By Gregg Howard
Coulter found them in the places they would be. Bus stations and cafes, street corners and doorways, park benches and youth hostels.
Bruised blossoms.
He took them in and tended them. He offered them a hot meal, a clean room with a private bath, fresh clothes, money if they needed it.
And now and then, when the moon was right, he would invite one out to see his backyard full of flowers.
Later, when they had departed, he made a place for each in his memory. And in the garden where all the plants had names. Rose. Lily. Dahlia. Iris. Daisy.
I like this one, Gregg. You imply a lot, or not.
Thanks. Trying to leave the question unanswered…
I enjoyed this Gregg, simple very effective, not trying too hard or to be too clever. Nice sentiments
Ps great R.E.M song also 😉
Thanks. Glad someone remembers that song
Good work. It was creepy in an understated way. “Bruised blossoms.” Indeed.
I appreciate your comments! thanks.
Sweet. Excellent. Good story. All that.
I love this story! It is sweet, yet somewhat haunting. Good job!
Great story! Excellent imagery, and I love the ending. Very well-written.
Fantastic. Wish I’d written it.
Wow! Thank you very much! that is high praise indeed.
John La Briola said it all, but I’ll say it again:
Fantastic. Wish I’d written it.
Wonderful.
Love the title.
thank you very much. I am gratified by all the comments on this one!
Great story; at the end I sure could smell the flowers 🙂