Vanity

A short story I wrote for school. I know the rose was a very cliche' symbol to use, but it was all I could think of at the time, haha.

Once upon a time, there was a beautiful rose. This rose, was not red, nor' yellow, nor' pink, it was white. But this rose was not just like any other rose, this rose did not have any
thorns, as most roses do. Even the most elegant and graceful of the red roses flushed green with envy, and the sweet smelling and lovely pink rose grew foul smelling with hatred
of this one white rose. Passerbys on the street stopped to look at it, a gentleman busily on his way to work lurched to a stop at the incredible fagrance wafting from this flower.
Even the butcher, who's apron was red with the blood of the animals he had butchered all day long, stopped in his tracks at the site of this beautiful thing. Then one day, a wealthy
woman, of about 30 years old, her long blonde hair flowed all the way down to the small of her back, but her beauty was a vain one, and though her lips were ruby red, underneath
they were trembled with scorn; and behind the light blush on her perfectly shaped cheekbones, they flamed red with malice. Even her eyes sparkled, but 'nay, behind the black makeup her eyes were
dull and uninterested. She marveled at her outward beauty though, and when she caught sight of this rose she thought, "Ah! Finally something that could match me for beauty! we shall
make a marvelous pair". But when she stooped to pick up the rose, underneath her expensively polished fingers, the rose whithered, and crumbled in her hands. She was quite put
out, and looked around carefully to make sure no one had seen, for this rose was a magnificent sight to be held, indeed, and it was loved by all. So she walked away. But when she awoke the next morning
she carefully put on her slippers. Trudged sleepily over to her mirror to put on her make up for the day...and what a sight to be held. Her lovely skin was whithered and wrinkled,
her eyes drooped as though they were about to fall out of her head. Her neck and chest were covered in age spots, and when she tried to get up again, she found walking was
very painful...and within but a few minutes she found she could not walk at all. One last time she looked at herself in the mirror, at her now graying and wrinkled head...whom a
woman of seventy-five would be grateful for, she thought of the rose, and for one second the smell of it cleared her thoughts, but when she looked back at herself, she fell dead from her chair.

Author's Note

This was supposed to be a symbolic story, It's not supposed to make any sense. :)