Love
South of France in a Town Called La Trèpas
The daises shook their white manes in the windy dew sprinkled morning. Father’s chateau gleamed brilliantly in the soft sunlight. I felt the shivers trickle down my spine as the wind picked up and, like it always did, wisp my long brunette hair against my tan freckled cheeks. The gardener had always done an amazing job, but this summer he had outdone himself. The flowers were arranged in neat little rows which intertwined as they worked their way down to the antique fountain that rested at the bottom of the small hill. There were daises, roses, petunias, and marigolds, all mixed together in beautiful patterns and colorful designs. Four slender marble statues stood closer to the fountain all facing different directions. My favorite was the beautiful one-armed woman who looked outwards into the mountains that surrounded La Trèpas. Her smile reminded me of my mother.
By terryamerican4 years ago in Fiction
Garden of Secrets
“Do you have the flowers ready?” I had been lost in thought staring at the woven basket full of vibrant yellow orange marigolds. The flower of the dead. My sister and I were going to our parents' gravesite to offer these flowers in honoring their passing. I trailed a finger gently over the soft petals remembering how much my mother loved them.
By Karissa King4 years ago in Fiction
The Statistician
I met Azza Amzellaoui at an abridged screening of Star Wars: A New Hope. I was assistant teaching an introductory class on desert ecosystems at McGill University and the cult classic, with its sandstorms and moisture farms, was a first year tradition for students of ecology.
By Anissa Bejaoui4 years ago in Fiction
Eyes Towards the Horizon
For Beth, the water had always been a place of healing. After a particularly nasty divorce, she had thought about taking up permanent residence under the covers of her big, lonely king-sized bed. (Why “King” exactly? And why “Master” bedroom? Did everything have to be engendered and patriarchal?)
By Allison Rice4 years ago in Fiction
Shark Man
In the center of a large event tent, they were gathered around a plastic table covered in drugs. There was almost every flavour ready and available. A mirrored plate with white powder, decades before it would presumably be cocaine, but in that modern world of narcotics the choices were almost endless. The number of analog stimulants and concoctions were staggering, pun intended. Letting one's gaze wander the length of the table, the various piles of white, off white, yellow, and brown, were intimidating to say the least. Ketamine, 2-CB, speed, molly, sassafras. Pills, halves and crushed pieces littered the surface of the table everywhere, with no sense of organization. Glass pipes of all shapes and sizes, ashtrays overflowing with cigarette butts, and little trays of marijuana and rolling papers. A vial of a sparkling liquid sat in the center, beside a small baggie of strangely curled fungus.
By Yess Bryce4 years ago in Fiction
Mary, Mary, Quite Contrary,
“Platonic flowers for platonic occasions.” It has become one of his mantras as he transitions from victim of unrequited love to being just her good friend. He does not want to lose the best parts of her for wanting all of her. As for flowers, he has never, nor would he ever, buy her roses. That is too cliché for someone as unique, amazing, and enigmatic as her. When she started her new consulting practice, he bought an orchid plant the size of a small tree. “She looks like a woman who would love orchids.” It was a lucky guess. A year later, remembering her excitement from the first, combined with a lack of originality, he bought another orchid for Mother’s Day. Three years passed before he bought her an arrangement of assorted flowers for “Best Friend’s Day”, a little-known holiday set aside on June 8th. For someone desperately in love with someone else, who rebuffs with “I think of you as a friend”, Best Friend Day seems a reasonable alternative to National Unrequited Love Day.
By Alexander J. Cameron4 years ago in Fiction
The End of the Beginning
The rations were almost gone. The water and the dried bars. All of it. Tom dug the heels of his palms into his reddened eyes and looked out across the open water, looking for any sign of land. All he could see were waves with white crests, blue sky and yellow orb reflected upon the undulating surface, and those dreaded triangular fins circling. It had been nearly a week since he escaped the cruise ship, a week since his girlfriend passed in her sleep as the virus overtook the liner.
By Brian Gracey4 years ago in Fiction
A Losing Game
Every day, he wakes up at five AM, not a minute before, not one minute after. He stretches his tired body and puts on his slippers. They are his favorite color, blue. With achy joints and sluggish posture, he makes his way into our kitchen. The smell of coffee fills our home. I watch him as he reads the paper in the recliner next to mine.
By Olivia Nicole4 years ago in Fiction
