family
Wilting
Before the marigolds were food, they were crowns. In late May, as the deep spring greens were beginning to dry and crackle brown, Elodie and her sister would jump the fence at the back of the garden and run into the hills. They would dig through the roots and weeds around the edges of the trees, until one of them, usually Annabeth, spotted a flash of yellow burrowed in the shrubbery. Then it would be a race to the flowers, white skirts ripping on brambles and thorns, to see who could be the first to snatch the blossoms up from the soil. The winning girl, also usually Annabeth, would dig her nail through the stem, and thread the flower through the stem of another. Elodie imagined that the chains of golden blossoms looked just like the tiaras that the queens of England wore in her favorite storybooks. When the setting sun made their crowns glow like warm pebbles, the sisters would traipse home. They dragged their heavy limbs under the fence and down the short dirt road to their house. Their mother would shriek at the state of their ruined dresses.
Petals of Marigold
I walk the same route to work everyday. I can’t take any surprises, turn any new corners, or see any new sights, because the one thing I hate the most is flashbacks. MAN, do I hate flashbacks; when the mind takes you back based on a certain smell, location, or even feeling. For a lonely woman, flashbacks give you another reason to cry, because once you leave your imaginary world, you are yet again, alone. Today, however, the soft gentle breeze put my mind at ease only for a moment in time, as I see yellow petals beside my feet. Why did those yellow pedals have to land there? Now, my thoughts become like a train going full speed and my mind flashes to life, in elementary:
Shannon ManningPublished 3 years ago in FictionBefore the Marigolds
I leaned towards the sun as the early morning rays touched my petals. My soil was moist, and the wind caused me and the others to sway along with it.
Cassie WoodsPublished 3 years ago in FictionRemember the Marigold
“Do you want to talk about it?" The boy broke the soul-searching eye contact he had been maintaining with the grass. He glanced to the side towards the voice, eyes reddened and nose wet. He could see the age in the face of the man. In every wrinkle there seemed some hidden glint of wisdom. That’s why he’d come to him, but his tongue felt heavy, as if coated in steel.
Blake ArnoldPublished 3 years ago in FictionLearning To Love Marigolds
I always hated marigolds. They were a perennial favorite of my mother’s, and she planted them in the flower beds of our little home every year, without fail. It was a small rectangular bed, carved out of the yard, next to the worn gravel driveway, and edged with railroad ties. Yellow and orange, and sometimes trimmed with red. I think they made her happy, the bright colors. A beacon of hope in an otherwise humdrum existence. But as for me, I hated them. I wanted the pretty reds, and purples, and pinks of other flowers like lilies, irises, or even begonias. Or sweet smelling roses. Basically, anything that my grandmother, my father’s mother, grew. Yellow and orange were, after all, basic and ugly colors. And marigolds smelled bad.
C. H. CrowPublished 3 years ago in FictionA Floral Feud
THIS STORY HAS BEEN UPDATED AS "TWO WITCHES AND A WEED" It was a long war. It had started with snails, moved on to weed seeds, weedkiller, then angry calls to the local Council complaints office, and, possibly, witchcraft.
Fiona HamerPublished 3 years ago in FictionMarigolds on the Cathedral Step
Sanity is fluid. We all want to believe that our minds will stay forever intact. Severe mental illness is something we hear about on the news, something that happens to other people, not to us. All too often, we don't realize how fragile our grasp on reality can be. Sometimes, mental illness can be brought on by a combination of genetic and environmental factors, such as abuse. Sometimes, all it takes is one major, terrible event to send us over the edge.
Angela CookePublished 3 years ago in FictionThe Sun Will Rise Again
Marisol stared down at her dress embroidered with red and yellow flowers, and watched as a single tear dropped down off her face making the yellow flower have an orange spot momentarily. It was so hot most of her tears dried up before they could roll off her chin. Dresses in every color with similar flower designs were scattered about laying on the bed, hanging on the walls or draped over the only other chair in the room on display for any visitors to see. The woman who owned the room told Marisol it was to show people all her mother’s work and what her mother enjoyed to do, but earlier that day she overheard her trying to sell a few of the dresses to some people that were passing by. Marisol didn’t look up when she heard a few of her mother’s friends step into the small room that she and her mother used to share. Dirt on the floor kicked up as they moved. She had swept the floor three times, but the dirt kept coming in from the visitor’s feet. She remembered her mother telling her almost every day “Kick the desert out of your shoes before you come in!”. One day her mother scooped up handfuls of dirt and placed it in her shoe before she came into the room and slowly poured it out making it seem like the desert was in her shoe to make her laugh. She squeezed her eyes shut and she didn’t think she would ever laugh again. The three elderly women touched their foreheads, chest and shoulders and kissed their rosaries. They looked at Marisol solemnly and placed their hands on her and murmured prayers. They touched her mother’s coffin and prayed some more. Marisol wished that one of them would take her in, she knew that it was impossible though. Most of them were already struggling with their own families with not enough room for her. She didn’t look up as they left. Another tear rolled down spotting the red flower this time.
Two Fields in Bloom
In a field of small exploding suns, I hold my son. He asks me what all those little suns are called. "Marigolds."
Thomas EvansPublished 3 years ago in FictionMarissa's Gold
“Hija, hold these,” Marissa’s mother said through withheld tears. She handed the girl an armful of marigolds. They would be used to decorate the grave of her father. Since he died in the hospital last week, it had been nothing but sequences of hysterical cries and silent sobs. Marissa didn’t think she had any tears left to give.
Kiersten KellyPublished 3 years ago in FictionThe Botanist's Son
“And this one, my boy, I call a chalice, brimming with sunlight.” My earliest years are to me a flux of images. The first chapters in the story are not really linear, and this makes it quite difficult for me to keep track. I haven’t made sense of it all just yet. There are, however, a few facts that remain my frame to cling on, defiant columns rising from the sea. Firstly, I know my father was a scientist. More specifically, a botanist. The man loved flowers, and he could tell you a lot about them. Often too much. I’ve been told that he possessed the conversational quality of a single C-sharp note, sustained on an organ; at first one was curious to hear it, then one became bored, then one would be forced to take leave before their lack of tolerance became too obvious and, more than anything, impolite. His lectures were notorious for being at once zesty and unbearable. But, as a boy, I was rapt with them. Something I’d inherited from my mother.
H. R. M. LaventurePublished 3 years ago in FictionDancing for the Dead
Her favourite flower was the common Marigold. Her friends often made fun of her because of it, asking why she didn’t like something more exotic like orchids, but she didn’t care. Marigolds held a magic for her, one she was unable to explain to anyone else.