Story: Natural
"It isn't natural," says the man, his minted breath curling past curated crowns, carving clear crisp consonants capable of conveying complex concepts; utterly ubiquitous, yet unique to the singular species that shields its skin with sheet upon sheet of synthetic plastics and polyesters shipped by smoke-spewing ships across sea and sky, fabricated in factories by mute masses and machines for the sole sake of lining the sacred silk pockets which make trillionaires of billionaires of millionaires off the fools convinced they'll scale the same pyramids they slave beneath, each block a pyrrhic victory in the effort to ever increase the imaginary indices of "wealth" and "value" splayed across their personal pixelated prisons, ever clawing to crawl atop the crowd, ever climbing closer to the searing sun, ever fleeting further from the filth of flora and fauna, ever grasping for godhood as they forsake their forgotten past and fall so far from that first bite of forbidden fruit. What knows now man that he may name "natural"?
Nothing.