Rose, by Meg Pokrass

Blonde Girl With a Rose, by Pierre Auguste Renoir (France) c. 1915-1917

Rose

Rose was the one of us with light hair. The one who gazed at the painter indirectly, the smell of mulch on her breath.

When Rose was born, blood poured from Mama soaking the floor. "I’m dying!" Our bald-headed father in hiding, nobody knew where he went when our mother was heaving out Rose. The baby who flooded out in a puddle of red, bloomed only to leave us unsteady. Uneasy.

We doubted our minds but not our instincts. Our minds knew that Rose was born under a wicked moon. Still, we unpainted sisters would follow her anywhere.

Our little Rose, who would grow up to sleep with our husbands after making us proud of her petals. How we studied the way she moved and the perfume inside her voice. Our Rose, who left us as orphans. As if all of the colours were already mixed for her.

Meg Pokrass

Meg Pokrass is the author of eight flash fiction collections, an award-winning collection of prose poetry,  two novellas-in-flash, an award winning collection of prose poetry, and a 2020 collection of microfiction, "Spinning to Mars" which won the Blue Light Book Award. Her work has appeared in  Electric Literature, Washington Square Review, Smokelong Quarterly, Split Lip and McSweeney's has been anthologized in New Micro (W.W. Norton & Co., 2018), Flash Fiction International (W.W. Norton & Co., 2015) and The Best Small Fictions 2018 and 2019. She serves as Founding Co-Editor of Best Microfiction 2020 and Festival Curator of Flash Fiction Festival U.K. and teaches flash fiction online and in person. Find out more at megpokrass.com.