Fury

It welled up inside him like a growing plant. Roots unfurled and dug deep into the pit of her noxious bile as if it were the fertile soil of the Nile’s banks. Its pods were a deep maroon – a sign of the rage to come with the rain of fury and spring. The weak leaves a colorless shade of invisible that would camouflage the plant’s presence until the last possible moment.

Bright lines of light erupted around the tiny growthling, digging into its precious life source, tearing quietly at the plant’s prickly roots. However, like the perfectly disjointed oxymoron it was, the bile mixed and folded and absorbed until the light gave in, short on energy and hope alike.

A trace of crimson appeared not long after the attack, trickling slowly out of the smallest of the maroon pods. It spread slowly, but powerfully. From pod to pod it moved, in the most farcical, size-order manner. Smallest to smaller to small, the weakest becoming the strongest -- the spark for the whole fire that could soon be seen for miles.

How eye-catching is a petal the color of blood? Will you see the crimson in the corner of your eye? Will you ignore it, or bend beneath its outstretched branches?