The Bulbs, The Bulbs

“Are they poking through the snow at your place?”


“The bulbs, silly. The bulbs.”

“Light bulbs?”

“No! We planted crocus last fall. The bulbs. Can you see them coming through the snow?”

“Oh, you did plant something in my yard. Where was it again?”

Please leave a comment with your first 50 words on the topic “the bulbs, the bulbs.”


Author: Virginia DeBolt

Writer and teacher who writes blogs about web education, writing practice, and pop culture.

4 thoughts on “The Bulbs, The Bulbs”

  1. Tulips begin as these horrid little things, more like onions than flowers. Earth and water and sun and warmth foment a transformation, and horrid little onions become colorful petals, splashing across fields and meadows. Beauty enough to lure many a bee into its boudoir, or to seduce, then crash the economy of an entire nation. The bulbs, the bulbs — if only they stayed as bulbs, then neither joy nor despair awaits. Instead, the promise of petulant red or blue or violet flowers leads us to an expectation, when the static acceptance of a burly onion bulb would be safer.

  2. Navigating the tide of mourners, I came to the study. A picture from my grandfather’s youth hung on the wall. I look like him.
    In the study grandmother was staring beyond the window, out over the flower garden she and grandfather had tended to. “The bulbs, the bulbs,” she muttered.

  3. The nine-year-old bolted through the patio door into the kitchen yelling, “The bulbs, the bulbs have pushed through the half-melted snow! Our tulips will soon be coloring our flower beds.”

    “That’s a fact, Cid,” his mother answered with a big smile, “and by the looks of it, they’ll probably be quite colorful since the ground has been covered with snow all this time.”

    “Spring is getting ready to make it’s grand entrance, Mom, and I’m looking forward to that.”

    “Me too, Cid, me too.”

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