A Short Short Storyby Sandra Scofield
Brett misunderstood the first signs. She had set tomato plants out in their flats during the day, thinking if it didn’t get too cold, she would be able to put them in the ground the next afternoon. Jenn had one of her temper storms after school when Brett told her there was folded laundry on her bed and she should put it away first thing. Then Peter came home drunk—morose, leave me alone, drinks after work drunk, nothing new in that. Brett made spaghetti and sat at the table eating, not angry or sad, but tired, too tired to call her family to dinner. She made a cup of tea and stared out the window until it was dark. She forgot about the tomato plants. After a while the others soft-shoed into the kitchen and ate with their heads down. She thought about gathering them in, if only her arms were long enough; she thought about singing to them, but she went to bed.