Showing posts with label Scott Root. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Scott Root. Show all posts
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.
- - -
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.
The Water and Sand
By Scott Root
She meets him for coffee that morning. It is the type of bitter northwestern blend that he always prefers and takes black. She pours heaps of cream and sugar in and it becomes drinkable. She runs her finger around the rim of her mug, avoids eye contact and hopes that she won’t have to be the first one to speak.
"I wanted to talk..."
"I'm not here because I feel anything but deep burning hatred for you." It is hard to cut someone off mid-sentence if you speak first, and she is glad she waited. She makes eye contact for the first time all morning. He hasn’t been moved by her outburst, and embarrassed though she is; she tries not to let it show. She doesn’t want him to have any more power than he already has.
"I wanted to talk..." he begins again "... about something that's been bugging me for a little while." This is getting interesting. Despite making her feelings clear as a hot LA summer afternoon, he still wants to tell her what is on his mind. "Do you remember that party about a couple of weeks ago?"
She nods, that is not a party she cares to talk about. She had gotten just a little sloppy and said some things to several people which she regrets. She also suspects that she does not remember everything she said that night. He expects an apology. She will let him finish talking before she considers apologizing.
"It was a strange night for everyone. I got to the party a bit late, and things had settled down a bit. Which is to say, I suppose, that everyone's fake friends and acquaintances had left. It was really just down to the core group. I don't know every one of Rachel's friends, but I knew enough to feel comfortable there. I started to settle in, got a drink and took a seat on the couch. There were the usual party types around: the too-drunk-guy hitting on the out-of-his-league-girl, the gym-rats who only drink a light beer so they won't have to work it off in the morning, the hipster dancers who wear ironic everything. But in the corner, there was a clique of girls I didn't recognize at all. At first it seemed like just a group of girlfriends having a girls’ night out, but then I began to notice that they were gesturing toward me and talking in hushed tones."
The waitress comes by to offer a warm-up and he takes it. He also takes a break to catch his breath. She sees where this was going already. She must have done something that ruined his chances with one of the girls and he wants to know why.
After a long sip of his fresh coffee, he continues "Naturally, I thought that one of them must have the hots for me. So I nurse my drink and try to look popular for a few minutes. I act cool and show off, but not obviously to them. All this time, they're watching and watching. Finally, I make my way around to meet them. There's nothing out of the ordinary at first, just a nice group of girls. We talk and flirt, and I figure out that this brunette, Linda..."
"Oh good, you know her name."
"Don't be catty, it's unbecoming. Yes, Linda is the one that seems to have the hots for me. So we start talking a lot more and she starts hanging out with me. And pretty much everything seems normal, we end up dancing and I get drinks for us. Finally, she says she wants to smoke and so I go outside with her. At first we're just talking outside, nothing out of the ordinary, but then things take a turn for the dark. We start talking about relatives we've lost, death, destruction all of this dark stuff and I don't know where it's coming from."
She shifts in her seat and stirs more sugar into her coffee, this wasn't the turn she was expecting.
"I start to get real uncomfortable, and she senses it. 'I'm sorry, I didn't mean to make you so uncomfortable,' she says. I tell her that it's fine and we should just go back to the party. I start to leave and she grabs my arm, and says 'Wait,' so I turn back around. She's gotten intense and she has kind of a wild look in her eye. She pulls me in real close to her and she starts whispering in my ear. I was so surprised that missed the first bit of what she said, but roughly she told me this story."
In the beginning of time, there was sand and water. And both the sand and the water feared the other. So it was that they were separated and so they both remained blissfully unaware of the other until the time came that necessitated a boundary between the two - a place where they met. It was at this boundary that water and sand met for the first time in centuries and the boundary became like a veil between their two worlds. It was called "shore", and though most of the water and most of the sand preferred to stay away from the shore, there was a little bit of each that liked to hang around the veil between them and permeate the boundary. And so, when the time came to separate the living and the dead, the same model was used. The dead on one side and the living on the other, but in-between a "shore" -- a veil which a select few can penetrate.
"And then she just stared at me for a second with that wild eyed look in her eye. I laughed nervously at her, and I asked her what she meant by the story. She told me 'You are one of the few, but you must conquer fear.' and so I laughed off conquer fear, and said I wasn't afraid of anything. I was starting to think that as weird as this was, that it was a pretty brilliant come on. She said it again, 'You must conquer your fear.' So I ask her how to do that, still playful, and she says 'Fear is love and love is fear, to conquer fear, you must conquer love.' Now that's some pretty deep shit, and I'm starting to get chills, so I ask her what she said again, and it was 'Love is fear and fear is love, you must conquer love.' So, I ask what I have to do to conquer love, and she says 'Kill it, kill that which love and fear most.' Then she turns and goes back into the party."
She sits and stares, she did not expect this. Surely this must be some kind of joke. She shivers.
"So I follow her back into the party, still with chills running up and down my spine. She jumps right back into a conversation with her friends and I'm trying to engage, but it's hard after an episode like that. So I tell her to tell her friends about the water and sand, and she keeps talking. So I say it again, louder, but no reaction."
"She couldn't hear you?"
"No, it's like I never even said it at all. She just keeps talking and her friends keep talking and they can hear me just fine when I'm not talking about the water and sand, but it's not even like they're ignoring the subject. It doesn't exist to them. I left the party, and ever since then her message has been nagging at me."
"So, you needed to talk to someone about it?"
"Well, sort of. It's been 13 days since I received my message, and it's taken 12 days to figure out what to do with it."
"So, you're going to kill me?"
"I poisoned the sugar before you got here."
- - -
Scott Root is (surprise!) a starving artist living in the rose-colored, sunny LA (but maybe it's just the glasses they thrust on me when I got here). He writes a almost daily blog about psychology, science and fiction. He makes an excellent dinner guest (hint, hint).
By Scott Root
She meets him for coffee that morning. It is the type of bitter northwestern blend that he always prefers and takes black. She pours heaps of cream and sugar in and it becomes drinkable. She runs her finger around the rim of her mug, avoids eye contact and hopes that she won’t have to be the first one to speak.
"I wanted to talk..."
"I'm not here because I feel anything but deep burning hatred for you." It is hard to cut someone off mid-sentence if you speak first, and she is glad she waited. She makes eye contact for the first time all morning. He hasn’t been moved by her outburst, and embarrassed though she is; she tries not to let it show. She doesn’t want him to have any more power than he already has.
"I wanted to talk..." he begins again "... about something that's been bugging me for a little while." This is getting interesting. Despite making her feelings clear as a hot LA summer afternoon, he still wants to tell her what is on his mind. "Do you remember that party about a couple of weeks ago?"
She nods, that is not a party she cares to talk about. She had gotten just a little sloppy and said some things to several people which she regrets. She also suspects that she does not remember everything she said that night. He expects an apology. She will let him finish talking before she considers apologizing.
"It was a strange night for everyone. I got to the party a bit late, and things had settled down a bit. Which is to say, I suppose, that everyone's fake friends and acquaintances had left. It was really just down to the core group. I don't know every one of Rachel's friends, but I knew enough to feel comfortable there. I started to settle in, got a drink and took a seat on the couch. There were the usual party types around: the too-drunk-guy hitting on the out-of-his-league-girl, the gym-rats who only drink a light beer so they won't have to work it off in the morning, the hipster dancers who wear ironic everything. But in the corner, there was a clique of girls I didn't recognize at all. At first it seemed like just a group of girlfriends having a girls’ night out, but then I began to notice that they were gesturing toward me and talking in hushed tones."
The waitress comes by to offer a warm-up and he takes it. He also takes a break to catch his breath. She sees where this was going already. She must have done something that ruined his chances with one of the girls and he wants to know why.
After a long sip of his fresh coffee, he continues "Naturally, I thought that one of them must have the hots for me. So I nurse my drink and try to look popular for a few minutes. I act cool and show off, but not obviously to them. All this time, they're watching and watching. Finally, I make my way around to meet them. There's nothing out of the ordinary at first, just a nice group of girls. We talk and flirt, and I figure out that this brunette, Linda..."
"Oh good, you know her name."
"Don't be catty, it's unbecoming. Yes, Linda is the one that seems to have the hots for me. So we start talking a lot more and she starts hanging out with me. And pretty much everything seems normal, we end up dancing and I get drinks for us. Finally, she says she wants to smoke and so I go outside with her. At first we're just talking outside, nothing out of the ordinary, but then things take a turn for the dark. We start talking about relatives we've lost, death, destruction all of this dark stuff and I don't know where it's coming from."
She shifts in her seat and stirs more sugar into her coffee, this wasn't the turn she was expecting.
"I start to get real uncomfortable, and she senses it. 'I'm sorry, I didn't mean to make you so uncomfortable,' she says. I tell her that it's fine and we should just go back to the party. I start to leave and she grabs my arm, and says 'Wait,' so I turn back around. She's gotten intense and she has kind of a wild look in her eye. She pulls me in real close to her and she starts whispering in my ear. I was so surprised that missed the first bit of what she said, but roughly she told me this story."
In the beginning of time, there was sand and water. And both the sand and the water feared the other. So it was that they were separated and so they both remained blissfully unaware of the other until the time came that necessitated a boundary between the two - a place where they met. It was at this boundary that water and sand met for the first time in centuries and the boundary became like a veil between their two worlds. It was called "shore", and though most of the water and most of the sand preferred to stay away from the shore, there was a little bit of each that liked to hang around the veil between them and permeate the boundary. And so, when the time came to separate the living and the dead, the same model was used. The dead on one side and the living on the other, but in-between a "shore" -- a veil which a select few can penetrate.
"And then she just stared at me for a second with that wild eyed look in her eye. I laughed nervously at her, and I asked her what she meant by the story. She told me 'You are one of the few, but you must conquer fear.' and so I laughed off conquer fear, and said I wasn't afraid of anything. I was starting to think that as weird as this was, that it was a pretty brilliant come on. She said it again, 'You must conquer your fear.' So I ask her how to do that, still playful, and she says 'Fear is love and love is fear, to conquer fear, you must conquer love.' Now that's some pretty deep shit, and I'm starting to get chills, so I ask her what she said again, and it was 'Love is fear and fear is love, you must conquer love.' So, I ask what I have to do to conquer love, and she says 'Kill it, kill that which love and fear most.' Then she turns and goes back into the party."
She sits and stares, she did not expect this. Surely this must be some kind of joke. She shivers.
"So I follow her back into the party, still with chills running up and down my spine. She jumps right back into a conversation with her friends and I'm trying to engage, but it's hard after an episode like that. So I tell her to tell her friends about the water and sand, and she keeps talking. So I say it again, louder, but no reaction."
"She couldn't hear you?"
"No, it's like I never even said it at all. She just keeps talking and her friends keep talking and they can hear me just fine when I'm not talking about the water and sand, but it's not even like they're ignoring the subject. It doesn't exist to them. I left the party, and ever since then her message has been nagging at me."
"So, you needed to talk to someone about it?"
"Well, sort of. It's been 13 days since I received my message, and it's taken 12 days to figure out what to do with it."
"So, you're going to kill me?"
"I poisoned the sugar before you got here."
- - -
Scott Root is (surprise!) a starving artist living in the rose-colored, sunny LA (but maybe it's just the glasses they thrust on me when I got here). He writes a almost daily blog about psychology, science and fiction. He makes an excellent dinner guest (hint, hint).
