Words felt like a jumbled mess on the page. What was the point?
She was listless compared to her best friend's thousands of words upon millions of words, and then to consider Juleka's brother, Luka, whose fingers could compose songs with more lyricism than she'd ever encountered, songs that were both rock, and beyond beautiful.

Rose couldn't do that, but she wanted to. As she tried to type away, her words seemed to hold no flowery descriptions, no real emotions, and nothing to grasp desperately onto that meant more than a few scrambled sentences in an essay. Her words held no purpose, no beauty, and she was almost afraid of where that left her. Ad writing couldn't be this hard. How could you transform a few words pleading for potential customers to give her flowershop a try, when all of the words fell flat and held no specific beauty to them.

Flowers were beautiful, always had been. People stopped to smell the roses, to gaze in a flower garden at a zoo or in a meadow, and yet her words were not like the flowers: alive, bright, vibrant. They were almost grey in a dull comparison, and Rose already missed the warmth of the words that the Couffaines seemed to produce like poetry on the page or reading Dracula and being caught up on the suspense of it. You didn't have to be a poet to have the beauty of the words, to convey what people hardly dare to dream about.

Rose's Flowers sounded dull, but she'd been told that she needed a start. Juleka had spent the past three days trying to give her ideas in as discrete a way as possible. Rose loved her, she really did, as her best friend, as nearly a sister, but she wasn't blind to her friend's attempts at help. Nothing seemed to sink in though. No words seemed to come in mind, to float up, to daze an audience.

Rose almost seemed ready to E-Mail her attempts to Juleka and beg for advice. That felt like quitting though, and she hated to quit. She loved to push herself forward in the name of beauty, but beauty didn't seem to flow, thrive, or start in her keyboard, nor did it start from her pencil held delicately across a page.

No words were enough, and Rose hated that. She hated that the words fell flat, paled in comparison, and that they held no claim to a beautiful, bountiful way of life, of being, of wonder at nature and the unknown. Rose was one person, and usually one person had the help of at least five others.

'Hey, Rose. Think simple. Your flowers will sell themselves. People will just know.' The words flickered across the screen of her cellphone, and Rose both dreaded the encouragement from her best friend and felt grateful for it. Juleka knew her better than about anyone.

'Okay, Jules.' It was defeat, plain and simple, in Rose's eyes, but she needed a starting point, and Juleka really wasn't wrong. Rose sighed as she wrote something simple and hoped that the simplicity of it wouldn't keep people from checking out her flowershop especially since she really believed that her flowers were some of the best around as they were grown with love.