EISEN

GREEN THUMB

"Don't give up just yet. Tell yourself they're lilies—Victims of the fall."

Even then, the boy without a home lost his supper in the presence of their wilt.

"You are the farmer; dig them down and move on."

The chilling air whirs and whips around the way.

With it came signs of winter's day.

Snow clumps the field, begging ground to lay.

Lovely, but the stench meant he could no longer stay.

"To keep up harvest," said a man on-route to Koba, "count your seeds, pace them right, and soon, you'll have a garden."

Mosin-naught was its name: the bearer of the seeds. The boy got good at using it, handle popping out a shell to clash against buried grassland – pushing down with the slightest thud. Not a sound in a city full of hungry men.

Cart in.

Pop.

Click.

Ready to go.

Off to make his rounds.

He was scared, shivered with doubt as he scuttled through town.

Red brick breaches tore the Motherland down.

Though the boy had grown privy, his heart felt heavy.

Doomed to drown.

Suddenly, they approached. Hounds that scavenge and ravage the field.

"Keep your head down. Shepherds can't brave the chill, so their trips are short and sweet."

Short, when seconds trudged like minutes.

Short, when lilies claimed the room.

At least he remembered to load.

They sniffed around the market, in here and near the bar. Just outside the window frames, one skulked to see if the butcher's meat had passed. Hard to say; it reeked of fertilizer in here. Barks filled the field, and they were on their way here, in a hurry.

Damn his shuffles, damn his chokes. Damn it all.

One turned to three quickly. They eyed the fields with savory chops that cracked the sky. But they were chasing ghosts, planting where nothing could grow. No seeds returned, the hounds moved on.

Famished, fed up and weak.

Not worth the time so they retreat.

Pick yourself up, cold and numb.

Walk on through, little green thumb.