The Immortal Rose
It was perfection itself, the deep red flower, its rich scent. In the vase it sat, not wilting or dying. For that was its secret, a rose that would not die, could not die. It waited on a windowsill, turned slightly towards the brilliant sun outside. Bred and spliced for this, forever to brighten a woman's life and echo a man's love. Yet it was still a rose, with thorns. She reached to pick it up, to hold it where the scent could reach her. The thorns pricked her, and she fell. Nothing can live without food.