No sentence today, just a one word prompt like we used to do all the time. I like going back to that now and again. How did you like it? In any case, you did an amazing job with it again. Fantastic entries!

Thanks again to our judge, Jessica Olin, @olinj, for tackling the difficult task of picking only five entries for our finalists. And here they are:

Aden, @adenpenn

Kimberly Gould, @Kimmydonn

DL Thurston, @DL_Thurston

Robby Hilliard, @redshirt6

Allison Mosier, @Slytherin_Pixie

Congrats all! Their entries are below along with a poll for you to vote in and decide this week’s WINNER! Be back tomorrow morning at 9:00 Eastern to find out who wins!

Aden, @adenpenn

“What is that smell?”

Margaret moved carefully through the apartment, walking like she was taught at the academy. They were the second on the scene, and it was critical that nothing be disturbed before forensics showed up. Her partner followed close behind, and she could hear him sniffing the air, trying to catch it. She was amazing he couldn’t smell it, even through the copper twinge from all the blood. It was cloying, and reminded her of Easter at her grandmother’s. Of her Aunt’s perfume, and her mother’s funeral. Her walking stopped as she hit the doorway to the bedroom, she found the source of the smell and the body. Both of which had begun to rot. The victim lay naked on her bed, arms folded across her chest. She was surrounded by a ring of white, rotting lily’s. Margaret could tell each flower was placed gently and lovingly around the dead girl. This moved the murder into a whole new light.

Kimberly Gould, @Kimmydonn

The puckered bud broke along it’s lines, revealing deep red anthers. It was all the old woman could see through the tiny opening. She tipped her can over the soil beneath the bud and then kissed it’s golden yellow tip.
“You are beautiful, my darling.”
“Thank you, mother!”
The woman dropped the can in alarm. She looked over her shoulder, but there was no one in the tiny house with her. Shaking cold water from her slipper, she bent to mop up the spill. Where had that voice come from? It had been high pitched, like a child’s.
As she rose, she narrowly missed hitting her head on the sill where her potted lily perched. The bloom had opened further. There, where the pistil should have been, was a tiny skinny child with three tufts of golden yellow hair, one falling to the back of her face and one to each of the two sides.
“Who are you?”
“I’m yours!”

DL Thurston, @DL_Thurston

Lilies always were her favorite. She spoke of them often, and her face would light up whenever I gave her even one as a gift. She delighted in their gently arcing petals, in the sweet smells that softly floated on any breeze that brushed them. We always had them. In the garden, on the table, they were a constant presence in our life.

Lilies always were her favorite. I still bring them to her. Every week I can find them, even just one, I bring them and lay them on the ground at the foot of her stone. There the petals look to droop in mourning. The flowers know where they are, and they weep. Their delicate fragrance is now the smell of death. It fills my car as I drive the flowers to her, the scent lingers no matter how far I open the windows.

It accuses me.

The lilies know she is dead. And they know what I did. I cannot look at them without their little heads drooping, refusing to meet my eyes. The velvety petals sting on my fingers if I brush them. And the smell lingers still.

But still I bring them. Because they were her favorite. Maybe one day they will forgive me. And maybe soon after I can forgive myself.

Robby Hilliard, @redshirt6

“Look at all of those flowers,” Jason said in a loud whisper. “Those are lilies!”

“How do you know?” Michael asked.

“My mom told me about them.”

“Big deal,” Ryan said, “just because she has flowers growing in her yard doesn’t mean she’s a witch.”

“But I heard that witches bury the remains of children under lilies. That’s why they have so many!”

“Do they really?” Michael asked, his eyes growing larger by the minute.

“That is just an old wives tale,” Ryan said.

“No it’s not!” Jason objected. “You can see the blood from the bodies because it seeps up through the roots of the flower and makes those little speckles on the top.”

“That’s stupid,” Ryan said.

“No it’s not!” Michael insisted. “I tell you I heard it from—“

“That is not stupid,” a female voice suddenly said. All three boys froze in terror as the face of Ms. Jones peered at them over the fence. “But actually, witches first burn the bodies and then spread the ashes in the flower garden. Much better way to hide the evidence.” She glanced over her shoulder as she spoke.

All three boys followed her gaze and saw that she had fire burning in an old, metal drum in her back yard.

“Would you boys like some lemonade,” she asked.

That was the last time they tried to spy on Mrs. Jones.

Allison Mosier, @Slytherin_Pixie

She’d always loved lilies. But the fairy tale would remember it as an apple.

She was completely unsuspecting as she took the flower the old woman offered. Erica ran her fingertips along the petals before putting it to her nose to inhale the fragrance. That was when she knew something was wrong, when the scent wasn’t quite right. She looked down at the quickly shriveling flower before her legs gave out under her, sending her to the ground. The crone stood over her as her breath stilled, eyes went dim. She heard some sort of taunt about true love’s kiss, but what did it matter?

Who cares about true love when you’re dead?

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