An Acorns Flash Fiction Feature
By: Mario Senzale
I was assigned to Brother Kartoffel right after growth season. Some got hunting. Others, construction. I got planting.
“You’re strong,” the elder said, looking me over. “Good build. You’ll do fine with the mothers.”
I knew what that meant. Everyone did. The rooting ceremony. The mothers go down, they feed the earth, the earth feeds them, and the young ones come up stout.
On the first day, Brother Kartoffel showed me how to dig the beds. Six feet down, four feet wide. The soil in the north fields is perfect for it—dark, moist, full of nutrients.
“Make it cozy, Brother Arnut” he said. “They’ll be here for a while.”
“How long?” I asked.
“Six months. Sometimes seven if the young one’s stubborn.”
We dug four beds that week. Sister Wortel, Sister Rote, Sister Ube, and Sister Neep. The ceremony was on Sunday. The whole commune came out. Drums, singings, the elders blessing the soil. Sister Ube went first. Six months along, her middle huge and low. She walked to the field wearing nothing. Smiling. Covered in compost and manure. The women had prepared her since dawn, layering her in the mixture. She spread her arms to the crowd.
“This is my gift. My body for the earth. My young one for the future.”
Everyone cheered. Brother Kartoffel and I helped her into the bed. She lay down, still smiling, hands on her swollen middle. The compost was packed around her, thick and warm. Her face was the last thing visible.
“See you at harvest,” she said.
We covered her. The soil went on easy, and the women sang. When we were done, Brother Kartoffel hammered the stake into the ground. “Sister Ube—3/17.”
Sister Wortel came after, followed by Sister Rote and Sister Neep. All of them smiling. All of them honored. The ceremonies were always the same. Joyful. At night there was a feast. The whole commune celebrated the new plantings. Brother Kartoffel got loose on Kombucha and told stories about harvests from when he was young.
“You’ll see, Brother Arnut,” he said, his arm around me. “When they come up, it’s magic. Magic. And we—we have the front seat.”
“What do they look like, Brother Kartoffel? What do they look like?”
“Reborn, Brother Arnut. Reborn.”
“And the young ones, Brother Kartoffel? The young ones?”
“You’ll see, Brother Arnut. You’ll see.” He smiled.
I went home late. The light was fading. I drank water, lots of it, and stood in my yard for a while, feeling the start of spring.
Three months in, the soil above the beds started swelling. Rising up like bread. Brother Kartoffel said that was normal. It meant the mothers were growing.
“The seedling feeds them through the cord. Gives them what they need to survive. Nutrients, minerals. Keeps them strong.”
“So they’re alive?”
“More than alive. They’re becoming!”
One morning I was checking the irrigation system and heard something coming from Sister Wortel’s bedding. A hum. Low and steady. I knelt down and pressed close to the soil. Slow and thick. A heartbeat.
“Beautiful, isn’t it?” Brother Kartoffel said behind me. I jumped.
“I was just—”
“It’s ok, Brother Arnut. I do it too. I like to check on them. Make sure they’re happy.”
He knelt down beside me and listened. The sun felt good. Necessary.
By month five, all four beds had swollen significantly. The ground was raised a foot. Maybe more. You could see the shape of the mothers underneath. Round. Dense. Like huge tubers pushing up from below. The commune was preparing for harvest. Building the platforms, sharpening the tools, organizing the feast. It was the biggest celebration of the year.
9/24. Harvest day. The whole commune gathered at dawn. Drums, singings, the elders blessing the tools. Brother Kartoffel and I started digging. Carefully. The soil came up easy, loose and rich.
“There she is!” Brother Kartoffel said, grinning.
We dug around it carefully, exposing the shape. It was huge. Four feet across. We kept digging until we could see the whole thing. Sister Rote. Her body had fused into a single swollen mass. No arms, no legs. Just a thick, oval shape with her face barely visible on one end. The crowd cheered.
“She’s perfect!” A young girl yelled.
We used ropes to pull her up. It took six of us. She was heavy, dense as clay. When we finally got her to the surface, everyone pressed forward to see. Her skin had a waxy sheen. Her eyes were closed. Peaceful. Her mouth was slightly open, and you could see roots inside. Thin, white, threading through her teeth. She was breathing. Slow. Steady. The elder stepped forward and placed his hand on her.
“Sister Rote. Your becoming honors us!”
Then the skin split. Not violently. It just opened. Like a pod. The flesh peeling back in sections, revealing dark, rich soil inside. And in the center, wrapped in pale roots, something small. It was deep red, almost purple. Smooth. Round and tiny, with a face. Sleeping. Perfect. The elder lifted it out carefully. The roots detached with soft pops. He held it up to the crowd.
“Behold! New life!”
Everyone cheered. The young one opened its eyes. Magenta. Dark.
The thing that was Sister Rote lay on the platform, hollowed out. The elder nodded to us.
“Return her to the earth.”
We carried her back to the bed. Her body was lighter now, crumbling at the edges. We covered her up. Within minutes, she started to dissolve.
“She’ll feed us now,” Brother Kartoffel said. “One last time.”
We harvested the other three after that. Sister Wortel’s young one was a parsnip—pale and tapered, with a fierce little face. Brother Möhre had been expecting a carrot himself, but he held the baby parsnip with pride anyway. Sister Ube’s came out as a fingerling potato, long and knobby. Brother Kartoffel looked at the sky. “At least it’s starchy,” Brother Kand said. Sister Neep’s young one was the surprise. Wrinkly, brown, kind of hairy.
“A taro,” someone whispered.
Brother Rapa stared at the small child, its face already scrunching up, ready to cry its papery cry.
“My father will kill me,” he muttered.
At the feast, I sat next to Brother Kartoffel and watched the families with their new ones. The beet, the parsnip, the fingerling, the taro. They were already growing, little root-hairs searching for soil, faces turning toward the sun. Brother Möhre was teaching the parsnip to hold a spoon. Brother Rapa sat alone in the corner, the taro-child asleep in his arms.
“You did good, Brother Arnut,” Brother Kartoffel said. “You did good.”
“It wasn’t hard. Always a surprise.”
“I know, Brother Arnut. I know,” he replied, looking at the fingerling.
“Do they stay like that? The young ones?”
“For a while. Then they root somewhere, and a few years later, they’re like us. Walking. Talking. Strong.”
I looked across the field where the mothers had been returned to the soil.
“Next season, we plant six more,” Brother Kartoffel said. “You ready, Brother Arnut?”
I nodded. The drums started up again. The dancing. The celebration. And in the fields, the soil hummed softly. Waiting.
About the Author:
Mario Senzale is a South American writer and mathematician currently living in Indianapolis, Indiana. Check out his work at mariosenzale.neocities.org, or follow him on BlueSky at @mariosenzale.bsky.social.