family
Petals of Marigold
I walk the same route to work everyday. I can’t take any surprises, turn any new corners, or see any new sights, because the one thing I hate the most is flashbacks. MAN, do I hate flashbacks; when the mind takes you back based on a certain smell, location, or even feeling. For a lonely woman, flashbacks give you another reason to cry, because once you leave your imaginary world, you are yet again, alone. Today, however, the soft gentle breeze put my mind at ease only for a moment in time, as I see yellow petals beside my feet. Why did those yellow pedals have to land there? Now, my thoughts become like a train going full speed and my mind flashes to life, in elementary:
By Shannon Manning5 years ago in Fiction
Remember the Marigold
“Do you want to talk about it?" The boy broke the soul-searching eye contact he had been maintaining with the grass. He glanced to the side towards the voice, eyes reddened and nose wet. He could see the age in the face of the man. In every wrinkle there seemed some hidden glint of wisdom. That’s why he’d come to him, but his tongue felt heavy, as if coated in steel.
By Blake Arnold5 years ago in Fiction
Learning To Love Marigolds
I always hated marigolds. They were a perennial favorite of my mother’s, and she planted them in the flower beds of our little home every year, without fail. It was a small rectangular bed, carved out of the yard, next to the worn gravel driveway, and edged with railroad ties. Yellow and orange, and sometimes trimmed with red. I think they made her happy, the bright colors. A beacon of hope in an otherwise humdrum existence. But as for me, I hated them. I wanted the pretty reds, and purples, and pinks of other flowers like lilies, irises, or even begonias. Or sweet smelling roses. Basically, anything that my grandmother, my father’s mother, grew. Yellow and orange were, after all, basic and ugly colors. And marigolds smelled bad.
By C. H. Crow5 years ago in Fiction
Marigolds on the Cathedral Step
Sanity is fluid. We all want to believe that our minds will stay forever intact. Severe mental illness is something we hear about on the news, something that happens to other people, not to us. All too often, we don't realize how fragile our grasp on reality can be. Sometimes, mental illness can be brought on by a combination of genetic and environmental factors, such as abuse. Sometimes, all it takes is one major, terrible event to send us over the edge.
By Angela Cooke5 years ago in Fiction
Marissa's Gold
“Hija, hold these,” Marissa’s mother said through withheld tears. She handed the girl an armful of marigolds. They would be used to decorate the grave of her father. Since he died in the hospital last week, it had been nothing but sequences of hysterical cries and silent sobs. Marissa didn’t think she had any tears left to give.
By Kiersten Kelly5 years ago in Fiction
The Botanist's Son
“And this one, my boy, I call a chalice, brimming with sunlight.” My earliest years are to me a flux of images. The first chapters in the story are not really linear, and this makes it quite difficult for me to keep track. I haven’t made sense of it all just yet. There are, however, a few facts that remain my frame to cling on, defiant columns rising from the sea. Firstly, I know my father was a scientist. More specifically, a botanist. The man loved flowers, and he could tell you a lot about them. Often too much. I’ve been told that he possessed the conversational quality of a single C-sharp note, sustained on an organ; at first one was curious to hear it, then one became bored, then one would be forced to take leave before their lack of tolerance became too obvious and, more than anything, impolite. His lectures were notorious for being at once zesty and unbearable. But, as a boy, I was rapt with them. Something I’d inherited from my mother.
By H. R. M. Laventure5 years ago in Fiction
