This short story will have to suffice for some kind of literary content to this blog I mean for fuck's sake this thing is nearly devoid of any actual intellectual content. Reading through it is disconcerting, especially after doing some thinking and realizing that all of my favorite writers are dead.
I hate giving them titles, I really do, so there isn't one for this.
The plants sat cluttered in their various pots on the sill of the west facing window. The nine of them, the Foxtail Fern, the Dracaena Marginata, the Mother-in-Law’s Tongue, the Weeping Fig, and others, sat and stared out into the setting sun. Two days had passed but still they patiently awaited their anticipated surge of watery relief. It never came. More days came and went and some of them began to wilt slightly, their waxy texture now soft and pliable. They still waited for that opalescent rain that fell from the metal watering can. It never came. Two weeks had past and now the outer edges of their leaves began to crust and brown, their roots encrusted in the dry soil that bound them there. The violet violas hung their heads in defeat, their small faces wrinkled like the skin of old age. The Peace Lily lie heavily on the cooling stone of the sill, it had passed just yesterday but never gave up hope for that quench from near death--that brought by the tepid tap water. It never came. The English Ivy curled agitated but sucked dry of the strength to angrily withdraw its tightly wound tendrils. The lavender stood stiffly and knowingly, it had glimpsed this reality of desert drought. There was no mirage for that of the Prickly Pear Cactus either as it prickled its belly and fought hard against the thought of dying alone. It had surmised it would outlive the others by a month or so. By the end of the third week most had completely dried and threatened to burn with each subsequent afternoon sun. The cactus sat solemnly on the sill of the west facing window surrounded by the death of its company. It now waited for death. It never came. The paramedics barged through the door and coughed loudly at the stench of lavender and the decay of human remains. After the body had been removed a curious man approached the sill and salvaged the last living being in the vacant apartment. He took the cactus home and gently re-potted it. He placed it on the sill of his west facing window and watered it slowly, the opalescent rain spilling from the spout of the water can onto the light brown soil that now encased the cactus’ roots. The paramedic went to bed anticipating the cactus’ bloom. It never came. The cactus died hours later in the pale glow of the lonely moon’s light.
