The Moss

William turned off the telly in disgust, sure it hasn’t produced anything of worth beyond the occasional glimmer of an old style signal. Not being digital and all of those stations being down regardless, some amateur had taken over some tower somewhere. As much of it was able to escape the moss. One of the few things it doesn’t like is signals from our communications frequencies. In fact that may be all it doesn’t like.

William sighs and moves his body up from his chair, only its lower half covered in the green fur that has become ubiquitous with the island his beloved Britain sat upon, the moss seemingly built up enough to sway with the wind at the pinnacle of its piles. Trouble with this being there isn’t actually any wind in William’s flat.

As far as anyone knows the moss has always been here, spade and broom being a staple of country living as long as anyone could remember. Removal from the streets, cobblestone and more modern design both seemingly at the mercy of this moss without diligent removal efforts, causing councils across the UK to hire on men who made a trade of it, complete with certifications as more became known about what made the sudden troubles happen.

It began one day when the Prime Minister showed up with moss on his shoes, not much different than previous days, the moss had crept more and more up the Palace of Westminster, the groundsmen removing more and more every day yet the moss soon covered the lower level’s windows. This was just a few weeks, but during this time moss on the bottom of the shoes of Parliament was so common it became a non-issue with the grounds also dedicating a man to be a “scraper” who removed it from the bottoms of all the shoes. No one ever asked what he was doing with the remains, it was unsightly already. Why pollute the mind with musing of its whereabouts?

That day, the day it crept past the ankle, the Prime Minister acted even more erratically. He was never the stable sort, in fact his bombastic attitude and freewheeling along with sycophantic worship of the American President at the time of his governance beginning made him one of the most unstable conservative ministers ever, but this day he was truly unstable. In and out of main proceedings but also dragging a new member of the House of Lords with him each time, they then came back and voted along with him regardless of usual affiliation. Every one of them had the moss somewhere, some just a dot of green, others with a full beard of the stuff.

No one said anything, they were too timid or used to unusual behaviors at this point. William doesn’t really know, he didn’t follow politics before. He just knew those the moss had altered acted differently, quitting employment and dedicating to building large masses of refuse in the middle of their home cities and towns.

William’s own village was one of the last to have the pile, those with the moss could not tell anyone why they did the things they did, seemingly only the more elite of the of the previously un-mossed were able to verbalize more than grunts and gasps.

William’s body slowly moved among the moss in his flat, kicking for his shirt. Foot finding it, William slowly bent over and picked it up. Hoping he brushed the green fuzz off successfully, he put the shirt on his body.

A burst of internal fire raged through him almost instantly, as if he could feel green tendrils reaching through the recesses within his body and depositing repellent filth into them. Slowly the agony walked, nay ran, through his body, towards his neck, then up his throat.

Gagging on nothing, or at least nothing within his airway, William is brought to his knees among the ever swaying and creeping moss. As the pain worms up through his head the swaying seems less random. The languid dances, subtle stops and starts, the very pheromonic smells coming from it, they all take new meaning. As if the language was always within him William started to know. To know what must be done.

Grabbing his remnants of his last meals, William lurches through the flat’s halls to emerge from the building into the street proper. Bringing himself down to the square bit they used for gatherings and the occasional Saturday public movie showing designed to engage the village into a more tight knit community. He climbs the giant pile, proudly placing his chinese takeaway bits upon the top of the pile. Smiling, he knows.

William knows he’s helping the moss be found, found by the beings who sent it here. These are the beacons, and the moss knows it will be rewarded. As will William!