You are so proud of me, are you not? ;) When I say short, though, I really mean short. It’s like a page. Anyway, it is right here:
She did not usually appreciate flowers. They were short-lived, liable to fall apart at the smallest touch, and the “fragrance” gave her headaches.
But this flower was different. It was nigh on perfect. It had been picked from the front garden of her house. It was, as Fate had obviously willed, a rose. A white rose. It did not even have too strong of a smell. Her father had plucked it that morning, and had presented it to her as she had climbed into the car. The presentation of such a gift had been rather unexpected, but this only added to its perfection. In most flowers, she had noticed, the imperfections ruined the symmetry, the beauty, and the wonder of the blossom.
But this flower was different. What imperfections it had, rather paradoxically, only added to its beauty. The slight discolorations of the edges of its petals, the yellowed center, and the sepals slightly skewed, they all enhanced rather than degraded. “Beautiful” any flower could achieve. But now, there was but one “perfect” in her heart, and it was this seemingly ordinary, literally garden-variety, simple white rose. It would be far too late when she understood how deeply she felt for her rose. No other flower had inspired such feelings in her before, especially so subconsciously.
But this flower was different. As she approached school that day, flower in hand, she waved her father good-bye and walked up to the front steps. Her friends saw the flower, and admired it too. One boy, feeling comedic, placed it in his hair. She, surprising herself, took it back wordlessly. Had it been any other flower, she would have been angered and refused to touch the thing again.
But this flower was different. She did not understand it yet. It was only later that she realized that nothing so trivial could have marred the beautiful blossom. She turned to greet more arriving friends and offered the flower to her best friend to examine. Then, he arrived. He was a good friend of hers, with much in common. It was inevitable, then, that he, too, would want to see the rose. He reached for it, trying to pull it away from her best friend, but her friend pulled away. In the scuffle, he “brokeded” her flower. An entire half of the flower was gone. The ground was littered with white petals. Her flower, her (as she had finally begun to comprehend) beloved flower, was broken. She could have easily blamed the other girl, as he did. She did not know why she did blame him. If it had been any other flower, it would not have mattered to her so much.
But this flower was different. Perhaps his feeble attempts to cheer her up maddened her more than the broken flower itself. The look on her face when he placed the remains of the flower behind her ear (to conceal the missing half) may have shown him the sadness she barely understood herself. Maybe the worst was when he placed it behind his own ear, trying, as the other boy had, to effect a laugh. He looked silly. But then, he was a boy with a broken flower. She looked sad, for she was left with something far worse. She was a girl with a bit of a broken heart.
It is kind of amazing, don’t you think? ;) I like it because it is all based on fact, except that in real life, I never had such an attachment with a flower. I am probably going to submit it to the PHS Literary Magazine, but just in case they don’t love it, I figured I should put it up here. I also put it up on my Facebook, and I bet my close friends (whom I got to read this like five times) are probably tired of it already.
I got this whole idea from none other than the wonderful Ms. Lucia Harvilchuck, who heard enough of this first period to say that it sounded poem- or short-story-worthy. It just swirled around in my head for some time until I just started writing it all down. Three drafts and a weekend later, here I am.
Oh, and many thanks to Melody, who helped me work out what the hell was going on with my verb tenses. You are amazing!