Plastic Plants
Category C: First Place (2024) Monash Short Story Writing Competition
Author: Brydon McLeod
You’ve caught me green handed. No, no, no, don’t run away… it’s nothing like that. I haven’t killed anybody. Do you really need to take a look? You’ll call the cops? Alright, fine… there you go. It’s just a plant. Well, a dead plant. I’m burying it here. Why didn’t I just dump it in the compost? Do you know where the compost goes? I certainly don’t. This way, I know I’m completing the cycle. But why in the middle of the night? You think I look suspicious? Ha! Can you imagine the looks I’d get if I were doing this throughout the day? Anyway, what is it they say? Suspicion always haunts the guilty mind…
You’re right, you’re right. I’m the one in the park in the middle of the night. I’m the one with dirt on my hands. Do you want to help? Many hands make light work. No? Are you sure? You don’t want to be complicit? In burying a plant? I don’t think it’s illegal… strange, perhaps. Maybe I can convince you.
Surely you agree that nothing brings the house to life like plants. Only, I can’t help but kill them all. Every last one. Even the hardiest can’t hold ground. Devil's Ivy, destroyed. Snake Plant, slaughtered. Cactus, cactus. My kill count is in the hundreds.
I sound proud? Not at all. I’m just used to it. I love plants, but they don’t love me. They just don’t stick around. I don’t know why. How could I? There are too many variables. The planting. The lighting, watering, pruning and fertilising. The maintenance. There’s just too much.
At first I wondered why they died. Now, I just shrug and head back down to the local nursery. I like it there. The staff know me on a first name basis. They say, “You must really love plants.” Mum suggested I ask one of the assistants out. That might work. She could tell me what I’m doing wrong. But why would anyone date a plant killer? Curiosity, perhaps. Or better yet, an opportunity to end my spree. Either way, it’d be risky for me. She'd reveal my secret and they'd cut off my supply. Alternatively, I’d be forced to lie. She’d ask, “Where do all the plants go?” I’d say, this time, a gift for friends, the next time Mum, then Dad, then, perhaps the office. Afterall, my boss thinks plants boost productivity. Then again, I could tell the truth. I’ve been planting them in a secret garden. Burying isn’t planting, you say? Potayto, potahto, tomayto, tomahto. It’s much of a muchness when they’re already dead.
Why do I buy them if I’m just going to bury them? You’re asking a lot of questions. Are you an employee of the Plant Protection Agency? No? Well, it’s an aspiration, formed from an inspiration. Maybe a year ago, Mum stopped by. “Sweetie, perhaps you should liven the place up a bit. Buy some plants. Then you’d be able to get a nice girl.” Apparently they’re a cure all. Oh my dear mother, if you only knew. The one thing worse than a dead apartment is a dying one.
So why not stop? Well, now that you mention it, tonight's death might be the final straw. Plants come with vines attached, and maybe I’m not ready for the commitment. You know what? I’m actually thinking about going plastic.
It never crossed my mind until last night. My banker mate came over for tea. He took a look at this little guy, grabbed a leaf and asked, “Shouldn’t this be green?” I shrugged, he continued, “Mine are always green.” But how? He works long hours. “I’ve gone plastic. Faux green.”
He says people only care about appearances. That the world is a place for inedible arrangements, fireless fireplaces, and of course, plastic plants.
Surely that rings hollow. Don’t plastic plants look inferior, form without substance, trash disguised as treasure? Apparently not, “As long as you don’t skimp out.”
Aren’t plants sponges that soak up all the attention you feed them? Surely someone has caught on, seeing through the illusion. Apparently not, “Few look close enough. And even if they did, most wouldn’t be able to tell.”
Wouldn’t people touch them and feel the difference? Apparently not, “People don’t want to harm them. They just stare from afar.”
Don’t people stop to smell the roses? Apparently not, “And if they did, I’d just start spraying them with fragrance.”
He’s put together a strong case. A plant without the planting. No lighting. No watering. No pruning. No fertilising. No maintenance. One strong objection: it’s all a deception. Tangible, opaque. But still fake. Faux green sits in a state of stasis, somewhere between mirage and oasis. And I’m not out to lead others down a garden path.
I think his view is obscured. For what is the point of plants anyway?
Mum grows plants for produce. Rosemary, thyme, mint. Apple, lemon, peach. Aromatic, fresh, tasty. A plastic lemon tree won’t give you lemons, so no lemonade. Conveniently, I don’t like lemonade and can’t cook. And if I wanted to, I could just buy what I need from the shops.
Some like to be viewed as ‘plant people’. They think nothing says class, caring, or commitment like live plants. But isn’t it just a step down from having a baby or even a pet. Perhaps it’s a coping mechanism for those who’ve lost their dependents. Birds who fill empty nests with leaves. Or maybe it’s a chance to see if you’re ready, ready to step up. But class? Ah, that’s right, it costs money to hire gardeners.
Mum also said that plants filter air. But according to my mate, “That’s what air purifiers are for.” So now, he has a plastic plant, an aroma diffuser and an air purifier. Doesn’t it make you laugh? A tower of machines, garnished with green, struggling to keep up with nature’s contrivances. Only, it’s not true. He said that “Plants barely purify anything.” I told my mum. She was annoyed and told me to shut up.
So far, the arguments for owning a plant are wilting away. Yes, I agree, it does seem that I should go faux green. But doesn’t something still feel wrong about owning a plastic plant?
Let’s return to the root of the problem. Is a plastic plant even a plant? What even is a plant? Someone said that plants have a “vegetative soul.” Now, I’m not sure whether souls exist, but surely plastic plants aren’t vegetative; they can’t grow or reproduce. That’s probably the issue. Plastic plants don’t die, but that’s only because they’re not alive. You’re right, they do decay. Still, that’s only an exhale, as opposed to the generative inhale of life.
I’m biased? Perhaps, but I suspect you are too. A loaded jury in favour of nature. Of course, there are other definitions of plants. For example, a plant is ‘another word for factory.’ Then plastic plants can produce plastic plants. Ah, so they do indeed reproduce. Perhaps we judged too hastily. Shall we browse another? ‘To put a bomb somewhere.’ Now, I’ve heard that some plastic plants are flammable. The evidence is building. One last definition? ‘To put something in a position secretly, in order to deceive.’ That’s what my mate is doing.
I sense your impatience. Keep away, that blight is contagious. To be fair, you are justified, I have led us into the weeds. Can you see the trail back?
Ah, you’re right. I got carried away and forgot myself. I, a plant killer, should be asking whether having a fake plant is better than having a dead plant. Do my ears deceive me? Did you suggest that I should have no plant at all? That’s not an option. Then, you think I should go plastic? But I don’t want to miss out on trips to the nursery. No, I’ll keep it natural.
Do I detect judgement? Shouldn’t you let bygones be bygones? Can’t I just buy what makes me happy? I enjoy the process of buying plants, of seeing how long they last. Maybe I enjoy killing them, maybe I enjoy burying them. We haven’t got to the part where I read them their last rites. You should stay to see that, seeing as you’ve stayed so long already. But you’re starting to look impatient. Am I wasting your time? Feel free to leave, it’s not like I asked you to stay.
It’s not long now. We’d be finished if you’d helped. But that’s okay. We can’t have everything, can we? Just like I can’t have plants that last. Living plants. You think that plastic plants would last? Why are you bringing that up again? I thought we agreed that I should stick with the real thing. And how can you be certain? Maybe I’ve been cursed.
And who’s to say this plant isn’t plastic? Maybe the nursery has already cottoned on. Maybe they’ve sold me one. I reckon they could. After all, plastic plants are getting realistic. But feel this. It feels real, doesn’t it? You don’t want to? Why are you being so difficult? I didn’t ask you why you’re here, out in the dead of night. I didn’t hassle you. I didn’t disrupt your business. I didn’t tell you what to do. You know what, I’ll start. You should go. You should leave. But before you do, could I borrow a tissue? No? What about a tea towel? My hands are dirty. That’s why I’ve been so slow. I forgot my trowel.