Write a story from the perspective of a root vegetable.

(Weirdly anxious this evening)

Write a story from the perspective of a root vegetable.

When I was small I dreamt in ruby red. My seed was a hard spiky shell. I was planted amongst my siblings. Half an inch deep and one inch apart. I cracked myself out of the void. I reached up with my green and down with my round and red. I pushed  through warm darkness. I sucked up water and sunlight. I witnessed my siblings plucked near me. I grew to fill the spaces they left. 

Now I mostly sit. Caterpillars nibbling on my leaves. I grow more roots, anchoring myself to this place. I feel left behind. I study the vibrations of the worms and the sounds of the birds. The summer sun is hot. The rain is rare. I do not like the heat. I wish to hide. So I make myself invisible. I do not get pulled from the soil. I feel the autumn turning around me. The rain returns and I am covered with leaves. The snow comes and gently fills the crevasses. 

I see spring for the first time. I watch with curiosity as the humans prepare the dirt nearby. I am still invisible. I do not want to be seen. I have greater aspirations. My dreams mean going unnoticed while I prepare myself. 

Not many beets make it this far. It is part of our collective consciousness, the knowing that we are grown for our sweetness. To become pickled or sugar. Sliced for salads. Boiled.

Not me. I won’t. The summer returns. I throw off my cloak. 

I can feel myself flowering. My flowers grow and turn to seeds. They are sharp and spiky. They are deep red and dreaming. They belong to me, and I to them. I gift them the knowledge that they can be whatever they dream. 

They dream ruby red. 

Heart,

Wake

(I read this to my partner and they laughed at the utter absurdity of the story, and the fact that my past self set a strange task of imagining being a root vegetable. I’m happy that I wrote it, because why not.

Disconnected notes that inspired the story:

I painted this beet four years ago.

One of my favourite books is Jitterbug Perfume but all I remember about it is the problem of redheads and something about beets.

My mother used to call me her little beet fiend.

I find their seeds to be fascinating.

I wrote this while listening to gymnopedia no 1 playing over and over and my brain is melted, but in a good way.

The story is exactly 300 words.)