Short Stories

The House Plant

A houseplant is dying. Tell it why it needs to live.

The plant was drooping to an old kind of extent. Mum was right, it really was dying. The leaves had withered and had become old and grim until it looked like it was going to become the start to a horror house set.

“You know.” I started, and slipped down on the ground beside the pot. My back rested on the couch, but my head was fully turned toward the dying tree. “There are a lot of good things about plants.” I started. “First of all they have leaves, and those leaves, you know, make oxygen and breathe in carbon dioxide. That’s pretty great. Second of all, they’re beautiful. All kinds of different plants have that strange charm to them. You have the ones that grow flowers, the obvious ones, with the out there kind of charm, of varying different colours. You have those spikey leafed plants, they have some amazing personality. You have trees, they are wise beyond my years, and it takes forever to grow a full sized tree. You got plants with dark leaves and colourful leaves, and spikey leaves, and pointy leaves, and dangerous leaves, and harmless leaves. And then there’s you. You’re not outside in the cold, fending off your trunk and hoping your leaves don’t fall off. You’re here, in the cosy comfort of the home. You’re a lucky tree, and a beautiful one at that, you have a heartfelt personality, like you could find the route of someone’s’ troubles and fix it imediatley.” I paused. “But not like that. You’re looking sickly, and you are looking sad. You make this house feel less like a paradise, and more of a morgue. Your energy is fading and your leaves are drying up, because you’re slowly losing your life. Don’t give up, there are wonders to each personality, and even a house plant has a purpose.”