The Gardener and the Ghost Flower - Act 2 of 3

A ghost flower seeking to live. A spirit of a land that once was. A spirit of what progress never understood in its haste to accelerate the destruction of society and replace it with monuments of garbage and consumerism.

On the outskirts of the village, the farmer knelt beside the ghostly sproutling. Rough, calloused hands carefully cradled the flower’s delicate petals.

“I won’t do to you what we have done to the Earth in our haste for garbage entertainment from garbage people with garbage obsessions,” the farmer spoke to the ghostly flower.

Reality had once been swallowed by whores, bumbling insecure drugged-out so-called geniuses, frauds, and corrupt businessmen.

Now, reality was a barren wasteland. Godless.

The farmer remembered when man burned his oxygen with rockets in an attempt to go to neighboring planets. The farmer remembered no one ever questioned what perpetually burning landfills, wildfires, rocket propulsions, heat-emitting data centers, fracking, mining, and oil drilling would accomplish that growing food wouldn’t.

The farmer remembered an information superhighway used to manipulate and entrain the masses.

He stared at the flower. It carried the scent of memories never lived. It pulsed with promises broken long before he was born. It bore petals stitched from the fabric of hope abandoned.

As the farmer admired the faint life that grew from barren soil, the villagers came to see, rubbernecking in their ignorance. They marveled at what they ridiculed. They envied what they could have helped with.

In typical fashion, the villagers offered gold, favors, and land they didn’t own simply to covet the flower.

“I’ll give you my body,” a woman said.
“I’ll give you my cow,” a man announced.

They sought to trump morality. They sought to exploit, sell, and buy like the hellspawns they were.

The gardener refused. "I planted this for the soil," he said to the man, "not for the market.” He stared at the woman. “You could have used that body to help grow this precious flower if it means so much.”

One night, a group of villagers gathered as the farmer slept.

A trembling hand tried to pluck the ghost flower while others watched.

“I want a petal,” a villager said.
“I want the stem,” another called out.
“I want to smell it,” someone shouted.
“I just want to touch it,” someone interjected.
“I wish I could stream it over my naked body,” said the weakest and dullest voice in the crowd.

As the hand reached, the ground shook.

The villagers scrambled at the first sign of danger.

Streets twisted into knots their rotting minds could not untangle. The ground wept dry, dusty tears as it swallowed villagers.

The Earth tried to protect the flower, but in their haste, the villagers stomped the lone ghostly flower into the dirt.