The Red Peas
There was once a big forest. Their towering trees loomed over any rare passerby who happened to walk down the rough, dusty path that swirled through the dense forestry. The leaves on the trees glowed with green anticipation, as the cold breeze swam through them. Beside the path was dark green grass, dew dripping down its slim sides. In the middle of it all, in a bright clearing, was a big pea plant. It was big, unusually big for the small, lime green peas we’re all accustomed to. Its bulging pods shone in the morning sunlight, and its small green leaves rustled like chimes. Slowly, ever so slowly, the new pods opened, the delicate folds spreading like a butterfly’s wings. There, glistening with dew, basking in the sun, sat three perfectly-rounded red peas. Their red color was stronger than blood, and as light as the evening sunset. No one knew about these Red Peas. No one except them.
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