of: VanderMeer

When The Woman flung herself off the building, she had no way of knowing that it would turn her into a beast — heavy like a tank, outstretched as Christ on the Cross, and blooming like a bridal bouquet. She lay in the dust, ribs protruding, wheezing with laughter.

—

The Man did not like his job, nor did he care for his own life. He passed by the empty lot every morning and every night, Thursday through Saturday. And again on Sundays, if his quota was not met.

—

The Beast let out the harsh bellow of a lonely foghorn. From its blood, sprouted a long trail of daisies — as if a whole garden could appear in the time it took for the creature to die. As if the garden itself would choke The Beast in its own weeds.

—

The Man tiptoed up to the vast thing, in half-baked fear — this was not how he envisioned spending his Sunday. It was a poor time for his animal instincts to emerge — but at the sight of the blood splattering against the flowers, he could not help but think, delicious.

—

By the time The Woman had experienced any success, The Cancer had taken over. Long before that, before she could flaunt her money, her mother had died a typical Juliet’s death — overdosed on cocaine and cough medicine. The Woman had never known her father and never wanted to — all she could remember was the dampness of his leathery touch.

So, when She looked eighteen floors down at the dusty lot, it looked like the sandbox her mother would leave her in on Sundays. Her mother would explain, in a husky tremble, her best customers came on Sundays — right after church.

In her twelfth year, her mother would apply blush to The Girl’s swollen cheeks and say, They need a little more color.

—

The Man’s Dick grew hard at the idea of shoving itself into The Woman’s bathrobe. He felt his back grow both heavy and light, heavy and light, as he broke into a panic watching Himself from his office window tearing the hide off The Strange Beast.

The Him He Watched returned home early on Saturdays, worked a job he loved, and always met his quota. The Him He Watched could probably turn an abandoned lot into a flower garden.

—

Before she threw herself, she opened her bathrobe — the wind tickling her nipples. The Woman’s final thought was: How’s this for a little color?

—

The Beast choked on a fistful of daisies, its body shook like the earth. Back and forth, up and down.

They both convulsed: The Beast roared, and The Man came. The Woman jumped, and The Sirens rang.

—

Back in his office, The Man gulped down guilt like molasses, and read the address off his business card to the dispatcher.

After he hung up, from somewhere down the street, he heard wedding bells.

It was a Sunday, after all.

“Strange Daises” - published online by Untoward Mag, 2020