Young Writers Society

Author's note; though this story is a bit longer than intended, most of the length here is also due to the photos. I hope you enjoy!

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I awaken to the dull scents of dust and rough, dry stone.

I feel it all around me. It’s so cold that I shiver. My eyes won’t open, my lips won’t move, I can’t feel my own heartbeat. I go to move my arms, but despite their faint tingling, they are numb and responseless.

I lay motionless for a long moment before my mind can finally drift to a more important question.

Who am I?

My memories have become a shattered mirror, the tiny pieces scattered across the foggy plane of my mind. Daunting, frustrating, harrowing as I try to fathom the sheer magnitude of it all. However, I’ve no choice but to start picking up the pieces. I only manage a few through this moment of deep contemplation, but they reflect just enough for me to build a foundation.

My name is Angel Leilani Fiorella. I am twenty years old. I dream of being able to join a symphony, but in the meantime, I focus on school. I volunteer at the gardens and tend to my own for hours every day…

Through the cold shroud of nothingness, I feel my lips form a smile.

Everyone calls me the Flower Girl.

Finally, something changes. A soft barrier grows beneath me, expanding to separate my body from this cold stoney ground. With it, the numbness fades and I can finally move; I slip my arms beneath me and push myself up.

Though anxious, I open my eyes.

Gray; the first and only color I see. A flat gray sky and varying hues of monochromatic stone forming lifeless, bleak ruins. Crumbled buildings that seem long-abandoned, no distinct pattern or style to hint toward where I may be. Stoney slopes and ancient paths wind between them, and a silvery fog drifts across the whole plane, obscuring the distance. Perhaps due to the lack of sunlight, it’s still very cold.

I look down, and that’s where everything changes.

The softness that had grown to cradle me is moss. Vibrant, fragrant, moist moss with patches of wispy meadowgrass. It grows in a short radius around me. My warm skin contrasts against its vibrant green hue, as does my long harvest-gold hair that falls in faint ringlets. I am dressed in a creamy-white robe with shimmering gold stitching, which feels unusual.

I look around before calling out, “Hello? Is someone there?”

Nothing. Maybe it really is a ghost town, but I don’t like that thought.

“Please, I-I could use a little help! Hello? Anyone?”

It feels like the silence is stronger despite my echo. I trail off there and sigh deeply, rubbing my eyes as a deep ache stretches across my forehead.

Suddenly, I feel the moss and grass shifting beneath me. I quickly look back down.

Like magic, sprouts were creeping up from the green. The thought crosses my mind; am I dreaming? This shouldn’t be possible, yet here it is, right before my lying eyes!

Once the stems are tall enough to reach my shoulder, their ends knot into a mysterious bud before turning a shade of pale blue, with some darker purplish-blue patterning along the edges of their forming petals.

As they bloom in their bluish brilliance, smaller ones creep out from the moss, fully surrounding me. Each one bears three white petals.

Like they are the shards I’m after, memories creep into my mind. Memories of the wisdom I had gleaned in my passion for these little artistic feats of nature, and the language they spoke to those willing to listen. Each bloom, a multi-faced character steeped in an unfathomable depth of mortal and spiritual wisdom, spanning across time and culture.

“Irises,” I murmur. “Blue irises for faith and trust. Trillium for grace, beauty, and a pure heart.”

Perhaps this is the response I was looking for? Perhaps something is telling me that they aren’t here to harm me, and I should have faith in them.

My nerves settle enough for me to stand. As I do, the flowers ahead lean out of the way, as if to form a path. Sure enough, as I edge forward, the moss and meadowgrass expands, forming a new place for my bare feet to step. It guides and protects them from the hard stone.

I also notice delicate honeysuckle sprouting along the edges of the path. Their sweet floral fragrance was a moment of bliss in a place of such mystery.

I whisper fondly, “The passage of time, and everlasting bonds.”

With each step on the path, it continues to grow before me. The last traces of anxiety turn into wonder. Yes, the way ahead is vague and gloomy, but this is too incredible! A display of unearthly wonder with the intent to guide me.

I soon reach a simple pile of long-abandoned rubble, happy to see the trail stop and expand to cover the whole heap in glorious green nature. I kneel before it and look closer.

Once again, saplings curl out from the earthy bed, spiraling upward until they form buds. The first ones that opened were pale, sky-blue larkspur.

As they bloomed, so did my memories.

“Gallantry, fatherly or otherwise masculine love. They reminded me of my father because of that. Purple is more common, but this was his favorite color...”

I trail off as I realize, beneath the spears of larkspur, there are other flowers. The type that brings more bittersweet thoughts to mind, despite their beautiful red-orange hue.

“The red poppy…” I feel my eyes burn as my smile becomes constrained. “The emblem of a soldier’s sacrifice, and eternal rest.”

I step back and wipe my eyes. The visions are hazy; I don’t have nearly as many memories as I would wish for. But those I do have, I hold close. It’s what he would have wanted.

I take a deep breath, and as I exhale, the mossy trail forms again, curving to my right. Sparing one more fond glance at the larkspur, I notice one of the little bells fall from a lightly drooping tendril. In childlike spirit, I can’t help picking it up, braiding it into one section of my hair. It just feels right to carry it with me.

That’s how I got my nickname. I always have flowers in my hair, on my clothes, and decorating whatever space I use. They’re better than any jewelry or trinket I could hope to buy, and infinitely more valuable even if no one else agrees.

I turn and continue down the path. Each new honeysuckle that blooms amid the moss, I see as another moment in time -another fragment of my shattered memories.

Soon, we hit a bleak gray wall, the top half having crumbled down. Unfazed, the moss creeps up, creating another patch of brilliant nature. There are even some vines for the greenery to expand upon.

I’m amazed by the white buds of angelica that sprout everywhere, forming clusters that resemble tiny clouds. They create the perfect base for the brilliant pink carnations that soon manifest alongside them.

“Angelica for inspiration, and pink carnations for motherly love.”

With their help, I remember a kind woman guiding my hands in my first experience with gardens and flowers. My mother worked so hard yet was so patient, and she masterfully stirred my creativity with her own incredible feats of skill. I was always inspired by her and could only hope to be just like her someday.

Something feels off though, like I’m missing something…

Sure enough, as I turn around, I see that another patch has already formed. I can’t help laughing with happiness as I see four types of flowers covering the expansive patch. They make me feel even less alone, like I have a whole team behind me.

Tiny magenta blooms weave throughout the patch. Bells form a border with their deep blue color and tinges of purple. Clusters of little pink, white, and purple flowers form most of the center, with the odd playful daisy popping up to greet me.

“Bluebells for humility, viscaria for loyalty. Just like my big brother was to us. And of course, our little sister, playful like hyacinth and innocent like daisies.”

Again, I find myself laughing from the youthful memories that take form.

“Olive was too impatient to wait for things to grow. Until we made a deal as she got a little older; she wanted to teach somebody about music to have a partner, so I would let her teach me if I could teach her. In the end, it turned out we both had a passion for those subjects, and we would’ve never learned if not for each other…” My eyes drifted to the bluebells. “And Cass, of course. He always stood up for me and listened to my stories. For every occasion, and sometimes at complete random, I would make bouquets for everybody, including him. At first he would tease me, insisting boys shouldn’t receive flowers, but it didn’t last long. It became one of the things he looked forward to most when I came back from the gardens on a big day.”

Some of the flowers had fallen, so I took one bluebell, daisy, and carnation. I add them all to the braid, starting to feel more like myself already. No longer an amnesiac husk with a name and some vague recollections, but truly myself. All of it is coming back in a display of rainbow colors and golden light.

The path of moss and honeysuckle continues on, and this time I run down it with excitement. I watch it weave through the crumbling buildings, leaving spots of ivy and mushrooms that creep up the gray walls. There’s a pattern I notice; each one bears lilac and the cutest snowdrops.

They all bring more to my expanding mind. From playing childhood games as a small girl, under a stretch of sky as infinite as our imaginations, to the beginner-class life lessons learned through bruised feelings and scraped knees. Youth and joy embodied by the lilac, and as the snowdrops spoke, there was an endless amount of hope. Any problems were tucked away by the devoted elders eager to let us live this fantasy for as long as we could.

Soon, I slow down a bit as a rainbow of columbines are mixed in. Red, orange, yellow, white, purple, blue -so many of the playful star-shaped buds surround me. A reminder of the folly and ignorance that comes with these times.

Sure enough, with this realization, it doesn’t take long for these memories to become laced with a little more realism. The awkward moments spurred by hormonal surges, the loss of old friendships, the introduction of frustrating adult concepts, and the pressure to start growing up and figuring out where our paths will lead.

I never did like that. Sure, there’s nothing wrong with making ideas, but who can predict the future? Nobody truly knows where their path will lead. That’s what makes the flow of time as exciting as this array of flowers.

Soon, the colors seem to grow fainter. The spots of ivy become spots of strong, rich brown branches that spiral along the walls. Even though bare branches and trunks are too often seen as something bleak, maybe even soulless, they are the backbone of Mother Nature herself. Perhaps like the sense of maturity they reflect.

I chuckle to myself, slowing down more. The trail leads between two old walls, with some stone archways just barely still intact between them. I watch the branches climb along it all. Leaves are scarce, but the moss, mushrooms, and honeysuckle work to brighten things up.

The trail comes to a stop where the two walls end, and I watch just one long stem sprout.

Its bud unfurls into an elegant orchid; a bloom that gives a sense of refinement and beauty, and a certain thoughtfulness that couldn’t be evoked by the more simple, innocent flowers.

Alongside it, the memories of my own refinery come to a head.

At my graduation, when everyone seemed so proud of me, I remember my principal was unamused that I decorated my braid and robe with flowers. ‘Angel Fiorella, how can you think that is acceptable?’ I was so grateful to my teacher for making sure I could take them on stage with me regardless, and despite my perceived childish habit, I felt a sense of professional power as I was handed that paper. The ticket to a more turbulent yet rewarding stage of life.

Perhaps, like the fragile paper it was written on, that’s what this orchid stands for. A milestone in this honeysuckle timeline. The path ahead seems even more uncertain now, but I have enough hope left in me to pursue it full-speed ahead.

I step around the orchid and press on. The path seems much wider than before, yet it also has more twists and turns. I’m getting along well enough though, and I have to press on no matter what; I have to collect the last fragments of my life. Besides, the sense of wonder does not negate the fact that I need something to explain how and why I’m here.

Until I find another patch and I have to slow down.

A ring of pink and lavender asters form, shyly presenting their blooms to the gray light of this world. Dainty and feminine, blissfully ignorant, just as I once was. Not yet hardened by life. Not in this sense.

This sense…

It all comes back as a single red rose creeps out of the center of the patch.

“Heh…” I kneel down, the asters leaning out of the way to give me space. “The only flower that everybody knows the meaning of. So much that many consider it cliche.”

I want to say I’m not the same. The lushly layered petals, the naturally velvety-red hue that no soulless company could ever replicate, the powerful romantic aroma; the rose is a timeless and beautiful gem among the flowers. There are certain things that just never become a trope, and that’s how I feel about the rose.

Yet still, there’s an unexpected sense of sorrow. For as much as I love this beautiful flower, I’ve already been rendered sick of its meaning.

I had never been able to give a red rose to anybody, nor had I received one until then. Not that I had a problem with the innocent daisies or sweet lilies, but roses were different. Roses meant something much deeper. This bond; my heart, presented within that one red blossom I so carelessly gave out, meant everything to both of us.

Or so I thought.

As I look down, I see my hands trembling. I don’t have a strong hold of the memories yet to come, but something in me knows it’s nothing good.

Sure enough, as I look at the rose once more, I gasp and jump back.

That beautiful red is fading. Wiped out by a hue of yellow. A sunny color that I find charming, only this one -this one’s meaning is even worse than that deceptive red.

“Yellow…”

I have no right to pick and choose my memories. I must face this shard, however jagged it may be. My voice comes out weak and trembling.

“Y-Yellow rose. Infidelity. The loss of love…”

It hits me like a bullet. Sorrow fills my chest and weighs down my heart.

I had to learn that there aren’t many people willing to love a simple, ignorant Flower Girl. To them, there’s no meaning in the flowers between us. Not the ones they dole out like candy, nor the ones I give to them. Just tokens in a bid to reap more, until they grow impatient enough to seek it in other places.

I look back up and finally see the asters curl away to form a new path. I reluctantly drag myself up and start walking.

The new trail is slow to form. I can’t progress very much between the slow growth and my own shaky footsteps. The honeysuckle is barely visible as a new flower grows among them.

Belladonna. Deep purple flowers, some almost black. Because they’re famously poisonous, so many people think they’re an emblem of the macabre, but it’s not true. They most often just stand for silence.

Silence.

A long, deep silence where your lips became sealed, unable to permeate the violent dialogue running rampant in your own head.

Slowly, I regain my footing. It hurts, but the grip on my control is loosening enough for me to up my pace. Each step may feel forced, but at least it’s being forced by me, not the whirlwind of emotions trying to take control. They’re strong -they brutally whittle away at my sanity, wanting me to rethink every last facet about myself.

I’m mad about that cursed rose, but is it my own fault for offering mine in the first place? My fault for the stupid decision to put so much into it, not realizing that others don’t speak the same language? Scattering petals is a cliche for ceremonies of love, yet even they wind up trampled, so easily overlooked and left to wither. A meaningless token of traditions inconsequential, maybe even abandoned in the modern day. Is that how the world sees my flowers? Is that how the world sees me?

Is that why I’ve been left here, in this strange place? Maybe I was the fool all along.

Then, I hear something to breach the back-and-forth in my head

“You never did anything to deserve this, Angel. There is no justification, none you should be trying to apply. Someday, you’ll find somebody who truly loves you -and your flowers.”

I recognize the voice behind them. My mother, ever the one to understand exactly how I felt, and pick me up when I fell down. All while Olive and Cass tried so hard to cheer me up, and even got me to laugh again.

Feeling the braid, I count all four flowers. My family is waiting for me somewhere and I can’t wait to see them again. That’s all I have to focus on to keep going.

With a more confident stride, I step past the belladonna. The path rapidly expands to create a small glade where vines of thyme creep all about, filling the air with their powerful herby aroma. Soon, hundreds of their little pale pink flowers sprout up. A spirit of courage fills the air, and I bring myself to march forward, ready for wherever the path will lead me next.

Across the thyme, spears of gladiolus rise triumphantly from the earth. Their yellow-tinted centers contrasted against the vibrant pink hues around the edges of their petals. An emblem of strength, integrity, and victory.

That was it; I faced one of life’s most egregious trials and emerged victorious. Only, the strength wasn’t entirely my own. It was those around me who managed to dig me out of my self-dug rut, to the point I didn’t fear the idea of a red rose anymore. I would be more careful in the future, but now I was looking forward to the day somebody would accept it and all its meaning.

I revel in the memories of my accomplishments and more days of fun. The misery I escaped seems so distant now. I see no more belladonna, nor any deceptive roses.

However, in my searching, I suddenly see one flower that doesn’t fit in.

I stop in my tracks and focus on its shape.

A red anemone.

I reluctantly step closer. Its petals feel like velvet in my hand, but it scares me.

Something isn’t right.

I turn away, only to see them everywhere. It’s replaced all the flowers -even the honeysuckle is growing faint. All replaced by this one strange red flower.

My heart sinks.

“The red anemone is the flower of sickness…”

I feel like I’m about to vomit. I suddenly remember brushing off random symptoms for so long at the risk of alarming my family, until I collapsed in poor Cass’s arms with Olive screaming for help. I woke up almost delirious in the hospital as I heard the doctor so calmly tell me the worst possible news. After all I had overcome, after all the hope I kept, one revelation destroyed it all and made my path seem so much darker.

I clasp my hand over my mouth as tears well in my eyes.

What happened to me?

I start running, but I can’t keep up. The path seems to be slipping away; the moss is withering, patchy underfoot, and it no longer seems as long. Yet all around me, the anemones continue sprouting, now accompanied by bleeding hearts -glimpses of my own extended suffering.

I can’t stop crying. I don’t want this -whatever it is, I just want to be with my family again. I don’t know if I’m running toward them or away from something else, but I can’t take it; I have to get out!

But there is no way out.

No matter how much that repeats in my head, I’m not going to stop.

However, just to spite me, my feet give out and I crash into the moss beneath me. I stay there, panting like a feeble, frightened prey creature.

Oh God, what happened to me? What happened to my family?

I feel the ground become cold and hard. Lifeless.

I narrowly find the strength to push myself up. The moss is withered and gone. The honeysuckle, the flowers, all of it -gone. No more path to follow. No more shards of memory to collect.

Except for one.

Perhaps not a memory, but an understanding. All because of the withered white petals scattered around me.

A white rose.

Death.

The hazy recollection of final conscious moments, before slipping into darkness.

Then, there’s no going back? My family, my friends, my future -all of it is gone. I’ve been erased from the Earth like even she just couldn’t stand the presence of a menial Flower Girl.

I whimper pathetically, “Mom…Help me, please…One more time…”

There’s no response.

I am truly alone, another wilted petal waiting to be swept away into nothingness.

I finally lose it and break down sobbing. I’ve lost everything, but maybe if I cry enough, my tears will nourish the petals and let me last another day.

Just one more day, that’s all I want. A day to say goodbye. A day to come to terms. A day to reason with God and understand why he did this to me. Anything!

“There is no way to turn back time.”

I gasp, almost choking on my own fright as I lurch back. Fresh tears still stain my face. That voice -that calm, maternal, mellifluous voice came out of nowhere. As did the sudden warmth and earthy fragrance that filled the air.

I look up to see a tall woman walking toward me. Her skin is a radiant golden hue, and the eyes of her unfathomably beautiful face are a combination of the lushest green and deepest ocean blue. From her gloriously long harvest-gold hair with dozens of little braids, an array of flowers have been entwined. I barely notice as my eyes are fixed on the long antlers branching out from either temple. In her flowing cream, gold, and sage-green robes, she seems so angelic and saintly, the spirit of Gaea herself.

An even more lush mossy trail grows beneath her, and that’s my immediate cue. This is who has been guiding me this whole time. The white lilies and sage flowers that bloom with each step reflect her purity and heavenly aura, as well as immortality and eternal wisdom.

Her chuckle calms me down a bit, enough for me to catch my voice and listen.

“It’s not every day I find someone so deeply appreciative of the art this world can create. You are certainly a very special girl, and I’m very glad that there were so many people in your life who understood that. You should be too.”

My lip quivers as I croak, “Isn’t there a way to go back? Can’t I talk to them one more time? Please, I’ll give you anything.”

Gaea kneels before me. “There is no way to reverse the course of death, Angel. Your body is beyond any sort of consciousness.”

“But…” I shake my head. I can see flashes of my own empty husk of a body, kept alive by the unnatural network of wires and tubes, but it feels unreal. A nightmare.

“Please don’t cry,” Gaea says calmly as she holds out one hand. “You had to collect your memories to understand, but everyone else already has them. They remember you and every precious moment you shared in your life with them.”

From her bare hand, a sprig of rosemary grows, blooming with three purple flowers. 

The flowers of remembrance.

“Those memories aren’t going anywhere. They will be cherished, as those around you come to accept the tragedy that took your young life, however unfair it may seem. They will understand that all we can wish for now is a peaceful rest. A dreamscape blooming with everything you hold dear, until the day they can join you.”

She plucks the rosemary. With a touch lighter than air, she threads it into my braid. The final flower in the chain.

“For your sake and theirs, grant them that wish. Let it all rest. I promise I will watch out for you.”

She gains a playful smile as she rises.

“I am the mother of all flowers. I can handle one more.”

I can barely breathe. The idea of leaving everything behind is pure agony, but maybe this is the right choice after all?

Maybe I finally found someone who would accept a lowly Flower Girl.

Gaea steps back, leaving room for me on her heavenly trail. “Come now, Angel. This way.”

Though still hesitant, I can feel her aura pulling me forward. Invisible threads guiding my limbs to move. I have nowhere else to go; I have no choice.

I get up on my shaky feet and follow her.

The more we walk, the more the ruins fade, giving way to a lush green grove. Moss and meadowgrass make it all feel soft, while the ring of powerful, ancient trees give a sense of security. I can taste the nectar in the air as an infinite array of flowers surround us, crawling up every tree and stone. A steam trickles gently across the back of the area, the water echoing pleasantly throughout.

It isn’t just pretty or lush, it is life. Pure natural life, surrounding me like the divine golden light trickling in.

Gaea pulls a perfect lotus from the stream, and I feel my heart beat faster.

“The lotus means enlightenment and…” I hesitate. “And rebirth, right?”

Gaea smiles at me. “Death is only one stage in a never-ending cycle, Angel. Where one path ends, another begins.”

She extends the lotus, and it floats down to me. Immediately, all traces of fear and worry dissipate like mist. My eyes grow heavy, but I don’t panic. The beauty and tranquility of this glade seem more vibrant than before, an overdue invitation free of chilling undertones or grim memories.

As I bring myself to lie down, a bed of white poppies grows around me. Finally, I’m starting to feel peaceful. I would still dream, right? I would find another path. I would find more flowers to grow. Maybe not in the way I expected, but I know I will be able to again.

Sooner or later, this world will see a Flower Girl rise again.