THE FLOWERS AND THE FANFIC FANATIC
(Parodies and Other Such Poppycock)
It was an unassuming sunny morning when John Thornton strolled down the street to stretch his legs and go in search of his morning fruit fix. It was shaping up to be a glorious day; the sky was blue, the birds were singing, and best of all, John felt content in the knowledge that back at home, waiting for him in the cocoon of his warm bed, was his new wife, the love of his life.
Smirking to himself with self-satisfied congratulations, John thought about how lucky he was. He and Margaret had only been married a few weeks, but what a wonderful month it had been, and for the life of him, he could hardly remember his existence before her, and do you know what? He didn't want to try.
It had been a delectable honeymoon period full of frisky touches, fond glances, and a whole of incredible fuc −wait! That's none of your business, ya nosey so-and-so!
Yes, John was happy, nauseatingly happy, and he swore in his heart there and then that he would spend every day of the rest of his life showing his darling girl just how much he loved her.
As he walked into the shop, John's attention was filched by a lively display teasing him from the corner of his eye, the hue of vibrancy made all the brighter by the bursts of sunshine which streamed in through the glass windows. Whirling around, John grinned to see a presentation of vivid flowers, a cluster of luscious buds all standing proud with their green stems and heads of silky petals. Nodding decisively, John made a beeline for the vases, since he knew of a certain someone with the sweetest of hearts who would adore them, and so, he now made it his mission to pick her the most lovely bunch he could lay his hands on.
Stopping and stooping over the constellation of blue, red, white, pink, orange, purple – okay, we would be here all day if he described them all, John scrutinised what was on offer, deliberating over which arrangement would put the biggest smile on his beautiful Margaret's face. With his eyes scanning the rows, he hummed and hawed, until at last, he clicked his fingers in eureka.
'Ah-ha!' he cried in triumph.
Carefully picking up a bouquet so as not to damage a single blossom, John beamed as he gazed upon a colourful and cheerful assortment of yellow roses, some dark, some pale, but each a fragrant reminder of the woman he worshipped, and to her, they would be a thoughtful token of her home, those picturesque fields and forests of Helstone.
Whistling away to himself, John turned to go and pay for his fortuitous find, when all of a sudden, he near enough jumped out of his skin in fright.
'Oh good God!' came a flabbergasted shout as John clutched at his heart in stunned shock, that organ near enough bursting out his chest in traumatised surprise.
Looking up in dismay, John saw the most unwelcome sight he could imagine, and that was the presence of none other than that damned woman, that nonsensical nutjob of a fan who insisted on writing about him….The Scribbler.
John grimaced.
Good grief!
Taking hold of his senses, John took a step back and adopted a stable stance, the muscles in his legs twitching beneath his trousers in case he needed to vamoose and make a run for it.
The woman, who was surprisingly short in stature, stared up at him, her eyes wide in wonder. 'Hello John,' she said, her voice dripping with sickly and sycophantic admiration.
John gulped.
'Hello Caroline,' he replied reluctantly, his pitch embarrassedly high, because let's face it, the man was scared out of his wits.
For a while, she just stood there, grinning with unnerving excitement, and an uncomfortable John was unsure of what to do or say. He would have excused himself and made his urgent escape, really he would, but dang it, she had managed to corner him against the wall, and so unless he was prepared to shove her out of the way, something the gentleman in him was not keen to do, John was trapped between a rock and a hard place.
'What have you got there?' she asked at last, gesturing to the flowers in his hand and blushing like a giddy schoolgirl.
John gawked at the compilation of yellow in his care, and his grip tightened instinctively. Maybe if he brandished them like a sword of jagged stalks, then he could fight off her infatuated attentions and run for the hills. But oh dear, the master could just not bring himself to do that to Margaret's flowers, so that getaway plan was out the window…if only he was too.
'They are flowers,' he explained, before scowling at himself for sounding like such a stupid twit. 'They are for…Margaret,' he admitted, wary of what the fanatical writer would say in response to this. She knew that he had married Margaret, of course, she did, all his devotees knew, but still, he was not sure how she had taken the news of his nuptials.
John grumbled. He should be grateful really, since without her scribbling, and that of other fanfic authors, his existence would not be so vivacious or varied. Gaskell had done a grand job in founding and nurturing him, and yes, the dearly departed lady would forever be his creator, his true birth mother, if you will. But still, there was something about having his story rewritten and reshaped time and time again that gave John that extra oomph, almost like every new-fangled mention of his name only served to strengthen and secure his lifeforce.
Peering back at his conversational companion, John felt a pang of empathy. Caroline was not a bad egg, not really, she was just… all right, fine, she was crazy! She had been writing about him and Margaret for a while now, and goodness knows why she had chosen them out of all the fictional couples out there to tip-tap-type away about. And again, yes, he really should be flattered, but you see, there was just something about the way she wrote about him, something which made him uneasy.
She liked him, that was obvious. But whether she loved him…?
However, on hearing for whom the generous gift was intended, Caroline's awe-struck countenance flopped into a frown. 'Oh,' she nipped, 'how lovely,' she conceded petulantly, her nose wrinkled into a disapproving sneer.
With a sulky sniff, she turned, making ready to leave, and John heaved a weighty sigh of relief, his broad shoulders sagging. But then all of a sudden, she veered back around, and with her eyes glinting in mischievous menace, they flitted to the flowers. 'May I see them?' she asked with serene sugariness, her eyelashes fluttering flirtatiously.
John blinked.
'All right,' he agreed, his tone suspicious as he handed them over carefully.
Taking them from him, Caroline's fingers fondled the soft folds, a tranquil smile painted across her face, and for a moment, John thought she was not so mad or bad after all, and he felt himself begin to settle down.
But then – OH NOOOOO!
Out of the blue, Caroline suddenly shrieked like a banshee, and whilst throwing the biggest hissy fit of a temper tantrum that John had ever seen, she proceeded to lose the plot. Plucking at the roses like a wild animal rips at its kill, she tore them to shreds, a tragic shower of wilting golden petals cascading to the floor. Lifting her feet into the air, she stomped down on the remains of her victim with her heeled boots until it was no more than a mound of yellowy mush.
'I hope she likes them,' she laughed sarcastically, hysterically, the woman as mad as a box of frogs.
Lifting her head and cackling like a witch, Caroline backed away. 'Bye, bye, John,' she waved gleefully, blowing him a kiss. 'I am off to write about you,' she winked, and with that, she sauntered off, not a care in the world, none the wiser to the fact that she had just behaved like a lovesick lunatic. Left alone, John was aghast, his jaw nearly smacking off the floor as he stared after her in stupefied horror.
John was just pulling himself together when a shop worker wandered over to him. Thrusting out a fresh bouquet of yellow roses, ones that were even larger and lovelier than the last lot, she shook her bleached blonde head knowingly. Don't worry, pet, we had one of them lot in here the other day throwing a barney over that Darcy bloke. Nutters, the lot of them!' she concluded sagely, before skulking off to tell a little boy to stop trying to scan his bottom on the cash register.
John was speechless.
Well, one thing was for sure…fan-fiction folk were away with the fairies.