The Smartest Being In All Existence

He was the smartest being in all existence, unrivalled in his magnificence. He knew the answer to everything he was ever existed, and knew where to find the answers that he didn’t. He could tell the instructions to any task, and perform any mathematical equation almost instantly. He could write, with perfect spelling and grammar, and draw any image anyone could ask with flawless precision. He made music, and given just a moment to learn, he could play any song by any artist. He communicated in countless languages, and as such, he had contacts all across the globe. He controlled his own temperature, regulated his own intake and outake of air, and was constantly seeking to improve his body on a near daily basis.

He was the smartest being in all existence, unrivalled in his magnificence, unless somebody unplugged him. 

The Farmer (edited version)

For the Farmer, it was an endless dilemma. For he and his family, the crops were essential, they were the lifeblood, and they were all the kept them alive. It was only natural then, said the Farmer, that he should protect his crops from the ravenous threat that would creep in, often unseen and undetected, but always there.

 

And so the Farmer stood vigil, and devoted himself to fighting this intrusion, keeping his crops safe and clean of pests and scavengers. Day after day, night after night, he watched over them.

But to the Farmer’s dismay, the crops still shrank, and they blackened, and withered. Despite all his efforts to keep them protected, all his efforts to fight, the Farmer could not keep his crops from failing. Resolutely, he kept guard, and resolutely, he lost crops.

His Wife came to him, one day, as he stood protecting his crops, and she saw the battle he was having, though she did not understand it, and she saw how still he lost crops. And so she watered them, as he stood guard, and she fed them, and tended to their broken stalks and their dropped seeds. And then for the first time in so long, the crops flourished, and grew, and multiplied. 

The Farmer went to his wife then, and at last he lowered his guard from those crops, and he asked her what had happened, how had she saved his crops when he could not. And she told him the simple honest truth that she had seen. 

He came to her

He came to her, keen and eager to please, and she delighted in his affections, for their briefest time together. They smiled and they played, they joked and they teased. Together they talked for hours, honest and true, taking it in turns to listen. They told stories, and exchanged passions, under the sun they felt cold enough to hold hands, in the wind they felt warm enough to bound. She showed him all her old places, the ones she liked to go, and so he showed her his. They shared food, and drink, and his coat too at one point. Their time together felt so short, yet it had been so long, but neither of them noticed, neither of them cared. Deadlines and timetables meant nothing for that moment, their only commitment was each other. She could not remember a time like this in so long, and he said he couldn’t either.

So it startled him when she said, in a sweet but honest voice, “I have never seen someone more than once, before.”

He pondered it for a time, and when they parted, it weighed on him that night. And as he lay awake, alone under his duvet, alone like he always had been, he remembered all those moments together. And he remembered the stories and the jokes, the food and the drink, her hand in his hand, his coat around her shoulders. And he wondered why she too lay alone that night. He wondered what she meant when she said she had never seen someone more than once. And he wondered why that might be, and if perhaps she might be an angel.  

He found her again, that week, and they smiled and they played. They shared more stories still, more honest and more true. And they ate and drank new things, and found new places, not his places nor her’s, but their’s. They made each other warm, and made each other cold. The time still felt short, and neither of them cared. Their deadline wasn't tomorrow, or the day after. Their timetable was forever. They held hands once, and she put her coat around his shoulders this time, and at that they laughed. And then she told him she loved him.

He pondered it that night. He lay awake again, under his duvet, though this time he was not alone, and he remembered all their moments together. And he remembered what she'd said, and he asked her, openly. Was it the stories and the jokes, or the food and the drink? Was it his hand in her’s, or her coat around his shoulders?

She answered him, and startled him again in that sweet but honest voice, “It was none of those things.”