Bowser's Arc

Chapter 1 of 1

Bowser wanted the coziest teashop in all of Valaria, but he had no place to build it. He stood in an empty lot at dawn, a spiky-shelled turtle taller than a doorway, cradling a tray of teacups against his chest. He set the cups down on a flat stone. He poured. Steam curled up. There was no roof over him, no walls, no chairs, no single guest to warm. He had brewed tea for nobody, again. The lot was overgrown and cheap because no one else wanted it. Thick weeds choked the ground. In the center grew the reason why: a strange plant taller than Bowser himself. Its stem bristled with thorns. Its top was a round green bloom lined with teeth, and the bloom snapped open and shut on its own. It hissed when Bowser stepped closer. The last buyer had run. The plant guarded the only land Bowser could afford. "Move," Bowser said. He grabbed the stem. Thorns bit his palm. He roared and yanked. The roots held like iron cables. The bloom lunged and clamped onto his shoulder. Bowser stumbled back, dragging the whole plant an inch, no more. It would not come out by force. He sucked the sting from his hand and thought. He looked at the fresh tea cooling on the stone. Then he looked at the snapping bloom. Bowser was a fire-breather, but fire would only burn the land black. So he tried the opposite of a fight. He lifted a steaming cup and held it near the teeth. "You've never had a warm thing in your life," he said. "Just cold dirt and scared buyers." The bloom sniffed the steam. Its snapping slowed. Bowser tipped the cup and poured warm tea over the roots, again and again, softening the packed earth around them. The plant leaned toward the heat instead of away. When the ground turned to soft mud, Bowser wrapped both arms around the stem and pulled once more. The roots slid free with a wet tear. He staggered, holding the whole thorned plant above his head. He did not throw it out. He carried it to the corner of the lot and pressed its roots into new soil. "You stay," he said. "You're my first guest." The bloom settled, teeth resting, warm at last. The land was his now, clear and empty and quiet. Bowser stood in the middle of it and breathed. Then the weight of it landed on him. He had the ground for his teashop. He had no lumber, no coin left, and no walls. He owned a bare lot and a plant that ate thorns and steam. The dream had a home now. It still had no roof.