...as I began to read, it began to grow. Each word I spoke aloud from the strange book seemed to cause the little red bud to get bigger and bigger until it was taller than I - and there were still many words and many pages yet unspoken. What sort of book was this? I wondered. What sort of plant? Could words fertilize the growth of a life form so quickly? I had found the book inside a box that was lying on the path I took each day through the wood. It was not here the day before. Nobody took this path any longer. It had become overgrown and ill-used since the old gardener passed away. But come to think of it he was a reader, wasn't he? Sherman, his name was. Klaus Sherman, yes. He didn't speak much but he was always reading something aloud. Was he reading to his plants? Odd little man. Furtive. But he did keep such wonderful roses. And tulips. All sorts of flowers and they were lovely. They were so big and beautiful. He must have had some kind of secret. What did I see written on the outside of the box? Here it is. Yes. There are words here but it must be some other language. I can't make it out. I'll have Martha take a look at it, she's a whiz with all things foreign. But that's odd, isn't it? The words on the box are unrecognizable yet here in the book it's the King's English plain as day, and right good prose I should say. Did he write this? Or was it something passed on to him? My, but will you just look at this thing? It's enormous. Why, it looks rather like an artichoke. Perhaps if I read a bit more...
o O o
Another plastic effigy propped up before some curious object to give a sense of scale and wonder. Here we see some commuter engrossed in his newspaper. Now that's a rare sight today. Today's commuter would more likely be engrossed by his Blackberry or iPhone. How sad. There's nothing quite like the crackle of newsprint, or the way a seasoned commuter would fold his New York Times into perfect little readable squares. The daily paper is a dying proposition, just like the commuter in a trench coat. You just don't see it anymore. Guys like this dominated the train platforms of Manhattan 25 years ago. Quietly lost in the Daily News and their Wall Street Journals. The train cars themselves were all but silent, save for the crackle of the papers, a few hacking coughs and the clack, clack, click clack of the iron wheels. There wasn't a single person on a cell phone or blaring tinny music from his earbuds. Commuters weren't trying to squeeze even more productivity out of their already hectic days. When you left the job in those days you pretty much turned it off. If you had to make a call you had to find yourself a quarter and phone booth and you couldn't take your music with you. You asked for directions or you carried with you a set of them you copied down on a piece of paper. A crossword puzzle was a mobile game and the only app that you knew of was the one you filled out on paper to get a job. Of course all that's done electronically now. Everything's 0's and 1's. Which is why this little train figure is so appealing. He's analog. He's real. And the flower he seems to be reading to is even more so. It's an actual life form. Is knows nothing of all this. It is unemotionally non-sentient. It's simply following it's DNA's instructions, which is nature's GPS and the only app we need.
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