Flowers in the dark.

Jane sat herself down under her barren tree. A chain of daisies, meticulously threaded together, hung from her hands.

Innocent childs' play, linking daisies. In the hope that, when you put them in water at midnight, your wish would come true.

Suddenly, as she willed so






all went dark.


The soft petals of the daisies fell away like inhibitions, layer upon layer, revealing the yellow cores of the flowers. And as they did so, they scattered, some flowing with the breeze out to sea, some settling onto the ground.

And, suddenly...the lake was full of daisies.

Why all these daisies? she wondered. I have no one to pine for, none to love, none to befriend, nothing to wish for.

Then the petals entwined around her, snaking from the remaining clump on her hand to her arms, neck, and so on, and it was then that Jane realised they had turned into roses.

Even better, she thought. The flower of love, worn on one who does not.

Touching one bud on her ankle, and ignoring the minute lacerations that the thorns were giving her, taking no heed of the pain, she saw blood contact with the red rose. In an instant, it turned a brilliant night-shade with gold-rimmed edges, and the rest followed suit.

Death and departure, she thought to herself, walking to the lake. Looking back the tree was also covered with black roses, rimmed in gold.

Sinking into the water, her raven hair spreading out, she sighed.

Death and departure, how beautiful.

Somewhere else, the marionettes went on their way, bright glass eyes unblinking, painted red lips pursed slightly, wooden limbs swaying in the air, resemblent of hanged men...

and all was quiet and beautiful...like Death and Departure.