Fern

On a narrow balcony, a sallow fern grew out of a plastic pot. The balcony had no door; instead, it ran along the side of a building, accessible by two windows. From the outside, it looked like they opened inward and not very far. I imagined the renter, or the owner, purchasing the fern, young and verdant, placing it on the balcony to make the building inviting. I imagined, too, the accumulated weight of passing days that obscured the needs of the plant. Upon initial recognition, they would have tried watering it, bringing it back to life. Too far gone—instead, the fern was left forlorn in the shade to wilt and die. 

No. 056

Shoplifter

While inspecting a bundle of brussels sprouts, I heard a man raise his voice behind me. Whipping my head around, I saw the source: a man around my age, possibly younger, clutching at his backpack. The store security guard held onto the straps. An employee stood behind him.

“I told you, I don’t got shit in this backpack except the salad.” The security guard insisted he go through the backpack. The suspect repeated his phrase louder, so more people in the store could hear. Everyone now had their eyes on the altercation. Mine roamed to the pistol harnessed at the waist of the security guard.

The young man insisted there was nothing in his backpack, but tensions had grown too strong. To alleviate the situation, the security guard escorted him to an emergency exit. With permission, the suspect absconded with the salad. The emergency alarm kept ringing throughout the rest of the grocery store trip.

No. 053