Calyxa was pleased; her seeds were doing well. Nurtured by sun and rain, a variety of plants now covered the desolate place. The space, of it’s own was, extending – shoots, roots – like underground arteries and veins, were pumping life blood over wider and wider sections. Dying vegetation composted into black earth catching the dropping seeds. The small pollinators she introduced her last visit encouraged her plants to be creative; to develop a palate of reds, purples and yellows. To diversify.
She just replicated her ship for now. Until she was sure she had eluded them. Outwitted them.
Calyxa spent millenniums one universe ahead of the hell spawn. Oh, the times when she thought it safe to bring seeds out of the ancient storage bins, to watch in birth-wonder as blank rocky orbs became eco-spheres only to return to small pockets of blight on her utopian worlds. Her tears mixing with the acidifying rain.
Those drifting, defiling, bad seeds in their metal casings. When one planet was laid to waste, they went off in search of another. Seeds on the solar winds; floating on the last gasp breathes of black holes. Looking beautiful, but deadly. Desolators of planets.
Left their spawn in her children. Corrupted her worlds.
Please Calyxa prayed, not this time, not with Earth.
© my frilly freudian slip