Never Dying Flowers Novels & Stories

My chuckles immediately stop as soon as I realize what the flowers represent. Here’s the thing about flowers: they denote celebrations of joy, love, life, and death. Today, the flowers surrounding me represent the latter. Death. Heartbreakingly so. I remember learning when I was young that hundreds and hundreds of flowers are brought during funerals to vocalize the emotions that were too excruciating to express from losing a loved one.

They were weapons. The only flowers were calla lilies. Thousands of them. White, funereal, and stark, their scent a cloying, chemical memory of a wedding that had never been. And in the center of it all, the pièce de résistance, the first thing the critics would see, was the "Phoenix Rising" collection. Her biography. Her confession. Her declaration of war. "They are animals," a voice, dry as paper, said from her side.

"How odd." "That?" She questions me. “The flowers,” I observe, bewildered, “are wilted.” "Not at all." It makes me curious. "Because?" “Flowers are cut and most of the time they do not appreciate all their facets, no one sees the beauty of a flower wither, they lose its last colors” he explains, “Look at it, it is about to wither and yet it still looks beautiful.” , keep it and its last emotions will stay with you.”

The latter responded to her smile with a wider ones, “It’s quite simpler than it looked. You only need to pour water late at night. It doesn’t need to be a lot. Contrary to other flowers, these carnage only need flower that is poured when the sky is dark.” “I see,” hummed Rose looking at the flower. Noticing the flower pot, she stared at the carving around it. The ceramic pot stood out more to Rose as though the main sight was not the gentle carnage flower but the pot. “They are a very strong flower, I am certain you can take care of it,” Iris whispered, smiling as she stared down at the white flowers darkly. Meanwhile inside the mansion, Dominic was shown by his grandparents the portrait of

I let go of my skateboard hopelessly and used my dry and sore fingers to trace his name that was inscribed on the headstone. Detective James Blue. I miss you now, tomorrow and forever Father. I thought to myself. The flowers I had brought were gently placed in front of the headstone, on the earthen soil which had tiny grass sprouts on it. I had purchased an immortelle at a flower shop just on the next street. An immortelle is a long-lasting flower arrangement placed on graves in cemeteries. They were originally made from natural dried flowers, which lasted longer than fresh flowers. I had secured them firmly with the flower anchor on the headstone.

That flower's core was yellow, as if it had a small, lonely sun in so much darkness. "Helleborus." Tinea said as she picked up one of the cakes with the flower on top. "One of the winter-resistant flowers, it is said that it was created because Mother Moon refused to see the precious flowers die after autumn. The Shooting Stars say that winter was born because of this mourning of the Goddess." With a fork the woman cut the cake in half, a filling so black as the flower dripped down the plate. "Many call it the 'flower that refuses to die,' but as much as its legend is beautiful, this flower is related to moments of inevitable sadness and loss, a painful memory that hurts the soul."

I wish I died days ago. I really need something to keep me warm, or else, I will die. Dying in an instant is preferable than dying in an agonizing cold winter without something to eat. It is beautiful, very beautiful. These flowers are very pretty. What flowers are these? I am sure these are not roses. I live near a flower shop in the past, so I know many kinds of flowers. This is, I am sure are not like any flowers I had seen in the past. These flowers looks unique. I want to cry of happiness.

Flowers that seemed to glow from within. And everywhere, deadies. Walking. Sitting. Smiling. They looked at us with curious, empty eyes as we passed. "Don't talk to them," Kara warned. "They'll try to convince you to stay. They think they're doing you a favor." We walked in silence. The path wound through different sections of the garden. A rose garden where the flowers were the size of dinner plates. A meditation grove with trees that seemed to whisper encouragement. A reflection pool where the water showed not your face, but your happiest memory.

The flickering firelight cast shadows on our faces, as if it were burning through our very souls. I remembered Neil Black’s fondness for flowers and plants. He would spend hours tending to them at Maria's home, often talking to them as if they were old friends. That serene and harmonious scene was still vivid in my mind. Now, the crematorium felt so desolate, a stark contrast to the warmth and tranquility he once embodied. Upon hearing that there was a nearby garden offering floral burials, we decided to take Neil’s ashes there. The garden was lush and beautiful, as if the flowers he once cherished were greeting us. We carefully scattered the ashes among the flowerbeds, completing the reviva

"I love them, and I'm waiting for some to go on sale." "What's so special about them?" He asks as he glances at the pictures on my phone. "Other than the fact they are damn expensive." I roll my eyes and flash him a look over my shoulder. "They aren't normal flowers obviously. They never die. They're made out of cloth and recycled materials. I try to buy them wholesale and use them when I can in designs. Plus, I kind of like the bouquets. Something about them never wilting up and dying appeals to me. It's like a memory that can live forever, every time you look at them. They aren't pressed in some memory book; they can be on display all the time."