Writing Excuses - 11

 

Homework: Competing fiercely to become Spring’s queen, the garden flowers blossomed to their full beauty. Who will win the golden crown of glory? Among them all, only the peony stands out.

So, before we get to this writing assignment, let me be clear that I had help from ChatGPT to turn my story into one that entirely honored Terry Pratchett's humor and voice. We nailed it. *quantum high five*

The Perennials

A botanical comedy of manners, misunderstandings, and metaphysics

In the Garden, the Garden, mind you, not just any patch of dirt where something green happens to grow, Spring had arrived with the subtlety of a marching band on roller skates.

This particular garden had rules. Old rules. Ancient, unwritten rules passed down from root to root, usually with a lot of judgment and pollen.

And one of those rules stated, somewhat vaguely but with great ceremony, that at the start of each Spring, a Queen must be chosen from among the perennials. No one remembered why. Probably it had something to do with pollination. Or hats. Oh, pollination hats!

Anyway, the point was: someone was going to get a crown.

It was the Coneflower’s job to make that decision. She didn’t want it, of course. She’d applied for the position of “Silent Observer of the Southeast Corner,” but bureaucracy being what it is (even among flora), she had been promoted against her will several centuries ago.

Coneflower cleared her throat, which is no small feat without lungs. “Right, flowers,” she said. “It’s time.”

“About time,” muttered Rose, who had been polishing her thorns to a deadly sheen and rehearsing smug expressions in the dew puddle. “Let’s get this coronation started. I have bees to attract.”

“I think you’ll find,” interrupted Iris, who had read at least one book and made sure everyone knew it, “that my coloration is in the highest percentile of optical sophistication. Objectively.”

Delphinium, who had grown several inches taller out of sheer spite, gazed into the distance and said, “The sun spoke to me this morning. It said I was luminous.”

“Oh please,” said Lily, releasing a cloud of scent that smelled like a bakery having a nervous breakdown. “Fragrance is the true path to floral enlightenment.”

Daisy was too busy doing calisthenics to argue. “Twenty-four petals and counting!” she grunted. “Spring is no time for slacking!”

Meanwhile, Peony was humming to herself and watching a bumblebee struggle with quantum decisions over which bloom to land on. She gave it a little nudge toward a sleepy dandelion and went back to her nap.

She had not read the rules. She had, in fact, forgotten they existed. But she was very good at being a flower, which in her opinion meant blooming, napping, and occasionally sharing snacks with ants.

The contest began.

Which is to say, a lot of very elaborate, very unnecessary flower behavior occurred over a 24-hour period. There were petal flex-offs, scent duels, dramatic monologues about root depth and lineage, and a brief but passionate debate over the ethics of hummingbird attraction.

Coneflower observed all of this with the vague look of someone trying to remember whether they left the stove on, despite never having owned a stove.

And Peony?

Peony made a crown of moss and wore it for fun.

She gave advice to an aphid.

She told the wind it smelled nice.

She was, in short, content.

When the time came to declare the winner, the entire garden leaned in.

(Or would have, if they had spines. Some made do by flopping subtly in the general direction of Coneflower.)

“The Queen of Spring is...” said Coneflower, pausing for effect. She had taken a weekend seminar in Theatrical Timing. “Peony.”

“WHAT?!” shrieked Rose, nearly dropping a thorn.

“She didn’t even try!” Daisy gasped, mid-petal extension.

“I demand a recount,” Iris muttered. “Or at least a rubric.”

“She doesn’t even have a trademark scent,” Lily hissed.

Delphinium said nothing. He had gone off to stare at the sun again.

Coneflower waited.

Then said, “Yes. Exactly. She didn’t try. And somehow, she bloomed the hardest.”

There was a silence filled only with the sound of a very small snail sneezing.

“You mean,” Rose whispered, “we weren’t supposed to compete?”

Coneflower shrugged. Or did the plant equivalent of a shrug. It involved three slow leaf twitches and a philosophical exhale.

“No one remembers. The rules were probably written by a weed.”

Peony opened one eye and smiled. “I brought snacks,” she said. “Anyone want to cloud-watch?”

And so they did.

Later, when the sun had grown lazy and the sky wore its best lavender, the flowers sat in a circle. They passed around Peony’s moss crown; not to wear, but to admire. And maybe giggle at how silly it all was.

Because the true Queen of Spring wasn’t the flashiest, or the tallest, or the most symmetrical.

She was just the one who remembered what it meant to be a flower.

Footnote:

In fairness, the actual Queen of Spring is a hedge who lives three gardens over and speaks exclusively in riddles. But she doesn’t believe in crowns, so the flowers are allowed their little tradition.