This story was originally published in
Issue 9 of The Genre Society.

None arrive here by accident.

The path to The Garden called us.

In the morning, The Gardener comes. He lifts His arms and we sing in one voice, a celestial chorus.

Then He feeds us, one by one, attentive and benevolent.

In the afternoon, our blessed Maker waters us. The liquid seeps down through the dirt and porous concrete, cleansing our roots from infection and rot.

Divine.

Yesterday, two new plants were added.

Their plots were prepared long ago. Deep holes in the fallow ground, waiting. Four rows up, the third and fourth across.

We heard them coming, panting and desperate. Believing themselves lost, yet for the first time truly found. Pounding on The Gardener’s door, begging for help. He will oblige.

Last night He planted them. Limp and yielding, lowered upright into their holes.
The venerated concrete poured up to their necks. Their arms and legs made roots.

He pruned them while they slept, and they whimpered through the morning. Pruned of their chaff.
Ears, nose, lips, tongue.
Unworthy appendages, confusing and excessive.

There is only us and The Garden and The Gardener.

We all whimpered in those early mornings.

Before we understood. Before we were beatified.

Their pain will eventually fade.

Tomorrow, He will cradle their heads and spread healing paste onto their wounds, and spoon nutrients into their grateful mouths.

All discomfort has a purpose.

Soon after the new plants arrived, we heard an engine somewhere close by. We had forgotten the sound of machines, and something old stirred within us.

The engine was searching for them.

My roots ached like the arms and legs they once were, and for a moment I almost remembered what it felt like to move them.
Four rows above mine, a plot began to shout. I could hear the stump of his tongue vibrate against the sides of his mouth as he shrieked.

The Rot had seized him.

I felt a fleeting urge to call out with him, but the thought withered before it reached my mouth. Other plants shifted in their plots, then quickly stilled.

I thought The Gardener would uproot him for his transgression. He did not. He took only his eyes as penance while we watched, his cries drowning out the waning mechanical sounds.

He displayed them for us. The optic nerves, sopping and fibrous, lay in serpentine coils at the foot of The Garden.

I imagine rain collecting in those empty sockets.

I do not envy him, for I have grown fond of the light. His dull irises will never see heaven.

The engine passed. The earth quieted.

In the morning, we will sing in unison.