Ithu
11-08-2012, 01:31 PM
Frozen Flower
(I am horrible at naming my stories, sorry.)
A late night in the middle of December I had, for some reason I don’t quite know, decided to take a walk. It was about midnight, and the snow was already on place. That Christmas was going to be extraordinary, I could already tell. Although I was 20, and already moved out from home, I had never gotten past the point where Christmas wasn’t a big deal to me anymore. The only difference being that when I was younger it was the presents that mattered, however the last years before that year I had loved it because of the mood it gets me in. As usual, I put on my favorite pair of gloves for the trip; the red ones. One always has to wear a pair of red gloves around Christmas times.
I walked past Mrs. Patterson’s house and saw her sitting there all alone, knitting some socks for her brother in law. He was the only one she had left after her husband died just a couple of years back. The poor old lady had just turned 73, but she was still fairly active taking her walks almost every single day. I suppose the only reason she takes those walks is because her husband’s grave is pretty far away from her home, and she couldn’t leave him be for longer than a day even after his death. It was so sad when Mr. Patterson died, especially because Mrs. Patterson died with him.
Mrs. Patterson’s house was small and cozy, almost like a little hut. It was purely made out of wood, and was painted red like roses. The white color from the snow covering the roof and lawn blended in delightfully with the color of the house. Not since Mr. Patterson died had I ever seen a single car stand in her driveway. It didn’t surprise me right now though, thinking about the fact that it was midnight and in the middle of December. Her brother in law only visited her a couple times a month. The reason he didn’t talk to her more often was mainly because he lived hours away from her.
I wanted so dearly to give her a present, but I think the neighborhood was starting to affect me. In the neighborhood I lived in it was unusual to start blending in with other people’s lives, even if only as simple as a “hello” on the street. At the very least I wanted to walk over to her beautiful, snow covered, little hut and say “merry Christmas, Mrs. Patterson.” Slowly I went past her house, ending up regretting the fact that I didn’t just walk to her door and ring the doorbell. It almost felt like I went against every fiber in my body when I denied myself that opportunity to do something for someone else. Especially with Christmas being just around the corner.
The skies shined its dark light upon me that night, with just tiny holes of white, bright light. It felt as if it was mad at me for not doing anything for Mrs. Patterson. Under me the snow didn’t even melt and the freezing wind gusted strongly in the direction of her house. I still, after several years, feel the shivers down my spine when I think about how cold I felt as I went down the hill to get to the shore.
As I got to the shore, I could see nothing. I was blinded by the dark abyss, which once had been the ocean. The moon had hid away behind the thick, dark clouds, and no light could escape through the layer of clouds. My hands got cold, and my beautiful, red, comfortable gloves had started to get wet and slippery. They looked like thick, almost coagulated blood on my hands already.
I couldn’t take it anymore. All the elements around me had chosen to strike me hard for what I did that night. Or rather what I didn’t do that night. As fast as my feet could carry my body I ran toward the shops. Luckily for me there was one shop that was still open among the dozens that were closed already. First when I got in the building, I noticed it was a flower shop. There were roses and violets, lilies and anemones and lots of others.
One of the flower bouquets was outstanding. It had all the colors of the rainbow, and maybe even a couple more. I bought it without really thinking about it, and never really asked the florist why she hadn’t closed his shop for the night yet. Just as I paid for the flower bouquet, the wind outside calmed down. I thanked the florist and hasted myself back to Mrs. Patterson’s house.
The gloves had dried and gotten back to its comfortable, primer state. I put the flower bouquet down before Mrs. Patterson’s outer door, rang the bell, and hid away. An old lady, seemingly about 73 years old, with short, gray hair and strict, blue eyes opened the door. She noticed the bouquet instantly, and smiled a little as she looked around for anyone who might have put it there for her. Mrs. Patterson closed the door gently behind her, without taking the flower inside. It was left to die right outside her house.
Every year after, I had given her the same kinds of flower bouquets for Christmas. Why you might ask, but the answer is simple. Because of the little smile she gave me when she saw the flower bouquet standing there. Each year the smile had grown bigger and lasted for longer. Last year she even took the flowers inside her house, so it wouldn’t die out in the cold. The next morning she was found dead on her own couch staring at the flower peacefully, with the smile on her face which she had learned to make when she was 73.
In the end I was right; that Christmas was an extraordinary Christmas. Maybe not the best one, but most certainly one I’m never going to forget.
Thank you for taking the time to read this short story of mine. I'd love to get some feedback on what you think. Please leave feedback explaining what you think I could improve if you have the time and want to help me out. I hope you enjoyed it to some extent, but regardless thank you for spanding time reading it. Also, if you have a better name for it, please do tell :)
(I am horrible at naming my stories, sorry.)
A late night in the middle of December I had, for some reason I don’t quite know, decided to take a walk. It was about midnight, and the snow was already on place. That Christmas was going to be extraordinary, I could already tell. Although I was 20, and already moved out from home, I had never gotten past the point where Christmas wasn’t a big deal to me anymore. The only difference being that when I was younger it was the presents that mattered, however the last years before that year I had loved it because of the mood it gets me in. As usual, I put on my favorite pair of gloves for the trip; the red ones. One always has to wear a pair of red gloves around Christmas times.
I walked past Mrs. Patterson’s house and saw her sitting there all alone, knitting some socks for her brother in law. He was the only one she had left after her husband died just a couple of years back. The poor old lady had just turned 73, but she was still fairly active taking her walks almost every single day. I suppose the only reason she takes those walks is because her husband’s grave is pretty far away from her home, and she couldn’t leave him be for longer than a day even after his death. It was so sad when Mr. Patterson died, especially because Mrs. Patterson died with him.
Mrs. Patterson’s house was small and cozy, almost like a little hut. It was purely made out of wood, and was painted red like roses. The white color from the snow covering the roof and lawn blended in delightfully with the color of the house. Not since Mr. Patterson died had I ever seen a single car stand in her driveway. It didn’t surprise me right now though, thinking about the fact that it was midnight and in the middle of December. Her brother in law only visited her a couple times a month. The reason he didn’t talk to her more often was mainly because he lived hours away from her.
I wanted so dearly to give her a present, but I think the neighborhood was starting to affect me. In the neighborhood I lived in it was unusual to start blending in with other people’s lives, even if only as simple as a “hello” on the street. At the very least I wanted to walk over to her beautiful, snow covered, little hut and say “merry Christmas, Mrs. Patterson.” Slowly I went past her house, ending up regretting the fact that I didn’t just walk to her door and ring the doorbell. It almost felt like I went against every fiber in my body when I denied myself that opportunity to do something for someone else. Especially with Christmas being just around the corner.
The skies shined its dark light upon me that night, with just tiny holes of white, bright light. It felt as if it was mad at me for not doing anything for Mrs. Patterson. Under me the snow didn’t even melt and the freezing wind gusted strongly in the direction of her house. I still, after several years, feel the shivers down my spine when I think about how cold I felt as I went down the hill to get to the shore.
As I got to the shore, I could see nothing. I was blinded by the dark abyss, which once had been the ocean. The moon had hid away behind the thick, dark clouds, and no light could escape through the layer of clouds. My hands got cold, and my beautiful, red, comfortable gloves had started to get wet and slippery. They looked like thick, almost coagulated blood on my hands already.
I couldn’t take it anymore. All the elements around me had chosen to strike me hard for what I did that night. Or rather what I didn’t do that night. As fast as my feet could carry my body I ran toward the shops. Luckily for me there was one shop that was still open among the dozens that were closed already. First when I got in the building, I noticed it was a flower shop. There were roses and violets, lilies and anemones and lots of others.
One of the flower bouquets was outstanding. It had all the colors of the rainbow, and maybe even a couple more. I bought it without really thinking about it, and never really asked the florist why she hadn’t closed his shop for the night yet. Just as I paid for the flower bouquet, the wind outside calmed down. I thanked the florist and hasted myself back to Mrs. Patterson’s house.
The gloves had dried and gotten back to its comfortable, primer state. I put the flower bouquet down before Mrs. Patterson’s outer door, rang the bell, and hid away. An old lady, seemingly about 73 years old, with short, gray hair and strict, blue eyes opened the door. She noticed the bouquet instantly, and smiled a little as she looked around for anyone who might have put it there for her. Mrs. Patterson closed the door gently behind her, without taking the flower inside. It was left to die right outside her house.
Every year after, I had given her the same kinds of flower bouquets for Christmas. Why you might ask, but the answer is simple. Because of the little smile she gave me when she saw the flower bouquet standing there. Each year the smile had grown bigger and lasted for longer. Last year she even took the flowers inside her house, so it wouldn’t die out in the cold. The next morning she was found dead on her own couch staring at the flower peacefully, with the smile on her face which she had learned to make when she was 73.
In the end I was right; that Christmas was an extraordinary Christmas. Maybe not the best one, but most certainly one I’m never going to forget.
Thank you for taking the time to read this short story of mine. I'd love to get some feedback on what you think. Please leave feedback explaining what you think I could improve if you have the time and want to help me out. I hope you enjoyed it to some extent, but regardless thank you for spanding time reading it. Also, if you have a better name for it, please do tell :)