Okay, people. Here's the deal. Several of the awesome blog chainers and I have teamed up to write a short story according to a prompt. We're doing something similar to this post. I'm going to pick the topic this time, and the goal is to get this, write! This is a call for writing from anyone, anywhere, any time this month.
May's topic: flowers. You know, that whole April-showers-bring-May-flowers thing. Well, where I live, the weather in April has been uber-crazy. Snow, rain, sunny, cloudy, you name it, we had it. And holy wind, Batman. So I don't have many flowers as of yet, but that's the topic none-the-less.
Rules: It's a short story. 100 words, 500, whatev. Post it on your own blog sometime this month (inviting others to write according to the prompt) and come back here and let me know when you post so I can read yours. Your story has to have flowers in it somehow. Any which way.
Here's mine to get you started. (<600 words)
There's no link salad, but if you want to link to mine, that would be awesome. I'll collect the links and post them at the end of the time frame.
I see the rose from down the hall. A red rose. Of course. Xan always gives me a red rose on Fridays. It used to be sweet, but now it’s just old. At least if it was yellow or pink it would show that he’s given it some thought. As it is, it’s just Xan stealing from his dad’s florist shop once a week.
“Thanks,” I say, taking the rose by the thorny stem. I twirl it, wondering how I’m supposed to put my backpack on while holding the flower.
“Where do you want to go?” Xan asks.
I shrug, imagining stabbing myself with the pointed stem. “Wherever.”
He smiles and lifts my chin so I’m forced to look into his dark eyes. “I hate deciding.” That’s Xan-code for hurry-up-and-pick-somewhere-or-I’m-not-taking-you-out-tonight.
“Olive Garden?” I say it like it’s a question.
“Sure. Let’s go.” Xan walks down the empty hall. I guess it is sweet that he waits after school while I go to my debate meetings.
In Xan’s car, I lower my window in the April evening. Reds and oranges color the sky as the sun sinks behind the mountain. Xan rolls down his window and turns up the music until it blasts above the rushing air. He puts his hand on my leg just as I set the rose on the floor in the car.
He asks me something I can’t hear above the music and wind. I glance at him. See something silver just before it slams into the car.
Something electric buzzes around my head. Allergic to bees, I jerk away. A hot pain shoots through my neck, making my throat burn. I try to lift my hand to swat the bee away, but it only gets louder, and I can’t move my arm. Something very heavy weighs it down.
The heat mixes with the floral scent of the rose, radiating off the ground in waves. New smells mingle with the fear and sweat and dust.
Blood. And smoke.
Flashes of light beam through the darkness. Red then blue. Red then blue. White light stays still, focusing on one spot. Sounds exist far away, shouts and cries. I feel the ground beneath my back. Hard and sharp, with lots of little bumps. Warm. Too warm. And sticky.
The white light shines on me, blinding me, even though my eyes are closed. I feel nothing else.
Red then blue. Red then blue.
A white, hot poker enters my head.
Voices argue around me.
The pain recedes as I stand up. Everything is black and white or shades of gray. Xan’s on the ground, his beautiful skin pale, deathly white against the black asphalt. He doesn’t look solid.
Two very solid men work around him, plunging tubes and checking vital signs. Pools of blood flow in black, oily puddles. Smoke still wafts from the demolished front end of Xan’s car.
I look for myself, but my body is already gone. Dark stains litter the road. I look up, wondering if the sky is always this black after death. The sun hangs just above the mountains, an orb of bright white. There is no color here.
I am dead.
I turn, and there stands Xan. His dark hair falls across his transparent forehead in inky streaks.
He’s holding the red rose. The crimson of it stands out against his alabaster skin and black clothes.