October Writing Challenge
I've decided to challenge myself with a bit of daily writing this month. My goal is to write something every day. In honor of Halloween, I plan to make it all horror related in some way. For the most part, these will be unedited.
October 6: The Plant
It was the only house plant that she had managed not to kill. It was purchased for the home that she loved, but from which she was forced to move. The plant came to the new home. The new home didn’t feel like home for a long time, but when it finally did, the plant seemed at home too, and it was thriving. Sitting in the kitchen window box, sending it’s creepers along the sill and up the string that had been attached to the fixtures for the curtain that was no longer there.
She watered it every Sunday, from an iridescent tumbler that had been her grandmother’s.
Every now and then, she pulled the dead leaves from its tendrils and rotated the pot, so it would grow in all directions.
Over the years, she had to add a lot more string. The tendrils wound about the entire kitchen now, running along strings nailed just below the join of the ceiling and the wall. Now it was making its way into the dining room. The pot could no longer be rotated, but that didn’t seem to matter.
Taking care of the plant now required all of Sunday. She had to go the entire length of each tendril, remove dead leaves, dust them. She watered the plant every day now. If she missed a day, the soil in the pot would be bone dry and the leaves would droop.
She was growing more tired than she used to. Sometimes she thought she was more tired than she should be, but then chalked it up to getting older.
The years went by, and the plant kept growing, making forays into the living room, then the front bedroom, bathroom, and finally the bedrooms too. The old woman watered the plant twice a day now, and was in constant motion, caring for the tendrils, tying new strings to support it, dusting and fussing over it.
The only time she wasn’t moving was at night, when she stole 5 hours of sleep from the day and the needs of the plant. At night, she dreamed of it, and in her dream the plant was moving, writhing, and growing. She woke every morning with a racing heart and panic that she just couldn’t control. She could only calm herself by touching the leaves of the plant. This was easy, as the vines now were wound about her headboard. She woke each morning to filtered green light. It was so peaceful. And she was so tired. One morning, she woke in her usual panic and reached for the plant. After she made contact, she felt so wonderful, so peaceful, and still so tired. She lay back on her pillow and fell back to sleep. As she did, the vine wrapped around her hand, caressingly, and she smiled.
Joan had just woken from a short nap when she heard a horrendous crash from outside. It seemed to come from across the street. She got up to look out the window. The house just across from hers had collapsed and a cloud of dust had materialized above it. She frantically called the fire department.
Rescue efforts were severely hampered by many vines that seemed to be everywhere in the house, and some of the stems were so thick that they were holding up parts of the collapsed roof. Engineers on the scene speculated that the weight of the vines actually pulled the house down from the inside. In the bedroom, they found remains that could not be identified. A mostly decomposed skeleton lay in the bed, wound about and intertwined with vines that were so thick that a wood saw had to be brought in to cut them.
Despite the authority’s best attempts at keeping the details a secret, word did get around. Joan was having coffee in her kitchen with her next door neighbor, Alice. “That sure is the strangest thing I’ve ever heard of happening for real!” she said to Alice. “Maybe I could sell a story or two”.
“Shame on you Joan”, scolded Alice. “Don’t you feel even a bit sorry for that poor woman? She only moved in two weeks ago and she was young and beautiful. Had everything in the world going for her too”.
October 6: The Plant
It was the only house plant that she had managed not to kill. It was purchased for the home that she loved, but from which she was forced to move. The plant came to the new home. The new home didn’t feel like home for a long time, but when it finally did, the plant seemed at home too, and it was thriving. Sitting in the kitchen window box, sending it’s creepers along the sill and up the string that had been attached to the fixtures for the curtain that was no longer there.
She watered it every Sunday, from an iridescent tumbler that had been her grandmother’s.
Every now and then, she pulled the dead leaves from its tendrils and rotated the pot, so it would grow in all directions.
Over the years, she had to add a lot more string. The tendrils wound about the entire kitchen now, running along strings nailed just below the join of the ceiling and the wall. Now it was making its way into the dining room. The pot could no longer be rotated, but that didn’t seem to matter.
Taking care of the plant now required all of Sunday. She had to go the entire length of each tendril, remove dead leaves, dust them. She watered the plant every day now. If she missed a day, the soil in the pot would be bone dry and the leaves would droop.
She was growing more tired than she used to. Sometimes she thought she was more tired than she should be, but then chalked it up to getting older.
The years went by, and the plant kept growing, making forays into the living room, then the front bedroom, bathroom, and finally the bedrooms too. The old woman watered the plant twice a day now, and was in constant motion, caring for the tendrils, tying new strings to support it, dusting and fussing over it.
The only time she wasn’t moving was at night, when she stole 5 hours of sleep from the day and the needs of the plant. At night, she dreamed of it, and in her dream the plant was moving, writhing, and growing. She woke every morning with a racing heart and panic that she just couldn’t control. She could only calm herself by touching the leaves of the plant. This was easy, as the vines now were wound about her headboard. She woke each morning to filtered green light. It was so peaceful. And she was so tired. One morning, she woke in her usual panic and reached for the plant. After she made contact, she felt so wonderful, so peaceful, and still so tired. She lay back on her pillow and fell back to sleep. As she did, the vine wrapped around her hand, caressingly, and she smiled.
Joan had just woken from a short nap when she heard a horrendous crash from outside. It seemed to come from across the street. She got up to look out the window. The house just across from hers had collapsed and a cloud of dust had materialized above it. She frantically called the fire department.
Rescue efforts were severely hampered by many vines that seemed to be everywhere in the house, and some of the stems were so thick that they were holding up parts of the collapsed roof. Engineers on the scene speculated that the weight of the vines actually pulled the house down from the inside. In the bedroom, they found remains that could not be identified. A mostly decomposed skeleton lay in the bed, wound about and intertwined with vines that were so thick that a wood saw had to be brought in to cut them.
Despite the authority’s best attempts at keeping the details a secret, word did get around. Joan was having coffee in her kitchen with her next door neighbor, Alice. “That sure is the strangest thing I’ve ever heard of happening for real!” she said to Alice. “Maybe I could sell a story or two”.
“Shame on you Joan”, scolded Alice. “Don’t you feel even a bit sorry for that poor woman? She only moved in two weeks ago and she was young and beautiful. Had everything in the world going for her too”.