Celestine's Winning Story

Celestine entered the local newspaper's annual Halloween Story Contest, and she won in her category (Grades 9 through 12). It was published in this morning's paper, but you can read it here for free.

“Flowers for Amelia”

The delivery man glanced at the pile of mail. He approached the door, but before he could knock it was opened hurriedly by a tall blonde woman wearing a string of pearls and wringing her hands.

“Jacob!” she cried, stepping out onto the patio, “Do you have anything for me?”

He sighed. The socialite was Lydia Cunningham, a former high school beauty queen who had married high up in the food chain and now lived in a house about seven times too big for herself and her oft-absent husband.

He shook his head, “A few catalogs and a bill, ma’am.”

She visibly deflated, and said in a smaller voice, “Oh, well then. Thank you.” With an emphatic thunk she threw the mail to the floor and gave it a stomp with her pink-heeled foot before marching off to the kitchen.

For the past six months her best friend, Amelia Leonard, had been giving her the proverbial cold shoulder. No mail at all—not even an invitation to a party. Neither of them used email, since they were women of luxury—they preferred to indulge in the almost antiquated snail-mail system that spanned Lydia’s gated community and Amelia’s suburb.

They had been best friends since eighth grade, when Amelia helped Lydia study for her science final exam. Amelia stayed up until five in the morning, trying to help Lydia, then turned up at class the next morning, paralyzed from exhaustion, and failed the test —a calamity that might have been avoided had she slept. For that Lydia felt a twinge of guilt, but ever since then, they had been best friends. Throughout their high school and college years, whenever one of them went shopping or to a movie, the other went along. Nigh inseparable, it had lasted them these twenty-four years. Until six months ago.

Lydia felt depressed. She glanced morbidly at her selection of fine wines, and then decided against it. They were too expensive to waste on drowning one’s sorrows. I wonder what I did? She thought to herself.

As she thought, however, it occurred to her that she wasn’t the one to be blamed for their lack of communication—Amelia was. It was her fault, not Lydia’s. Why should I feel sorry? She mumbled, irritated, “I wasn’t the one who started ignoring my best friend.”

But the next morning, after a night of a splendid cocktail party and the opera (Lucia di Lammermoor), Lydia woke up feeling acutely lonely. Her face brightened, though there was no one to see it. “I know!” she exclaimed as she leapt out of bed. She grabbed her phone and dialed the flower shop eagerly. Amelia always did love flowers!

Jon Carter looked over his deliveries. He picked up the next one on his list, and read it aloud, “Amelia Leonard, 3222 Pickford Drive.” He frowned. He wasn’t familiar with that road. He drove a bit more slowly than usual, and at last came to a large gate, which automatically opened as he neared. There sat a sign—Magdalene Cemetery.

His blood ran cold.

He recounted his words with Lydia Cunningham: “Say hello to Amelia for me!”

He shuddered, and walked around. The cemetery was scenic in its own right, with many hills and all the headstones very orderly. His eyes wandered to a headstone at the foot of an oak tree, and he jumped back slightly. It read,

AMELIA LEONARD
JULY 3 1970-DECEMBER 21 2008

He numbly fingered the notecard that came with the flowers:
Hi Amelia! I’m sorry for the trouble I’ve caused. I want to make amends. Call me! :)