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This week’s compilation of flash is dedicated to the Norah Colvin’s Mum who went to heaven April 11, 2014. Norah’s flash this week is a 99-word memorial.
Mum by Norah Colvin
These white flowers in the pot at my door remind me of you.
I bought them for you, to remind you of home, when you moved, with reluctant acceptance.
Your beautiful peace lily flourished in the warmth of the sunny spot beside your favourite chair; the favourite chair that you took with you to your new home; that transported you to Heaven. You were ready.
Now they reside with me, in the pot made by his hands; a fitting spot.
You will rest with him in his plot, together again, now at peace, forever.
Love you Mum
Avoiding a Sad Tradition by Paula Moyer
The Southern ritual is unequivocal – if your mother is living, wear a red rose on Mother’s Day. If she has passed, a white one. Both grew in our backyard. Daddy always clipped one red rose for each of us. Then his mother died. It was April; I was nine. Two weeks later, he clipped four red blooms – and one white. The photos from that Sunday startle me – particularly my father’s brave smile. My own mother died six years ago. I live up north now; Mother’s Day is too early for garden roses. I’ve never put on the white rose.
The Beginning by Ruchira Khanna
I put down the phone with moist eyes, and a severe ache in the heart. After a deep breath, book my ticket, and in a few hours, I am on the plane.
Seeing happy faces around me, makes me question fate, but then we all have to go through this cycle of life.
Through out the journey, recollect the fond memories, and solemnly wipe my tears. “I have to be strong for her.” I say firmly.
Reach home to find my dad lying down amongst white flowers. He looks so peaceful and tranquil as if beginning a new chapter.
Filler Flower Heart by Sarah Brentyn
I heard a soft voice, too quiet for real conversation, before I felt the hand on my hair. “It’s time,” my sister whispered.
“No,” I stumbled forward and pointed. “I don’t want those here. They smell bad.”
“They don’t smell. It’s just baby’s breath…” She pulled her hand back quickly.
I ran to the wreath.
I ripped the spray of white flowers out of their tiny, green heart and flung the shredded pieces. My knuckles scraped the hard, floral foam and I bled. Someone screamed. Arms wrapped around me. I flailed.
Baby’s breath. It’s just baby’s breath. No more.
Flash Fiction by Georgia Bell
My hands were freezing and I stuffed them in my pockets, hunching my shoulders. My neck ached from looking over the heads of the other commuters waiting for the train. Time stood still; this moment, this week, this year, dragging against the inertia of living a life that no longer seemed to have me in it. I stared down at the tiny white flowers that poked through the blackened rocks covering the tracks. Despite the cold, spring was coming. Was that enough? Or would I be here next year, pretending I knew how to live like other people did?
The Sprig by Charli Mills
His hand reached for the sprig of white flowers dainty among the first shoots of green. The cattle returned early to high Sierra pastures. Skinny from winter, they weren’t much to look at with hides black as a crow’s wing. No, not like a crow’s wing, he thought, as he lay staring at white flowers like a lover’s nosegay. Black Angus hides are tinted red like the beard of a Highlander. Like his ancestors, he had come to steal from the herd. Only now he lay face down in the pastures, gut-shot, reaching for the sprig fine and gay.
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