A Project for Better Journalism chapter
Creative Writing

The clouds, harboring life-giving rain.

The seed soaked it all up,

Slowly, though it didn’t want to, the seed grew

And grew, and grew, and grew.

It grew wings, in the form of green fluorescence,

Straightened its newly formed steel spine,

Donned a purple crown,

And stood tall and majestic, a beautiful queen,

A beacon of royalty for all who could see her,

But alas, she had no subjects.

Still, in the face of the unknown future,

She was young, fearless, strong,

And, most importantly, she had a heart full of hope.

The untapped potential was infinite.

As for the old man,

He knew that Death was soon to be approaching his doorstep

But he refused to acknowledge Him

In looking at the youthful flower, the old man became green with jealousy

He tried to contain the baffling emotion, but couldn’t

And so, in a fitful rage,

In a need to assert his dying strength,

He plucked the flower.

As the flower breathed its last, the old man felt a perverse sense of joy,

Which was all too quickly replaced by shame and guilt.

For, in plucking the flower, he had revealed how little power the flower really had

And therefore, exposed how weak he truly was.

The old man felt the weight of his foolishness

And with his dying breath,

Mourned it

There once lived a forgotten flower who died believing she had purpose.

One day, a roaring wind swept through its corpse,

Taking with it a single seed.