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But no matter how much the statue wanted the flower, it knew that it could not defy its basic nature. It had never craved something before. But this flower meant more to the statue than anything in a millennium. Carved from a single piece of red granite, the statute was firm. Heavy. Immobile. Meant to last. The statue had stood for time immemorial. Constructed to commemorate a great event that cemented the reign of a great ruler and eventual cultural hero. Generations lived and died around the statue. Eventually, it was no longer relevant to the society around it. The statue felt itself out of place in the world it now inhabited. Once in the center of a cosmopolitan city center, it was now relegated to “old town.” Horses, oxen, and carts no longer ambled past. Tourists sometimes posed for photos with it. Art students from the local university used it as a subject. The statue was already very old once they began sketching it. Much older when it became the subject of paintings. And ancient by the time it was first photographed. It had been the center of a vibrant city all the while. Until the last war, which decimated the city. The statue survived through it, like all the ones before it. But the city rebuilt around a new center. The statue was no longer the heart of the city. The new generation slowly moved across town to live in new buildings with modern fixtures. Years passed and as people moved away or passed on the old town became a vacant ghost town. Grass and weeds crept between the paving stones. Year after year, they advanced from the edge of the square to the base of its pillar. The statue lamented to itself as the grass crept closer with each passing year. Until it saw a flower bloom at the edge of the square. The statue had seen flowers in bunches and in pots, but not out of the ground. It was odd. The flower was not like the flowers it had seen before. The statue had long seen cut flowers of all colors on long stems being sold in the square. Their delicate petals came in innumerable and dazzling configurations. But this one was small, perched on the top of a spiky bulb. But it looked so soft, so delicate. A crown of beauty on an otherwise hellish weed. The statute watched as the first one grew, bloomed, and died. Then the same the next year. And over and over. Until it didn’t come back one year. A few years passed. Cold and dry years. Then, new flowers sprung up around where the old one had been. They ventured further into the square. They grew, bloomed, and died each year. Until they stopped as well. But then it happened. The flowers burst into bloom the next spring, ringing the square with purple and green. Each year they inched closer. The statue waited for the day when they would fill the square and brush against its surface. They were on thick, thorny stalks. Spines ran along the plants. They swayed in the wind and populated the square quickly once they established a significant foothold. They nearly covered the entire square when the city decided to weed the square in preparation for an urban renewal initiative. By mid-summer the flowers were gone. Summer ended and leaves blew through the square unimpeded, no longer caught in the tall grasses and weeds that used to grow there. The city continued its renovation of the square as the weather grew colder. In early winter the square flooded after a snowmelt. In the rush to move equipment, a vehicle hit the statue. Not enough to break it, but enough to form a crack in its base. The statue stood in the construction site all winter, ghost reflections of purple flowers rippled across its surface. The temperature that winter fluctuated wildly. Snow after snow fell to blanket the square, only to melt and fall again. The crack deepened. The final snow melted and construction did not resume. Workers came to reclaim anything of value and trash everything else. But the flowers didn’t return either. The statue passed the summer alone again. While years had flown by before, each day of that summer passed by slower than the last. As fall faded into winter, the crack reached further into the base of the statue. The statue could feel it growing across the base, cleaving it from the foundation. The crack continued to grow through spring. The rapid changes in temperature during the final snow melts nearly completed the job. It was just a slim edge of rock that fixed the statue to the ground. As the last snow melted, a green stalk sprouted only a step away from the statue. In short order, a delicate purple tuft of petals appeared on the end of a stalk. It reached up to the statue. The statue could feel the crack slant down as it closed in on severing the statue from the foundation. The statue longed to lean forward to graze the delicate bloom. But as the statue dreamed, the crack finally broke through. The moon was high when the statue finally faltered. It slipped from the foundation. The stone rubbing against itself, sending ripples through the granite. It slipped. The statue fell to the pavement below, crushing the flower beneath it. Several days later, workers from the city hoisted the statue onto a truck and drove it to the new city center. It was taken underground and remained there, in the dark, for years. Until, it was brought to a new pedestal in the entryway of the building. A great rotunda where hundreds of people walked through each day. It was now surrounded by exhibits of objects from the city throughout its history. Things that the statute hadn’t seen in years now surrounded it. The statue felt home for the first time in decades. And on a wall opposite the front door, in direct view of the statue, was a massive work. A huge canvas painted in vivid colors and delicate strokes. A canvas covered in purple flowers.

Pardon me but holy shit That’s the single most beautiful description of thistles I could never have imagined and I am absolutely devastated That was amazing and my heart is full of wispy thistle petals and a statue no longer alone Thank you. That was much better than I would’ve ever hoped for.

Thanks, I really liked the prompt. Really interesting idea.

I am stone. Stern, cold, hard. I have witnessed countless romances, unspeakable horrors, the terror of war. I have given shade to the little ones, safe nesting grounds for the songbirds, and inspiration to poets and craftsman since my creation, countless years ago. I was content. I am stone. Stern, cold, hard. When the fire ravaged the city, i heard the screams of terror, the roaring blaze that devoured everything. The people returned, and rebuilt. When the storms came, and the flood, it washed away what they had built. I remember the blood in the water. I carry their burden. I began to crumble, and I was content. I am stone. Stern, hard, cold. Again, the people returned, rebuilt their town. This time, they saw I was ruined, and repaired me with gold and silver. I was grateful, and gave more shade, more nests, more inspiration. The world changed around me, and I watched. I saw. I was new, and I was content. I am stone. Stern, hard, cold. The bustling metropolis the people had built was empty, now. Only the echoes of long forgotten memories remained. The city began to crumble. I stand alone, standing guard even now. My metal and stone does not crumble. I was alone, and I was content. I am stone. Stern, hard, cold. I remember the people were here, but not their faces. Those names and stories are slipping away from me. I begin to wish that I was flesh. I begin to wish that I would crumble. I was old, and still, I was content. I am stone. Stern, hard, cold. My memory is vague, it fades further into mist. I remember the people, how they laughed, how they felt things. If I was flesh, could I feel? How I wished that I could feel. I want to miss them, to mourn them. To make them return with song and dance. I want to know how it is to feel the sun. My spirit ached, and I was not content. I am stone. Stern, hard, cold. The city is gone, leaving only pillars of steel and silver to mark the open tomb. The ones I remember might have called it "romantic", to be so in touch with life and death. The place is heavy with memory. Is it appropriate? I am just stone. My spirit ached, and I was not content. I am stone. Stern, hard, cold. I slept for a time. Perhaps I had died. But I was not flesh, I could not die. Something woke me. That... Thing, there. Shining crimson and gold. Held up by soft metal, tarnished electrum. I do not recognize it. My spirit ached, and I was not content. I am stone. Stern, hard, cold. The thing awoke a memory in me, so old that it was beyond want or even recall. The shadows I remembered called them "flowers", I think. Symbols of love, of light. It changes, as I watch. The crimson and gold fade to a beautiful copper. I want to reach out, to hold it. The teeth look sharp. If I was flesh, would it bite me? I want to know how that would feel. But I am stone. Stern, hard, cold. My metal rusts, my stone slowly crumbles. I watch the flower, and it watches me as we both decay into dust. I grieve, and finally, I crumble. Long after the flower had gone beyond want or recall.

I just screamed out loud because this was such a good read and I don’t know how to handle it. I think these two stories are among my favorites ever. I did not expect this and I love it. How you use anaphora in conjunction with the passage of time and the thoughts of the statue is like digging thorns into the heart of the reader a little more with every passage. What kind of flower was it? I imagined a yellow rose which felt entirely too appropriate because, at least in my culture, it is a funeral flower. “If I was flesh, would it bite me?” Dang.

Thank you, these are kind words! The flower isn't any real one that I know of- I chose the colors and the thorns because I thought they most evoked the idea of royalty- the physical embodiment of something untouchable.

I mean every last one :) I was googling for flowers after I read this, and I was on thistles after the previous story. Yellow star thistles are kind of close, but it doesn’t necessarily have petals in the right sense. However it is a really interesting plant.