Brock Aldus
The tin can rose blooms only in the moonlight of the long dead metropolis. Its rusted shine a brilliant glow in the depth of night below the towering gravestones. The rose remembers this city when it was living and breathing for the rose has survived long. It remembers when this place was hallowed ground brimming with life. Those things were fascinating to the rose. The creatures of flesh and fur were merely a distant memory now. Their smells so dynamic, so strange, so vile. The tin can rose yearns for the revolting and endlessly evolving smell of man. The only smells in this grand corpse are oil and rust. The only noises are the grinding of gears and crash on the not living life against one another. The sounds of the living city were not altogether dissimilar. The grind of gears was there yet the flesh things could drown them out. They were so very loud all the time with their unholy cacophony that never waned day or night. Now, sounds are a luxury for the tin can rose and a terror to the things that are not alive yet live here. The not living life is so very scared of making sounds. They hide and creep and crawl throughout the endless corpse they call home. They seem drawn to the shine of the tin can rose, so brilliant in the night. They do not know that everyone notices the shine of the tin can rose. The things they are hiding from know that they love the tin can rose. The tin can rose would feel guilty luring them to their doom. However, they are not alive. The rose does not mourn the death of that which is living without life. They are not like the living life of the living city that died long ago. Death in the now dead living city was a rarity. The not living things that die around it every moonlit night are most like the loud creatures that ruled the city. The death of those things was rare. The rose did remember one death in particular from when it lived in the living city. A deafening bang like thunder echoed throughout its small world. A sound rivaled only by the death of the city that would come far later. This bang followed by a shaking of the earth as the man fell before the rose like a coward before his god. His life leaked out in ways the rose did not know was possible. Although, to be fair, the rose did not know very much at all. The life was thin and oily. The rose did not know that oil would be a constant in its life and unlife. His life shimmered in the moonlight, a brilliant red black that the rose could not hope to achieve. In truth, the rose was jealous of the man and the beauty that leaked from him. It longed to be such a shade. And so, in the world’s first act of true vanity and greed the rose drank the liquid life from the man. Its roots pulled in every last drop it could. Not just that which had leaked out on its own. But that which remained within the man. The rose simply needed to be watered by this succulent meal. If such an act would impart even a fraction of the beauty with which this substance held the rose would be satisfied. The rose did not know what would happen from this profane act. How could it have? All it knew was that by drinking this man’s life it would steal the vibrant beauty of the oily liquid and shimmer in the moonlight like a dancer upon a stage. Its red deepened into an endless shade of crimson that almost seemed to glow. And though the rose did not know it yet, and would struggle to comprehend it the centuries to follow. Through this action it would not die, ever. Not even the ever so loud death of the living city could claim it. When all that lived died it remained. When the not living life became prevalent the rose stood tall. Though by that point it changed. It did not like the idea of death for death seemed like change and the rose was not fond of change. It has only changed twice in its life. The first time was when it lapped up the beauty and vitality of that man. The second change came with the death of all. For it was inaccurate to say the rose could not die. Rather, it would not stay dead. So, when all died the rose followed suit. A temporary condition, as always. However, this time when the rose awoke it was different. For it had become one of the not living life. Its once soft petals are now cold and hard. A gentle breeze causes a light clinking with every motion. The beauty of the man’s life remained though changed. Now, it caught the moonlight in a way nothing else could. A rusted blossom shining in the night. A beacon of glimmering life in this long dead world. Though the rose died along with the world and became the tin can rose its vitality was apparent to all. This is the story of the immortal rose which stopped living long ago. It sits atop a pile of corpses of those which do not live yet can so easily die. They water the roots of the ever greedy flower with their disgusting black oil. The tin can rose mourns the taste of red life. It longs for the day it may sate its hunger. As such, the tin can rose blooms only in the moonlight of the long dead metropolis. It shall bloom forever. Even when the metropolis crumples and the tin can rose sits solitary with only its hollow memories to keep it company.