Books Like Flowers In The Attic Novels & Stories

She closed the door behind her slowly. The apartment was still. Not quiet — still. Air too heavy. The smell of something floral. Faint. Sweet. Wrong. Her eyes drifted to the bookshelf. The flower was back. No — flowers, plural. Five of them now. Each bloom a different color. Crimson. Violet. Cerulean. Pale gold. Ink black. All curling from different books, petals growing like they’d always belonged there. Sea Glass Psalms. The Edge of Dusk. Forgotten Bodies. Every book Aria had buried a piece of herself in — every one of them blooming with impossible color. A spectrum of memories. Of lovers.

They thought they were watching Seraphina Montague disappear into the background of someone else’s story. I looked around the apartment now. At the books he’d started reading because I loved them. At the cardigans I left draped over the furniture, a slow, soft invasion of his sterile bachelor pad. At the flowers on the table, peonies for me, white roses for him, tangled together in the same vase. It wasn't an ending.

I couldn’t hold back my tears at the sight of my own body. I stepped forward and gently brushed my hand over my face. The faint trace of tears still lingered on my skin. Before I could fully process what was happening, Lucas lunged toward me, frantically clearing away the flowers around my body. His voice was shaking, almost desperate. “Clara has asthma... there can’t be flowers in the house. The pollen will make her sick. Why would you surround her with flowers?”

A reminder of what we had before the noise, before the fights, before the poison of outsiders. Flowers first. She liked lilies once, though she claimed the smell was too heavy. Maybe roses instead—red, classic, undeniable. No woman ever turned away roses. And gifts. Jewelry? No, too obvious. Something thoughtful, personal. Something that said I remember you better than anyone. Maybe that first edition of the poetry book she used to dog-ear. I could track it down. Money wasn’t the issue. Effort was. She needed to see that I still knew her, still cared enough to chase the details.

This should be for one of the young ladies in this apartment who walk out elegantly in the morning looking like people who don't live in this old apartment. I can't dispose of the flower so I open the door and enter with it. I drop it on the table before walking slowly to my cane chair to sit, watching the view out of the window to soothe my frustration before I begin to read the new books I got. I got ten books and for once in my life, I want to give horror a try. I hope I won't end up screaming till my baby pops out of me unexpectedly. I chuckle to myself as I slouch into the chair.

Which meant that I couldn’t trust him, no matter how much I wanted to. Yet I still found myself looking around Flowers. It was partly out of curiosity, and also partly out of a desire to know my competitor. I had been here once as a kid, and it hadn’t changed much since then. It was smaller than Buds and Blossoms, and it didn’t have many arrangements you could come in and buy. I assumed that most of their revenue came from specially made arrangements and from things like wedding, funerals, proms—all the life events a person would need flowers for. Strangely, there weren’t many plants in here at all, except for a dried-out fern on a shelf overlooking the front counter and a few vases of flowe

There was also a rolling ladder that gave access to the higher bookshelves, a polished wooden desk and a chair, and an overstuffed couch and reclining chair. It was a special place where I would be spending much of my time. I examined the books until a young maid knocked on the door. “Pardon me, Miss,” she said. “But several pots of flowers were delivered for you. We put them in your bedroom. Would you tell me how you want them to be displayed?” I followed her back to my bedroom and was delighted by the pots of colorful flowers perfuming the air. They were all different varieties of daisies, and a card was lying next to the largest pot.

"Hey, what book is this?" The man who was focusing with the microscope lens finally lifted his face, "Isn't there a title there?" "Yeah I know, but about what? I've never heard of Aima before. Is this a book about sexuality? A porn book?" asked Gail happily. This man rolled his eyes, "Seriously, if you are looking for a book like that you can find it at Night Flowers," he said. "Then?" The old man straightened his stiff body then pushed his wheelchair and turned to face Gail. "This is a book about a lost history," he said.

What the fuck is going on? We get to the attic and she opens the door. I was dreading the sight. "What in the-" So many dead bouquets of mostly roses and they each had letters stuck to them. "Mom? What is all this? What is going on? I was terrified. I couldn't breathe properly. I think I had a PTSD for roses. It was so believable now that he was stalking her. He always used roses.