Where the Wild Roses Grow

Where The Wild Roses Grow

From the first day I saw her I knew she was the one.

She was wild and naive at the same time. Her skin was corpse pale, but her green eyes danced with life. A torrent of flame-like hair cascaded from her head. Her lips were the same rich red as the roses that formed a carpet of blood down by the river.

Her name was Emilia.

What’s more, she was new in town, so she couldn’t have heard the tale of Elisa Day.

*

A hundred years ago, a man took his young lover down to the little spot where the wild roses grow between the trees on the river bank and did her in with a whopping great rock.

When we were kids, we used to go down there and try to figure out which rock he used. I secreted away the one I thought most likely and kept it wrapped in an old cloth in the garden shed. I still go out there and look at it from time to time.

The place has fascinated me for as long as I can remember, but only when the roses are in bloom. I have sat there for hour upon hour as the roses quivered in the breeze. It’s always cool there, even on the hottest summer’s day. You could find me as dusk settles, watching the roses’ colour fade in the dimming light. Like that man said at his trial, all beauty must die.

Some would probably call what I had in mind ‘a twisted little fantasy’ or ‘morbidly perverse’. They may have been right, but I saw the real beauty of my intentions - they are almost poetic...almost.

*

Emilia welcomed my attention; there was no one else in town she knew. I showed her the sights. Well, I showed her what accounts for a sight around these parts. I told her not to worry, that I’d saved the best for last. She giggled a little at that.

Everywhere we went she drew stares, beauty like hers hadn’t been seen in these parts for many a year. We wandered through the streets of that little town, stopping for coffee or to plunder the racks of the second hand clothes shop – neither of us had much money. One morning she played right into my hands, stopping outside the florists to gaze at the bunches of flowers in their buckets.

“Do you know where the wild roses grow?” I asked.

“No,” She answered.

“If I showed you the roses, would you follow?”

Yes, she would.

The night air was cool as we strolled down to the river and followed the path that winds along its South bank. The moon’s reflection followed beside us on the ever gliding surface. Creatures scampered amongst the brush as we disturbed their nightly forays.

She gripped my arm tightly, the clouds of our breath merging before us.

The roses grow in a hollow, their twisted web of thorns covering all but one small area at its heart. This must be the very spot Elisa Day met her end.

I led Emilia through the grasping tangle of tentacles until we reached the tiny clearing.

We lay down on the damp cushion of moss and kissed, surrounded by the scent of the roses and the sound of the river rushing by, our two hearts filled with life in this place of death.

THE END

Word Count: 564

Inspired by the Nick Cave song of the same title.

They call me The Wild Rose
But my name was Elisa Day
Why they call me it I do not know
For my name was Elisa Day

From the first day I saw her I knew she was the one
She stared in my eyes and smiled
For her lips were the colour of the roses
That grew down the river, all bloody and wild

When he knocked on my door and entered the room
My trembling subsided in his sure embrace
He would be my first man, and with a careful hand
He wiped at the tears that ran down my face

They call me The Wild Rose
But my name was Elisa Day
Why they call me it I do not know
For my name was Elisa Day

On the second day I brought her a flower
She was more beautiful than any woman I'd seen
I said, "Do you know where the wild roses grow
So sweet and scarlet and free?"

On the second day he came with a single red rose
Said: "Will you give me your loss and your sorrow"
I nodded my head, as I lay on the bed
He said, "If I show you the roses, will you follow?"

They call me The Wild Rose
But my name was Elisa Day
Why they call me it I do not know
For my name was Elisa Day

On the third day he took me to the river
He showed me the roses and we kissed
And the last thing I heard was a muttered word
As he knelt above me with a rock in his fist

On the last day I took her where the wild roses grow
And she lay on the bank, the wind light as a thief
And I kissed her goodbye, said, "All beauty must die"
And lent down and planted a rose between her teeth

They call me The Wild Rose
But my name was Elisa Day
Why they call me it I do not know
For my name was Elisa Day