I write to define the things I feel.. the frustrations, the fear and uncertainty of what’s coming. This is a piece I started writing for a contest when I needed to create a rhyming story for an NYC Midnight contest. I submitted something different, but this piece still speaks to me. In this world of crazy and false prophets, I can only hope that we’ll see through this horrific charade to the other side of things. To those deeply suffering from the actions of this fascist regime, I’m truly sorry. Keep tossing your seeds – we need new growth.
– Cathy Schieffelin
The Plague
Thrusting her hands into the cool, loamy soil
Soleil nestled her seeds in a circular coil
Round and around, starbursts in the making
Her magical herbs cured all of the aching.
Of villagers’ woes, snake bites and heartbreak.
Was she a witch? Or midwife’s mistake?
Despite the gossip surrounding her birth,
She provided a service, proving her worth.
Healing the sick, predicting the rain
Villagers prospered with good crops of grain
But one chilly morning, Catbird called Tee Hee
When Soleil’s ruffian hound, managed to tree
A young man wandering lost in the wood
Near her forested cottage, in the dogwood.
He arrived bearing news of a terrible kind
Neighbors to the east had all lost their minds
A plague of amnesia, hate and despair,
Infiltrated the village, no family spared.
Victims forgot their stories, their pasts
Of kindness and love and sharing repasts.
Now they turned on each other, eager to burn
All crops to the ground, though starving they’d turn.
Soleil listened in silence to this shattering news.
She wondered the cause… was it booze or the blues?
Would it arrive in her town? Was there hope for a cure?
Was this something new? Or was it someone, a lure?
She’d heard tales of a prophet: a loud, heavy talker,
Full of paranoid visions, a hawker and shocker.
He boasted and raved… set the people on edge.
Destruction was coming, this was his pledge.
Hoard all your cakes, let no strangers pass.
They’re wolves in sheep clothes… they’ll take all you have.
Arm yourself to the teeth, no one’s to be trusted.
Not your neighbor or brother, or you’ll be dusted.
Soleil had assumed no one would heed the brash calls,
Of his obsessive insistence of building tall walls,
To keep out the weak, the old and the poor.
Only the rich, brave and fit should be allowed through the door.
But his voice prattled on, shrill from above,
Rousing scared villagers, intolerant of
Magicians and peddlers… anyone who
Threatened their livelihood or begged for a sou.
There’d been dubious prophets in earlier times
One or two gained traction, others declined.
This one was different, holding ears of the masses
Promoting thunder and wrath, wearing blood-colored glasses.
Soleil had a thought, and she employed the young gent
Freed from her tree, they eagerly went,
With pockets of seeds, an idea and a prayer.
They covered ground fast, astride her gray mare.
Within her pouch of miraculous seeds,
She carried an amulet that brought rain to the weeds.
Along the path to the village square
They dropped piles of seeds, no inch of ground spared
The seeds sprouted when the land was disturbed
Riots of color: luscious fruits, flowers and herbs
Tumbling from cottages, villagers’ eyes wide, intrigued.
Smiles came to their faces, fear finally fatigued.
Gazing at each other, the world washed anew
Amidst glorious smells and flamboyant hues.
No longer bleak, hateful and mad,
The villagers cast off the doddering Cad.
Still angry and noisy, incoherently raging,
Without masses of ears, he began rapidly aging.
Withered and stooped, his voice weakened and waned.
Hate curdled his lips, he slunk away shamed.
Soleil was relieved to find her old village back.
Trotting home on her mare, she knew his attack
Could return one day soon. Too much was at stake,
For an angry man on a mission, and a people to break.
But all was not lost, she hoped they’d remember
Not to follow false prophets, stoking his ember.
People clustered together. They knew their mistake.
Next time he showed, they’d see him for a snake.
Copyright 2025 Cathy Schieffelin
Wildflowers Press 
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