission to save the Talon, but what she really discovered was a lot of hard work and frustration that almost wasn't worth the preservation of sentimentality.
Almost.
To kill a dandelion you have to rip it out by its roots. Lana's roots are deep, deep in the tainted soil of this town, wrapped around her dead parents and pinned under a chunk of unearthly green stone infinitely larger than the one Whitney carried away in his pocket.
She envies him, really. At least he has an objective, a mission. Whitney's ripped himself out of Smallville and set off down the dusty road, spurred on by the desire to be something more than he's been. It wasn't enough for him to be Whitney Fordman, small town champion, devoted son.
It wasn't enough for him to be hers.
Beyond the safeguarding of the Talon, Lana doesn't know if she has a larger purpose. Whitney's leaving has left an empty space inside her she doesn't think she's complete enough to fill by herself. Being the fairy princess without a prince doesn't feel much like royalty at all.
The distant roof of the Kent's barn shimmers in the rising heat. She thinks about a sunset that never was.
Lana's roots dig down deeper into the earth, and she knows she isn't going anywhere.
