Very short fanfic. The majority of this won't make sense unless you're familiar with floriculture or you feel like googling the meaning of rose colors and numbers.
Danny Phantom (c) Butch Hartman
A bouquet sat in a vase, filled to the brim with water. The bouquet was made of roses, and roses only. The colors sang a song to the recipient of the bouquet. There were eleven roses in the bouquet. Just one short of a dozen, but it held more volume than twelve.
The first rose was cream-colored, the second one a burgundy. A third bore a shade of bright yellow. Fourth was an optimistic orange, and the fifth coral. The sixth rose spoke the most with the least fanfare, a radiant red. Next a perfect peach. Pink, a color usually detested by the bouquet recipient, nestled into the mix. A darker pink rose followed. One was of both red and yellow pigment. The last was lavender, though certainly not the least.
Sam Manson, a girl familiar to horticulture, understood every word the silent roses sang. A note hung at the foot of the vase she had so rested the roses in, from her boyfriend. "To Sam, I got these for you after much research. Sorry there is no white rose, but I think that age we've long since past. I hope you like them. Love, Danny."
She read the note once more, stunned by the gesture. Finally she beamed as her heart soared, and let out a contented sigh.
