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Rose Bush, drabble, G


There were always those rose bushes that failed to thrive, no matter what tender care you give to them and no matter how other bushes nearby bloomed under your very same tender care. When that one bush died, I used to pluck the blooms before they shriveled. Sometimes I’d give them to Miss Rose Cotton, but before I’d do that, I’d hold a velvety petal between my stubby fingers and sniff in its perfume.

I saw the pendant Arwen gave him. He does not thrive under the best care. My heart hurts deep inside that he will soon be plucked.

In this series of drabbles:

1. At the End
2. Shadow to Flesh
3. Glass

Last drabble in the series...

Dancing, a drabble, rated G

They danced – the people of Minas Tirith. The crown had been set on the king, and now their feet sprang over stone, over barely washed bloodstains of their fallen. A tree blossomed and flags unfurled.

They danced -- thick woolly feet that hit the ground with no sound. Sam had claimed his Rose at last, and blossoms fluttered to the earth like snow. Smiling rosy faces passed in a blur. Seeds scattered and a new age bloomed.

They danced -- the waves over wet sand, singing and beckoning. A gray ship sailed toward a land where feet could dance again.

1. At the End
2. Shadow to Flesh
3. Glass
4. Rose Bush