At the end of June, we invited writers to send us flash stories inspired by Liliana Sâmbotin’s Gate of Blossoms. What emerged was a collection of poems and flash stories.

Every writer took the original work of art in a different direction, discovering a world that could only have emerged from that particular meeting between the artwork and the writer. The art piece became several new works of fiction, each independent of the original and yet impossible without it.

That is what art does. While we meet in our appreciation of its beauty, it speaks differently to all of us, allowing us to complete it with everything we have lived, and to feel it in our own special way.

The Gate of Blossoms became a search for truth, a longing for memory, one encounter with loss and unexpected kindness, a meditation on the invitations we choose to refuse, and the ones we choose to follow.

Each writer approached the same blue door carrying different memories and different fears, different questions. The painting remained the same. The worlds they discovered did not.

The challenge may be ending, but the gate is waiting for the next person who pauses long enough to wonder what lies beyond a blue door beneath purple blossoms.

The Truth, by Ariana Pîrvu

Nostalgia, by Catarina Pîrvu

Feeling Blue, by Barbara Fuller

Gate of Blossoms, by Liliana Sâmbotin

Wild Enough, by Diana Sâmbotin

The Vandalist, by Erin Steele

The Door in the Wall Shall Remain Closed, by Ileana Marin

The Stories Behind the Door, by Sanda Berar

Thoughts, Haiku by Camelia Clinciu

The Blue Door, by Zoe Leetch

At the edge of a sleepy village stood a brittle old blue door, set into a crumbling stone wall covered slightly by a breathtaking purple wisteria tree.

The origin of the blue door was a complete mystery to the people of this village. No one knew who had built it. There was no house behind it, only the deteriorating wall, the purple wisteria, and the blue door that had been locked for as long as anyone could remember. Everyone except young Mara had given up on trying to open the door. She had always felt a strong, unexplainable pull towards it.

One hot summer afternoon, on her way home from school, Mara noticed something she’d never noticed before scratched into the wall beside the door. Three tiny drawings stared up at her: a dragon, a crown, and a ship.

Suddenly, Mara felt a pull so powerful she instantly reached for the rusted handle.

To Mara’s surprise, the door opened. Beyond it was not another room, but an endless silver forest beneath two moons. Gorgeous blue fireflies drifted between the sparkling silver trees, and rivers flowed upward into the stars. In the distance stood a castle made of the most beautiful crystals Mara had ever seen, its towers glowing like lanterns.

A small fox wearing a red cloak stepped into view from the cover of the shadows.

“You are late,” it said.

Mara blinked in confusion.

“Late for what?” she asked the fox.

“The choosing”, the fox responded, and with a quick flick of its head, three paths materialised in front of her.

The first led toward the castle. The image of a golden crown placed upon a plush red cushion that sat almost patiently on a throne entered her mind. The image quickly disappeared almost as fast as it came.

She turned her head and looked over at the second path, which disappeared into a disturbingly dark forest, where something formidable lurked between the trees. Mara could feel the hot breath of the monster wrap around her body.

Mara swiftly averted her gaze and turned her head once more to see where the third and final path wound its way towards a glistening, shining blue sea, where the largest ship she had ever seen floated calmly against the swaying waves. Its pearlescent white sails flapped briskly against the wind. The ship was so enormous that Mara had to strain her neck backwards to get the full view of the stunning ship.

“Which one is the right path?” Mara asked the little fox.

The fox tilted its head to the side and gazed up at her in slight wonder.

“There is no right path. Only the one you are brave enough to take.”

Mara looked back at the open blue door.

Home was behind her. But her sheer curiosity soon won the battle in her head as she stepped forward towards this new world. As Mara slowly closed the door behind her, the purple wisteria began to glow. Mara marched on towards this new, enchanting realm filled with determination and didn’t once look back towards that blue door behind her, because honestly? What did she really have to lose.

~ a story by Zoe Leetch, age 14.

There was a door in Ada’s grandparents’ village that no longer belonged to any house.

The house had disappeared long before Ada was born. First the roof collapsed, then one wall, then the other, and after a few years nobody was entirely sure where the yard had ended and the road had begun.

Only the door remained.

Every spring it disappeared beneath purple blossoms.

The tree was one of those trees that seem to take flowering personally, covering itself with so many blooms that within a few days you could no longer see the trunk or the branches, only a violet explosion that appeared to have landed accidentally in the middle of the world.

The door was always closed and that, more than anything else, bothered Ada.

Not because there was anything remarkable on the other side. If she stood a few steps to the left, she could see perfectly well what was behind it: a field, some grass, a path leading toward the creek and, farther away, the first houses at the edge of the village.

And yet the door remained closed.

Every day during the summer she passed it several times. On the way to the well. On the way back from the store when her grandmother sent her to buy bread, yeast, or the small sour candies she pretended not to like. On the way to Tanti Tanta’s house carrying apples, eggs, jars, messages, and occasionally information that seemed far too complicated to trust to a child but was entrusted to her anyway.

Every time she passed the door she wondered what would happen if she opened it.

Not what was behind it, that was clear and visible, but what would happen. These seemed to Ada like two entirely different questions.

That summer she was reading Narnia, and the situation became considerably more complicated.

The fact that she could see a field behind the door no longer proved anything. Books had already established that wardrobes were unreliable, mirrors were suspicious, and ordinary-looking objects frequently concealed entire worlds. There was no reason a blue door in a village in Muntenia should behave more honestly than a wardrobe in England.

For several weeks she became convinced that the field was merely a disguise and the real world would reveal itself only after the door opened.

The difficulty was deciding which world she wanted to uncover.

She considered Narnia itself, it seemed like a promising outcome.

On the other hand, if she opened the door and found herself in the story of the Three Little Pigs, she would be deeply disappointed. The entire story irritated her. Everyone made poor decisions and the ending felt undeserved.

Some fairy tales suffered from similar problems. The handsome prince was rarely the most interesting person in the story and even Ileana Cosânzeana, despite possessing exceptionally beautiful hair, appeared to spend too much time waiting for other people to solve her problems.

Winnetou was more attractive. A Journey Around the World in Eighty Days also had potential. Narnia remained a strong candidate.

The summer passed. Then another one. Then another one. The door remained closed.

Ada continued thinking. She got more and more convinced that choosing the wrong story could have serious consequences. If the door opened into a world she did not like, she might be forced to stay there. Books were strangely vague on this subject.

She decided to wait until she was sure.

Years later she realized that she had never opened the door.

The door, meanwhile, appeared perfectly willing to wait.

Later she wrote down the explanation.

EVERY DOOR LEADS SOMEWHERE.

TECHNICALLY CORRECT.

THE DIFFICULT PART IS DECIDING WHICH STORY YOU ARE ENTERING.

So whenever I face a door, I wait. I let someone else go in or out, then study their features, their clothes—though I know the proverb about clothes revealing nothing—and even the spring in their walk. Most of the time, I decide to stay on my side. No risk of betrayal is a risk well taken: no risk, no betrayal; no risk, no challenge; no risk… who cares.

But this door is different. It’s guarded by a crawling ivy of violet glass shards. The blue door itself is fragile, breakable, whispering a different kind of invitation: break me. Be the villain for once. I feel stronger than whatever lies behind a glass door. The glass ivy is spreading fast; soon it will cover the whole wall. I will be the only one who knows that there was ever a door in the wall. I will walk alone down the street, pass the hidden entrance, and feel confident that I made the right choice:
I did not open the door; I did not need to! What I should do now is mark
Liliana’s glass door with graffiti and finish Magritte’s Unexpected Answer with a shard from hers.

Rene Magritte’s Unexpected Answer, 1933

The shock of turquoise attacked her eyes when she turned the same corner she took every day on the way to work. She was used to the peeling plaster, the little weeds that lined the creases between the building and the dusty ground – hell, even the brick that shamelessly exposed itself and the stubborn weed that she promised herself six months ago that she would spray next weekend became commonplace. But this… this was atrocious.

The door was always white. Well, recently it was white with streaks of brown where paint had flaked and yellow where it hung on for dear life and weathered. She would paint it white again next weekend but she loved those little nooks and crannies that formed from afar. But this… it was painted over inconsistently in a suspicious tone of blue and green.

Down the street, splashes of turquoise, blues and greens dotted bits of the old street’s fondest memories – windowpanes, benches, clay roof tiles, storm drains, planters. It’s Friday and as wandering travelers from near and far trickled into the town’s bed and breakfasts, someone who believed they were more creatively talented than others thought it would be best to “elevate the aesthetic” of the quiet town without notice. No one who lived here actually knew who that person was, but they sure as hell wanted to find out now. And this… This was vandalism.

Her cheeks warmed and reddened. The door was always open, with the orchestra of tools at work by the hands of the very first man who loved her and whom she loved back with everything.

Her mind swam in a flood of memories of endless summers playing on the floor of the little workshop with her toys strewn about, the humming of old tunes, her father’s hands working quickly on delicate things like clocks, locks, and jewelry. Sometimes he would tell her stories about families who grew old in the town, sometimes stories about those who left one day to never return. But one day, a dragon snuck into their home and into her father’s body. It injected venomous pain into his legs so he could barely make it up the tall step. Then it took his eyesight and focus. Later, it twisted its claws around his body and dragged him into bed, holding him there until he was too tired to fight any longer. Then one day, holding her hand in his, he left town too.

But not her. She would stay here and flake and weather and peel apart until there was nothing left.

“Because there is nothing left,” she said quietly.

The turquoise, blue, green, whatever it was, had started to settle behind her eyes like a slowly pulsing promise. Glints of purple caught her eye – someone manicured and shaped the weed, now elegantly stretching upward and over, framing the door and adding a touch of mystery. For the tourists, of course.

She took two cautious steps forward as it beckoned to her again. “Look,” the door said. “Someone else came and made me beautiful.”

A deep inhale that caused her sternum to pop. Then another step forward until her toe almost grazed the tall step, greeting it like an old friend.

Somewhere behind the door, she was sure she had left a few building blocks and a beloved plush giraffe to watch over the orders her father had to finish.

She placed trembling fingers on the small knobs. It was probably time to take them home.

No one planted them.

That’s the thing people forget, or maybe never knew. They simply appeared one spring, the way certain things do - without permission, without explanation. A tendril at first, cautious and thin. Then two. Then the whole cascading rush of purple reaching across the stone, unhurried and certain.

The door came later. Or perhaps the door was always there and the blossoms simply decided, in their own time, to find it.

They grew through drought and through rain, through summers that bleached the wall to pale gold and winters that should have finished them. They didn’t ask about any of that. They moved the way water moves. Not toward anything in particular, just forward, just because forward was available.

People have tried to explain them over the years. A seed carried by a bird. A root no one thought to trace. But the blossoms were never interested in being explained. They just kept going, quiet and unhurried, the way things go when no one is expecting anything of them.

They don’t belong to anyone. They don’t mourn anyone. They grow because growing is what they do, reaching toward the turquoise the way any living thing reaches toward something bright. Not out of longing. Just out of habit, or instinct, or something that has no name yet.

The wall crumbles a little more each year, old brick showing through in patches like the building is slowly remembering what it was made of. The blossoms don’t notice. They were here before the door. They will be here after.

She had tended this garden for over forty years, long enough to know roses bloom whether you’re watching or not.

She checked them for the second time that morning, straightening a stem that didn’t need straightening. The purple tree by the gate was in full bloom, as it always was when her daughter came home. The sun was still high. There was still time.

Inside, the soup was on the stove and the cherry pie was in the oven, filling the house with something that smelled like every summer at once. She stirred the pot and added another pinch of salt; her daughter’s preference, memorized decades ago. It wasn’t the first time she’d waited like this. In the college years she’d done the same, knowing the train would deliver her back by evening. The distance then had a size she could hold in her mind.

Now there was an ocean between them.

She went back to the garden. Then, a low hum above the rooftops. She looked up, shielding her eyes.

Cannot be. Not yet.

She watched the airplane until it disappeared.

The call came before the sun went down.

The pie cooled on the counter. No one cut it. Outside, the roses were still in bloom: indifferent, perfect, unbothered by what the day had taken. She had checked on them three times.

The blue door stayed closed.

The neighbors said the roses had never bloomed so fully as they did that year. She had whispered to them all spring, the way she whispered to everything she loved: gently, persistently, without asking anything in return.

The purple tree would bloom again next year. It always did. It didn’t know how to do anything else.

The blue door opened again, not for her, but because of her. Some gates never truly close. They live on in the hearts of those who once passed through them, carrying her legacy into a world she taught to bloom.

Its beauty caught my eye immediately. I had been walking for a while through a historical, walled neighborhood looking for just the right color. I would often drive the few miles away, sometimes, just to walk my dog and admire the old landscapes. Jacarandas and crape myrtle dotted the sidewalks. Ferns and fuchsias brushed together below them making rhythm as we walked. My house was a fixer-upper, and I had spent everything I’d had to buy it. Resources were limited for updating anything costing even the smallest amount of money. I knew that painting my front door was an affordable way to give this new love a boost.

Despite being a bit worn, this door in the brick wall still radiated, embraced by a dripping wisteria. Deciding to take a picture, I held up my cell phone, about to point and press. The door began to open. My face began to blush.

An old man was standing there looking back at me. I continued to watch him through my phone screen. I hesitated for a few seconds before bringing it down. “Hello,” I said, “I’m Sorry; I was just trying to help to remember this beautiful color. It’s lovely. Do you happen to know the brand and name of the paint?” He continued to stare, saying nothing. My face continued its journey to turning crimson. I recognized and knew well the feeling without needing a mirror. Like a bad friend, it had always given me away.

It felt like an entire minute before he spoke. “I don’t know the name. My wife painted it.” I knew it was rude to take the shot, but I was desperate to know the name. I lived two towns over and felt it far enough away to avoid looking repeated in the neighborhood. I am a hypocrite. I detest a copycat, but it came in handy this time. I glanced at the color again. Memories flashed through my head.

I am a child at the beach in Mexico with my family. My brother is standing next to me on a cliff. We held hard to the rail, both of us looking down at the ominous waves swirling against the cliff rocks. It was magnificent! This aqua blue color, and everything accompanying it, I had never experienced before. It floated me away. The briny air and relentless cacophony of the waves was magical to this 9-year-old. My brother, soon bored, walked away. I stayed until summoned by my parents. I couldn’t stop looking below into the sea at those jewel-like tones of blue, watching it vary in richness with the changing depths, at once shifting this mystical color from the blues of midnight to the blues of daylight.

“Is she around? Maybe I can ask her about it?” I pushed.

“Well, she sure was the gussy-upper around here! My job was just to bring home the bacon!” he laughed, his eyes twinkling. “No. She isn’t here. She passed away last September. Give me a minute. I’ll go and poke around the garage a bit and see if I can find the can.” My heart sank for him. “Oh no! That’s okay.” I started, but the back of his grey head was long heading away from me. I stood awkwardly staring at the vacant threshold, feeling ashamed.

The memory with my brother was stirring in the undercurrent of my thoughts. He, too, had since passed, and with time I found my memories of him returned more and more often. I started to weep but pushed the tears back with the approaching footsteps. The old man reached out his weathered hand which held the can with the paint I’d wanted. Even the long-dried drips in a frozen fall still shone sapphire. At his suggestion, I took a shot of the text on the can.

“Thank you. I really appreciate that. It means a lot to me.” With relief, I felt the blush starting to fade. He looked through me for a few seconds with recognition.

“It means a lot to me, too. Have a good day.” He looked at me and with a knowing wink and a thoughtful smile, he closed the door.

They say everyone will eventually go through it.

Some walk, some run. Some arrive out of breath-desperately searching for something they cannot name.

It is always there.

The azure kissed door tucked beneath a cascade of lush, sun-washed blossom lilacs.

People come here for different reasons.

A personal reason.

For love.

For heartbreak.

For healing.

For a quiet hope to remember a trusted emotion and touch a fading memory.

Running barefoot through the violet lit field of grass, I reach the door entrance for what feels like the hundredth time.

The aquamarine hue of its exterior reminds me of peace, complimented beautifully by the surrounding heliotrope blossoms of first love and innocence.

Laughter. Tranquility. Reminiscence. Memory.

Why so many knock at this door remains a mystery. But it is said that when opened, the mind experiences quiet clarity and peace enveloped by emotions inexplicable by words. Nostalgia.

By now, this door feels like a second home.

Welcoming me for the hundredth time, I eagerly await the feelings of bittersweet melancholy that I know will soon precede.

Nostalgia.

This door has seen me walk, run, and sprint through its threshold, rekindling emotions that remain unseen by anyone else.

I have walked through this door for a chance to remember a time where I felt truly untouchable. Proud.

I have run through this door for a chance to bring him back to me, to cling to the version of intimacy that once made me feel chosen. Loved.

I have sprinted through this door for a chance to never forget the one thing I am most afraid of losing. Myself.

My pull to this door only expands as I grow older, experience gathers, and feelings accumulate. I find myself running desperately to its entrance for comfort whenever the cruel fear of forgetting comes too close.

The entrance never fails to steady me.

It isn’t the blue honey frame that holds my memories together.

But the very threshold itself- the very place where nostalgia gathers and reminds me of who I am.

The truth has never been quieter

The truth has never been louder

When we launched the ARCS Journal, the very first collection we published was a small experiment.

A painting of a woman, a cat, and a moon became Not Everyone Sees the Same Cat, a collection of stories written by different people looking at the same image.

The painting stayed the same. The stories did not. Some were funny. Some were philosophical. Some were mysterious. Some were deeply personal. The cat became a companion, a witness, a suspect, a quantum paradox, and occasionally the wisest character in the room.

That experiment reminded us of something simple:

art does not have a single meaning. It becomes complete only when someone brings their own memories, questions, fears, hopes, and imagination to it.

Today we begin a new collection.

This time, the invitation starts with a door. Gate of Blossoms by Romanian artist Liliana Sâmbotin presents a weathered wall, a turquoise door, and a cascade of purple blossoms reaching across the entrance like a living archway.

But what lies beyond it? And perhaps more importantly: Why is the door there?

Your Challenge

Write a very short piece inspired by the image.

It can be flash fiction, a haiku, a prose poem, a memory, a letter, science fiction, historical fiction …. whatever you want :)

There is no correct interpretation.

The door may open.

The door may remain closed.

It may lead somewhere extraordinary.

Or nowhere at all.

A Few Questions to Consider

If you’re not sure where to begin, try one of these:

• Who planted the blossoms?

• Who last walked through the door?

• Who is afraid to open it?

• What happens if the door is opened only once every hundred years?

• What if the blossoms are protecting something?

• What if they are keeping something inside?

• What if the door appears only to certain people?

• What if the door remembers everyone who has crossed its threshold?

• What if the person standing in front of it is you?

Or ignore all of these and follow your own path.

Guidelines

• 10 - 1000 words

• Any genre welcome

• English or Romanian

See the Door in Person

While a photograph can capture an artwork, it never quite replaces standing in front of it. Gate of Blossoms is currently on display as part of Liliana Sâmbotin’s solo exhibition at Macrina Bakery in Seattle’s Belltown neighborhood through the end of July.

If you are in the Seattle area, we encourage you to visit the exhibition before writing your story.

Of course, participation is open to everyone, whether you experience the artwork in person or through the image published here and or the GlassArtography site

Publication

A few weeks ago, we started a small creative experiment around one painting.

A woman in black.
A cat.
A red moon.
A streetlamp.

We invited people to write whatever the image suggested to them: short fiction, poems, strange ideas, memories.

What happened next surprised us a little.

The same painting began generating completely different worlds depending on who was looking at it.

People who normally spend their days in engineering meetings, academic research, software, business, parenting, suddenly began writing about shape-shifting women, talking cats, alternate realities, grief, fate, and impossible moons.

Some stories became folklore.

Others drifted into science fiction, magical realism, or philosophical absurdity.

In one version, the cat complained about humans, hairstyles, and the burden of supervising Matisse.

In another, a suspicious inspector slowly realized the woman beneath the red moon might not be entirely human.

One story accidentally opened a door into theoretical physics, turning the cat into something suspiciously close to Schrödinger’s missing creature, wandering between realities and hide-and-seek games gone catastrophically wrong.

And in one particularly haunting version, the woman paused above a drowned city still glowing beneath the canal water, while the cat beside her understood exactly what had almost called her home.

The same painting somehow kept generating entirely different emotional worlds depending on who was looking at it.

We gathered the growing collection here:

The Cat Stories Collection

Reading them one after another became strangely fascinating.

The same woman beneath the same moon somehow kept becoming someone else depending on who was looking at her.

Nobody asked what the “correct” interpretation was.

They simply entered the image and started building worlds inside it.

Maybe this is part of what art does inside communities.

It creates temporary shared spaces where imagination becomes collective.

And perhaps for diaspora communities especially, this matters more than we sometimes realize. We spend so much time functioning, adapting, translating ourselves across countries and systems, that we forget how hungry people still are for play, ambiguity, storytelling, symbolism, and emotional texture.

So we thought: why stop with one story?

You do not need to be a professional writer.

Sometimes all it takes is one image and the willingness to enter it.

And perhaps later, other paintings, photographs, objects, and memories will open other worlds too.