Seedlings of Sprout

Standing at the edge of the forest, she slowly takes a single step backward. Her foot fixes firmly upon the gentle cushion of verdant pasture behind her. It welcomes her questioning step tenderly but firmly into its assuring embrace. She knows she is safe with one foot planted securely in the meadow behind her. Knowing the other foot will eventually follow in time, she exhales. Relief pouring out of the fabric of her lungs as they perceive their ability to breathe again.

She stands serenely, one single foot still locked into the grass behind her, bearing the entirety of her weight. The other foot erratically swirling patterns in the dirt before her, stirring up small billows of dust.

As flames arise from the tops of the forest trees, she stands watching as the monstrosity builds. Matches within the woodland box before her are struck and lit, one by one. Racing up the trunks and climbing out toward the branches, the flames lick as limbs sizzle and snap as if under weights much too heavy to bear. Ghosts of trees shriek as they are released fatally from their temporal bodies. One last grievous gasp is emitted from each lone timber as their final chambers are stripped of all life. Their remains - now but parched echoes of the indiscretion of those who treaded beneath their boughs.

She looks on as the holocaust of woods waves their final goodbye.

She brings the foot still trailing in the dirt to her side, resting it upon the verdant green pasture.

In her left hand, gripping all she has left -

One single gold coin.

___

Millions of miles away, a fire is fanned greater by a mighty gust of wind. Snapping off from the central gust, narrow torrents split from the fold and begin spinning violently. Each torrent clenches the first flame it catches, twirling the flame into a fiery cyclone, whipping a funnel of fury toward cracked skies.

A draw, appearing as a glowing magnetism, pulls the surrounding groups of cyclones toward one central place of convergence. Racing toward one another, they charge as steeds hastening to battle. At once, upon collision, the cyclones of fire fuse forms to alight the valley in whole. Shooting out from the center of their combined torrent, a horizontal field of white light strikes the high ridges of the valley. Upon contact with the ridge, the light snaps inward upon itself as quickly as it had been sent out. At the center point of this mighty torrent, the source of light where the light had both commenced and vanished, is a little black book. Pages fluttering, gracefully tumbling amidst the mighty fire torrent still raging. Dipping and twirling and diving and whirling, the little black book dances among the flames, not a single of its pages singed.

As the little black book sails gracefully down toward the ground, a small sprout begins to spring up directly below it. Roots tunneling, weaving their way into the soil, elongating fingers, deep and wide.

Above the ground the small sprout begins to grow as if perpetual water, light, and nutrients are being so abundantly supplied, it is unable to grow fast enough. That small sprout, knowing such inner wealth has been afforded it, begins to shoot seeds from its center to all the surrounding patches of soil where its abundance may be shared. As the sprout grows further, it twirls and twists to the sky, with pieces of fruit sprouting from its branches - luscious sparkling round gems of glimmering incandescence.

The little black book continues its graceful, featherlike descent, ethereally playing among the breeze in the midst of a tempest. Its journey downward, stark in contrast in both speed and nature to the ferocity of the fire and the eagerness of the shooting sprout. The sprout continues its rapid journey skyward until all at once it pierces the little black book, sharp as a double-edged sword. Blood gushes out from the book, surging down the vines of the now colossal sprout. As blood flows down each of the vines, it travels outward to every fruit, making its way round their flesh. As it envelopes them in a warm, firm caress, the fruit splits in two. Inside each fruit is a single golden coin nestled snuggly into the seductive, crimson inner.

He picks up the fruit with both hands, a half in each, bringing them nearer to his face so he may examine its contents. Inscribed upon the coin are foreign characters which mean nothing to him in his native tongue of Kadevsh:

2020

He closes his eyes, and on the other side of the coin, he reads:

20/20

The vision of his eyes narrows, honing in on the edges of the coin. Blazing shafts shoot forth from each eye piercing into the flesh of the fruit. Each pupil traces, what we would deem in our universe to be counter-clockwise - this convention, meaning absolutely nothing to him due to the nonlinear passage of time in his. One eye tracing from right to left over the top of the coin, the other from left to right along the underside. Once the coin is fully traced, it pops out and falls to his feet transmuting into two hundred small pieces of pale green fabric, each inscribed with what appear to him to be some sort of alien gentleman. The alien displays hairs traipsing down the sides of a face topped with a scalp that would have glistened had it been featured on a more metallurgic substance. He picks up a single piece of this light green foreign fabric, rubbing its pulp smoothly between his fingers, relishing the soft texture.

Slowly, he kneels, gently placing the light green fabric with the alien ink gentleman on the ground beside him. He begins to claw away at the dirt, creating a small rectangular hole in the ground. Upon proudly finishing his little hole, he turns around and squats.

Moments later, he grabs the alien gentleman from beside him. His hand moves back behind him and makes contact as he swipes in one swift motion. He turns back around and lays the alien gentleman in the hole. One thick brown streak smeared across his mouth from ear to ear.

He walks away thinking to himself, what could be translated in our language to mean:

“Thank heavens. We’ve sure been in short supply of that.”