space slashers

Volume 12

Where the Flowers

Grow
The first bud sprouted in early May, nestled between the rows of tomatoes and basil in the
Westermans’ modest backyard garden. It had not been there the day before, nor had anyone in
the family planted it. Its petals were a ghostly shade of white, tinged with something like
phosphorescence, as if it absorbed and reflected the moonlight.

Margaret Westerman was the first to notice it. She stood barefoot in the cool earth, her morning
coffee steaming in her hand. The plant unsettled her. It was too perfect, its five-lobed petals
symmetrical to an unnatural degree. And it smelled—an odd, almost electric scent that stirred
something in her memory, though she could not place it.

“Did you plant something new?” she asked her husband, Richard, later that evening.

“No,” he said, without looking up from his book. “Probably some stray seed from a bird.”

But Margaret couldn’t shake the feeling that the flower had not simply appeared. It had arrived.

By the end of the week, there were three of them. They stood in perfect equidistance from one
another, as if plotted by a precise geometric mind. The smell had grown stronger, and it seemed
to linger inside the house, clinging to the curtains and upholstery.

Their son, David, had been the first to touch one. He had come in that evening with a strange,
dreamy look in his eyes.

“Mom,” he said, “I think the flowers are talking.”

Margaret froze, the dish towel clutched in her hands. “What do you mean, honey?”

David frowned slightly, as if he had to search for words. “I dunno. When I touched it, I saw…
colors? Shapes? And I felt really good, like when you wake up after a really nice dream.”

Margaret knelt and took his face in her hands. His pupils were slightly dilated, his expression
relaxed, almost too relaxed.

“Don’t touch the flowers anymore, okay?” she said gently.

David nodded, but something in his distant smile made her uneasy.

By the second week, all three Westermans began experiencing strange symptoms.

Margaret’s dreams had become vivid. They were no longer dreams so much as visions, filled
with pulsing, undulating light, alien landscapes of towering fungi and enormous spore clouds
drifting through the air like jellyfish in water. Sometimes she awoke with dirt beneath her nails,
though she had no memory of leaving her bed.
Richard had taken to sitting by the garden for hours at a time, staring at the flowers with glassy
eyes. He was losing weight, but he never complained of hunger. He only smiled when she
asked about it, saying he felt wonderful.

David had stopped speaking altogether. He spent his time outside, cradling the flowers in his
small hands, his mouth moving in silent conversation.

The plants were growing rapidly now. Their stems thickened, their flowers unfurled like great
white mouths, yawning toward the sky. At night, they shivered, though there was no wind.

It was on the third week that Margaret discovered the truth.

Driven by a nameless, writhing dread, she took a gardening spade and dug around the base of
the largest flower. The soil was unnaturally soft, spongy, and gave way easily. Her breath came
in sharp gasps as she unearthed the roots.

But they were not roots.

They were tendrils. Fleshy, pulsing tendrils that coiled and twisted as if sensing her presence.
They extended deep into the earth, vanishing into unseen hollows.

Something moved beneath the soil.

Margaret staggered back, bile rising in her throat. The smell was overwhelming now, a thick,
electric sweetness that made her head swim.

She turned to run into the house—but Richard was standing in the doorway.

His face was slack, his eyes black pits of shadow.

“They’ve chosen us,” he said. “Don’t you see? We don’t need to fight it.”

Margaret backed away. “What are you talking about?”

Richard took a slow, measured step forward. “It’s already inside us. Inside you. It speaks
through us. It feeds through us.”

Margaret’s breath hitched. Her skin tingled as if something were crawling just beneath its
surface.

Then she saw David standing behind Richard, smiling.

And his eyes—oh God, his eyes.

Margaret didn’t remember collapsing. Only the sensation of sinking, of something wet and warm
pressing against her scalp.
When she opened her eyes, she was no longer in her backyard.

She was somewhere else.

A vast, undulating landscape stretched before her, filled with towering stalks of luminous fungal
growths. The sky was a deep, sickly yellow, writhing with clouds of drifting spores. Shapes
moved in the distance—great, slow-moving organisms with translucent flesh, their inner organs
pulsing in mesmerizing rhythms.

And then, she felt it.

A presence.

Not singular, but many, a vast consciousness made up of thousands—millions—of voices,

whispering, humming, singing in some ancient, wordless language. It pressed into her mind,
filled her, surrounded her with warmth and understanding.

There was no fear here. No pain. Only purpose.

The flowers, the spores, the tendrils—they were extensions of something greater, something
old. They had come not to destroy, but to assimilate.

To grow.

And Margaret understood now.

She awoke to the sound of rustling leaves. Richard and David stood over her, their faces
serene, their hands outstretched.

She took them.

She followed them into the garden, where the flowers were no longer flowers, but something
else—something vast and breathing, pulsing with unseen life.

Margaret knelt before the largest bloom and placed her forehead against its soft, trembling
petals.

It welcomed her.

And as the spores filled her lungs, spreading their delicate tendrils through her bloodstream, she
finally felt whole.

Across town, a girl left her house to find a new, unfamiliar plant growing in her garden.