The magnificent blossom stretched proudly towards the sun, flexing and basking in its glow. And why wouldn’t it? It is as if it knows its own beauty all too well. If only I could capture such confidence, such immaculate beauty, the elegance of the pinnacle of that which is natural. But my art cannot hope to do much more than replicate nature. Hence, we must protect it; my art will supplement the natural elegance and glory of the magnificent blossom! I could never replace it, so I must respect it. And respect it I shall, unlike the repugnant, irreverent masses who dare to build concrete abominations to obscure the view of the divine blossom. Growing upon the roof of the large building, it forms a peak and stretches upwards. Like the cross atop a cathedral, this signifies the divinity of the plant, reaching to the sky.
Time has passed faster than I thought. How easy it is to spend a day just taking in that magnificent beauty of the flower. I should pack away my canvas. I would not want to give the impression I deem my poor imitation more worthy of attention than the glorious blossom above! And I am not the only one: many others rush into the small compact buildings to deposit their items just as I do. Into my small room my canvas goes. My miniature plants, designed to allow the magnificence of the large bloom to grace this small, pitiful room with a mere fraction of its glory to give my life meaning, begged for water. Who am I to ignore the needs of the bloom? I douse them healthily. Oh, how they bask in it! The leaves shimmer and the stalks stand proud as the water trickles down them towards the planter boxes. Dead leaves settled to the ground. How it brings a tear to the eye. How wonderful it must feel, for those blessed by age to give up themselves to ensure the health of those younger. The healthy leaves thrive with their granted space; the leaves fall to the ground to decompose and fuel the growth of the plants and leaves. What a beautiful cycle it truly is. However, I must interject for a small sample of them. I put a handful of the leaves into the locket by my heart – for it is where the memory of the blessed flower is to remain.
Now that the plants are properly cared for and tended to, I must hurry! I cannot possibly miss the blossoming, I simply could not forgive myself!
In this crowded street, people hurried to and fro. They shove and bustle, tripping over one another and trodding on the roots of the sacred plant. How dare they, how dare they, how dare they! To think the plant is something deserving of being trampled underfoot as such. It grants us protection, a path to walk on and you choose – for it is most certainly a deliberate choice! - not to delicately, tenderly step upon it? No – you choose to crumple it under your feet and stomp upon it! Were I more than a feeble human, I would take action. I would jump upon them and bring them to the ground and rend righteous justice upon them given the chance to defend the blessed flower! But alas, I cannot. At least we all may stop and enjoy the bloom.
All heads turn skywards, in a sweet act of unity. The flower unfurled. From its green bud hinting at beautiful colours contained, a glorious array of colours peered out. Pink, orange and yellow petals extended, stretching and shaking softly. How unworthy I am to behold such beauty, yet not for a moment would I take it for granted. It is more magnificent than I could have ever dreamed. The flower gazed at the sun. You know, the flower grew with each passing day every day of my life. Each day, I would stop and bask in the spectacle of its growth. Whilst every day contains this same moment of bearing witness, I will never allow myself to forget this. The sky pales compared to it. I could not be happier. As the flower is swaying gently on the soft wind, there’s a little something coming from it? Perhaps they are gifts from the flower? Has it come to deliver its blessing directly onto us? If that is the case, I must be first to receive it. I reach out with open arms. The soft orbs trickle down from the sky above. But they don’t land on me? Those around me are embraced by the flower’s gift. It falls upon them whilst avoiding me. The man beside me accepts the flower’s treasure. How dare he?? But...his skin. It grows pale and solidifies. He stares in horror. His condition is not unique: grooves appear on the skin of those who met with the gift. The man turned and looked around wildly. He stares me in the eye as branches erupt from the sockets of his eyes, the eyes themselves disappearing. The body has become one with the flower. He falls to the floor, crying out. I....cannot even believe this. What a spectacle. Yells and shouts filled the air. No doubt, others must be taken by the incredible scene before us. The flower is rebirthing us! Petrifying the body, then purifying us in its own image, oh how divine! Everyone must also realise how incredible this is – petrified, we are given a gift that wards off the corruption of the human self and are bestowed the blessings of the flower! Yet, as those around me shed their foul mortal forms, the floral gifts avoid me. They shower down and I reach out to receive it, but they dodge me. Slipping through my fingers. Non-believers unwilling to embrace the transcendence cry out, their blasphemous fear silenced in an instant. Others abandon their faith and flee. Here I am, surrounded by heretics granted new life but I remain human.
No. No no no no no. It would never assimilate those.... vile, corrupt, hateful heretics and abandon me. Abandon me? No. It just can’t be. My divine blossom would not treat me as such. It cannot be.
Heretics. That must be it. This is not actually a gift. It masquerades as one, but it is not a blessing. It mustn’t be, I am the only one worthy of blessing. It must be punishment. That’s it. That is why it avoids me. As it draws close to my chest it swerves and recoils. My chest, where my locket lies. That which connects me to the descendants of the blessed flower. That must be it. It recognises me, the work I do. My devotion. It protects me from divine punishment rendered upon these heathens. Rejection and acceptance bud the same, only to differ once they bloom.
I am truly chosen. Anointed. That is the way. Oh, thank you my bloom. My faith has been proven. You are too generous, too giving. Frantic cries echo throughout the street. That’s it, rejoice! I should stand, I cannot lie on the floor among these heretics. Their blasphemous denouncement has turned them to stone. Horrified, pained expressions etched upon their face – oh it warms my heart! Foul non-believers, rendered powerless, heed my words. I shall watch the sky – no, no that’s not it. No, this is something different. Something...divine. I watch the Garden Above.
~
The spores rained down, descending from the sky upon the unsuspecting civilians below. The first could not have known what awaited them: their corpses littered the street. Petrified horror etched on their stone faces, buried beneath the accelerated arborie which bore through their skin. Even the sprouts stretched out, as if it was a remnant of the host’s futile attempt to crawl to safety in their dying breath. The spores hunted them down, chasing them down in the cold, stone streets. The twisted forms of the victims lay petrified like statues. Survivors sprinted through the growing corpse foliage. Just as Eve did with her child. The screams echoed throughout the streets. She carried her young child close to her heart. She shielded his eyes and ears, insulating him in her coat. A woman grabbed her arm, just as she turned to stone. Eve struggled to pull away, breaking the woman’s arm. She screamed in horror, shielding her child and bolting down the street between the mangled bodies. The gigantic flower tilted down, watching its carnage unfold.
Charging through the streets, the woman held the spores at bay as best she could. They fell all around, swaying and claiming victims. The pair raced past the petrified corpses, pained expressions of twisted horror forever etched onto them. The spores rolled along the fabric, dancing off the edge of the material as if to entice the mother and child into their oblivion. She whipped it to and fro, ridding herself of the infernal seeds as they attempted to creep past the thin fabric barrier keeping them at bay for now. As she rounded the final street of the city, she froze. The roots of the towering plant ensnared their civilisation: it tore through the street, destroyed building fronts and knocked people to the ground. The spores swarmed them before dispersing, leaving behind petrified remains. As she tried to push onwards, one of the roots tripped them up. She stumbled as her child fell to the ground. His soft whimpering caused her more pain than the wound. Spores continued to pour down, surging through the air towards her child. The young boy watched, eyes wide, as the spores approached him. Instincts kicked in. The mother lunged and threw her body over her child. Both fell forward. The child rolled off the concrete path onto the grassy meadow’s edge. The mother fell straight down. A wave of spores landed upon her leg. Roots sprouted and interlaced themselves to the flower’s own roots. She clawed the ground, forcing her body slowly forward. Her roots intertwined with one another, anchoring her to the ground. Her hand stretched out. Her child grabbed it, dragging her with all his might. But the plants wrapped around her lower body, digging into her skin. She gazed up at her child as her eyes vanished and the sprouts appeared. The child shrieked, his knuckles turned white as her continued to pull on his mother’s arm. Pain contorted the mother’s face, yet unlike the others she did not cry out. A shaky smile broke across her face as she gently squeezed her child’s hand. He tried to look at her face, but had to avert his eyes.
‘Adam. It’s okay, dear.’
Tears streamed down the boy’s face. Buildings crumbled to the ground behind her, crushing those encased in stone. He fell into his mother’s arms as she lay face down on the edge of the grass. As he held her, roots stretched towards him. He retracted, breaking free of the roots – and his mother’s grasp, breaking one of her stone arms. It dropped to the ground. Adam stared in aghast horror. His mother opened her mouth, splintered roots and stone spraying from her mouth as she forced out the words.
‘Please. Let me see the sun one last time.’
The young boy, tears streaming down his face, struggled and managed to slowly turn his mother’s stone body over. The roots held her tightly, but the boy’s determination forced them to submit and allow her to fall onto her back. Her face relaxed, further splintering the wood. She then became completely still, the calm, loving expression permanently etched onto her face. Tears poured down the boy’s face. He heaved and sobbed, curled up against his mother’s petrified body. He turned to gaze up at the dark sky. She didn’t need to know.