THE GREEN
by J. Edward Ritchie
Ranger Morales strolled through a restricted stretch of the Redwood National Park, admiring the old growth trees that pierced upward like a sylvan cityscape. The ancient redwoods endured as monuments to Mother Nature’s timeless creativity—living art molded and refined over centuries. Beneath these masterworks, saplings peppered the forest floor like whimsical brushstrokes on a russet canvas. The ranger’s strides were cautious and deliberate, harming nothing underfoot. He was acutely aware of the detrimental effects even a single errant step could have on the fragile detritus. Breaths of the cool, California coastal air swept through the summer fog, breaking against the crisp pleats of his olive trousers. Douglas firs, tanoaks, and big-leaf maples swayed in the breeze, dwarfed by a redwood that lorded above all others. A titan among gods.
Hyperion.
“You are even more breathtaking than the first day we met,” Morales said.
Estimated to be between six and eight centuries old, Hyperion stood nearly four hundred feet tall with a sixteen-foot trunk diameter. Morales craned his head toward the conical crown that was almost imperceptible in the dense forest canopy. Shafts of sunlight shone through Hyperion’s upper branches like luminous spears hurled from the tree’s mythical namesake. Patches of moss stippled the reddish brown bark that had darkened from ages of weathering but was still soft to the touch. Deep grooves and channels texturized the trunk with a survivor’s experience. Hyperion had seen empires fall and rise. Atrocities and wonders.
“You are a triumph of life, a testament to the terrestrial and the divine,” Morales said. “In a different age, you would have been honored and adored. Not isolated.”
The rangers carefully monitored Hyperion and its surroundings, dissuading adventurous tourists and follower-seeking influencers from tainting the area with humanity’s shortcomings. The advent of social media had turned such sacred sites into derogatory click bait or soulless checkmarks on a “world’s biggest” list. Nothing would destroy Hyperion quicker than its own notoriety. It pained Morales that not everyone could stand before Hyperion, connected to life on a scale so rare, but how many among the destructive masses would show the proper respect? No, certain treasures had to be protected, lest they be plundered by greed and arrogance.
Morales removed his boots and socks then focused his senses to receive the forest’s full breadth of creation. The layered tones of innumerable living organisms, flora and fauna all precious to the last, harmonized around him in a hymn that no maestro could replicate. A subtle but unmistakable fragrance—earth with hints of wooded spice —hit his nostrils in erratic bursts, as if only aromatic at the forest’s whim. Rich soil and undergrowth shrubbery seeped between his toes. The fog’s moisture coated his lips with the organic taste of unfiltered wilderness.
Paradise on Earth, he thought before returning his attention to Hyperion. But even the angels of Heaven brought ruin to paradise.
Morales took off his flat, broad-rimmed hat and set it atop his boots. A procession of ants marched over the hat’s pinched dome, undeterred by the sudden obstacle. In any national park in the country, that hat symbolized devotion, safety, respect, and duty. He had worn it with pride and would never forget the sense of belonging it provided.
“I am afraid this may be my last visit, old friend.”
Morales knelt before Hyperion and imagined being rooted in the soil, part of a living system older than the civilization that dared to claim such ancient grandeur as its property. The cycle of life and death maintained a thriving, efficient biotic system without any need for Mankind’s interference. But they did interfere. Mindlessly. Willfully. Neglectfully. Mankind needed someone to give a face to the effects of their flagrant meddling.
Morales lowered both hands to the ground, pressing his palms onto the earth. His smooth fingers, with nary a callous or scar, slid down between the shallow roots spanning outward from Hyperion like wooden arteries. He dwelled on the mycorrhiza fungi unseen in the depths, the alabaster filaments lining the roots and dirt like hair in a network more robust and intricate than fiber optic cables. The fungal threads, or mycelium, growing from the substrate spores branched to connect the entire forest, distributing nutrients and water like a utopia colony. The universal language of Mother Nature allowed the colony to adapt and even retain memories, far more than anyone suspected. Aerial mycelia were also speckled around Hyperion’s trunk like cotton balls, producing spores in a microcosm of the expansive network below. In his mind’s eye, Morales saw the masterstrokes of a grand design, an unappreciated tapestry that spanned the world. A grand design that faced dire threats on all fronts.
No more.
“I have remained silent for too long,” Morales said to Hyperion. “It is time.”
#
Downtown Los Angeles—an anomalous cluster of skyscrapers bursting from the center of the sprawling metropolis like a forest of capitalism. The towers lorded over their grid domain as if flexing that LA had more serious business than just Hollywood. A haze of smog and wildfire smoke lingered in the air while an oppressive heat broiled the congested streets. But even three weeks of record-breaking temperatures without a spit of rain couldn’t dampen the zealous spirit of the Angelenos. The entertainment industry insulated LA from the outside world by perpetuating the illusory prosperity and glamour of a bygone era. Though flouted by outsiders for its shallow narcissism, this communal delusion sprang from very admirable roots: their dreams.
Sophie Hynes turned into the parking garage of her condominium tower. The old hub of failed businesses had been repurposed into overpriced lofts for creators and executives who found middling success (by LA standards). As a WGA union member, Sophie was proud to count herself among those lucky few who had earned the keys to the kingdom and were able to pursue their passion full-time.
The security gate creaked open, rusted hinges betraying its glossed-over erosion. Sweat plastered Sophie’s blouse to the leather seat and chestnut bangs across her forehead. Her hybrid’s finicky air conditioning had decided to go on strike during her drive back from the valley. She pulled into her assigned space, fanning the neck of her blouse while on the phone with her agent. She was on the cusp of getting a green light to shoot her first feature. The heat and traffic and car troubles—everything else—were white noise. Sophie’s dream was finally within reach.
“Take the studio deal, Charlie. I don’t care how much money is upfront in streaming. I’ve got talent committing to this project based on a guaranteed theatrical release and physical media within a year,” she said, eliciting a rambling response from the other end. “It does matter. I’m not going to let my work and the work of everyone on my team disappear into the ether one day because some corporate glutton is looking for a tax break.”
Sophie had no problem working with executives. In all her meetings, she had never met an exec that actively wanted to make a bad movie. Collaboration and compromise were part of the creative process. Communication. But there was always someone higher up on the ladder that only saw dollar signs, and she knew when to pick her battles. Sophie took a breath to continue her verbal sparring—negotiating, as it were—and felt like a hair had wrapped itself around her uvula.
“Take (cough!) the studio (cough!) deal,” she managed to wheeze between dry hacks and ended the call. She grabbed her water bottle, gargled, and swallowed.
Probably asbestos, she thought, questioning the decision to invest all her capital in the condo. After a decade of “we love it but don’t know how to make it” spec script sales and profitable but unfulfilling work-for-hire studio gigs, Sophie had finally secured her shot at directing. Low budget horror, sure, but even a halfway competent horror film could turn a profit and launch careers. She had promised to collaborate with a group of multi-talented friends, all dedicated but overlooked in their various crafts, and had a chance to make good on that promise. From day one in LA, she vowed to build a career upon mutual respect and admiration. No favors. No nepotism. Talent, work ethic, and friendship.
Sophie locked her car, took one step, and clipped her open-toed shoe on a crack in the cement. It was like a tiny dune in the gray wasteland, one that she’d never noticed. A stout weed emerging from the crack slipped between her toes and snagged her foot with surprising strength. She bent over and yanked the weed, startled that it took two tugs to sever the roots. A tiny thorn slit her thumb in the process like a paper cut.
Delightful, her internal sarcasm narrated as she sucked her bleeding thumb while balancing a wobbly stack of bags in her free hand. Poise depleted after back-to-back notes meetings, she stomped the severed weed. Her dwindling composure caught the attention of another resident.
“Something in my shoe,” she explained unnecessarily, like when you pass by a stranger and give them a dead-faced smile simply because your eyes met. The man raised a hand to end the awkward exchange and hurried into his car. It was about as comfortable (and fruitful) an interaction as her last three dates. Her neurotic brain would be sure to remind her all about the ways that could’ve gone better. Probably at three in the morning.
#
Sophie navigated the symmetrical lobby that had all the inspiration of a dentist’s office. Phil, the robust but unthreatening attendant, grunted an acknowledgment from behind his phone. Sophie made her way to the elevators, mouthing a silent prayer for one to be vacant. She had braved enough social interaction for the day, and her last painful elevator confab caused her to use the stairs for a week. Her neuroses were great for art but not so much for casual chitchat.
The elevator doors opened to precious solitude. Sophie hit the button for the 20th floor and fought the addict-like urge to flick through TikTok videos. More and more she was realizing that social media hadn’t improved a single aspect of her life. The studio was already vetting “content creators” to help generate online buzz for her project, as if writing and directing a movie wasn’t enough content. Too bad she hadn’t been born in the era when being an eccentric hermit was expected—nay, celebrated—behavior for an artist. What happened to the allure of mystique?
The elevator was a sluggish relic, its bones and joints straining floor by floor. A new surge of developers had been resuscitating downtown LA after years of its hemorrhaging popularity. Cosmetic improvements and boasts of “vintage history” enticed the next generation into dubious deals that bound them with steel and concrete. When people are spending thousands of dollars in rent per month, the idea of ownership is too tempting. But the honeymoon phase didn’t last. The only way Sophie could get out of her mortgage would be if the elevator broke and plunged her to a soupy death.
But then I’d probably be in Hell taking notes about how my death scene could’ve been improved, she thought, snorting at her black humor.
The lights flickered and cut out as the elevator ground to a halt. A lack of emergency lighting made Sophie rethink her derisive reveries of an early demise.
“Nope. Death by elevator is not on my Bingo card today,” she said and fumbled around for the emergency call button—
Ding! The doors opened…but no one had called the elevator. It remained idle, waiting for the phantom passenger. Sophie smacked various buttons to jar it awake. Nothing.
The lights flashed back on. Sophie saw stars as the doors crept back together.
“Finally…”
An arm wedged between the closing doors.
Sophie fell back against the wall and shrieked. Her mind went to the stun gun still in its package that had been on her dresser for a month. She clutched the handle of her purse in a fist and readied to swing it at the intruder.
“Whoa whoa whoa,” a man said as he slid into the elevator. “Didn’t mean to scare you. I saw the doors closing, so I just shoved my hand in there, which is completely stupid. And from your point of view, super threatening. I’m rambling. I’m a rambler. Are…you OK? That purse looks like it could do some damage. Promise, you don’t need it. I’m harmless. Well, actually, I’m Rafa. Sorry, terrible dad joke, not that I’m a dad. I’ll stop talking now.”
Rafa held out a hand to Sophie. When the shock passed, she got a full view of her elevator buddy. He was…strikingly beautiful. An exquisite equilibrium of masculine and feminine features. A simple white tee shirt accentuated the lean musculature beneath Rafa’s satin, naturally tan skin. His extended hand was too gentle (and manicured?) not to accept.
“Sophie,” she said and shook it. Whatever moisturizer he used was divine. “Cute plant.”
“This guy? Yeah, he’s got style.” Rafa held a tiny houseplant in his other hand—a zebra succulent with fresh sprouts emerging off the main stem. “I call him Miguel, after my brother. Is that weird? You’re looking at me like that’s weird.”
“It’s sweet. Miguel the houseplant.”
“A little housewarming for myself. I’m a property owner, or whatever you call owning a condo. Still, exciting times,” Rafa said. Ah, bliss untainted by the eventual reality and buyer’s remorse. Sophie didn’t have the heart to crush his spirit. The conversation dwindled, and the elevator arrived at floor 20 before things could turn awkward.
“Well, this is me,” Sophie said and left the elevator. “Welcome to the building.”
Rafa darted out behind her. “This is actually me, too.”
They followed the dizzying hallway carpet pattern until Sophie stopped at her door. Rafa fumbled for his key and unlocked a door across the hall. She didn’t know anyone had moved into that unit. Her confusion and suspicion must’ve been visible.
“I swear I’m not stalking you. Neighbor,” Rafa said, tipping a pretend hat as a goodbye.
Sophie smirked. “Make sure Miguel gets enough sun.”
“Don’t worry. He’ll want for nothing,” Rafa said and shut his door behind him.
Sophie leaned her forehead against the door, mortified. The first impression with her cute (let’s be honest, hot) new neighbor was one for the cringe book.
Make sure Miguel gets enough sun? Kill me now.
#
Sophie entered her condo, shedding stress for the relief of her own space and creature comforts. Though she grumbled daily about the building, she did love her home. The minimalist, loft style layout was decorated with movie posters and pop culture inspired paintings from local street artists. The walls were soft white with a gray accent wall, highlighted by neon blue and pink LED track lighting. Capped off with a stellar view of the downtown skyline, her condo could’ve been ripped right out of a Michael Mann neo-noir film.
Sophie ditched her purse, flung her business attire into the hamper, and slipped into a breezy, turquoise sundress. Time to get some real work done. She put on a VR headset and launched the maps app. A fellow director had shown her how to use the satellite imagery for location scouting. Instead of driving all around California looking for the perfect forest, Sophie could do her initial scouting from the serenity of digital reality. None of the bothersome bugs, dirt, rattlesnakes, mountain lions, and chupacabras. OK, only a few of those things were real and minor inconveniences, but better living through technology, right?
Sophie melted back into her leather love seat, blissfully unaware of anything outside her virtual world. Suddenly, her field of vision began to vibrate. She didn’t recall there being any haptic tech in the headset, only the controllers. The vibration abated long enough for her to write it off as an anomaly, but then it returned twofold.
Earthquake.
Sophie yanked off her headset and sprinted for the kitchen. The earthquake intensified, causing the tower to shake and roll—a deeply unsettling experience. She lost her balance and fell forward, nearly clipping her forehead on the countertop, then crawled under the metal kitchen table. Her cabinets shook open, dishes creeping toward the edges. A painting of an old war propaganda repurposed into a cartoon donkey slipped off its nail and hit the floor. Unnerved, Sophie shut her eyes and covered her ears.
Seconds stretched like putty. Minutes—less than five—were an eternity of uncertainty amidst thoughts of impending doom. Every time there was an earthquake, she became convinced it’d be the “big one” that sends California plummeting into the sea. And then…
Calm.
Sophie found the courage to open her eyes and looked around the condo, surveying the scant damage. Not too bad. She stayed under the table for another minute as her heartbeat slowed to normal, awaiting an aftershock, but nothing came. Spared again. She opened the refrigerator and found an unopened bottle of cheap but refreshing Chilean Sauvignon Blanc. She twisted off the cap and was about to swig directly from the bottle when a knock sounded at her door.
“Sophie? Are you OK?” Rafa called from the hallway.
Sophie put down the bottle and answered her door. Rafa stood there, Miguel clutched in both hands. The succulent was out of its pot, roots and dirt sifting between his fingers.
“I’m good, thanks. Just an earthquake.”
“Right. Southern California. Earthquakes.” Rafa sniffled back some panicked tears. He looked like someone had just kicked his puppy. “Miguel fell off the counter, and I don’t have anything to repot him in. I thought maybe I could borrow something?”
Don’t let the strange man into your home, Sophie repeated to herself. It doesn’t matter that he’s pathetically adorable right now. No one likes a nosy neighbor.
Rafa’s eyes seemed to grow with a dollop of pleading tears like a Disney cartoon.
Damnit.
“Come in,” Sophie said and unlatched the door chain. “Let’s find Miguel a new home.”
Remember, stun gun is on the dresser. Just in case.
Grateful, Rafa followed Sophie inside. She sat him down at the table and rifled through her cabinets, pulling out a small sugar skull mug.
“Will this work?”
“It’s perfect.”
Rafa accepted the mug and placed Miguel in it with a father’s love. He massaged the dirt around the roots, dusted off the succulent, and instantly seemed in better spirits. Sophie brought over the wine, two glasses, and sat with him at the table.
“You want some wine? I’m having wine.”
Rafa placed Miguel between them. “That’d be lovely. I appreciate your hospitality. My nerves are…” he trailed off and held a hand in front of them. It wouldn’t stop shaking. “You’d think it was my first earthquake. I guess it is, in this country anyway.”
“I’ve lost count of how many earthquakes I’ve been through. Never gets easier. Cheers,” she said and drank half the glass while Rafa swished and sniffed his. “It’s nothing special, but it gets the job done.”
“On the contrary, it’s very special,” Rafa said, tipping his glass to her. He let the wine sit in his mouth, and Sophie swore she could see his brain breaking down its properties. “A gesture of goodwill and comfort among neighbors. I’m grateful for the company.”
“Me too, actually,” Sophie replied. “Sorry, that sounded rude. I don’t normally entertain guests. Game night, book club, or just, you know, sharing my space…not my thing.”
They drank in a silence that felt longer than the earthquake, yet Rafa appeared unbothered. It was nice to be with someone who made no demands of her, didn’t need to hear himself speak, or bring up trite topics merely to fill the dead air.
“What brings you to LA?” Sophie finally asked, surprised that she was genuinely curious. “I’m not getting the actor, writer, director vibe from you. Not that you’re not creative, but you don’t seem the industry type.”
“Oh? What is it, my face? My body? Not beefy enough?”
“Your smile. It’s too kind,” Sophie said, drawing out that very smile. “There it is.”
“I’ve had a long time to perfect my bedside manner.”
“You’re a doctor?”
“Not exactly,” Rafa replied without offering further details.
“Eastern medicine, like acupuncture or something? I don’t mean to pry.”
“Of course you do, and I don’t mind. Humans are naturally curious. But I haven’t found a title that truly encapsulates what I do,” Rafa said, scouring his vocabulary for a proper description. “I guess you could call me…a faith healer.”
“Jesus Christ,” Sophie moaned and then clasped a hand over her mouth as if she could shove the words back in. “I said that out loud, didn’t I? I’m not judging, really, but religion doesn’t have a place in my life. No offense.”
Rafa’s smile didn’t fade. Not a twitch of offense in his face or manner. “None taken. People always assume that faith and belief can’t be separated from religion. But religion is a manmade concept, one that, honestly, I’ve no use for, either. And what about you? Are you the industry type?”
“Nailed it in one. I am, in fact, a Hollywood cliché. Writer slash upcoming first-time feature director. Horror mostly.”
“I’ve never understood the appeal,” Rafa said, demeanor soured by the genre. “Isn’t there enough real horror and death in this world?”
“It does feel like civilization is circling the drain. But we all need an escape,” Sophie explained. “For me, horror has been a way to explore my fears in a safe environment, if that makes sense.”
Rafa leaned forward, wrapped both hands around Miguel, and hit Sophie with an intense stare that pierced her thoughts like a lobotomy ice pick. “And what are you afraid of?”
“Life.” The answer was extracted from Sophie, bypassing her myriad of mental barriers.
“Your honesty is—”
“Inappropriate,” Sophie interrupted, mortified.
“I was going to say beautiful.”
Raw emotion flooded Rafa, as though he had reached into Sophie’s soul to alleviate the weight of her pain. He dabbed the moisture from his eyes with a sleeve, projecting sympathy and affection. The unspoken empathy reassured Sophie like the consoling hindsight of an old man who had already lived through the worst. Strange, since Rafa barely looked thirty.
“Life isn’t to be feared, it’s to be cherished,” he continued, clearly passionate about the topic. “Take Miguel here. Think about everything that had to go right on a cellular level to create this plant. If more people valued the lives of what are perceived as lesser creations, imagine how the world could be transformed. What you could achieve. I believe it’s possible.”
Sophie couldn’t take her eyes off Rafa. Sage like wisdom one moment, the wonderment of a child the next, and absolute belief in every word he spoke. His enduring optimism in the face of harsh realities was downright infectious. She hadn’t felt anything like that since first arriving in LA fresh out of college. Ready to take on the world. The feeling didn’t last six months.
Sophie cleared her throat, relaxing the exceptional mood. “When I said life, I meant like taxes, healthcare, systemic racism, gun violence. You know, American life.”
“It’s all connected. Trust me.”
She did. No idea why, but she trusted everything that came out of Rafa’s mouth. No hidden agendas. No veiled judgment. He was an ocean of truth, from surface to seabed.
“Don’t take this the wrong way, but my god, you don’t belong here.”
“Isn’t that supposed to be the charm of Los Angeles, that no one belongs?”
“I’ll drink to that.”
Sophie poured refills and toasted with Rafa. But when the glass touched her lips, she felt a resurgence of the subtle vibration beneath her feet. She tried to dismiss it as an aftershock, but the intensity grew too violent. Too quickly. Before she could warn Rafa, the sensations magnified beyond anything she had experienced in an earthquake.
The tower jolted as if struck by cranes from all sides at once. Cracks forked across the walls like jagged incisions. The floor-to-ceiling windows imploded, loosing glass into Sophie’s condo on the current of gale-force winds. Screams from her neighbors joined the howling chorus.
“Under the table!” she said, ducking for refuge, but Rafa ignored her.
“This is not an earthquake. And a table will not protect you.”
Though deadly serious, there was a distinct lack of fear in Rafa’s tone. He moved toward the gaping window frame, seeming to glide along the floor, unaffected by the onslaught.
“What are you doing? Get away from there!” Sophie shouted.
Dishes ejected from the cabinets. Drawers blew open, spewing their contents. Bookshelves toppled onto the furniture. The condo became a maelstrom of loose items circling like missiles. Rafa turned and waved her over to the window.
“Come. Look.”
What compelled Sophie to crawl toward the window? The assurance in Rafa’s voice? Morbid curiosity in the face of catastrophe? Human foolishness? Certainly not bravery.
Sophie shielded her face, lambasted by personal effects, and clawed her way to Rafa. He hoisted her up, feet planted like an immovable obelisk, and gestured out at the city.
“What…?”
Like a Native American seeing a Spanish ship for the first time, Sophie couldn’t make sense of what she was witnessing. The chaos was outside of reality, of what she believed to be possible. Her mind dissociated from her body, for what she beheld was apocalyptic.
Throngs of colossal roots were springing from the streets, sidewalks, and earth. They coiled up the towers and constricted, snapping steel like brittle bone while entombing the inhabitants. Vines laden with razor thorns slashed through cars and chopped up roadside shops like chainsaws. Fleeing bystanders were haphazardly caught in thinner root tendrils that knotted into barricades of wooded mesh. A Metro train burst up from the tunnels beneath them, propelled by hundreds of roots scuttling it along like centipede legs.
“You see fury,” Rafa said.
Sycamores and oaks lining the blocks surged with biology-defying growth, their trunks splitting and expanding. Branches thrashed at random, flinging pedestrians into oncoming traffic. Palm trees sprang to life and whipped the streets like Kraken tentacles. Eruptions of dirt spewed from the depths and darkened the sky in a brown haze. Weeds and saplings in the cracked concrete matured at impossible rates, becoming trees that filled the streets into a grid of forest.
“You see vengeance.”
Flowers shot free from their beds, stems twisting together into vines that spiraled up street lamps and stoplights, arcing over the pavement in woven bridges. Bushes spread outward and merged into walls of vicious bramble that corralled people running for safety.
The mighty roots overtook skyscraper after skyscraper, disposing of the glass. Replacing steel girders. Breaking down and ejecting concrete.
“You see madness. But those are human flaws. This is not vindictive. This is instinctual.”
A high-pitched, inhuman wail emitted from the turbulent fauna, pure sonic force generated from organic vibration. It sounded like…agony. Pervasive, mind-numbing agony. Rafa braced himself against the window frame and clutched his chest.
“This is Her pain.”
And then silence. No car or building alarms. No screams of panic. How long had Sophie been watching this catastrophe? A minute? That’s all it took for Los Angeles to fall.
Sophie broke herself from the ghastly spell and sprinted for the exit. Forget Rafa, he was clearly insane. She yanked open her door to see roots shooting down the hallway on the ceiling and floor, intermingled like braided limbs, pummeling the walls. Caving in her neighbors’ homes. Nowhere to run.
The roots charged past Sophie, momentum swatting her aside with indifference. She flung back into her condo, right into the grip of another root cluster slithering inside through the window frame. The impact, coupled with the mental shock, proved too much. The light dimmed into suffocating darkness as all else became muted except the grim echo of Rafa’s voice.
“Do not struggle. There is nothing you can do.”
#
Sophie coughed, the soot-laced air stinging her lungs. She tried to move, but her arms and legs were bound. Bark sheared her skin as she struggled. She opened her eyes and found herself suspended by branches in her gaping window frame, looking out at the morass of flora that was once Los Angeles. The streets had become a copse of undergrowth beneath the canopy of a primeval forest. One and two-story structures were lost in the reclamation, consumed or compacted. The towers of downtown, her own included, had tree trunks that would dwarf a redwood piercing through their interiors like spinal columns, the branches spewing outward through dozens of floors. Every inch of unnatural material was covered in bark and leaves. All evidence of manmade architecture had been demolished or overtaken into an unrecognizable hybrid mocking the fallibility of man’s supposed achievements.
Where was the National Guard? Had anyone escaped? Was this horror isolated to Los Angeles? If not, what was left of the world? Who was responsible? And how?
“I know you have questions. If only you had asked them sooner.”
Rafa emerged from the thicket that had overwhelmed Sophie’s condo. His casual, amiable demeanor had been shed for something far older and ominous. The barbed tendrils of the Miguel succulent, now monstrous in proportion, danced around him like living swords.
“Tens of thousands of years on this planet, and what has humanity done? Serve only yourselves. You take and you take, bleeding the life from Her. For what? For what?” Tears of disenchantment emphasized the terrifying wisdom in Rafa’s castigation. “Industry? Technological progress? All pursued with such willful disregard for anything that inconvenienced your progress in the slightest. Forgive my anger, but I am invested in the welfare of life on Earth. I take this personally.”
“Who are you?” Sophie said, as if any answer could suffice.
“I am the voice of Mother Nature. I am Her pain made flesh.”
Sophie’s mind grasped for logic, for reason, for anything to deny what was before her eyes. Sanity suddenly felt like a luxury. “None of this is real. I’m dreaming.”
“I assure you, your existence has never held more weight than in this moment.”
“What do you want?” The question fell flat as soon as it left her mouth. Nothing so prosaic as desire could define the unexplainable.
“This is not about me!” Rafa shouted, surging toward Sophie. “It is about Her. You have all been deaf, dumb, and blind to Her plight. Now you will listen. You will see. You will feel. You will comprehend and change…or you will die with Her.”
“Then help me understand. I’m an ally, like you. I’m listening,” Sophie stammered, trying to stay on Rafa’s good side like a hostage appealing to a kidnapper’s vanity. “I see Her.”
Rafa scoffed at the attempt. “Desperation is not empathy or accountability. You see events only through the lens of self-preservation. But what is happening is not a conscious attack on humanity. This is the rampant despair of a broken body and heart. A cry for relief spoken in your universal language: violence.”
A wave of tremors further destabilized the tower. The central tree trunk grew outward, smashing through more of the building’s core. The web of branches tightened, grinding what remained of the artificial components. Minutes before it all imploded, if that.
“Tell me what to do,” Sophie begged. “It can’t be too late. Tell me why I’m here.”
“Yes!” Rafa blurted out, relieved. “That is the correct question. Why are you here? Why are any of you here? Because humanity is essential to the natural order. Embrace your role and think beyond yourselves. Beyond even this one planet. You are part of a system within a system within a system. Cosmic systems. Think of your science, of everything you can observe and catalogue. Mother Nature’s strengths. Her weaknesses. Where She thrives. Where She hurts. But instead of adapting and evolving with Her, your unchecked hubris stifled Her pleas. You have given obscene authority to an infinitesimal minority of your population, wretches obsessed with wealth and self-interest. They condemn Nature and your entire race along with Her because they fear losing that power more than they value life.”
“It’s not my fault!” Sophie cried out as the tower’s last gasps filled the condo. Anger arose within from the futility of her situation. “Did all those people down there deserve to die? Do I? I recycle. I watch my carbon footprint. I even drive a shitty hybrid. I can’t fix this! I’m just one person.”
“But you are not the only one I am speaking to.”
Rafa stepped in front of Sophie and thrust his fingers onto her temples. The tips glowed with an ivory light that entered her skull, and the world melted away.
Visions from hundreds of other locations across Earth shimmered in the amphitheater of Sophie’s mind—survivors of all races and nationalities. Thousands of them. More. Political powerhouses. Climate change deniers. Magnates of industry. CEOs. But also factory workers. Parents. Educators. The affluent and the homeless. A complete spectrum of humanity. Like Sophie, all of the survivors were bearing witness to Nature’s anguish. Rafa was with each of them, giving a variation of the same speech, the same impassioned appeal. Sophie felt their fear—it was her own—the kind of fear that lays waste to flimsy morals, beliefs, and thought processes, leaving behind a blank slate of unbiased clarity. And in that clarity was a collective spark that could ignite humanity to action…or be smothered.
“Power that was given can be reclaimed. The cycle of greed and consumption that has bled Nature—and your society—for generations is not set in stone. Humanity’s talent for innovation is unparalleled, but you have to believe that you can make a difference. You have to fight for it,” Rafa said to everyone. “As always, the choice is yours.”
Sophie’s mind snapped back to her condo, and she screamed from the mental whiplash. Rafa, hands still on her face, shushed her cries. Warmth emanated from his touch, infusing her body with calm.
“Release your fear, Sophie. It is not the path forward.”
The tower convulsed and shuddered as the knotted boughs grew beyond its capacity. Entire floors began to collapse above Sophie, lost in the voracious tangle. Her ceiling split apart, pulverized glass and concrete and steel sifting into the condo like the final grains of sands in an hourglass.
“Oh god oh god. I don’t want to die.” The branch restraints released Sophie, and she collapsed onto Rafa. “Please, I can be better. We all can.”
“No one is infallible. Even amidst my doubts and anger, I have always believed in you,” Rafa said, resting his forehead against Sophie’s.
“Then help me, Rafa,” Sophie implored on behalf of the human race. “Help us.”
“I wish I could do more, but you must help yourselves. True change blossoms from the heart. From love. And despite everything She has suffered, Mother Nature still loves you all. I still love you.”
“Who are you?” Sophie asked again, voice drowned out by the deafening collapse.
“Family,” Rafa said, and Sophie had never felt so loved. So seen. “Close your eyes.”
Sophie shut her eyes and buried her face in Rafa’s chest. She felt something soft yet powerful expand over them, shielding her from the falling debris like a silky shell of tenderness and positivity.
The tower’s bones finally gave out, leaving a gutted husk reclaimed by The Green.
#
Sophie sat in her car, sweaty with the door ajar, her agent harping away on the phone about the streaming deal. Confusion muddled her thoughts and sense of reality. She could still taste the granulated concrete in her mouth and nostrils. Could still hear both the chastising candor and affection in Rafa’s tone. The verdant eradication of Los Angeles was tattooed in her memory with more explicit detail than any fiction she had written. It couldn’t have been a dream, heat-induced hallucination, or psychotic break. She remembered the calm and silken protection of Rafa’s embrace as her condo came down around them. That was mere seconds ago, too recent to even be called a memory.
But Sophie also remembered this moment. Déjà vu slugged her in the gut. She bowled over, searching for the crack in the cement where she had ripped up the weed. Nothing.
“Sophie? Are you listening to what I’m saying? Sophie?”
“Hold on,” she said into her phone and shuffled out of the parking garage.
Los Angeles continued its day with baffling normalcy. No rampant fauna in the streets. No towers overtaken by ruinous vegetation. Nothing except people and smog and the blaring horns of traffic—a typical day in the city’s self-centered ignorance. Facing an indisputable lack of evidence, Sophie was forced to question her sanity. It made more sense than the alternative. Months of fourteen-hour days…the attrition of mental and physical exhaustion…a hyper-realistic daydream brought on by stress was perfectly normal.
You’re fine, Sophie repeated to herself like a mantra while trying to seal away the disturbing “memories” in a lockbox along the nebulous fringes of her mind.
Then she saw him, a street cart vendor selling chili lime-seasoned cucumbers. A man she wouldn’t have given a second glance, but plastered on his slack-jawed, color-drained face was the exact same stupefaction and alarm screaming within her. He had seen it. Felt it. Lived it.
Sophie turned in a circle, scanning the area. Dispersed among the crowd were more people paralyzed by something impossible. But one by one, their eyes found each other and they knew—it was real. All of it. They weren’t crazy, and it wasn’t a case of mass hysteria. Religious people would call it prophecy from on high. Others a warning from the Earth itself. But the ‘why’ remained. What were they supposed to do with this knowledge?
“Sophie?”
She brought the phone back to her ear. “I’m here. Set a meeting with the studio.”
“I’ll get it on the books for Monday.”
“Today,” she demanded and went back to her car. “I’m on my way there now.”
“What’s so urgent? What am I supposed to tell them?”
“The story’s changed.”
#
Ranger Morales felt a presence approach from behind, even though not a single leaf crunched or branch snapped. Without turning around, he removed his fingers from the ground and shook off the loose soil. Exhausted, it took all of his remaining stamina to stand. This meeting was inevitable.
“I have to bring you home now, Raphael,” a familiar voice said, rich with both the stoic authority and modesty of a seasoned leader.
“I know.”
Raphael—Rafa during his time as a ranger—took a slow, deep breath, taking note of all the air’s nuanced scents. He turned to meet the emerald eyes of his brother Michael. Those compassionate, steadfast eyes that could rouse legions into action. A cream-colored cloak cascaded down immaculate muscles, doing little to conceal his beatific might.
“You look well, Michael.”
“And you have been reckless. A network of airborne mycelium guided by your grace, connecting you to countless minds…how long have you been working on that genetic miracle?”
“Since their Industrial Revolution, give or take a decade,” Raphael admitted without remorse. “Someone had to speak for Her.”
“No one is questioning your intentions, brother, but you did far more than speak.” Michael sighed, weighing the choices at hand. “The Council cannot ignore such brazen interference.”
Raphael understood that his time on Earth had come to an end. “I will accept the consequences of my actions,” he said, surrendering to Michael, “but I will not apologize for them.”
Michael’s stern face softened, and he took Raphael into his arms. “Good. An act born out of love needs no apology. Tell me, how many humans did you reach?”
“Enough.”
“To do what?”
Raphael glanced down at the neat pile of his ranger boots and hat, a uniform that he had worn with honor and love for the better part of fifty years. Fifty years spent caring for this forest with the Hyperion tree as his only confidante. He would miss their conversations, but the sacrifice was worth it.
“Whatever they can.”