Burgundy grass crunched beneath my boots. I adjusted the canister on my back, tightened my gas mask, aimed my hose, and then sprayed a row of hissing peonies; each flower had blinking cyan eyes and hairy venom-dripping stingers on its petals. The hissing stopped, and the flowers wilted. I sprayed row after row of the flower field. The opal sun’s rays scorched the back of my neck — I flipped off the hateful orb that burned in the amethyst sky. All of this was the work of the Fifth Estate. They’ve been trying to impose their reality onto ours for years.
Cullen had heard of such things before, in old, old tales—fields of blooms that only grew on the graves of the honored dead. But this wasn’t such a thing. Rather, the opposite. These were twisted, stench-ridden blooms that covered the mounds raised over troll graves. As far as he could see across the valley, cancerous growths of purple and green nodded in the ghastly, dry air. What horrors had this place seen? Some not-very-ancient evil had done this, laying waste to a once-proud kingdom of trolls. He suspected he knew the evil.
Before them stretched was a mass of green and olive stalks swaying in the gentle breeze intermingled with heads of brilliant red with black-eyed centres, others rich blues with golden eyes, various faces of differing hues and shapes of yellow. There were even some green stalks topped with thin strips of white around yellow centres.
“The guidebook says it's a 'flower-field',” he said. “It says there use to be many of these areas. Some even right outside people's houses which they 'cultivated'. That was before the temperature spike of the mid 21st century.”
The blue sky met the vast yellow canola field, but the colour combo was almost too cheerful. Police cars had blocked the main road. The afternoon sun was behind her.
The chief was briefing the technicians, but she could tell already that the radar equipment they brought would struggle with the dense plantation.
She turned around, squinting her eyes. On the far end, they’ve got only three dog handlers on standby. That’s all they could get.
Her assistant approached her, waiting for instructions.
‘Let’s get the cadaver dogs team to work. Tell them we’ll be here at least a week.’
The trophy wife was wild as a red poppy in a field of flowers. She spends hubbies money; plans an estate field of flowers to entice. Hubby agrees. She hires a handsome landscaper. Entices with Chanel #5; drives him crazy. A slippery slopedevelops, rocks to negotiate, water delivery. Sewed seeds, reaped flower bundles. Hubby never knew the gold coins spent, asterisks , bubbly, Champagne poppies, daisies, Iris in bloom under foot. A field of flowers, scent from heaven to waft behind dreamy eyes. Love lasts, lies in a bed that the landscaper could not remember if the field of flowers was true.
The dog limps through crumbled streets, paws scraping ash-covered rubble. The air is heavy with silence, the echoes of war long gone. He sniffs—a faint memory of flowers lingers, fragile and fleeting. His ribs press against his coat, hunger gnawing, yet he pushes forward. Broken buildings give way to open fields, charred and lifeless. Still, he searches, nose to the ground, for the meadow he once knew. Finally, he finds it—brown grass, petals faded into dust. With a soft whine, he circles, then lies down, eyes closing to the ghostly scent of wildflowers, waiting for the quiet to take him.
Known as the flower lady, An aged woman from her native Bulgaria. Her push cart was a flower field of color. Violeta brought floral beauty to those in love or grief, she always made the perfect bouquet. In the winter NYC weather, she sheltered those tender buds so that they never froze. Floral pots left out were recipients of seeds she cast for spring beautification, not for profit but to spread love in a concrete community. She died, but not alone on a January day, her cart now lies empty. Yet unexplainably, her violets bloomed in Times Square that day.
It's funny how you can look at a prompt and then start writing and it just flows, without even having to think about it, and then realizing the last five words...just fit.
She made the slow climb up the slope, feeling the burn in her legs and thinking maybe she should’ve thought it over before starting out this morning. No climb was worth this much trouble, she told herself; no view worth so much agony. There was a breeze though, and she was grateful for that. As she walked, she kept thinking of Wordsworth’s poem. What was that line again? It’s funny how you can have something, and forget as quick as you had it, she thought, cresting the hill. And there in the flower field was…a host of golden daffodils.
In the flower field, a lone daisy stood among bursts of color. She didn’t know she was fragile, only that the sun kissed her petals, and the wind whispered secrets. Around her, wildflowers sang silent hymns of resilience, their roots entwining with the earth’s heartbeat. Bees hummed above, ants marched below, life buzzing in unison. At dusk, shadows danced, crickets played their violins, and the stars blanketed the meadow in stillness. The field never questioned its beauty or worth. Each dawn brought fresh dew, a reminder: to simply be was enough.
As years passed, the birds noticed flowers weren't as bountiful. They had to depend more on neighborhood bird feeders. Without as many flowers, there weren't as many seeds--for food or next season's plants. The birds heard through the grapevine it’s because of the reduction of bees. The birds gathered and realized they had to help with Nature's balance. And a plan was agreed on. One seed was to always remain on the plant and one was to be dropped in the large field. The rest could be eaten. By next season they had a large field of flowers--for the bees.
Beautifully written, Tania! This story carries such a poignant message about harmony and restoration in nature. The birds’ collective effort to bring back the balance is inspiring and hopeful. It’s a gentle reminder of how every small action can have a significant impact when aligned with a greater purpose. The imagery of the birds’ teamwork and the resulting flower field is truly heartwarming. Thank you for sharing this sacred story of resilience and care for our environment. 🌿
Prompt by: THE FICTION DEALER: Microdosing Fiction - 100mg of a Flower Field
“It’s started!” Jade called with elation. “C’mon, you’ve got to see this,” she said with a flourish as she headed out the door. She was walking down the rows of the farmer’s field when I finally caught up with her.
“The sunflower plants are sprouting!” she giggled with great delight. “Can you picture how tall they will be?” she asked.
Indeed I could, but I could also picture seeing this alone in the fall. Everywhere in our house were sunflowers. It was her reminder to me that she loved me as much as could ever be possible, even in death.
Bill, this is such a touching and beautifully crafted piece. The joy and vibrancy of the sunflowers are juxtaposed so tenderly with the bittersweet undertone of loss. Jade’s love, symbolized by those sunflowers, feels eternal and profound, leaving a legacy of warmth and light even in her absence. The imagery is vivid, and the emotions linger long after the last line. It made me cry—such a heartfelt reminder of love’s enduring presence. Thank you for sharing this poignant moment with us. 🌻
The time you have taken to think about my writing but also to craft a strong and generous response has filled my heart with joy. Thank you for lifting my spirits and showing what a well crafted response can do. Your efforts are truly appreciated.
“Flowers”
Burgundy grass crunched beneath my boots. I adjusted the canister on my back, tightened my gas mask, aimed my hose, and then sprayed a row of hissing peonies; each flower had blinking cyan eyes and hairy venom-dripping stingers on its petals. The hissing stopped, and the flowers wilted. I sprayed row after row of the flower field. The opal sun’s rays scorched the back of my neck — I flipped off the hateful orb that burned in the amethyst sky. All of this was the work of the Fifth Estate. They’ve been trying to impose their reality onto ours for years.
This is super sweet Miguel. I love it.
Cullen had heard of such things before, in old, old tales—fields of blooms that only grew on the graves of the honored dead. But this wasn’t such a thing. Rather, the opposite. These were twisted, stench-ridden blooms that covered the mounds raised over troll graves. As far as he could see across the valley, cancerous growths of purple and green nodded in the ghastly, dry air. What horrors had this place seen? Some not-very-ancient evil had done this, laying waste to a once-proud kingdom of trolls. He suspected he knew the evil.
“Let’s go, Isabo. Let’s go home.
Very nice, man. I love the POV from the flowers. That's so creative!
Thank you, Dustin! I wonder if the metaphor wasn’t too metaphory haha.
Of course. I love your stuff!
PROMPT: FLOWER FIELD
THE FLOWERS
People came from all over town, as soon as they heard the news.
To pay their respects, and to lay flowers at the spot where it happened.
The fresh blooms painting a field of colour across the landscape.
Marking the place where two young lives had ended.
And just one thought filled the air.
If only they’d never climbed the hill that day, to fetch that pail of water… 💐😎💐
Flower-field
“Is it safe?” she asked.
Before them stretched was a mass of green and olive stalks swaying in the gentle breeze intermingled with heads of brilliant red with black-eyed centres, others rich blues with golden eyes, various faces of differing hues and shapes of yellow. There were even some green stalks topped with thin strips of white around yellow centres.
“The guidebook says it's a 'flower-field',” he said. “It says there use to be many of these areas. Some even right outside people's houses which they 'cultivated'. That was before the temperature spike of the mid 21st century.”
Miguel, your one today left me with a gentle smile. Love it
I'm glad! ❤️
Microdosing - 100mg of a Flower Field
===
The blue sky met the vast yellow canola field, but the colour combo was almost too cheerful. Police cars had blocked the main road. The afternoon sun was behind her.
The chief was briefing the technicians, but she could tell already that the radar equipment they brought would struggle with the dense plantation.
She turned around, squinting her eyes. On the far end, they’ve got only three dog handlers on standby. That’s all they could get.
Her assistant approached her, waiting for instructions.
‘Let’s get the cadaver dogs team to work. Tell them we’ll be here at least a week.’
This would be a great opening paragraph to a detective and / or horror novel.
Thank you. Might be nice for a short TV series opening too....:P
100 Field of flowers
The trophy wife was wild as a red poppy in a field of flowers. She spends hubbies money; plans an estate field of flowers to entice. Hubby agrees. She hires a handsome landscaper. Entices with Chanel #5; drives him crazy. A slippery slopedevelops, rocks to negotiate, water delivery. Sewed seeds, reaped flower bundles. Hubby never knew the gold coins spent, asterisks , bubbly, Champagne poppies, daisies, Iris in bloom under foot. A field of flowers, scent from heaven to waft behind dreamy eyes. Love lasts, lies in a bed that the landscaper could not remember if the field of flowers was true.
The dog limps through crumbled streets, paws scraping ash-covered rubble. The air is heavy with silence, the echoes of war long gone. He sniffs—a faint memory of flowers lingers, fragile and fleeting. His ribs press against his coat, hunger gnawing, yet he pushes forward. Broken buildings give way to open fields, charred and lifeless. Still, he searches, nose to the ground, for the meadow he once knew. Finally, he finds it—brown grass, petals faded into dust. With a soft whine, he circles, then lies down, eyes closing to the ghostly scent of wildflowers, waiting for the quiet to take him.
What a brilliant take on the prompt
Home coming.
Known as the flower lady, An aged woman from her native Bulgaria. Her push cart was a flower field of color. Violeta brought floral beauty to those in love or grief, she always made the perfect bouquet. In the winter NYC weather, she sheltered those tender buds so that they never froze. Floral pots left out were recipients of seeds she cast for spring beautification, not for profit but to spread love in a concrete community. She died, but not alone on a January day, her cart now lies empty. Yet unexplainably, her violets bloomed in Times Square that day.
If you must wander in amongst the flowers, I must warn you to beware.
The soft pawed foxglove will stop your heart, so you really must take care.
Hydrangeas kill with cyanide, mountain laurels kill with burning fire,
One tiny bite of oleander will make you sleep forever, never more to tire.
Rhododendrons and azaleas will suffocate, lily of the valley clots your blood.
So you'd do well to hesitate among the lovely blooms and buds.
If you walk into the flower field, beware the petals and their parts,
The flowers may be beautiful, but the Reaper lurks within their hearts.
Deadly beauty.
Thank you. That would,make a nice title!
It's funny how you can look at a prompt and then start writing and it just flows, without even having to think about it, and then realizing the last five words...just fit.
She made the slow climb up the slope, feeling the burn in her legs and thinking maybe she should’ve thought it over before starting out this morning. No climb was worth this much trouble, she told herself; no view worth so much agony. There was a breeze though, and she was grateful for that. As she walked, she kept thinking of Wordsworth’s poem. What was that line again? It’s funny how you can have something, and forget as quick as you had it, she thought, cresting the hill. And there in the flower field was…a host of golden daffodils.
Yup, sometimes it’s the first idea that just keeps going!
Perfect!
In the flower field, a lone daisy stood among bursts of color. She didn’t know she was fragile, only that the sun kissed her petals, and the wind whispered secrets. Around her, wildflowers sang silent hymns of resilience, their roots entwining with the earth’s heartbeat. Bees hummed above, ants marched below, life buzzing in unison. At dusk, shadows danced, crickets played their violins, and the stars blanketed the meadow in stillness. The field never questioned its beauty or worth. Each dawn brought fresh dew, a reminder: to simply be was enough.
As years passed, the birds noticed flowers weren't as bountiful. They had to depend more on neighborhood bird feeders. Without as many flowers, there weren't as many seeds--for food or next season's plants. The birds heard through the grapevine it’s because of the reduction of bees. The birds gathered and realized they had to help with Nature's balance. And a plan was agreed on. One seed was to always remain on the plant and one was to be dropped in the large field. The rest could be eaten. By next season they had a large field of flowers--for the bees.
Beautifully written, Tania! This story carries such a poignant message about harmony and restoration in nature. The birds’ collective effort to bring back the balance is inspiring and hopeful. It’s a gentle reminder of how every small action can have a significant impact when aligned with a greater purpose. The imagery of the birds’ teamwork and the resulting flower field is truly heartwarming. Thank you for sharing this sacred story of resilience and care for our environment. 🌿
Aww, thank you so much for such a heartfelt comment! We need little bits of hope. 💜
The Sunflowers
Prompt by: THE FICTION DEALER: Microdosing Fiction - 100mg of a Flower Field
“It’s started!” Jade called with elation. “C’mon, you’ve got to see this,” she said with a flourish as she headed out the door. She was walking down the rows of the farmer’s field when I finally caught up with her.
“The sunflower plants are sprouting!” she giggled with great delight. “Can you picture how tall they will be?” she asked.
Indeed I could, but I could also picture seeing this alone in the fall. Everywhere in our house were sunflowers. It was her reminder to me that she loved me as much as could ever be possible, even in death.
Bill, this is such a touching and beautifully crafted piece. The joy and vibrancy of the sunflowers are juxtaposed so tenderly with the bittersweet undertone of loss. Jade’s love, symbolized by those sunflowers, feels eternal and profound, leaving a legacy of warmth and light even in her absence. The imagery is vivid, and the emotions linger long after the last line. It made me cry—such a heartfelt reminder of love’s enduring presence. Thank you for sharing this poignant moment with us. 🌻
Wild Lion*esses Pride from Jay
Thank you for your kind words.
The time you have taken to think about my writing but also to craft a strong and generous response has filled my heart with joy. Thank you for lifting my spirits and showing what a well crafted response can do. Your efforts are truly appreciated.