A speed-write written in twenty minutes. Nouns generated via this site: [link]
She lived in one of those tiny apartments where the living room and the sleeping room and the dining room were all combined into one nebulous area. It was called a studio and it was good for her because she was single. She was lucky because she was in the middle level, which came with a veranda type like porch. It was small, but the sun hit it just right, and she was able to grow pots of strawberries.
Every year, tiny green strawberries would grow full and red, the sweet green and pink scents mouthwatering and tantalizing to the bees.
Each year, someone would complain and she would come home after work some evenings with a neat little notice clipped to her door advising her of the situation and that someone would be complaining about the bees or that someone would be wondering what that horrible smell was and each year she would march over to the offices and say that there was nothing in the lease about not growing a garden and that it wasn’t a bad smell not like the cat litter box smell that wafted up through her unconnected washer and dryer tubes from the room below.
The manager would look over their glasses as if they wondered why it was their problem that she was unable to afford those appliances. If she could afford them and hook them up then there would be no smell.
But nothing ever came of the notices or the talks later, and she would tend her little strawberry plants. Watering them from the drought and making sure they were not overburdened with too many buds that the leaves could not take care of them all.
Every year she made them into strawberry tarts. Every year she sat with the first of the batch, still piping hot, popping them into her mouth and thinking of home.