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Cup 18:  Rose


Rose unfurls at the end of her stalk, spilling fragrance, nodding to everyone who passes.


Years ago Jailers buried Bomb under this Rose.


It was at night. Everyone was watching TV or asleep. The bomb builders looked like gardeners. No one saw.


Bomb doesn’t know it is underground, or that it is full of fertilizer and oil. Bomb only knows its name: its name is suicide.


When the roots of Rose touch it, drawn to the scent, Bomb shudders. It has never been touched like this, has never felt this way before.


Rose wonders, what is this?

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