“Once the flowers bloom, we’ll be doomed.” The Priest lowered his arms to his side, robes swaying in the light winter wind. He nodded, and turned back into the church.

The crowd began to panic. Mother grabbed daughter and ran to the hillsides; farmers ran to tell their son to stop tilling the soiling. The Oracle sat on her throne to the left of the priest, alone on the platform now. Her long, ruby hair fell in tresses to her kneecaps.

“I warned you all,” she spoke amidst the chaos. “I told you not the plant the Seeds of Splendor. So many promises bring so much destruction.”

When she stood, her hunched back looked painful. She followed the priest into the church.

I stood watching it all, an orphan who had planted no seeds, wondering if the actions of my fickle, self-absorbed community would end in my death.