Rose Petals: (Memoirs of a Teenage Author)

(This is post #1 of the My Journey to Gritty: Memoirs of a Teenage Author series.)

My daddy came home after work one afternoon with a gift for me. It was a white rose, soft and beautiful.
I smiled as I took it. Then I kissed his cheek and skipped off to my room on the opposite side of the trailer.
Inside my room, on my dresser, there was a metal vase holding another white rose. This flower was several days old, and was beginning to wilt. I reverently removed the old rose from its place and replaced it with the new rose, then I went to my window and pulled down an upside-down bouquet of roses from the curtain rod. They were sepia-colored, dry and crackly.

My daddy bought me a white rose every couple of weeks, you see. And I kept each one, dried it, then carefully removed the petals so that I could stow them away in a plastic bag.
I knew I would get married someday. And those were the petals that I wanted for the flower girls to spread over the aisle at my wedding. It was a sweet little dream that I had first come up with when Dad told me he would start buying a rose every once in a while to symbolize my purity.

Things had been rough lately… We had left our spacious house in a nice neighborhood and moved into a trailer park on the bad side of town. Dad’s health had been severely failing for a couple years, and his job was shaky as a result. I didn’t have any close friends really.
But I did have a little secret that was mine, and only mine.
I heard voices in my head as I carefully picked the musty, sweet-smelling petals off my dried roses.

“Here... take these.” He said as he handed the roses to her. “I had a moment of weakness while I was out and thought that you would like them.”
Maia shyly smiled as she took them. “Thank you! They are beautiful! I have... never been given red roses before.”

Aw, Hazy… he’s so sweet.
I deeply inhaled the scent of the once-white petals. They smelled different than red rose petals… softer.
I put them away in their plastic-bag-for-the-future, then went to my desk to write.
There were several notebooks in the desk drawers, filled with hurried, cursive scrawl. There was also a large, scuffed-up binder halfway full of written material.
All of it was scrambled pieces of a story. I was just getting to know the characters involved. I watched their lives, enraptured, as if I was personally living inside their heads.
However, everything seemed mysteriously out of order.
One day, I’d hear Hazael and Maia fussing at each other beside a campfire in the woods. The next day I’d spy on Tov and Clare whispering secrets in a barn. The next day I’d laugh at Timber’s chattering big mouth. I figured that someday, like a connect-the-dots puzzle, it would all mesh together and make sense, but at the time I was walking by faith. I enjoyed the diversion of the rambling story. I enjoyed the idea that maybe, someday, when I had a daughter, I’d give her this binder of rag-tag notebook paper and she’d like it.

“You save the petals?” he asked.
Maia looked shy and sweet as she kept her eyes down on the flowers, debating whether to unveil her secret or not. She ended up just doing it. 
“Uh... yeah... For the flower girls to spread the aisle with at my wedding, if I ever have one. It’s been a little dream of mine for a long while.”
He hesitated a long moment before stating, “That’s a good dream. One that is pure and right and worth working for.”
She blinked at the memory he was referencing and glanced up at him with a priceless smile. “Really? You really think so?”
He looked down screwed the lid back on the flask. “Why wouldn’t it be?”
She shrugged and picked at a soft petal. “Oh... I do not know... I guess I just wondered if maybe you thought it was silly.”
“I think you’ve been around me long enough now to know that I’d say so if that was what I thought.” He said as he put the flask back in his coat. “I’ve said enough since we met to probably make you leery of expressing anything deep in your heart.”

I scribbled and scribbled, writing line after line of conversation, action, soul-searching questions.
I never dreamed that I’d share “my book” with the world. Even my parents didn’t know about it yet.


  1. Oh, Jessiqua, I can already tell I'm going to LOVE this series. :)

    1. I'm so glad you're already enjoying it. :) (It should be especially fun for you since you just finished A Memoir of Love, so it's all fresh!)

  2. Wow! This seems like a really good series! I'm going to keep reading one a day. So glad I stumbled upon it.

    1. Oh! I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it!