The widower, Mr. Rochester, didn’t pick up his rose bouquet today. He says roses remind him of his beautiful wife.
His neighbor, Mr. John, walked in the next day. He asked, “Do you have Yellow Pansy?”
I answered, “No. Why?”
“Pansy would remind me of my good friend, Mr. Rochester.”
Lea is a ghost writer who hides in another person’s shadow. She came out today to write stories again.
It wasn’t a lonely life.
It was just different.
She talked to the flowers, and they listened.
She could almost see the marigolds raise their little orange heads as she passed.
And the lilies always waved.
But you couldn’t trust a yellow rose…
Or the man who gave you one.
Susan Gale Wickes is from Indiana. She likes all flowers, even yellow roses.
A bedside bouquet blooms fresh, red and yellow, only for you.
Ignore the square machines humming under sterile plastic sheeting. Consider every brilliant petal a perfumed watchman, the spirit of those that yearn to hold you and bolster your withering hope.
The flowers plead, “Fight! You’re needed here with us.”
Andrew Bridgeman wrote this story. See more at andrewbridgeman.com.
She’d sit looking at the perennials starting to bud. Spring was in the air, with the promise of warmer days ahead.
She loved new life springing forth from her planting efforts.
Today the backfilling was done quietly, without hope of life being renewed, as we said goodbye at her graveside.
Connell writes a bit.
I sit back and wipe the sweat from my face. The impatiens look good in the newly turned earth.
I try not to look at the heavy granite stone beside me.
Planting flowers for you in the spring used to be my greatest pleasure, until it became your last request.
G. Allen Wilbanks is a member of the Horror Writers Association (HWA) and has published over 60 short stories in Deep Magic, Daily Science Fiction, The Talisman, and other venues. He has published two short story collections and the novel “When Darkness Comes.” For more information, visit gallenwilbanks.com.
Fields of vivid yellow; enthusiastic sunflowers tell me stories of love, life, and laughter as I lay amongst them.
Imposing, tall, stretching, kissing the sun.
I rearrange them in their vases. Together we look out the kitchen window, sighing.
They’re wilting now, but I count the days ’til next year.
Michael is currently writing bios for up-and-coming artists in the U.K.
Red roses are cliché.
Daisies’ friendly faces look pitifully eager.
Orchids make you work too much for their beauty.
Lilies’ quiet elegance masks a faint bridal whiff.
Tulips: unassuming and perfect.
Later, I offer her the painstakingly-selected bouquet. “No!” she yelps, slamming the door. “I’m allergic to those!”
Nina Sudhakar is a writer, photographer, lawyer and wanderer. She writes about travel and culture on her website.
Armed with flowers, she visits his grave. Six months gone. She lays the bouquet down, purple petals smeary as lipstick.
Dahlias, she says. They’re my favorite.
He’d always bought her daisies for wedding anniversaries, Mother’s Days. The old frustration sears her. Better to forget she’d told him a million times.
Adina Davis lives in Massachusetts. Her stories have appeared most recently at streetwrite.com and Intrinsick.
I brought her some West Virginian wildflowers fresh from the Star City exit on I-79.
She cradled them like an infant wrapped in burlap. The little bluets danced along the dewy glow of her paling face. “What should we name them?”
“Honey …” She wanted to name everything.
Amber D. Tran graduated from West Virginia University in 2012, where she specialized in lyrical non-fiction and contemporary poetry. She currently lives in Alabama with her husband and miniature dachshund. Her first novel, Moon River, will be released this fall.
The daffodils were open only a day when the wind bowled most of them over.
I gathered all those with broken stems and put them in a vase and put the vase on the table. This is what life is like after 60, the light, indecisive, distraught, sprouting black feathers.
Howie Good is the author of Danger Acts Starring Unstable Elements, winner of the 2015 Press Americana Prize for Poetry.