Coming from the cool dry of the facility, she found it beautiful, at first. A breeze on her face, the soft prickle of rain on her arms, and all around her the defiant green shout of nature. This was what she had loved and studied. Amongst her racks of seed, in clinical sterility, each sample had become merely a dead thing to be docketed.
The thought rocked her with harsh, jangling laughter that melted into sobs. She sank down onto the dying grass, blisters already forming on her bare skin. Those dead things were alive, waiting, whereas she – on leave when the blow fell – was as good as dead.
This one was written for Microcosms … follow the link for biologists facing drama in the rain
Alex Brightsmith 
Beautifully drawn.
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