Stonecutting

He checked the pots when he came in from digging. They'd need a good, deep hole for the transplant. Set down some serious roots.

The first pot contained a chip of glass and nothing more. The second, a twist of wire. Both sat stubbornly unchanged in their rich loam. The third pot, however, brought a smile to his sweat-stained face. The chip of concrete had swollen, grown rectangular. He could see the first budding partition of an internal wall.

Outside his crude hut, the trees loomed close, but he ignored them. The city would come back.

He'd plant it himself.

Lord of the Greenwood

“So you’re a prince?” said Brian. “What are you the prince of?”

“I rule this wood, from the first oak to the last sapling!”

Brian glanced around. “That’s about three trees.”

“Insolent!” said the Prince. He waved tiny fists. “A dark cloud the size of an apple appeared. A minuscule lightning bolt flicked out, stinging Brian’s nose. “Teach this impudent whelp a lesson, minions of the forest!”

An elderly badger struggled from its burrow. Brian rubbed his nose as the badger solemnly gummed his sneakers. Brian glanced at the self-proclaimed monarch.

“There have been some regrettable cutbacks,” the Prince allowed.