The Ficus

Jameson doesn't speak. He rocks in the corner with his hands over his ears, and everyone—his mother, her doctor, the camera always pointed at him—is sure they know why. The ficus in the corner knows better. It speaks to him in water and green and the smell of flowers, in a language no one else can hear. A quiet, aching piece of flash fiction from the Digital Dryad world.

First published in Meniscus Literary Journal 8.1.