I Hope My Plants Aren't Dead | By Joe Ray W.
(When I Return To My Flat After Five Months Elsewhere During Lockdown)
Get a house plant, that's what they said. It'll be good for you, that's what the internet said. Maybe I will, that's what I said. And so, I ended up with a cacti. I called it Prickly Pete, gave me a reason to live. I pricked my fingers from time to time, but that was fine, made me feel real alive. At least until one morning the cacti looked to be dying, and the tears from my crying weren't enough to make it rise back on up. So I started rooting Prickly Pete on.
'Go on little cacti. You have to keep going.'
The cacti slumped.
'C'mon, there is so much to live for!'
'I mean, sure you're stuck in a pot, but look how bright it is outside when I open the blinds for you. You can even breath a little fresh air when I open the window from time to time. And you don't have to worry about the wild world in that little pot of yours. No worries over money, romance, friendship, mental anguish, violence, housing... you don't have to worry about anything!'
‘You think you can die so easily don’t you? I can’t die so easily, no one will let me, my consciousness won’t let me. But here you are dropping dead in front of me. Do you not realise how that makes me feel?!’
The cacti turned to look at me.
‘Oh… man, it’s always about your feelings. Me, me, me , me , me.' The cacti responded in a mocking way.
Then it dropped dead. And all I could do was put the cacti in the bin. There wasn't enough space for me.
I ended up buying a plastic plant, suited me fine, had more in common anyway. Patty Plastic, that's what I called it, and they weren't a prick. So at least that's something.
Joe Ray W has spent a whole heap of time creating short stories, largely focussing on psychological distress through the medium of objects. He guesses writing about such things helps articulate all the confusing thoughts that often spin around his mind, and maybe others will find a connection with it all too.