This was written by one of our new WritAnon members, ZackyV14.  Please let him know your thoughts by leaving a comment!

It had been three long years since the war and still I wandered alone through the empty wastelands of my home country. I hadn’t seen another person for months, passing the last society miles before. I didn’t know where I was and I certainly didn’t care. Days started blending together and soon I realized my current position and destination were meaningless. There was no way to tell where I was headed not that I had had anywhere in mind.

Items were scarce, the only things I carried were the plain necessities; water, canned food, bedding and weapons. I wasn’t a fighter before the war, I was a bank teller. We were probably the least prepared for World War III to come along. Relaxing in our booths, handling each client that came to our windows. Before I could even react the windows of First National exploded and I lost consciousness. Believe me, waking up in your workplace discovering the building has been leveled it not a comfortable feeling.

For three years I wandered the desolate country of what used to by the United States. In all that time I have only seen a few thousand people at the most. I’m probably three states away from where I used to live and I have no home. Each day is a struggle to survive, whether the dilemma I face is polluted water, spoiled food or rabid animals. Nothing in this new world is free, or so I thought.

I found a flower several days ago. It was yellow, sticking out brightly from the rubble it grew from. I hadn’t seen a healthy plant for months and months, but here one rested like a diamond in the rough. I was cautious when I approached it, not knowing if it was already someone’s property. When nothing made any move to stop me I moved quicker to the flower. When I bent down and touched it, the feeling was beyond strange. It felt like déjà vu, as if I had dreamed of the feeling and the smell before but was just experiencing it for the first time.

After a moment of touching it with my fingertips I pulled my knife from it’s sheath.

Slightly bending the plant to it’s side I pressed the blade to the long, green stem. A blast of wind came from nowhere, causing the flower to sway. I watched it for a moment before letting it go and putting my knife away. With a sigh I pulled my last water bottle from my pack and trickled about half of it onto the flower. The drops of liquid ran through the yellow petals and down the neck until it reached the ground.

After standing up and putting my water away, I gave the flower one last look before turning back to the barren, lifeless land that was once my home. I pulled the hood of my jacket up over my head, bracing for the sharp winds that were now so familiar to this land. Then I continued to walk.

A flower, sitting on my doorstep.

Why would someone leave a flower on my doorstep? Especially in January?

It was an iris, I realized, as I picked up the delicate plant. I wondered how long it had been out there.

Shivering against the cold, I pulled out my keys and unlocked my door, pushing into the warmth of the indoors. I carried the flower inside as well.

I carefully set the flower down on a table just inside the door, then shrugged off my coat and hung it in the closet. I turned and picked the flower back up, my mind turning over the possible meanings.

Suddenly, I was pulled back into an old memory. One of my first dates, a young lady of about 17, her long, unbound red hair floating in stark contrast to the blue skies and field of blue irises. We’d planned a picnic in the field of flowers that day, and it was about as perfect as it could be.

We threw down a blanket among the irises, eating sandwiches and fruit, laughing and talking. We were pretty carefree. It was the definition of a perfect day. And man, was she pretty.

The doorbell rang.

As I turned toward the door, I saw the same beautiful face–a few years older, but still familiar. I floated down to open the door, my legs moving seemingly of their own accord.

“I don’t suppose you remember me,” she started, smiling a bit coyly.

I smiled back, and she laughed, the sound again taking me back to the old memory. “The picnic in the field, how could I forget?” I replied, gesturing her in. “What brings you here?”

“A memory of an old friend, someone I’d like to get to know again,” she said, smiling again.

I nodded in response. I love that smile.