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The Dead Rose: A Plot of A Rose for Emily
发布时间:2015-07-01 浏览次数:


Miss Emily with her head high and Homer Barron with his hat cocked and a cigar in his teeth, rein and whip in a yellow glove as they usually do. Miss Emily is returning home from the church, she is a member of the Anglicans. When she is praying at the church, the northerner Homer likes to get into the crowd to make fun of those handsome boys and girls, he is always womanising. At the same time, Miss Emily still lifts up her head and tenses the muscles of her face even though in front of her there is a stately and sacred statue. Similar to a noble rose, Miss Emily would rather come down with the religious stormy punishment than lower her full-of -thorns arrogance.

 

The moon rises in a clatter of slurp-munch-slurp crow quack, they cross the path of mold and damp earth and the old man-servant is waiting at the door with no words. Miss Emily’s house is a big, squarish frame house that had once been white, decorated with cupolas and spires and scrolled balconies in the heavily lightsome style of the seventies, although now it seems so strange buried in a flock of garages and cotton gins. And there is a bundle of white roses in full bloom beneath the neglected and wormhole window. The roses have ever been there since Emily’s father was alive and many guys falling in love with Emily would fetch a bunch of those whites to pay court to her. However none of them succeeded in entering the ever white house since Emily’s father did not allow his noble daughter to date with those ignoble thugs. Now, the white roses crawling up the washed-out wall are even more pale bathing in the gloomy moonlight.

 

Emily and Homer get into the meticulously decorated bedchamber upstairs. Upon the valance curtains of rose color, upon the dressing table, upon the delicate array of crystal and the man’s toilet things backed with silver, there emerges a glimmer of honey breath opposite to the sepulchral and wet atmosphere outside.

 

“You must think about our marriage, my father has died.” Miss Emily twitters with her hands firmly holding a beautiful wrapped parcel.

 

“You know, my dear, I am not desiring for a family.” Homer responds with frivolous smile on his face.

 

Holding the beautiful parcel more firmly, Miss Emily’s waxy face turns livid, “Oh, you can.”

“I love you, my sweet, don’t be so prideful.” Homer says, fetching out a bundle of white roses from the back. That were what he got when he got into the house.

 

“You deserve it.” Homer passes the flowers to Emily, whispering to her ear.

The moon outdoors rises higher and the moonlight through the run-down window leaves on the side face of Emily and the roses turn a little bit melting. At the same time, the nightingale’s voice rings out from the window.

 

“Yes, I deserve it.” Miss Emily takes over the white roses and observes the thorns on them, “You must think about our marriage.”

 

“I want to go back to the north, I have been missing my friends.” Homer insists.

“Yes, you can. You are right. I am going to make tea.” Miss Emily puts the roses on the desk, leaving many petals scattering casually.

 

When Emily goes back, Homer is playing with the melodica he got from a pretty girl during the daytime. The nightingale has stopped singing and the rhythm of the melodica lonely waves accompanied with the whiny night wind.

 

“You are right, but I still want the marriage.” Emily says in a really low voice this time as if she is soliloquizing. She pours the tea into the ceramic cup she produced before then puts the cup besides the delicate roses, the night wind rushes in wrapping the rose petal into the tea.

 

“Is it my tea?” Homer stops playing and the night wind turns nippier.

 

“Yes, your tea.” Miss Emily looks out of the window.

“I love you.” Homer drinks off the tea with serene expression emerging on his ebony face. 

A few minutes later, the night wind stops whimpering and the moon hides behind the clouds. The whole world goes into silent.

 

Miss Emily fondles the serene man laying on the rosy bed, a hint of uncanny smile appears at the corner of her mouth. On the other hand, those white roses on the desk have blighted like funeral paper.

 

Editor: Li Meng Source: English Net

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