Her hands were hidden in the soil, locked in the earth and cuffed to the roots of the august cotton that flanked her as she lay prostrate in the center of the row.  The warm night air passed through her nightgown and began to pick up speed, the gusts clawing at her garment, the wind-driven soil digging into her skin.  Every attempt she made to free her hands met a wave of fiery pain throughout her shoulders and back.  The little slack she managed to create was immediately absorbed by the fleecy white fruit emerging from the brittle boll.  Downy fingers extended from the dark boney stalk, unhindered by the blasts, descended upon her.  She writhed and wrenched her petite frame, but was unable to ward off the fibrous tendrils navigating her surface, weaving their segments into her nightgown, wrapping her into a mummy seed.  Under the layers, she could feel the needle-like pricks of the fibers subduing her pulsing veins, dissolving her skin and ensheathing her ears, mouth, nose and eyes.

Sandra eyelids slowly opened and closed in her half-dream state and she continued to observe her eyelashes, holding their cross-hatched shapes in focus, trying to determine if she survived the botanical onslaught.  She felt her arms crossed on her lap as she sat in her husbands lounger in the living room.