Microfiction as a garden

A fair price for fairy mushrooms

Slim pickings today, Kelly grumbles to herself. The trees have already half-shed their leaves in anticipation of winter, and she knows she’s not likely to find much more than she’s managed to scrounge so far. A tidy pile of shriveled berries, a few late-autumn rosehips, a scant handful of withered roots and dandelion greens. Not nearly enough, she thinks, mentally dividing the contents of her foraging basket into ‘eat’ and ‘sell’ piles. She pushes through the dense undergrowth and gasps, clutching her basket closer. The grassy clearing is awash with sunlight, so bright she has to squint as her eyes adjust. Am I dreaming? she wonders. Surely this can’t be the same forest I was in a moment ago. The clearing is lush and green, as vibrant as the surrounding forest is dull and gray, dotted all over with pale pink mushrooms. Lady Mushrooms? She wonders, hardly daring to believe it. In the Brightwood? With trembling hands, Kelly bends down and plucks one of the fairy mushrooms. It’s light as a feather, with a rich, buttery cap like the petals of a flower. Even as her traitorously practical mind begins to calculate the market price for such a delicacy, her mouth waters at the thought of the mushrooms fried in butter with sage and wild onions. Keep and sell, she decides, and sets about harvesting the mushrooms before they disappear again.

Flowers for Kate on festival day

“For you, my dear…” the old flower seller squints at Kate, considering. The intensity of the stare is a little unnerving. “Not roses, no,” the old woman mutters to herself as she rummages through her stock. “Not daisies, not lilies, not poppies, sunflowers, or mums—” Her musing cuts off abruptly as she disappears into the back of her wagon. Should I go? Kate wonders, beginning to wish she hasn’t stopped to look at the bright blooms on her way to the festival. “This one.” Kate jumps, finding the old woman suddenly and inexplicably standing right next to her, the wisps of her frost-white hair barely reaching Kate’s shoulder. In her gnarled fist, she clutches an honest-to-goddess Burning Jak. Its bright petals curl inward, like paper caught in a flame. Kate fumbles for her purse, but the flower seller shakes her head, solemnly pressing the bloom into Kate’s hand and waving her on. There can be no charge for destiny.

Sparrow learns to fly

“Go on, climb it!” Kellin gives Sparrow a shove as the other children join in with a chorus of “Climb it, climb it! Bring us back the sky treasure, Sparrow!” She stares up the thorny stalk of the Gygantroot, impossibly tall, stretching up and up and up, piercing the sky and disappearing into the clouds above. What’s at the top? She wonders, as everyone does when it’s their turn. Lark gives Sparrow’s hand a reassuring squeeze. “Don’t worry,” she whispers. “You don’t really have to climb it. Kellin only made it about twice his own height before he fell.” Sparrow knows this, but it’s a lot harder to remember when she’s the one about to attempt the climb. The same climb every villager has tried—and failed—since the mysterious Gygantroot first sprang up in the southern fields. A rite of passage, stretching back more than 100 years. Carefully, Sparrow places her hands and begins to climb.

The cook with the green thumb

Honeycake frowns down at the otherwise perfect blossom, its petals stained with the fungus’ telltale reddish-brown blotches. This would never happen in the kitchens, she thinks sourly, as she sometimes does when the gardens give her grief. Her entire life, she’d expected to take over the royal kitchens, like her mother and her mother before her. Her parents named her Honeycake, for goddess’ sake, not Weedpuller or Hedgetrimmer or Greenthumb. Yet here she was, Chief Cultivator of the Iron Queen’s gardens. All because someone had seen her playing in a rose garden as a child, and told the queen that the flowers she touched bloomed more beautiful than any of the others. With a sigh, Honeycake rolls up her sleeves and shears the infected flower away from its fellows. There’s not a moment to lose. She assembles the undergardeners, issuing orders with swift efficiency. Like it or not, the queen’s gardens are her charge—and she’s not about to let a little Witherwort take that away.

Above water, and below

Erin thrashes to stay afloat. She knew she should have listened to her gut this morning, to the deep ache in her hands that always signals a coming storm. The rough water surges around her, the current dragging her under again and again and again. Every time the water closes over her head, it feels like the end. She breaks the surface, gasping and casting her eyes about wildly, searching for something, anything. Her little boat is in pieces, but if she can find a piece large enough to cling to and kick for shore… but there’s nothing. Just the sea, and the sky, and the bone-deep rumble of worse to come. She heaves one last, huge breath and dives down beneath the waves. Her only chance now is to find a Drowned Bride—and hope some other unlucky sailor hasn’t already plundered it for a desperate, drowning breath.

Microfiction inspired by @Geek_Kelly, @TheRoadVirus_, @FantasticalKate, @luminiferous, and @KLaBimmDeSire—and every plant I see that would definitely be harvestable in a video game. You can find more of my magical plant specimens @icanharvestz.