Shrubs lead a relatively normal existence. They are planted and remain rooted in the ground, unless they are rudely uprooted and replanted, they stay put until their deaths. The most exciting thing that could happen to a shrub is pruning, or if a major deity decides to call attention to themselves, you may find yourself aflame. But on average, you just sit there, being a shrub. And that’s enough for most shrubs.

This particular group of shrubs yearned for more. They (there were three of them) tired of just sitting in the woods, being green and slightly prickly. They were even upset that they didn’t have a cool name for their group, like a murder of crows or a pride of lions. Why couldn’t they be a firestorm of shrubs or an awesomeness of shrubs, or even a Draculation of shrubs? Why couldn’t they see the world, send postcards to other Draculations of shrubbery, dance until the sun came up over the Mediterranean with glamorous people who had foreign accents?

Was it fate that led Trish the unicorn to land in this particular group of shrubs? Was it just a fortunate fluke? She’d been humming her favorite song, a sweetly melancholy folk tune normally played on the banjo, and staring ahead, when she was struck by a goose berating her misbehaving goslings. She tried to pull herself back into the air, but was too shocked by the impact, so she aimed for the softest-looking area below. Were the shrubs trying to call attention to themselves? Not intentionally, but whatever they did worked. Trish landed comfortably, the shrubs cooed silently at the sheer adventure of it all.

Then a robot approached them. It was all too much!

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