Bite Size Fiction

It’s the leaves they first notice- swiss cheese holes through them all, like poison rain residue. Horticulture experts gather, brows furrowed, and begin testing samples. But soon the grass begins to whither- everywhere, almost overnight- strong blades turning brown and brittle. Next, the flowers lose their petals, lost pieces swirling across cement. The sky begins to dim on a Thursday, is brown by Sunday night.

The news shows image after image and offers no explanation. For once, pundits simply shake their heads. No one, anywhere, seems to know what to do. No one knows what to say.

Is it the air? The soil? Is anywhere safe? How long before the crops all whither with the grass?

People instinctively close their windows.

Doors stay shut.

It has arrived- the beginning. Or the end.

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