Serkea (serkea) wrote in the1st100words,

I wrote this a while back, not having any plans for the piece. I can't decide whether to leave it as it is or use it as the beginning in a longer story. Feedback is much appreciated.

Some of the flowers press their sides together with just a little pressure from her thick fingers. Others have petals that tremble under her breath, and look as if they would fragment under a good rain. But this one, the one she's rolling in delight between her hands, is big and sturdy. The opaque petals are layered calmly on top of one another. The tall, straight sides of the yellow flower are hard and refuse to bend into any unnatural shape, or bow beneath the winds. She lets the cut stem slip between her fingers until the ruffled petals rest on her upturned hand; with pleasure she notes that it almost fills up her palm. At last, she knows why mama named her Daffodil.
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