Flowery Prose Novels & Stories

Fleshes Gleaming with wetness to the morning gold. A mead Bordered about with warbling water brooks. A maid Laughing the love-laugh with me; proud of looks. The heat Throbbing between the upland and the peak. Her heart Quivering with passion to my pressed cheek. Braiding Of floating flames across the mountain brow. Brooding Of stillness; and a sighing of the bough. Stirs Of leaflets in the gloom; soft petal-showers; Stars Expanding with the starr'd nocturnal flowers." I finish.

Unfortunately, the happy times were long behind them. Cassiopeia took out the pictures and tore off Lucas's figure from each one of them before throwing them into the trash can. Anya and she were the only ones that remained. Halfway through packing, she caught the whiff of a repulsive smell. She frowned instinctively. When she went to open the door, the smell grew sharper. When she had taken a few steps forward, she was hit with a heavy wave of nausea and almost lost her balance. She staggered a few steps before planting herself against the wall. Her head felt like mud.

She licked it and raised her eyebrow. “Why does my blood be tasteless?” she shook her head and shrugged. She continued arranging the roses while humming. She paused and turned to the left side. She closed her eyes and heightened her hearing ability. She opened her eyes and smiled. “I see, they are early. Excited, huh?” she said and dropped the roses, the flower that she unlike. She went out of her house. Bulwarks were running and screaming. Some of them bumped at her but she only smiled and continued walking.

"Flora, he called.he couldn't get the words out his mouth , God Knows if a cat chopped his tongue. He looked up at my body, checking me out,his gaze falls on my exposed breast.i used my hands to cover them and walked to my wardrobe.

somewhere i have never travelled, gladly beyond any experience, your eyes have their silence: in your most frail gesture are things which enclose me, or which i cannot touch because they are too near your slightest look easily will unclose me though i have closed myself as fingers, you open always petal by petal myself as Spring opens (touching skillfully, mysteriously) her first rose or if your wish be to close me, i and my life will shut very beautifully, suddenly, as when the heart of this flower imagines the snow carefully everywhere descending; .....

He explained to me that he left before I had woken up, he never really told him where he was heading to. “I brought you flowers Nat, the situation yesterday must have made me forgot about the flowers" I grabbed the bouquet of flowers away from his hands. “It is pretty, pretty flowers" I said with a smile, going on to inhale the scent of the bouquet of roses I held. “Ofcourse it is, pretty, just the way you are" He stretched forth his hands to touch my cheek. It felt very tender. “You are like a rose, far more prettier than a rose" He continued, ruffling my hair in affection and playing with my nose.

She said while I held back the smile creeping around my lips Her voice carried a sense of reverence as she spoke, as though each word was imbued with her own experiences and emotions. I found myself entranced by her storytelling, her words weaving a tapestry of meanings and emotions associated with these beautiful flowers. As the conversation continued, we delved deeper into the symbolism of other flowers. She spoke of the delicate elegance of the lily, the vibrant energy of the sunflower, and the quiet resilience of the orchid. Her words painted vivid pictures in my mind, evoking a deep appreciation for the wonders of nature and the messages they carried.

First him being him and second he has his own way with words and plays very well with words so he would easily make me spill beans in front of him. I was walking and the car was just where it was, not moving.... I was mumbling curses to my fate when I heard a loud horn... Why this Rudra is being so sweet suddenly.. 'Well he was rude but still you can't deny his care in form of small gestures for u...' reasoned my subconscious mind... Well it is true but still it's a little weird .... Well let it be... This debate could continue but right I now I should focus on knowing why is he hell bent on helping me...

The seeing did not sharpen. It had never been dulled. The knowing did not deepen. It had never been shallow. Every sentence written in earlier chapters had been a loving attempt to point. Now the pointing hand relaxed. The moon it indicated relaxed. The sky holding the moon relaxed. Only seeing remained. Not as a function. As the field. Not as an event. As the timeless. The white flowers had not become the air. They had revealed that air was never without fragrance. The oak had not become the sky.

“It’s obviously either red or yellow, I don’t know of any grey muted colored flowers, the center even looks black.” I plant my butt on the grass next to him, “this is Crimson Beebalm,” I touch the petals, “this one is bright red but they can be a lot darker than this. Red is,” I take a second to think as his smile makes my brain short circuit, “hot, intense, and even dangerous. But this flower is all talk and no show. It’s edible and used for medicine,” I tell him as I begin to pluck some of the flowers out of the earth. “I’ve never had a color described to me,” he admits with a smile of appreciation on his face.