Wilted

For this week’s Literary Lion prompt, my story is like a flower. Short and sweet.

“What’s in a name? That which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet.”

“Very poetic, Doctor, but I don’t think plant-human hybrids qualify as ‘a rose by another name’. Grant denied.”

“Alright. What if I only use women named Rose as test subjects?”

“Get out.”

The Scribe

I do love a good riddle. This should be an easy one, me thinks.

He is a teller of stories,

Spinning tales of the fantastical and the familiar.

He is a messenger and a teacher,

Prophet and preacher,

But his words are not his own.

Everyone commands his services,

From the highest king to the lowest worker,

Spreading their messages with his blood.

They are cruel to him,

Twisting his neck,

Beating his head,

Or removing it entirely.

Whatever it takes to make the blood flow,

To write the stories that need to be told.

And when the deed is done, they heal him.

Make him whole once more and lock him away.

Until he is needed again.

Until another tale needs telling.