Love
When You See a Marigold
In her youth, young Rowan played and explored just as any kid would. She fearlessly swam in the creek that teemed with life behind her farmhouse. She harassed various critters with her tiny, chubby hands, barring no actual malice, just sustaining her child-like curiosity. This was her life, every single day, sunset to sundown. It was a good little life, a happy one - yet, she was ever so lonely. She wished with all her heart for a friend, someone her age to enjoy all the excitement of her property with her. To her great surprise, the universe eventually granted her wishes. One fateful morning, as Rowan scoured her driveway searching for the perfect rain puddle to splash in, she spotted him. Her big blue eyes followed a lumbering moving truck, cruising lazily along the dirt road that ran for miles in front of her house. It pulled into the driveway not too far from her and from what she could tell, inside of it held a woman and a young child. A boy just around her age! This boy proved to be her closest friend throughout the majority of her childhood years. Sam was the exact opposite of Rowan, always chasing after her and begging for her to slow down as she whipped through the fields like a streak of blonde lightning. He was a nervous child, afraid of bumps and bruises, crying when he received them. Sam outright refused to swim in the dirty creek with his counterpart, instead, he simply watched Rowan flip about as he twisted his hands nervously in his dark curls. They were inseparable, or so they thought. One fateful evening, Rowan scampered across her lawn, determined to go and fetch her beloved friend. Instead, she was met with that very same moving truck from all those years ago. Sam left in the same white carriage that he was brought to her in. Her little heart was devastated
By Leila Lewis5 years ago in Fiction
Low Road of Marigolds
I was a long way from home when I heard her voice. She had a Scottish accent, and I listened to it for a while remembering how close we'd been and how I'd left her all those years ago. But I wasn't sure the voice was hers. I listened again, she was distant, the sound was coming over a public address system. At the time I thought I must have been dreaming or imagining things and then her voice stopped. I mixed in with the crowd, the normal Sunday morning gathering of people at the local markets. Tables full of home made products, jams, conserves, freshly picked fruit, free range eggs, the smell of someone cooking bacon. Babies jackets for sale, hand knitted gloves and flowers, lots and lots of marigolds.
By Grant Woodhams5 years ago in Fiction
Marigolds Dancing Beneath the Aurora Borealis
Snow sparkles under the dazzling display of the Aurora Borealis. The landscape before me looks untouched; pristine. It stretches out for miles without sight of a footprint or figure to mar the beauty, and I revel in this moment of tranquility.
By Megan Baker (Left Vocal in 2023)5 years ago in Fiction
Anything But Flowers
She said her name was So-Chee. That's not how she spelled it though. "X-O-C-H-I-T-L, it means flower," she said. Honestly, I didn't think it did her justice. I mean, flowers are pretty... sure, but she...she was stunning, enchanting, ravishing, breathtaking, perfection.
By Ryan Barbin aka “Dirt”5 years ago in Fiction
The Golden Shore
They met where their farms did, in a meadow of gold, dotted with dandelions and sprinkled with marigold blooms. Past the farthest ear of corn or stalk of wheat, the meadow hid. And on this meadow grew a spot where the earth bubbled but never broke. And on this hill grew the steadfast behemoth of branch and bark. And after their work was done, they would join together every day at the base of the sturdy oak on the hill. And they danced.
By Michael Oberschewen5 years ago in Fiction
Pieces of a Bouquet
Abby Forrester scrubs last night’s spaghetti off her white plate. She has a dishwasher, but she doesn’t think it gets dishes clean enough. She glanced at her Emerald-cut wedding band on a towel of the edge of the sink. It’s four o’clock- Masen will be home anytime. Abby and Mason have been married six years, but it still feels like perfection. Abby moves on to the glasses while singing “Have You Ever Seen the Rain” by Creedence Clearwater Revival when a bouquet of flowers gently whips in front of her face.
By Jessica Mathews5 years ago in Fiction
