Marigold

What blooms in a barren wasteland? Monsters. For an age, these demons have ruled the land. Gnarling teeth, gashing claws and spiked tails shred even the slightest signs of life. That’s if anything survives long enough within their putrid presence. A sickly aura of denitrifying stench clings to the fiend’s slimed scales. With one breath, nausea. With two breaths, a burning, lung-melting rot. With the last breath, a brutal transformation. Even the softest, silkiest skin bubbles, burns and blisters. A perfectly entrancing melody that once brought comfort and joy distorted into agonizing screams of anguish.

What comes from planting seeds? Monsters. No flower nor beast was safe amidst the behemoths lest they become one. Endless corruption seeping into the landscape, devouring hope as quickly as it devours everything else. “Lucky” survivors untouched by hiding deep within the land. Isolated. Weak.

Is this world hopeless? Yes... No. The gardener. Decrepit and hopeless. Surviving off spite and apathy. Not the best motivators but the only he had. Gritting, barely persevering through his days. The bleak mundanity of living through the apocalypse, the habitual chores of avoiding the ever-present demons, the slog of each waking morning only to see yet another batch of tainted seeds. Yet his spite pulled him through; why surrender to these monsters today when he didn’t the day before? Biding his time until his seeds blossom, sprouting new motivations.

What was he farming? Weapons. A plant to take down these land leviathans. Thorned roses so sharp just one prick would atomise. Their own aroma so sweet and enticing, the enemy’s musk would be only a minor inconvenience. His hope to fight back. Turning the tides, from slaughter to war. Petals of justice. Tired of suffering with no chance to fight back. Five years later, a singular plant arose from the soil.

The plant? A simple marigold. No weapon, no thorns, no scent. A marigold. Five long years of fighting. Surviving. Pain and suffering. He was beaten. Enraged. A fit of anger and he almost demolished the plant with one swipe. But it was still a flower. Life. Something bloomed in the wasteland. A small victory. To look into its petals. Golden rays of hope. Its seeds were always there. Sprouting. Slowly. With each day, each act of resilience, its roots grew. The gardener’s flower, one and the same. He will fight back, not with pain or apathy but with beauty and patience.

The fight? Despite the barbaric outlands, devoid of life and overgrown with monsters, the gardener smiled. Plant in hand, he ventured from his greenhouse. Home. Protection. The few threads of stability behind him as his first step landed on the dry soil. The arid heat baking his insides. The stale funk of fresh air. The gaggle of warped shadows twisting to meet his gaze. Monsters. Padded crunching echoed around the valley as they charged. Snarling. Snorting. Their dry, simmering rotten flesh reeked. The swarm of teeth and claws to engulfed. The rotting stench oddly bearable. The blades mere branches against his skin. The pain tolerable as he gazed into the marigold’s mesmeric petals.

The demons? Although they drew his blood, the gardener embraced them, standing with a weak smirk. Admiring the decadent death of his homeland, he stared directly into each fiend’s ghastly red eyes. Wafting a patched picnic blanket around them, his weight catching up with him after all these years. His knees buckled, launching him rather ungracefully onto the mat.

“Here. Come join me for a chat, we should work this out” The old gardener’s hands gave an inviting pat. The marigold glowed vibrantly, renewing his hope.