Day 274 of 365 Days of Writing Prompts: Write a story that includes a rose.
Shannon: There was a rumor I’d heard from my friends about a rose that was carved into the bleachers right next to the baseball field. They said it drawn by someone in memory of a girl who had died in the girl’s bathroom. I didn’t believe the story, so I went to go check it out, and see if the rose even existed.
When I got there after school I noticed there was a rose on the bleachers, but it was real. I rolled my eyes because I thought my friends were messing with me, but when came closer there was some writing engraved. Odd. I picked up the flower to examine it, and suddenly my view was blurry.
Erin: I had learned to hate flowers. They made my stomach drop, because Ray always gave them to me as an apology. They were never substantial enough to overshadow his wrongdoing. They just made my hurt worsen. That feeling would come back as I looked at any roses from any occasion. It was the thing I disliked him taking from me most.
Roses are red. Or are they?
Pelky Sisters 
Reblogged this on All About Writing and more.
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Nikki slowly comes to. She hears the beeping far before she opens her eyes. She stares at where the blank wall meets the speckled ceiling. Finally, she dares to move her neck, not finding it constricted. One of her friends is on an armchair next to her. But due to their slumped posture and the medication fuzzing her vision and memory, she can’t tell who it is.
She turns to look at the door, and a bright object takes her attention. On the tray of her bed, there’s a blob of bright magenta. She lifts her lethargic hand. It brushes petals. She pricks her finger on a thorn as she brings the flower to her face.
A rose.
Nikki examines stem, counts every petal and thorn as he sight comes back. The end of the stem is frayed, as if it was twisted and snapped instead of cut.
Nikki looks at her friend, who isn’t one she is fully familiar with. Kara Alfreds sits slumped, a bandage on her arm from a rose stem sized hole, and tweezers next to her sterilized. Bits of moss grow along her neck and hands in her sleep, turning green at each soft inhale and start drying out at each exhale.
Nikki looks back at the rose, then lays it back on the tray and sighs.
‘Mission accomplished.’
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