Paris Green

A tragic, romantic, flash fiction.

He was kneeling on the ground, pruning the China roses, when he saw her emerge from the house and run across the back veranda. She lifted her skirts, hurried down the steps and across the massive sloped lawn towards the gardens.

As she darted past, the gravel crunching beneath her slippers, he saw the tears streaming down her cheeks. He cursed beneath his breath. What had that scoundrel of her father done now? She ran past the fountain and disappeared into the hedge maze. He slipped his shears into his vest and followed the sound of her sobs.

“Leave me be,” she cried when he approached. He scanned her face. Though red and swollen with tears, there were no new bruises. Then he saw the marks on her arms. “I am hideous,” she sobbed.

“Hush. You are the most beautiful creature on God’s green earth.” He sat down beside her on the narrow cement bench. He balled his fists in his lap, as if he could prevent himself from reaching out. Or from pummeling the man who hurt her again and again. 

“Please,” she whispered. “If you are caught speaking to me again-” 

“I don’t care. What happened?”

She jumped from the bench and peered around the corner of the hedge. Reassured she hadn’t been followed she returned to her seat. “I can’t bear this existence, Philip. I am nothing.”

He took her hands in his. “Never say that, Anabelle. That’s like saying the rose is nothing... yet its very existence blesses the world.”

She shook her head despondently. “My father has invited Lord Hoyt to a private meeting. Lord Hoyt!” Philip cursed again. “What will I do?” She scooted closer. “I will never see you again.”

The idea was too much to bear. He pulled her into his arms and pressed his lips against her cheek. He dragged his mouth against her skin, tasting her tears, wishing he could somehow remove her pain. With a sigh she lifted her face and opened her mouth against his own. Her searching tongue met his and they kissed deeply, passionately " desperate to take as much as they could from this fleeting moment. Her fingers skimmed over his chest. Down to touch him in the place she’d never dared. She caressed his hardness and the spark of his desire leapt to an inferno. 

Suddenly the image of Anabelle in Lord Hoyt’s arms invaded Philip’s mind. The man was three times her age and rumored to be even crueler than Anabelle’s own father. He pulled away as rage replaced his arousal.

“Marry me, Anabelle.”

”You know it’s impossible!”

“Nothing’s impossible.”

“My father would kill you, Philip. As long as he is alive I must do his biding.”

He touched his fingertips to the bruises, darkening quickly, on her arms.

He touched his fingertips to the shears resting in his vest.


The day Philip hanged for murder, Anabelle crumpled to the ground beside the roses, dying in his absence. She opened the bottle of emerald colored liquid she had found in the gardeners shed. Paris Green, the label read. She smiled.

What a pretty name for poison.

Author's Note

Note: Paris Green was a arsenic and lead blend used as pesticide in the 17-1800's.

This was written for my weekly Sexy Flash Fiction Challenge. If you have an offsite blog (or even if you don't,) please consider participating in the challenge!! :)

http://www.athenamarie.net/p/the-sexy-flash-fiction-challenge.html