A Rose Called Dirt

A Rose Called Dirt
The wind blows about my body and pushes my petals down towards the torn up black sheeting beneath me.
I know I still have some orange and red left inside I can see it in the reflection from the plastic. So why do they say the word Dirt and point and laugh.
I still have a breath of life in me. I can feel it.
I would like to shout and make them stop calling me Dirt, because the sun still shines and I’m always trying to lift up my stem and support my petals so they can see me at different angles, but why do they laugh and point.

I came from a good bush back then, when I was just a bud and each year as the spring rolled around I blossomed into a rose that was nurtured and shown at many a flower show.
I was the biggest and most beautiful flower at the ceremony and I even won first prize and my owner, the one who planted the bush I came from, got a first prize ribbon, for her skill in raising me to the level I was.

Even though it has been almost five years since my planting and it did wear on all of us who inhabited our bush, I always thought people would enjoy us for what we were, the most beautiful flowers in the world. And indeed they seem to enjoy all of my many red, yellow and white sisters, but somehow, when they’d pass me it was a disaster.
I’d hear, “Oh how lovely that rose is and then they’d point to the bottom of the bush near the ground and say that one looks like the color of dirt.”
Then I heard from the woman’s child, who was about twelve years old, “Why don’t we call it Dirt. Yeah that’s a good name for him. Do you think we can come back and see him next month? He’s really cool. I like him”
The boy turned back to me and waved.”
I did overhear the mother tell the boy that the summer would be over by then, and the roses will have died, so if he would like to visit Dirt again it would have to be real soon, because it didn’t look like the rose had muxh time left and he seemed to be listing and almost falling to the ground, but said she hoped they could visit at least one more time, but perhaps they could bring a camera and take a picture of him.
The boy seemed alright with that because I noticed him smiling up at his mom.

The photo thing seemed like a really good idea to me, but the more I thought about what they were saying a small droplet from inside came tumbling down my petal, which left me with a weak feeling, so that when the warm breeze blew my way I could hardly fight it any longer.
Then I thought, I have to make it until they come back; at least for that.
Then I thought about my early years and the flower shows. They must have taken some photos of me then in all my glory. But where are they. Look at this garden I am in. No one takes care of us, why are we here like this, perhaps a new photo would help.

The next day the boy and his mother came back to see me and this time they pulled and prodded my body until I got free. Now I am being held by the boy and his mom is taking photo off me and saying they were going to use it in an art show, and somehow I would be preserved and last forever.
They called the piece A Rose Called Dirt

And to this day I am the only survivor of the old rose bush in the old forgotten garden

About Fay Ulanoff

I am a freelance writer who dribbles out flash fiction, amongst writing off the wall children's literature and moonlighting as a ventriloquist
This entry was posted in F. Ulanoff, Fay Ulanoff, Flash Fiction, Short and Sweet, Uncategorized. Bookmark the permalink.

1 Response to A Rose Called Dirt

  1. Fay Ulanoff says:

    Hopefully my rose has servived withinin the hearts and minds, of all that have consumed its worth, long after his story was told

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