A Postcard from Celeryhenge
Deep in the forests of a rainy northern isle, far beyond the cities and the moss-choked walls, lies one of our most enduring mysteries: the world’s largest primitive megavegetal site.
Who or what piled these stalks in such deliberate patterns, and why? Was it an observatory to track the movements of the bowels? Was it an ancient site of worship? Was it just a giant culinary make-work project? What the hell was it for? We’ll probably never know for sure.
There’s a strange energy about the place; a fork in the road of reality. It’s like a hunger. It just sorta grows on you and scours you out … You relive your salad days in a crisp series of lucid flashbacks, but they fade and leave a bland taste in your mouth.
The wind as it whispers through the stalks sounds like voices. Animals become uneasy. The back of cat’s necks bristle. I feel I’m being watched — as though the Vegetalista or some other herbaceous spirit were hovering just over my shoulder.
The weirdest thing is that the monument changes. During a dry spell it almost seems to wilt and go limp. Then, as if overnight, it seems to stiffen and regain its shape — almost as though it knew it had rained…