Bluebells
They persisted through many well-executed attempts at destruction. An attack on one led to group retaliation. They duplicated at an alarming rate, leaving the old man a prisoner to his own property. Drawn curtains and bolted doors were his response to an invasion of blue.
The overgrown driveway wasn’t designed for entry, so the young woman parked her well-travelled convertible on the dirt road. The sun radiated on her pale shoulders as she opened the door and took a moment to breathe. It still smelled the same: fresh cut grass from a distant neighbour and a combination of flowers in bloom. She approached the decaying cabin, remembering the delivery of her first bumblebee sting on the front porch.
She knocked gently on the wooden door, listening to the slow shuffle of feet inside. Several latches were undone before the face of an older man, with an overgrown grey beard, appeared.
“What do you want?”
“Hi, sir. My name is Catherine and I—”
"I don’t want any!” he hollered, slamming the door “get off my property!”
Catherine took a deep breath and knocked again. “Sir, I just need one minute!”
The door flew open, revealing a small man reliant on a cane. “I told you to get off my property!”
“I will, I promise. It’s just, this was my grandparent’s cabin.”
“You don’t say,” the man stepped slowly outside “I’ve owned this property for fifteen years.”
“I spent my summers here until I was ten,” Catherine smiled “when they passed.”
The old man leaned against a rocking chair owned by cobwebs. “What are you looking for?”
Catherine held up her diamond-heavy left hand. “I’m getting married,” she pointed toward a patch of small, blue flowers “and I can’t walk down the aisle without some of those.”
“Pests!” the old man bellowed “what in God’s name would you want with those?”
“We used to pick them for my grandmother to put in her fancy vases,” Catherine blinked away the water in her eyes “and have pretend weddings with Bluebell bouquets.”
“Bluebells?” the old man’s eyebrows raised.
“That’s what we always called them,” Catherine smiled as she moved toward the nearest patch “may I? Just one bouquet?”
The old man remembered the day he had finished building the solid rocking chair for his decaying wife. For my beautiful Elle Belle.
He smiled at Catherine as he sat on carefully crafted wood. “Make it two.”
The overgrown driveway wasn’t designed for entry, so the young woman parked her well-travelled convertible on the dirt road. The sun radiated on her pale shoulders as she opened the door and took a moment to breathe. It still smelled the same: fresh cut grass from a distant neighbour and a combination of flowers in bloom. She approached the decaying cabin, remembering the delivery of her first bumblebee sting on the front porch.
She knocked gently on the wooden door, listening to the slow shuffle of feet inside. Several latches were undone before the face of an older man, with an overgrown grey beard, appeared.
“What do you want?”
“Hi, sir. My name is Catherine and I—”
"I don’t want any!” he hollered, slamming the door “get off my property!”
Catherine took a deep breath and knocked again. “Sir, I just need one minute!”
The door flew open, revealing a small man reliant on a cane. “I told you to get off my property!”
“I will, I promise. It’s just, this was my grandparent’s cabin.”
“You don’t say,” the man stepped slowly outside “I’ve owned this property for fifteen years.”
“I spent my summers here until I was ten,” Catherine smiled “when they passed.”
The old man leaned against a rocking chair owned by cobwebs. “What are you looking for?”
Catherine held up her diamond-heavy left hand. “I’m getting married,” she pointed toward a patch of small, blue flowers “and I can’t walk down the aisle without some of those.”
“Pests!” the old man bellowed “what in God’s name would you want with those?”
“We used to pick them for my grandmother to put in her fancy vases,” Catherine blinked away the water in her eyes “and have pretend weddings with Bluebell bouquets.”
“Bluebells?” the old man’s eyebrows raised.
“That’s what we always called them,” Catherine smiled as she moved toward the nearest patch “may I? Just one bouquet?”
The old man remembered the day he had finished building the solid rocking chair for his decaying wife. For my beautiful Elle Belle.
He smiled at Catherine as he sat on carefully crafted wood. “Make it two.”
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Casey Shelley
Casey Shelley is an author and elementary school teacher from Saint John, New Brunswick, Canada. Her work has been published via Academy of the Heart and Mind Literary Journal, Infiniscape, Inc., the Telegraph-Journal newspaper, and the Fog Lit. Journal Vol. III. Upcoming in 2022, her work will be published by Partridge Island Publishing, Inc., Engen Books and Flora Fiction Literary Magazine. Casey holds Bachelor of Arts in English Literature and Bachelor of Education degrees from the University of New Brunswick, as well as a Master of Education degree from Queen’s University.
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