A Snap-fiction story
By Micah Siemens
They called him a Wanderer, though he carried no map and never asked for shelter. He walked the old roads barefoot, a satchel at his side, and from that satchel he drew not gold nor weaponry, but a single thing: a living seed, pale as bone and warm as breath.
The seed pulsed faintly when held, as if it listened.
The Wanderer did not force it into the earth. He offered it.
And the earth, like the hearts of those who owned it, answered in different ways.
I. The Stone King
The first land belonged to King Eobard, whose city was built at the crossing of seven trade roads. Every inch of ground had been stamped flat by boots, wheels, and conquest. Stone covered soil. Law covered mercy. Victory covered fear.
The Wanderer came to the gate at dawn.
“What do you carry?” the king asked from his balcony.
“A Word,” said the Wanderer.
Eobard laughed. “Words are how men lie. What does yours do?”
“It grows,” said the Wanderer, and held up the seed.
Curiosity, not need, brought the king down. He took the seed between iron fingers, frowned at its warmth, and set it upon the road at his feet.
“If it lives,” Eobard said, “I will believe it is strong.”
The seed rested on the stone.
Before the sun reached its height, shadows gathered—black-winged things, nameless and quick. They descended without sound and carried the seed away.
The Wanderer did not protest.
“That is it?” Eobard scoffed. “Your Word did not last an hour.”
The Wanderer said nothing in return. Shook off the dust of his feet. And went on his way
Eobard turned back to his city of stone. Nothing grew there. Nothing ever had.
II. The Shining Knight
Beyond the city lay the Vale of Mirrors, where Sir Alaric kept his estate. He was beloved, admired, and eager for greatness. His land gleamed—white soil imported from afar, polished stones, gardens raised above the ground like altars.
When the Wanderer arrived, Alaric welcomed him joyfully.
“A Word?” the knight said. “Yes! I have been waiting for something like this.”
He planted the seed at once, pressing it into the shallow soil of his crystal garden. Almost immediately, a shoot burst forth—bright green, fast-growing, astonishing to behold.
Alaric rejoiced. “See?” he cried. “It thrives!”
But when the season turned and the sun burned hotter, the plant faltered. Its roots found nothing beneath the surface. The heat scorched it. By the third day, it lay withered.
Alaric knelt, confused and wounded.
“I believed,” he said. “I was ready.”
“You were excited,” said the Wanderer gently. “But you were not rooted.”
The knight looked at his gardens—beautiful, shallow, untouched by the blade or the plow.
The Wanderer moved on.
III. The Queen of Vines
Farther south ruled Queen Sereth, whose realm overflowed with wealth. Her lands were green and rich, tangled with vineyards, orchards, and flowering hedges. Life thrived there—but it was already claimed.
She received the Wanderer with courtesy.
“I do not reject Words,” she said. “Nor do I abandon what I have built.”
She planted the seed among her vines, careful not to disturb them.
The seed grew.
Its leaves unfurled, and for a time it seemed well. But the vines crept closer. Tendrils wrapped the stalk. Roots competed beneath the soil. The plant survived—but it bore no fruit.
Season after season, it remained alive yet empty.
The Queen frowned. “It lives. Is that not enough?”
The Wanderer shook his head. “A Word that bears no fruit is unheard.”
She said nothing more. Her land remained abundant. The seed remained choked.
IV. The Broken Shore
At the edge of the world lay a forgotten shore where the land had once been fertile, but now lay torn and uneven. Storms had broken it. Salt had bitten deep. Few remained there.
One did.
His name was Corin, a fisherman who no longer fished. Once, he had sworn loyalty to the Wanderer’s name before others. When fear came, he denied it. Three times.
Now he lived among wreckage.
When the Wanderer appeared, Corin did not lift his eyes.
“I know why you’ve come,” he said. “I am not worthy of the Word.”
The Wanderer sat beside him.
“I know,” he said. “That is why I came.”
He took the seed from his satchel, then did something he had not done before.
He knelt.
With his own hands, the Wanderer broke the ground—tore it open, bled upon it, mixed salt with soil. Corin watched, trembling.
“Will you let it be planted?” the Wanderer asked.
Corin nodded, weeping.
The seed was placed in the broken earth.
Nothing happened.
Days passed. Then weeks.
Roots sank deep—past salt, past stone. When the shoot emerged, it was not impressive. But it endured.
Seasons turned.
The plant bore fruit.
Each fruit carried seeds—thirty, sixty, a hundredfold.
Corin harvested them with trembling hands.
“What do I do with these?” he asked.
The Wanderer stood, his satchel now empty.
“You will carry them,” he said. “As I did.”
V. The Witnesses
The Wanderer walked back onto the roads—not with a seed, but with witnesses.
Corin went north, where stone roads still ruled. Some seeds were lost. Others found cracks.
He went east, where shallow joy reigned. A few plants withered. Some roots went deeper.
He went south, into tangled abundance. Many seeds were choked. A few were freed.
The Word did not always grow.
But where it did, it multiplied manifold.
And the earth began to remember what it had been made for.
See Matthew 13:1-23 and Matthew 26:69–75 for context of inspiration
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