Eve grew Steve. They grew, Eve n Steve, tended bees; strewed seeds. Every street grew trees; seeded new streets. They expected resentment: Serpent’s sneery eyes between ferns; Keeper’s legs-knees-feet; grey-green jeers. Elsewhere edgy Emmy hedged her bets, kept fleet feet, met every beetle-creep, sentry-sleep. Ely’s elders tweeted, begged less greed. Sheets pressed deep red cheeks. Ely’s levees seeped.
The next events were never well remembered: Steve n Eve expelled themselves. They slept between tents; trekked, veered west. The clerks rebelled. Empress Ellen, never there when needed, left the next week. Her greedy cheeks, her greedy feet, her helpmeet Emmy, swept between the elders. The elders were entrenched. Yet we knew when the defences went; when Ely’s temple fell: fletch-embedded, the Fen Decree flew news.
Few were left end Twenty-Seventeen. Ellen, Emmy, less well-dressed, never meet, knee western streets. Steve and Eve? They settled where they fell; grew fewer trees: these were replete.