Little White Rose

3 min
Image of Short Story
The forest, beyond the first lines of trees, was black, empty. Or to some, full of beasts from a time long forgotten. Each tree held a story. Some had burgundy leaves with browns and dull greens that seemed to sparkle, while others were bright green splotches on thin, brown branches. Their bark was twisted and prominent. Smooth rocks lay on the soft grass and moss at the foot of the trees, beckoning travelers to admire and hold them. One could argue that the rocks were like the people, desperate and without a place to go. They were scattered and lost; some were in a group, some were alone, but all of them were the same. Lost. They did the same thing every day. Children woke up, ate, went to school, came home, then slept. Adults were much the same, working the same job day after day. Dull. Don’t they crave something new? Something exciting? Perhaps even the unknown? Something like, the forest? They are afraid though. Afraid of the new and unknown. They look to the forest and they see monsters; their minds twist the shadows into beasts taller than buildings, creatures with more claws and teeth than necessary. Their fear controls them and haunts them at night, and they never look at the trees. The trees that give birds homes, the trees that shelter them from the sun on a hot day. They never look at the stones. The stones that are perfect for skipping across the lakes, the stones that shine like a piece of jewelry when cleaned. They never look at the birds with their sweet songs and soft wings. Well, almost everyone. You though, you looked.

You paid attention to the smooth, shining rocks. You climbed the trees and admired the leaves. When the little red bird sanga, you laughed and sang along. When it fluttered its wings and flew to a tree deeper into the forest, you followed. You were unlike the rest, a little white rose among a sea of velvet tulips. When the bird kept flying deeper you kept following, kept singing with it despite your fear of the forest, the one you were raised to have. It was worth it though, wasn’t it? When you found the center of the forest? Didn’t the lush paradise bring you joy? The trees and grass were bright, sunshine reached down and made everything glow. The small, crystal clear stream with the smoothest rocks you had ever felt was perfect for a drink on a hot day, was it not? You picked the flowers and brought them home, as well as some stones to give to your mother. You played there many days as you grew older, but then you disappeared.

You grew up and became like the rest, found a job you go to every day, found a spouse and started a family in a boring house that looks like the rest. Don’t you want to go back there even just once? Pick flowers and find rocks? Climb the trees and admire the leaves? I understand that having a family must be nice. Each of my siblings has one, but why are you always inside? I sing outside your home every day hoping you’ll hear and come back. I ruffle my red wings and drop feathers for you, yet you still don’t notice. It’s a shame, growing up. You lose your wonder and creativity. You become boring like everyone around you. It truly is a shame you couldn’t stay young forever. Why did you become lost like the rest? Why did you become dull as you grew older? What’s the point in fitting in? I think it would be better if you were all different and unique, life would be so much fun, don’t you think? You are still unique though aren’t you?

My little white rose was, and hopefully is, too special to fully grow up. You do come in the backyard sometimes and play with your kids. You toss a spherical red, thing, back and forth. It makes your children happy, they giggle and jump to get it. It almost reminds me of my siblings and their families. They go out into the forest though and play. Perhaps your kids would like that? I wonder if your spouse would like that? You could show them all the things you used to do. I wonder if you raised your children to be unique like you! Did you white rose? That would be truly marvelous. I’m sure you did. You must have told them stories about the forest and the stones. Perhaps even the little red bird that brought you there and played with you?

I digress though, you have young mouths to feed and pointless papers to ruffle. I will be back tomorrow, little white rose. Perhaps tomorrow will be sunny and warm and you’ll hear me. The stream is especially nice this time of year. I think you’ll enjoy it. Perhaps you’ll bring your family along as well. Your little ones would adore the forest little white rose. I just know it.

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