The Greenhouse

The lonely old man struggled to get the soil out from under his fingernails. He glanced at the blankly-tagged pots of soil in front of him with a toothless grin, deciding on the first pot to the left to begin his project. He stole a quick glance outside; the night sky was utterly dark as always.
Limping over to the pot, he picked his nose and wiped the contents on his filthy apron. He then stuck the same finger into the muddy soil, moving it in circular patterns. Dropping a few seeds and spitting repeatedly into it, he was pleased by the way the clear fluid ran in tiny rivulets, making their own patterns as they swirled and were absorbed into the dirt.
Wishing the seeds would grow instantly, he noticed several imperfections along the inside of the pot itself. The imperfections in the patterns increased as they made their way further down. 
He even noticed the sickly green hue in the soil; as if it were somehow tainted. There was the tiniest bit of movement detected in several places in the mud. He imagined a tiny version of himself inside; commanding the dirt, water, and seeds to bend to his will. 
Would it be a success?
He pondered over this question briefly, then noticed the other pots lining the wall to his right. He had plenty of other chances to get this project right, as it seemed this one was bound to fail. 
Making up a nonsensical name for a failed project, he wrote “Genesis” on the tag, spit mucous on the soil in slight frustration, and left the pot to its own devices as he moved to the next one.
Category:Reality
Category:Micropasta