Shadows passed over the crags and crannies of her face – a lightning strike, grief and pain, her loneliness reflected in the harsh, neon inhumanity teeming beneath her feet. Tears began to stream down her face, as she looked for answers – wondering who had died.
The language of flowers is an old tradition; though not as old as you’d think.
White lilies. Death.
The language of flowers – words left unspoken.
I took her in my arms, whispered into her ear.
She pulled away – shocked, unimpressed.
“Happy birthday, Grandma.”
No-one speaks the language of flowers anymore.
I just think lilies are beautiful.
Written for this weekend’s Friday Fictioneers’ photo prompt – they are lilies, right? Not only do I not understand floriography, I don’t know much about flowers. So, I just went with my first guess, lilies. I thought I’d do something other than SciFi, so tell me what you think! Comments and criticism always welcome!