New Beginnings

by Francesgrace Mary-Hedwyck Ferland

About the Author: Frances is a bookseller with a passion for writing, hiking, and pirates of all sorts.

Excerpt

There is a windowsill that faces south, warmed most of a given day by the heat of the sun. It is not a wide windowsill, nor a brightly painted one. Its white enamel is chipped and flaking away at the edges. What is important about this windowsill is what sits atop it. 

Six tiny mason jars, half full of water, sparkle in that sunlight, sometimes casting prisms into the room beyond. Inside the water, bent by refraction and age, a different flower wilts in each jar. 

The first in the row is a carnation, white though you’d be hard pressed to tell that now, with a stem that may have been cut, but has since splintered. The carnation, with its shriveled brown petals, has been on the windowsill longest. Rupert could tell you where and when he picked it up, if you asked him. Please don’t.

The second flower used to be a rose, red and lush, but the petals have all fallen off. They lay scattered around their mason jar and the only part still in the water is the hip on its prickled stem. The rose is almost as old as the carnation, acquired before Rupert knew quite what he was about.

Next in line is a daisy. It’s a little wonky, brighter on one side than the other and listing vaguely to the left. It was Rupert’s first attempt as preservation. 

The fourth flower is a faded, though once vibrant, blue. A delphinium. Its petals are so delicate that you can still see the veins in them if you look closely. Rupert pressed this one properly before he put it in its jar. 

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