A short story-- Jonah

I guess I'll be gradually putting up the work that I've done... it'll definitely take some time, but I thought I would start with a short story that I wrote while I was in Oxford for my Creative writing class.

Jonah.
Still not at their execution date, a sea of creamy white roses crowns the top of a brick apartment building not unlike all the others in its little corner of city. This white halo in the monotony of the brick-building forest often catches the corner of a paserby's eye, and causes him to pause and admire the cloud of roses spilling over the building. Every night at ten to seven the door to the roof screams open and a clean-faced young man arrives to tend the roses. He waters, feeds and hums to their fair heads as the night still rumbles below-- the city never sleeps. Every day, from wet April to sun-beating June, he comes alone to raise the garden of roses.
On the 30th of July, the door swings open not once but twice: once for the humming young man, and a second time for a different sort of man. Scruffy and shadowy, this man's face bears too many lines even for his age. Whatever handsomeness he might have had has become distorted by a permanently pained countenance. He adresses the flowers,
"The day draws close, the day that you die."
The young man overhears and responds to the statement with a wistful smile before beginning to hum. The scruffy man turns to look at the clean boy.
"Jonah, tomorrow we leave,"
Jonah, with the late summer sunset reflected in his young face replies,
"I know, Spencer, it's the last day of July isn't it?"
On the thirty-first of July, the year's roses are beheaded at a quarter to eight by the shadowy Spencer, as they have been every year since thirteen summers ago.
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"Spencer, I found you!" a young Jonah shouts excitedly for the third time now.
Spencer, clean and studious, had been dutifully playing his part in hide-and-go-seek by lying in the tall grass while reading a deep novel when Jonah, just barely taller than the grass itself, came crashing right into his book.
With a little boy crawling up onto his face and knocking his glasses askew, Spencer doesn't know what to do. He seems to turn into a dummy- flopping onto his back with a five-year-old Jonah straddling his neck and nearly choking him.
Suddenly, all the pressure is lifted, and Spencer remembers how to breath. As Jonah seems to float up away from his face, the hot summer sun shines glaringly in his face. Like a miraculous cloud on an all-too-sunny day, a woman's shadow provides relief. Heat comes up into Spencer's cheeks and he readjusts his thick-framed glasses to hide his blushing. Jonah's mother says while holding the boy up in her arms,
"He always finds you."
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The late setting sun sillohettes the skyscrapers against the evening sky as the two men, Jonah and Spencer, set out. They drive a pick up truck loaded with buckets upon buckets of the white rose heads floating in ice water. Leaving a drowsy cityscape behind them, the two drive non-stop until midnight when they finally stop at a small inn.
While Spencer quickly collapses on the bed, Jonah paces tirelessly, eventually giving in to restlessness and leaving for a night walk. Away from the pollution of city lights, the night stars seem to multiply tenfold. Walking, walking down the path in pale night light, he makes out the residue from camps past as he passes them by. The soft rhythm of his strides calms him. Deep into the forest, a wicked shadow, cast by a devilish light, dances on the path. Slowing his pace, Jonah peers around the last tree to find a peculiar type of man embracing a fire.
The red light glows on his dried, weathered face. So close is it to the fire that flying sparks are caught his messy white beard. Jonah, intrigued by the light in the untamed beard walks towards it all: the man, the beard, and the fire. Seated on the opposite side of the flames, the old man gives Jonah a crooked smile.
"You're 'ere fo' a story arnt you?" the bearded man cackles, shattering the unbroken soundtrack of crackling fire.
Without further talk, the old man launches into a chimerical story of sea pirates, of treasure; of dragons and fantastical beasts. A man who becomes a knight acts as the hero; he travels through forest slaying the villains and monsters of the world.
Jonah, attentive, doesn't say a word.
After the knight imprisons the Queen of Evil forever, the old man closes eyes as if in memory and mutters,
"But alas, no one 'eard the tale of the poor feller because...," before falling asleep in his spot.
Jonah moves to cover the man with his wool sweater. Bending down to scoop a big handful of dirt, Jonah feels the cool night air on his bare skin. He throws the dirt on the fire, stamping it out until it smolders to mere embers and ashes. The embers cool, and in darkness again, he whispers,
"I hear you," before turning back towards the inn.
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He showed up one day. They welcomed him to their humble home, fed him, and listened to him. His name was Mr. Ford, a man from the city. He tells about this magical place, where thousands of people live together with ever lasting light; a place where anything one dreams of can be bought with enough money.
"I'm travelin' back to my family, to my village. A' last I can bring them with me, away from bandits, the cold and dark," Mr. Ford tells Jonah and his mother.
The next day, Mr. Ford prepares to leave again. He produces from his pocket a pouch, and presents it to a a little boy whose name is Jonah.
"Its not much, but I want you to have these."
Inside the pouch are hundreds of flower seeds.
Even as the man turns the bend, Jonah's mother begins to buzz with excitement about the city.
"Always listen to a man, Jonah, you'll learn to cherish the experience he has to share"
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As the sun comes up, Jonah and Spencer prepare to continue to the destination of their journey. Into the truck they go. The white rose heads still float on the water. The ice has melted, but they have stayed fresh through the night. Over hill and through meadow they drive, until they at last arrive in a little clearing. The field seems set on fire. Under the noon summer sun, a wild growth of red roses turns the field from mild to scarlet.
They unload the truck, carrying as many as four buckets per arm, and one by mouth. Careful not to slosh around the roses too much, progress towards the center of the clearing is slow, hot, and painful.
A framework, ashes never blown away and at the very center a rock. Jonah sets all his buckets down save for one. A sparkling ark of white rose and crystaline water fly towards the rock. A splash. White roses are strewn across the earth, and the earth soaks up the water. Again and again the buckets are emptied upon the gravestone on which a name has been etched in.
Under the name, the dripping stone reads: A MOTHER AND HEROINE, DIED IN THE FIRE BUT SAVED HER SON.
Jonah falls to his knees among the red and white roses eyes closed and a smile towards the sun. The earth, already watered, still greedily drinks in the tears streaming down his rosy cheeks. Jonah cries for the joy of being together with his mother at last.
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"Jonah, which one's your favorite? The white or the red?"
"Mmm... I like red! It like a firetruck," he said while crawling hands and knees through the rose garden- all smiles under his duck-fuzz hair. She sits him down on her lap, dirty overalls and all, and whispers in his ear,
"Then you'll grow white roses for me, and I'll grow red ones for you."