Unnamed Wildflower

A horror flash fiction

Unnamed wildflower

She had no name, like one of those wildflowers everybody has seen, but no one bothers to find out what they’re called. A weed, popping up uninvited, unwanted, awkward, always in the wrong time and place. Nobody knew her name, though every kid in town knew what she was and what she did. The good men always turned their heads away at the sight of her in the daytime, only to dive into her head-first at night.

Her wild red hair would sway with all the winds, she followed no rules, no hands could keep her tamed for longer than a night.

She aint’t no good, they said. A hundred years ago, the likes of her would be burned. Burned like good-for-nothing weeds. Oh, the joyful pyre of justice, turning the hot secrets of the night into ashes! The good times!

But the times had changed. Her red hair swayed freely, the no-name weed aroused their imagination, her skirt rising and falling with the winds. She bloomed ever so fair in the daylight, she burned ever so hot at night, drawing them near like moths to the flame.

Until the day the seed growing within her couldn’t be hidden. Who was to blame? It was anybody’s guess. All the wives of the good men frowned upon the seed growing in her belly. The no-name wildflower bore the shame of their husbands in her. And it grew bigger every day.

Whoever the brave man was, the wives thanked him in the dark despair of their souls, but one fine day that unnamed whore was gone! All the good men of the town sighed relieved. The sheriff did not go looking for her, because he was a good man too. And his wife, perhaps, was the most grateful of them all.

But the unnamed wildflower was no more. Whoever that good man was, he made sure to cut down the weed before that dirty seed of hers was born. He was the man of the old, he burned the unnamed wildflower like his forefathers did. Cut, dump, burn, the joyful pyre of justice would rise in the night. Nothing but ashes left of the hot nights spent breathing in the sweet scent of the wildflower.

A bright new day would rise, the good men and women could look each other in the eye again, without the flame of guilt and shame burning in them. The ashes mixed with the earth, a meadow of unnamed wildflowers grew near the town, a wonderful place for idle walks and picnics it would be, but no one went there, for they knew. Their guilt from the land grew, with the wildflowers it bloomed, each unnamed flower whispering the names of good men who planted their seed into the wildflower’s womb.