Creative Writing - Fiction - T

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Their time is approaching.
We've lived like this ever since Dexter can remember, but not me. I remember long before this wretched hole we call home. I remember the farmer who planted me and the years and years of being cropped and regrowing again. It was very hard for me to tell, but indeed I noticed the sky growing more and more muddy year by year. Every year it seemed to me that the farmer's plot of land grew smaller, and the population of my fellow vegetables and fruits seemed to be decreasing as our land grew scarce. My first years I would grow tall and stiff, green as any blade of grass at the time. I had sunlight aplenty, and remember the rain tasting pure and good. Towards my final years in the dirt, I was warmer than ever before, but never felt the sun's light as I once had. The rain was sour and the earth from which I drew my nutrition was bitter. At first I had no idea what was happening, but from years of listening to Dexter's mother's stories and the conversations of our ...

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