The Yellow Carnation

(I wrote this short story 10/03/2018 )

The Chiaroscuro War, named after the conflicting painting technique of Light versus Dark, had long devastated both the country and its opponents. No other conflict has persevered for such a length of time and at such an intensity. Scarlet stains, although equal in measure, still rest painting the hills where they were abandoned by previous hosts, albeit never forgotten. Not even by those who spilt the liquid rust. Death dwells. But Esme presented high-spirits and contentment alongside the main Light city streets with her voluminous boxes of colour and aromatic fragrances. Secluded she sat, waiting as per her ritual. Beside her rested a bleached yellow bud, her flower, The Flower. The absence of customers didn’t perturb Esme with the day still young.

A little girl skipped up to the stand. Her friendly smile greeted Esme, before querying, ”Do you have any flowers of thanking? It’s for my new parents. They fought to rebuild my home.” Her downcast face replied: “The Necromancers destroyed everyone and everything in their paths.” Esme drew out a lush blossom pink flower, “Here is a Camellia, to receive this is to receive a future. And this Daffodil signifies new beginnings.” The child’s face brightened. As she reached over, Esme’s Flower shuddered in an awkward attempt to avoid her, as if in fear of disrupting her peace. With a look of confusion she drew back to ask,” What’s wrong with your flower? I don’t think she likes me.“ Esme lifted an eyebrow and laughed, “it’s just the wind. Flowers have no wills of their own.” Looking unconvinced she glared distrustfully back at it. After hesitating, she re-attempted to collect her purchase. After executing the customary cadet salute, she departed.

After the intensive morning rush, a lovestruck boy of her age waved at her. “What have you to beat your gums of Gunhild today, Kuno?” Esme responded. He beamed. “She’s being released this evening. Can you believe it? She's finally coming home! I stayed up all night preparing her welcome.” With a burst of enthusiasm he described his efforts. Esme, transfixed by the tale, absentmindedly wove together bursting blooms of Chrysanthemums with the eternal purple constellation like Heliotrope and bindings of Honeysuckle. Kuno held the flowers up to his nose,“Meanings of Honesty, eternal love and devotion. You do know us so well.” He left with a wave, and a head filled with pollen. Esme rolled her eyes, The Flower just sighed.

Her eyes then took on a resentful sheen upon sighting another approaching customer crowd. Standing once again she plastered on a polite smile. The wind picked up inducing Esme’s Flower to a pendulum dance, monotonous yet rhythmic.

As the sun left its peak, a woman came with a complexion looking bleak. She had a dark, dragging dress corresponding to her unkempt hair, avoiding eye-contact to hide tears threatening to fall. Esme understood. With no vocal exchange needed, she handed over a bundle of Anemones, white cups each with a central deep navy seal, and a purple looking arrowhead, Hyssops, tied together with a ribbon of mourning.

As the evening light dulled, The Flower drooped wearily however, Esme’s power thrummed within her veins in apprehension to the approaching darkness.

A warning whisper leaking from the shadows awoke her from her daydream. Nearing was a bumbling elder with a scowl upon his face. He carried a cane of crude cypress wood depicting a strange design of a familiar nature to her knowing. Catching Esme’s gaze he smirked, “admirable isn't it? I salvaged this beauty from some Necro’s nest. We were not allowed to bring back tainted relics, but as a young man prohibition excites. Besides, it would’ve been such a shame to leave to waste among the nefarious.”

“I'm looking for something to place on my mantle, to fill my room with life by adding some colour. Perhaps verbena, such a humble bud, if only the world were more like verbena. Community and religion is the only way we will preserve in this and all future wars.“ he lifted his index finger , “ I know what you're going to say, this will be the last war, but oh no my dear, those bastards can never be killed. It is their nature after all. Haha, get it? They’re necromancers. ” Starting to tune out of his monologue, Esme arranged a bouquet of the petite lilac colored bunches. In addition she hid within her own personal touch of a handful of yellow puffballs in retaliation of his narrative. Unknowing to the man’s position that he was up to, she impatiently yet still amiably held out the flowers and her hand. Disgruntled, the man glared as he traded his money for the flowers.

As he left, Esme noticed her Flower had wilted to but a shrivel of a thing. She feared it had not long to last.

Night fell alongside Esme’s Flower. This she cradled mournfully between her hands. Tired and weary, she looked upon the shimmering lake and whispered her story to the hearkening moon. There was a childhood of innocence and hope, her dreams unburdened left free to explore. How her growing years and adolescence, threatened by the invaders, built a family isolation to the point of complete separation. A loss of love in exchange for a gain in safety for her people. The many sacrifices taken. She described the brutality of her battles, both of the literal and metaphorical sense, and of the consequential capture from her latest defeat. Her final confessions were stifled, drawing the last of her energy.

With a sigh she opened her eyes to spread hands. There, a reborn pink and white with yellow undertones Carnation laid restful and unburdened from all except tear droplets. “The Carnation; a flower with a bad reputation. The two-toned markings translate to, I cannot be with you, and the yellow suggests disdain, rejection.” With the last word she looked up to the sky and mournfully watched the last of her black wisps rise into the night sky...

By Laëtitia Allen