To the houseplants during a depressive episode
I used to tear open helicopter seeds. I’d bury them in the mulch and wait for growth. They came down by the thousands, tumbling from the three large maple trees. I remember the smell that came with them as they decayed. We’d rake them up. Those that were forgotten grew into weeds pulled in the spring by our careful hands. My first apartment was between a slaughterhouse and a floral shop. At night, the screams of pigs could be heard, if you listened. The floral shop had a vague sign out front: “Don’t forget that special day.” I visited that place when I pulled in the parking lot to have a panic attack. I bought flowers from Meijer. They sit on my windowsill, with dried soil and brown leaves. When it rains, I wonder what they think. How close they are to staying alive, separated by a thin pane of glass.
Michelle Bellman is currently pursuing an MFA in creative writing (fiction) from Bowling Green State University. She is originally from Wapakoneta, Ohio and got her bachelor’s degree from BGSU. She works as an editor for Mid-American Review and teaches introductory composition courses. She has three short stories published in Prairie Margins. This is her first time publishing micro prose. Speculative fiction has a soft spot in her heart as well as writing about dysfunctional families and the children from those families.
Cover Photo by Dean Gray (Flickr)
NEW SOUTH 
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