Kate Marshall

That day, Mama and me, we´re walking back from the store when I see these two petunias whispering and nodding and shaking their heads to beat the band. Mama´s rushing so we cut through the neighbor´s woods ´cause we have to be home to make daddy´s supper.

I says, "Mama, see those flowers talking," but she jerks on my arm and says, "Stop making up stories." I break free when we hit the hill and find those talking plants and stick my ear between ´em.

The purple one says, "Hey, Kid, this booth´s taken, get lost," and the pink one with the velvet skin laughs like flowers do, and I duck behind a tree, real quiet.

And they start up again, but they´re not whispering.

"My blossoms turn red and orange and yellow when we touch," Purple says, petal slapping Pinkie.

"That´s nothing, you floricultural freak." Pinkie whacks her leaves against his head. "Bud baby, you´re more to me ´en all the chlorophyll in my stem."

Purple butts her and says, "Well, Pinkie girl, that´s real good news, but heart´s truer ´en stronger ´en the sting of a million bees."

"Alright, magenta," Pinkie says, spraying pollen all over him. "Heard of the ocean? Well my feelings are bigger and fiercer and ..."

So they keep going, trying to outdo each other and here I am behind the tree getting twitchier and twitchier, ´cause Mama might hear ´em, and she told me lying is a mortal sin which is worse than a sin-sin.

And then Mama´s all up behind me slapping the back of my head and I look out and see those two quiet like and touching blossom-to-blossom like that time I saw Mama through the bedroom window with her arms around daddy.