08-02-2020, 12:31 PM
I'm a vegetable.
There is no good time to find out that you turn into a vegetable, especially with the added inconvenience of not having any control, and the stillness of the colt on learning this belies the turmoil in his chest, but small curls of vine sprouting along the thin crest of his bright mane give it away. They stroke his neck like fingers and make him shudder. It breaks him from the tumbling pit opening in his belly and he looks up suddenly at @[Malkin] with a tremulous smile, his breath trembling.
"The first?" Well, it's something to be the first, but he'd rather be a moose. The nose is a bit goofy, but the heavy crown of antlers is appealing. He'd rather be anything other what he is, he'd rather be a rabbit, for that matter, small and fast and brown, hidden away deep underground in dark tunnels. It would be different from the darkness of being a... a gourd. Plants don't have eyes, they don't have brains or memories, they don't have a way to defend themselves. They can't run or claw or bite - at least, none of the plants he knows have defenses like that, and the thought makes the hair on his spine prickle uncomfortably.
What if somebody just ate him?
What if somebody just walks up and ate him?
Do people just wander around, eating things, willy-nilly?
The-moose-that-is-his father is still speaking and although the words are familiar, Florian only nods absently, too busy tripping down this path of horrors. His own mother might have eaten him. His father might have. Anybody might have, so when he looks back up Malkin, his claret eyes hold new worries to color the insecurity he already knew.
"Florian. Mama... Mama called me Florian." And where has she gone, the green boy wonders, his neck craning to peer again between the great, thick-kneed, legs of his father, "You didn't see her, did you? I can't find her."
There is no good time to find out that you turn into a vegetable, especially with the added inconvenience of not having any control, and the stillness of the colt on learning this belies the turmoil in his chest, but small curls of vine sprouting along the thin crest of his bright mane give it away. They stroke his neck like fingers and make him shudder. It breaks him from the tumbling pit opening in his belly and he looks up suddenly at @[Malkin] with a tremulous smile, his breath trembling.
"The first?" Well, it's something to be the first, but he'd rather be a moose. The nose is a bit goofy, but the heavy crown of antlers is appealing. He'd rather be anything other what he is, he'd rather be a rabbit, for that matter, small and fast and brown, hidden away deep underground in dark tunnels. It would be different from the darkness of being a... a gourd. Plants don't have eyes, they don't have brains or memories, they don't have a way to defend themselves. They can't run or claw or bite - at least, none of the plants he knows have defenses like that, and the thought makes the hair on his spine prickle uncomfortably.
What if somebody just ate him?
What if somebody just walks up and ate him?
Do people just wander around, eating things, willy-nilly?
The-moose-that-is-his father is still speaking and although the words are familiar, Florian only nods absently, too busy tripping down this path of horrors. His own mother might have eaten him. His father might have. Anybody might have, so when he looks back up Malkin, his claret eyes hold new worries to color the insecurity he already knew.
"Florian. Mama... Mama called me Florian." And where has she gone, the green boy wonders, his neck craning to peer again between the great, thick-kneed, legs of his father, "You didn't see her, did you? I can't find her."
Oh. My. Gourd.
Image by Tekke-Draws