Title: Weeds
Date: September 28th, 2025
Author: Z. E. Wayland
License: CC0; To the extent possible under law, Z. E. Wayland has waived all copyright and related or neighboring rights to this work.
A farmer walked through his field, upon all the verdant green that rolled across the horizon line, content with its beauty. Until he saw a single weed that sprouted from the ground, a disgusting blight in an otherwise perfect field. So, he leaned down and tore it out. Its roots popped from the earth with the sound of torn fabric. All that remained of it was a barren spot on the ground where once it stood. Satisfied with his work, he continued his day tending to other pastures and slept soundly.
But, then the very next day, two more weeds sprouted in that greenery. Furious, he knelt down and ripped away the weeds by the neck before scouring for more hiding from plain sight. He wielded a white jug of chemicals. Poured so lavishly that the scent of citrus choked the field, but he could no longer smell it. The farmer would only be reminded of it from the incessant itch along his ankles as he returned home for the night.
Even more weeds grew by the next morning. The farmer balked, baffled, blazing with intent as he grabbed his trowel. It glistened like a knife. The blade sunk into the earth, but before he had the chance to remove it, the weed pulled itself out of the soil. It stood on two roots and ran so fast across the field that its stalk trailed behind. The weed was not fast enough as the farmer reached, grabbed, and tore it in half with his bare hands.
All the other ones uprooted themselves and ran. They ran up the fields, between the grass blades, away from the shadow of the farmer chasing them with a hoe held high above his head like an executioner’s axe. The farmer brought it down like a judgment. Each strike slew a weed in half, each strike bit into the earth. Spotted across the fields are barren pieces of dirt and the scattered remains of various weeds. A polka dot quilt of grass and landscape.
Out from the crest of the horizon, the farmer sat inside a mechanical tiller that rolled closer. Circles of blades rolled. Its teeth dug itself into the ground, uprooting all of the weeds that had buried themselves in the mud to hide. The tiller rolled across the entire field. It roared as it tore more and more of those weeds out, satisfied, eager. Then, it began digging too far, too much, the ground beneath it gave as the tiller itself sank into the dirt. Its machinery goes quiet. Back wheels off the ground, structure diagonal.
The farmer stepped out of the tiller. No matter how far he walked, he saw not a weed and not a field. He saw only a barren landscape of torn stone and dirt. And he wept.
Years later, the tiller’s paint has torn off and the rust seeped into its bones. The tiller remained untouched, unwanted, unused even for parts as sunk further and became part of the earth. It matched the color of the dirt. What it did not match was the soft green of a weed that sprouted beneath its wheel.