She was tired. So tired. Her arms felt like hanging wet rags. Her stomach swished around like a fishbowl half-filled with water. Or acid. She was nerve-wrecked. The last time she opened a dictionary, her face was the epitome of exhaustion. Right there, next to the word, there was her portrait and underneath it read “Anne.”

Her face, lined with the treks of time, and sorrow-filled with the vengeance of mother nature, squinted against the glare of October sky. The End she thought. It’s time.

She stopped her journey by the side of the granite asphalt. By her were bushes she watched God plant over the years through pollination, and decided it was right here where she’d meet her great The End.

She hunched down and gripped a hand full of warm summer grass. It could squeak, it was so shiny and new. This is perfect, she thought. She pulled the blanket of grass up, patted the red earth below, slid her body underneath, and pulled the covers up to her chin. She closed her eyes and her roots began to grow.

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