The Arts & Culture Journal

The flower glowed an incandescent red against the white, snow-coated car park. No wind  rustled the petals, or bent the stem and yet the scent hung in the air as if it were Spring. All around this delicate flower was still and the dark clouds of early morning stooped low from the sky.

Laura blinked through the crisp, halcyon air, hypnotized by a pregnant song emanating from the flower, which somehow seemed to her ready to burst into the atmosphere. She stood in her bed clothes; untouched by the Winter. As if under a spell she floated down beside the flower and she knew it must be the Venus Blossom. She breathed deeply.

Using her bare hands, Laura parted the snow from round the edges of the Venus Blossom’s base and saw the scars in the tarmac running outwards from where the flower had burst asunder. As she gently ran her fingers over the petals, the song vanished from her mind and she was overcome by a desire to pluck the flower from the ground.

With a little effort the flower came loose and once again Laura heard the song, only now it has begun to unravel, give birth to itself and reveal the depth of its orchestra. No sooner has she taken a step back when a blinding white light flared for a second. As she recovered her senses, she awoke to the golden pastures of morning, still clasping the Venus Blossom in her hands.