The Corpse Flower

“There is no old house in that meadow dear, are you sure you are alright, maybe you should lay down I can receive the information later.”

Nothing was heard, only the water droplets that drops from the crack ceiling. Making a small puddle on the ground, having mice roaming around the place.

Gabriel Garcia Marquez’s 1981 novella, Chronicle of a Death Foretold, is an investigation into the murder of Santiago Nasar through the lens of a Columbian community. It acts as a broader commentary on the obligations to virtue, duty and honour at the expense of meaningful relationships and rational decision-making. This essay will explore how Marquez uses flowers to represent the high standards expected of them that simultaneously result in justification for their objectification. Flowers are also used to mask and disguise the hollow and often onerous expectations to uphold flawed beliefs on virtue, religion and duty.

“You stupid bastards, I already showed you I can blow your house down. If you don’t let me in, I’ll huff and I’ll puff, and I’ll blow your crummy house in.”

I woke to shouting and banging on my door. I grabbed my pocket watch from the side of my bed; it read 4 o’clock. Who would be at my door this early in the morning? I thought. My body was dragged from the bed as I trudged along to my front door.

The door slammed on my way out of the old apartment building. No, I didn’t slam the door; it was a windy morning in the city of Chicago. As I was walking outside, I whispered to myself “This is it.” The wind was pushing against me, almost causing me to tumble over. Along with the wind, the smell of rain filled my nostrils and my clothing started to soak from just a five-yard walk from the apartment building to my dad’s truck. As soon as I got inside my dad’s truck, I was shivering from the ice-cold rain and piercing wind that was outside and I loudly sighed with relief. The slam of the door may seem like a negative thing, but it was actually the beginning of a better life for me. It was the sound of me breaking free from an affectionless prison

From behind, the down-low professional Realtor heard, “I’m cuming. Fuck, you’re ass just got tighter. Take my seed, Daddy.”

When the door didn’t budge, he yelled again, this time louder. “TOMMY! IS EVERYTHING OKAY? TOMMY, ANSWER ME!”

Her fur slid down her arm and her dress glittered as she breathed in the night air, and even as tiny beads of sweat prickled her flesh she smiled finally realizing what she had been missing….Silence. The silence was suddenly broken by muffled punctuated down beats and she turned her head to an alley, it looked like any other alley but a couple were standing by a door and the next moment the music grew louder as the door opened and the couple disappeared. Tilting her head Mildred shifted her fur higher on her shoulder and walked towards the door, knocking cautiously.

Since my father stormed out, I was now alone in my room. My room wasn’t the same anymore. The light blue walls seemed like prison bars, trapping me inside a house that was not a home. My father’s words still rang in my head; dirty, stupid, slut, piece of—ding. I looked down at my phone. Four missed calls from Charlie Murphy. I let out a sigh of relief and

“ Despite the chattering of the radio, nobody seemed to be at home. I had no clue whether my father lived here, it could have been anyone’s house, from where I stood, I needed to get inside. I knew if I hesitated, I would never do it. So in one swift motion I pushed open the window and and clambered through.” From the outside it might have not been clear it was my father’s home but the inside gave him away. The various clippings of famous blacks and the old typewriter on the desk made it obvious I had found the right place. I wandered through the apartment trailed by the dog that had been sitting on the couch when I entered. As I examined the contents of the fridge; only a carton of milk, a can of dog food, and many frozen dinners, I remembered

“They stay well hidden when they reside there. Lucky for us, this is the time of year they are in session.”

Introducing the person responsible for the love Marguerite has for poetry is the purpose of this essay. In Maya Angelou’s story, Sister Flowers, we find out how a student developed the sophistication she uses in her writings. Sister Flowers is the poetic mother of Marguerite and instilled the passion for words into her.

“Hey, you can come up. The key is under the rug,” his mom said. He walked through the passageway. He came upon a courtyard with some old tables and chairs. He walked into his building. Then he jogged up the stairs with his books. He picked up the key from under the rug. He turned the key and walked in. He walked into the wood floor and green wall apartment. His mom was sitting reading on her bed. “Hey, how was your day?”

Walter walked with purpose towards the coffee shop on Main. He was heading to order the missus her latte. After every hair appointment she wanted a latte with extra cream and Walter had to get it for her. As he walked along he passed a school. It was 2 o’clock and he heard the loud, obnoixous bell ring as he passed. He hurried along before the kids started filing out the door. He was still thinking about it when he reached the door of the coffee shop. He placed his order and sat down, staring out the window towards the school.