Liz sat at the kitchen table. The tea pot was still full, the tea cold.
Open on the table was a brown paper package with an illegible postmark. Instead of bubble wrap, the wadding was sheep’s wool, the lanolin having left a greasy film on her fingers.
The packet had contained a single giant seed, rounded at one end, pointed at the other, curled like a speech mark. The seed was enamel hard, the surface patterned with oily rainbows as if it had lain for years, burrowed deep inside the mouth of a hungry oyster.
At first she’d cradled it in her left palm, coming to terms with its weight, the heat of its skin.
Then the seed shivered. Lay still. Shivered again… As if a tiny heart beat inside.
That was when Liz decided she didn’t want to hold it anymore.
And if you’re wondering how I came to write a story about a giant, pulsating seed… Well, the image looks like a giant hothouse to me.