Story by Willow Croft
Be still, they scraped.
She could hear them.
No, feel them.
Communication pulsing through the plants.
Different stages of their growth cycling into synchronicity.
Scrape, scrape, scrape. Like nails on a chalkboard.
Durthi remembered the science charts from her primary school days.
Roots. Stem. Petal. Pollen. Pistil.
All done up in pastel colours.
Cheery hues that hid their fear. Their sadness. Their pain.
And their rage. Encapsulated in tiny golden grains of pollen.
She felt that, too.
No. She tried to scrape back.
Safe, they answered, unanimously.
Warmth flowed through the root system that encased her.
She saw what they saw.
A million billion human faces bent over them.
The pistils fired.