BRONWEN GRIFFITHS

The Three White Roses 

At half past two in the Lyceum Garden, St Petersburg, a young woman dressed in black stands in front of the statue of Pushkin. The poet himself is lost in thought.  

Before she arrived at the park the young woman bought three roses from the florists below her apartment. She rarely stops by; flowers are expensive. 

She has told no one of this plan, not even Olga. 

A small protest. Against this damned war.  

The young woman moves closer to Pushkin, the roses in her hand, their petals pale against the black of her coat. As if a poet could protect her.  

The roses smell like the city air, exhausted. Their leaves shiver in the chilly air.  

The young woman stands motionless as the statue. If the police come they will arrest her and she will be thrown in jail, thrown to the wolves, thrown into the wastes of Siberia.  

She must think of the cost of this war, not the expense of flowers or her own safety.  

Fifteen minutes pass, twenty. An older woman strides down the gravel path. Olga expects a tirade of abuse. It has happened before. Yet this woman, her face like a slab of granite, stops and, almost imperceptibly, nods her head.  

The young woman holds the roses close to her chest. One for peace, one for freedom, one for compassion. But the roses are not enough, nothing is enough in these dark days.  

A siren wails down the nearby street and a cloud like a petal forms in the sky.  

The older woman looks up at the cloud, and then vanishes, fast as she came.  

A dark van pulls up by the park. The doors open. Men in black, men in helmets pour out onto the path.  

The young woman keeps her silence, the young woman does not move. Her silence is louder than their bombs. Her silence expands like a nuclear explosion.  

Bronwen Griffiths is the author of two novels and two collections of flash fiction. Her flash pieces have been published in the UK and the USA, in a number of online magazines and print anthologies. She lives in East Sussex, UK.