Writing Group 51: Like a red, red rose

The single red rose floated in front of me in the water,

suspended midway between the surface and the ocean floor. It gently rotated in the ebbs and flows of the current.
It was gothic, the stem furry and green and the once brilliant red of the petals now brown, yet still holding their shape.
Discarded maybe after a lovers tiff, tossed into the ocean. Or something more sinister, a corps, holding it between its dead fingers, slowly letting it go to drift away.
I kicked away from the ghostly flower and followed the fish back to the shore, taking deap, calming breaths through my snorkel.


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