The Black Rose
A Short Story on Letting Go
Some celebrate International Rose Day today--August 14. A day of love, remembrance--and bonds.
Some bind too tightly.
And love feels--thorny.
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No flower was supposed to bloom in the barren soil.
Yet, a single Black Rose blossomed every winter, its petals pressing too closely against the window of widower Bob Vance.
Eleanor Rise was a seamstress with a relationship with the dead was---
Beyond the pale.
Eleanor had a seeing eye--her left. It discerned shadows that wore gowns--not with exquisite sheer--and far from elegant.
They fit.
Like coffins.
The skilled embroiderer knew not only her craft--she understood the lost souls of those who had crossed the inevitable bridge.
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Late that evening, the rose's shadow lengthened, almost stalking, across the workshop. Candlelight flickered, forming its long shape.
A man entered Eleanor's workshop, face covered in tears.
Bob Vance. The recent widower.
"I have something to ask, Eleanor, and I must know." Distress was in his quivering voice.
With his distress came shadows--darkness that only Eleanor could discern.
Then, whispers.
With a frosty chill.
"You've tried to bring back the past, haven't you?" Her eyes passed over him, wary.
He touched his quivering fingertips, not meeting her gaze.
Abruptly, he rose. "Thank you for your time." An almost indiscernible mumble, and he stalked out of the room.
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Bob returned to his mansion, its detailed, arched windows shuttered and shadowed.
Casting furtive glances around his garden, he planted a small thorn--one from the black rose in Eleanor's store--and began to tend it.
It grew.
Petals, black.
Beautiful.
Thorns--unweidly. Sharp.
And whispers began.
Short. Just barely discernible.
The mirrors in Bob's home didn't just reflect--they came to life.
At least, the reflections within them did.
Chairs in the dining room were--
Misplaced.
As the roses' petals drifted onto the wooden floor, there was a faint whisper.
Almost a taunt.
"You called?"
Bob's mother, who had come to assist with his laundry, laid eyes on the dark flower.
A shrill cry.
The plate she carried clattered on the wooden floor.
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Night turned to dawn in Bob's mansion.
The whispers grew louder.
The silverware Bob laid on the table changed positions on the dining table when he laid eyes on them.
Bob had an inkling of the reasons for the events.
He tried to uproot the single black flower in his garden.
But the plant remained rooted.
Defiant.
Its petals dropped.
Protesting.
Scattering themselves across the floor--each time he cleared them.
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At his mother's insistence, Bob resigned himself to leaving the rose alone.
But he still heard whispers in the hallway.
He turned to look, expecting quiet.
After all, he'd left it alone.
But in the mirror, a face.
A stretched smile.
His.
And hers.
One.
The rose lingered in his garden, petals fiercely rooted in the soil.
Elegant.
Black.
Faint whispers.
"Still here."
Across town, another black rose pressed against a window's glass.
Eleanor Rise passed it with a grim nod.
Unheard, they grow.
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Original story by Michelle Liew. AI tags are coincidental.
For Mikeydred's August prompt:
About the Creator
Michelle Liew Tsui-Lin
Hi, i am an English Language teacher cum freelance writer with a taste for pets, prose and poetry. When I'm not writing my heart out, I'm playing with my three dogs, Zorra, Cloudy and Snowball.
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More stories from Michelle Liew Tsui-Lin and writers in Fiction and other communities.
The Art of Caregiving
Step 1: Patience is a Virtue Your loved one may be in a bad mood, driven by frustration, pain, or depression at being in their current state. This is normal, and expected. As their caregiver, it is up to you to boost their morale, which can be done with positive affirmations and/or physical gestures of love; e.g. hand holding, back rubbing, showering with praise. Note: keep in mind that too much praise can be detrimental. The path to healing has no participation awards, and there are times when a firm yet gentle hand is needed. These occasions may coincide with doling out medication, feeding, and attempts to foster independence. If you have the luxury of being in a hospital/institutional setting, extending patience to the facility's staff is a must. They cannot be everywhere at once, and there are other patients on their rotation besides your loved one. In rare cases where staff members seem especially inattentive, it is considered polite to refrain from wringing necks and spouting verbal abuse. The general rule of thumb is the kinder you treat the staff, the friendlier and more helpful they will be to your loved one in return. This is harder to achieve for many people in a caregiver role, but over time the self-inflicted wounds from chewing one's own tongue to hamburger will heal given sufficient time. Your patience and nerve will be tested at all times. It is of vital import that you remain calm, supportive, and flexible, so that you can cater to whatever needs your loved one may have. Additional restraint may be required if your patience is repeatedly taxed, and not met with the appreciation you feel is deserved. Overall, however, the bulk of your patience will usually be rewarded.
By Natalie Graya day ago in Fiction
Comments (3)
Oh my, that was creeeeppppyyyy. Loved your story!
The black rose blooming in barren soil the only bloom in a winter garden created such a compelling, uncanny image. Eleanor Rise’s ability to see robed shadows ‘like coffins’ is powerfully creepy and vivid. I especially loved the quiet horror of petals drifting across polished floors and the whisper ‘You called?’ in the mirror…just so haunting.
Very spooky, the nature of the black rose, excellent tale