*This is not a short story, but short story was the closest category to what I wrote*

Flowers and Song
Her name was Diane, and the thing that made her immortal was not her looks - although she was not ugly; her wealth ' although she was not a pauper; and it was not her family ' although it was noble. The thing that made her immortal was, of all things, her garden. She had a certain affinity for nature, and could make even the deadest seed grow into such a plant the world had never seen.
But even for this most wondrous gift, Diane was not pursued by suitors, wanting to make her their bride. Once upon a time, though, there was one man who wanted to make her his Mrs.. Tom McGavister loved flowers and nature almost as much as Diane, and they were a perfect match for one another, and he a musician! While in the process of courting her, her would send her roses and stand beneath her window every night, singing to her every sweet love song and ballad he never, and several he wrote because of her. Everyone looked forward to the marriage of flowers and song that they knew was to happen. But then, he had an accident. Whether physical or psychological, no one really knew. After the incident, he renounced Diane, attempted suicide, then disappeared, and was never heard of again.
Diane was heartbroken, and for quite some time, no flowers anywhere near the City bloomed. She rejoined society after a while, and looked forward to more suitors, but none came. No, the only thing men nowadays wanted her for was to produce the flowers for their new wives, the weddings and all the glories that go with it. But that did not make her sad; on the contrary, she was happiest when in her garden, surround by life, and away from the droll and busy City. She did long for a love, but was never able to find one. Probably for the best, as she would rather be a free spirit than trapped in the life of an obeying and dutiful wife.
The attic window of 168 McGavister Avenue was always shut, the curtain always drawn closed. There was never a light on, no movement could be seen. The people of the City - mostly the women ' gossiped about what the owners of the house kept in there. Young Tom McGavister, that was what was in the attic. But why? His mother approved of his bride to be, for he was to be married at the end of spring, and yet he simply vanished. But people don't vanish. They can be killed, they can skip the City and flee to another country, but they do not vanish. Oh well, the McGavisters stopped answering the questions about their son ' he was gone, let it be.
And yet the attic window remained closed, the curtains drawn shut. What did they keep hidden away up there?
The years eroded away all that was beautiful in the young wives the men had claimed, but the flowers remained beautiful. The roses in particular. For every year that made things ugly, was another year the rose would bloom more beautiful than before. But people stopped seeing Diane, although her plants on the outskirts of the City became invasive. Diane became hard-hearted, and only grew white roses, some of which would randomly turn red thought the season. Years and years passing, her dark hair slowly transforming to the white of her thorny blossoms of passion. Her eyes, once so large and full of compassion, filled with spite and hidden dishonesty, almost like thorns. Bit by bit, she was become her plants, at least, all the vile and despised ones. English Ivy, Poison Oak, and Venus Fly Trap; hated and yet, for unknown reasons, needed. When most of the City pets vanished, the children said it was their blood that turned the roses red. And when a beautiful young women or two disappeared without a trace, several said Diane used them to feed her plants. But the police never had enough evidence, or courage, to even approach her. She was becoming her most vile plants, after all.
The People of the City ' mostly the women once again ' began to plot. If only she had a love, someone like Tom, someone like Tom. Maybe then she'll stop being so tempestuous and help them with their garden again. And the gossip spread and spread, and spread ' until it finally reached the delicate and noble ears of Mrs. McGavister, who looked at her aged and decrepit husband, and nodded.
It was a dark evening when Tom McGavister, old and bent over from age, hobbled down the street, to Diane's house. Once the jewel of the rural back roads, it was now over grown with shrubbery and wild flora. The two grand windows of the house, once so inviting, had grown menacing with time, and English ivy shimmied up the sides.
There, in the late night and darkness, with a guitar in his hands, started playing her a ballad he had written for her over the years. The music Tom played was fluid and beautiful from the aged guitar. All the People in the City had followed, but made sure to stay behind, they didn't want to be seen, but wanted to known what was happening. If there was a new wedding, and they all wanted to be the first to know.
And when they saw the old and bent Diane open the door, stare at him for a moment, then invite him in, they were certain they was to be a wedding. But the next day, there was no wedding announcement. And there was no wedding announcements the weeks after. There was only roses, white, and slowly turning red underneath Diane's window.

Want to comment on this Short Stories? Sign up to Edit Red and you will be able to comment on Short Stories and get access to: Upload your own stories and poems, get readers and their feedback, promote your work...