Roses On A Grave Novels & Stories

Not anymore. Because I broke her. When they lowered it into the earth, the sound of the straps creaking echoed through my skull. I saw the white lid dip slowly below ground level, inch by inch, until it disappeared completely. Gone. My legs buckled, but I didn’t fall. I bit the inside of my cheek so hard I tasted blood. People stepped forward one by one, dropping roses into the grave. Each flower was a farewell, a piece of closure. Kaylee went next. She paused before she let go of the rose, tears trailing down her cheeks.

Even in my disembodied state, the agony of it was unbearable. My remains, mixed with a vast amount of soil, were loaded onto a truck. The roads grew more and more familiar—it was the way to the rose garden. I watched as my flesh was scattered across the rose garden. The sea of roses I had once so carefully cultivated for Yvonne had now become my burial ground. The flowers, nourished by my flesh and blood, bloomed even more brilliantly, while my life dissolved away amidst the sea of blossoms. Yvonne was dressed in an evening gown, her makeup exquisite and elegant. However, none of it could conceal the iciness on her face.

Knew it from her description – simple granite, his name, the dates, a line about sunlight that her mother chose. Fresh flowers. Already there. Not sunflowers. Chrysanthemums. I stood there. Holding sunflowers that were two hours late. Looking at chrysanthemums that were right on time. My hands bleeding and shaking and empty and I knew. Knew who brought them. Because there was only one other person who knew this cemetery. This grave. This date. I put the sunflowers down next to the chrysanthemums. My blood on the brown paper. His flowers and mine side by side on a dead man's grave like a scoreboard.

It felt like it happened just yesterday. Now, in their small greenhouse, sits two special pots. One containing healthy, bright red roses. The pop of color made it stand out, as well as the special meaning it held. The other held baby white roses, pure and innocent, beautiful and ethereal. She grew the roses two months after that night, couldn't find it in her to come back and forth to their graves. It was hard seeing Astrid's name in the stone, as well as the 'Sweet Angel' for her baby's grave.

I shove my hands into my coat as I walked in silence to my mothers grave. Raphaël offered to come , but I told him that I wanted to visit her alone since it will be my first and last. To make sure he won't stress much I suggested that Declan should tag along although he is not okay with idea of leaving me alone I promised to make it back to him. I stopped in-front of her grave and placed the bouquet of blood roses on her grave. They will probably die within 2 days due to the harsh cold weather of Russia.

A graveyard. Black roses. A marble tomb split down the center. Queen Amara’s grave. Ben stood at the arch, waving us through. “Hurry!” We crossed the threshold. The air changed instantly. Fresh. Cold. Alive. The queen’s grave lay in a clearing beneath the earth, impossible and open to a sky that should not have existed. A silver moon hung overhead, too large and too close. Black roses grew from snow around a white tomb carved with crowns, blades, and wolves.

He reached out as if to hold the baby, but Anna instinctively stepped back, her eyes filled with unease as she looked at him. …… In the end, Anna gave in. The dead were gone, and even if she kept my burial place a secret, Zac would have other ways to find it. When Anna brought Zac to my gravesite, the small hill was already covered in blooming roses, my favorite flower. Vibrant and full of life. As the sky began to drizzle, a light mist hung in the air, casting a somber and chilly atmosphere over the scene. Zac knelt in front of my tombstone, gently tracing the smile on my face etched in stone, and asked hoarsely,

The tears I tried so hard to suppress fell down my cheeks. Celine stood beside me, sobbing, as she wiped her face with the handkerchief in her hand. She’d been crying for a while now, and watching her do so made tears flow down my cheeks even more. On the nearby grave where our son was buried, Grey stood with a white bouquet of roses in his hand. He placed the bouquet of pink lilies on Mom’s grave a while ago, and now he put the white roses on top of Dylan’s grave. I painfully looked away as he knelt at Dylan’s grave and touched his tombstone. It hurt me to see the pain in his eyes. It had been years since Dylan’s death, but the pain still felt fresh and raw, as though it had just happened y

As we walked through the rows of graves, I tried to distract myself by focusing on the names and dates, each one a story in itself. I couldn't help but feel a sense of dread, the weight of all those lives lost pressing down on me. Just when I was wondering how much further we have to go- because to say the truth I am beginning to get frightened- his steps became slower. We stopped in front of a single grave, newer than the rest, its marble headstone gleaming in the moonlight. He knelt down, his fingers brushing against the inscription. I stood back, watching him as he reached into his pocket and pulled out a single rose. He laid it gently on the grave, his expression pained and sorrowful. I

The roses in the Vitale garden are not red. They are black baccara—a deep, velvety burgundy that looks like dried blood in the midday sun. I am on my knees in the dirt. It is part of the penance. Part of the show. I am wearing the grey uniform, stained at the knees with soil. My hands are gloved in rough canvas, holding a pair of heavy shears. Snip. I cut a deadhead from the bush. It falls to the ground, shriveled and brown.