Lit Mag Short Fiction

Pink Camelia

Even as the sun illuminated the world in warm glowing light, and the leaves of the trees, fresh after a night’s cleansing rain, rustled softly against the newborn blue sky, Camillia was restless. Through the window, she saw the world flourishing, thriving, at the height of its glory. But Camillia was here, sitting in her room, a sullen look on her face. Ideas rushed through her head like a river, yet she had no will to follow through on them. 


The perfect, luminous, lovely sunlight peeking through her window made this feeling only worse. The glistening, fresh, emerald leaves made it worse. This was a day without flaws! This was a moment without flaws! How could Camillia waste it? Why did she spend each day like the one before it? Camillia was squandering these days of magnificence and beauty, only to regret it later. For someday, this newborn sky would dwindle to dusk. The youthful leaves would wither and blow away, and the gentle warmth would betray and leave her with nothing but a chilling frost.


Stepping to her window, she could almost feel the world’s breath on her face. Pressing her ear to the glass, she could faintly hear the sweet trilling of the birds. Camellia, though she envied their lovely singing, often pitied them. Indeed, they looked content, but their existence seemed so… monotonous. Other than bearing young and eating, they had no goals. They simply lived until they died.


Perhaps it would be simpler that way, thought Camellia. If she were a bird, she would never feel this sensation of restlessness and regret. She would live each day like the last and not detest it because of its redundancy but find comfort in its dependability. She wouldn’t shy away from rest but be restored by it. And when the end came, she wouldn’t dread it but accept it.


But alas, she was not a bird. She was Camillia, and how alike she and her namesake were. The pink camellia represented longing and how Camillia longed for everything she didn’t have. She wished for success, admiration, action, and love. The weight of her ambitions dragged her down, and down, and down… Yet again, she dreamed, she was a bird sitting elegantly on the swaying branches. She could fly away from it all.


But a bird could never feel the rush of euphoria after achievement. Nor could it love and be loved with all its and another’s heart. It would never feel the solace of a friend or the warm pride of an elder. So perhaps Camellia was happier as a human. Perhaps Camellia was happier as a pink Camellia.

Write A Comment