A/N: Wrote this for a writing club at school. The prompt was write to about this shriveled up dead-looking flower that someone got during a field trip, and thus this strange brainchild of mine was born. I know, it's really random and not all that great. Yeahhh... enjoy? (:

At first, the plants had simply existed, soaking up the life-giving rays of the sun like good plants should. Tangled and entwined with the crooked stalks of its fellow plants, they had basked in the warmth of the sun's rays, swayed in the gentle cradle of the cool breeze, and showered in the powdery splashes of rain and dust. In the beginning, hiding in that sea of tendrils and barbs, with their numerous identical comrades, they had existed, and all was good.

They were good plants. They did not scratch at the occasional rabbits that scampered through their midst or resist the curious deer that plucked at their thorned stems. They simply existed, their spores born onwards by the autumn wind, to carry, to propagate, and to begin the endless existence of apathy once more.

The plants simply existed, to survive, to pass on their legacy, and then to inevitably die. It was a simple life, but a rewarding one, and all had been good, until the strangers came. They came alone, they came in pairs, and they came in droves. They came laughing and they came smiling, as they cut down the very lifeblood of the plants' fragile existence.

One by one, the tenderly nurtured flowers, sprigs of the future, were plucked from their source. Ugly in reality perhaps, but beautiful in a mother's eyes, the young buds screamed like heads being decapitated as they were torn away from their parents.

"They are not ready." The plants cried though the small pores that dotted their stems. All around screams of pain and rage echoed in the thin air as the entire thicket voiced its dissent. Shrill shrieks, low bellows, short screams and long groans, the sounds of torture blasted through the clearing. But the strangers were deaf, and the cries of the victims went unanswered.

"They are not ready to go out into the world yet. When it is time, the wind will bear them, and the animals will carry them, but not yet, not now. They are not ready yet."

They fouled, they murdered, and they bore away, these strange invaders from the road. And yet for all their atrocities, their bright faces crinkled with happiness still, and they left together, laughing, giggling, as innocent as the way they came.

With the flick of a metal blade, the future was gone. Hushed was the stricken field as it gazed after that distant bus, carting away the few hopes and aspirations it had ever known. Silent was the field as it endured the rain that battered open its fresh wounds and bowed down in submission at the insistent rays of the sun, and lifeless was the field when the next breeze blew past, taking away nothing but empty husks and shells of what once held a sparkling future.

And in the end, the plants still existed, spurning the comfort of the benevolent sun, and the sympathy of the damp soil. Exposed and open on that desolate field, without a future, without a legacy, the plants stood, condemned to a bleak and hopeless eternity. In the end, they existed, and nothing was good at all.