Author: Anndria Smuk

The field does not sit within the bounds of time. It is eternal while at the same time deceased.
Do not try to search for a deeper meaning in this field. The only other way one could put it is as a meadow but not much more. A meadow with overgrown grass starting to brown from the heat of the 4 suns as if it is trapped in an eternal autumn. A constant harvest.
Few flowers dot the field and few bugs fly around. The meadow is desolate, and lonely, only moving from a soft wind brushing the grass. The source of the wind is unknown since the air is typically so stagnant in this place.
The meadow is all consuming leaving nothing more in sight except for long dull grass forever and ever.

Somewhere in this field, a person sits at an old writing desk. Her hair is braided up in a loose bun that looks like it was tied centuries ago.
The desk is crowded with vases of flowers. They are bright and alive despite the dying meadow all around.
The front of the desk has a sign with messy words which spelled in a foreign language read “Flowers for sale!” No price is listed. She is looking for more than money.
The girl sits for hours. No one buys her flowers.
She waits day after day, waiting for someone to wander into the meadow and purchase a red rose or cornflower or some other species unfamiliar to our eye.
The days pass over and still, her flowers don’t wilt and neither does she. She sits straight in her old wooden chair. She sits with the flowers not daring to leave them alone, she fears if she did they would wilt, she doesn’t know that time is a myth here.
The girl has learned to talk to the flowers, she knows their language, perhaps it’s the language used on the sign. She can be a translator between most anything and the flower language although, no one comes for her to test this. On the day that someone buys a flower, she will share the language with the buyer, whomever or whatever it may be.
The weather doesn’t change. The flowers don’t die. Everything is stuck except for the grass that continues to grow.
The grass grows with a mind of its own, an organism she doesn’t understand like the flowers. It hates her and covers her sign but still, she stays in the vast field. In her chair. At her desk. Waiting for someone to buy her flowers but no one ever does.

She is alone in this reality. Unless you count the flowers as people.