What is green?

Back in high school my English teacher asked “What is green?” as a kind of imagination activity in all of his classes to see what people would say. I wrote this recently with that old prompt in mind.


It’s funny how different I am now, now with the poison in my veins.
A poison only because in time, it would destroy me, but for now it is paradise.
Green, indeed, is obvious.
Green is nature.
Green is leaves, trees, and brilliant miles of meadows.
To live without hearing the birds chirp and smelling the fresh rain,
to never feel the heat of the sun on your skin or taste the fresh berries,
would be unthinkable, to me.
Green is peace.
It is about avoiding conflict, deflecting the negative thoughts.
Be quiet, just listen.
Shhhhh.
Listen. Hear the world around you.
Relax.
Breathe. Just exist.

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The Origin of Wildflower Crown

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Wildflower Crown was a long time in the making. I was fascinated by the thought of someone growing up in the wild and then trying to adapt to normal life. It’d been done before, but typically with men. When someone on an old writing site I used to use gave the prompt, “Someone must defend their home,” Wild was born.

Here is that piece. Literally nothing you read from this will be in the actual book, but I think it’s a nice standalone piece and it’s interesting (to me, at least) how this came to be Wildflower Crown.


As an infant, I was left in a field to die. It was a justified decision of behalf of the farmer who left me there for he was no kin of mine; he had no ties to me. I was a halfing, part forest folk and part human. My parents must have each come from another world, my existence stemming from their union. As I was not fully Other, I could not live among the creatures of the forest, the eldritch presences that lurk and lure travelers to their doom. Nor, as not fully human, could I live among the people, in a small farm or in the poorer districts of a crowded city.

I was caught between the worlds, never to live comfortably in either. My parents, not caring about my fate, left me on the old farmer’s doorstep. He heard my cries, took a look at my glistening hair and unnaturally colored eyes, and left me in the barren hills for the wolves to devour.

Any human child would have died from either the elements or the predators in the area. Being half Other, I survived. The wolves did not make a meal of me. They talked to me. Animals lived between the human world and the world of the Others; that made us one of the same. Therefore, they took me in, fed me in their den, raised me until I was fit to live on my own. I could talk to them, of course, not in words, but through our minds, using a power bestowed upon us by something greater than ourselves. I made friends with the wolves, as much as one can befriend wild beasts, but as all pups are pushed from the den and into the wild, I left them behind for a life of my own.

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