#cornrock

As years passed, the field grew old and tired. Phillipe watched the plants age with suspicion, for his own body had stayed in perfect shape and was not any less worthy of commendation than before. Yet, they stayed quiet. Phillipe kept waiting for them to speak of him again, but the leaves kept quiet.

They kept quiet until the day of the thunder and earthquakes. Phillipe was familiar with the horrible sounds, having heard them many times before when he had still been hiding underneath layers of earth. This was the first time he got to see what happened-- though hearing it was much worse.

Silent screams rippled through the field, stalks shivering as they knew what was coming for them. It was monstrous. Its scales were an ugly, orange colour, while its metallic claws shone brighter than Phillipe had ever accomplished. And with those claws, the nameless monster tore the field apart. Spines snapped, heads ripped off, bodies crushed fine. Every single resident of the field died a most horrible death, the elders not even given the chance to set their children free before it was too late. The monster took them all. One mother managed to lose one of her tiny seeds, letting it fall on the ground before she was devoured. Phillipe could do nothing but watch as the young thing disappeared beneath the enormous paws of the monster that had wrecked his parents.

The monster left a wasteland behind, Phillipe lying vulnerable and exposed in the middle of it. No one noticed him. At first he was afraid, but then he started longing for someone to come and take him. Even so, hours, days, weeks passed in silence. The rock's red glaze started to fade in the sunlight and he grew lonely, like a hermit separated from the world. Though, what world was there to be separated from? His entire world had been destroyed in one day. Such a fragile world it had been. Never had he noticed.

Phillipe, someone whispered, casting shadows over him. Phillipe.

What? snapped the rock, wanting to be left alone in his misery.

You talked. The rustling of leaves, like soft giggling, drifted towards him. You talked, Phillipe. Talk with me.

Right next to the rock had grown a young seedling.

How do you know my name?

My mother would tell me about you, but whenever she called for you, she never received an answer. She said you were deaf, Phillipe.

Phillipe remained silent, and the seedling laughed again with his soft voice.

Talk to me, Phillipe, he pressed on. Please?

But the rock didn't answer again and the corn's small leaves drooped in disappointment. Neither of them said another word, the seedling gazing down as the rock gazed up. It took only a few more weeks for the sad leaves turned brown and started to crumble. The young thing froze to death.

As his cold body draped itself over Phillipe's, the rock finally started to talk, knowing very well no one would be able to hear him. He spoke of his peaceful life underground, of his dreamlike days in the field, of the horrible monster that had stolen everything from him. And of the seedling, that even in his dying days had whispered his name.

I couldn't hear you, Phillipe admitted, his damaged pride finally breaking. Maybe I should have asked you to speak louder. But you would have laughed at me. A pause. I liked your laugh. I didn't enjoy to see you frown. But you were going to die. I could tell you were going to die. It was no use to--.. Another pause. I'm sorry, I can't cry for you. Both my heart and eyes are made of stone.