by Andrea D. Hutchinson

Created on: August 17, 2010   Last Updated: May 08, 2012

Alive and indignant, Resentment searched for a home.  A cool, cozy place of displeasure and ill will, somewhere he could plant a wrong or an insult, and cultivating a lush crop of injury.

Resentment’s infamous reputation for harvesting harm was world renowned. His harvest was such that it could be enjoyed in the fashion of a seven course, holiday meal. From dawn to dusk he fertilized his crop with confusing and painful thoughts. Proportioning hybrids, splicing truth with gregarious lies of the mind; he was accomplished at choosing a ripe bed of pain and anger in which to sow his seeds.

Humans were the soil bed in which his crop thrived. In fact, only the human heart and spirit could accommodate a bounty crop of resentment. 

Resentment stood amazed at depth of injury he was able to create by simply rotating seeds of simple wrongs. The harm need not be grievous, small misunderstood comments and looks could be tended and nurtured into righteous indignation.

All that was needed was a damaged spirit, a teen with parents who weren’t quite adequate to the need or a struggling wife who went unnoticed.

But, there were those beings that for whatever reason were the ripest soil beds! Resentment could spot them a mile away.  Their eyes were blank and they appeared unkempt. If it made eye content, even Resentment felt the chill of an empty, damp and dark cavern.  The excitement of finding these caused Resentment to experience the closest thing he knew to joy; demented glee is how he described it to his colleagues.

Resentment found and entered a rich one of these, the silence within was bone chilling. He began planting seeds of thoughts that would reap the sweetest of fruits.  Just one ripe soil bed and Resentment would be working within this field’s circle of influence for centuries.

Being in this field was comfortable for Resentment. The seeds clung to the damp soil and wouldn’t need much attention. Listening to the already chaotic thoughts and fears, Resentment knew he could relax and sit back. This crop was going to germinate and go to harvest wild, like a field of poison ivy.

Resentment settled in, whispering insults and doubts, captivated by the echo therein. His work was done, the reward residual. This crop would tend itself, growing into a violent harvest.

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