Ivy
Ivy plants stories
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booksandarts
booksandarts "Fight, Flight, and Screw Up Royally"
Autoplay OFF   •   a year ago
People always say I have a green thumb. I never think too much of it, though, because I was born with a power. Not a cool one, like the ones you'd witness superheroes in bright capes using to take pretty girls on flights and beat supervillains. No, not those kinds of powers. I can hear plants talk.

Ivy

People always say I have a green thumb. I never think too much of it, though, because I was born with a power.

Not a cool one, like the ones you'd witness superheroes in bright capes using to take pretty girls on flights and beat supervillains. No, not those kinds of powers. I can hear plants talk.

Many people are shocked when I tell them this, but, at the end of the day, it's more of a burden than anything else. Constant begs for water, more legroom, and better soil.

I have a so-called "green thumb" just because I can't tolerate those plants whining 24/7.

Today's a regular day. A gray evening paired with a gray life and constant voices pounding in my head. It's simply fantastic that my mom's a gardener.

I decide to take a nap, for today, after the drought, the plants are extra demanding.

I lay down, but can't shake the ridiculous, high-pitched squealing of the multiple flowers and cacti sitting patiently at their vases. Covering myself under my blankets, I force my eyes to lock.

My head starts spinning. I get out of bed, my eyes still shut. It was stupid of me to think I'd be able to nap anyway. I have work to do.

Finally, I flutter open my eyes and trip over a vine at my feet.

I find my whole room covered in wondrous plants, cramped against the ceiling. They shout blood-curdling screams as if their legs were being snapped off. I see blood filling the room like a pool.

That's when I notice: it's not my room. I notice every tiny detail comparable to my mom's greenhouse, except it's immense.

"The end is near, darling," a cactus with a grave, unsettling voice mumbles at me.

I notice I have wings. My wings start taking me places. Before I can think a second thought, I am trapped inside a flytrap.

I feel it giggling, a heinous witch-like cackle, from the vibrations inside the plant. I start to fight back. From the outside, the same muffled screams as before.

"Save us, Melanie. You're the only one who can!" I hear them howl scatteredly.

This is all a bad dream, I tell myself. I have to wake up. I have to wake up. I hear shouting from the throat of the flytrap. Except, a familiar voice.

I look down to find my mom, about to be swallowed whole.

"It isn't a bad dream, Melanie," she says, struggling to swim against the saliva attempting to gulp her down.

"W... what?" I stutter.

"We were beaten, Melanie. I love you," she whispers, swirling down his esophagus, being carried like a wave.

"I... I love you too." She can't hear me. I start throwing myself at the roof of the flytrap's mouth. "Let me out! Let me out! Let me out!" I shriek, breaking into sobs.

From the outside, I hear my mom's voice. But I know it's not truly her.

"These damn flies always buzzing. At least the plants are silent," she mutters, before chopping the neck of the flytrap with scissors, its mouth still gripping me.

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