--- This piece is an excerpt from our Short Story Anthology. We'll be posting pieces from our short story anthology in the coming weeks ---
She buries the seed in rich dark earth, smiles of dirt forming under her nails as she covers it. The sun is warm and bright and all she can see is life, as far as the eye can see. She steps away, grabs a watering can, creates a lifegiving shower with no effort. She sends her patch of ground a soft look, overjoyed by her accomplishments, and walks back inside.
The next day, she returns. She grabs the watering can, waters her little garden, and sits in the grass next to it. Bugs crawl on her fingers but she just laughs and points into her garden, whispering to them.
“That’s where I planted the tomatoes, and there the peppers. There’s gonna be cucumbers over there and beans over there and there’s just going to be so much new life for you to enjoy, little buggy. Please don’t eat my vegetables though, I would really appreciate it.”
The last seed she planted goes unacknowledged, but it’s okay with that. It wasn’t supposed to be here anyway, but it’s excited to see how this is going to go. She seems so happy, and so much nicer than it’s regular fate.
The girl sits there for a little while longer, basking in the sunlight, and then she goes back inside.
When she returns the next day, some of the plants have little green sprouts, poking their heads out of the ground. She squeals and spins, dancing in the grass, but she keeps looking back at the sprouts. Hope is not lost.
The last seed hasn’t sprouted yet, but it’s not supposed to. It should wait a little while longer, needing more water and more nutrients to grow. It’s how things are meant to be, and the girl clearly seems happy to provide.
She skips around the garden, hopping from stone to stone in her path, and waters each of the little sproutlings. She moves the shower of water slowly from plant to plant, trying hard not to break their tiny leaves or crush their little stems. The water glistens in the sunlight, and she smiles and pretends her eyes aren’t glistening in the same way.
The last seed is small but it knows its purpose, though her obvious sadness calls to it much more than any war ever has.
For weeks she comes to her garden every day, watering the plants, talking to them, as they grow and they grow. The last seed grows too, slower than the rest, sprouting as the others soar. It is burdened by the weight of its responsibilities, but the girl’s gentle care lets it thrive. It grows to love her, the soft love of a child for their parent, and as it builds its own tiny body, it awaits the day where it can thank her.
She’s upset the next time she comes, a stark contrast to her light cheer on each other day. She paces outside the garden, shaking. It doesn’t know if she’s scared or angry. She stops, dropping to the ground, and starts to cry.
Her father is gone. She’s not sure he’s coming back. Nobody else has, each person leaving for this war and never returning. She has nobody left.
It cannot do anything, it’s still just a little sprout, and everything else is so much bigger. If it had been sent to where it was supposed to, it would be fully grown by now, but even the delays can’t make it regret being sent here.
When she waters the garden with the same watering can as ever, the same source of water as before, the plant thinks it tastes bitter, like the tears rolling down her face.
She goes back to her empty house.
She continues to come back each day, though it’s like the sun dimmed with her, days shorter and nights longer, her bright smile never again making an appearance. It tries to grow faster, but it can’t do much besides for hope that the bud it developed continues growing. She waters each plant, even when it has already rained. She touches the petals of flowers and runs her hands along the fence separating the garden from the world. She still doesn’t smile. It’s simply routine. It no longer makes her happy in the way it did. The plant wants to try to save her. It doesn’t know if that’s possible. Every day, she goes back to her empty home.
The bud continues to grow. It does, and for that the little plant is grateful. The days pass and the nights go by, the peppers and tomatoes and cucumbers all bear produce. The plant grows bigger, the bud forming and developing as it needs. The amount of time before it can help her grows smaller and smaller. It hopes to see her smile again. The true smile from the days when the plants were just sprouts, when her father was still home, when its traitorous thoughts were wishes instead of plans. It could save her father if it achieved what it was meant to do. It could save her instead if it doesn’t. It can’t make a decision yet.
A week passes, then another. The nights had been growing shorter as summer passed its peak, but the sunshine fueled the plants and the plants somehow still fueled the girl. The bud is heavy, bending the plant, but it knows it’s worth it. It has to be. She still comes each day, but she is sluggish and tired. The sun does nothing for her, and she only fears that her plants will die without her. She grabs cucumbers and peppers to make lunch for herself, looks at the bud, and returns home.
The bud splits open, unfurling and dropping it’s cargo onto the ground. It is little and green, shoving its tiny human limbs into the ground and growing. Teacup size to doll size to toddler size, getting bigger and bigger before it retracts the limbs and lies there, staring at the flower that bloomed from the bud. Large and gray with a soft purple center, new to it but fascinating. It reaches up towards it, stumbling on newly grown feet, to touch the tips of the petals, tiny fingers poking the stamen, running down the stem. It used to be this plant, this flower, and now it is not. It is not a human, not quite, but it can sit by the flower and listen for the creak of the gate swinging open. It can hear the soft sound of her footsteps, the clanging noise from when she picks up the watering can.
It hears her soft gasp when she sees it, sees the way her eyes widen as it toddlers towards her. She places the watering can down, reaches out a hand. It takes it, her pale hands huge compared to its own. She holds out another arm, soft smile building up on her face, and it giggles and smiles back. The sun is returning, and she is reaching towards it, attempting to lift it into her arms.
It allows itself to be lifted without a fight, holding on to the sleeves of her jacket when she bends to pick up the watering can. It smiles at the look on her face as she waters the rest of the plants, at her expression upon seeing its flower. But at last, she puts the watering can down in its spot. She opens and closes the gate, latches it shut. And then she turns her face to look at it again, and for the first time in months she is not alone.
She smiles her original sunshine smile and it beams back at her, and together they head home.
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Written By: Jaiden Radoczy
Date Published: 12/29/2022
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