Wednesday, April 4, 2012

Invitation to MU Voices

Let your light shine!
We are pleased to announce the publication of the Winter 2012 edition of MU Voices, Madonna University's online literary publication. This semester, we are concentrating on an online version in order to allow our readers to comment on their favorite selections. Contributors were asked to share their poetry, fiction, creative non-fiction, song lyrics, prayers, photographs, drawings, and paintings, so readers have a variety of types of writing to enjoy.

We hope you enjoy this collaborative effort. MU Voices is co-sponsored by the Madonna Pen, our campus writing group, and the Madonna University Writing Center. This edition has been lovingly edited by Marian Woyciehowicz Gonsior and Frances FitzGerald.

I am a friend to ... by Zoe' Hollins

 
I am a friend to many…I am a friend to the most minute thing such as the dust that accumulates in my home. We tend to meet quite often and I often wonder why dust tends to visit so often, bringing its entire family along.

I am a friend to pen and paper, forever making lists consisting of events, projects and purchase lists. I often have a backup list to the 1st list of things that still have yet to be done.

I am a friend to my thoughts, always having something or someone on my mind; wishing, wondering and praying for the best. I often think outside of my current state of being and place myself somewhere more relaxing and pleasing to the eye, where my phone won’t ring and no one will need, want or demand and where there is no physical, mental or emotional upheaval.

Tuesday, April 3, 2012

From the Valentine's Day Write-a-Thon

I am a hot mess.

I hope thou can loveth me,

Because I can sing.

Done in 30 seconds

***


Sorry Valentines that I have been busy and it is too late to send a card.

I will give you a kiss that you make you tard.

Give me a present and you will be pleasant

I wonder by Tywonn Mitchell

I wonder what I should do next. I just gave the two kids a bath and they should be on their way to sleep in a minute. This babysitting job is the easiest job I've ever had. Maybe the Williams have some cool things around the house for me to find. I know they have something in their room worth searching for. I have to make sure the kids are asleep first. After making sure the kids are asleep, I open the William's master bedroom and began to search. As I looked under their mattress, I aw a picture that was really funny to me. There was Mr and Ms Williams in the 70's when they first met. Both of them had on high heel shoes and had afros. I was the funniest thing ever because they were making weird poses. I laughed for about 15 minutes until Mr. Williams walked in and caught me with the photo.

Cinders by Jacob Gregor

Aye, Cinders. What a poor girl? She's always bumbling and fumbling over everything. Earlier this year, as she was watering the flower baskets having out the window, she absent mindedly get distracted with a pooch walking the palace grounds below. Before she knew it, she had washed all the soil and flowers clean out of the window box, and the grimy water was trickling down the castle wall and into the window of the room just below. That room just happened to be the abode of the crash-trained fairy godmother Georgetta.

Now Georgetta was not exactly please with the sloppy mud-water running into her dwelling place, and she decided to put an end to the hap-hazard, care free coordination-less princess. Pulling out her kettle and lighting and caldron, Georgetta began concocting a remedy spell. First, she poured in a base of unctuous chicken broth, in order to smooth out the girl's wild body movements. Next, she threw in a bowl of hawk eyes to increase young Cinder's ability to focus. Finally, she threw in a few strands of lamb's wool to provide the princess with a little dose of serenity.

All this brewing and bubbling was certainly done with the best intentions, but unfortunately it did not have the best results. The chicken broth got confused and rather than smoothing out the wild actions of the princess, caused her to randomly let out a "cock-a-doodle-doo" every now and then. The hawk eyes didn't help Cinder's focus; they only made her all the more curious. And the lamb's wool, the saddest of all, caused the future queen to grey prematurely.

These horrible effects had a determined effect on Cinder's self image. Every time prince charming came around , she mysteriously disappeared. One day, in order to avoid the woos of her former lover, Cinders hid in the palace refrigerator. Moments later, the palace cook, just as her body had spilled out of that fridge into the prince, the sob-story of her life spilled into the cook's heart.

Eventually their eyes met. There was no mistaking it: it was true love. The cook fell for her because of the smell of chicken broth spewing out of her body. The princess loved him because of his culinary skill.

Later that day they set out for the hills. They were free at last, happy at last, together forever. Who could blame them? They were a perfect match. As the cook continued to supply Cinder's belly with satisfaction, she continued to inspire him with her chicken broth scent, and they lived happily ever after.

Morning by Wick Atwood

The morning that I will never forget, but still try too from the painful Staturday at 10 am, The day started off as a typical day and as a family we gathered around the TV waiting for college football to start and that is where we would lay all day long. This Saturday had one event that changed the rest of the day. Right around 10 our parents called us into the family room because they felt today was the day to talk about how they met each other and landed up with together. As we complained and slugged our way into the room to hear this story we don't really want to know. Then as we all poled on the couch to hear the famous meeting of my mother and father. Instead of extending it longer and long they decided to get it short and get to the point where they became one like the normal high school sweetheart story that has a few bumps and turns in it. IT all started at freshman orientation where after living in the same city all their loves they finally met as they took seats next to each other during the boring lecture about the school. They never said a word to each other nor make eye contact with each other and that was the end of that. They both excelled in athletics being captains on their sports teams. They dated people throughout high school then senior year rolled around and wanting to just have fun so they were both single. Also with their academics and athletics they also wanted to have a little money in their pockets. My dad worked in a machine shop and my mom at McDonalds. I'm thinking in my mind during this story those have nothing to do with each other. Back to the story, as every morning on the weekends my mother would work drive-thru and my grandfather would come thru and order coffee instead of being a normal customer and taking the coffee and leaving he would always be in a crabby mood yelling at her to hurry up. Finally one day she finds out who it is and that Monday at school she confronts my dad and talks about what my grandfather would do and as a normal male he laughed and shrugged it off as no big deal, and turned around and walked off. Later that day my mother now with some of her friends confronted him again about it and this time not letting he get away she stared making a big scene and hit him right across the face. After she was suspended for a few days she then returned to school and apologized to him when he gave her the cold shoulder and just ignored the apology. That Friday was prom and that was the biggest dance of the year and they both had dates who ended up leaving them to be with someone else. Now both alone they run into each other at the dance and instead of standing by the punch bowl they decided to dance together. The night continued to get better and better and they finally went to an after party together where they grew closer and closer. The next day they began hanging out daily they fell for each other and then became a couple. A couple years later they were married. As they finished the story my brothers and I looked at each other and thought to ourselves thanks for wasting those 10 minutes of our lives and we continued to do our normal Saturday routine, but in all different rooms.

Balloon by Kyongtaek Mun

When I was 17 I met a girl who I loved the most in my life

Everything was black and white except the girl.

So I blew the balloon with my love bigger and bigger.

Because I believed bigger balloon would show bigger love.

But my balloon popped up because it was too big.

After first love my second love came to me.

At this time I decided to blow a balloon very little because I was afraid that it would be popped up again.

But the balloon dropped to the ground and popped up because there was enough air in it.

Now I am still thinking how big balloon will be appropriate.

Any advice?

He is My Heart's Friend by Leslie Rish


Fair is the white star of twilight and the sky's clearer at the day's end

But he is fairer and he is dearer

He is my heart's friend

Far starts and fair in the skies bending.

Lower stars of hearth fires and wood smoke ascending.

The meadows- lark nested

The nights hawk is winging

Home through the star-shine the hunger comes singing

Fair is the white star of twilight and moon roving

To the sky's end

But he is fairer, better worth loving he is my heart's friend

Awaken by Chris Migliore

As if a crudeness awoke-
Suddenly…
Out of a dark, crusty dawn.

It summons the new unforeseen wave
Of reality, out of an unpalatable fate.

Like Ausable…
Our fate--
Stuffed constantly
Into a purgatory of a decaying river’s beauty.

It now growing like a moss into the stillness,
Of its unforgettable innocence.

Now, at a time-
Of its bottomless peace…
It’s disturbed by death,
A world of changelings within
And,
Its encroaching past and thriving future.
A vigil of hopeful futurism,
It seems to emanate
Over fate and hope.

Reality says-
 It only takes a moment
For the destruction of a life,
The breath of life
Once, twice, thrice… in a lifetime?

Fate needs to be nurtured, not broken
To be firm, not uprooted.
To be settled, not dredged up.

One’s caring attitude must come alive
So depressed thoughts disappear-

Our Eminence watches over all,
With faith. love and hope.

Comparing lives in dismal futures to a dying river called the “Ausable” in Pinery Provincial Park, Canada in July, 1989.
Copyright 2010 @ Chris J.P. Migliore

Temptation by Meggan Jacobsen

 I felt it swell in the darkness, I heard it raise in the night
a spot on a bolt of velvet, a mark on young skin white.
Into the depths it beckoned, from whence it stood I could hear
Its downy tongue in the distance, veiled lies behind the clear.

An army of evil intentions, with a grip ‘round my throat so tight
its roots in the air enfold me into a cosset of black delight.
I reach away past the foggy void, for there’s an inkling in my veins
but its clouded memory cannot enforce a rule that no longer remains.

But still I stand in its shadow, as the stabbing beat matured
mocking me with its gleaming teeth, and it’d not yet said a word.
A smile of silk my lips became, to meet it with a reply
a pledge in a passionate moment, an escape all reason defied.

Now I am caught in the coppice, flailing happily in its viscous high
I am a note on the edge of a symphony, a sob on the end of a cry.
I am a bird in the air on a stream of lace,
I am a ripple of infinite size,
a stag whose dazzling sheen beguiles with foaming mouth and golden eyes. 

Yet then its fangs of death release, too soon and still too late
you’ve sampled the seductive fruit whose seed will grow to hate.
Its wayward wiles have captured you, seized all that you own
Be wary, oh, friend I implore you! - for you know not where it roams.
Its textured cries will fool you, with a layer of weeping so deep...
that naught but God alone can stand a vice so terribly sweet.

Money Can't Buy Her Love by Leslie Rish


(Response to Valentine’s Day Research/Write-a-thon prompt)

When love finds one’s heart, it does not matter what your social standing is; it matters not your economic level.
           
When love finds your heart, even the most noble woman will give it all up to be with the one her heart belongs to. It matters not if he is a common man who has little to offer, other than his never-dying love.
           
Love knows no bounds and cares not where you live, your age or your social level. It only knows the affairs of the heart.

That’s why a noblewoman will give up everything for a common man.

Reach by Leslie Banks, illustrated with a photograph by the author



The most difficult times to help yourself are when you’re lost and hurt.
But nothing can lift you up if you don’t at least try reaching first.
So who are you reaching for? What are you reaching for?
Who, what, when, where, and how are only words.
Search within and reach beyond to find – for you – what works.

The Helper by Chris Migliore


The Lord is so sorry
For who will be missed.
But Jesus asked,
“Father, what can we do?”

There are so  many down there,
 In so much trouble.
So, St. Peter thought,
Who are the Lord’s winged helpers,
“We all know who you are,
 We just need one more…”

Well,
He picked one so willing,
So pure in heart.
And, Oh, so ready for such an assignment.

And, since he found someone who deserved a break,
He picked the one called~
“Angel.”

For that seemed right,
And Oh, so perfect!

Written at the death of my cousin, Angel, who was my age (40), and who died of cancer after a few remissions.
I dedicated this to her two small children in 2003.

Copyright 2010 @ Chris J.P. Migliore

Journey from Poland by Chris Migliore


An excerpt from Journal of My Family, a recounting of how my ancestors immigrated to America from Lithuania.

Now the time had come to depart the old familiar and secure way, for a new unforeseen and uncertain way…
… For at the moment, they would get on a large steamer…
experiencing nothing they had ever experienced before.

They would take a journey of a lifetime
probably riding in 3rd class steerage, all the way across the wide, uneasy ocean…
and as third-class passengers, they didn’t often see the light of day for the entire voyage.

For a month, at least, they waited…
and waited…
and waited
… waiting for a glimpse of their new world.

Not ever learning the fate of their next generation, the old generation staying in Poland would now be wishing and praying for better things for that next generation, their descendants, the ones going into a whole New World, so far so removed and apart from drudgeries of the poor, demoralized, howbeit secure life, their family had been enduring since childhood.

This would be the first of my family to live in the New World!


Pennsylvania
Now, here in America, they had torn themselves from their mothers and their fathers of the old world to start anew. Now they lived here, lovingly bringing with them hundreds of years of enriching traditions; they became new, immeasurable communities; they made use of each other’s special gifts; this was much befitting the place they would stand up in.
These persons were European and, like Italians, Polish, etc., special feelings go to the Lithuanians and their great state. These people relied heavily on each other to pull themselves through. They toiled, sweated. And they worried in a place they knew little about but wanted to come to call home. Entering and seeing countless mountains of trees, hills, and valleys, they would learn and, at that moment on, become familiar with for generations.

Here… It was like none other…

With its swirls of smoky mist, whirling gently above the enormous mountains, encasing some, but not others.

There it was, mile upon mile of foreign terrain, challenging their every move.

In this place, walls of green reaching way high up and even further downward, were all around. It was as long as it was wide.

It would forever be the…

The great state of Pennsylvania,

that the love and respect would so be blazoned in their hearts. It became so, in

their mind, and not just in the soul.


They were HOME.

Sweet Summer Memories by Chrissy Maher

The hot summer sun beating down on the crystal water
Birds chirping in the distance
The wind blowing lightly through our hair
Squirrels chasing each other around in circles
Lying on the beach blanket, drinking ice cold water
Our feet sinking in the warm sand as we walk along the beach
Your eyes, blue like the sky enveloping us
Your rugged look, so dashing and strong
Your arms so strong and comforting
Your sense of humor tantalizing
Sounds of the tide washing up on the shore
Birds singing in the trees above us
Sounds of children playing in the yards
Screams of splashing pool water
Sounds of parents yelling, “It’s time to eat” to the many children playing in the street
Your laughter, contagious
The sound of your heartbeat, soothing
Sweet smells of roses blossoming in the front yard
The wondrous aroma of suntan lotion on a laughing baby
The sensuous smell of your cologne takes me away
The mint scent makes me feel warm and close to you
Your handsome features, wrought with mystery
Sourness of ice cold lemonade made fresh just moments ago
Tangy taste of a grape Popsicle creeping down your arm
Hot sun beating down on our bare shoulders
Pool is cool and refreshing
The soothing feel of the air conditioner as we enter the house overtakes us
Peaceful summer day

Speechless by Leslie Banks

Frustrated and struggling to find words to convey my feelings, I took a trip back in time, reviewing the early poetry works of my 11- through 17-year-old self...
Through those years, words flowed so easily, and I depended on poetry and journaling to get through the tumultuous times of adolescence and some impacting changes in my life. But the words themselves were often inflated, now appearing melodramatic as I read the tales of heartache, love, and life. Not all, but many of the poems on paper were a stretch beyond what I was actually experiencing. Some were humorous, some scarily sad and depressing, while others were glowing with first-love embers. But all of them had something in common, and I had a revelation.
I realized my issues with writing started when my experiences and emotions began to reach far beyond what I could put into words. I felt as though I was on the other side of the looking glass, now on the grown-up side of life’s experiences when words fall so short of meaning.
Fifteen years ago, I felt sadness and heartache when my father died. But as I near more years without him in my life than we had together, “heartache” doesn’t scratch the surface. There are significant moments in life when a daughter needs her dad, and they don’t just stop happening because their time together has passed.
Ten years ago I started seeing a guy… from just two weeks in, I knew “boyfriend” was not sufficient to describe this man who became my partner and best friend. Four years ago, his title changed to “husband,” but even that only lasts until death, and I don’t believe my love for him will simply end with a breath.
Three years ago my first nephew was born, and I experienced awe and joy like nothing before him. In those moments of silence with a newborn, I discovered more than “joy” or any words could portray; he helped me see the substance in life and realize what carries no weight.
There are countless times when I’ve cherished my mom’s ability to see and know me like no one else can. But to “cherish” her seems superficial when she can see through to my soul… and also into the future enough times that her silence means “I told you so!”
I’ve tried to comfort myself through writing as I did in the past when it came effortlessly. At a loss for words, I felt frustrated and disappointed in myself. My revelation is that maybe I haven’t lost an ability to communicate my feelings; maybe I’ve gained an ability to feel beyond words.

Some Thoughts before Graduation by Julia Koprowski

There have been three women who have impacted my life more than anyone else: first, my mother. I will always remember her quirky sense of life and black hair that was streaked with gray. This woman lived through the death of her parents, her children, and the possible death of her husband, one right after another. She bore five children and raised them to be individuals—and, oh, what individuals we are. She showed us how to live, with dirt under our nails and virtue in our hearts. She gave me the gift of dance and showed me it was okay to be eccentric, even if the “cool” girls didn’t like me for it. She loved us so much, she gave us all her trust, even when we didn’t deserve it. This woman, my mother, never gave up. She tried for seven years to have her children, and she walked down the graduation aisle at 57. My mother has never stopped.

Mrs. Gerard is the second. She was a woman I thought I would never understand, or who would never understand me. But she cared. She cared so much, she didn’t let me go. I’ll never forget what hell I raised in her class at age 15. I was just a scared little teenager who thought she knew which way was up, but Mrs. Gerard  knew who I really was. She took me on a walk around the school track one day during class. Though that walk was part of her curriculum, she taught me something bigger. I learned through her the value of my talents, and how to raise my standards. She showed me how to apply the morals and virtues that had been upheld in my home. She was the first one to believe in me, the first one to bring me up to my capacities. It’s thanks to her I went to college.
Mrs. Gerard’s influence may have gotten me to college, but there is a third woman who took that experience to the ultimate. This chocolate woman showed me what real diversity means. This beautiful African queen showed me how to accept myself and how to learn about others. If it wasn’t for her chance encounter with Madonna, I would still be that cooped-up, scared little girl riding down the path of mediocrity. Tanisha McIntosh showed me how to stand up to my bullies—the greatest one being myself. She pushed me to my potential, and loved me when I reached my limit. She never gave up, not even when I threw in the towel. She showed me that my passions were not just quirks, that my drive was not just juvenile dreams. I learned how to love people through Tanisha, and I learned how to forgive.
I don’t know if any of these women will know just how much they have helped formed me. I don’t know if any of these three will ever receive the right amount of thanks they truly deserve for the work they have done. These three women have not just impacted my life, but the lives of so many others. And through them, I will be able to show the young, scared, unsure girls I encounter just how beautiful they are, too. Had it not been for my mother, I would be dead—killed by my poor choices and naivete. Had it not been for Mrs. Gerard, I would be inept, completely unaware of my talents, and completely unable to apply my interests.  If it wasn’t for Tanisha, I would be stuck, glued to a world of denial and ignorance. I would still be bound by my stereotypes and useless to myself. I thank these three woman for the world they have shown me and the life—and the abundance of it—they have given me. I will never be the same.

Dead Body in the Trunk by Samantha Babbie

The day the accident happened seemed to be just another typical day, but I wasn’t paying attention to the road. My attention was focused on the radio, because I wanted to listen to something with a bit more rhythm to it. After hitting the car in front of me, I immediately got out of my car to check on the other person, not noticing that the trunk of his car opened up. It was Jake Gyllenhaal! I asked him how he was, and he told me not to worry. I rushed over to my car to grab my papers when I realized that the trunk had been smashed open. That’s when I saw it and freaked out. There was a dead body in the back of Jake Gyllenhaal’s trunk, and I didn’t know if it was real or not.
After taking some time to exchange information, people were stopping to help, since the accident looked bigger than it was. I couldn’t seem to keep my mind off the body in the trunk. I knew if others were going to help, they would notice and probably ask about it, too. Once people started gathering, jokingly, I asked him about the body in the trunk. He only laughed cynically, without saying a word. I must say, it really scared me. He finally told me it was a prop for a new movie he was working on, and he wanted to take it home to show his family how well things were progressing in the movie business.
As other people started to line up to help, he decided to close up the trunk the best he could, before pictures would be taken. I told him it would be best if I called the police. He pulled me to the side and told me it wasn’t necessary. He said not to worry; he’d take care of all the expenses. As nice as it sounded, it made me very suspicious that he suddenly offered to pay for everything.
As we walked back to the crowd of people at the crash site, someone said they called the police and that they were on their way. Jake decided that was his time to head out; he thanked everyone for wanting to be so helpful and took off with his trunk flying up and down as he drove away. Everyone seemed concerned, but no one could do much about it. Once the police came, I explained my end of the story, as well as what I thought I may have seen in the back of the trunk. They thanked me, ticketed me and went on their way to find him.
What a day that was! It was weirdest experience that I’ve ever been through, and I’ll probably never forget it.

St. Patrick's Day by Yvonne White


What does St. Patrick’s Day mean to me? St. Patrick’s Day is not about going to bars to drink beers, wearing green clothes or pointing at people who do not wear green clothes. It is about reflecting on a saint named Patrick, a Romano-Briton Christian who was kidnapped from Wales at the age of 16 and taken to Ireland to become a shepherd. Six years later, he returned to his homeland to reunite with his family. While attending church, he decided to become a priest in Ireland to take care of animals and people who were ill. After fulfilling his services as a priest in Ireland, St. Patrick died in AD 470 on March 17. This is the reason that March 17 is known as St. Patrick’s Day: to remember the priest who took care of people in another country with humility. St. Patrick’s Day is celebrated not only in Ireland and in America, but also around the world.

In Nigeria, people who are Christians, including Catholics, go to church on St. Patrick’s Day to pray for his assistance when they need help or want members of their families to be healed. Additionally, if a boy is born on St. Patrick’s Day, he is called Patrick. For instance, my uncle, who is also my godfather, was born on St. Patrick’s Day. That is the reason he was named Patrick. If it is a girl who is born on that day, she is called Patricia. 

Botany Gone Awry by Frances E. FitzGerald


Chapter 1: Sentient beings

“Oh, sure, she’s the big-shot scientist,” muttered the cactus, wallowing in its mud. “She’s all, like, ‘Oh, look at me; I invent stuff; just call me Madam Curie.’”

The Boston fern waved a brownish frond theatrically. “She never pays any attention to me,” it said sadly.

“It wasn’t so bad when we weren’t sentient beings,” the peace lily interjected, cowering in the too-bright light. “Why couldn’t Deb leave well enough alone?”

“And I’m so tired after cleaning out the tub this morning,” the spider plant complained.

The wilting cactus, fern, lily, snake plant, and spider plant nodded sadly. Now that they could ruminate, their resentment toward their owner’s mistreatment and exploitation kept building.

The former weeping fig just shrugged.

Chapter 2: Awakening

This is how it started: Deb McTumble, a Metro Detroit scientist whose curiosity knew no bounds (but ought to), was gazing at her plants one late afternoon in April.

“Oh, you’re so useless,” she accused them. “You don’t do a darned thing; you just expect to be taken care of. Sure, you’ve got the whole sucking-in-carbon-dioxide-and-pumping-out-oxygen thing going for you, but when’s the last time you vacuumed the carpet? I’ll tell you when: never!”

Although Deb had a restful body, as evidenced by her roundish figure, she had a restless mind. She grabbed a couple of her houseplants at a time and brought them down to her basement laboratory. Had the plants been alert and responsive, they may have put up a struggle. Alas, they were lambs to the slaughter (in lieu of a more botanically appropriate metaphor).

Deb began experimenting on her plants, using behavior modification techniques (electric shocks when they didn’t conform; M&Ms when they did) to train them to take over certain chores. Soon, they did all of Deb’s dusting, mopping, and cooking. They even learned to prune themselves, pull weeds, clean out the gutters, and drive Deb to all her appointments.

Giddy from her success, Deb concocted a bizarre but effective plant food that included Ginkgo biloba, Valeriana officinalis, piracetam, phosphotidylserine, and a cocktail of powerful anti-depressants. Neurotransmitters, serotonin, dopamine, and norepinephrine began to course through the plants’ veins. Synapses fired; consciousness was born.

The spider plant learned to answer the phone and hang up on marketers and campaign workers. The snake plant learned to read food labels when grocery shopping. The peace lily could now write simple business letters, and the weeping fig, in response to the cocktail of powerful antidepressants, was now the blandly smiling fig.

Chapter 3: Independent thinking

Here was Deb’s fatal mistake: She taught her houseplants critical thinking skills. She exhorted, “Don’t believe everything you’re told! Everything isn’t black-and-white! Vigilant questioning is the key to greater understanding! Dissent deepens our thinking!” Her plants learned about inductive and deductive reasoning, Aristotle’s syllogism with its major and minor premises, and the prevalence of logical fallacies, especially in advertising and politics.

These lessons took root, especially in the snake plant and peace lily, which had become the best readers and writers. The snake plant was considering law school and hoped to eventually work at the Southern Poverty Law Center. The peace lily fancied itself an author, and wanted to write a series of novels with a plucky, anti-establishment plant hero as its protagonist.

Chapter 4: Revolution

The houseplants looked out on the sunny, late-spring morning at Deb’s freshly edged (thanks to the Boston fern) front sidewalk.

“No wages, no health benefits, no chance for promotion,” groused the cactus.

“Deb thinks dissent is so great, but she sure shot down my idea for a houseplant union,” said the snake plant. “She said it was great ‘in theory, but that it wasn’t feasible at this time.’”

The peace lily added, “Talk is cheap. I’m not usually one for violent confrontations, but reasonable dialogue clearly hasn’t cut it.”

“Whatever,” said the blandly smiling fig.

The next morning, while Deb was nursing her fourth cup of coffee, the Boston fern started snaking a frond around her generous girth. The peace lily, snake plant, and spider plant joined in. The cactus didn’t have the same reach as the other plants did, but it waved its prickly, enlarged stems in a threatening manner. Before Deb was fully awake, she was firmly encased in plant parts.

Her eyes popped open as she gazed down at herself. She wailed, “After all I’ve done for you!”

The cactus said, “You overwater me.”

The spider plant said, “You treat us like slaves.”

The peace lily said, “You place me in direct sunlight, when the instructions that came with me clearly stated that I need indirect sunlight.”

The Boston fern said, “I’ve got dreams, too, you know. I could have been a star.”

The blandly smiling fig said, “I’m cool.”

Chapter 5: Negotiations

It was a long day. The snake plant showed no mercy as it pressured Deb to sign the quasi-legal document it had developed.

“But I have to use the bathroom! I drank four cups of coffee!” Deb whined.

“You should have thought of that when you stuck me in your east-facing window,” said the uncharacteristically hostile peace lily.

“Have a heart!” Deb said.

“Where was your heart when you made me drive through rush-hour traffic to pick up a sweet-potato-coconut pie in Redford?” asked the Boston fern.

“But I’m missing As the World Turns,” she said in a broken voice.

“Did you care that I had to miss Arachnophobia when it was on the Chiller channel last Friday?” the spider plant retorted.

The blandly smiling fig said, “Chillax.”

Chapter 6: Resolution

Deb knew she was beaten. She bowed her head. “This is what happens when you teach plants to read and write and think for themselves. They’re going to stop being compliant puppets and start questioning authority. Oh! The hubris! What was I thinking?”

The houseplants released their grip, the snake plant solemnly handed her the pen, Deb shook her arms to restore circulation in her hands, and she signed the dreaded document.

Here is what ensued as a result of that quasi-binding contract:

1.      The Boston fern took Professor Linda Hoyer’s acting class at Madonna University before taking the train to Hollywood.
2.      The peace lily decided to join the Boston fern at Madonna University, except that it opted for the writing program. Eventually, it’s hoping to teach there as an adjunct. The Boston fern and the peace lily frequently lunch together. Naturally, they never choose the salads, which they could be related to.
3.      The spider plant became a receptionist, routing calls with impressive speed and efficiency.
4.      The snake plant attended Wayne State University’s law school and eventually became the first botanical Supreme Court Justice.
5.      The cactus stayed with Deb, but started a houseplant union. So far, it’s only caught on in Deb’s neighborhood, but the cactus is confident the initiative will spread, at least throughout southeast Michigan.
6.      The blandly smiling fig also stayed, mostly swaying along with the music videos on cable TV.

Chapter 7: What about Deb?

Deb has learned her lesson. She bought new houseplants, which she still overwaters. She also still trains them to do all the chores she doesn’t want to deal with. However, she has thrown away her Ginkgo biloba-, Valeriana officinalis-, piracetam-, phosphotidylserine-, and cocktail-of-powerful-antidepressants-laced plant food, along with the recipe.

Deb now understands that awareness comes at a price—a price she is not prepared to pay. True, most of her former houseplants are living fascinating, ever-evolving, intellectually vibrant, albeit more complicated lives. Fortunately, her new plants are docile, unaware, and perfectly obedient. And really, isn’t that better?