Vincenzo swayed unsteadily, swallowing bile. This was a blasphemy. He could understand why someone would oppose the garden, but to do this! He waved his hand over the dying plants on the ground. Surely there was something he could do?
Nothing. They were trapped in limbo. Each plant drew life from another. The perfume that filled the air was a symptom of the parasitic monsters that had been created. He could cut them down, stop their growth, and be done with it, but his patroness would be devastated enough by the news. He would not add to her burden.
He waved his arm again, this time drinking in the sun. It warmed his skin gently. The sun here was a comforting one. His arm began to stiffen as the skin cracked and peeled. A slender, thorny vine rose slowly from underneath, curling through the air as it entwined with the other plants. His skin itched and burned as the vine poked and prodded its brethren. He wiped his arm of sap and blood using his handkerchief. Soon he would undo this pointless destruction of her great work. All of his countrymen would have the chance to join his lady’s garden.
Week 27: Flash Fiction for the Purposeful Practitioner