A flash fiction piece, (c) 2012 by C. N. Nevets
It's a flower. It's no particular color. It's more like . . . every color.
She doesn't know what kind of flower it is. Its petals are so delicate that they almost drip off the long, dark stems that reach up toward the sky. The sky she hasn't seen in years. Toward the sun she hasn't felt in years. But when she looks at that flower, she feels herself carried up towards the sky on its stem, and she can almost feel the sun that washes over the drips of petals.
She can only imagine the scent of the flower. She thinks it is light and airy. She thinks some days the rain gives it a heavier body, a bit of weedy spice. But most days, light and airy. When she thinks about the scent she has conjured up, she can almost feel the weight taken off her aching bones.
There's a window. Single pane glass. It's from the 1940's. She dusts the inside every day. The outside is rain-streaked. Some days, she can see through the window as clear as if it weren't there. Other days, the way the light hits the glass and the streaks, her view is obscured.
She likes those days best. She likes looking through the window at the flower when it's obscured and hard to see. She likes to see the colors push through the haze. She likes to see how the delicate, drippy petals melt into a blur of color. No particular color. Every color.
And she likes to see how, through the haze, the flower's strong, dark stem pushes up toward the sky. Towards the sun in the sky.