The flower

Story by Marie-Luise Thös, MSS 13

The flower

Born from a seed it roots at first slightly, then tightly in the earth. It pushes and squeezes and opens the crust with a leaf here and there. Small but strong. The sun shines on its body, giving it green, a strong beautiful green colour and tempting it with more. The flower, now nothing more than a tiny stem with two leaves, screams:
Sun! Sun! Light! Light!
Yearning, urging for more it reaches and stretches out but the sun is long gone.

With every sun it grows, comes nearer, with every moon it cries but hopes.

Then, one day when it had reached so far it could nearly touch the sun, it blooms, happy and ecstatic full of life.

Then something fondles it, touches it, smells it and reaches out. Plucks it from the earth, away from this place called home and squeezes and waves and fiddles with it.
Panic and despair fill the little flower, it wriggles, tries to fing the sun. But clouds fill the sky. Its sole companion has left it, turned its back and does not see.

The flower wheezes for water, which it never missed, craves for minerals, which it never missed, hopes for life, which it will miss.

Shortly before it thought all hope is lost, it receives water. Solely water.

The flower, now with pale petals, sees the sun. The sun again tempts the flower:

Come! Grow!

And the flower responds: Sun. Light.

They continue until the sun is high, and the leaves white. The head hanging low, it glanced at the sun, mournful, with hate and anger.

The sun, now in a bright, lively orange, shouted:

Come! Grow!

And the white flower responded:

Night. Death.