The flower strained her neck to watch the sun. The planet spun beneath her and carried her away from her beloved.
She slumped. Her petals drooped. Darkness fell.
A nightmouse asked, “Why so sad?”
A firefly sang, “Have hope! He’ll come again!”
When dawn broke, the yawning firefly and the blinking nightmouse listened for the flower’s melody.
But the wilted flower never woke.
“That’s a terrible story,” she said. “She should have trusted the sun.”
He nodded. “The sun is always shining somewhere.”
“The planet’s the problem. It shouldn’t spin.”
“Then all the flowers on one side would die.”
“But there could be moonflowers on that side.” There was triumph in her voice. “Tell it again. With moonflowers.”
The flower strained her neck to watch the moon as he arced away across the sky.
She glared at him. “You’re just really not a very good storyteller, are you?” she said.
