Nothing comes to mind. He looks at the blank piece of paper caught between the two rollers of the typewriter.
He closes his eyes. All he can see is the image of his father’s grave, freshly filled, flowers placed carefully over the crisp, new earth.
The typewriter starts to shudder underneath his fingernails. Shoots of slowly sprouting weeds wrap around them. In his mind he starts typing, and that slowly connects to his fingers, but the weeds sprout faster, slowing him down. He tries to cough; and a honeysuckle flower lands on his lap.
He pulls out the sheet. Moss is starting to grow on it. He rolls in a fresh one. Then starts typing again.
‘The day was a nor…’
A nettle starts to sting its way out of his nose. He pulls it out, cursing loudly; he looks at his hand; already small white bumps are starting to say hello.
He types and he types; more nonsense. He looks at it carefully. He then reaches for the sheet of paper he had typed three paragraphs on. A rose bush springs out of the page, ripping his palm. He shouts out in surprise, droplets of blood spilling from his hand and onto his desk. The droplets turn green, then form into lillies which bob gently on the wooden surface.
Flowers start growing from everywhere. From the roof, the floor, the walls, he looks down; his fucking sneakers?
He jerks his hands away from the desk and beadlets of blood caused by the rose splatter onto his new white jeans.
Ivy slowly slithers out of his left ear, creeps up the wall next to his typewriter and disappears into the small hole next to his James Dean poster. Wild garlic slowly starts to bud and find warmth in his groin. Then the bulbs start to crush under their own growth spurt and their heavy cloying smell fills the air.
He keeps on typing though. After a while when daisies float out from under his eyelids, he blinks, then manages to read what he has written.
‘The day was a normal…ROSE… and the ROSE… was on the trail of the…LILLY… She was a nightclub owner at the…TULIP…the bar on… MORNING BLOSSOM street…’
He tries to clear his mind. Pulls out the paper from the typewriter where deadly nightshade has started to grow, puts in a fresh sheet and batters down on the keys.
‘WINTER falls down hard, KILLING all of the FLOWERS, WEEDS, and PLANTS. Nothing survives. Mother Nature, is defeated. DEAD.’
Slowly, the plants around him start to shrivel, returning to their roots. He blinks more freely, the petals from the flowers sprouting from his eyes dropping onto the desk and crumbling into dust. He smiles, knowing that he has done the impossible, defeated Mother Nature herself. And that is when the winter blackberry shoots up his back, ripping out from his spine, and several tendrils wrap themselves around his neck, the thorns shredding his milky white flesh. Choking him… choking him….
Johnnyelvis is working on his first novel. He also runs All Things Horror.