The Flower Story

The Flower Story

by David A. Chalfant



(this story is not fully edited)



Gather around, my friends, for I've a story to tell you-- a story that happened a long time ago. But even though it was a very long time ago, I remember it all. I remember it, because I promised I would. Now, I should warn you, this is not a story with a happy ending. Not all stories end with happy endings. And sometimes the very worst thing that could possibly happen does. But maybe it's from the worst things that we learn to appreciate the best things. Oh goodness, I think I'm confusing you. Let me just tell the story...



One morning a pretty orange flower bloomed for the very first time. She opened her petals and stretched them out as far as she could reach. She looked up into the blue, blue sky and felt the wonderful warmth of the sun on her face. It made her tingle all through her stem, into her leaves, and all the way down to her roots. And she felt beautiful. Then she looked around her and saw that she lived in an enormous meadow. There was an old oak tree not too far away, and all around her were hundreds of other beautiful flowers. There were flowers of every color she could imagine. There were blue flowers, and yellow flowers, and pink ones, and orange ones. There were flowers with stripes and some had spots. The pink ones had white spots and the white ones had pink spots. There was a green flower with a very large blossom, and a purple flower with a very small blossom and two yellow dots in the middle. Well, when the pretty little orange flower saw how beautiful the meadow was, it only made her feel even more beautiful than ever, and she couldn’t contain her joy. It was too exciting. And so that morning, the pretty little orange flower called out at the top of her voice, "I am sooo Beeaautiifffuuulll!!!

Well, it certainly wasn’t a very loud noise. Flowers don’t usually make a lot of noise, and she was only a very small flower anyway. It didn’t bother any of the birds that were flying overhead, and it didn’t startle any of the animals at the nearby farm. It didn’t even frighten any of the butterflies that were fluttering around the meadow. It did, however, manage to wake the very large green flower that was sleeping not too far away. The green flower woke with a start. "Who said that!"

"I did," answered the little orange flower, smiling, but she noticed that the big green flower wasn’t smiling back. In fact the green flower was making a strange face at her, one she had never seen before and did not understand.

"Oh, so your sooo beautiful are you? Well, what does that make the rest of us? Ugly?! You Orangies are all the same, you think your so great ‘cause you're the dominant species of the meadow."

"...the dom--in--uh??" the little orange flower was confused.

"Dominant species-- that means there’s more of you. Well, quite frankly I don’t see anything so beautiful about you at all. Your petals are much to small. And as for color, well, how could you even compare my beautiful green petals".

"Well your green petals are nowhere near as beautiful as my blue ones," declared a blue flower standing nearby, who had overheard the green flower, "We blues are truly the most beautiful flowers in all the meadow."

"You!" The green flower snapped, "Your petals wilt in a week. We greens are the most beautiful!"

"We are!" shouted the Blue.

"We are!" answered the green. The little orange flower was frightened by the shouting. She looked that the green flower and then at the blue flower. They were making a weird face that made the little flower feel cold inside. Suddenly the pretty little orange flower didn’t feel so beautiful anymore.

Well, I wish I could say that was the end of it, but I’m afraid the situation got much bigger. You see, the arguing between the big green flower and the blue flower kept getting louder, and pretty soon the other flowers started to take notice. First another blue flower joined in, arguing with the green, then a pink flower started in, claiming that pink flowers were the most beautiful. And pretty soon, the entire meadow was a roar of shouting voices as the angry flowers argued over which was the most beautiful kind. Not only did the pretty little orange flower not feel beautiful anymore, but she was beginning to wish that she was much, much smaller.

Now, the noise had gotten really loud, especially for flowers, and had managed to wake up the Owl who lived in the old oak tree, and was trying to sleep. Well, he marched right out of his hollow, in quite a cranky mood, and said, "What’s going on?" But no one heard him. "What’s going on?," he asked again, but still no one heard him. "Hey!," he finally shouted, "Whaat’s Go-iiing Onnn!!!???." And finally, with scowls on their faces, the flowers stopped arguing, and looked up at the tree, but no one said anything.

Finally, the little orange flower, that used to be a pretty little orange flower, looked up and said, "We can’t decide who’s the most beautiful."

"What?" said the owl, confused.

"We can’t decide who is the most beautiful flower in the meadow, and it’s making everyone very angry. Do you know?" asked the little flower.

"The most beautiful?... Why that’s just ridiculous. You mean to tell me that all of this racket is over who is the most beautiful flower? What a bunch of sillies. You’ve already woken me up, and If you’re not careful, you’re going to wake up the oak tree. . .

"I’m already awake," said the old oak tree in a very low, sleepy voice that was almost a whisper.

"You see, now you’ve all woken up the whole meadow. I’m going back to bed!" And with that, he turn back toward his comfortable dark hollow in the tree. But before he got inside, a small voice stopped him.

"But Mr. Owl..." He turned around. It was the little orange flower. "You never told us who was the most beautiful."

With that the old owl flew down from his perch to where the little orange flower stood. He looked at her, and asked, "What difference does it make?"

"I don’t know," answered the little flower, "but it must be awfully important to know, because everyone is really mad at each other, and they’re making a weird face, look." And the owl did look. He looked from one flower to the next, and just as the little orange flower had described, they were all making a weird face.

"Oh my," the owl said at last, "This is more serious than I thought. " Owl could see that the flowers were not only angry, but that they were starting to hate each other too. "Yes indeed, this is deinitley not good," he said.

"Then please Mr Owl," cried the little orange flower, " tell us who the most beautiful flower is, so it will go away-- Who is it?"

"Yeah, who is it!?" shouted the big green flower who had been listening to them.

"Yeah, tell us who!" shouted the others.

"Who? Who? I don’t know who!," shouted back the owl, "but I do know that we just cannot have all of this arguing. It’s much to loud. We’ll just have to come up with another solution to the problem. Now, everyone think real hard..."

Well, everyone did, and the meadow got very quiet while everyone was thinking, until finally the old oak tree spoke.

"I know," he said, very slowly, as all oak trees do, "what if everyone pretends that you all look the same, then you’ll all be just as beautiful."

Well, this sounded like a great idea, and all the flowers agreed to try. So, after congratulating the oak tree for his brilliant plan, the owl flew back up to his hollow to go back to sleep. And for a while it seemed as though the problem had been solved, except for one thing. The flowers didn’t really look alike, and it really was impossible to pretend not to notice their differences.

I believe the problem started again when the big green flower, who was talking to a yellow flower, happened to mention that she felt it was unfortunate that yellow flowers didn’t have velvety soft leaves like hers. Well, it didn’t take long before all the flowers were shouting again about who was the most beautiful. And it wasn’t long before everyone was making that weird face again. And it wasn’t long before they woke up the owl. . . again.

"Now What’s going on!" He shouted right away this time, knowing they wouldn’t hear him if he didn’t."

"I guess it didn’t work," said the little orange flower who used to be a pretty little orange flower."

"Okay," said the owl, getting serious, "I have another idea." "Everyone! Listen! I have a new idea. From now on, we’ll make it a rule that if you are going to say something about another kind of flower, it has to be nice. Okay? >From now on, only compliments are allowed!" With that he turned around and marched back into his hole, and I think he was mumbling something to himself, but I couldn’t hear what he said.

So, how did it work? It didn’t. You see, the flowers were already mad at each other, and well, quite frankly, they couldn’t think of anything nice to say. It did get quiet though, for a while, but then a blue flower had an idea of his own. He decided that since he couldn’t think of anything nice to say to the other kinds of flowers, he would only talk to other blue flowers. So he called out to the nearest one and began a conversation. Which wasn’t so bad at first, but then the other flowers started doing the same thing. The yellow flowers only spoke to other yellow flowers. The pinks ones only talked to other pink ones. Greens with greens. Striped with striped. And so on. The problem was that the flowers weren’t necessarily next to the other flowers of their kind, so in order to talk to them, they had to shout. And then, because those flowers were shouting, the other flowers had to shout even louder to be heard over the shouting. And louder. And louder. Until pretty soon every flower in the meadow was shouting at the top of her voice and everyone was angry again. Oh yes, and of course, they woke up the poor owl again.

He staggered out of his hollow, squinting at the bright light, and grumbled, "Let me guess... it didn’t work."

"What are we going to do now?," called out the little orange flower, who was beginning to think she’d never feel pretty again.

"Well," began the owl, "I was hoping it wouldn’t come to this, but I’m afraid it’s the only way we’ll ever have peace in the meadow. We’ll have to divide up the meadow into sections. We’ll assign each kind of flower to a separate section, and if everyone stays in their section, then, maybe, we’ll have some peace and quiet in the meadow again."

Did it work? I’ll bet you already know the answer to that question. The owl set about dividing up the meadow. There were several arguments as to who was getting the best spot, the best view, the most sun, and so on, but they finally worked it out and came up with a plan everyone seemed to agree on. It went like this: The highest part of the hill was for the big green flowers. Below that, on the slope, one side was for the purples, and the other side for the blues, with the yellows in the middle. In the lower part, one side of the stream was for the stripped, and the other side was for the polka-dots. And finally, the orange flowers would surround the old oak tree. It was a pretty good plan, and it might have actually worked, but then they remembered something they had forgotten. Actually they all remembered it about the same time, and that time was when they all tried to move to their assigned areas. Of course that’s when they remembered that flowers can’t move, because they’re rooted into the ground. They were stuck.

Well, you can imagine what a tragic blow this was. Everyone was very disappointed, and the owl was a little embarrassed for not thinking of this before, but there was nothing to be done, and he was completely out of ideas. The situation looked hopeless.

It was about that time that a small bug happened to crawl out of a hole in the ground. He was just doing a bit of cleaning, pushing a couple of small stones that had been getting in the way out the door, when he saw how upset all the flowers were, and the owl, and the oak tree too, so he asked, "What’s going on?"

"We’re all very upset, because we’re too different to get along, and we can’t decide who is the most beautiful flower in the meadow," answered the little orange flower who... well, you know. She explained to him all the different things they had tried, and how they had all failed, and how there was nothing else to try. The little bug thought hard for a few seconds, and then he said, "I have an idea. Why don’t you all just be the same kind of flower for real." When the flowers heard this, they all burst out in laughter. What a ridiculous idea, and not to mention impossible. Things can’t just change form one thing to another thing. But the little bug didn’t know this, he was only a very little bug, and had only a very little brain to work with, so it really wasn’t fair of the flowers to laugh at him. It was a silly answer though, but then it gave the owl an idea.

"Wait a minute everyone. Stop laughing, I think the bug’s idea just gave me the best idea. I think I know of something that will help us settle this thing once and for all." And with that, he flew up into the air and away from the meadow.

Owl flew over the big trees on the hillside and across the big field of corn. He passed over the duck pond and the old white horse who was grazing nearby. He flew past the milking cow, the pig pen, and the old tractor, until finally he spread his wings out wide, and glided to a gentle landing behind Farmer Tilbern’s big old barn, were he had left half a can of gray paint that he had used to paint his barn door with last week. With a little effort, Owl grabbed the paint can in one foot, and a paint brush with the other, and took to the air again.

When he arrived back at the meadow, everyone was very anxious to see what he had brought back. And when Owl showed them the paint and explained that he had found a way to make everyone look the same, they all cheered. It seemed at last the problem had been solved. Soon the meadow would be beautiful again. So Owl, bucket in one foot, brush in the other, began hopping from one flower to the next painting them with the thick gray paint. It was hard work, and he looked very awkward doing it. As you know, owls don’t often find a reason to paint, but finally he managed to paint every single flower in the meadow. When he was done, he flew back to where the little orange flower used to stand, and where now a little gray flower stood, to take a look at the results of his hard work. And the little gray flower that used to be a little orange flower, that used to be a pretty little orange flower, choked to him from under a glop of sticky paint, "Well, did it work? Is the meadow beautiful again?"

"Oh my." Owl didn’t want to tell her. "It’s... it’s... it’s horrible." "Everything’s gray. There’s no color. It’s not beautiful at all."

"Oh," was all the little gray flower managed to cough out. And then something terrible happened. The little gray flower, that used to be a pretty little orange flower began to wither, and then she died. And one by one all the other flowers began to do the same. An ugly gray flower that used to be a pretty green flower withered and died. An ugly gray flower that used to be a pretty blue flower withered and died. And the purple flowers died. And the yellow flowers died. And the pink flowers. And the polka-dot. And the stripped. All died. Until every single ugly gray flower in the meadow was dead.

"Oh No!" cried the little bug, "what’s happening?"

"I don’t know," cried the Owl

"Why are they all dying?!" the little bug covered his eyes because he was afraid to look anymore.

"I don’t know! I don’t know! This is terrible," said Owl, and he truly didn’t.

"I know why." said a voice they had never heard before.

"Who, who, whoo said that?" called out the owl quite startled.

"I did. It’s me, the sun. Look up." said the voice. Owl and the little bug looked up and the sun was right above them looking down at the meadow. "I know why they all died."

"Why." asked the bug?

"Because they need my sunlight to grow, and fresh air to breath. They couldn’t get those things underneath all that paint. You might say they suffocated in their hate, and now they’re gone."

"But they couldn’t decide who was the most beautiful, and that made them mad," explained the Owl.

"It seems a silly thing to die for doesn’t it." answered the sun.

"I guess so." said Owl, "but ... if only I knew who was most beautiful, I could have told them and solved the problem, but I didn’t know..."

"Owl...," the sun interrupted, "It wasn’t your fault." Owl was glad to hear it, but he still felt bad.

"Excuse me, Mr. Sun," called out the little bug, "I was wondering, do you know? Who really was the most beautiful flower in the meadow?"

"None of them," answered the sun, ". . . and all of them. You see, it wasn’t any one flower that made the meadow beautiful, it was all of them together. All the different colors. All the different shapes, sizes... personalities..."

And then, because the sun was very sad, large gray clouds began to move in and block him out. And the whole day got colder. The little bug went back into his hole. The Owl flew back into the old oak tree, but he turned and looked at the little orange flower, lying underneath a heavy glop of gray paint, once more before slipping into his dark hollow in the tree. And the day got darker. And the wind began to blow. And the meadow was very, very quiet.



the end