//------------------------------// // BlazzingInferno: Horticulture // Story: What Lies in a Moment // by PaulAsaran //------------------------------// Horticulture By BlazzingInferno Rose sat by the window, watching raindrops slide down the glass. The mug of hot chocolate that once warmed her forelegs had long since gone cold, its contents untouched. She hadn’t meant for that to happen, to have the drink she’d spent so many minutes mixing, heating, and pouring to be forgotten. Something about witnessing rainfall through her living room window was just too hypnotic. She couldn’t see the flowers in the garden. The clouds were too thick, the rain too heavy, and the hour too late for even the azaleas just beyond the windowsill to make an appearance. There were so many flowers out there: roses, tulips, and daisies, just to name a few. They were all out in that downpour, so completely surrounded by water that the light emanating from Rose’s window couldn’t be bothered to touch them and then make the return trip. Sometimes she wondered how flowers survived. How did the delicate petals of a rose, so easily spoiled by pests or even a careless brush of pruning shear, withstand the outright pummeling of a rainstorm? Why did they always bloom all the more when the sun’s light finally returned? Weather pegasi were the real gardeners, she sometimes feared. All her meticulous hours spent spreading fertilizer, trimming branches, grafting buds, and in every other way caring for her prize-winning flowers was a curiosity at best, a toy ship in a bottle currently being battered by a tumultuous sea. The whole of her garden couldn’t measure up to the miracle of a single meadow flower, cared for by nothing other than rain and sunshine. Amid the nearly indistinguishable pat-pat-pat of raindrops was a deep ringing sound, that of water dribbling down the windowsill and striking the metal watering can underneath. She’d meant to bring it in before the rain started, and then again before the thunder could be felt and not just heard. Instead she’d made herself a cup of hot chocolate, taking time to fuss over how many spoonfuls of chocolate to add for a given amount of milk, how long to let it simmer on the stove, and how many pinches of nutmeg to sprinkle on top. All the while, her precious watering can sat out there, being pummeled like a flower and yet not taking it nearly as well. This kind of abuse would rust the handle and dull the pretty design on the side. Rose slid her eyes closed for a moment, allowing the downpour to fade from view, but not from thought. She could imagine sitting out in the grass, undergoing the same drenching as everything else trapped out of doors. Would she thrive like the flowers, or fade like the watering can? If it turned out to be the latter, if she just melted away like a big lump of sugar, would her precious flowers be any worse off? The rain would come again, as would the sun, the insects, the wind, and so many other natural forces that seemed exert far more influence on her garden’s wellbeing than she ever could. Her eyes were drawn to the garden’s southwest corner, or at least where the great black void had hidden it. That’s where the shed stood, where all her more fortunate gardening tools were being kept safe from the inclement weather. She could go get the big hedge clippers tomorrow morning, the ones that looked like the beak of a giant bird hungry for leaves. Within an hour, she could fell every bush and sever every stem. Within the amount of time it took her steaming hot chocolate to become tepid, she could end it all. Rose’s famous garden would be nothing more than a compost pile waiting to ripen. Nopony would starve if she did that. They wouldn’t even starve if every gardener in town took up their clippers in flower-killing solidarity. The meadows were full of wildflowers, endlessly plentiful, if a bit gamey. As for her, she could find other ways to get by. For a while she’d have a thriving second-hoof gardening tool business, not to mention consulting work for other gardeners who had yet to realize the futility of their enterprise. There were other options, too. Davenport still made eyes at her once in a while, and there was an undeniable charm in the way he carried himself. She could return the favor. She could rush through dating, engagement, and, as the cliché went, put down roots of her own. Perhaps she’d even sprout a foal or two. There was nothing wrong with any of that. Some of her best friends had done it. Some kept up their prior passions after matrimony, others found new ones. She’d probably have a wonderful time, falling in love with the proprietor of a successful business, being fawned over by friends-turned-bridesmaids, and never having to worry about measuring up to what nature alone could do with a patch of soil. So why don’t you? She asked herself, and not for the first time. The image of a rose answered her, glowing in her mind as well as on her flank. She smiled as she thought of it, the perfect bloom she carried with her everywhere she went. The flower that never wilted, never faded, and never ceased to be as beautiful as the day it appeared. Her cutie mark wasn’t a flower so much as an idea, a passion. She was not the sun, or the wind, or even a pegasus who could command rainclouds. She was a gardener out to try her best, to test her skill and mettle against all odds in pursuit of growing perfection. And just like all gardeners who genuinely understood their craft, she knew she’d never achieve it. Perfection would forever be a journey, not a destination. That was part of its beauty. She could always grow a better flower. She could always edge a little bit closer to the miracles blooming in the meadows, to say nothing of the idealized image on her flanks. She smiled, and decided to make some more hot chocolate.