dead flowers - quotes and descriptions to inspire creative writing
The flowers are dead. The grass is yellow brown. Garbage blows down the street like autumn leaves. Darwin pulls away from my grasp and runs to the asters that have wilted and lost their colour to the arid air. Once blue they are now brown and their petals like grotesque confetti are scattered on the hot path. But Darwin coos, he has missed the blooms, perhaps they return memories of his mother to him. This is a diversion we can ill afford and I scan the street for strangers. I tug gently on the back of his shirt, never taking my eyes off our exits. He scoops up the decaying plants as if his gentleness can infuse life back into them. He doesn't know it but it's me he gives life back to, little Darwin with his big eyes and bigger heart. A few months ago I'd never met him, now I can't imagine a life not spent protecting him. But it's time to leave this slice of suburbia, my bag is full of kids' clothes and shoes of every size and the daylight still puts me on edge.
Found in Darwin's Ghost - first draft, authored by .
They sit in the glass, wilting softly, but they are not as forgotten as they seem. In fact, quite the opposite. It's been days since they were carried to her, in grubby hands with the roots still trailing. She smiled and filled two glasses of water, one for the gift and one for the giver, and placed them above the kitchen sink proudly. Now they are brown and dropping petals, despite all her efforts. Someday soon she will leave them to rot in a garbage bag, but that doesn't matter; it was never about the cheery colors or the perky leaves. It was about the love, and death can't remove that.
When we go to visit mother it is her carnations that set our alarm bells ringing. They are white as always but have gone well past the mature stage in which she plucks them from their vase and takes them to the cemetery. The blooms are quite browned and have deposited decaying petals on her always spotless table. Mother who notices everything is quite oblivious it seems, she's ferreting in her handbag for a shade of lipstick she hasn't worn for few months now, unaware that she declared it not to suit her after all.
The sight of the flowers disgusts me. A young soldier ant crawls out of a tulip, meandering over mother's table as I wait for lunch. The roses, once red, rest as a repulsive brown. They're alive in their own way, in their own little deceased way.
The brown petals were curling and stiff. They crackled in the frigid breeze. Its stem and leaves drooped. It seemed so forlorn in the snow-covered mountains. Somehow, it had managed to grow there, despite the merciless hail and icy winds. Now it wilted. Its once brilliant colors faded. It was to die away from its siblings, who flourished and bloomed in the lush, green meadow below.
The petals, brown and limp, fall like confetti for their own funeral. The kitchen tile is spotted with them, the dryer ones moving in the breeze and others stuck fast with their residual perfume.
The sunflowers in the vase aren't simply dead, they're dried like the ornamental blooms my nan once suspended in her kitchen. Somehow the petals remain stuck fast, radiating around the brown centre, its pure chocolate hues so bold in the pale room.
The room has no fragrance of flowers, though some sit in a dried up vase on the table. Neither is there an odour of rotting stems or leaves. Whatever hue of green they once were they are now so subdued, like modern art of what they once were. Their heads are still in bud, never to unfurl the beauty they once promised. Whatever happened to Maureen she's long gone and if the blooms have anything to say about it she hasn't been home in a fortnight or more.
The flowers are dead in the vase, their brittle stalks supporting petal-less heads that drooped at least a week ago. Mac looks down for the casual confetti only to find a clean swept floor. He peers under the kitchen cupboards for the dried petal remnants, but there isn't even dust. The lemon drop in his mouth comes to a sudden halt. He'd thought the lack of finger-prints to be detective's bad luck but the place is just too clean.
The roses wilted, petals were browning but a slight pink tint lingers. Once green long stems are almost black and the thorns are a pale yellow color, a dust covered candle sat next to them. The white candle had dried wax droplets and streaks running down it's side. A pale finger traced some words in the dust corded table top...