The black rose which some may over-look still lays beside her bed waiting for her death. The woman remains laying in her uncomfortable bed. The petals are slowly falling to the wood floor, in almost a blink of an eye. Her eyes wide with fear and anticipation, staring blankly at what she thinks is a black hole, but is a ceiling like many others. The black prickly rose looks as though it sheds a tear, although it hasn’t been fed water in a few months. She lies, watching the rose, knowing when the last petal falls she too will fall. Fall into a deep sleep, and will never awaken again. The rose is drying from the light tinted through the shades in the lambent room. The fair lady is so alone with no one to care, or watch over her. Her faith in heaven has simply turned to a faith in hell. The widow lies there, wanting to die more each day, but knowing she’d give anything to live. So the black rose is a replica of her. A replica of her cancer, the one she has been diagnosed with. The black rose is her healing medicine. In which it will never heal, but guide her soul to wherever she belongs when she passes on. A few more petals have fallen after a few more weeks. Still the ageing widow lays there, hopeless. And so go the days, her life passing by so quickly. The petals fall more and more each week. The last petal clings onto the center, holding onto the stem. She assumes she will die the following few days, wanting to be able to have a carefree day. Although she’s weaker everyday she finally finds the strength to lift herself off the jagged bed. She holds tightly onto the bed as she stands. As she is standing for a few seconds, she collapses to the ground. She runs her hands through the bed sheets that came down besides her, trying to pick herself up again. Her head leans toward where the rose lays. She picks it up off the table, carefully looking at it. She feels a sharp pain in the palm of her hand. She then raises her hand seeing blood rush down from her hand down to her elbow. Looking at the pricks along the rose. She looks back on her arm, staring at the blood. The flower falls between her fingers and onto the wooden floor. She stares down at it, the last petal has fallen off. She turns her head away, once again. Searching for something to blot the blood rushing from her hand. Soon after she finds nothing, something bright comes from the ground. She looks back down at the ground and sees new petals forming, beautiful white petals. She picks up the rose, once again, carefully this time. Her face soon turning into a grin, she rests her arm on her shirt and died beside her bed, with the beautiful white rose in her hand.

Tell me what you think...if you don't like it, don't be so harsh. Thats all i ask.
She died happily. Maybe she got rid of her sins but I wanted her to live.
Yeah, I was debating on whether I wanted her to live or not, but then I thought, 'well in every story a miracle happens and the person that was supposed to die, lives' and I didn't want my story like that. So I made her die. I thought it added a cool touch to the story. But i do think my story is sort of immature. I repeat things a bit too much. Do you think I need better writing skills, and if so, can you tell me what I need help in? thanks.
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Maybe we should concentrate with the rose. If we bear in mind the rose we might be able to say that a bad rose can give birth to a white rose, which would mean something like after a bad experience comes a good one. What do you think?
Wow, i agree. It would just make it, hmm..I'm not so sure i even have words to describe it. That would make the story so much better. Thank you a lot for taking your time to help me out. It's so appreciated.
The imagery and association of ideas are fascinating. Thorns on roses not pricks. Granted the thorns ***. Look at your tenses.
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ok, thanks...yeah, my mind went blank and i completely forgot what it was..thorns. haha thats not good.
i love the feelin the story gives it ok if i use ur essay for my project??