This Fern
By Scott Root
The fern creeps across my too-cluttered desk. I have yet to water it this week, but it thrives still. The plant, a parting-gift, had been concocted as a funny (or cruel) joke by Nona, who takes shadenfreude in my angst. I have never been accustomed to responsibility. I find it a strain to wake up, shower and be to work on time. This THING on my desk might very well be my downfall. Was I truly expected to water this thing until either it or I die? It was like some kind of morbid evolutionary struggle between myself and the leafy creature. Who, by the way, I was quite sure was beginning to take up more than its fair share of my work space. Nonetheless, I water it. The shallow trickle of water pools in concentric circles where the roots spread outward under the monstrosity. As the last drops of water fall from my can, a fly finds his roost among the tendrils. I brush the insect out of my growing green octopus and feel a great surge of efficacy. I think that if I could just moved the damned thing out the way enough... As I move one frond out of my way, two more fall from its endless supply coiled at its base. Like the hydra, this was a battle I would not win. Nona knew how to push my buttons. The plant was her curse, her last laugh, on me and I stood no chance. She knew it. The creature will be my blazing revenge. Not only will I nurse this space-invader, no, it will thrive. It will grow to the size of her Silver Lake duplex. To see the look on her face when the plant has consumes my life -- "Yes, hello Nona." "Oh yes Nona, the plant and I are doing quite well." "You should see it, dear Nona, big as your house and healthy." I can see her face now flushed with a anger and shame. How I relish the look on her face as she apologizes. She tells me that she should never have doubted me and that I have redeemed myself. Then she will know that I am responsible. She can’t make eye contact with me or the creature I have wrought. I am enveloped be its leafy tentacles and her jealousy rises like white hot bile on the back of her throat. She spits her noxious venom in our faces, but we have become impervious to her malice. I water, feed and aerate my creature and we grow closer while he grows bigger. Nona knows what she lost in me now.
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Scott Root is an aspiring novelist, tech contributor at the Super Addendum and canine care specialist at the Healthy Spot in sunny LA. His previous submission to Weird Year is "The Water and Sand." He writes a (near) daily blog called Notably Conventional Delivery about psychology, science and fiction. He does not own a fern.
By Scott Root
The fern creeps across my too-cluttered desk. I have yet to water it this week, but it thrives still. The plant, a parting-gift, had been concocted as a funny (or cruel) joke by Nona, who takes shadenfreude in my angst. I have never been accustomed to responsibility. I find it a strain to wake up, shower and be to work on time. This THING on my desk might very well be my downfall. Was I truly expected to water this thing until either it or I die? It was like some kind of morbid evolutionary struggle between myself and the leafy creature. Who, by the way, I was quite sure was beginning to take up more than its fair share of my work space. Nonetheless, I water it. The shallow trickle of water pools in concentric circles where the roots spread outward under the monstrosity. As the last drops of water fall from my can, a fly finds his roost among the tendrils. I brush the insect out of my growing green octopus and feel a great surge of efficacy. I think that if I could just moved the damned thing out the way enough... As I move one frond out of my way, two more fall from its endless supply coiled at its base. Like the hydra, this was a battle I would not win. Nona knew how to push my buttons. The plant was her curse, her last laugh, on me and I stood no chance. She knew it. The creature will be my blazing revenge. Not only will I nurse this space-invader, no, it will thrive. It will grow to the size of her Silver Lake duplex. To see the look on her face when the plant has consumes my life -- "Yes, hello Nona." "Oh yes Nona, the plant and I are doing quite well." "You should see it, dear Nona, big as your house and healthy." I can see her face now flushed with a anger and shame. How I relish the look on her face as she apologizes. She tells me that she should never have doubted me and that I have redeemed myself. Then she will know that I am responsible. She can’t make eye contact with me or the creature I have wrought. I am enveloped be its leafy tentacles and her jealousy rises like white hot bile on the back of her throat. She spits her noxious venom in our faces, but we have become impervious to her malice. I water, feed and aerate my creature and we grow closer while he grows bigger. Nona knows what she lost in me now.
- - -
Scott Root is an aspiring novelist, tech contributor at the Super Addendum and canine care specialist at the Healthy Spot in sunny LA. His previous submission to Weird Year is "The Water and Sand." He writes a (near) daily blog called Notably Conventional Delivery about psychology, science and fiction. He does not own a fern.
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