Poor roses, all their petals are tattered to clichés. But I was recently startled by a scrubby little rosebush I bought for 3 dollars at Big Lots. The wretched thing was quite hacked to pieces, and I wasn't sure if it was going to live after I planted it on a berm on the side of the house, much less bloom. But it did, even though the weather has been thundering and dropping buckets of rain on and off for weeks! Just one bud. The card attached to the rosebush promised a "Mississippi Rainbow" or "Everblooming Hybrid Tea Rose" that was hot fuchsia with a swirling inner circle of gold petals. It lied. The lone bud was a hue of pink so pale it reminded me of ballet slippers and tulle. Though its inner petals held no gold, its center blushed amber as the sun. I wonder what its true name is; I feel like I have a lost fairy queen among the other ladies of the berm: Blue Princess Holly, blackberries and raspberries, and a sprawling butterfly bush.
That's how I like (to read and hopefully write) my stories. I want to go somewhere I don't expect, to fall through the sentences and land somewhere my imagination has never stretched before.
The picture attached is the rose in question. Not the best shot or lighting, but I wanted to catch it before the rain knocked any more petals off!
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