A Ballad Written with Buttercups

NOTE: I KNOW PEOPLE WILL HAVE SEEN THIS MESSAGE BEFORE! DOWNVOTING IS A PROBLEM! I HAVE SPENT A LONG TIME UPVOTING AS WELL AS OTHERS (THANK YOU) BUT STILL. DOWNVOTERS ARE GANGING UP. TAKE AERIN FOR EXAMPLE. 30000. AND NO THAT IS NOT A TYPO. PLEASE GO UPVOTE HER! https://blog.reedsy.com/creative-writing-prompts/contests/86/submissions/59942/ SIGN THIS. IT IS A PETITION TO GET RID OF DOWNVOTING!

When my head first peeks above the ground after weeks of pushing and waiting and struggling, I bask in the sunlight, enjoying this new freedom, which I never had before. I see my family and friends around me, slowly swaying in the breeze. They don’t notice me at first, because there are just so many of us, but one by one, they turn and wave, smiling in a way only a flower can, with colour and fragrance, unique to each and every one of us. 

The gentle spirit of spring greets me, giving me life and colour and bloom, so great, so beautiful, so perfect, that I’m sure that I must be the nicest flower here. But, doesn’t everyone think that? My dainty petal fan out, elegantly ring my pollen in a golden halo, while my green, green leaves gently support them. I stand there unperturbed, ready to face anything, do anything…

And I watch the world fall away.

A small, soft hand grasps my stem, pulling me up, up, up. It hurts, hurts like hell, and I can’t stop it. My poor, poor roots have been torn off, left far below, writhing in the dirt, slowly dying. I can’t look. I can’t do anything, except cry and scream, with no one to hear me, not even the little girl who is happily singing under her breath. Why can’t she hear me? Why?

“Mama! Mama! Look, look at this one. It’s the prettiest one there. It’s so pretty. It’s for you!” I hear her cry out, happily. 

Happily.

Why is she so happy that she has killed me?

“Oh, darling, what have you got for me? Is it another flower? Oh, yes, that is a lovely one, I’ll add it to my hair, but why did you pick it?” the mother came into view, ready to sweep her daughter into her arms, and me into her hair. She smiles, a supposedly reassuring smile, but seems to be all teeth and bite, with no joy. I’m passed into her hand, feeling the difference between the slightly fat child’s hand and the chapped mother’s hand. I am slotted behind her ear, with her hair wrapped around me like a blanket, protecting me from the now harsh wind. 

“I picked it because it reminded me of you. It’s the prettiest one there!” she lisps, smiling up at her mum, waiting for praise. The mother looks lovingly at her, but slowly she tilts her daughter’s chin up and looks into her brown eyes, flecked with green. 

“Love, thank you, but no more flowers. They are lovely, but they should stay that way. They will live longer in the ground, than in my hair, and be even more pretty. Still, I’m going to keep this little buttercup. It really is a pretty one.” The mother talks gently, but firmly, and I want to hug her. Thank you, I think. I now know my family will be safe. I can only imagine how many of them have been taken already, but this woman, she understands. I wonder if she heard my screams.

I’m going to ask you a question.

Do flowers represent family?

***

It is the end of summer, right about September when they come. Herds and herds of children, loud, shouting children, who run and play, without thinking of me. Of us, slowly being killed off.

All except one.

She sits in the middle of the field, in a carefully chosen patch with no flowers.

She has brown eyes with flecks of green in them. 

I am just to the left of her, one of the closest, and I am close enough to hear her speak, and to hear a seven-year-old’s thoughts is really quite unique.

‘Hello, flowers, buttercups, daisies. I love you all.’

‘My mama said I shouldn’t pick you, so I won’t.’

‘That boy over there is picking his nose.’

‘You’re a lovely flower. I wish I could keep you but I can’t.’

‘I don’t want to do maths. It is horrible.’

And I agree with her, maybe not the maths thing, because I don’t really know what that is, but I agree that you shouldn’t pick me. Another girl comes over, who has green eyes flecked with brown, squats and reaches her hand slowly down, down, down, closer and closer to me, until-

“Stop,” her voice rings clear now, her childish lisp gone. “You shouldn’t pick flowers. Mama said you shouldn’t.” With that, she goes back thinking and muttering under her breath.

‘Why can’t I let her pick flowers? After all, her mama may not have told her not too.’

‘Tommy is staring at me now. At least he has stopped picking his nose.’

‘I wish the girl would go away. She is starting to fidget and hurt the flowers.’ And she is. She is dangerously close to me now, teetering on the edge of my life or death. It doesn’t affect her in the slightest. Why does it matter that just one more buttercup has died? Another will just replace it, won’t it? 

“Stay still.” The brown-eyed girl looks up, her eyes deep and thoughtful, and despite being so dark were so full of light. “You are going to crush that buttercup.” She points directly at me, without wavering. A wave of gratitude rushes through me, and I wish I could show her that. 

“Why are you so protective over the buttercups? I mean, they’re just flowers.” The green-eyed girl says. She goes to sit down, but the brown-eyed girl puts a hand up and stops her.

“No. Don’t sit there. Sit here, where there are no flowers.” Her arm moves about three feet to the right. “ And they aren’t ‘just flowers’. Are you ‘just a human’? No? Well, there.” 

Her quick, dark eyes dart around watching, waiting, thinking. She opens her mouth several times, but no words come out. She looks sad, so sad, while watching her classmates tromp over the field, destroying the flowers. Some even sit there happily splitting flowers in half from the inside, then looping each corpse through each other! Then they laugh, and crown each other with the dead bodies of the flowers they destroyed. After all, to some, destruction is beautiful.

The green eyed-girl stares at the brown-eyed girl, who is getting steadily more distressed, as the laughing grows to a deafening crescendo. Her leg is twitching with frustration, and the green-eyed girl puts a hand on her knee to steady her. They lock eyes, communicating without words, with the start of a beautiful friendship blooming before my eyes, before a harsh, grating bell pieces the silence and connection.

Let me ask another question.

Do flowers represent friendship?

***

The night envelopes me, cascading down like one final curtain of darkness, but despite the darkness it is not silent, far from it. Owls hoot, leaves rustle, waves lap. And most prominent of all is the girls’ laughter. One high, pitched, almost cackly, belonging to a green-eyed girl, and the other deep, and warm and cosy, belonging to a brown-eyed girl.

They run across the beach, barefoot, where I can look down upon them from the cliff. They don’t see me, but I don’t mind. It’s enough just to see the brown-eyed girl who has saved so many of us buttercups in her 15 years of life. Tales are told of her, passed on through our roots, travelling for miles and miles and years and years. She doesn’t know, and I don’t think she ever will. No one ever hears us.

A daisy is next to me. She has also heard of the brown-eyed girl, who has saved countless daisies as well. I wish I could talk to her, but I can’t. No daisy and buttercup can ever commune. It is forbidden, because of some petty argument that happened decades ago.

The brown-eyed girl and the green-eyed girl start to climb up the cliff, coming towards me. When they reach the top, they settle happily together, near me and without crushing any flowers, dangling their feet over the edge. 

And still the brown-eyed girl has not gotten out of the habit of speaking her thoughts, only now she speaks and shouts, not mumbling. The green-eyed girl smiles, looking lovingly at her.

“Do you ever think that it is possible to walk into the sunset?”

“Do you think that flowers are the souls of angels?”

“Do you think that there are flowers on other planets?”

Thoughts pour out of her, with no reply from the green-eyed girl, who is probably used to it. After all, she has been listening to it for 8 years now, but she doesn’t mind. 

Eventually, she runs out of thoughts, and they sit there in comfortable silence, their hands linked, and silhouetted against the bleeding sky.

They don’t move for hours, content to bask in the sea air, and they don’t notice me, not until they leave when the green-eyed girl says, “Do you remember the buttercup that was the start of our friendship?”

“Of course, I won’t ever forget that buttercup.” She reaches over and gently touches my petals. 

Here’s another question.

Do flowers represent happiness?

***

I’m on the windowsill of the church, with a gentle breeze, caressing my petals. It really is a perfect day for a wedding, and I’m so glad that of all the people being married today it is a woman with brown eyes. 

As the guest file in, I sigh, and wait. The buttercups around me are just as happy to be here. We talk without words, each of us bobbing about, trying to see the brides. 

And there they are.

The brides. One has brown eyes and the other has green, both in white with yellow embroidery. I’m sure that signifies us, the buttercups, who brought them together, that day 20 years ago. Their hair is perfectly sculpted, without a wisp out of place, but what makes them exceptionally beautiful are the smiles etched across their lips, as if in stone, because it looks like they’re never going to disappear. 

One by one they walk up to the altar, each with their dad on their arm. 

And then the green-eyed girl starts to cry, and then laugh. I’m not sure why, but I think this is a normal reaction. After all, I have never seen many weddings before. The brown-eyed girl smiles wider, reaching further than her eyes and deep into her soul. 

They make it to the altar and face each other, with the priest between them, who says the wedding vows, but I can’t hear properly. 

And then they kiss. And in that kiss was the sweetness of passion, and the intenseness of happiness, mixed with a thousand memories, all fused into that single moment. 

Then the clapping. Just one at first, then another, until everyone is, and laughing and cheering is suddenly blended in to. 

It’s a day they are never going to forget.

It’s a day I’m never going to forget.

Later on, when the dances have been danced, the food has been eaten and the drinks have been drunk, both the brown-eyed girl and the green-eyed girl come over to my window. They hold hands, and I wouldn’t be surprised if they never let go. They so obviously love each other, and it’s lovely.

“I made sure they were here for you.” The green-eye girl says.

“Yes, I noticed them as soon as I walked in. It just wouldn’t be our wedding without them. They mean so much to us: endings and beginnings, love and friendship. If they weren’t here, I would have felt something was missing.” The brown-eyed girl knows she is talking about me, without her ever saying it. 

They lapse into silence, until they are pulled back into the midst of the celebrations, with an eager shout.

Another question for you.

Do flowers represent love?

***

There’s always a moment at a funeral where everyone just stands there, still not accepting the death of the person. In this case, it is an old, old woman who has brown eyes, flecked with green and a passion for buttercups. That’s why I’m here on her casket, screaming in grief, like all the others beside me, but no one can hear. 

And then, one by one, the people start to cry. This woman was loved widely and deeply, far more than she ever knew. Her wife slowly makes her way up to the altar, going via the casket to say one last goodbye. She holds onto the edge, like she’s going to fall over with no brown-eyed women to support her. Her breathing starts to steady again, and with one last lingering look, she turns and faces the grievers.

“I love her, present tense. I love her, even though she is causing me so much pain right now. Even though it broke me into a million pieces when she left. Even though I can’t imagine life without her. I doubt any of you can either.” A sad smile. “She was a lovely, lovely person who would help anyone. I think that’s what I love most, as well as her obsession with flowers, of course. She never once picked one since she was three. I haven’t picked one since I met her, aged seven. Even at our wedding, any spring since then, her own funeral, there are no flowers, except for planted ones...”

And for that, I would like to thank her, on behalf of me, and all my fellow buttercups and daisies and flowers. She is someone, who, I think, can hear us, maybe not literally, but in her heart. The brown-eyed girl will live on, if only in stories, and memory. 

“...I remember once she told me, when we were 15 and sat on the edge of a cliff, she told me that flowers were the souls of angels, which I hope with all my heart is true, because that means she will be alive forever, as a buttercup- her favourite flower.”

I hope so too.

The green-eyed woman leaves and sits back down, crying quietly, but still, a smile across her face. A small smile, which speaks a thousand words of memories and thoughts, and I think to myself, she has the smile of a flower.

So, my final question to you is do flowers always represent happiness and life? Or can it be death and sadness?