a rose rose from her roots

a flower, said sponge and left it at that.
what else can you say i ask you, said the next next to sponge and stared at the flower. he reached into his pocket and got his sandwich out, tore bits off and threw them at the flower. the flower stood tiny and still. a pigeon landed nearby and waddled over and another pigeon and another one, both closer to the sandwich bits and snatched them. the first storms in, a clumsy fight, sparrows take advantage, the flower looks deranged. not a rose i tell you, the man said, a rose wouldn’t have gotten through the pavement. he carefully put his foot on the flower and moved it back and forth, slowly. the bread’s gone, i’m trying to lose some wait, a minute here, a moment there, he said.
good luck, said sponge.
thank you, the man said, i will need it. there are adverse weather conditions.

it would have been better we had put her in a spreadsheet

what happened to the fat lady, said sponge, i wonder.
fat woman, said breadroll.
yes, what happened.
no idea, said breadroll and scratched his crust, block of wood was dealing with her.
i see, said sponge, we lost track of her, didn’t we?
she promised to ring, said block of wood, or email.
cc me in, said sponge, i love to be kept in the loop.
that was a fairly civil conversation, said breadroll.
it was, wasn’t it, said sponge.

© the Book of Sponge and Others.