The Fog and the Flower

The fog was just beginning to creep up from the bay, resting lazily over the godly, aging arches of the Golden Gate Bridge. Headlights were digging into the heavy greyness, and Liz's green Honda pulled onto the bridge. She was cursing at the clock on her radio, her head still swimming from yet another night spent staring down a bottle of scotch. She'd had to skip breakfast in order to have any hope of making it to work on time, and she felt exhausted and drained.
The fog itself was thicker than usual but Liz hardly noticed. The misty cloak that rolled in and out of her life each morning had lost it's majestic appeal long ago, even before Liz's entire world was drunk away, little by little. It wasn't until she had already been on the bridge for a mile or so when she became aware that it seemed to grow more and more dense as she pressed into it. Liz shrugged. It could very well be that an exceptionally brutal hangover had caused her eyes to play tricks on her. This was of course nothing new. Plenty jobs were lost over failing to sober up before morning.

Liz sighed as the car in front of her, which she could only see the taillights of through the fog, came to a sudden stop. She blinked as the shadowy fog seemed to part around the car, unveiling the image of someone sitting at a small wooden table. The edge of the table was lined with candles, each one lit, illuminating in a stream against the wall of fog. A pale, almost translucent arm appeared, reaching from the passenger window of the car. The figure pulled back a deep purple shawl, and brought fort a beautiful marigold. It was slowly handed over to the ghostly arm which then retracted back into the vehicle. The figure waved, and the car slowly drove passed.
Liz's Honda followed close behind it, though she didn't stop at the table. The streets of San Francisco were always busy with street performers and peddlers. One could not walk a single block in the summer months with out being ambushed by at least one. Although setting up on the bridge, Liz was fairly certain, was illegal, there was no cause for suspicion.

The Honda rolled on until Liz had to slam on her brakes to avoid colliding with the car as it stopped once again. She pressed on her horn wildly, making crude gestures at the vehicle before her.
Then the door on the driver's side opened, and the dark outline of a rather tall, lanky man emerged. He reached to perch his marigold proudly on the roof of his car. He walked solemnly toward the edge, looked over his shoulder at the road, and then flung himself off the bridge.
Liz was frozen for a moment, gawking at the space where the man had stood, alive, just moments before. Her first instinct was to run over the edge as if she could possibly pull the man back to the bridge. But she knew that would be senseless. She squeezed her eyelids shut. When she reopened them, there was no car. The entire bridge, she realized, was totally vacant except for her.
She looked into her rear-view mirror, trying to find the person who was selling the flowers. At least she would be reassured that she wasn't alone. But she could not see through the fog.
She swallowed hard, suddenly feeling as sober and alert as she had in months. Her foot pressed the petal, and the Honda moved forward.
No more than ten feet ahead, there was another strange clearing in the fog. The little table with the candles was there. The same figure sat hunched over it, wrapped up in a purple shawl.
Liz stopped the Honda, staring with fright at the figure. Something was wrong.
A pair of cold, unnaturally colored eyes flickered from beneath the shawl. They were gold, with no real distinction between the iris and the rest of the eye. But they were eyes nevertheless. The purple silk was moved back, and one single, flawless marigold was offered out to Liz.
Liz shook her head, finding it extremely difficult to refuse such a remarkable flower. She forced herself to look away, and sped by the table.

There was a young woman walking along the side of the bridge. She was much younger than Liz's age of fifty, with long black hair that fluttered behind her like a cape. Liz watched her, debating whether or not to offer her a ride. She had walked the Golden Gate bridge for a high school gym challenge, and remembered how cruel the journey was. But, before Liz could even stop the Honda, the young woman tossed something onto the street. She leaned over the side of the bridge, plunging into the bay a fatal distance below.
Liz shrieked and got out of the car. That's when she saw what the young woman had thrown. It was a marigold.

Liz dropped to her knees, attempting to scoop the tattered flower from the pavement.

She had begun to sob when she felt someone tap her shoulder. She turned to see an ancient, leathery face emerge from beneath a lilac colored shawl. A thin, frail hand held out a marigold, gleaming in it's rich glory.
The old woman showed a sly, toothless smile, her daunting golden eyes piercing Liz's body, right to the core of her soul. Liz felt as though she were being sucked out of her own body. Her hand was no longer under her command, and it took the marigold from the old woman. There was the sound of laughter, like dry leaves crunching beneath feet, and Liz was submerged into nothingness. Pure, deep, nothing.

"Well, goodbye, Mom." Jerry and Greg glanced at each other nervously, then back down at the shiny coffin before them.
"Tell the devil I said hello," Jerry, the oldest of the brothers added under his breath.
"Oh, please, Jerry," Greg hissed shaking his head. "She had her reasons."
Jerry only snorted, folding his arms across his chest.
"At least she died in her sleep," Greg went on. "That's peaceful, don't you think?"
"I'm in peace now that the broad's dead," Jerry said. He let the marigold he was holding glide into the freshly dug grave.
"Alcohol poisoning. Saw that coming."
Greg frowned.
"Well, I got this for her," he said unwrapping a deep purple shawl from around his arm. "I thought she deserved something."
He bent down and gently laid it over the coffin.
"It sure is foggy today," Jerry mumbled as his brother came back to a standing position.
Both of the brothers patted the marble headstone before leaving, reading the epitaph one last time:
Rest In Peace: Elizabeth Mae Stevens