A story

Jeweled light shone through enormous walls of stained glass creating the vision of a thousand shining sunsets. The colors seeped throught the glass with a brilliant vibrancy pouring stained light on a plethora of bountiful bouquets. The flowers adorning each wall were delicately perched on numerous stools, creating a graceful terraced effect about the large, open room. And through the open doors danced a light, carefree wind. It carried the delicious fragrance of the sweet flowers so that the room became a summery meadow in the closing of the eyes.

            I walked toward the bouquets; they were undeniably extravagant. Some where entirely bright and sunny, beaming with vivid colors, from the neon stems to the intense pigments of the various blossoms. Others were more elegant by nature: with deep emerald tones to frame the stunning hues of their petals. Other still held a less vivacious beauty. Their subdued greens and deeper violets and scarlets were captivating, but far from flamboyant. I gazed at those flowers for over an hour.

            Occasionally I would reach out and touch a velveeten petal or a sillken leaf. I don’t know how something alive could be so soft to the touch.It seemed impossible that these plants could survive harsh storms and their wild, whipping winds or sharp and pelting rains. As I pondered the intricate relationship of softness and strength my mother came and grabbed me by the shoulders, gracefully dragging me away from the beauty of the boquets.

            “Come” she whispered, her voice tickling my ear, “You need to speak with people”

            I followed her, but lifelessly, as I possessed no desire to speak to anyone.  Friends and family drifted by garbed in black and jewels. They appeared like stormy, gray clouds and poured their sympathies onto my unreceptive ears. I must have muttered something of a thank you as they disipated back into the room to glance one more time at pictures of Mary before returning home to where they would supposedly pray for her, and us, her best friend’s family.

            I searched the darkness for tissues, little spots of ivory against the black, like snowflakes in the night. Then I found a different source of white. Nodding to my mother that I had permission to leave the tortous row of chairs gifted to Mary’s closest, I loped toward it. It came into sharper view as I drew closer.

I stopped at a table showing a framed picture of myself and Mary jovially playing in the yard. I’m sure it was some game fashioned by her eccentritic imagination, probably involving princesses and dragons and little fantasies that once made me smile. We were both smiling then, but now…

I picked it up by its simple cherry wood frame and examined it closer. I wish I could scrutinize the picture into reality, bend the tiny dots of color until their contours became palpable so I could hear her laughter one more time. Her laugh was incredible. It started with a low chuckle then crescendoed up to an uncontrollable roar reminiscent of the hefty metal turbines pumping in a car engine. Eventually it settled into a snort of which she was truly and incurably embarassed, but I found extremely enjoyable. But, I would never have this again and the sickeningly white rose laying upon the table knew that fact well.

Its thorny, dark green stem mocked me as I peered at it in an attempt to find the safest way to lift it to my eyes. Eventually I was able to pick up the repulsive thing and was even more appalled by a closer veiw of it. It was unlike the cheery arrangements of flowers that decorated the enormous and gorgeous room. It was simple and plain and colorless and dull. It was evil; I could tell. By just one glance I knew it was sinister laying there enjoying my pain, reveling in the tears that surrounded it, rejoicing with each sob for my poor little lost lamb, Mary.

It was that grotesque off-white that was innately disturbing. The creamy color was not its only corruption. The arrangement of its petals was wicked. They stuck up a sharp points so the blossom looked like some derranged, circular mountain range of infinte disillusions. It was hideous. And by the way it maintained such a stiff and upright posture; I knew its sin was purposeful. Oh God how I hated it! Despised it! Loathed it! I wanted to scream, to cry, to rip its petals apart like a vicious, predatory animal.

But, instead of doing any of those things I snuck it in between my skirt and waist. I ignored its sharp thorns pricking me for I had to sneak it home and uncover the most despicable fate for such an abomination. I knew Mary would hate such a flower tainting the beauty of her funeral space so I smiled for the first time since her death, knowing I was doing something right.

The service ended and I rushed to the bathroom as soon as we returned home. I cleaned the small wounds the hideous flower had inflicted and discarded the bloody tissue paper. Then I hid it by dumping toilet paper on top. I gave some excuse to my mother for wanting to go to bed then headed to my room clutching the loathsome rose in my left hand.

In my bedroom I stared at the flower. I wish I could make it down a couple sleeping pills with a bottle of whiskey like my sweet Mary, but alas it would have to suffer another fate. I could tear it petal from petal or watch it wilt, but neither option seemed right. I could get a match and watch the flower writhe as it burned to death, scorched and seared. I could also get a knife and chop the thing to tiny pieces. I contemplated its demise with vicious severity staring at the rotten beast the entire time.

Eventually night came and my eyelids drooped like hammocks beneath heavy weights. I decided to tuck the rose beneath my mattress and return to my ideas later.

I woke up in the morning after dreaming of the disgusting rose and changed into my school clothes. After breakfast I hopped on the bus and thought of the rose. The rose, the hidhideous, horrible rose. The whole day I though of it, how it tortured me and how I would torture it. In fact the whole week the only thing on my mind was the leafy monster beneath my mattress. I would twist it and tear it! I would scorch it and stomp on it! I would crush it and starve it!

Oh! All the misery it would suffer. It had already starting wilting from fear of my punishment. Oh! How I would punish it! With each breath.I thought of plucking off its nasty thorns, each dream featured the decimation of its petals. It was vile and atrocious and repulsive and horrid and terrible and I would DESTROY it! I would torture it, it mocked me and it was a sickening, haunting memory of Mary. It distorted her and all her purity, beauty innocence. Its hideous egg-shell blossom, its fraying green leaves and long twisted stem.

These days I’ve been counting lambs before I sleep. It usually takes 313 before I can-I don’t sleep well, though. I wake up. I’m always thinnking about the rose. It’s torture. I want to torture it. I hate everything. My mother is worried, the rose is wilted, but not dead. I need to kill it-I hate it! Mary hates it!Mary hates it! Mary hates it! It sings to me

“Mary had a little lamb, little lamb, little lamb

Its fleece was white as snow”

            I hated that white rose. All the lambs lost Mary. And. I. Would. Not. Lose. The. Rose.

Author's Note

First piece of writing that isn't a poem, thanks for reading and would love reviews and critiques!!!

Reviews

[Marie]

THis is somewhat surrealistic, but a beautiful description--first of the lovely jeweled flowers, then of the evil and sickening rose. Great contrasts.

[Nicki]

Thank you so much! I really appreciate it!