The Houseplant in Love with a Girl

This was my first story ever published. It’s been a year since its release in Vandercave Quarterly, so in honor of its publiversary I am now reprinting it here. Enjoy 🙂

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I love her.

I love her, I love her, I love her.

But I cannot tell her this, because the mesophyll affords me no need for a mouth.

Perhaps, as she pours the morning water upon me, causing my limbs to bounce beneath the shower… Perhaps, if I try very, very hard, I can will them to bounce just a little more, and she will see this and she will know that they bounce and jump with joy for her.

Perhaps, as she moves my heavy ceramic pot to the brighter windowsill where the three o’clock sun can find me, where it accentuates my strong and manly stems… Perhaps, if I try very, very hard, I can align my shape so that the light shining between my leaves upon the wall may spell out my ardor in sunlit letters.

Perhaps, as winds thrust through the open window, as they blow into her face her long brown hair (brown like my soil! Oh how many things we have in common!)… Perhaps, if I try very, very hard, with the help of the wind I can scoot to the sill’s edge, fall with a crash onto the floor. She will hasten to sweep up the dirt, but not before I tenderly grasp her hand with my roots.

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You’re a writer? I’ve thought about writing a book someday…

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Many writers respond to the above sentiment with a groan, a smirk, a roll of the eyes so intense they risk pulling a muscle. Some respond with downright disgust. “How DARE someone insult my LIFE’S WORK by thinking they might want to try it!”

I don’t understand this response. At all.

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To the woman on the bench

~ a fictional letter-story ~

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To the woman on the bench left of the crabapple tree by the fountain, who wears that coat with all the buttons and I think has black hair but might just have really dark brown hair, and who yesterday was looking much sadder than usual —

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The INSTA-LOVE trope: just add water!

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There are few things more grating to me than the insta-love trope seen so often in fiction. This device essentially involves shoving two characters in the same room, then poking them with a stick until they have nowhere else to go but each other’s arms.

The development of their relationship usually looks like this:

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Siblinghood of the World Blogger Award

Before we begin, I want to make a quick announcement:  I have a new publication out at Slink Chunk Press! “Margarine”the almost-butter, or the girl who’s almost-alive.

I hope you give it a read. I would be so grateful. Now, moving on!

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My rad friend Tarquin has nominated me for the Siblinghood of the World Blogger Award! Thanks, friend! Tarquin has given me 10 questions to answer, after which I will ask 10 new questions to my nominees. Here we go:

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Wake Up Call

For this week’s post, here is prose-poem I guest-wrote for Ruby Browne’s blog, about the subconscious ways our emotions find their way out. While you’re there, I highly recommend reading some of Ruby’s writings about mental health. She’s amazing.

Ruby Pipes

"DSC_0087" © Harvy, 2012. CC BY-NC-ND 2.0. “DSC_0087” © Harvy, 2012. CC BY-NC-ND 2.0.

You heard it before you knew what was happening, before you were even fully conscious, opening your eyes to the dark and to the sound. A ghostly sob behind hypnopompic curtains, fuzzing into your dream like an alarm clock. And maybe it was an alarm, in a way. Not the ring-ring-ring kind, but an alarm of another variety. An alert, a Mayday signal from your subconscious, saying wake up and feel this.

You woke after the crying had already started, the pillow wet beneath your cheek. You tried to keep the noise down, so as not to wake him. Because you wanted to be polite in your grief, because you didn’t want him to ask. Because you didn’t know the answer.

But you also needed to get it out. Out of your body as if it were something…

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Then, Now, and Later: reflections on yesteryear and hopes for 2016

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Welcome back! Man, feels like the last time I saw you guys was last year! Har har har. Dad jokes.

Today is a special day because it’s exactly one year, to the date, since I posted my debut blog entry. Happy blogiversary to me!

January is a time of gazing adventurously at horizons to come, but it’s also a time for reflecting on the last 12 months. I’m in the mood to get reflecty. Whaddaya say?

Writing progress made in 2015:

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The Selkie’s Husband, now up at Gingerbread House!

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I am so, so, so happy – like, heart bursting out of my chest happy! – to announce that my short fiction entitled The Selkie’s Husband is officially published at Gingerbread House Literary Magazine! This is my favorite piece I’ve written thus far, and with a journal I adore, so this publication is a personally significant one. It would mean the world to me if you gave it a look. (If not for the story then at least for that wowzers artwork by Anna Dittman – holy smokes!)

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My year in books! 2015

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How many books did you read this year?
54! I’m not a bookworm. I’m a bookanaconda.

What was your number one top favorite of them?
Oh man… Oh jeez… *chews fingernails* WHY DO YOU ASK SUCH HARD QUESTIONS. You know what, no, I’m not playing by your rules. I’m picking more than one!

My top favoriteSSS were:
The Crane Wife (Patrick Ness)
The Book Thief (Marcus Zusak)
Station Eleven (Emily St. John Mandel)
Bird Box (Josh Malerman)
The Last Illusion (Porochista Khakpour)
The Enchanted (Rene Denfeld)

Okay okay, if you were to hold a gun to my head, first I’d ask why you care so much about this as to bring firearms into it, and secondly I’d probably say my top fave was… The Crane Wife. THERE, I PICKED.

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