Page 1 of The Guy Sure Looks Like Plant Food To Me
1
RUNA
It’s not often I wake from the sound of sharp teeth turning flesh into ground meat. That’s only because I try to keep my intimate affairs to the daytime. Chewie is far too loud for nighttime feedings.
“Chewie!” I whine, throwing my pillow at the oversized Venus flytrap chimera.
She yelps like a dog that got its tail stepped on, but it does nothing to cease the loud crunching of her chewing.
“Please!” My begging is deplorable. “We have to open the shop early for the medium tomorrow.” I look over to my clock to see that it’s too late; it’s already tomorrow.
The early 2000s analog alarm reads two fifteen.
It’s today.
Crunch.
Crunch.
“Ugh.” I throw my feet into the mattress, frustrated, grabbing my only surviving pillow and wrapping it over my head to dull the sound.
She’s getting too large to stay in my room now. I had assumed once Chewie reached maturity she’d stop growing, butit seems that there is no limit to my spell. She just keeps getting bigger.
As a witch, I use my skills to keep my metaphysical shop going and the customers flowing in and out. About four months ago I acquired a Venus flytrap that was crossbred with a tiger lily, but I may haveaccidentallydropped an entire vial ofactualtiger blood in the growth solution. When Chewie here sprouted a trap with razor sharp teeth I hadnooption but to feed her.
Right?
Well,Ithought so at least.
Except Chewie is nearly seven feet tall now and requires the same amount of fresh meat as a large jungle cat before she starts meowing like a caged predator waiting to be fed. Becauseshe can’t hunt on her own.
Okay, ethically I fucked up big time.
I was lonely.
I wanted a friend.
I wanted scary dog privileges in the shape of a plant and I should have probably consulted someone before attempting this spell. And I would have,if I still had friends.
At thirty, I’ve either outlived or successfully written off nearly every person who once took up space in my life. My old friends refused to grow and remained in a permanent cycle of self-hatred toward each other, surviving off of morsels of dopamine disguised as gossip that I could no longer tolerate. My elders and magical mentors became either too old to formulate coherent thoughts or like the rest of my family, are now dead and ashes.
A masculine groan echoes from the corner, forcing my sleepy eyes open.
“Oh shit.” I scramble off the bed in a hurry. “Is he still alive?” I ask knowing well she can’t answer, turning on the light before I slide into my cozy slippers to investigate.
Chewie continues to do what she does best.
She masticates.
“Chewbacca.” I call her by her full name, tone set to chastise.
The crunching stops.
Like a well-trained beast, she opens what any reasonable person would call a mouth, exposing three rows of razor-sharp teeth on the top as well as the bottom. All I can see are the legs of the polo-wearing country-club ass-bag I found at a local dive bar now lodged deep into the throat of my plant companion.
Okay, so feeding her a human wasn’t part of the plan. It’s not my fault Chadrick Dickchad over here wouldn’t take no for an answer and followed me for three blocks after I left the bar last night. It’s definitely not my fault he tried to get inside the shop and then got aggressive when I pulled out my pepper spray.
Itmightbe my fault that the plant I’ve made sentient has becomesomewhatprotective and decided to start turning some of my less favorable encounters into midnight snacks.
