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The warmongers put our orchards to the torch and built walls around the ashes as a warning: the strong rule this land. We were farmers, not warriors. But we knew things they did not. We came to them with a peace offering, planting seeds to provide fruit and shade along the streets of their capital. They laughed at us. It took them years to notice the roots sprouting from the cracks. The growth continued, unstoppable, until their battlements and watchtowers, their prisons and fortresses and factories of war crumbled and fell. We left the walls of trees around the ruins as a warning: this land needs no rulers.
Short story written by Peter Chiykowski
website twitter facebook instagramStory prompt taken from a photo by Lukasz Maznica
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