Poem Novel Painting Statue Flower Novels & Stories

But the other two – the crescent moon and the full – have lilies carved beneath them. I frown, turning back to the huge statue of the Goddess behind me, my eyes going directly to the lily pressed to her chest. I turn back to the carving and press my finger to each of the lilies in turn. “Life, life,” I say, my finger then moving to the scythe. “Do you think this means…death?”

She opened her eyes. She was in a garden. Not a garden of flowers. A garden of statues. They stood in neat rows, hundreds of them, carved from white stone that glowed faintly in the mist. Each statue was of a person, but their faces were turned toward the sky, their mouths open in expressions of release. Not pain. Not fear. Something else. Surrender.

"You're awake." I walked closer. My eyes moved from his face to the canvas and I stopped walking. The flowers were beautiful. Not the struggling crooked smudged thing from yesterday with the petals bleeding into each other and the stem going sideways. This was something else entirely. The petals were delicate and layered, the colors soft where they met and blended, the whole thing having the kind of quiet confidence that comes from doing something over and over until your hands understand it even when your brain is too tired to lead. It looked like something Matteo would hang on his wall and mean it.

In the recesses of the lake, next to the cavern, is a woman’s statue in pure white stone that depicts the woman in the act of leaving the water. This place is magical. I am so mesmerized by it I can barely recall any of my earlier worries. Werewolves, Lucifer, those murders, all the questions. They all seem like a different consciousness. And Avo is standing there, next to the woman’s statue, placing a wreath, made of myrtle, hyacinths, and of lily of the valley, on the top of her stone head. As we walk towards the sculpture, Draco and Giovanni start to talk about Avo’s morning routine, but I barely follow the conversation. I am so caught looking at the scene in front of me.

"Her majesty, I saw her in the passage near the Falling River. She was seriously injured and there was a flower with her." "What flower?" Amnisty doesn't answer right away. She and the queen already talked about this situation but they need to do it again to inform Dealla. She sighs before answering. I hate repeating. "It's Peony." "Oh, what a nice flower and it's the favorite of our friend, Amnisty. Right?" "You're right, her majesty." "Since you don't remember your name, darling. How about I'll name you Peony? Is it fine with you?" The queen strokes some strands of Dealla's hair. She puts it behind her ear. The queen stares at Dealla’s face.

SCARLETT My jaw hung low in awe as I stared at the statue of a couple, their bodies covered in red, white, and black roses. There were many other static things like this around, all covered in flowers to give the impression that everything was made with them. All kinds. Roses, jasmines, tulips. Especially tulips. The purple flower had a separate garden devoted to it. The never-ending row of tulips was pleasing to the eyes. The bright lights that covered the empty path beside the rows of flowers was enhancing the beauty of the place.

" I nodded as she proceeds "Rose is the one you gave me Grandpa, you are the sweetest! I gave them Hibiscus, they gave me a Marigold. Oh, how vicious!" "He said I am a contrast They said I had to behave, He said I was rare I was marked as naught." "You are unique! they gave me yellow bruises. A Hawthorn flower he gave, replete with compassion." "They are butterflies they soar high. I am a flower, below I cry."

He was still trying to stop me but I was already in front of the painting. [It… it was… me…. It was me…!] ‘Heather’ was overjoyed when the painting was finally revealed. It was indeed me – I mean, Heather. Her honey-blond hair cascading on her back while holding a bouquet of white flowers. I am not really well-versed with flowers, but I think it was a purple lilac. As to what it symbolizes, I really do not know.

A flower blooms tonight as one of the fragments reappears Then below there is a painting of a green vast land, dark sky, stars, and moon. Stella smiled finding comfort on the painted picture. She brush her index finger on it, but like a wet ink she smudge the beautiful scene. She immediately rub the green ink on her finger to her skirt and close the book. She looked at Aeriol and Sister Lily tidying things up, no one seems to notice but her heart leaps higher than the height she fell into.

I sat with that for a while and did not rush the conclusion. A cigarette. The small ritual of it, the amber light of the ember in the dark of the room, the particular quality of thinking that came with something occupying the hands and leaving the mind to move. The grounds outside the window had gone fully dark, the late autumn dark that had weight to it, pressing against the glass. The compound was at its quietest. The second watch change had come and gone and the rotation had settled and the night had reached the hour when even the most alert among us began to trust the silence. She had not moved.