Two people came by and plucked him out of the ground – an interesting new green plant, they thought, maybe something new for their salad.
“No”, the girl said. “Too risky. It could be poisonous. Probably just a weed anyway.”
The boy looked at her, nodded, and threw him onto the compost heap.
The rain fell again and he got washed further down into the heap.
Two days passed.
The two people returned with a funny looking thing with metal spokes on the end of a wooden handle. Suddenly he felt his entire body being ripped to pieces by the metal spokes. He didn’t know what was happening, but he certainly didn’t like it and he was certain that this was not part of his assignment. If only he could remember what that assignment was – the coma/trance seemed to have erased it from his memory. And now he was here, a dismembered mess with no way to pull himself together and get home.
Maybe he’d been better off on Plexathorious. Maybe he shouldn’t have volunteered to be the first to make the trip.
Maybe the grass wasn’t greener here because now he “was” the grass.