MicroHorror

It was a frantic day in the small town of Cowpens in South Carolina. The air was chilly and the sky overcast as the residents scurried around town preparing for their big night. The few stores closed early, rusty shutters pulled down over the windows for the one night a year they were needed. The florist and grocery were already dark and empty, security grills fastened. It was 3 PM.

The school bus was tearing around the town’s small suburb, dropping off kids to nervous parents as fast as possible. Moms and dads were picking their children up in their arms at the sidewalk and running into their houses. Slams and bangs echoed down Maple Street, the sound of hammering reverberated across Greenway Drive, excited barks all around town as dogs were let out of kennels and ushered indoors by their owners.

Today was January 17th, the anniversary of the biggest day in the history of the town, the Battle of Cowpens where American loyalist forces defeated the British. Today was the day of the parade.

At 5 PM a thin mist started wisping down the silent Main Street, originating from up the road towards the battleground, curling around the streetlamps and encircling the pagoda outside the Town Hall. It reached the one set of traffic lights and started rolling both left and right, up and down Church Street, thicker and faster now, along the walls of the auto repair place and the police station, where gaudy murals were painted of soldiers in red and blue fighting each other, those in red caught in death poses, those in blue cheering victoriously and silently with permanently open mouths.

Every building in Cowpens was dark; no lights glowed warmly inside windows or behind doors. No birds sang, no insects hummed. The streets were desolate. Then, a sound clipped the evening, slight at first but growing louder. A knocking, a clanking and a shuffling.

In the whole town only one person was actually outside. Teenager Sam Webb had sneaked out of his house, taking advantage of his father’s inebriation, passed out as he was every year on parade day. Sam had climbed a lamppost next to the mechanics and managed to get himself up onto the flat roof. Now he lay, shivering and wide-eyed, peering over the edge of the roof at the thick fog. Potters Antiques was already obscured by fog, and those strange sounds were getting louder. Sam’s whole body felt numb, and then he spotted them.

Their skeletal forms were luminous, shining in the falling darkness. Tattered red coats, white britches and black hats seemed to hold them together. Half shuffling, half marching, they lurched into town gripping filthy muskets. Their skull heads twisted left then right, searching. Some, Sam noticed, were missing hand and arm bones, and one, legless, was dragging itself along, thigh bones scraping the ground.

There were dozens of them, and behind them came green coated cavalry. Horrible and terrifying, these helmeted ghouls clutched rusty sabers and rode astride skeletal horses, clip-clopping down the road on too thin legs, their saddles and reins slapping. The Hellish Dragoons veered away from the Redcoats and started banging on doors with their sabers, rattling windows.

Sam held his breath, pressing himself against the roof as tightly as he could. The marching dead had reached the crossroads below his vantage point, and Sam shivered.
He started to slide himself back out of view, but there was a sudden bellow and the noise below him stopped dead. He looked down and, horrified, saw that a Dragoon had ridden up behind the mass of Redcoats and, pointing his saber straight at Sam, his eyeless sockets seemed locked on Sam’s face. Every single skull rose in unison and faced Sam up on the roof. It looked as if they smiled.

The next morning, they found Sam’s mutilated body slumped against the war mural, his body hacked and gouged, wrapped in a tattered, bloody, mold-covered Union Jack.

Liz kicked her shoes off as soon as she walked in the door. The boss had her running all over downtown L.A. She hadn’t thought about Donald all day.

That ended as soon as she stepped up to her answering machine, on a small table by the front door. It took a few seconds for the realization that she had stubbed her toe on the steel ax by the table to reach her brain and then inform her that she was in extreme pain.

“Dammit!”

She jumped up and down on the foot that was not throbbing, rubbing the afflicted one with her hands. The damn ax. Donald’s idea of joking about something serious. Someone had broken in last summer while she was at work. Instead of offering to move in, Donald bought her an ax and told her to keep it by the door. Idiot.

Before Liz could lock the front door the phone rang.

“Good grief,” she said as she picked it up. “Yes?”

“You sound pissed.”

“Hey,” she cradled the phone between her shoulder and chin and unwrapped the chord to carry it into the kitchen. “Rough day.”

“Donald?”

“Are you kidding?”

Her friend Kara laughed.

“Work and then I stubbed my damn toe on this stupid ax…”

“The one he got you last summer?”

“Right.”

“For your protection?”

“Right.”

Both women laughed.

“How’s he taking the breakup?”

Liz opened the refrigerator. There were two half-empty barrels of yogurt and a rotting hunk of cheese. She broke off a piece and munched on it while she spoke. “Who cares?”

“Come on.”

“Come on, what? You should have heard him yelling at the TV just because they stopped showing Star Trek on Saturday nights.”

“Guys are like that.”

“Not like this.” She ate the rest of the cheese in her hand. “There was something in his eyes. Scared the hell out of me.”

“All right, then. Need to talk any?”

“I’m good for now.”

“You know how to reach me.”

“Thanks, really.”

Liz returned the phone to the table by the door. Both feet went back to protesting the day at work.

“I hear you,” she said to them.

She walked to the bathroom and flipped the water on. The urge to listen to Billie Holiday washed over her. She went to her bedroom. The disc was already in the player.

“You don’t know what love is…” Lady Day set the record straight. Her voice felt like tiny, strong hands, holding Liz up.

She slid into the bath, the music playing from the other room at full blast. Liz thought about the breakup. It had been rough, to say the least. At Marino’s, on Melrose. In a crowded place. That was by design. She had seen exactly how crazy Donald could get. No need to risk being alone with him when she dropped the bombshell that their first anniversary would never arrive.

Donald spent the rest of dinner in absolute silence. Said nothing on the ride home. Refused to engage in conversation of any sort.

“Oh, well,” Liz spoke underneath the booming, if silk-surfaced, anger of Billie Holiday, “My man don’t treat me no good…”

Suddenly the CD player hit a scratch in the disc and began skipping. Liz jumped out of the bath and ran, naked, to her room to shut it off before the annoying sound drove her insane. She looked down the hall and saw that she had never locked the door.

“Dummy,” she quietly said to herself.

She walked to the door, made sure it was shut, and locked it. She was careful not to run her toe into the ax a second time on her way back to the bath tub.

It wasn’t until she was in the water again that she made the horrific realization that she could never have stubbed her toe a second time as the ax was no longer there.

Sanchez el Diablo stood in the shadows off Avenida Revolución disguised as a beggar boy peddling chewing gum to the tourists. The border town’s heavy traffic afforded him the luxury of reaping ripened souls, rather than lurking in hospital corridors harvesting the weakened souls of the dying.

He targeted those arriving by cab, knowing they’d come to Tijuana to satisfy their own lust. Sanchez approached a balding, pale-skinned American who’d stepped from the El Diablo strip bar, and tugged on the man’s shirt.

“Señor, señor! You buy gum?”

The man knocked Sanchez’s hand away. “Beat it, kid.”

“Please, señor, buy some gum for my sick mother.”

“No, I said scram!”

The man weaved his way through the crowd, attempting to elude the pesky beggar boy.

“But, señor, I will find you a girl,” he said, following close behind.

The man stopped. “You’ll what?”

“Find you a girl,” Sanchez whispered. “Follow me.”

“The man smiled. “How much, little amigo?”

“For me, señor, five dollars American. For the girl, maybe twenty dollars.”

“Well then, lead on,” the American snickered. “But if you’re scamming me, I’ll cut your little heart out. Comprende?”

“Yes, señor,” Sanchez replied. “I will take you to the woman of your dreams.”

He led the American down a dirt alley. Women, old and young, fat and skinny beckoned him from darkened doorways, but the boy shooed them away. The American inhaled the stench of something rotting, and hesitated.

“Hold on there. Where are you taking me?”

The boy replied, “Do not worry, señor; it’s just a little farther. It will be better then, I promise.”

They reached a yard surrounded by a high stone wall. The boy unlatched the gate, and they stepped inside to a meticulously trimmed courtyard of deep green vegetation and flowers. The heavy scent of gardenias and jasmine relaxed the American.

“Wait here,” the boy said, disappearing into the tan stucco hacienda.

A short time later, a beautiful, dark-haired señorita, wearing a multihued skirt and a blouse gathered at her coffee-colored shoulders, stepped through the doorway.

The American stood dumbstruck as she parted her scarlet lips, and blew him a kiss.

“You have come for me, señor?” she asked in a sultry, lilting voice.

The American nodded.

“Am I what you have desired?”

“You are the most beautiful creature I have ever seen,” he said, taking her hand.

He pulled her close and nuzzled her neck, inhaling the intoxicating sweetness of her perfume. Her breasts pressed against him and he trembled. She laughed, and pulled away.

“In due time, señor. First, we must discuss terms.”

“Yes, of course,” he said, reaching for his wallet.

She pushed his hand back. “Not now, señor. I will give you all you desire, but when we are finished, I will take what I think I am worth.”

“Agreed,” he said, wondering if she really that stupid or just a naïve maiden who was new to the trade. He certainly wouldn’t pay her more than he’d paid the others.

She led him down a dark hall to a comfortable and cool candlelit bedroom. He blinked as his eyes adjusted to the darkness. She turned and stroked his hair.

“Are you ready, señor?”

He could barely contain his excitement, as he said, “Take me, my Mexican goddess. I am yours.”

She pressed her lips against his. She dug her long fingernails into his back, ripping at his skin, and his passion turned to fear. He opened his eyes, horrified as she morphed from señorita to beggar boy and then Sanchez el Diablo.

Sanchez sucked the life from the American, whose lifeless body slumped to the floor. Feeling satiated, he dumped the American onto the rotting corpses replacing the gardenias and jasmine in the courtyard.

The American’s soul would keep Sanchez alive a while longer. After locking the gate, Sanchez transformed himself into a Federale, and strolled up the alley. After all, he had to keep the tourists safe from banditos.

I was on a hilltop, resting peacefully beneath the stars when my brother Ronnie rode up hard from the direction of the home place. Four midnight-black stallions trailed behind the one Ronnie sat astride. Realizing I was meant to fill one of the saddles, I stretched and stood.

“Violet’s been abducted by outlaws,” my brother announced.

“Outlaws?” I repeated stupidly. My head swam.

“A gang—bandits.”

Ronnie sounded impatient. “Shake off the cobwebs, Luke. Tonight we ride.”

“Who’s we?” I asked as I swung a leg over the closest horse.

“Pa and Uncle Garret.” Ronnie paused. “And Ma.”

“Ma’s coming?” I asked incredulously.

“You think she’s just going to lay around waiting for us to go rescue Violet? She’ll likely send more outlaws to the vultures than any of us.”

My brother and I followed the floating moon to where our father and mother were waiting together. The moonlight made obvious their righteous anger.

“Boys,” Pa said, nodding at each of us. We were no longer boys but old habits die hard.

“I ’spect you know what we gotta do when we catch up with them,” Pa spoke calmly as he climbed into the saddle of his chosen mount.

“No survivors,” Ma rasped. She’d had a battle with throat cancer; the more obstinate party had won. “We mow them down like wheat.”

“It’ll be all right, Ma,” Ronnie reassured her. “We know what needs to be done.”

“We’ll need to ride swiftly to save her,” Pa said, ending further discussion.

We raced through the night, our horses chewing up the distance with ease.

Twelve miles later we crested a hill and paused to survey our surroundings. The hilly country began to taper off and beyond us, to the west, stood the Badlands.

A lone figure waited at the bottom of the hill. Uncle Garret. He’d faced off against rustlers near here and I suppose I shouldn’t have been surprised that he’d picked this spot to meet us.

“You can see the smoke from their campfire not more than two miles from here,” Uncle Garret said without preamble.

We rode silently toward the smoke. The moon lit the stage from high above as we surrounded the outlaws’ camp.

Since no one had been at the home place when they had snatched Violet, the outlaws didn’t see fit to set up a watch. It wouldn’t have helped them anyway. We galloped down on the encampment from all sides.

Half their number were dead by our hand before they realized they were under attack. Men scurried and staggered, shooting blindly into the night. Some of our enemies cursed in anger, others screamed in fear. I bore down on a giant of a man as he stumbled through the brush. I leaped from the saddle and knocked him sprawling into the dust. He howled in terror and died with his right hand clutching not his six-shooter, but his heart.

By the time the echoes of their cries had faded into the night, we had done Ma proud. The outlaws were all dead.

Our eyes turned to Violet, who stood speechless and trembling in the center of the carnage. As we watched, she doggedly gathered food and supplies from throughout the camp. Then she selected the two best horses, loading one with supplies and saddling the other. She set the rest free. Violet surveyed the scene one final time and then silently rode away.

We all watched her go, thankful that she would be returning to the home place without us. I wanted to call out to her, but I knew it would be futile. She’d be by to see me soon enough, probably with some flowers. And what a story she’d have to tell.

As for the rest of us, we went our separate ways. I glanced at the sky. Still an hour or two before dawn. Soon I’d be back in my hilltop grave, once again resting peacefully beneath the stars.

Megan had bathed both the twins, fed them and laid them down. They were actually sleeping, and Megan, exhausted, was slumped in her favorite chair, bare feet up on the coffee table, letting her body relax and stretch out.

There was a sharp rapping on the front door. Megan ignored it, moving being the very last thing she wanted to do, but when the knocking sounded a second time she jumped up angrily, worried it would wake her babies.

She jerked the front door open with a scowl on her face ready to scold whoever had disturbed her, but the figure on the front porch startled her and no words came out.

“Buy some seeds, dear?” said the tiny old woman who stood before Megan. She wore what amounted to rags, her hands filthy with black nails and soiled skin, her face blotched and speckled with the signs of old age and disease. She was holding a wicker basket in her bony hands, and in it was a pile of little rolled-up paper packets, twisted at the top.

“No thanks,” said Megan, trying not to look into the old woman’s face, “I don’t garden.”

“Only a quarter a packet, dear.” The old woman pulled a paper roll from her basket and shook it towards Megan’s face. “Just a quarter, for all this beautiful life!” She shook the packet again.

“Really, no thank you, I have no need of seeds.” Megan took a step back, smiled coldly and closed the door a couple of inches. “I have to go back inside, I’m quite busy at the moment, you have a good evening.”

The old woman’s face clouded over in an instant, she turned her head and spat on the wooden deck.

“Just a little kindness dear,” she growled, her tone hostile now, “just a handful of change, a little jingle for my pocket, that’s all I ask. This is a lovely home you have here, very lovely.” The old woman looked around her, taking in Megan’s house.

Megan was shocked that this old crone had spat on her porch, and the last words she had spoken had sounded to Megan like a threat. She was angry now and just wanted to get back inside and relax.

“Listen, you old hag, how dare you spit on my property? I’m giving you nothing, get out of here right now and take your crap with you, if I see you hanging around here again I’ll call the police, you hear ? I don’t want you anywhere near my home.”

The old lady looked Megan right in the eyes and slowly, ever so slowly, let a big gob of spit fall from her cracked, grey lips and fall slowly to the deck, finally hitting the wood with a slight ‘glop.’

Megan was furious and shouted now.

“Get out of here, you nasty witch, get the hell out of here right now!”

In the background Megan heard one of the twins crying. She stamped her foot in anguish, her entire body groaning at the lost chance of relaxation, and made a shooing motion at the old lady. The old lady stepped back, then pointed at Megan’s face.

“I curse you, dear; I curse you with one word.”

Megan scowled. The crying baby had become two crying babies and she shook her head at how quickly peace had turned to disturbance.

“Go ahead, curse me, say what you want, but then please, JUST LEAVE!”

Megan slammed the door shut, rested her forehead against it and sighed. The crying was louder now; the twins had obviously heard the disturbance the wrinkly old bitch had caused. She listened for the old lady leaving, walking down the steps of the porch, but there was nothing. Megan knelt down and carefully pushed open her letterbox to look outside.

The old lady was staring right back at her.

“Childless!” she hissed, and Megan let the letterbox snap closed and fell back in shock.

The crying had stopped.

I’m showering at the Bates Motel.

Through the shower curtain, I can see a form moving toward me.

“Who’s there?” I scream.

“Mother Bates,” a cackling woman’s voice says.

“Do you have a big nasty knife?”

“Yep.”

“Is it real sharp?”

“Incredibly.”

“Let’s see,” I say, pulling open the shower curtain.

She hands me a nasty-looking butcher knife.

She’s right. The blade couldn’t be sharper.

“Wanna change places?” I ask.

“Sure,” she says, stepping into the shower.

I slash her, Norman her loony son, the entire cast, crew, and Alfred Hitchcock.

I never saw so much blood. Too bad I’m not a vampire.

While you’ve been reading this, I’ve been hacking your computer. Now I know who you are, where you live.

I just took your picture with a camera hidden inside the period at the end this sentence.

Make my day. Leave all your doors open whenever you shower.

Jasper Howard stood in the middle of the dusty street with his hand near his holster. Nobody, but nobody, called him yellow-bellied. The stranger was about to get a stomach full of lead.

There he stood on the other end of the street. How dare he walk into the saloon–Jasper’s territory–and call him out in front of everyone else? “This town’s not big enough for the both of us, Howard. Meet me out in the street in five minutes and we’ll shoot for it–if you’re not too scared.”

Enough. It was time to settle this. Jasper drew his six-shooter and squeezed the trigger…

Judging from the bystanders’ screams, his bullet hit its target. The stranger buckled under the impact, but he straightened back up immediately. What in the…?

Jasper fired again and again, emptying his pistol. Each shot hit its mark, but still the stranger stayed on his feet. He was even laughing!

Astonished voices from the crowd assaulted Jasper’s ears. “Impossible!” “He ain’t even bleeding!” “But he got hit every time!” “He ain’t human!”

To that last comment, the stranger replied, “You got that right. And I haven’t drawn yet…”

Jasper’s stomach sank as the stranger drew out his weapon.

If anyone ever doubted that Brianna Holmes was the most beautiful woman around, all they needed to do was ask her. She would gladly show them her collection of beauty pageant trophies and tiaras, copies of her various modeling contracts with the department stores in town, photos from her burgeoning portfolios, or whatever other proof they needed. She would then regale them with stories of how she couldn’t go anywhere in public without legions of men hitting on her, some literally getting on their knees to beg for her phone number.

Reveling in the attention, Brianna became a first-class heartbreaker, not to mention a relationship wrecker. She took pride in her ability to pull any man she wanted, whether he was attached or not. More than once she had stolen her friends’ boyfriends from them, only to cast them aside once she had finished having her fun with them and was ready to move on to the next adoring man. As a result, every woman who knew her loathed her.

“It really is hard work being this beautiful,” she would lament, “but fortunately, I have all of you to make me look beautiful.” By this she meant that she stood out in comparison to everyone else. The antipathy that her fellow females had for her deepened every time she made that comment.

There was already no shortage of mirrors in her house, so it came as a surprise when the delivery truck brought a new one to her door. “It’s supposedly a gift from all of the girls you graduated high school with,” the deliveryman said, trying his best not to stammer in her presence.

“Oh, be a dear and set it up quickly,” she purred, toying with him. “I have a big photo shoot this afternoon for the catalog, so I’m in a hurry.”

“Yes, ma’am,” the deliveryman said, more than a little flushed. After he finished hanging the mirror, he asked, “So, when your photo shoot is over, do you think you and I could get together and…?”

“Not only your life,” she cooed in mock sweetness, ushering him out the door before she herself left.

It wasn’t until later that night that Brianna read the card that came with the mirror. THIS IS THE MOST ACCURATE MIRROR IN THE WORLD. SAY, “SHOW ME MYSELF” AND TAKE ONE LOOK AT YOUR REFLECTION, AND YOU WILL SEE YOURSELF AS YOU TRULY ARE.

With a shrug, she looked into the mirror. “Show me myself!”

Instantly the mirror showed Brianna her true reflection, the one lying beneath her physical appearance. Her eyes widened, she sank to her knees, and she began to scream.

Five years later, long after being fitted with a straitjacket and placed in a padded room, she still hasn’t stopped screaming.

“Throughout the night, I heard their screams of pain. I didn’t get a wink of sleep because of them. Do you know what that’s like, Doc?”

Radio host Dr. Winters did his best to ignore Sonya, his producer, who was making the “crazy” sign with her finger on her side of the glass. Somehow, this career wasn’t what he had in mind when he studied psychiatry. “I’ve had many a sleepless night in my time, caller. Tell me, how long have you heard the voices?”

Beyond the glass, Sonya was slapping her knee at the word voices as if it were the funniest joke of all time. To her, it probably is, Winters lamented.

“You don’t believe me,” the caller said. Although her emotions were controlled, Winters had been at this long enough to recognize the tone of accusation.

“I never said that, caller. In my line of work, I’ve dealt with a number of people with similar conditions, and to them the experience is quite…”

“I’m not talking about you, Dr. Winters. I’m talking about the woman in the studio listening to us–your producer or something like that. Little bleach blonde wearing too much eye shadow. She thinks this is a joke.”

Suddenly Sonya stopped laughing. In fact, she looked downright spooked. Good, Winters thought in spite of himself.

“Girl thinks she’s something else, doesn’t she? Everybody who calls in, she just laughs and laughs, like it’s all for her amusement. I’m surprised she doesn’t add a laugh track.”
Now Sonya looked extremely uncomfortable and avoided Winters’ glare. The caller had her dead to rights, and the psychiatrist was mouthing the words I told you so. Choosing his words carefully, he said aloud, “Wow, it seems that you have a very definite mental image of our producer. May I ask how you arrived at that?”

“Easy. They told me.”

To Winters’ dismay, Sonya pressed the talk button and leaned over her microphone. Obviously the shock had worn off, at least enough for her to feel like fighting back. “Is this while they’re screaming at you?” she prodded, her voice dripping with sarcasm.

Damage control time. “Here on the Dr. Winters Show, we believe that all of our callers’ concerns are to be taken seriously, and we do not condone…”

“Skip it, Doc,” the caller interrupted. “Nobody questions your stance. She’s the one on trial here.”

“Me?” scoffed Sonya. “You’re the one that hears voices.”

“Not anymore,” the caller replied in a singsong voice. “They’ve just found a new home.”

Suddenly Winters could hear nothing but a dial tone through his earpiece, but that was the least of his worries. Sonya had just put her hands against her head, an anguished look on her face. Having released the talk button, there was no way for him to hear her screams as she sank to the floor.

Winters was transfixed in horror for a moment, then struggled to recover. “Pardon us while we take a quick break,” he said to his audience, not even thinking about whether his audience would hear anything afterwards. He barreled through the door to find Sonya writhing on the linoleum in a fetal position.

“Talk to me! What’s wrong?”

She looked in his direction, but he couldn’t tell if she was looking at him or through him. “Make them stop make them stop make them stop….”

“Stop what?”

“The screaming! Such pain! Can’t you hear it?”

It was a humid summer night, the moon full and the world still. A slight breeze brought the smell of jasmine through the southern air, one of the many grand features of nature sent to delight the senses. A delight rivaled by many, yet surpassed by few, or at least that was Samuel J. Monroe’s opinion. Delights much like that of homemade apple pie, or sensual kisses on the porch swing. Like God’s great canvas, the colors with which he paints the sky. Delights like your wedding night, or delights like the sweetest melody slowing through your ears and down into your soul. Delights like yard work, yes, yard work at night. The kind that requires heavy lifting and a great deal of digging, though once you’ve planted what you’ve brought then that delight surpasses them all.

Out by the vegetable patch where Samuel did the gardening, not but a few feet away grow his Rose’s roses. Beautifully planted and elegantly grown are they, though Rose’s roses are guilty of gaining more attention than he. Rose even planned on expanding her garden, which explains the extensive digging and potentially the heavy lifting. Not that their rural home would require the shade of night, but it just made it feel right. The beauty all around could only bring out the beauty in that which he planted, oh, and he can already imagine the glorious roses that would grow from this sacred soil.

“Well, honey, I hope this is how you wanted this to be done. I mean, when you love something so much, well, it just obviously needs to be planted properly. A proper job in the first place saves time in the long run, potentially even makes it easier to weed out the unwanted roses.” Samuel said.

Though alone in the yard he waited a moment for a response, but then got back to work when no words were to be heard.

“No need to be bashful, my dear, especially when it comes to your beloved garden,” Samuel added. “But no worries, I know just how you want this to be done.”

Sweat beads poured and his muscles flexed with every mount of dirt he shoveled out. “Hard work pays off” was the mantra echoing in his mind and continuously motivating him to press on and finish the job. Samuel just knows how much she loves her roses, which is why Rose’s roses gain special attention. Rose’s roses must be perfect, always and forever. The hole is getting deeper and the dirt mound higher, a physical manifestation of his hard work that he would only ever put into Rose’s roses. Samuel lifted his large sack above the hole, emptying it into the soil with great hopes of its beauty and how it would please Rose to see it.

“Oh, there you are, my dear.” Samuel smiled. “Hiding from me as I do all the work, now are we?”

Samuel stabbed his shovel into the dirt and lifted a mound over the hole, Rose and soon to be Rose’s roses. He stared for a moment at all that he ever loved, which had become all that he will ever lose. Though the ending isn’t a sad one, oh no, not when Rose’s roses are finally in bloom.

“Goodbye, my dear. I’m sure you meant well, but then again we all start out that way.” Samuel said, tearfully bidding her farewell.

Samuel began to fill in the hole as tears flowed from his eyes and trickled down upon his toothy smile. Tonight was a time of rejoicing, a moment when love can reunite in the utmost beautiful way. She will be missed in every aspect of Samuel’s life. He even wonders how he will go on without her, but then it is only for a short while. Before long Rose’s roses will be in bloom, full, radiant and reliable as tomorrow. Forevermore shall Rose’s roses grow for Samuel, enticing his senses and tantalizing his utmost delights.