The red red rose

There was once a little boy, who had a garden, full of blossoms and buds. His garden had every conceivable species of flower, and they all flourished under his expert care.

Next to the boy lived a little girl, and the only thing she owned was a magnificent head of copper curls, a deep red that was every cupid’s joy to behold.

And as all stories go, the little boy loved the little girl, but the little girl did not return the little boy’s affections.

He gave her bouquets of the most amazing sorts, living masterpieces of colour, symphonies of shades and hues – but she discarded them all, none of them ever catching her eye.

One day, out of sheer exasperation, the little boy asked the little girl why the blooms were always received with such ill regard.

“Nothing doing,” the little girl replied, “they just aren’t red.”

“Red? So you want red blossoms then?” The little boy inquired, his eyes shining at the thought of finally being able to become the knight his princess was waiting for.

“Yes, red, but not just any red though,”

“What kind of red do you like then?”

“A red, so deep, so rich, so glorious, that my hair pales in comparison to it.”

The little girl said in a manner so nonchalantly, whilst the little boy’s heart sank so. An arduous task lay ahead of him, a slumbering dragon to be crept across to get to the princess. He knew every bud, every blossom, but had yet to come across one that remotely mirrored the hue of red bestowed upon his lady.

Even so, he went back to his garden, searching even though he knew it would be in vain.

The buttercup noticed his forlorn expression, and voiced out its concern. The little boy sighed, and made no remark, and the buttercup asked again, louder, more insistent on finding out whatever the matter was with its darling little gardener.

The other flowers soon drew nearer, enclosing him within a scented circle, and the little boy nearly cried in desperation. How terrible it was, to be surrounded by so many beautiful things, yet knowing that they were not beautiful enough to capture the heart of the little girl! If only flowers could change their hues and give him that colour of deep crimson. Unwittingly, he had wondered out loud, and ignited a flurry of whispers among the flowers.

“I wish I could, but I need my yellow to attract sunshine,” the buttercup told him.

“I wish I could, but my colour gives me my name.” chimed the bluebell.

“I wish I could, but my blossoms are far too small.” said the lily of the valley.

“I wish I could…”

“I wish I could…”

“I wish I could…”

“I can.”

A sudden silence, and the little boy looked up. Which flower had said it?

“I can.”

A soft velvety whisper, and it was the rose, a blossom renowned for her pristine white.

“You can?”

The little boy was incredulous, his tone hopeful, his fingers crossed.

“Yes, I can, but I’ll need help.”

“Anything! What do I have to do? Water you more? Move you to a sunnier spot?”

“No, I need you to prick your finger on my thorn.”

He nodded in earnest, and did as the rose said. He did it everyday, every moment he could steal, pricking his finger on the thorn obediently. And with each day, the rose was tinged darker and darker, whilst the boy grew increasingly wan.

Finally came the day that the rose had blushed enough, and with tender hands, the little boy snipped the rose blossom off and gave its stalk a dress of moss green. Cradling the flower in his hands, he set off to where the little girl lived and presented her with the flower a more glorious red than her hair.

With baited breath, the little boy watched as the little girl inhaled its scent, ran her hands across the silken petals, and after an anxious eternity, turned up to him with a smile.

“This is a gorgeous flower, thank you!”

Such a simple phrase, yet the little boy felt he could fly.

“Will you come back with me to my garden?”
In lieu of a response, the little girl beamed, giving the tiniest hint of a nod that the little boy just barely caught.

“I’ll go back and get ready the flowers to greet you. You wait right here, I’ll be right back!”

Fuelled by his joy, the little boy ran back to his beloved garden, and stopped before the rose bush, where a tiny crimson bud was making its place in the garden. Closing his eyes, he sat down on the ground, basking in the warm summer sun and the perpetual perfume that filled the garden. The adrenaline of his initial rush slowly ebbed away, and the little boy fell into a sweet slumber.

The rose looked upon the sleeping boy, and wept. Although it was a new bud, it had come from the same soul as the previous blossom, and knew all about the sacrifice of the little boy – how he exchanged a bit of his life at a time for a chance to give his princess happiness.

As it was, the little boy never woke up from his sweet slumber, and as for the little girl - she waited for a prince that would never come back.