Porthole

4149 305-313 Scribbles in all shades of green

I'd never been swallowed whole before.

I slept well, waking to green upon green upon green. Listening to myriad shades of green. I knew the yellow shades were curious. They'd never seen anything like me while the faded greys seemed to say, at last. The emeralds sighed relief and the red tinged swords relaxed.

I don't have words for it.

The Grass People don't speak in words, just rolling rhythms and soaring intonations. They didn't need a breeze to talk like their lesser cousins I had met around the galaxies, those we call just plain grass.

They asked about them. I mentioned wheat fields, rice paddies, corn in its thousand colors, shapes and sizes.

They knew they were food and fodder elsewhere but this was their Home Planet and they defended it with every blade and every root.

They knew the arts of welcome and repel, knew how to soften themselves to silk or to exude poisons that killed on contact. No one dared stray off the paths they had fashioned. It would be suicide ... if not murder. They negotiated with the Gqarians to seed the stars, paid with their own bodies to feed them. The Gqarians were their gardeners and exclusive merchants and guarded their secret treasures well.

Why was this told to me? It had taken 5 cycles of light and dark to educate me.

Apparently I was a blank wall and they decided to scribble on me ... hoping that I could somehow translate and share on my travels ... with one caveat ...

Never to visit again and never disclose where.

Every line I wrote must count they warned me; then write nothing more.

For "Space Blog" 

Planet:

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Prompt: "If I had a wall I would write on it."

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