Young Writers Society

This is a rewrite of a short story I did in 2011. I actually wrote this last Christmas, but eh better late than never.

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On a cold winter night, down the deserted streets of New York, she was walking. 

It had been eleven hours since she left the orphanage on her job. Nine sounds of the bell a few minutes ago had reminded her of the time. Still, the basket of flowers she clutched tightly remained full and her pockets empty. 

She stopped to catch her breath, setting the basket down onto the cobblestone pavement. Against the uneven surface and snow it threatened to tilt or even topple over, but she took great effort to ensure the arrangement of flowers remained pristine. After all, she had spent almost an hour arranging them to perfection - stacking the roses up in front in plain sight, hiding the wilting little carnation behind the other flowers - all in hopes perhaps a kind soul might take notice and buy one. The fact that they remained in their beautiful arrangement even now meant that her effort had so far been for naught. 

As she wrapped her fingers around the rattan handle she picked up a savoury scent in the air. Almost instinctively she looked up, scanning her surroundings to find its source - a restaurant across the street. Quickly she took up the basket of flowers and crossed to the other side. Between the pavement and the open window was a layer of untrodden snow, and when she set down the basket and took a step her slippers sank into the soft white mass. The snow seemed to cut into her bare skin, but the scent drew her forward, deeper into the snow, till at last she was at the window.

She tiptoed to peer over the windowsill into the restaurant. Three, no, four families, sitting at tables enjoying their meals. She pressed her hands against the warm glass as she took in the sight. The plates of stew at each seat caused her mouth to water. She licked her lips. So enchanted was she by the sight that she didn't hear the door to the restaurant open. 

"Might want to watch out for that basket of yours," a deep voice rang out from behind her, and she nearly jumped out of her skin. Her legs were numb, and when she painstakingly turned around she saw a middle-aged gentleman watching her amusedly. He was dressed modestly, but she could sense an air of affluence about him. 

"I'm s-sorry," she stuttered as she scrambled back to the basket, and then a thought came to her.

"Say, mister," she took the basket and held it out to him, "would you like to buy some flowers?" 

The gentleman walked up to her and peered at the basket. She recoiled slightly as he drew close to her. 

"They're a dollar apiece," she added meekly. 

He seemed to be appraising her offerings, though whether it was the arrangement itself or any particular specimen he was interested in she couldn't tell. 

"I'll take this one," he said after a while, pointing at the basket. His other hand went to his coat pocket. She followed his finger, but couldn’t quite tell which flower he was pointing at.

“This one?” she offered as she held up the largest rose of the bunch. At the same time she eyed the thick wallet the gentleman had taken out.

“No,” he replied, and then he reached for the back of the basket and pulled out a single flower. “This one.”

It was the wilting carnation. Her cheeks turned red with embarrassment, but he simply tucked the stem into the breast pocket of his coat. He opened up his wallet and started rummaging through it. After a few seconds a look of uncertainty came over his face.

“I don’t seem to have a dollar note,” he lamented, and at the same time he glanced at the girl. She looked down dejectedly – he knew. She didn’t have any change; she didn’t even have any money to begin with. She had been sent out to sell flowers. If she didn’t make any money she wouldn’t be allowed to return to the orphanage.

When she looked up again the man had pulled out a fifty-dollar note. Her eyes grew wide.

“I’m pretty sure I have small change somewhere,” he muttered, and then he reached out his hand. “Hold this for me for a moment. I’ll find a dollar.”

Gingerly she took the note out of his hands. For a few seconds it was the only thing she could see. She held it with both hands, feeling her fingertips press against the paper. The sheer value it represented made her mind reel.

Suddenly her vision was obscured by a flurry of white. It was cold. She stumbled back and her hands went flying, though her right hand held on tightly to the note. She put her hands to her face and realised it was snow. Quickly she wiped it off her face and looked up, only to see the gentleman a distance down the street, walking away at a steady pace.

“Mister!” she called out. “Your money!”

He continued walking.

“Mister!” she took a few steps forward, waving the note in the air.

Again, no response. But as he reached a corner he raised a hand into the air. In it was the carnation. And then he rounded the corner and disappeared from view.

“Mister!” she called out again.

But her voice rang out to no one, resounding down the deserted street.