ARRvol34 master reduced - Flipbook - Page 68
The Garden
Zach Murphy
The wildflowers wilt over their own feet as I trudge through the
dusty, jaded soil. One of my legs is broken. My mouth is parched.
And my stripes burn.
I wonder if the workers before me dealt with this kind of heat. I
wonder if the workers after me will suffer even more. I wonder if
there will even be workers after me.
The honey isn’t so sweet here anymore. The dream has melted
away. This planet is no longer my garden.
As I use my last shred of will to drive my stinger into the wrinkled
ground, I pray that my final moments will be graced with a cool
breeze.
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