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Volume.11

Issue 11.1 Fall 2015

Roses

Zeph Webster

It is September 23rd, the first day of the Fall. Nature proves to be as uncooperative with its own schedule as always. Autumn started early this year. Already the campus’ trees are beginning to die off. It’s a beautiful sight. The sun leaving its shift early has clued in the trees to stop their production of chlorophyll, mutating the leaves to colours from every crevice of the rainbow, and as such the days are filled with more darkness, and the lively plants begin to die.

There is romance everywhere.

Young families from the community come from all around town to see the school’s legendary quad. Beautiful new mothers and fathers build dunes of leaves and invite their perfect, dimpled children to jump in and learn early what a beauty the natural world can be.

New lovers and temporary flings are seen all around. A young man walking no place in particular with his buddies points across the way to the big breasted girl with the crooked nose he slept with the night before. He lowkey high fives the boys walking with him and snickers. He tries as hard as he can to ignore the voice inside of his head that tells him that the girl who kept him less lonely for just a little while deserves more. The girl, a previously homeschooled girl of eighteen sees the boy motion and thinks nothing of it. She knows what their relationships was. She thinks instead of her boyfriend back home, and how to tell him she doesn’t love him anymore.

A curlyhaired young philosophy major sits in the gazebo reading a book of short stories. But soon his thoughts fade from Kafka and immigrate to visions of his ex girlfriend. Although part of him misses her, aches for her company, he pushes away his grief. He reminds himself that he broke up with her, and that he didn’t deserve to grieve. He had told her that he couldn’t handle a longdistance relationship, when in reality over the course of their two years he had fallen head over heels in love with her sister. His guilt had consumed him for months and finally he broke it off, unable to look at either of the women he loved.

An old man, dressed in shiny brown shoes, tan khakis, a sleeveless plaid tshirt, and a tattered blue jean jacket strolls painfully to the flagpole where he and his wife were married fortynine years earlier. Fall had been her favourite season. Thirty five years earlier, when they maintained the warm glow of a newlywed couple bent on dying together, she explained to him what she so loved about autumn. They laid in bed together tucked under the sheets, their dog Rusty sat at the foot bench. She told him that fall encapsulated a truer beauty than any of the other seasons could hope to. She said it reflected a scary truth about the end of all things, and that this reminder encouraged her to enjoy what she could, whenever she could. The man kissed her and told her she was beautiful. Then he smirked and told her that he liked summer better. They giggled together and made love.

This is the old man’s first year without her. When he eventually reaches the flagpole he glances around a bit. Then he reaches into his denim coat and pulls out a polaroid of him and his sweetheart, forty years younger, holding each other in a pile of leaves. He smiles, lets his eyes mist up for just a moment and begins walking home. . . .

Rose sat under a tree twiddling a pencil in between her fingers. She laid down with her head resting on her computer case, her left leg bent with her knee pointing at the sky above. She had been there for a while, and even though her torso was slightly uncomfortable she laid still. She sporadically scanned an assignment rubric, but was more concerned with watching people pass by. She watched the curlyhaired boy in the gazebo and considered taking his place when he finally got up and left. She observed the old man, but didn’t see him much; he was slow, and Rose felt him slightly painful to watch. She went back to halfheartedly reading her rubric and tried to make sense of it all.

John was a couple hundred feet away from Rose when he first saw her. She was a bit of a blur from that distance, but he found her to be an attractive blur nonetheless. He had spent the past month at school trying to talk to a girl and had made no real headway, aside from his R.A., who not only had to talk to him but still seemed to think him a bit weird. John started taking smaller strides in order to move slower. He started to think of a way to interact with the girl under the tree. He saw a maple within about fifty feet of her and decided that he would set up shop there. He didn’t really have any reason to study there, in fact he had been on his way to go eat, and he knew he probably wouldn’t talk to her, but he decided even attempting to try was never a complete waste.

He stared at her as he took position to sit. As he slumped the book bag off of his shoulder she looked up and met his gaze. She smiled politely and he waved with a bit too much earnestness. Then she quickly went back to scanning her paper. He sat down at the base of the tree and felt defeated. He playfully cursed himself for being an awkward piece of shit, but decided this incident was no worse than the other twenty times he had been through this exact dance before.

After a couple minutes of looking for something to do, John considered leaving, but he still felt selfconscious about having sat there for so short a time. If he got up she would know he had only sat down to be next to her. Maybe that was a good thing though. He looked over again and saw that she had put away the paper she had been holding, and was now reading a book called The Orchid Thief. He had never heard of it, but he took out his laptop and began searching. It didn’t sound like anything he would be interested in, but nonetheless he spent the next ten minutes researching a way in. After another ten minutes he considered himself an expert on the subject. He had his way in, but was still too far away to start a conversation.

Fuck it, he thought to himself. . . .

It was a warm October night, the night before John’s first college midterm. It was for his biology class, a bullshit, little gen. ed. he had to take to fulfill his natural science requirement for the university. He lay in the library at two o'clock in the morning, knowing full well that he was most likely on his way to failing the test. Rose sat at the table beside him, looking on at him with amused pity. She glanced down at his opened biology book, and then switched to looking at him lying on the floor.

I’m fucked, said John.

She sensed his distress was hyperbolic, yet somehow still truthful.

You know, I offered to help you a longass time ago, she said. Maybe you should take the opportunity to study with your girlfriend the biology major next time. . . .

I’m too proud dammit.

Pride is one of the seven deadly sins, you know.

Oh my God, I guess hell has frozen over. The heathen Rose has started preaching.

I like how you called me out on being a heathen and used the Lord’s name in vain in the same sentence.

They both smiled. It was quiet for a moment. Because he was on the floor, Rose didn’t see him playfully sticking out his tongue.

Fine, I can be sassy in a secular way too, she said. Pride is for those who have something to be proud of.

That was brutal.

You know me. Okay, there, Johnny, you’ve had your flapdoodle. Now it’s time to get real. He wormed his way up into a chair, sat up, and went back to the table.

Ugh, fine. Damn this whole having a future garbage. Rose smiled at him and told him to open his notes. . .

If you ever buy me roses I will punch you in the throat.

But it’s Valentine’s Day, how can I not? asked John with a smile. They’re pretty, they’re super easy to findyou of all people should admire that pragmatism, they’re extremely apt to you specifically, and best of all, he paused and leaned into her, trying to be as annoying as possible. They’re the the symbol of looove.

Yes, but in this case I throw all logic out the window. To hell with it all. Valentine’s Day is stupid. Roses are bullshit and everyone knows it.

I love when you get all sentimental.

He kissed her. . . .

Their first Christmas together was spent cooped up inside John’s grandmother’s. The temperature hung right around negative nine fahrenheit, every few hours it rose up and down like a body on the tide. The snow had ceased falling but the wind blew the ground snow back into people’s faces, cutting them and burning faces with whitehot cold.

Grandmother’s house was like something out of a fairy tale. In her retirement she had come to love gardening. In the springs and summers the house was surrounded with flowers and plants of all kind. Ivy wrapped itself around the rain gutter, giant sunflowers hovered above the bluets, daisies, hydrangeas, lilies, and violets. Stone animals peered out from behind the greens of all kind. But in the winter when Grandmother couldn’t garden, the house maintained its charm from the woods behind the house. The house stood at the forefront of a small patch of woods. Trees lined the background of the warm, fuzzy home and made it appear even more like the safe haven it seemed to be.

It’s so good to meet you, Rose. We’ve heard so much about you.

You’ll fit in just fine!

John didn’t tell us you were so pretty, did you, John?

I was wondering when John was going to get a girlfriend. The boy almost had us worried.

Don’t worry, sweetie, we’re not as crazy as we seem!

Oh well, I don’t know about that.

Ha ha! Rose was grinning and bearing it as best she could.

She wandered around from room to room, staying long enough in each to be noticed as a part of the festivities. But before she could become involved in the conversation she politely excused herself to speak with someone else, or made a phoney trip to the bathroom where she timed five minutes exactly, staring into the mirror and asking what was wrong with her.

After introducing Rose in every room John settled down with his grandmother and aunts. He avoided the football game being played by his uncles and some of the other men and contributed to the girls’ conversation little. He spent the earliest part of the evening listening and snacking on cookies. Then he began to notice Rose’s lingering from room to room. He played it off for a while and tried his best to keep in line with his eldest aunt’s funny vacation story. He glanced over to Rose again, who was now pretending to watch the football game. She leaned against the wall at the end of the living room, one arm at her side, the other grabbing the prostrate forearm. She looked up and met his gaze, gave him a comforting and uneasy smile, and then went back to the game. John felt a sea of foam bubble inside of his stomach. He regretted eating all those cookies. He longed for a magical solution that would make her okay, but he could sense that her anxiety was getting worse with every room to which she traveled.

Eventually supper time came rolling around and slowly the family gathered around the house’s biggest table. A plump and browned ham sat at the center of the table, engulfed in sides of green, orange, yellow, red, and violet foods of all type. The children under twelve sat in the living room with a few older volunteers. John and Rose sat at the adult table. When the family had finished counting their blessings, John noticed Rose was without a drink and jumped at the opportunity. He excused them and went to the basement’s refrigerator, which held all the soda. Rose pushed her head into his shoulder and cried.

It’s okay, Rose, I’m sorry. I didn’t think it would be this tough for you.

It’s not even bad, John. I don’t even know. Jesus, John, I’m so sorry. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I’m just so tired and angry. I thought it was just me being in a shitty mood for a few days but it’s been weeks now. It’s been weeks now and I’m just so tired and sad and, and I’m still just so sad, John.

A new wave of tears rushed from Rose’s eyes, and she pushed herself harder against him.

He held her closer and started coming up with excuses to tell his family for why they had been downstairs for so long. . . .

John and Rose drove home from the county fair on a warm June night. It was raining quite heavily, to such a degree that John could barely see ten feet in front of him. He only knew they were in a hilly area because he could feel the sensation of the car rising and falling every five minutes or so. They hadn’t stayed at the fair long. Neither of the seemed much in the mood for carnival food or cheap rural theatrics. Most of the night had been spent meandering around, both of them always on the verge of suggesting a cheap carnival game to play, but never speaking up for fear that the other may actually agree to it.

After the semester John and Rose had signed a lease on an apartment about a mile away from campus. They were excited to live together. Rose had brought it up a few times at the beginning of the spring semester and John was giddy with relief. He had grown afraid that they were splitting apart. This was the only adult relationship he’d been a part of; he knew that a bit of an anticlimax would settle in after what most sitcoms called the “honeymoon phase” ended. But Rose had kept growing more removed. She wanted some way to be closer with John, and found that she was most whole when in close proximity. But still, she felt tired. Even on nights such as this, when the dew shimmered from the grass and the air swirled with the fresh sights and sounds of spring, she kept that same blank look on her face. John noticed this blank face as he drove and she pretended to sleep. He longed to tell her that she looked beautiful, but he’d learned to let his chivalry pass.

He looked at the woman who had been his companion for the past two years, comforting him in times of stress and sorrow, playing with him, laughing with him, crying with him, loving him. He thought of how close he was to losing her; how in the past few months he couldn’t think of a single time they hadn’t had a real conversation lasting more than five minutes. Even arguments were rare at this point. He thought of how he would miss her. He stared at her. He looked past the black hood that covered most of her soft, straight hair. Her eyes were shut, her lips were parted, her breasts slowly rose up and down from a constant breathing pattern. Her arms were crossed, her fingers hung from limp palms, and John was consumed with a feeling of such fulfillment, such pleasure, such gaiety that he rose from the night’s funk.

John remembered the three hours dates at Barnes and Noble, talking about the silly books they read as children, drinking commercial coffee, and losing track of time. John thought of their first gift exchange; he had given her the highest priced piece of faux jewelry he could find and she had given him a mixtape of gothpop 80s bands. He thought of how that same CD was now a staple of his car, sitting comfortably in the compartment less than nine inches from his leg. He thought of the nights that they had spent lying in bed together, talking about nothing in particular at first and eventually discussing everything, their future, their love, their memories. John looked at Rose and could almost see his past, present, and his future.

He felt as if a light had been inside of him. He felt as high as he ever had. Through the weakness of falling for someone was where he found such an incredible strength.

The rain began to pick up. It beat savagely on the glass of the car and John felt rejuvenated, he felt as if the water had brought him back to life.

Rose. He nudged her as sensitively as he could, and Rose lifted her head hesitantly, trying to maintain the illusion of sleepy headedness.

Rose, I love you.

She sat there, unsure of what to say and how to react. She spoke out of fear and necessity.

I love you too, John. Really.

No, Rose, I mean, I love you. I mean, I really love you. Right now, right now is the greatest moment of my life. I mean it. This shitty little night in the rain, bored out of my mind at the fairit doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter because you’re here right beside me. I know things have been rough lately with graduation and everything moving on and changing. ButI know I sound like a doofus hereI mean I just used to word doofusbut seriously. I I feel like I’ve been punched in the gut and I’m winded. I feel like, like I’m weak, but so strong. This is it. This is where I want to be. I could die right now. I mean, it. I’m so happy. And I know you hate it when I get all mushy and start to sound like a Nicholas Sparks lead, but I mean it. I couldI could just die, Rose. I swear I could just die here.

John had meant every word. He waited in anticipation for a response.

They sat there for about a minute, each of them waiting for Rose to speak. She opened her mouth, prepared to say something reassuring, but nothing came out.

The sound of fat drops of rain pattering on the windshield was prevalent. Tears streaked down her cheeks. She reached for his hand and held on as tightly as she could.

Me too, John. And she meant it. . . .

John graduated in the spring of the following year.

Rose could not attend the ceremony. . . .

Three and a half years after his graduation, John went back to his alma mater as a guest lecturer. A few weeks prior he had received an email from one of the literature professors with whom he still kept in contact. The professor knew that John was close to completing his Master’s in English and asked if he would come down to discuss the literary significance of seasons. John felt he didn’t know much about the subject but told his teacher he would be honoured. He walked the campus with a smile on his face. In a way it had been like an invitation back home. Inside his case were clever remarks on the significance of each season, marked up in the margins of the works of Hemingway, Irving, Keats, and Rilke.

He was running a bit late for his own preference. He still had quite a bit of time before he needed to be there, but he wanted to arrive early to practice all he could. As he picked up his pace, increasing his strides, he looked at his watch. He wore a watch now. He didn’t really need it but he liked it. He skipped across passed a decrepit old man standing at the flagpole. The old man smiled at him and waved.

John waved back, happy to see someone else returning to a place they love, a place they would never forget. John was living with a woman named Celine. They had been dating for a little over two years now and were currently in the midst of discussing an engagement. John kept an engagement ring in the left inner pocket of his navyblue blazer.

He loved her. She was beautiful, clumsy, awkward, and outgoing in all the ways he was not. He was grateful for her love. In addition she stuck by him throughout his bouts of depression.

Four years earlier John had walked into their apartment and found Rose quietly swaying from the ceiling, a noose around her neck. John screamed, cried, and fainted. When he awoke to his new nightmare, he dialed 911 and silently sobbed into the phone. He was still learning to speak.

John approached the lecture hall his professor had sent in the email. In his day as an undergraduate he hadn’t spent much time in this one, but he remembered Rose having taken a fair amount of classes here. He was happy to see it nonetheless. Finally he opened the door and walked inside. . . .

Back on the quad the sound of leaves rustling and the whistle of the wind is everywhere. Hundreds of leaves, flowers, and plants of all kind fall with each gust of wind. There is one in particular of note today. It is a single rose petal, neither more beautiful or more ugly than any of the ones coming from the same stem. It is delicate, light, and extremely loose. In fact it is still just barely attached to its stem, so when the next big gust of wind comes it flings the petal into the air. And the little petal rises into the air, the wind moving it from elevations of high to low in a matter of second. It sways in the breeze. It rises a yard or so and falls slightly to the right. It rises againleft, falls, right, falls, leftright, rise, fall, right, right, fall, fall, fall.

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Volume.1

Issue 11.1 Fall 2015

Roses

Zeph Webster