ANTS

“You slip ever further from among the living. They’ll soon strike you from their lists, it’s the only way to share the privilege of the dead. What privilege? To never die again.”

- Quoted by Bruno Forestier in Jean-Luc Godard’s film, Le Petite Soldat (1963).

ACT I

–

COCOON

Sally Cruz sits at her work desk stationed before her laptop. The young woman appears to be anything contrary to someone with the blessing of youthful vigour. She sits hunched over and unsettled, characterizing her nervousness by fidgeting with her crucifix necklace, a leg bounce, or dodging the gaze of the person she’s been in a virtual meeting with for the past 45 minutes. At times she huffs and uncomfortably sighs; other times, it seems as if her mind no longer inhabits her body as she slips in and out of focus. She either fashions downcast eyes or unconsciously probes her desk for miscellaneous objects to temporarily fixate on – anything to quell the unpleasantry of the conversation. 

Sally’s eighth floor apartment is a stark contrast to the husk of a woman that dwells within it. It’s flooded by natural, Spring light and filled with well-attended and thriving plant life. The spacious balcony is almost completely overrun with a myriad of flowers and plants. Every windowed room features an assortment of potted flora with healthy foliage. Corners are adorned with Creepers that hang from the ceiling. Their droopy vines and deep-green leaves force their presence to be known by means of fruitful growth, as gravity freezes their lengthy showing in time whenever they’re undisturbed by a caring touch or a gentle breeze squeezing its way through a cracked window. All the life that jubilantly matures, wilts away, and renews itself through nature's curious pseudo-immortal cycle within that eighth floor apartment is something to behold. All except one. The deeply troubled Sally Cruz has taken considerable pride in her lonely hobby and her divine green-thumb, but out of the vast collection of carefully nurtured plants, one reflects the traumatized woman the most: the pitiful pot of Lucky Lilies that seems to consciously reject life altogether, despite receiving all the tender care in the world. Sally has always found the current state of the plant and its name painfully ironic. She keeps them around for that reason.

The man on the other side of her laptop screen rambles on. He hasn’t said anything requiring Sally to give meaningful commentary, or at the very least, she doesn’t believe he has – not that she cares much. It’s 1:46pm, and Sally’s taken time out of her workday to attend this appointment just as she’s done the last three years. Sally dreads these sessions, but she acknowledges how much she has benefited from them over time; and after great resistance, she’s come to appreciate the extraordinary patience of one of the few people that’s developed a deeply intimate understanding of the most harrowing night of her life – a man she’s never physically met. 

The fingering of her gold necklace loses its mindless appeal to Sally. The assortment of items scattered across the surface of her desk don’t seem to hold her attention anymore either. Every now and then, the gut-wrenching reality of lived experience slams Sally like a torrential wave, and memories from that night conjure a storm in her mind.

Incoherent images create an abhorrent slideshow exclusive to the theatre of cognizance in which only Sally is in attendance, completely against her will. She sees herself with a man and a woman she had met during a solo night out  – they were dating. She sees drinks, laughter, and a flurry of clustered bodies sporadically illuminated by coloured lights. She knows there’s music, but all she can ever hear is the obnoxious buzzing of an antique lamp she used to own. She sees her old apartment. An intimate party continued in a homely setting. Unsteady movement, lustful eyes, and malicious intent. She sees her old bed, and herself barely clutching to consciousness. She sees nothing, but feels skin. She’s naked and so are they. She tries to scream, but only hears buzzing. She tries to fight but she feels weak. She sees nothing, then feels pain. She feels numb. She sobers up. Her two guests are long gone. The room is spinning. She sees blood, then feels pain. She tries to scream, but only hears buzzing. She begins to cry and the tears sting. She–

“SALLY!” exclaims a male voice, dragging the woman from the clutches of nightmarish recollection. Sally’s body let it be known that the sudden call out left her startled. Her attention whips to the screen of her laptop where her hailer watches as she gathers herself.

“I’m sorry, Dr. Bandanna,” Sally pleads timidly. “I um—”

“There’s nothing for you to apologize for, Sally,” the man responds compassionately. “I’ve worked with you long enough to know where your mind drifts to when you’re faced with specific stressors.”

Sally’s expression is terribly despondent as her eyes drift downwards. She can’t help but overflow with shame, although Dr. Bandanna has repeatedly reassured her that what she had gone through some years ago is no fault of her own. 

“Is there something bothering you that may have caused this episode?” inquires the therapist, his voice booming through the laptop speakers. “Perhaps what we spoke of during our last session, in terms of our next steps in navigating your depression, PTSD and agoraphobia.”

Sally says nothing for a while and Dr. Nick Bandanna uses this falloff in discourse to analyze the woman through his screen, taking note of her demeanour and giving her the opportunity to muster the courage to delve into the topic. Sally began fiddling around with her necklace again, although she’s not particularly aware of when she had restarted. Finally, she answers.

“Yes,” Sally begins, “I’ve been thinking a lot about what you’ve said, and truthfully, I’m scared. The anxiety around this whole thing’s led me to think about my assault far more often.”

“That fear you feel of reintroducing yourself into social spaces is understandable and totally reasonable,” Dr. Bandanna responds. “It’s unrealistic to think it’s something that’ll fade overnight. It’s not criminal to feel. It doesn’t make you any less of a person or make you weak; and these emotions certainly don’t diminish the amazing progress you’ve made this past year.”

“I-I don’t know…” stammers Sally in a tone clearly absent of any confidence.

“This isn’t meant to be a point of pressure, but I want you to really consider how far you’ve come. Over a year ago, it was a mountainous task for you to retrieve your mail from the mailbox in your own apartment building, but in the past eight months you’ve gone to the convenience store numerous times and have done your own grocery shopping on a few occasions as well.”

Sally doesn’t jump to respond, nor does she look at the screen of her laptop. Instead, she sits fretfully, fidgeting with her jewelry just a bit more frantically than she had been before, a clear indication of her distress.

“Even from where I stand, I can see just how far you’ve taken your gardening from when we first spoke about healthy distractions two years ago,” Dr. Bandanna powers on, referencing the plant life within visual range of Sally’s webcam. “Seeds, soil, fertilizer, those things don’t just appear out of thin air.”

“Well, my parents and my brother used to bring me what I needed,” Sally rebuts. 

Dr. Nick Bandanna raises his chin toward his webcam and an eyebrow to match, offering a quizzical expression. He swivels his head ever so slightly to showcase an ear, just before firing back a query, “ahhh– that’s right, they USED to. When was the last time they’ve done that for you, Sally?”

The young woman pauses just for a moment before softly saying: “About four months ago…”

“And why is it that they stopped dropping off these supplies?”

“Well, I don’t live as close to my family as I used to…the drive here is around 2 hours and—"

“Sally…” Dr. Bandanna interjects. 

Sally looks at the screen without saying anything. She’s been meeting with Dr. Bandanna long enough to know the tone in which he spoke her name was implicative of his displeasure of her skirting around the truth. She’s always hated that tone. She can’t help but feel small, as if she’s let down her own father.

“You already know why they’ve stopped, Dr. Bandanna.”

“Oblige me,” the therapist counters. “It’s good to vocalize these things yourself.”

There is a momentary lag before the timid woman embraces the truth her persistent therapist has been prodding around for. 

“The local flower shop…” Sally squeaks. “It’s close and it’s quiet. There’s barely any activity even as the season starts up, and it’s only really frequented by older folks. They leave me alone…” 

Sally glances at a small succulent that has found a home for itself on her desk before continuing her thought.

“And if someone does talk to me, it’s about the plants.”

Dr. Bandanna scribbles something on his notepad as he vocalizes a thought. 

“This flower shop is a place of comfort to you. Peaceful and familiar,” he says, already knowing the answer to his statement.

“It feels like I have some control there,” Sally says to the digital rendition of her therapist. “In an environment like that, I know what to expect. I feel…somewhat free of uncertainty.”

“Because of common ground?” asks Dr. Bandanna. “A sense of security through mutual passion.”

“Yeah…” Sally responds. “I guess you can say that.”

Dr. Bandanna scribbles something on his notepad before placing his pen on his desk and meeting his chest with folded arms. He bobs his head in silent understanding, with eyes that scan the inked paper before him.

“Mutual passion, peace, familiarity…” the therapist lists, his voice soft and nurturing, “I think what you’ve said here today is enough reason to give yourself that push to attend Flores Immortales. It IS the very last festival the Petal Club will be hosting, and you’ve become such an avid supporter the past couple years.”

Sally allows her head to hang low for a moment, then swivels it to the right, in the direction of her unit's balcony. The woman engages in a thoughtful glare at the lush collection of flora she’s left to flourish in front of the large, windowed pane, and outside on the balcony itself. She gives thought to the Petal Club and how much its founding members had inspired her during the most troubling time of her life; all from the confines of her eighth floor apartment, safe from the world she had learned to fear so greatly.

“You told me once that you wish you could attend the Flores Immortales Festival,” Dr. Bandanna says, his statement slicing through Sally’s trance. “Enter your flowers into the annual contest, meet the Club in person…I think now’s that time.”

“I don’t know,” Sally says in a subdued tone, “I…think there may be way too many people at the festival for me.”

“This is a hurdle you’ve been working towards clearing for a while now, Sally. You’ve been doing phenomenally so far. You’ve curated the spaces you’ve chosen to inch your way into, and in one of them you were even able to establish some semblance of community. Yes, Flores Immortales is a bit more congested than your local flower shop, but I believe it’s a place you’ll be able to discover the same peace and familiarity.”

Dr. Bandanna pauses for a moment, giving the floor to the conflicted woman on the other side of his laptop display to vocalize her thoughts. She says nothing so he powers on.

“Do you believe someone at the festival would try to harm you?” the therapist queries rather bluntly.

“I…don’t know,” Sally responds timidly. “I’m not really sure what to think. The thought of all those people stirs something in me. It makes my skin tingle like there’s insects crawling all over me.” 

“The world is a scary place, Sally, it always has been. Unfortunately for you and the countless other people around the globe that share your trauma, humanity’s ugliness is just a little bit more apparent.”

Dr. Bandanna is speaking rather frankly, which would rub most clients the wrong way, but not Sally. The woman appreciates Dr. Bandanna’s candid lectures immensely, feeling as if only harsh and loosely antagonistic truth can offer the motivation she needs to take back control of her life. To make up for the years she’s spent in isolation after being drugged, beaten, and brutally raped. 

“The number one goal you expressed to me ages ago is to get back to living your life – the one life you have. The ONE life we’ve all been allotted,” the therapist starts. “The joy of the good moments, the sting of the bad; you wanted to be in a place where you could appreciate these feelings for what they are – the motions of life and its inevitability. There’s certainly a lot of bizarre things going on out in the world right now. I mean, between a strange weeping woman leaving bodies everywhere she turns up, an insomniac serial killer, and a family of cannibals that have persisted for generations, you’d think everyone’s world would’ve stopped turning in fear of being victimized…but it hasn’t. You can either wilt away with fear in your apartment or allow yourself to be uncomfortable at the Flores Immortales Festival, and be a part of history…just give it a bit of thought.”

Sally Cruz sits in thoughtful silence. Dr. Bandanna’s words are the source of an indescribable weight on the woman’s conscience. She has much to consider, but in that moment, she only offers her therapist a nod to assure him that his speech did not go unheard. The therapist, content with this acknowledgement, ganders at his wristwatch after writing down a few more notes on his pad.

“My apologies, Sally, but we’ll have to wrap up now.”

“That’s okay,” Sally answers, taking a look at the time displayed at the corner of her laptop screen – 2:02pm. “I have to get back to work anyways.”

“Before I sign off, how are you for medication? Do you need any refills?” 

Sally shakes her head. “I’m okay for now.”

“And any disruptions with your sleep?”

“No, I’ve been sleeping fine. Only the occasional nightmare.”

“Good, good…” says Dr. Bandanna. “Our next appointment falls on the same day as the Flores Immortales Festival. I hope I don’t see you.”

Dr. Bandanna wears a slight, toothless smile as he says this. Sally – with a look of dejection – gives a slow, unenthused nod.

“Yeah…” she says. 

“Take care, Sally.”

Dr. Bandanna ends the call. Sally lets out an exasperated sigh as she slumps backwards into her office chair, taking a second to gather herself. Her therapist’s sentiments din in her thoughts. She adjusts herself upright and begins striking the keys of her laptop keyboard with a renewed purpose until she finds herself on the home page of the Petal Club’s website. The website is riddled with news about the group’s last hosting of their world-famous event, the Flores Immortales Festival.

 Sally’s eyes scan the web pages as she follows link after link. She pauses to assess the date and time of the festival – June  1st 9:00am - 7:00pm at the Chloris Greenhouse & Conservatory. Written near that is a notice explaining the Club’s last judging of the flower contest they conduct annually during the festival, giving those with green-thumb’s the opportunity to put their beloved hobby on display for one of the world’s leading enthusiast groups to comment on and reward them for their work. The prize this year is far more lucrative than the usual sum of cash, premium gardening apparel, and custom arrangement of plants handpicked from the Petal Club’s personal garden at the Chloris Greenhouse. Sally fixates on the portion of the notice that outlines this year’s prize in more detail:

The winner of the final Flores Immortales Festival flower contest will not only receive a large cash prize, but they will also be given the opportunity to cement themselves in history by collaborating with the Petal Club on a secret project. The Club’s grand closing to four decades of being an authority in the art and expression of flowers!

Sally silently recites the contents of the newsletter to herself. She mouths the words again and again, hoping it will be enough to convince her to enter. The glow of her laptop screen glazes her face with a soft highlight, igniting digital stars in her eyes. She sits, suddenly wracked by anxiety. She takes her right hand and rubs her left bicep as if brushing off dust, following a path to her collarbone area. The action a futile attempt to vanquish imaginary bugs. She swallows hard and deeply. She hears the buzzing of the old lamp she used to own – faintly, but the sound dances between her eardrums. She gives her head a shake and passes her hands over her worry-stricken countenance, hoping to wipe away the anxiety. Sally’s face emerges from her hands, and she shoots a look over at the only plant she can’t seem to care for – the Lucky Lilies. The pitiful looking plant holds her attention for a moment that lasted longer than she realized. An email notification pings through Sally’s laptop speaker and her head whirls at attention. The woman makes note of the time — 2:10pm.

“Shit,” Sally whispers.

The woman scrambles into her inbox to locate an email with a meeting link – she finds it quickly. After a series of clicks, she’s brought to an interface where she double, then triple checks that her camera is off and her microphone is muted. She joins the meeting when she’s satisfied with these conditions, and as she enters, she’s greeted by a strong female voice.

“Sally, I was starting to think you were taking the rest of the day off,” the woman says playfully.

Sally opens the chat and begins typing.

“I’m sorry, my appointment ran a little late. Time got away from me.”

ACT II

–

IMMORTAL FLOWERS!

The late spring air is bombarded by scattered conversations, passing comments, and ooo’s and ahh’s. The lush grass is met with hundreds of feet and thousands of steps, while many stand idle observing the sights or connecting with like-minds. Countless pairs of sunglasses flash the sun off their lensed surfaces like messages strung together by dancing light. It’s one of the cooler days of the season, a welcomed respite after a slew of recent heat waves; a perfect day for the widely anticipated Flores Immortales Festival. There is barely a cloud in the sky and the radiance from the daystar meets each festival goer with a happy embrace. There’s a pleasant breeze that compels the myriad of plant life on proud display to dance with jubilance. The festival grounds is a sea of colour, alive and passively battling for supremacy. It’s a mix between this year’s flowers personally selected by the Petal Club and arranged by the green-thumbs working at the Chloris Greenhouse for display, and the entries to the final Flores Immortales flower contest. The festival attendees are met with the intricate folk melodies of a live band reciting their tunes on a large stage that stands just behind the Chloris Greenhouse itself. A troupe of women fashioned identically in Russian folk gowns snake their way through the many intersecting paths of festival grounds. The exceptionally skilled Beryozka dancers create an elegant cascade of red and white amongst a gaggle of amazed spectators. With a small bouquet in one hand, a blue cloth in the other, and the length of their dresses veiling their feet, the ever-mobile line of performers executes for the crowd the dance they’ve been made famous for.

Positioned beside a small round table is the helpless Sally Cruz. She sits on a folding chair she had brought from home, making herself as small as possible, wishing to be invisible to everyone in the area. Next to her is her mother, Shirley, who attended the festival to not only support her trauma-burdened daughter as she stepped out of the protection of solitary apartment living, but to also support her in the festival’s flower contest. The table Sally sits beside is tucked in the midst of a winding row of other stands that have been provided for the contest. Each stand has been adorned with a white, crocheted doily; the intricate, hand-woven patterns meant to provide subtle complement to the floral entries. And of course, each of these stands feature thoughtful floral arrangements, put together by the contestants desperate to showcase their prowess, hopeful that they’ll be chosen to join the Petal Club on their secret project and engrain their name in modern history. Flashes of colour from healthy plant-life dance and mingle with the parading line of Beryozka dancers, as if playing their own part in the enchanting performance – fluid and natural. The dancers twist and twirl as they glide throughout the grounds, dainty arms rising and falling in synchronicity, as if they intend to hypnotise onlookers with their ethereal movement. The score from the live band bounces from ear to ear and the performers lose themselves to the melody. Spectators clamour about with a mixture of cheers and whispers of awe, but Sally isn’t concerned with the prattle. The commotion feels insurmountable to the woman, the density of the festival is more than she had bargained for. She had come with a goal but she’s not so sure it matters anymore. The woman deflates a little more.

“I…I think we should leave,” Sally says to her mother in a hushed voice, the statement is lost amongst the babel of the crowd and the serenade of the band. Her voice was so quiet, Sally became unsure if she had even heard herself. The distressed woman pats a familiar thigh with the back of her hand, drawing the attention of her mother who has been watching the dancers prance between the stands with great attentiveness, the matron looks down at her daughter.

“I think we should leave, mom,” repeats Sally, this time with more volume in her voice.

Shirley looks down at her coyly sat daughter with a mother’s pity. 

“Sweetheart, we’ve been here for less than an hour,” she says finally, voice laced with both understanding and resistance.

“I know how long we’ve been here…all of this is just too much. I made a mistake coming here.”

Shirley analyzes her progeny and offers her a compassionate expression, one that Sally is unreceptive to as she instead chooses to fixate on one random spot, attempting to keep her unrelenting anxiety at bay. The crestfallen girl is startled by the flit of a dancer's long, white skirt that entered her field of vision as they float by. Sally clamps her eyes shut. She purses her lips and squeezes her hands that lay clasped in her lap, intertwined by her fingers.

Shirley motions to squat next to her daughter wishing to meet her on level field. The woman’s heels hover over the freshly cut grass, rejecting the ground that her toes happily embrace through the sandals she is wearing. 

“I don’t think it’s a mistake to want to be a part of something big, mi corazon,” mother says caringly.

“There’s too many people, mom,” Sally retorts, sounding a little surer this time. “I got way too ahead of myself…this is too big of a jump.”

“Nonsense, Sally,” Shirley says, placing a comforting hand on Sally’s bicep which leads to a gentle caress. “You’ve spent so long locked away in your apartment. Of course you needed that time to heal at your own pace, but mi vida, the fact that you’re here right now – no matter how difficult it was for you to get here – is a testament to how much you’ve nursed your wounds.”

Shirley’s hand rises to grip her daughter's chin between rigid fingers and a U-shaped palm. In one fluid motion, Shirely influences Sally’s head to swivel to face her, forcing her daughter to abandon whatever abstract spot she had decided to find respite in.

“I think you owe it to yourself to put yourself out there and maybe get rewarded for a skill you’ve dedicated part of your being to.”

 Shirley holds a thin-lipped smile, a gesture simple yet profoundly reassuring for Sally. She can’t help but think that at the most bizarre moments, her mother knows exactly what to say and how to say it, as if there was a little therapist whispering dialogue into her ear to regurgitate later. She’s unsure if her mother’s wisdom had just gone unnoticed or if she’s secretly been having her own biweekly meetings. The enigmas that are mothers.

Sally locks eyes with her mother, she doesn’t bother fighting off the hand forcing her attention. Her eyes begin to drift to the little table standing near her. A simple vase adorns the tabletop sprouting her contest entry – a humble arrangement of homegrown flowers. Sally finally breaks free of her mother’s grip, but only because her mother permits it. She uses the opportunity to scan the surrounding tables and entries. Vibrant and diverse flora thoughtfully paired with elaborate pots, vases, and eccentrically decorated containers one would have great difficulty categorizing under the banners of the two previously mentioned. Sally takes a moment to analyze the contestants that happened to still be idling around their display tables, each looking as proud as the arrangements they’ve produced.  Dancers quickly prance by, in and out of sight, never fully coming into focus. For a moment Sally had forgotten they were there, but the persistence of the act cuts her private study short. Blaring music and folk dancing cannot dominate a concerned mother for one’s attention, however.

“What are you thinking, Sal?” probes Shirley. A mother’s intuition never fails. Sally returns her attention to her mother with a look of despondence.

“Look around us,” Sally begins, “what chance did ever have to win this competition?”

“Mi amor, comparison is the thief of joy—”

“And when was the last time I was joyful, mom?” Sally asks plainly.

“Okay,” Shirley starts, “you’re miserable. But for the first time in a long time, you’re miserable outside of your apartment. You’ve made the effort to be miserable away from home, and I think – win or lose – your arrangement deserves to be admired by the Petal Club.”

An expression of uncertainty washes over Sally’s countenance, her mother’s words have found a home. It’s true, Sally is profoundly miserable, but crippling illness and manufactured misgivings aside, a small part of her couldn’t help but be enchanted by the final celebration and grand closing of the Flores Immortales Festival. She couldn’t help but put her pastime on display in hopes of the Petal Club’s approval – although she doesn’t dream of actually winning the contest; and after taking a good look around, Sally doesn’t believe she has even the slightest of chances. The idea of being invisible entices the woman a little more now than before. She unearths a strange conviction within her.

“You’re here at the festival,” mother says, invading Sally’s moment of contemplation. “You’re here, in person, right now. Against the burning desire to withdraw into your cave, you’ve forced yourself to be uncomfortable for a few hours. Contest and everything else aside, I’d consider this a win, wouldn’t you? Besides…” Shirley slides a flattened hand into her back pocket and comes up with a cellphone. She briefly studies the display, noting the time before continuing her thought.

“Besides, it’s almost 1 o’clock, the judging for the contest is about to start. You’ve made it this far, Sally, you might as well see it through.” Shirley fixes eyes at her daughter, her head tilted downward meeting chin to collarbone, as if meaning to guilt trip her with big, brown doe eyes. The elegant blur of the Beryozka dancers hovering by had ceased and the band carries the melody on only for a moment longer. The human train had left, and the performance was concluding. A far larger gathering of field-dwelling artists are now eager to stretch their stems, and put on an ethereal showing of colour.

“You can’t guilt trip me,” Sally huffs defiantly, “you know that.”

“I know that,” Shirley fires back.

Sally swallows hard, the lump of saliva traveling down her throat more akin to a small, smooth rock than a liquid by-product of her mouth. She takes a breath and sighs through her nose. She begins nodding her head in a short bobbing motion and with a shaky, anxiety laden voice says:

“Okay, I’ll stay for the contest…I’ll keep giving this thing a shot.”

Sally suddenly feels a gentle warmth on her forehead, it goes as quickly as it came. Her mother had given her a kiss. Shirley has been taken by elation and her expression doesn’t hide it. She holds a look of nurturing that is familiar and inviting. Sally’s mouth bends into an awkward smile hoping it conveys to her mother that she appreciates her being a safety net.

Shirley takes Sally’s face in her hands and massages her cheeks with her thumbs. “I’m so proud of you, mi vida.” 

Sally feels something swelling within her. It’s small, almost too insignificant to give much of a thought, but she finds herself giving this feeling its moment to brew. Sally is feeling pride, a mixture of her mothers and her own, and for a moment – at least in this moment – she feels as if she could conquer her accursed trauma once and for all.

“Wow!”

A raspy yet smooth male voice creeps through the speakers replacing the hypnotic musing of the band. The voice exhibits the qualities of an old smoker; weathered, with a soft charm that doesn’t demand your attention, but you’ll find yourself compelled to offer an ear – dignified and unwavering. The voice is lost on no one and is familiar to all that is present, and the man that the voice belongs to is also far from a stranger as well. Archie Hemmings, president of the Petal Club and one of its esteemed founding members lets his presence be known through the microphone he holds steadily before his mouth. He has taken up a position on stage and he’s accompanied by the other founding members of the Petal Club.

“Please everybody, a round of applause for the Bessmertny Dance Company!” the man chirps as enthusiastically as an elderly man can manage. He scans the crowd with a toothy smile as they clap and cheer away.  

“The Club and I have always been so fascinated by the Beryozka folk dance,” the man rasps, “isn’t it enchanting? The way they glide across the ground with such fluidity. It’s truly something that must be seen in person!”

The crowd clamours in agreement; half fawning over the recently concluded performance, half stricken by the weight of the Petal Club’s presence on stage. They’re celebrities in their own right, and Sally, for the moment, has somewhat fallen victim to the atmosphere as well. This isn’t the Club’s first appearance today, but when eyes fall on them, their owners – young and old – are struck by stars. Rockstar treatment is hardly what one would expect for a group of wealthy, senior growers, but the world has seemingly thrusted the collective into something just short of godhood; their reign spanning decades.

Sally listens intently from her seat. She hangs onto every word uttered by the very people that unknowingly helped her navigate the most haunting period of her young life. Sally’s captivation doesn’t go unnoticed by her mother. Excitement amongst the festival goers begins to silently electrify, as if an unspoken message bounced from person to person – like chatty insects in the wild. They know what’s coming next and they idle with great eagerness. 

“Now, I know what you all are waiting for, and I don’t wish to dawdle any further.” Archie scans the crowd, then the vast row of tables. “As all of you surely know, this year’s Flores Immortales is a special one…”

The man begins to meander around the stage as he addresses the enthralled crowd. He squints in rebellion of the daystar’s brilliance.

“It’s special because this will be the last Flores Immortales the Club with ever host,” Archie croons on, locking eyes with spectators as he speaks, as if speaking directly to them and them alone. “But it’s also special because it’s an opportunity for one of you here today to be a part of something big.”

The audience applauds and cheers, each person believing they have the best chance over the other. Archie smiles bigly, the wrinkles on his face folding over one another, reminding everyone of the man’s age. The rest of the Petal Club stands nearby relishing in the moment. Surely, it’s an emotional day. Archie motions to the crowd to settle down, then the man continues his thought.

“Shortly after I finish speaking with all of you good people, the Club and I will be making our rounds visiting every single registered stand here,” he slides a flattened hand into his left pocket and turns to the crowd, stopping in place. “There’s more entries than we’ve ever had before and none of us in the Club is as young and full of vigour as we used to be, so bear with us.” Archie chuckles.

Sally looks toward her stand. Archie’s words are simple and direct, but they ignite something within the woman – something akin to sparking a match. The fire’s intensity pales in comparison to the other contestants, it even threatens to be promptly extinguished, smothered in the baleful embrace of her lived reality, but yet it burns on, fueled by the moment. For the first time in years, Sally feels like she’s a part of something bigger than herself.

“Everybody in attendance, kids especially, please take your time and appreciate the remarkable work on display here today,” Archie concludes. 

With that, the Petal Club begins to make their way off the stage, and the crowd breaks in busy last-minute preparation. The Club is met off stage by an ensemble of festival staff carrying the burden of an iPad. They speak amongst each other, it’s a mixture of instructions received and instructions given. After several minutes, the revered judges disperse in pairs: Archie and a man they call Dr. Govinda Jones, Miles Edenborough and Thurston Beck, Cherlyn ‘Chen’ Parshad and Kenneth Banner, and Ben Hoekstra and Renzo Bautista. Each pair has been assigned a section of stands to evaluate while accompanied by a staffer carrying an iPad. The contestants put on their best faces. If their arrangements fail to make an impression, maybe their spirit will give them an edge.

The Judging begins. The intensity from the afternoon sun is dwarfed by collective pride and passion. As the evaluations continue, each pair of the Petal Club amasses a group of followers — festival goers young and old alike — like ants stomping around in a utopian garden. The followers listen intently, absorbing all the praise or criticism the figureheads have to offer. If one didn’t know any better, the scene looked strikingly similar to religious zealotry. 

“These daffodils have been wonderfully cared for…”

“Your arrangement is a good effort, but I want you to look closely at the blemishes on many of the petals. Do you know why this happens?”

 “Highest commendations, your peony’s are remarkably fragrant!”

“This is the vibrancy and volume we all strive for, well done!”

One by one, each stand receives a critical audience. Experienced hobbyists and novices alike scramble to retain whatever wisdom the Club members have to offer, as this may very well be the last opportunity to hear it from the mouths of their heroes themselves. 

The evaluations take quite some time, as the festival garnered the most attendees and contest participants it's ever had in the many decades it's been celebrated. Bodies weathered by age as well as the blistering, late Spring heat have taken a toll on the fatigued judges, but they all put on a good face, interacting with each patron one in the same. Many of the contestants strike up lighthearted conversations with the Club members as they make their rounds from one display to another, hoping to leave their mark. The judges exercise unwavering courtesy while evaluations power on.

“This arrangement is fantastic but your choice in vase has stolen the show. Not too many people understand the impact a beautiful container has. High marks!”

“The soft, pinkish purple petals of your aster’s really make this collection pop. Many attribute this to its energetic yellow bud, but I’ve always found beauty, at times, in things more subdued.”

Drowned somewhere in the mob sits Sally Cruz. She has remained fastened to the seat she had taken up some hours ago. Her mother, Shirley, has been absent from her side for some time now, deciding it fruitful to join the many people following one of the various pairs of Club members around. She gravitated towards Thurston Beck, as she has always thought him to be exceedingly handsome. Sally didn't mind the time alone, she didn’t think her mothers forced, giddy commentary would do much for her nerves now. As she waits restlessly for any of the Club members to pass by and finally evaluate her entry, she practices putting on her best face. She strains a thin, toothless smile to herself, repeatedly. It’s as if hooks were pulling away at the corners of her mouth. Every attempt is about as awkward as the last. She sits there, small, feeling nothing short of a fool, but she understands no one cares to pay attention to her, not during a time like this. Sally relaxes, but only slightly. She hunches her back, almost balling herself up, and rests folded arms on her upper thighs. The woman shuts her eyes and takes deep, wispy breaths. Outwardly, it appeared as if Sally was battling stomach illness, but the woman instead was taking a moment to herself, entranced by the prolonged chirping of cicadas that sat high in the trees – the sound of the season. She thinks back to when she was only a child, when she used to think the aggressive, all-encompassing chirping of chatty cicadas were the utility poles passing electricity through its wires. Sally lets out a sharp puff of air from her nose, a chuff indicating amusement in her childish ignorance. For a moment, Sally felt weightless, as if the burdens of her trauma had been removed from her completely; but then came a voice.

“Sally,” the voice rasped. “Sally, are you alright?”

The woman breaks her trance and her attention snaps upward.

Looking down at her with an air of concern stands the President of the Petal Club, Archie Hemmings. His gaze is laced with curious focus. His dark, piercing eyes hold some degree of wonderment in them, but it’s not entirely clear why. Still, the look displayed no discontentment but rather had a gentle underpinning. 

Suddenly, Sally became quite aware of the situation. Archie is joined by Club member, judging partner, and dear friend Dr. Govinda Jones; as well as a Chloris Greenhous staff member tasked with score entry on the iPad she has been travelling with for the greater portion of the afternoon.  Sally’s once meager, tucked away stand has now become host to a sea of bodies and the critical attention of the Petal Club.

“You know who I am?” Sally finally responds, wrapped in a state of bewilderment. She works to avoid the watchful eyes of the judges and the crowd of spectators that’ve gathered by pointing her face downward. The woman feels her anxiety swelling as she tries her best to ignore the mob and focus on her knees. In a way, her shift in demeanor looks as if a child were being scolded as she sat reservedly with thighs pressed together; her arms remained folded, resting in front of her. Towards the ground, her legs were spit at the feet forming a triangle that reached its zenith at the knees. Her heels rest some distance up the metal legs of the chair while the balls of her feet dig into the lush, green grass. Sally’s body language is as awkward as she feels. Her agoraphobia is painfully present now. 

Archie doesn’t answer the woman immediately. His lips stretch and part revealing a sly, toothy grin.

“I don’t know who you are,” the man says amusedly, ending his moment of silence. “But I know what my assistant tells me, and she knows what the iPad tells her, and the iPad says you’re Sally Cruz.” 

Sally begins to feel hot from embarrassment. She quietly wishes to erase her little blunder from everyone’s minds, but instead she settles with a meager:

“Right, of course…I-I’m sorry. I—”

“Read the room, old man,” Dr. Govinda Jones’ bass-filled voice interjects, his face very plainly unimpressed, “and stop teasing this poor girl.”  

“What do you know of social awareness that you haven’t read in some obscure book?” Archie retorts using a phony, snide tone.

“I know enough to understand your childish rigamarole isn’t landing here,” Dr. Jones scoffs.

Archie gives air to a throaty, honest laugh that he couldn’t seem to hold in before responding to Dr. Jones’ statement. 

“Land on these you fucking geek,” Archie squeezes out, buckling under the weight of his laughter. 

Dr. Jones folds his lips inwards and locks them in place with his teeth, trying to stifle the laugh that is fighting to be let out. He nods his head in a short, sharp motion to strengthen the façade of mature discontentment, but he is not hiding it well. It’s a joke that is lost on everyone except the long-time friends, but members of the mob within earshot feel compelled to join in on the laughter. Such a juvenile joke for two learned and accomplished men to find amusing, a reasonable person would think.

Dr. Jones is able to regain his composure. He glances between Archie and Sally inquisitively. Sally hasn’t moved a muscle. She’s frozen in the meek posture she had taken on not too long ago. She’s locked herself in a bizarre staring contest with her knees and has developed a hyperfocus on her breathing. She counts every grueling second as they pass and become minute details of the past. The chirping cicadas are now insufferable to listen to.

“Are you feeling ill, Sally?” Dr. Jones probes with genuine concern.

“She isn’t sick, Govinda,” Archie says suddenly, leaving his laughing fit behind. “She’s just nervous. Isn’t that right?”

Sally nods uneasily in agreement. She hadn’t looked up, not once, but if she had, she would’ve noticed Dr. Jones staring puzzled at Archie. Then, she would have been confronted by the Club President’s unrelenting glare. The gentle and inviting trace his eyes once held has abandoned its post, leaving in its place what an easily shaken person would think is malice, but this was not the case. Archie’s naturally piercing eyes have taken up a fierce curiosity, in an almost animalistic sense. A thousand thoughts and a thousand more ideas engage in an unseen battle for superiority in the man’s mind. With his head directed at the Club president, Dr. Jones allows just his eyes to drift to its corners to give Sally another good look.

Archie sees something in that girl, the doctor thinks to himself. He sees something, I’m sure, but I can’t put my finger on what it is.

“Oh my God!!” a shrill, accented voice shrieks from an indiscernible direction. “Did I miss it? Tell me I didn’t miss it!”

Pushing through the crowd of onlookers emerges Sally’s mother, Shirley. The frazzled woman fashions a beaming, open-mouthed smile as she huffs from the spurt of activity. She apologizes repeatedly to people that she had bumped or lightly removed from her path with a small gesture. When finally free of the mob, she launches into a peppy jog with a short stride, all while clutching the crossbody purse she had chosen to adorn a single shoulder. Upon reaching the table, Shirley takes up a proud position next to her daughter and looks excitedly at the two judges – though only one of the pair acknowledges her arrival at first. Dr. Jones looks at Shirley invitingly and greets her with a smile. Archie’s analytical gaze, however, has yet to falter. He stands with arms crossed continuing to study the meek woman before him. 

“No, we haven’t done our evaluation just yet,” the doctor starts with a chuckle, shaken by Shirley’s enthusiasm. “We were derailed by a little banter.”

“We’ve been walking around all afternoon, we thought we’d slack off just a little bit,” Archie inserts himself suddenly, following his partner's example with a warm, welcomed smile. “I take it you’re Sally’s mother?”

Shirley places a hand on Sally’s shoulder and lifts the other toward her chest. Her face illuminates more intensely than it had prior. 

“You know who I am?” Shirley blurts out like a star-struck schoolgirl, her countenance displaying shock and awe.

The pair of Club members pass an amused, knowing glance at each other and exchange smirks following Shirley’s now – almost – stale question. Dr. Jones’ look is laced with a silent message: Don’t start…

“Popular question today, but I don’t know you. You both just look strikingly similar,” Archie responds with an airy chuckle, making sure to honour Dr. Jones’ silent warning.

Shirley meets the response with a hearty laugh and passes an affectionate hand over her daughter’s still-lowered head. “Oh! How embarrassing. I should’ve known, we hear that all the time. You know what they say about a mother’s genes!”

Dr. Jones stares at Shirley puzzled. “Do they say anything about a mother’s genes?”

Archie twists toward the onlookers and gestures toward his partner with a pointed finger. “This guy has a PhD, everybody,” the crowd echoes with laughter.

“My entry…” a subdued voice reintroduces itself, fighting a losing battle against the joyous racket. The statement is barely audible, but it happens to be caught by Dr. Jones whose attention immediately shifts to address it.

“Did you say something, Sally?” Dr. Jones probes. Everyone’s attention is now on Sally Cruz who has remained in the same small and awkward seating position. She’s made no attempt to look up or engage in the lighthearted conversation. She was trying her hardest to be completely invisible, and to an extent, she was. After a while, she had slipped the minds of most people there; and she was fine with that, wishing for it, even. She just wanted to get through the evaluation hoping that it would’ve been prompt, but her desire was misplaced. This crowd has lingered for far too long and her nerves are nearing their limit. 

“Please, just evaluate my entry,” Sally reiterates, her voice no louder than it was prior.

“Aiii– Sally,” Shirley says in a disapproving motherly tone, “don’t be rude!”

Shirley whirls to face the two Club members as she prepares to do damage control on her daughter’s behalf.

“Lo siento mucho, she’s just very nervous,” Shirley pleads. “She admires the Petal Club so much, you’re all the reason she’s developed a green-thumb.”

The judging pairs’ eyes drift from Sally to the apologetic mother.

“Please, no need for apologies,” Dr. Jones says. “Sally is right, anyhow. We’ve certainly veered off track.”

“Ikebanaaa–,” Archie utters with his smoky voice, drawing out the latter half of the word in a sigh of enthusiasm. The man had already begun his evaluation while Dr. Jones appeased Shirley’s conscience. The doctor poised himself to deliver his insight alongside his partner the moment the word struck his ears. He displays a critical look, and the onlookers shove amongst each other to procure a suitable vantage point of their own.

“Ikebana, indeed,” Dr. Jones adds, lowering his posture to get a better look. “Now correct me if I’m wrong, but we haven’t had an entry like this in about 15 years, have we?”

“Ahhh— that’s right,” Archie begins. “A charming older woman, Julie Morikawa. She shook the competition that year with her arrangement. Haven’t seen anything quite like it since then.”

On the humble table stands a tall and very slender vase and it is squared off presenting four flat faces. The surface of the vase is rough in texture – to the look and to the touch – as though it had been crudely chiseled from stone. The container fashions a myriad of colliding colours: brown, tan, blue, and a slight hint of purple. The colours are all rather subdued in hue. At the vase’s peak, it fashions a sparse, yet profoundly intricate display that the style has garnered notoriety for. Naked, branch-like stems create a twisted structure reminiscent to that of a formless cage, with smaller extremities that jut inward and end abruptly, akin to deformed spikes. The cluster of stems come off as ominous to many, as if something out of a cursed, decrepit forest. Some onlookers are uncertain if the formation resembles a cage or if a peculiarly shaped Iron Maiden is the more appropriate attribution. Scattered within the cryptic jungle of barky stems are fourteen Guinevere jumbo tulips that are just beginning to open their bulbs to the world. Eleven of the tulips are pink with a subtle white highlight, while the remaining tulips are purple and red – both deep and rich in colour. Collectively, the flowers radiate colour, their healthy green stems being no exception, and they exude strange character. The flowers warp, bend, and flow in all directions, a careful marriage between erraticism and elegance. But despite the pattern of their growth, the flowers, and the woody stems both favoured one side, leaning as if caught in an unyielding yet unseen torrent. Frozen in real time for the viewing pleasure of enthusiasts.

The two Club members study the arrangement from every angle. They make note of symmetry, colour, genus of flora, and overall presentation. Dr. Jones begins quizzing the girl who still rejects the notion of meeting anyone with her eyes.

“You must be familiar with ikebana’s country of origin, Sally, or am I mistaken?”

“Japan.” 

“And are you familiar with its four principles?”

“Movement, balance, harmony, and a fresh approach.”

“And what of the three elements?”

“Line, mass, and colour.”

“There are a number of styles that fall under ikebana’s umbrella, can you enlighten me on which one you’ve utilized here?”

“Nageire.”

Dr. Jones re-postures himself to further analyze the arrangement as he continues to probe Sally with a flurry of knowledge checks, as if returning to his meal after cleansing his palette with tea or water. His eyes peer into the heart of the wild formation of brown stems where a single, pink tulip is nestled. A lone bee had joined the crowd at Sally’s stand and had the most intimate view of all: directly in the bulb of a tulip, trotting and rubbing away to fulfil its innate directive to pollinate. It did its due diligence and attended to each flower before finding itself on the core of the tulip Dr. Jones graced with his attention. This tulip is far more developed than the others, the man noticed, while simultaneously ignoring the bee that was simply heeding its natural call.

“And what exactly was your goal with this piece, Sally,” Dr. Jones prods. “What did you wish to achieve?”

Sally hesitates for a moment. This question is oddly personal, but she tries to reason with herself, fumbling with the idea that it’s merely an innocent and necessary inquisition given the circumstances. For the first time in quite a while, Sally introduces a change in her position, though it’s not at all a substantial one. The woman presses her eyes shut, as if bracing herself for her own response.

“It’s…” she takes in a deep breath which she seems to swallow like a cup of cough syrup, “it’s a reflection of myself.”

Dr. Jones and Archie exchange looks, both are taken aback by the timid woman’s honest answer. Shirley, who had been uncharacteristically noiseless as the judges flexed their expertise, also showcases a degree of shock at her daughter’s honesty. She meets Sally with a loving touch, the gesture indicative of a proud mother. The judging pair witnessing all of this wish to pry further, but they understand it wouldn’t be appropriate to make a spectacle of Sally’s untold story.

“You may not think it Sally, but I’d say—WE’D say, you’ve set the bar pretty high,” Archie says with great sincerity, juvenile mischievousness completely absent. Dr. Jones affirms the statement in his own way. The crowd clamours at the high praise awarded to Sally and her arrangement, rippling in movement to try and see for themselves what the hype is about. The pair of Club members study Sally quietly for just a moment longer, her mother now reintroducing her voice with elated Spanish outbursts, kissing the top of Sally’s head and hugging her. 

“Escuchastes eso, mi vida, they love it!” Shirley exclaims to her daughter. The judges begin to take their leave from Sally’s stand with most of the mob following closely behind. Some stragglers hang back to get a closer look at Sally’s ikebana arrangement. As they walk, Archie speaks with his assistant, relaying details regarding Sally’s score, the woman’s fingers darting around the screen of the device she has been toting. Before getting too far, Dr. Jones turns around, and in the midst of Shirley’s jubilant display he says:

“Well done, Sally.”

Sally doesn’t acknowledge the praise – not from her mother nor from the Club. She’s stricken with a crippling wave of anxiety. She sits still in the same awkward position she had found herself some time ago. She realizes how strange and unapproachable she looks, she’s painfully self-aware, and it adds to the whirlwind of emotion roaring within her. 

“I need to leave,” she says, voice wrestling with a distressed quiver. Shirley’s joy calms at the statement, she gazes at her daughter pitifully.

“Sal, you’ve already come this far,” the mother pleads. “Archie and Mr. Jones have already evaluated your flowers, they won’t be coming back, and the crowd surely won’t either.”

Shirley cups Sally’s chin with her hand to force her attention.

“I know this is a high stress environment for you, but remember a little while ago you wouldn’t have even left your apartment to be in a space like this let alone speak to anybody face-to-face.”

“I wouldn’t call that face-to-face, I couldn’t even look at them.”

“That’s not what matters, mi vida, you were present, and you were responsive,” Shirley reasons. “You have to try and be easier on yourself, especially after you just blew the judges away.”

Mother and daughter exchange looks, their faces continue a hushed conversation. Sally relinquishes her chin from her mother’s grasp and releases her body from its tense position. She empties her lungs in exasperation and clears a strand of hair from her face. She rubs both palms on her thighs to free them of perspiration then drops her head into her hands in a motion that slicks back her hair and stretches the upper portion of her face. She answers begrudgingly.

“Fine…okay.”

Shirley perks up, satisfied with her speech and her daughter’s resolve. The bee that had landed on Sally’s arrangement just prior had now relieved itself from the focus of its work. It weaved through the twisting network of brown stems and began zipping around in the air, back and forth, in a disorganized pendulum-like pathing. It finds itself before Sally Cruz, drawn to her by mysterious insect curiosity. Sally – now sitting upright – watches the small creature scramble before her and listens to its wings slapping the air aggressively. She thinks about how once upon a time she was terrified of bees, though she has never been stung, but nowadays she believes they are much more alike than she originally thought – insignificant casualties of humanity’s cruel affliction. But bees have always found a way to carry on, that was the key difference between her and them. Genetic influences aside, they roll with the punches and continue to pursue their purpose, while Sally tries to hide herself from the world. Purpose, Sally thinks to herself as her eyes swing in their sockets, tracking the bee. It was something that this melancholic woman felt deeply before she was brutally assaulted, but that spark has long since been replaced with disconnectedness and fear. The bee finally flies off, leaving Sally to journey the recesses of her mind in solitude, as if acknowledging it had done all it came to do. The woman’s attention veers to her arrangement, focusing on the lone tulip trapped within the grotesque, stemmy cage. It quivers from a light breeze. Purpose.

“I’m going to get us some lunch, what would you like?” Shirley says, unaware that she just intruded on her daughter’s careful introspection. Sally looks up at her mother in a daze, giving the question little thought before answering.

“Nothing, I’m not hungry.”

“Yes, you ARE hungry, and you ARE going to eat.”

Sally glares at her mother knowing it’s pointless to resist any further. She says nothing.

“If you won’t choose then I will, terca…” Shirley bites, giving a voice to her maternal displeasure in a flurry of Spanish as she departs in search for afternoon sustenance. An unfamiliar voice booms through the speakers bearing a message that sends the attendees into a frenzy.

“Okay everybody, evaluations have concluded, and our beloved Petal Club will be taking the stage in 30 minutes to announce the LAST ever Flores Immortales flower contest winner and the lucky person that will collaborate with the Club on their last major project!” announces the staffer animatedly, the crowd a cocktail of joy and nervous anticipation. 

“As many of you know, the theme of the upcoming display remains a closely guarded secret, but the Club has assured us time and time again that this piece is unprecedented, calling it an ode to the artists before them.”

Eager interest erupts amongst the crowd as they bellow cheers and pass comments with whomever they’re familiar. Shirley, who had frozen during the announcement, is swept up in the collective thrill. She looks back at her daughter who was clearly unmoved by the message and mouths, “30 minutes!” before shuffling out of sight to find lunch, this time with a degree of urgency in her steps. A chapter comes to its end in a half hour, and history will be decided.

***

The time is now approaching 3:55 PM, roughly 35 minutes after the announcement. The festival goers have flooded the foot of the stage, waiting impatiently for the tardy Petal Club to remerge with the results of the contest. The mother-daughter duo has recently finished their meals – beef empanadas. In her search, Shirley was drawn by the powerful aroma emanating from one of the countless food trucks. The enchanting fragrance filled her nostrils and hooked her like the exaggerated workings of a cartoony plot. The choice was easy. Now, the pair watch the mass of people from Sally’s stand, the atmosphere ripe with expectancy. Shirley proposed they move closer several times, as if completely ignorant to her daughter’s malady. For Sally, navigating that wall of bodies was never an option, but she understands her mother means well. It’s an arduous task to try and protect yourself from the utopian fever-dream the Petal Club has manufactured for decades, especially when this is the world’s last dance in Eden. In any case, the traffic around many of the stands has thinned and Sally is able to breathe a sigh of relief.

The murmuring crowd suddenly explodes into a rowdy cheer, the Petal Club – Archie, Dr. Jones, Thurston, Kenneth, Cheryln, Ben, Renzo, and Miles – has finally graced the stage. They wave, flash smiles, and play into the crowd’s energy.  Cheryln takes to the microphone while the rest of the collective take up a position some feet behind her, standing shoulder-to-shoulder, each holding either a commemorative award or a large cardboard cheque. The Club has pulled out all the stops for their final hoorah, tapping into whatever resources available to them making the prize pool more lucrative than it’s ever been. 

“Thank you so much for your patience, everybody,” Cheryln begins, her soft and soothing voice lulling the mob into an eerily enamoured attentiveness. Her distinct Australian accent is well received, and a few offshoot crowd members acknowledge the apology by expressing their love and call her by her nickname, Chen. Since the Club’s climb to renown many decades ago, Chen has remained a figure of wonderment. Outside of Club activities, she heads one of the most visited blogs in the world, producing widely celebrated articles riddled with her token affinity towards reflection and nuanced social commentary. Many wonder why she has never taken advantage of the widespread fondness towards her voice and opted for the spoken delivery of her messages, she has never commented on it explicitly. People like to think when the Club needs something done, they call their resident Siren to the forefront. The idea has garnered considerable traction.

“With so many fantastic entries, the Club couldn’t seem to agree on the top five arrangements. Give yourselves a pat on your backs, you’ve made us hate each other,” Chen jokes, the crowd strikes palms in unison and echoes enthused cheers. 

Chen maintains a toothy grin and turns her body to scan her peers behind her who all seem as amused at her display as the festival goers.

“Mmm– no,” the Siren begins again, reorienting herself, “I think I’ve hated these people long before today.” The crowd eats it up.

“Okay, down to business,” she suddenly transitions. Appearing from off stage, one of the festival staff approaches Chen and hands her a folded piece of paper and the speaker hoists it in the air with a bent elbow, watching the crowd as they watch the paper in her hand. The group of spectators vibrate as they await the naming of the top five growers; Sally, however, remains unfazed, not expecting much or anything at all. The festival staff member hurries off stage as Chen fumbles around with the paper.

“It goes without saying, you all know what this paper contains,” Chen says, “so let’s not delay.” The Siren unfolds the paper and scans its contents blankly, keeping the restless gathering on her hook. 

“In fifth place is…Lamar Thomas’ stunning cascading roses!”

The swarm erupts. On one hand showing support for Lamar’s accomplishment, and on the other, relieved they still have a shot at glory. The elated man finds his way to the stage and the Club meet him with a mixture of handshakes and brief congratulatory words. He is handed a small plaque highlighting his accomplishment and a cheque for $5000, and he is directed to take up a position on one side of the stage where he will be joined by the remaining four triumphant growers.

“Fourth place goes to Courtney Palma for her floral pillar arrangement!”

A series of excited shrieks bullets from the crowd. The fourth-place winner celebrates with someone she is familiar with by hopping around in the arms of one another. She rushes the stage and receives the same treatment as the finalist before her. She is given a plaque and a $10, 000 cheque, and eventually finds her way beside Lamar. They congratulate each other. 

Chen continues announcing the winners in similar fashion.

“Third place goes to…”

“This year’s runner up is…”

The stage is now littered with Petal Club members and finalists alike, only missing the final component: the winner of first place. Chen looks at the crowd and relishes in their nervousness; this is one of the biggest moments of their lives. She shifts her attention to the finalists parked on stage and exhibits a curious expression.

“I count four finalists on the stage right now…which means it’s time to announce the BIG winner!”

Chen returns her gaze to the paper in her hand and pauses, entertained by the prospect of toying with the antsy mob. It’s as if everybody was holding their breath. Shirley is squatted next to her daughter, smothering Sally’s hand with her own. She folds her lips inward and locks them with her teeth in a mountainous effort to contain herself. The fact that Sally wasn’t named prior must mean she will be named now – surely. Sally, however, has convinced herself otherwise. Through her own mental gymnastics, she has concluded that her little arrangement could not have possibly beaten out hundreds of other entries from people probably far more adept at the craft than her. The idea of not being good enough brought her a semblance of comfort, deciding that gracing the stage is the last thing she’d want to do after observing the other four finalists. Sally sits with indifference as she waits for the ceremony to draw to an end.

“Are you ready to find out who this years Flores Immortales flower contest winner is?” Chen queries, the crowd buzzing at her call.

“Everybody, please give it up for your champion…” Chen begins and pauses, further playing with the palpable suspense. She allows her eyes to float around the sea of people before finally announcing:

“SALLY CRUZ AND HER BREATHTAKING IKEBANA ARRANGEMENT!!”

The audience explodes in supportive cheering and applause, laced with feelings of disappointment at their shortcomings. A stunned Shirley launches skyward with celebratory jumping.

“Oh my God! Oh my God!! That’s my daughter, my daughter won!!” Shirley squeals, swept up in the moment. The overjoyed mother loses herself to disbelief and the busy crowd fuels her impassioned display. She carries on as if it was her whose name was revealed as champion, but the real grand prize winner is still glued to her chair. The apprehensive Sally Cruz is gripped by shocked silence when hearing her name blare through the speakers. Where most people would find themselves rejoicing to the heavens or giving thanks to whatever god they worship, Sally instead found herself quietly cursing it all, feeling forsaken by her own faith. The woman is frozen with fear, confronted by an idea she truly thought impossible. The rowdy crowd stirs ahead of her as they celebrate her great achievement, but Sally can do nothing but stare; she doesn’t dare make a move for the stage. The woman wrestles with the prospect of the whole ordeal being a vivid hallucination manifested by a cocktail of mental illnesses, or maybe even her medications. 

“Save your shellshock for later, sweetheart, and come pick up this $100, 000 cheque and this big, obnoxious crystal trophy,” Chen says into the microphone, looking to where Shirley had made a celebratory racket. She looks upon the frightened young woman reluctant to leave her seat. Chen looks back at the other Club members curiously, Dr. Jones and Archie respond with knowing eyes. The rest of the members exchange chatty glances, while the pair that judged Sally’s arrangement held steadfast, as if pleading words of patience using whatever telepathic frequency the Club seems to utilize at their behest. The Siren’s attention returns to Sally, still crippled by fear.

“Come on now dear, don’t be shy…” Chen says delicately, hoping to quell whatever emotional whirlwind is raging within the woman, but to no avail. The crowd begins to hush in waves, joyful acclamation giving way to puzzled murmurs. The once highly kinetic mob expels its energy. Heads begin to swivel in the direction of the queer disturbance, and members of the audience strain to peer over or through the sea of bodies to get the best look they can.

For Sally, a bad situation become worse. Anxiety hijacked the woman’s body with zero intervention from her rational thought. Sally jerks her body violently when the touch of another introduces itself on the back of her neck, and she scrambles to get a look at the perpetrator – her mother. Shirley had taken her daughter by surprise, under the newfound pressure of her triumphant position, Sally’s person was quickly malfunctioning. 

“I will walk you to the stage, mi vida,” Shirley says quietly, understanding that her daughter is deeply overwhelmed. 

Sally says nothing, but the look of dreadful shock speaks in her stead. Her attention swiftly transitions to the wall of people ahead of her, all of whom are now gawking at the woman as if she were a freakish spectacle. Her dark-brown eyes shakily dart from person to person – face to face – in a dynamic and cloudy sequence, reminiscent of a damaged film reel. She feels her mother’s touch again, this time assisting her to her feet. Sally is now standing erect, her mother on her arm for support. Her body groans at her as it wrestles with the allure of running away, physically removing itself from the stress of the situation. Shirley utters words Sally can’t seem to understand amid her confusion. She looks around, helpless, aware of the critical attention, but miraculously, she takes a step forward. Sally pauses briefly but finds herself taking another step, then another. Shirley soon relinquishes the grasp she had on her daughter’s forearm and finds herself in the wake of Sally’s sloth-like advance. The troubled woman finds herself a few feet away from the daunting wall of people, and they begin to part to create a path to the stage. Sally tries her best to maintain her composure as she pushes forward. The stride in her walk is just as uncertain and unstable as the woman herself. Her fists are balled at her side, its muscles firing as if squeezing an imaginary stress ball. The crowd continues to trade hushed messages amongst each other as they watch Sally pass through. The woman’s breathing heightens, she can feel herself losing what little control she has. Her eyes spark with activity yet again, scanning one face after another, but details still elude focus like a camera struggling to find the correct resolution. The sight spirals the woman deeper into fear and confusion, and she halts amid the crowd that has now closed off the path behind her; she’s surrounded, and her mother is nowhere in sight. Sally’s skin pricks and tingles as if an entire colony of ants marches with no regard for her person. Her hands scramble around her body, attempting to brush off things that aren’t really there. She permits a small, distressed groan to pass as she continues to fend off the insects of her mind's design, frantically looking at the countless warped faces that have trapped her within this fleshy prison. She whirls around to look at those behind her and she lets out another pained groan, perpetuating her futile rebellion. Sally’s agoraphobia has fully asserted itself; trepidation and anxiety have ballooned far past the point of peaceful return – she can’t go any further and she can’t escape. Sally huffs in distress, she continues to spin in place praying that a way out of this crowd will reveal itself to her, but her prayers fall on deaf ears. A cryptic, unforgettable noise reacquaints itself with Sally. During the brunt of the woman’s turmoil, she begins to hear a faint buzzing, and the noise is grimly familiar. It sounds unnatural and it pangs with controlled electricity. Scenes from a place she’d rather not remember flash discordantly across the theatre screen of her mind’s eye; scenes from a time she wishes she could forget forever follow suit. The buzzing is relentless. It slowly grows in intensity as Sally is further consumed by her illness. The grotesquely ambiguous faces swirl before her, their murmurs sounding far more sinister than before. The crowd that has surrounded Sally begins to close in on her with slow, careful steps, and feeling threatened, the terrified woman suddenly yells:

“GET AWAY FROM ME!”

Sally turns her body violently to address those behind her and cries, “GET THE FUCK AWAY FROM ME! ALL OF YOU!”

She strains her voice to bark the command, her face wet with hot, baleful tears. The woman stumbles backwards, wracked with fear, and bumps into someone in the crowd.

“DON’T FUCKING TOUCH ME!” Sally bites, shoving the individual with all the strength she can muster. “DON’T YOU FUCKING TOUCH ME!”

Horrific scenes from Sally’s past linger in her mind, she’s plagued with vivid recollection of the source of her trauma. She sees her old apartment. Unsteady movement, lustful eyes, malicious intent. She sees her old bed and herself barely clutching to consciousness. She sees nothing, but she feels skin. She’s naked and so are they. She tries to scream, but she only ever hears buzzing—

“The buzzing,” Sally utters with a lowered voice. Her hands fly upwards to protect her ears from its acoustic punishment, “PLEASE, JUST STOP THE BUZZING!”

Sally introduces a ghastly wail into the air. She stumbles around the small area that the encompassing crowd trapped her in. The shocking display has frightened some of the onlookers – mostly the children. She releases a flurry of disturbed, guttural screams as if lashing out at the world, until all of a sudden, Sally falls silent and still. The insects that were parading around the surface of her skin under the cloak of invisibility have truly disappeared, and the terrible slideshow in the theatre of her mind has ended; but something feels off. In fact, Sally doesn’t seem to feel anything at all. She stands there abruptly inactive, wearing the look of a deer in  headlights. She looks around at all the faces that still seem to be out of focus, except one – her mother, Shirley, who had pushed her way through the nosey crowd. She looks at her daughter pitifully, holding back tears of her own. Sally stares blankly at her mother for a moment, the gaze holding nothing meaningful behind it, and if anything, it was the look of a woman completely lost. She shifts her attention and gazes straight up at the sky, the daystar within frame stinging her eyes with its brilliance. Within the intensity of the light, she hears a sound, the buzzing from her old antique lamp is louder than it has ever been before. It’s deafening, and it consumes any other sound that dares to challenge it. Sally says something amid her delirious state, but the words are unintelligible, they spill from her lips with little form or reason, and quickly collapse under the oppression of the vibrating air. As she gazes upward, her vision begins to lose focus yet again. Clouds, birds, and tree branches warp in her vision like oil poured into a glass of water. Light twists and bends wildly in a barrage of vibrant, flashing colours; and much like the grand closing of a tragic opera, while trapped within her fleshy prison in a state of violent confusion, Sally Cruz drops to the ground, unconscious.

ACT III

–

A GLIMPSE OF ETERNITY

“This is ridiculous Archie, and you damn well know it!” snarls Renzo Bautista, leaving none of his disapproval to be desired. The burly man is glowing red in the face from frustration, his only vice is the repetitive comfort of stroking his full, salt and peppered beard. He grumbles under his breath awaiting a response.

“I agree, we’re making a dangerous mistake choosing this girl,” interpolates Chen, sharing in Renzo’s uncertainty. 

“I understand the concerns you all may have, and you have every right to be wary of this selection, but Sally is exactly who we need for this project. I need you to trust me. I need you to trust the decision Govinda and I made,” Archie protests, looking at each Club member as he speaks so there is no confusion about whom he’s addressing.

“The girl is pathetic,” says Ben Hoekstra rather plainly. The old man sits on a vintage leather sofa with one leg slung over the other, his intricately carved wooden cane stands from the floor and leans against the sofa. He maintains a light grip on the stick, tapping it with the lone gold ring on his left hand. The cane is more for aesthetic than functionality, the last memento left for him by his late wife. His face is stern, withholding no secrets. 

“We would have been better off choosing any one of the other finalists,” Ben continues, “but of course you fixate on the broken one, and you somehow wrapped Govinda up in your fantasy.”

The Petal Club debate amongst each other in Ben’s home, tucked away in his study. The space is filled to the brim with reference books and art catalogues, neater in comparison to his studio, truly the mark of an artist. The Club members are scattered around the room – some standing, others seated – the conversation introducing a degree of intensity to an otherwise calm space.

“I know how it looks,” says Dr. Govinda Jones, addressing Ben and the rest of the Club. “If you’re reluctant to trust what Archie sees in this woman, at least place a little faith in me.  I wasn’t convinced at first, but she has what we need for this grand project of ours to be successful.”

“Trust,” Miles Edenborough scoffs. “This entire operation has run on trust. We’re all putting a lot on the line to bring this piece into fruition, and a wildcard this late in the game can effectively dismantle everything we’ve built. It’s a little late to be gambling like this, don’t you think?”

“I’m a betting man,” Archie says bluntly, puncturing Miles with a piercing glare.

“And betting men lose all the time now, don’t they?” retorts the Siren, Cheryln ‘Chen’ Parshad. She lets a sly look wash over her countenance. “Furthermore, the girl refused to participate in the project when she finally got tired of doing her best log impression.”

“Amazing,” begins Archie. “The most famous woman with wifi and the champion of self-awareness is actually a complete bitch when it comes to someone else’s trauma. I’m not surprised but imagine the shock of your cult following.”

“Drop dead, moron.”

“What’s the rush, my day will come,” Archie responds, satisfied with his poking of the bear.

“We should just cut our losses and work with the contest's runner up,” says Kenneth Banner, breaking his silence. “This Sally woman is dead in the water.”

“No,” Archie objects, “it must be her. I spoke to her alone after her little episode at the festival. She's wary of meeting with the entire club but I invited her and her mother over for tea and conversation with my family. I’ll win her over yet; and of course, if that alone doesn’t work, a larger cheque just might.”

“You’ve gone mad…” Ben says with an unimpressed chuckle. 

“They’ve said the same about many of the creatives before us, dear friend,” Archie responds. He picks up a Salvador Dali art book that was resting nearby and examines it before tossing it on the side table next to Ben’s seat. Ben stares blankly at the book.

“I agreed to this project because I’ve always respected your vision,” starts Ben. “You journey the twisted recesses of thought and expression for the sake of something higher, for the sake of materializing a vision that escapes the feeble minds of the average slob. I still have faith in what we can create here, but you are walking a dangerous line Archie, and you expect to drag us along on your whims.” 

“And I want you ALL to lean into that faith a little more,” Archie pleads. “I understand some of you would rather dissolve this plan and reassess, but at the very least, allow me to meet with Sally again and try and get her on board. Our passion does not fizzle out here. It can’t.”

“I…I don’t know about this, guys…” Thurston Beck says timidly, his face showing his age as he frowns. “We obviously don’t know what that girl has been through, but it seems cruel to wrap her up in all this. You saw that meltdown she had at the festival before she passed out…quality of her floral arrangement aside, she really doesn’t deserve this.”

Archie pounds the surface of a table near him forcing the attention of the rest of the Club. He stares at Thurston resentfully and says:

“Damn it, Thurston! Show some fucking GRIT why don’t you.”

Archie stands erect and plunges his hands deep into his pockets, he scans the study, looking each of his friends in the eyes.

“Brilliant minds deserve all the glory that comes with the expression of their genius,” he says calmly. “It doesn’t matter what Sally has been through, and quite frankly, we’re probably doing her a favour. Our days on this earth are numbered, any other choice would suck the passion out of what we want to achieve. She won the contest because she’s fucking brilliant, and if we can capture even a fraction of that, then I consider this project a resounding success. Now save your grievances and let me meet with the girl.”

The Club rests their debate in an uneasy silence.

***

Cup and saucer clink and rattle as a delicate hand places them on a long, wooden table that separates a pair of parallel couches. White steam rises from the fine China, and herb-stained water undulates within the cup, influenced by the journey from the kitchen to the living-room.

One week following the grand closing of the Flora Immortalis Festival, Sally Cruz finds herself parked on one of those couches inside Archie Hemmings’ charming Victorian mansion. Freshly prepared tea is placed on the table in front of her by a woman who she has surely seen before at some point but has never met personally. The drink awaits Sally’s indulgence.

“Here you are, dear,” says the woman with an inviting smile. 

“Thanks,” Sally returns, flatly.

Sally is joined by several others: her mother Shirley, Petal Club President, Archie Hemmings, and the woman who brought everyone’s tea, Archie’s wife, Vanessa Hemmings. In a sense, it’s as if Sally occupied the antiquated yet refined space independently. She sits leaning forward, fingering the crucifix pendant hanging from her necklace. She flip-flops between absent mindedness and disbelief that she accepted Archie’s invitation following her crisis at the recently passed Flores Immortales Festival’s flower contest. She’s unsure as to why she ultimately agreed to this pleasantry given everything that has happened, but she glances at her mother and things start to come within frame.

Sally slips into the quiet solace of thought, her only escape. She places a finger on something she saw before this planned meeting. She thinks back to earlier in the week when she was watering the many plants around her apartment. She attended to each one with as much care as the last. She recalls feeling awed when realizing her Lucky Lilies – that could never seem to flourish – had started showing signs of new growth. She stared at the plant curiously, wondering what had changed; but then Sally remembered scenes from her balcony. She had gone out there to share the nurturing attentiveness she had shown the plants based inside when she noticed a downed bee. She squatted next to it, placing her watering can on the ground, observing the bee’s final moments. It squirmed while on its side, weak and dying, and its abdomen pulsated morbidly. Sally watched the bee understanding that its demise was certain. She looked around at the flora surrounding them, the bee had undoubtedly found its way up to the eighth floor for this reason. Pursuing its purpose before the spark of its life fizzled out. Purpose, she thought to herself.

“I know tea dates are a little outdated,” says Archie, invading Sally’s daydream, “but I thought a dinner and wine would’ve been a bit much, and something tells me you’re not much of a drinker either.”

“…No, I’m not anymore.” Sally says, making a conscious effort to avoid eye contact. 

“Probably a wise choice,” starts Vanessa. “You know, this one over here almost died from alcohol poisoning.” She gestures toward her husband with a slight motion of her head.

Archie lets out an airy chuckle and twists his face in a showing of lighthearted shame. “Give me a break, that was decades ago.”

“Sailor Jerry already gave you a break, love,” Vanessa chirps. “That break ended the moment those doctors saved your life.” The group shares a hearty laugh at the joke, except for Sally, who seems to be desperately counting the minutes as they come and go. The steam from her untouched tea continues its ghostly dance before vanishing into the air.

Archie adjusts his sleeve and quickly studies his watch. “Well, this was supposed to be a quaint family affair but my son is—“ 

Before he could finish his sentence, the faint sound of the front door opening and clicking shut whispers its secrets to the humble little gathering. Footsteps percuss off the hardwood floor, firm and uniform, before a young man reveals himself at the threshold of the den’s doorway. 

“Hey everybody,” the man says, trying to wave his hand under the burden of the equipment bags he’s carrying. “Sorry I’m late.”

“Ahhh nice of you to join us, Jamie. I was just about to slander you to our guests here,” Archie jests, erecting himself to properly greet his son.

“Of course you were dad. You’re entirely the reason a bad reputation tends to precede me,” Jamie returns as he relinquishes the burden of his baggage. Father and son greet one another with a firm interlocking grasp of each other’s forearms. They briefly hold that position and Archie uses his free hand to deliver an endearing pat on his son’s cheek. They exchange smiles before releasing their grip. Vanessa promptly greets her son next, embracing him tightly and uttering words of motherly affection – Shirley relishes in the tender moment.

“Sally, Shirley, I’d like to introduce you to my son, Jamie,” announces Archie as he creeps back to his seat. Jamie, flustered by the string of greetings, stumbles over one of the bags he had just put down as he breaks away from his mother, but regains his footing. A couple steps lands him beside the couch Sally and her mother occupy, with Shirley already on her feet waiting to shake his hand; she welcomes him with an inviting smile. Jamie then stretches an open hand out to Sally, poised to make her acquaintance with a gesture, but the action is lost on her. She stares at the hand floating in front of her from the seat she never bothered to get up from, allowing her eyes to travel up the stiffened arm the hand is attached to and halting on the puzzled face of the limb’s owner. Sally lazily scrunches her lips and opts instead to greet the man with the simple nod of her head. Jamie slowly retracts his hand, receiving the unspoken message loud and clear. Shirley observes silently, stricken with embarrassment.

“Jamie is a photographer, you know?” says Vanessa, trying to rekindle conversation. “All that expensive equipment yet he still insists on leaving them in the middle of the floor for everybody to trip over.”

Jamie clears his throat and passes his hands over his pants, wiping sweat from his palms. “Right…got it,” he says quietly as he motions to relocate his belongings.

“He’s got quite an eye,” Archie adds in his soft, raspy voice. “You know, he’s been photographing the Flores Immortales Festival since he first learned how to point and shoot a camera. I used to sneak a couple of his pictures into the Petal Club’s annual catalogue. Let me tell you, the bastard would end the day with one-hundred terrible shots but there’d always be a handful with enchanting perspectives. Naturally, I always selected one good shot and another, completely out of focus. Each time the Club published a catalogue, I always brought a copy home for him, and we’d admire his work together. We’d study the good picture and talk about why it was a good picture; then we’d study the bad picture and talk about why it was also a good picture, despite what I alone thought. He was young and eager to create, and I wanted to nurture his newly realized passion.”

“Next he’ll show pictures of me naked in the tub,” jests Jamie from the lounge chair he had claimed for himself during his father’s nostalgic tangent.

“Let your father reminisce, sweetheart,” Vanessa says with a thin-lipped smirk. “It does seem like ages ago.”

“That’s amazing! You both must be so proud of who your son’s become,” Shirley chirps enthusiastically.

Vanessa motions to respond but is quickly cut off by Jamie, desperate to change the topic.

“This is a great conversation guys, really, but I’d rather not be spoken about like I’m not in the room,” Jamie says, fixing his gaze on Sally. “Really, we should be discussing the woman of the hour.”

A sharp, sudden clap from Shirley slices through the languid air. “You’re right!” she says to Jamie with a wagging, pointed finger, “You are right! And Mr. Hemmings—”

“Just call me Archie, please,” Archie interpolates. “Formalities make me feel like a corpse.”

“Archie,” Shirley continues, “we’ve done some thinking since the festival, and Sally has warmed up to the idea of participating in the Club’s secret project.”

“Oh?” Archie says with hidden surprise. “Is that true, Sally?”

“No…” Sally responds in an uncharacteristically clear and direct tone. “No…sir. I wanted to say…that I don’t really want to do this. Not now.” She continues to fumble around with her crucifix pendant with a nervous grip, the action is somewhat calming stimulation for what Sally considers a bold self-assertion.

Archie rests the full weight of his attention on Sally. “Why don’t you want to do this?” he probes, his forwardness borrowing some of the natural acuity of his gaze. He adjusts himself in his seat as if preparing for a lengthy back-and-forth. He slings one leg over the other and folds his arms, tattoos peeking out from the mouth of a sleeve. His body sinks deeper into the couch as he leans back lazily onto the cushion. 

“Help me understand, will you?” Archie continues, as if pleading to Sally. The rest of the party listens intently.

“I just…don’t think I can do it. The project, I mean. I’m grateful that the Club honoured my flowers and I, but I can’t—”

“Who can’t?” Archie cuts in abruptly, the heads in the room all turning to look at the man sitting restfully on the couch. “Who can’t? The woman sitting before me now, or the woman you once were; maybe once upon a time.”

The question ushers in a murky silence. The large, antique analogue clock hung proudly on one of the many busy walls in the den strikes heavily at the coming of a new second. The clock’s autonomous purpose reverberates indiscriminately amongst the group.

“I…wha—” Sally’s words tumble out of her mouth in fragments. The question is so sudden and personal, the woman malfunctions trying to decipher a flurry of messages that her body is desperate to communicate. Her anxiety balloons, and the crucifix pendant she had been so mindlessly engrossed with now dangles freely, undisturbed.

“Mr. Hemmings,” Shirley says carefully, “I don’t think that question was—” 

“Ahhh–, there I go again,” Archie rasps remorsefully. “Forgive me for being too direct, it’s a force of habit. I mean no harm, really.”

Mrs. Hemmings sits poised next to her husband. Her hands stacked cordially atop one another as they rest in her lap. She focuses only on the spaces that mingle unnoticed between the bodies that occupy the room. Jamie finds a spot on the floor to fixate on during his father’s uncomfortable inquiry. Shirley, wanting to believe Archie’s question was truly harmless, forces an awkward laugh while Sally remains too stunned to offer a response of her own. Jamie’s eyes snake their way up to the mother-daughter pair, studying them quietly.

“Let me be clear,” Archie starts again, “I don’t mean to intrude where I am not welcome, but it’s difficult for someone like me not to notice someone who has walled themself off from the rest of the world.”

Sally begins to stutter, desperate to alleviate the pressure of this impromptu examination. 

“I—“ 

“Hold on now, Sally,” Archie interjects, “allow an old man the opportunity to ramble.” He looks at her with a soft expression, as if trying to highlight docility. Shirley passes a soothing hand over her daughter’s hunched back. She looks at her, eyes gleaming from a flurry of emotion of her own.

“I recognize something brilliant within you, Sally. A latent talent begging to be realized, pleading to be nurtured to its full potential, but for one reason or another, its growth has been stunted. It hasn’t been given the freedom to blossom and flourish, it hasn’t been receiving the care it needs to be the object of admiration that cannot be overlooked or denied. I can’t imagine that you’ve always been a closed book, scared and aloof. I’m not here to pry into the intimate details of your life, so please feel no obligation to tell me, but I am here hoping to be the hand that reintroduces you to the world, and the spark that ignites the passion to create. Your mind and your work are beautiful, Sally. If I realize that, then I can’t imagine it being lost on your mother. The Club will shake the world with our final project. I know you have your doubts now, but I want you to understand that this is your opportunity to be great. To be a part of something meaningful; to carve your name and your vision into history – and in turn – to become immortal. Gilgamesh held eternity in his hands once, only to fall victim to the mischievousness of a cunning serpent…”

Archie suddenly relieves himself from where he was seated. He shuffles past the long table that separates the pair of couches – all eyes locked on him as he moves – and ends up directly before Sally. He drops to one knee, groaning from the strain of the action. Sally has no choice but to meet the man’s gaze and his passive intensity is more apparent than ever before.

“Gilgamesh’s foil was rest. He held forever in his hands – the object of great obsession – his key to an everlasting life, but his determination gave way to a naïve complacency.”

Archie takes Sally’s hand in his own and turns her exposed palm to face the ceiling. He makes a gesture as if placing something in the girl’s palm, but when he withdraws his hand, nothing is there. Mother and daughter sit side-by-side watching the display curiously.

“To me, Gilgamesh was a fool. There is no time for rest, no opportunity to slow down when you’re defying God and disrupting the path built for you by the heavens.”

Archie’s gentle influence compels Sally to ball her hand into a fist, to which he takes that fist between his two hands and squeezes tightly. She continues to look on awkwardly, trying her best to understand whatever message the Petal Club president is trying to convey.

“What I’ve placed in your palm is our key to immortality,” the old man continues. “It was discovered by the Club and it’s shared among the Club; however its power remains dormant and ineffective until our final project is revealed to the world.”

Archie’s piercing, dead eyes invoke an uneasy shudder throughout Sally’s body, but to her surprise, she’s more captivated than ever.

“Now you hold eternity in your hands, Sally. You don’t have to bother searching for it, I’ve given it to you. If you’re still unsure about being a part of something greater than you or I, then you can leave it on the table before you leave; but if you decide that you want to be something more than you are now, then clench your fist tightly. Let your nails bite into your palms so that no one, and certainly no snake, will be able to steal forever away from you.”

The old man lightly pats Sally’s fist. His expression softens, giving way to a charming smile. “The choice is yours,” he says before ascending to his feet. He shuffles away as quickly as he came, again with all eyes on him, except for Sally. Her fist still suspends in the air in front of her and she stares at it as if she’s fallen into a trance. Her ears begin to fill with a buzzing noise – familiar and faint. She squeezes her fist tighter in silent rebellion, her nails scrape away at the soft surface of her palm. Her heart is thumping in her chest, and soon, that very percussion strikes her eardrums as well. The buzzing is short-lived, it’s dwarfed by the rhythm of her vitality. Sally feels something ignite within her. For the first time in a long time, she feels completely in control, and in the heat of the moment, emboldened by the words of someone she admires, Sally makes a decision.

“I…want to be immortal,” Sally announces with a gentle but sure voice.

Archie stops in his tracks and whirls around, reorienting his attention on Sally. The room fills with his honest laughter.

ACT IV

–

THE PROCESSES OF REBIRTH: PART I

A group of footsteps discordantly strike the decorated tile flooring of a long, warmly lit hallway. The space exudes rustic charm, a contemporary rendition of the Art Nouveau estates of yesteryear – beloved and desired. Handcrafted furnishings enrich the walls of the passage bringing the space to life and filling it with refined personality. Every item strikes the eye pleasantly, an exposé of luxury, culture, and class. Paintings commissioned by the Petal Club observe the small group as they briskly stroll towards their destination. Sally Cruz and her mother, Shirley, march the hallways of Sleeping Gorgon Estate, escorted by a groundskeeper who is eager to fulfil this assignment before going home for the evening like his privileged coworkers. Shirley blurts out any excited thoughts that pop into her mind, awestruck by the manor, its enormity, and its unique details. But the mansion isn’t a single entity, beyond it sits another Petal Club owned conservatory; and nestled in-between is an enchanting statue garden, decorating the massive yard with stony wonder. The Sleeping Gorgon Exotic Plant Conservation & Study Centre — or ‘The Exotic’ for short — isn’t as accessible to the public as the renowned Chloris Greenhouse. As the facility’s name suggests, its where the Petal Club houses a plethora of exotic and threatened flora from all over the world. The Exotic is frequented by various universities that pounce at the opportunity to study exotic plant-life, freely and locally, and the mansion is often used for conferences or the private events of public figures and the wealthy. Given the rarity of its plants, The Exotic opens its doors very sparingly. For four weeks in spring and four weeks in summer, The Exotic and the estate’s statue garden are free for the public to explore and admire, before its secrets are sealed away again. The hundreds of acres dedicated to these facilities are a grand display of affection for the craft the Petal Club has built their reputations on, a true labour of love, and the labour can be appreciated in the details. The regal boast of the estate is enough to impress anyone, even Sally Cruz, who silently soaks in the surrounding elegance as the small group navigates the long corridors of the mansion. Sally is stricken by wonder; she can hardly believe that simple green-thumb’s could’ve produced an opulent paradise such as this – decades of public involvement aside.

“This place is unbelievable, mami,” says Sally, gazing at the paintings that dress the passageways walls. Shirley rambles gaily in Spanish, finding a moment to acknowledge her daughter’s statement during her spiel. The pair is so taken aback by the mansion, they pay no mind to the lengthy journey spearheaded by their visibly disgruntled escort who is itching to be relieved for the evening. Sally seems to be in better spirits. Since meeting with Archie in his home, she has wrestled with the words the man had for her. She was softened by his intuitiveness and directness. Moved by his certainty that her purpose transcends the senseless prattle and cruelty of the world she had hidden herself from so long ago – she just had yet to realize it. In the days since their last meeting, Sally has been preparing herself for a radical metamorphosis, invigorated by the prospect of being an integral part of the Petal Club’s final, historic project. She had decided she wanted to be immortal, not in the conventional sense, but rather to live eternally through her craft and ideas, the way Archie passionately alluded, and together with the collective who so graciously shared with her their key to everlasting life. She fights off baseless apprehensions to chip away at her cocoon to soon reintroduce herself to the world, hoping to be born anew.

The group's pace dwindles as they veer down an offshoot corridor approaching a set of large, dark, wooden doors. Indistinct chatter falls faintly on the ears and the escort suddenly introduces his voice into the air.

“And here we are, ladies,” the man announces as he motions to open the doors. The pair enter the large, intimately lit chamber followed by the groundskeeper. Inside, members of the Petal Club either sit or stand scattered, passing the time with conversation and card games as they awaited their honorary guests. The arrival of daughter and mother halts all activities as the Club shifts their attention to welcome them.

“There she is!” Archie rasps, tossing a few cards onto the table he and a couple other Club members were playing. He pushes his chair back and rises to his feet with arms stretched out to either side. “The woman of the hour! And her lovely mother too, of course.”

Sally and her mother approach the group, making their rounds greeting each Club member; a chorus of warm welcomes the response. Sally makes an honest effort to be social and confident, wishing to erase the drama of the Flores Immortales Festival from the minds of its creators – she can only hope. There’s a delicate bubble of anxiety that swells rapidly within her, but she rebels. The onslaught of emotion compels Sally to wear some of her discomfort on her sleeve, but the group pays it no mind. She gauchely stands to one side after the formalities conclude, addressing her nerves by unconsciously fingering the crucifix necklace that dresses her neck. 

“It is such an honour to be here!” Shirley exclaims jubilantly as she breaks off from a friendly embrace with Chen. “Really, you guys didn’t have to make an exception for me.”

“Nonsense!” responds Miles with enthusiasm in his thick British accent. “Whatever we could’ve done to make Sally more comfortable, we were fully prepared to do it.”

“That’s right, she just means that much to this project,” adds Renzo, finding rest on the edge of a table.

“Thank you for the opportunity,” says Sally. “I know I’ve given you all a hard time.”

“Think nothing of it, darling,” comforts Chen in a tone of voice that would soothe even the most disturbed, “We knew it had to be you. We’re happy to have you with us, and your mother too.”

Sally manages a smile. She’s prepared to give all of herself to the Club’s beloved final project, she won’t allow her malady to derail what’s fated for her any longer. She needed this opportunity to heal far more than she realized.

“Quite the place, isn’t it?” queries Archie, finding his way over to mother and daughter.

“This place is unreal!” Shirley exclaims gaily. “You know, we’ve seen this place in pictures and all that, but the real deal is really something else, right Sal?”

“Yeah,” answers Sally, attempting to project her voice and speak clearly. “I wasn’t entirely sure what to expect. It’s pretty far outside the city, but I guess it makes sense needing as much land as you can afford for a place like this.” The girl forces a softspoken chuckle.

Dr. Govinda Jones laughs earnestly from amongst the other Club members. “When you’ve been working with flowers for as long as we have, you get to a point where the stuff you find in any old yard just doesn’t cut it anymore.”

Kenneth leans forward in his seat, shielding the side of his mouth as if telling a secret, “We don’t really say this openly, but Sleeping Gorgon is just an elaborate excuse for us to have a private collection of exotic plants. We want it, we find it, we import it.”

“And we’ll be sure to show you everything that’s housed over at the conservatory, but first we embrace tradition!” Archie announces, his smoky voice laden with hushed enthusiasm.

“Ahhh– yes,” Chen chirps, “let us inaugurate our project in true Club fashion. My favourite part, honestly.”

“Yeah, we know,” says Ben slyly, nudging Renzo and Thurston to share in his amusement. Suddenly, someone clears their throat somewhere on the outskirts of the room, a gesture meant to be heard and acknowledged. The groundskeeper is still parked at the chamber’s entrance awaiting his dismissal. The crowd glances over at the man but the Club doesn’t issue the order he is desperate to hear. The conversation continues.

“Now, Sally,” Archie begins, “before we officially begin work on any of our projects, the Club has gotten into the habit of giving toast. I’m not sure if the tradition started because we were all young and eager to showcase to the world what heights our craft could achieve or if we were just shameless, spade-toting alcoholics.”

“Undoubtedly the latter,” Thurston chimes in, followed by a chorus of brief laughter.

“Many decades and several liver’s later, the tradition persists,” Archie continues. “I know where you’ve drawn the line in the sand, so I won’t ask you to dri—”

“It’s okay,” Sally interjects. “I’ll drink what you give me.” 

Shirley wears a look of exaggerated disbelief. Her daughter’s somewhat flimsy façade of confidence was not lost on her as she’s been slightly different since meeting with Archie. She has supported Sally unconditionally, hoping to bolster this newfound and exceedingly rare wave of inspiration, but she wasn’t prepared for this.

“Hold on now,” says Archie cautiously. “I don’t want you thinking you haven’t a choice in the matter. We have non-alcoholic substitutes if you’d prefer.”

“Si, mi amor…are you sure?” Shirley adds.

Sally continues to fumble her pendant between nervous fingers. She swallows harshly and is suddenly very aware of the breaths she draws. She finds her resolve.

“I’m sure…it’s tradition, after all,” the girl wears a thin-lipped smile. There’s a moment of silence amongst the group. Words unspoken but a curious thought shared the same.

“Well let’s not delay then,” Chen says, shattering the silence. “You heard her, she’s sure.” The Siren shifts her attention to the groundskeeper who is still waiting impatiently by the door. “Jason, you’re free to leave,” she says to the man, “but before you go, be a dear and bring us a bottle of champagne and some glasses, please.” The man says nothing but leaves hastily to make good on the request. He isn’t gone long; mere moments pass before he re-enters the room with a metallic gold bar-cart in tow. Slender glasses atop the cart clink against one another with the bottle of champagne standing tall and proud among them. The caretaker parks the cart by a decorative table at the far end of the room, just beyond where the Club and their guests have congregated. He says his farewells and leaves to head home for the evening.

“Okay!” Renzo exclaims suddenly with a spirited clap for emphasis, “we’re on a tight schedule, let’s do our toast and get to work.”

“Well, aren’t you eager,” Kenneth says playfully.

“Aren’t we all?” asks Ben. 

“Aren’t you, Sally?” probes Dr. Jones. The girl nods and says, “Yes, I’m excited to see what you guys have planned.”

“Enough prattle then,” Chen says, back turned to the group as she prepares the toast. “One of you boys be of some use and help me pop this cork. I’d rather not share our drink with the floor.” Thurston answers her call for help. “Stay here Thurston and pass the glasses out as I pour them.” Chen continues to fumble around with the contents of the bar cart, filling glasses while Thurston delivers them to any hands that’ll receive them. It continues like this until only Sally is left without a glass but that is quickly remedied. Chen finally reveals herself from the bar cart, facing the group again, this time with a drink in hand; Thurston is close by, sporting a drink of his own. Chen shoots a look of expectancy toward Archie and the attention is not lost on him.

“Ben,” he says softly, “care to do the honours?”

Ben glances curiously at Archie. “You’ve always done the toasts, Archie.”

“Not tonight. After all these years, I think I’ve said enough.”

The group trades puzzled looks among each other and the Club president, but the rhythmic tapping of a cane quickly pulls the gathering's attention. Ben stands proudly somewhere amid scattered bodies. The man who typically appears rather stern wears a softened expression, taken by emotion and lost in contemplation.

“It’s a strange feeling,” begins Ben. “A small gesture like this, between us long-time friends, became something that unified our ambitions. I recall fondly the Club I joined decades ago, young and driven. Rebellious and full of spirit. We brought an edge to a realm of expression that is otherwise disregarded as wedding decoration, space-filler, or an occasional token of love. Somewhere along the line we initiated these big yearly projects to hopefully illuminate the fact that flowers are far more than what the average person appreciates them to be. They’re natural works of art and it’s our dirt-stained hands that has always helped them attain the ethereal beauty they’re celebrated for; but the celebration for us has always been superficial. They love us for the gimmick and never for the art, and as a traditional artist by career, you can imagine how much the sentiment bites me. Well, as we rendezvous for the last time – this time joined by Sally and Shirley – I want you, my friends, to know we’ve never lost touch with our purpose. Each of you has always held an astute understanding of the art and the impact it can have. You’ve never let the ignorance of the beholder shake your drive to create and to share. We’re driven and relentless, like ants adhering to their programming. Their nature decided at birth. It’s our art and avenues of expression that unites us, and by means of this comradery we share, we’ll follow each other until the very end; but it doesn’t end here with this speech. We still have a job to do, so let’s get on with it then.”

Ben raises his glass before him while scanning the faces in the room. “To immortality!” he declares passionately.

“To immortality!” the group echoes, invigorated by the man’s heartfelt speech. They each down their drinks one after the other. Sally pauses briefly and stares down at the amber-colored champagne undulating in her glass. She hasn’t drunk a drop of alcohol since the night she was beaten and raped. A ball of uncertainty forms in her throat, and before she could entertain another harmful thought, she follows the group and downs her drink as well, hoping to harness even a fraction of the drive and relentlessness that Ben attributed to his friends.

“Who would’ve thought that you had a heart? Certainly not me,” Archie rasps jokingly, pulling Ben in for an embrace. “Beautiful toast, brother.”

“Decades of listening to you yap, I may have learned how to feign human sentiments,” Ben says between an honest chuckle.

“If you’ve learned how to feel from Archie then I’m afraid of what you’ve become,” says Kenneth, appearing with the rest of the Club in his wake to take Ben in their arms one after the other. Sally and Shirley approach Ben as well, praising the speech.

“That was touching,” Sally says with a gentle gleam in her eyes. Ben flashes a rare smile. He drums the head of his cane with his thumbs before leaning towards Sally.

“We’re the spawn of different worlds, but we’ll honour you as one of our own,” he says softly.

“Alright!” exclaims Archie, his voice harsh like sandpaper, “let’s head over to the conservatory and start selecting some flowers, shall we?” the group skitters out of the room, rowdy and full of life. The project has finally begun.

***

Bodies jerk from the subtle quake of golf carts in motion. Gentle whirring from the machines interacts flatly with the lonely evening air. The daystar begins saying its goodbyes as it inches away slowly behind mammoth-sized trees that lament the coming of night. The group zips down the long, straight path that connects the mansion grounds to the conservatory beyond it, splitting the statue garden nestled between the two structures in half. Daughter and mother use this opportunity to admire the sights. Weathered stone – chipped and chiseled to form – have found a home in the nooks and crannies of this greenspace. Some statues stand proudly flaunting their rustic beauty, demanding to be seen; others hide behind trees and lush greenery, wishing to guard their secrets. Bronze statues glint boldly in the orange sunlight in unmoving competition with their stony counterparts. The pair look on, silently wishing they could explore the area at their leisure.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” asks Kenneth, observing the starry-eyed women sharing the backseat with him. The pair agree enthusiastically as they continue to absorb the sights. The group returns to silence as they relish the moments before the journey’s end. Soon, The Exotic smothers the group with its size and dazzles them with a radiant, orange hue that reflects off its glass. The golf carts come to a halt, and their whirring ceases soon after.

“Now THIS is the real show,” Kenneth says between laboured groaning while exiting the cart.

Sally and Shirley climb out of the backseat allowing their gaze to observe the structure before them. Archie climbs out of the front, passenger seat, and Ben the driver’s seat, reaching back into the golf cart to secure his cane and the opened bottle of champagne he insisted on bringing with him. The rest of the Club trickles out of the second golf cart. The group is whole again and they march towards the entrance nearby.

“The plant-life kept in The Exotic is only half the reason why our last project is so special,” Archie says while fumbling a set of keys. He finds the one he is seeking and plunges it into the keyhole.

“The other half, Sally,” he continues, “is because of you.” He then swings open the doors. The crew breaks the threshold and is transported to an Eden of sorts. They’re slammed by humid air, now surrounded by flora alien to the region. The sound of flowing water hisses somewhere within the massive space. Pleasant, earthy fragrances contend with a vile stench that lingers in the air – though faint. 

“Oh my God, mi vida,” says Shirley, awestruck at the sight. “Look at all this.” 

Sally struggles to respond, taken suddenly by an onset of sickness. A rush of faintness passes over her, and her stomach turns uncomfortably. Her only remedy is steady breaths and gentle fingertips on her forehead. Mother takes notice first then the rest of the crew follows.

“Sally, what’s going on?” Shirley asks, voice laden with concern. She worries the stress of being so far removed from her comfort zone has finally caught up to Sally despite her best efforts. The Club pauses and looks on inquisitively, wondering if they’ll see a repeat of Sally’s episode at the festival. They allow mother to tend to daughter without interfering. 

“I’m fine…I’m okay,” Sally responds, fanning her mother away. She works to gather herself, but the feeling doesn’t subside. She decides to mask how she’s feeling, hoping to avoid anymore unwanted attention. “I think my body may not agree with whatever that smell is.”

“The source of that rotten stench is a sight to behold, though,” Miles says, enchanted by the thought. “Are you sure you don’t need a moment?”

“No, I’ll be fine,” Sally declares, not as certain as she sounds. 

Miles whirls around to better appreciate the space and all its striking details. He wears a certain juvenile wonder, as if this is his first time seeing the quiet inhabitants of The Exotic in all their glory. The group begins to move again, with Miles picking up where Archie had left off.

“Like Kenneth mentioned earlier, the plant-life housed here in The Exotic is mostly to appease our aging souls,” Miles explains. “But it also gave us a means to care for and cultivate rare and threatened specimens from all around the world.” The group follows the path from the entrance, browsing the colourful gallery of plants. Every step of the way the Club points out a plant and its country of origin. Voodoo lilies from Central Asia, tower of jewels from the Canary Islands, rainbow eucalyptus from the Philippines; the list expands as they trudge forward, each addition as spectacular as the last.

“We’ve avoided using any of these plants for our annual pieces up until this point,” Thurston says, appearing slightly uneasy, “but this time around, they add the perfect emphasis to what we wish to present to the world.”

The red powderpuff of South America, black pearl tree of East Africa, purple passionflower homegrown in North America. Shirley is taken by the beauty of it all. Her eyes widened and curiosity peaked. The plant-life housed in The Exotic come in every shape and size, and due to the immensity of the conservatory, it’s clear there are countless earthy wonders to discover; but as amazing as the sights are, Sally can’t seem to focus. The pervasive sickness that has suddenly affected her seems to be intensifying. She quietly huffs every breath and her heart thumps discordantly in her chest. She feels her muscles weakening, and stomach-churning nausea is impossible to ignore. 

Minutes fade as the group powers on. They approach a section of the conservatory where the once faint stench they could smell from the building's entrance is now thick and intense.

“God, what is that smell!” Shirley cries, covering her nose with a hand. The Club snickers in unison.

“This is the real treat,” Archie says, pointing ahead. Not much farther ahead stand a sea of mammoth-sized flowers. Their deep, red bulbs appear as if they’ve bloomed straight out of the dirt, absent of visible stems and reeking of death. The group stops to admire the peculiar flower.

“This is rafflesia arnoldii, one of the rarest flowers in the world,” Archie says pridefully, showcasing a trance-like admiration for the plant. “But most people have come to know it as the stinking corpse lily.”

“Fitting name,” Shirley quips, scrunching her face from the powerful smell.

“You see that big, leafy flower with its bulb reaching into the air?” queries Kenneth, “That’s amorphophallus titanum, it also produces a rotten smell. These two plants are categorized under a group known as Carrion Flowers, and their most striking feature is hard to miss. You can smell them from miles away and it’s described as the smell of rotting flesh. The public comes in droves to experience the smell just once.”

“Sally, can you believe this?” Shirley asks, captivated by the idea. Sally isn’t quick to respond, though. In fact, she doesn’t end up acknowledging the question at all. That ill-feeling that’s been plaguing the woman initiates a relentless assault on her body. The powerful scent emanating from the flowers work in conjunction with lingering nausea to force an unpleasant response. Sally clutches her stomach in discomfort, disoriented by a list of symptoms. She hunches over and retches violently, spilling remnants of food and drink at her feet. She groans attempting to hold back a second wave.

“Sally!” her mother yells, turning around to approach her.

“Oh my…” Chen says with closeted disgust. She averts her gaze.

Sally, feeling worse for wear, squats low to the ground clawing at her stomach and wincing. She can’t bear to face the group in this state so staring at the ground is the only consolation; but it’s not long before Sally hears a peculiar sound. A heavy, blunt noise introduces itself somewhere in front of her. With the noise comes what can only be described as a sudden spray of rain that pelts Sally discordantly; and less than a second after that, Sally is knocked to the ground by someone falling onto her, weightily. From her new position, Sally analyzes the body lying face-down at her feet, narrowly missing the puddle of vomit she had produced moments before. She first notices the grisly wound on the side of the person’s head —spilling blood without reserve and clumping strands of hair together. She then realizes the person lying in front of her is her own mother. Sally is launched into a state of shock becoming nearly unresponsive. She watches and listens in horror as her mother struggles to breathe. Shirley lets out a grotesque moan making no effort to move. She lies face-down taking one strenuous breath after another. She hisses to inhale, and exhalation sounds throaty and coarse, indicative of severe head trauma. Sally doesn’t notice the man walking leisurely towards her mother’s body. She doesn’t hear a cane striking the ground after being tossed aside. She doesn’t realize there’s someone now standing over her injured mother, but what she does see is the full weight of a large champagne bottle – guided by a strong hand – compromising the integrity of her mother’s skull. It’s a brutal assault, each thunking strike chips away at the back of Shirley’s head. Blood, bone, and scalp fly wildly landing indiscriminately on members of the idle group and showering the helpless Sally Cruz in gore. Sally manages to let out a series of horrified screams, the type that rattles even the most resilient to their very core. She screams first for her mother and then for her god. The violence feels endless, until suddenly, the assailant stops. Shirley’s laboured breathing has ceased. She lies there unmoving. The back of her skull crushed, revealing her disturbed brain. Sally finally fully acknowledges the man behind the murder of her mother. Her eyes trail up a set of legs. They linger on the crude weapon of choice, blood-soaked and hanging by a hand at the killer’s side. Her gaze continues up the man’s torso until his face is within focus. Ben Hoekstra stands over the lifeless body of Shirley Cruz wearing a face of frenzy and satisfaction. He huffs from the activity and swats chunks of his victim’s scalp off his suit. He almost doesn’t notice the presence of his most terrified spectator. 

Sally begins to slide away from the man using hands and feet but stops abruptly when she realizes the deafening silence. She remembers that she isn’t alone in this conservatory with her mother’s killer, and her eyes begin darting wildly. She whirls her head around, meeting the gaze of the Petal Club members who stand scattered about. 

First Miles then Kenneth.

She finds Chen and Thurston soon after.

Then Dr. Jones and Renzo.

And finally, Club President, Archie.

The Petal Club members have all focused on the grotesque scene. They watched intently as the life was bludgeoned out of a loving mother. The air fluttered as they hissed breaths of anticipation, searing the horrific scene into their mind’s; and when they’ve had their fill, Sally became the object of their attention. A sinister plot was unfolding amongst this unlikely group and Sally came to understand this quickly. The Club penetrated the bewildered Sally Cruz with gazes laced with ferocity. The attention is cruel and callous, and a fervent determination is found beneath the windows of the soul. Sally is taken by a wave of dread. Her heart pounds wildly in her chest and the sensation of tiny bugs marching all over her skin manifests and quickly overwhelms her. The feeling is so intense, she can’t help but investigate her arms, and to her shock, she discovers hundreds of black ants scurrying about, using Sally’s arms as highways to the rest of her body. They climb over each other, moving with erraticism, some even begin to bite. Sally cuts through the silence with a piercing scream. She springs up to her feet, pushing past Ben as she swats and scratches at her arms, attempting to attack the ants. The scratching is so violent that Sally begins to excavate skin and then eventually some flesh, permitting streams of blood to carve a crimson path down her arms. She runs as fast as adrenaline will let her, following the path back to the conservatory’s entrance and bursting through the doors. Ben turns to pursue Sally, overtaken by a profound lust for blood, but he’s stopped by a familiar voice.

“Let her run,” Archie says coldly. “You know Hemlock better than anyone. She’ll be dead within minutes.”

Archie moves towards Shirley’s body and squats next to it. He looks down at the corpse remorsefully.

“I’m sorry it had to be this way, Shirley,” he rasps with a frown, rummaging through the woman's pockets and purse. “Your death was never in our plans, not initially, but we had to do whatever we could to get Sally here. You were a lovely woman. I’ll see to it that my son leaves what’s left of your family handsome compensation before he disappears.” 

The man reorients himself, now standing erect, and in possession of what he was searching for – Shirely’s driver’s license. He plunges his hands in his pockets and begins a leisurely stroll down the conservatory’s path. 

“We’ll watch the girl’s final moments from the security outlet,” Archie says. “She’ll likely die in the statue garden. We’ll collect her body there.”

The rest of the Club begin to trail behind the president, but Chen takes a detour. She takes up a position next to Shirley’s corpse and struggles to flip it on its back. Thurston stops and looks at Chen nervously.

“What are you doing?” he asks.

Chen ignores the question at first, enthralled by whatever is driving her actions. She grasps the head of Shirley’s dead body by cupping it beneath the chin with her palm, fingers resting on the cheeks. With her other hand, she plunges her fingers into the left eye socket of Shirley’s corpse, ripping out the organ with a little force. Chen holds the eye up and studies it.

“Are you familiar with the practice of wearing masks on the back of your head?” asks Chen.

Thurston maintains an uneasy silence.

“Some South Asian countries do this when navigating the jungle. The idea is that the mask tricks predators into thinking you’re looking right at them, thus keeping them from attacking. I heard somewhere that if you consume a person’s eyes just before your own death, it’ll protect you from the horrors found in the afterlife. It acts like one of those masks, always watching even when you’re not. Ghouls and demons don’t particularly like being perceived.”

Horror hijacks Thurston’s being as he shouts: “This…THIS IS CRAZY!” the group ahead of the two stragglers pause to observe the source of the commotion.

“This…this is crazy,” he says again, looking around at his friends desperately. “This woman didn’t deserve to die this way. This isn’t…this isn’t what I thought it would be.”

Dr. Jones pushes through the group and approaches Thurston with fierce purpose. He grabs Thurston by the lapels of his suit jacket, shaking him aggressively.

“What did you think this was, huh!?” Dr. Jones sneers. “What part of this wasn’t clear from the very beginning?”

Suddenly, Archie’s voice bellows from down the pathway. “I’m trusting you’ll handle this – whatever THIS is – the way we all agreed. And Chen, whatever it is you’re up to, I don’t care, as long as your head is here.” The man storms down the path, leaving Dr. Jones with clear instructions and Chen with a word of caution. The remainder of the group trade unsettled glances and almost show faces of regret. Ben breaks away without a word and stumbles toward the stragglers, drunk on violence. Chen seems unperturbed by the quarrel, stooping down to collect the remaining eye from Shirley’s corpse then reorienting herself to witness the dispute unfold.

“There’s nothing to handle,” Thurston barks, breaking Dr. Jones’ grip and fixing himself to make an exit. “I know it’s too late to stop this madness. This is sick…THIS IS ALL SO SICK! What happened to us? Just let me leave. You will all get the end you desire, and I’ll carry the heavy burden of knowing. Let me live out what’s left of my life in damnation knowing that we’ve stolen two precious lives tonight, all for a deranged idea.” 

“You know you can’t leave, Thurston,” Dr. Jones says solemnly, Ben behind him, sloshing around what’s left of the champagne in its blood-coated container. “We all came to an understanding…that we’d see it through to the end.”

“And for me it ends here,” Thurston whimpers. “I’ve gotten caught up in something I now realize I could’ve never really faced. So please, as my family, just let me leave. Living with this horror is as good as death.” 

Thurston turns dramatically, taken by emotion, and starts down the conservatory path. His heels strike the ground hard, producing a rhythmic clicking. A few moments pass before a new set of footsteps manifest behind him, their gait signalling a brisker pace. Less than a moment goes by before one more set of footsteps begin to reverb behind the man. 

Thurston increases his pace, fighting the dreaded feeling in the pit of his stomach that begs him to turn and look. The pair of footsteps behind him get faster in response, sounding much like a light jog. Then suddenly, Thurston hears the voice of the Siren in the distance behind him, casually making a troubling request: “Don’t be too hard on him, boys. He's still family; and try not to damage his face.”

Terrified, Thurston bursts out into a laboured sprint. He huffs desperately and gives in to the urge to look back. He sees Dr. Jones and Ben pursuing him, close on his heels, Dr. Jones carrying a sickle that had been previously hidden in the area, originally intended to deal with Shirley before Ben decided to improvise. Thurston lets out a string of grisly screams, understanding that his rebellion has now cost him his life. Despite his desperate attempt to escape, his weathered body made the effort futile, each stride akin to running in a nightmare – slow and pitiful. 

Ben catches up to Thurston first, grabbing him by the back of his collar, and striking him hard on the ear with the champagne bottle. The sturdy weapon finally shatters, and fragments of glass embed themselves into the side of the man’s visage. Thurston reels in pain. His screams echo throughout the space so loudly that the members of the Club that had left to the security outlet turn to briefly acknowledge the racket as they spill through the entrance doors.

“Rest his confused soul,” Kenneth says to himself solemnly.

 The relentless assault continues. Wounded and caught in a vice-grip, Thurston is manhandled by Ben who throws him violently towards a bed of flowers close by. Thurston’s body collides with a stone ledge that stands at knee height sectioning off the bedding, and he loses balance, falling back-first onto the flowers. He scrambles to collect himself, holding the side of his face that had been serrated by glass, eyes glossy and red with tears. He sees the two men, his friends, approaching him with savagery in their demeanor, and he begins to plead desperately.

“Please, don’t do this,” he cries. “PLEASE! PLEASE DON’T—” 

Thurston’s begging is cut short. Before he knew it, Dr. Jones had closed the gap between them, and with one precise motion, he had plunged the flat portion of the curved blade into the side of Thurston’s neck, with the tip just barely peeking out the other side. Blood spurts from the wound. The two men stare blankly at each other, Thurston gagging and probing around the site of the wound with a weak hand. His hand suddenly drops weightily to his side, going limp, and his eyes begin drifting upwards. Dr. Jones palms the dying man’s forehead with his free hand, and after a brief pause, pulls the sickle toward himself, leaving a large and gruesome gash in its wake and pushing his victim onto the bed of flowers behind him. Blood rushes from Thurston’s neck, now unobstructed by the blade. His life fades quickly among the flowers he and his friends had dedicated their lives to decades ago.

Chen approaches the bloody scene in a slow stroll, the eyes she had excavated from Shirely prior tightly secured in her hand. The three Club members, living and present, crowd around the body of their deceased friend. Despite their cruel actions, they silently mourn the loss of a brother. Ben holds up the champagne bottle he’s been carrying and weaponizing. He studies its shattered base, frowning that it is now bereft of its contents. He shuffles toward Thurston’s corpse and takes up a stance at its feet.

“This is our claim to immortality…” Ben rasps, tipping the neck of the bottle toward the ground, regretting that there is no drink to spill for a beloved friend.

“This is our claim to immortality,” Chen and Dr. Jones echo.

“We’re wasting time,” Dr. Jones says, wiping sweat from his brow, voice rooted in defeat. “Let’s gather what we need from Thurston’s body and rejoin the group. Chen, go grab a garbage bag and a set of large shears from the utility closet. I’ll get started here.”

“Hold on,” Chen fires. The Siren moves towards the fresh corpse resting among the flowers. Similarly to Shirley, Chen squats next to Thurston’s body, holds the head steady, and fingers an eye cavity until its sensory organ is extracted. She does the same for the other eye. She caresses Thurston’s cheek, and whispers: “We’ll meet again, beloved,” before leaving to fulfil what was requested of her.

Chen returns after a few minutes, her heels click purposefully as she approaches the scene once more. Dr. Jones had made good on his enigmatic statement – he had gotten started. Sitting upright on the stone ledge is Thurston’s severed head, its empty eye cavities staring deeply into a world unseen. Crudely cut and torn flesh swim in a puddle of scarlet. Thurston’s corpse lay in the bed of flowers absent of the shirt and suit jacket he had been wearing. After Dr. Jones removed Thurston’s head, he cut into the corpse’s forearms as he awaited Chen’s return. The cuts are deep and completely orbit the bones, Radius and Ulta. The incisions were made so that the large gardening shears could bypass flesh and attack the tough bones directly. 

Chen hands Ben the shears and he immediately goes to work on the arms. He separates the blades and places its edges between the pre-cut flesh, first on the right forearm. The man situates himself low to the bed of flowers, laying partially on the ground and on his friend’s corpse, and begins jerking his torso towards the earth, intending to use his body weight to force the tool through solid bone. He maintains a steady rhythm, grunting from the activity. After a few moments of attempts, the Ulta bone holding the shears at bay suddenly gives. The tool collapses, biting down further, and is instantly halted by the second bone in the forearm – the Radius. Ben ceases the activity and pulls himself to his feet, removing the shears. He takes the corpse by the arm and drags it through the dirt revealing crushed flora. He repositions the body enough so the targeted arm lays just over the edge of the stone ledge. He requests the assistance of his two spectators, and they help hold the body in place. Ben leans over, steadying himself by gripping the body’s bicep. He lifts a bent leg and places the flat of his shin to intersect with the targeted forearm. He sucks in a breath and uses his bent leg to push downward with as much force as he can muster. A sharp snapping noise introduces itself into the air and vanishes just as quickly. The arm tumbles from the raised stone ledge and slaps the conservatory pathway. Ben, letting out a strained sigh retrieves the limb from where it had landed and places it next to Thurston’s severed head. The trio struggles with the body in silence, repeating the same process for the remaining arm.

Chen fumbles the garbage bag she had brought – awkwardly clinging to a small resealable bag she found to store her new sets of eyes – until its mouth is spread wide. Dr. Jones collects Thurston’s head and drops it into the bag; Ben, the hands. The Siren ties the bag and passes it off to Ben to carry. The trio offer Thurston’s butchered corpse one last remorseful glance before marching down the conservatory path, their destination the security outlet next door; Ben retrieving his walking stick that he had cast aside.

ACT V

–

THE PROCESSES OF REBIRTH: PART II

The once bright and inviting Spring sky now glows with a dark-blue, almost purplish hue as night blankets the area. The moon is full, bright, and hangs low above. Stars begin to peek through the veil of darkness – a coy hello from regions largely unexplored. The night air – otherwise still and serene – sees a small disturbance lost somewhere in the Sleeping Gorgon statue garden. Sally Cruz, who had fled in a panic from the site of her mother’s brutal murder, navigates the fantastical garden that’s filled to the brim with sculpted art. She had deviated from the large, straight, main pathway that the Petal Club used to reach The Exotic conservatory, hoping to stay hidden on a diverging path, leading her deeper into the statue garden. The vast area is lush with healthy trees and thoughtfully groomed and shaped shrubbery, with many statues scattered about, some concealed behind beautiful plant-life.

Sally takes one laboured step after another, her legs feeling heavy, as if her feet had been replaced with lead blocks. Adrenaline still rages through her body, but it’s no longer enough to stifle her sickness. A cluster of wounds sting from when she clawed viciously at her arms, attempting to vanquish creatures that were never really there. Her skin is crusted over with dried blood. The air surrounding the woman expands and contracts as she pants and whimpers from exhaustion and the unknown malady that has come down hard on her. Her muscles, one moment showing glimpses of weakness, the next, tension. Sally’s stomach swirls in a storm of panic and nausea, it’s unbeknownst to her how she hasn’t vomited again. 

The Petal Club surveys the woman’s every move while tucked away in the security outlet building that stands right next door to the conservatory. They crowd around a collection of monitors receiving live feed from countless cameras positioned throughout the grounds, stalking Sally from a distance as she slowly moves from one camera perspective to another. 

“Look at her,” says Renzo, “the toxins from the Hemlock are ravaging her body.”

“She’s not long for this world,” Miles chuckles. “We’ve done it. I can’t believe we’ve really done it.”

“We haven’t done anything yet,” Kenneth croaks. “Nothing except killing a mother and a friend. We must hold our breath until we arrive at the ranch.”

It’s at this moment the Club’s stragglers burst into the room. Ben, Dr. Jones, and Chen let their presence be known. Each of them painted in blood, a sealed garbage bag containing butchered pieces of their long-time friend, their burden. The group, in a sense, is whole again.

The Club members that had already occupied the security booth eye the garbage bag uneasily as the blood-bathed trio approaches, understanding its contents. They take turns swallowing the lumps that’ve formed in their throats at the sight.

“This is our claim to immortality,” they echo, turning their attention back to the monitors.

“Where’s the girl?” Chen inquires bluntly.

“Meandering through our statue garden,” Archie wheezes, pointing at one of the monitors. “Look at the way she moves. Her mind is hazy, and her body is weak. She's trying her best to fight the toxin. I’m impressed by her, I didn’t realize she had this much fight.” 

“Yes, we all know your infatuation with tragic heroine types,” Ben sighs as he sinks into an empty seat, placing what’s left of Thurston at his feet.

“Her struggle…it's beautiful, isn’t it?” Archie rasps. “I almost wish I knew her story before all this.”

“How romantic,” Miles says mockingly.

“Look!” Renzo interjects suddenly, focused on one of the screens, “she’s stopping!”

It’s true, Sally had stopped. Struggling more and more, wrestling with her affliction, Sally stopped to gather herself. As she travelled down the narrow and intimate path, she came upon a lonely park bench stationed near a large statue depicting Aphrodite embracing an unnamed lover. As much as her frightened mind protested, brief rest appealed to the woman, feeling as if she wouldn’t be able to confidently continue her escape without doing so. She scanned the area, shooting nervous glances behind her before finally deciding to take a seat. 

“Let’s toy with her,” Archie says slyly, engrossed by the development.

Sally sits uncomfortably, her body rapidly deteriorating. The scene is pitiful, she moans and sobs quietly, wondering how such terrible illness could wrack her being at a time like this, all while fending off macabre mental images of her recently deceased mother. The woman sways side to side, squirming and pawing randomly at her body, unable to identify where she feels most affected; the sensation is pervading. Delirium has caused her to feel unsettled surrounded by large, sturdy trees; they whisper to her as gentle winds rattle their leaves. In the short time Sally occupied the park bench, she’s become overwhelmed with paranoia. Her mind races thinking about her unlikely pursuers and their plans for her. A realization cuts through the dense fog and something finally clicks: They drugged me, she thinks. She can’t help but tremble as the Hemlock’s toxin performs a slow and gruelling execution, a process she’s only now beginning to understand. Dread follows understanding, she feels something terrible manifest in her deepest recesses and it bolsters the nausea. The whispering of the trees begins to sound much like the unintelligible babbling of gentle voices. It’s all in my head, she repeats to herself fearfully. Suddenly, new sounds introduce themselves into the air. 

First, Sally hears the muted trotting of footsteps on grass. Then, unclear conversation of strong, distant voices. She hears the rustling of shrubbery and snapping of twigs. 

Sally springs to her feet in a panic. What she understands as impending danger compelling her to suppress her sickness once more. She folds her arms over her stomach as she stands idle, focusing her hearing to catch these mysterious new sounds.

She hears the grinding of something high in the trees, blissful moaning, the chuffing of animal’s unseen, and peculiar, almost otherworldly, vocalizations: “Gok-gok-gok-gok-gok.” 

“Oh, God…” she croaks behind a well of tears.

Frightened, Sally begins to turn her gaze frantically. She glances down the dimly lit pathway, then up at the trees, then into the dark, grassy patches where the garden's statues hide.

Sally observes something curious in a grassy patch just beyond the bench she was sitting on. The stony foundation of a statue displayed in that area sits lonely amongst the greenery, but to the woman’s shock, no statue stood atop it. Her attention is pulled by movement among the undergrowth in the outskirts of her vision, somewhere far beyond where she was looking; then a wail from deep in the garden jolts the already bewildered woman further. Suddenly, a voice bellows from the numerous speakers hidden throughout the area. The voice is deep and distorted and pours from everywhere. 

“YoU rUn, SaLLY, buT WHAt diFFEreNce dOes IT mAke?” the voice jeers. 

Frightened and feeling surrounded, Sally shoots nervous glances up at the trees. She whirls around furiously as the strange voice toys with her, trying to discern where it's coming from. She fails.

“YOu’rE dYInG, SAlly,” the voice continues, drowning out the sounds of dragging and slapping nearby. “I knOW YOU caN fEEL iT. ThE tHUmPiNg of YOur heaRt, the diSObeDienCE OF yOur musCLes, THE raVaGIng Of wHat FEELS likE aN ANCieNt plAGue. HEMloCk is A naStY liTTLe THing, iSn’t IT? YouR rebeLLioN wilL oNLY KilL yOu FAsTer; but yoU ShOUldn’t FEAr dEath, SallY…”

The voice tapers off and is replaced by the dragging and slapping it had previously overpowered. In Sally’s fear and confusion, sounds to her emanate from all directions, making it impossible to determine their places of origin. She begins to move in reverse, taking one cautious step after another, as she focuses her attention up the pathway from where she had travelled. Sally hadn’t moved far before something behind her grabbed at her ankle, gripping it with ferocious strength. Startled, the woman screams and spins to lay eyes on the culprit. To Sally’s shock, there at her feet was the statue of Aphrodite and her lover, unbound from its podium that sits nearby the bench. The once stone-carved statue is now animated and mobile, but it has undergone a few other terrible changes. Aphrodite and her lover have somehow abandoned their marble skin and now fashion real flesh. Their bodies are no longer independent entities embracing one another, but instead merged into an abhorrent mass of body parts. The abomination’s nude skin is bulbous, and limbs have sprouted from bizarre areas with no semblance of logic or order. Unable to walk, the abomination used its misplaced limbs to drag its repulsive vessel from its podium to where Sally stands. Now, it holds the stunned woman with a vice grip, disgruntled moaning and pained screams cascading from its two heads, fused together. The thing gazes up at Sally with glossy, unnatural eyes and continues its ungodly racket. 

Sally screams without reserve, struggling to comprehend the grotesque creature before her. She shakes her shackled leg wildly and kicks at the abomination until it releases its hold. Sally stumbles away from the living horror, continuing to scream. The thing extends an arm toward Sally in what appears to be some sort of desperate display. Tears surge from its collection of oddly placed eyes. Aphrodite’s mangled lips quiver from weeping, while the lover – whose head fused with Aphrodite’s cheek area – let out a deep, bone-chilling wail. Just as suddenly, there’s rustling in the bushes near the bench, and from it another statue with newfound life lumbers out. A large man steps heavily toward the abomination, foliage covering his body head to toe as if growing directly from his skin. He fashions a countenance only vaguely reminiscent of human features, and visible skin appears rough and barky. He carries with him a tweed sack, and watches Sally with veiny eyes that glow softly with a mustard hue, his attention unwavering. The confused woman is stunned to silence, in awe of the man’s strange form.

“No…” says the strange man in a warped voice identical to the one heard over the speakers. “YOU sHOulDn’t feAR deaTH, Sally. ThE EXPirAtion of oUr nAtURal BodiEs aLLOws thE idEa to sTAnd THe teSt oF tiMe. ThrougH dEAth We’Re rebORn intO eTeRniTy, aND The SEEDs of OuR viSion wiLL sPRead aMonG tHe pEOple LOng aFter we’Re gonE. It maTTers nOt if We’Re ceLEbrAted or VieweD IN inFaMy.”

The large man plunges a hand into his sack and retracts it in a fist, clutching something. He turns toward the abomination and tosses a sand-like substance down at its grotesque fusion of heads. The thing coughs and winces after inhaling the substance, then just as quickly, it begins screaming in agony. The abomination twitches and convulses without abandon, the surface of its body pulsating as if something within it is working to escape. Its many limbs flail discordantly, and all Sally can do is observe in horror. The body of the creature begins to tear all over. Hot blood scorches the earth, and from the lacerations appear thorny vines that continue to serrate the beast as they move and grow with a mind of their own. The vines now snake their way out of the facial cavities – first sprouting from the ears, then eye sockets, nostrils, and finally they spill from the things mouths. The abominations anguish ends abruptly, its terrible form laying still in the pathway. Moments following its death, white roses blossom from the thorny vines; and moments after that, a deep crimson slowly paints the flowers – starting from the bulb and creeping its way outward to the petals. The flowers appear so saturated that droplets of what appear to be lifeblood fall from the morbidly vibrant flora, spattering the lifeless vessel and becoming lost in blood already spilt. The large man grabs the abomination by one of its rogue limbs and begins to drag the transformed carcass away into the brush from where he had first appeared; and before disappearing into the undergrowth, the man turns to Sally as he walks off and growls: “YOU’RE NEXT!”

Overcome with dread at the macabre sight and the threatening declaration by the strange man, Sally deviates from the pathway and flees into the brush, opposite of where the man had exited. She runs with great strain, wailing as she fans away foliage. As she moves, the woman hears heavy grating in the trees above her, then, a sudden blood-chilling wail from somewhere in the garden off to her left sends a shockwave throughout her body, startling her enough to push her sickness aside in an attempt to escape things unseen. It’s not long before Sally starts hearing soft music playing not far ahead of her – the strumming of a string instrument and the voice of an angel. She emerges from the brush entering a small clearing, enclosed by a ring of trees. There, another wide, stone altar sits in the distance, and on it she sees a pair – a young man and woman. She stops at the edge of the clearing where she emerged, huffing from exhaustion and hesitant to approach. 

What Sally observes is a peculiar sight. The pair is clad in garments divorced from modernity; flowy, cloth garbs reminiscent of ancient Greek clothing – the man wearing a well-made red tunic with a blue shirt beneath; the woman, an elegant long, white summer dress. The man plays an ornate lyre, strumming a heavenly tune while serenading his company with an honest ballad of love. The man’s partner sits next to him, holding an enchanted gaze as gentle moonlight illuminates them with an ethereal spotlight, creating a strangely idyllic scene amidst an abstract nightmare.

Sally, although confused at the peaceful gathering, pivots her attention to the treetops as the harsh noise initiates once more. She notes branches bending and swaying as something large moves among them, travelling the perimeter of the clearing toward the unsuspecting couple. Sending a tremor down the woman’s spine, the sweeping voice begins again.

“WhaT WE haVe pLanNEd fOr yoU IS ARt – HONest aNd auThenTIc,” says the twisted voice with chilling sincerity. “ThE PeoPle teNd to rEJEct ideaS thEy doN’t UNDerstAnd, BUT tHe PeoPle hAve pRoVEn To BE fiCKle crEAtuRes. TheY RenOUnced thE liKes of PisSarO, RenOIR, MoNet, anD oTHers whEn TheY hOSted EXhibiTions shOwCASing ImpreSSionisM DuRINg thE stYLes InFAncy…”

Sally is glued to the spot she stands, feeling oddly compelled to witness the scene before her; feeling as if she has no other choice but to listen to this voice that follows her. She listens and looks on at the couple nervously, as the trees nearest to them show signs of disturbance.

“They’LL thiNk US mAd,” the voice chuckles sinisterly. “LikE GOYA, wheN wHat WE nOw kNOw As tHe BlaCk PaiNtiNgs WeRe disCoVEred adoRNing tHe WaLls Of his latE HomE. or DALI, whEn hE chaLLengeD oUr peRspECtive of thE woRLd aRouNd us. OHHH– tHey’LL thinK US mAd, bUt We’Re NOT mAd…”

As the voice boasted on, the sweet tune began to wane and eventually cease. Sally continues to scan the treetops, unsettled and battling her terrible affliction as her body approaches the point of failure. She stands in a daze tightly clenching her left fist with a forearm slung across her abdomen, a plain indicator of her condition. The trees are eerily still, and Sally began to question herself, whether or not all this absurdity is simply a product of her own mind. She shudders at the possibility of a waking nightmare but a part of her has come to accept this twisted fate. 

Sally’s focus is pulled to the musician, now divorced from the statue altar, and pacing toward her; lyre in tow and his partner kissing him with smitten eyes from where she sits. He beckons Sally with a big gesture and calls out to her in a classic tongue, one she can’t understand. She pants anxiously, unmoving. The man beckons Sally again, seemingly signalling her to join him and his partner to bathe in the charming moonlight. He wears a disarming smile to ease Sally’s restless heart, but the woman – as wary as ever – isn’t influenced by the man’s display. 

The trees behind the seated maiden find themselves drawn out of their static state. Their branches hiss quietly, trembling and bobbing in the air due to an unseen disturbance – until the disturbance deemed it unnecessary to conceal itself any longer. What Sally sees electrifies her being with unbridled terror. Suspended in the sturdy branches of a tree, ten or so feet behind the seated woman, an impossibly large serpent silently repels above her. The majority of its scaly, pearly-grey body is veiled by the lushness of the leaves, and its girth dwarfing even that of the thick trunks of the large trees that litter the statue garden. It slowly lowers its head, inching closer and closer to its unsuspecting prey, watching her with the intensity of an apex predator. Its globe-like eyes possess a sinister purpose. 

The man is none-the-wiser to the scene playing out behind him. He continues trying to persuade Sally to join him and his lover; to enjoy his playing and voice so enchanting that all life – even rocks – shudders pleasantly from the sound. But Sally shakes her head, a grim look dressing her visage as she splits her attention between the man and the predatory stalking occurring in his ignorance. 

Only a couple feet separate the snake and the seated woman now. Its massive mouth cracks open slightly, just enough for its odd-looking tongue to creep out from its prison. In place of a familiar reptilian tongue, a slender, outwardly stretched arm reveals itself. It’s soft pink in colour and slick with viscous saliva – like that of a real tongue – and as the arm-tongue nears the head of the seated woman, it tremors in anticipation. The hand at end of the arm spreading its fingers wider, wider, and wider until the peculiar limb strains to separate its extremities any further.

Sally shakes her head violently, now staring right past the man hailing her. She wants to avert her gaze but can’t seem to make good on the desire to do so. Her eyes swell with tears, and she starts repeating a word even the foreign musician can understand: “No…” 

Suddenly, the all-encompassing voice continues its callous spiel from where it had left off.

“WE aRe noT mAd, SallY…WE’ve abANdoNed SubSCribinG TO tHe ruleS of A cRAft thaT hAs faiLEd To rECOgniZe US fOr eXaCTly wHat WE arE. ARTISTS!”

The musician notes Sally’s expression and the fact that she’s no longer paying attention to him. The welcoming expression is erased from his countenance as he realizes it’s something behind him that’s inciting such a response from Sally. The man is shaken when Sally suddenly yells, “NO!!!” in helpless desperation, pointing past the musician. He halts in his tracks, now wearing a frightened look of his own, fearing what he may see when he turns around.

“WE opERate nOw, iN ouR MeaGEr olD aGe, WitH blAZing paSSioN,” the twisted voice says fiendishly.

The musician, scanning Sally’s face for some form of a clue, finds it within himself to face the object of her wonderment. He makes a sharp turn, hoping to see his lover unharmed, but instead he’s met with a grisly spectacle.

“SpiRitED DefIAncE pUMps viGorOUSly ThRoUghOUt oUr vEIns. ThE woRlD viewS US as noTHinG moRe thAn hUMblE LiTtLe GardEnERs, tuRNiNg a BliNd eyE to oUr inTRicAte, thOUghTful, bOUNdary pUShinG PIecEs. ThE pEoPle doN’t sEE, SO wE’ll MAKE thEM sEe. We’LL stREtcH bAcK tHEir EyEliDS aNd sEAr oUr viSioN intO tHe foReFRoNt of theIR mInDs.”

The instant the musician turns to lay eyes on the woman in his company, the giant snake’s arm-tongue grabs a fistful of the woman’s hair, holding tightly and sending her into a panic. She scrambles in place, expelling a horrific scream from deep within her. She flails her arms in disarray, groping above her head attempting to free herself from the beast she has yet to appreciate with her own eyes. Suddenly, the woman feels an overwhelming pressure manifest on the crown of her skull, and just as quickly, the pressure transforms into unimaginable pain. The gargantuan snake had withdrawn its tongue back into its mouth. It had done so with such force that it tore off most of the woman’s scalp – rupturing first at the hairline and finding its end at the nape of her neck. The woman cries out in agony only for a moment before fainting from the severe trauma, tumbling forward off the stone altar where she sat.

“DEFIANCE!” the voice pushes on aggressively. “LiKe WaRHol anD CompANy wHen thEy crEAteD tHeiR piSs aNd cUM paiNTinGs…”

The musician screams into the night, weeping and uttering phrases in his ancient dialect, bewildered at the sight of his lovers’ brutalization. He trembles violently, trying to intervene but it’s as if he’s being held in place by a force he cannot see or understand. 

Meanwhile, at the edge of the clearing, Sally retches into the grass. The sickening display is enough to agitate the pervading nausea spurred on by the Hemlock in her system. She fights the urge to drop to her knees. With the crucifix necklace dangling from her neck, Sally pleads to God for the torture to end, but the cruel masters of suffering haven’t had their fill. 

The giant serpent slinks out further from the treetops revealing its arm-tongue once more. It reaches out and clenches the ankle of the unconscious woman, dragging her against, and then over, the altar. It moves calmly despite the flamboyant showing of anger and grief from the musician. The serpent lifts the woman into the air, and without pause, viciously clubs a tree with her limp body. The sound is thunderous, and her lifeblood sprays from wounds that rupture all over her body from the impact; but the serpent has yet to discover contentment. With one large movement, the snake swings the woman in its clutches up toward the sky and slams her body onto the stone altar. The head of the woman explodes from the force, bathing the moon-frosted podium in blood. The serpent’s arm-tongue begins to retract with the dead woman in its grasp. It drags the mangled body past its mandibles and into its slimy mouth. Legs disappear first; then torso, until the body is nothing more than a memory, slipping down the throat of the impossible beast.

“DEfiANce…liKE whEn DuChAMp sUbMiTTed hIs moSt polARizInG woRk, FoUNTaiN, tO ThE SoCieTy’S NEw York salON.”

Sally watched the gruesome death of the woman with a hand sealing her mouth, a gesture brought on by shock and a preventative measure as she felt like vomiting again. A deluge of tears wet her hand, the scared and dying girl feeling helpless amidst all this absurdity. She wonders fearfully if she’ll face such an end. She’s stricken by a flight response, and she begins inching away, eyes locked on the serpent, praying the monster doesn’t set its sights on her next.

The musician drops to his knees like a ton of bricks. The grip he had on his beloved lyre releases, and it finds a new home in the grass beside him. His attention drifts between the Serpent and the stone altar, now coated in the blood and gore of his one true love. He weeps, overcome with profound grief. The serpent – having swallowed the man’s partner whole – now acknowledges the sobbing musician. Its soulless windows perforate him with an intense gaze. Noticing, the musician finds himself scared to silence, eyeing the still mostly concealed snake in trepidation. The serpent begins to shake slightly and an internal mass originating from up in the trees where the rest of its body hides slowly works its way towards its head. Viscous saliva oozes from the corners of its mouth, spilling to the earth in massive quantities. The serpent gapes its mouth open, briefly revealing what looks like a pink, fleshy man — his torso married to the bed of the beast's mouth. The strange being smalls himself, wishing not to be seen, and just above him emerging from the gluttonous void that is the serpent's throat, tens of human corpses pour out. They pound the earth as they plummet without uniformity. 

The serpent snaps its mouth shut and the plethora of pruney and depraved, zombie-like beings rise from the spots they had fallen, groaning like the monsters they are and stanced awkwardly. Their eye sockets are bereft of the organ that grants sight, but in their place, one vibrantly coloured flower sprouts from each socket, blossoming in place and creating an unsettling image. The hellish throng is clad – although scantily – in whatever attire they had on when they fell victim to the monstrous serpent; relics of an age long past. They fashion clothing similar to that of the musician and his now deceased partner, except soaked in saliva and bile. Shirts, robes, and tunics hang loosely from their zombied features, tattered and exposing intimate areas of their bodies. Some of the reanimated corpses are without clothing, their life stolen eons ago without the dignity of covering their shame. They point their rotten noses towards the night sky, roused by an appealing scent. They gnash their jagged teeth in mindless excitement, turning their attention to the defeated musician. 

The musician watched helplessly as these horrors manifested before him in a manner as abstract and troubling as the beings themselves. The mysterious serpent begins a slow ascent back into the veiled safety of the treetops leaving its undead charges to work in its place; but watching them intently as it creeps its way into an exit. The musician adopts sullen eyes, heavy from fateful realization, and swept up in somber passion, the man begins a ballad anew. The zombies let out a screech that induces a tremble in Sally spectating in the distance – or perhaps the reaction is a byproduct of the Hemlock. In her delirious state she’s no longer certain about anything anymore. 

The undead rush the singing man with blistering speed, pouncing on him and subjecting him to ruthless violence. Frenzied grunting mixes with the musician's sorrowful song as they claw at his body savagely. They gnaw at him, tearing through his resplendent clothing and exposing skin where they grind his flesh between their teeth. They tug violently at his limbs, jerking the man about with inhuman strength, but his song doesn’t waver. The melancholy tune seems to grow with intensity as these monsters show him the extent of their cruelty.

“YouR DEAth…yoUr cOLd, stiFf, ButChERed cOrpsE on thOUghtFul DiSplaY IS oUr Act oF deFiAnCe, SaLLy.”

The undead horde becomes more roused in their efforts to brutalize the musician, his impassioned singing rattling these monsters that only know carnage. They bury their powerful, slender fingers into the man’s flesh, uprooting muscle and tendons, and spilling blood generously as they go. The sight is both extraordinary and stomach-turning, but Sally watches with great reluctance, stupefied by potent delirium and a strange inner call to try to understand the snapshot of Hell before her.

“TherE wiLL bE thOse THat deNouNce oUr viSiON; thEy’LL laBel it SICK anD OBscEne. They’LL tRy tO cENsoR ouR ViSiOn, conTRoL whO SEEs IT, TrYing to eRAse Our labOUr fRoM tHeir ciViliZed WOrLd…”

The fervent mob’s activity bears grisly results. The musician's limbs develop a phobia of wholeness originating at the joints. The ghoulish assailants pull aggressively at anything they can grasp, they feel the man’s muscles stretching and tearing. Limbs slowly being divorced from the musician's body. Still, the man doesn’t cry out in pain – which he is undoubtedly feeling – but his silvery song continues to cut through the ensuing madness. Strangely, the man’s lyre that had been left laying in the grass rises slowly from its emerald bed and finds itself hovering head-high above the ground; and after a momentary pause, it begins to rise rapidly into the night sky with no indication of stopping. The musician’s swollen eyes adopt an intense, yellowish gleam – like topaz reflecting the moon’s frosted radiance –  as he quickly approaches his demise. The surrounding area – trees, shrubbery, and rocks alike – pulsates wildly with perturbed life, disturbed by the man’s haunting ballad. 

“BuT tHeRe wiLl bE ThOse THAt eMbRacE US…They’LL sEe thE quEEr BeaUty ThAt’s sO dEEplY InTErtwiNed wITh tHe DeATh of The bOdy, aNd tHat apPrecIAtioN iS wHAt wiLL CAtapUlt oUr naMes — Our iDeas — iNtO etErnITY. It iS THEIR defIaNce thaT wilL cAsT oUr rebeLLioN aMonGst tHe staRs ThEmseLves!”

Sally shoots frightened looks all around her, unnerved by the trembling of things that have no business doing so – not in the manner they are now. She doesn’t attempt to understand the incomprehensible exit of the musician's beloved instrument into the night sky. The troubled liveliness of the naturescape is enough to unlock Sally’s body. She fearfully eyes the behemoth serpent still slowly vanishing from sight, relishing in the chaos during its languid retreat. She finally finds the strength to remove herself from the absurd scene unfolding in the clearing, not bothering to stay any longer to observe the musician’s gruesome end – a moment of clarity through the thickening fog of her mind. She turns, penetrating the brush from whence she came in a staggered jog, clutching her abdomen still. She whimpers, squeezing out what's left of her drying well of tears, the musician’s tune echoing drearily behind her.

Unseen by Sally, the undead make good on their efforts. Almost immediately after Sally fled the scene, the savage group successfully tore the musician to shreds. Blood spews from fresh wounds that once anchored limbs. It gushes from a stump of a neck that once carried a proud head. These parts of the man now lay scattered in wet, crimson grass, his head still belting the same impassioned tune even in the terrible shadow of death. 

The zombies rise to their feet in a docile state, bereft of the blind fit of violence they showcased not long ago. They stand huddled, entranced, unperturbed by the musician’s singing head nearby. Without the privilege of physical sight, their flowered eye sockets peek into a devilish world only they can perceive. They shift their withered bodies from foot to foot, a chilling display of calm, until the harsh grating sound begins anew in the treetops; their master is on the move. It’s satisfied with the death it spread in the clearing, and now Sally is the object of its obsession. Trees bend and sway as the snake travels at impressive speed with leaves floating gracefully toward the earth as it moves. The undead throng is suddenly pulled from their dreamy state, and in unison, point their flowery eyes in the direction Sally Cruz had fled. They echo a horrible shriek and burst into a sprint, pursuing the woman in their master's wake.

Sally hears the racket erupting from where she had just played spectator. She stumbles through the brush landing on the same path where the bench she at one time briefly occupied stands, and pierces through the greenspace in which she encountered the strange man at the genesis of this peculiar series of events. She gasps for air as she goes, lungs feeling as if they’re being squeezed by an invisible hand and muscles locking and unlocking sporadically. Despite her tremendous effort to escape, Sally moves sluggishly, but it’s the best she can manage. Her body screams at her with every movement, the girl groans wanting to stop but knowing she can’t. Sally is met again with a heavy grinding noise mixed with the sibilance of fitful foliage. Trees near her begin to groan from the weight of something large traveling among the branches. She scans above hoping to lay eyes on her pursuer – hoping to strip it of its anonymity –  but she is granted no such privilege. 

Sally is further startled by the discordant pounding of the earth close behind her, and it excites in her enough dread to keep her going. She swats away plant-life obstructing her path and vision until emerging from the brush and finding herself on a new diverting walkway that lay parallel to the many others in the garden. Her attention is pulled up the pathway by a tiny, furious light dancing in the distance, growing rapidly in size and shining more intensely by the second. She’s tormented by distant clopping, something striking the paved pathway with great intent – that noise also growing louder and louder. 

Sally teeters across that walkway approaching a new wall of green, hoping to cut through in her ambitious escape, but suddenly, the woman is brought to an abrupt halt. In no time at all the savage, undead mob has caught up to her, swarming the woman and climbing over each other to claw at her ruthlessly. She screams a perilous scream, landing feeble strikes at her attackers. As the throng grunts and gnashes their teeth, the trees from where the group had appeared undulate as something within them ceases movement. Sally had been pulled to the ground by the zombies with their amazing strength, and she struggled against the mob to position herself on her back. It’s then Sally observes a haunting image shrouded in the treetops: the obscured glowing of two massive yellow eyes - eyes she knows well enough. 

“GET AWAY FROM ME!” Sally cries, fighting back desperately with her weakened body. “GET THE FUCK OFF ME!!” 

The dirty claws of the throng open new wounds on the scared and bewildered woman, shredding areas of her clothing and staining the fabrics with blood. 

Suddenly, thunderous galloping emanates from up the pathway, and in the corner of her vision, Sally sees the once distant light barrelling down the straightway. She’s walloped by a wall of blistering heat that seemed to shoot outward like the aftershock of a bomb; and moments later, a brilliant chariot flies by the struggling group. 

Two huge, black stallions tow the vehicle that fashions the finest carvings, metals, and gems. The chariot's large, sturdy wheels, as well as the eyes, mane and hooves of the magnificent steeds engulfed in angry flames. Atop the vehicle, rides two odd figures, both clad in greco-roman armour that one would think to be shaped by gods long abandoned by the reverence of man. Both figures are ghoulish in appearance. Their armour sparkles in the light, and their heads burning with energetic, orange flames. One of the figures drives the chariot, while the other stares enthralled by something attached by ropes at the rear end of the vehicle. A man, naked and being paraded around with a butchered body is the chariot’s tortured burden. From him, a series of anguished wailing shakes the very air itself as he’s dragged at amazing speed on the hard, rough ground, leaving a trail of his lifeblood as chariot careens forward. 

The tortured man’s cries disturb the mob of ghouls, compelling them to hold their rotten heads in writhing pain, abandoning their attack on Sally. As the chariot darts by the group, the heat radiating off the vehicle slams into the devils and ignites them all in brilliant flames. They scatter in all directions screeching in pain and flailing their slender arms desperately, clawing at their own strange bodies in a futile attempt to extinguish the blaze. Zombies that had run and perished in the brush had set alight the surrounding area, and now an inferno rages among the foliage; Sally is sandwiched by flames. 

The screaming of the dragged man diminishes in the distance as Sally struggles onto her hands and knees. She tries to climb to her feet but a combination of shock and a body close to death makes the task seemingly impossible. She starts crawling up the pathway from where the chariot had appeared, but seconds later, the terrified  woman finds herself dangling by a single foot some meters in the air. From her position upside-down, Sally sees the gargantuan, pearly-grey coloured body of the murderous serpent who had deemed it necessary to abandon the treetops. The length of its body curves however it sees fit, its latter half sitting in a section of greenery recently set ablaze; the beast seemingly unfazed by the inferno. The woman’s frightened screams are appropriate for the hellscape she has found herself in. She tightly presses her eyes shut and clenches her fists not knowing what else to do, a part of her ready to accept the same fate prescribed to the couple in the clearing.

Strangely, Sally feels two slimy hands groping her body as the monstrous serpent fumbles to flip her right-side-up. One of the beast’s arm-tongues latch on to one of Sally’s arms, raising it above her head; the other arm-tongue clamps onto her throat.

Shaken, Sally opens her eyes and is met with a ghastly sight. Before the suspended woman is the giant serpent standing in the middle of the pathway with its mouth spread wide-open, and sprouting from the bed of its mouth is a pink, fleshy man.

A shiver rolls down Sally’s spine as she studies the unsightly being holding her captive. The being possesses no eyes or eye sockets, the area smoothed over with pink flesh and glossed with saliva. He has long, thin lips that stretch and end just before the small holes acting as ears located on either side of his bald head. The man brandishes teeth – dirty and sharp – between a mischievous grin. A long and slender reptilian tongue flicks routinely, tasting and smelling the air, creating an alien picture of Sally and the setting.

Sally struggles weakly against her tormentor, squirming and kicking her dangling feet. A whirlwind of fear bites at her like a great winter storm due to grim appreciation of the man’s grotesque form. She’s drenched in sweat, panting as she weeps, wanting to look away from the abject horror but feeling unable. The anticipation is agonizing, moments and eons are indiscernible as Sally waits to be slaughtered. 

The man in the serpent’s mouth draws Sally near, their faces mingling just inches apart. His long, reptilian tongue swirling over Sally’s face soaking up liquid terror. He quivers at the taste, hissing at length in ecstasy. The serpent starts to shake, a ripple originating at its tail-end travels the length of its body towards its head. Fluid erupts from the throaty void, coating the man in a new layer of slime. With the rush of fluid emerges dozens of rotten arms. They possess unnatural length, clawing at the air with what seems to be an insatiable lust or hunger. They reach over the back of the man, pulling at Sally’s hair and swiping at her raised fist, trying to pry it open. The man begins to speak queerly, adopting the rhetoric of the sweeping voice heard over the speaker system.

“You have ssso Little to live for, Ssssally,” rasps the man, hissing with the enunciation of every ‘S’. “Thisss world indifferent to your sssuffering has ssstolen sssomething valuable from you, yet you want to live. Isssn’t that why you hold on ssso desssperately? To the idea of immortality that you were promisssed.” 

The man turns his nearly featureless countenance towards Sally’s raised fist, the slimy hands from deep within the snake's throat bending her fingers trying to reveal the idea impressed upon her palm. Sally uses her free hand to form a feeble attack, attempting to dig her long nails into the flesh of her captor but she's unable to wound him due to the viscous saliva coating his being. She feels her fingers stiffen and release, her body is in disarray.

“There’sss nothing left for you here in thisss cruel and sssenselesss world,” the serpent continues. “But your part in all thisss will ignite sssomething real and meaningful in itsss people. In death, your natural life will be cccelebrated, your name will be sssynonymousss with legend…your pain, your sssuffering, your brillianccce…your sssalvation! It will inssspire the uninssspired in a way only art – raw art – can. One day you’ll look down at usss lowly insectsss and thank usss from your throne among the starsss. 

Suddenly, the man in the serpent’s mouth ceases his monologue. He posture’s himself like any animal in the wild whose primal intuition alerts them to danger. He swivels his head from side to side tasting the air for answers. The arms that had manifested from the vipers throat return to their terrible prison, and he himself releases Sally from his monstrous grip. The woman plummets tens of feet to the hard pavement below. She gasps with great strain, lungs fluttering as she tries to take a breath. The serpent's mouth slams shut and it turns its large body hastily to face the opposite direction, dancing flames lost in the unnatural glow of the beast's planet-like eyes. It narrows its gaze down the path, the direction the serpents humanoid extension determined the disturbance lies; its instincts didn’t lead it astray.

Not far up the pathway, a creature rivalling the size of the serpent walks languidly toward the unlikely duo, illuminated by the spreading inferno. It possesses the body of a powerful bull but a large head resembling that of a human man. It fashions a long, curly beard reminiscent of that seen in Mesopotamian artworks, and atop its head sits a cylindrical hat also familiar to that historical period. A pair of horns adorn either side of the beast’s head at its temples, jutting out then ending skyward at a 90 degree angle. At its nose, a gold hoop hangs heavily from its septum, and at its ears, it possesses elongated earlobes that nearly scrape the ground. Massive bird-like wings are folded on its back while an impossibly long tail snakes behind it, dancing in the air like a streamer being whipped around by an excited child. It carries something in its mouth: the bodies of the ghoulish charioteers that came blazing past earlier. It pulverizes their bodies and armour between its powerful jaws, grinding its teeth from side-to-side. It lets out an odd, guttural vocalization then shoots a blast of air from its nostrils: “Gok-gok-gok-gok-gok-gok”.

The snake coils its gargantuan body, posturing itself for an explosive attack, locking eyes with this otherworldly threat. They size each other up.

 Struck with fear and confusion at the sight of these two incomprehensible beasts, Sally staggers to her feet, failing several times due to pervasive muscle failure before finally succeeding. Surrounded by fire, her only option is to traverse the pathway. She hobbles down the path – unable to will herself into a sprint or jog – journeying in the direction opposite of the great clash about to commence. Each breath she takes becomes shallower as the life is squeezed from her chest; staying upright feels impossible, her muscles numb and tense. Vomit spills from her lips involuntarily, sickness stirring within her a wicked storm. 

Suddenly, she hears the goliath animals – if they can be referred to as such – interlock in a violent struggle behind her. She turns her head to observe, terrified yet curious. She witnesses the beasts biting, clawing and bludgeoning each other. They whip their bodies about, blazing trees crumbling while caught in their warpath. She chokes on tears drawing out laboured groans, unstable in her efforts, but the woman’s attention is suddenly demanded in front of her. 

Outside her field of vision something springs from the burning greenscape to her left side. It approaches her quickly, with intent, and with both hands clings tightly to Sally’s biceps holding her in place. The girl’s head whirls around only to come face-to-face with a terrible creature immortalized in mythos: the Gorgon, Medusa.

The famed creature’s skin appears paper-thin and translucent, showcasing a vast system of black veins underneath, much like cracks in a window. Her bare breasts hang low on her humanoid torso, her belly flabby and protruding. In place of legs is the scaly length of a snake. She has big, reptilian eyes that radiate a wispy, green glow. The colour flits in the air like a spectral flame. Vicious mandibles make the sight of her all the more threatening, and atop her head, small serpents twist and wind themselves in place of hair. The creature vocalizes a scratchy growl in the face of Sally.

This sudden image sends Sally into a frenzy. She tries to avert her eyes, unconsciously spurred on by ancient cautionary tales. The action feels automatic, a defensive response wired into her being. She cries out in terror, confronted with this grotesque and lethal figure. The Gorgon cuts through Sally with a sinister gaze as words begin to spill from its ghastly lips.

“We’re all just dead air, after all,” she sneers in a nasty, weathered voice. “Every breath is fleeting. Moments decay by the second succumbing to the unstoppable force of time, and before we know it, we’ve passed. Some accomplish nothing of significance in the little time they’ve been allotted, but not us, Sally; NOT YOU! The Club has visions of something greater and you in your brilliance will be a part of it. Our bodies may wither and die, but the manifestations of our minds, our tangible genius, will transcend the grim barriers of death. Even with our souls set adrift in the open waters of the afterlife, this is how we artists will live on; this is how we’ll be remembered. THIS IS OUR CLAIM TO IMMORTALITY! We’re in strange times now, Sally. If I were you, I’d cherish the fact I wasn’t strangled to death and stuffed into a mattress or slaughtered by some godless abomination at a drive-in theatre, but I suppose such details don’t really matter to someone like you. Death is death. It’s certain…IT’S ABSOLUTE! You’ve struck me as a woman of faith. Maybe one day your god will pluck your soul from whatever corner of Hell it ends up, and even in my damnation I hope I can bear witness and rejoice at your salvation! But not tonight, Sally…tonight, your fate lies in the dirt.”

The ill-omened monologue rings throughout Sally’s mind like the din of a bell nestled away in a high tower. The Gorgon releases Sally from its clutches and the woman falls backwards, her body stiff as a board. She strikes the ground with a heavy thud, convulsing violently with the pavement to her back. Her fingers curl and freeze in place while her limbs yell silently from petrification. Muscles and veins in her neck pop outward from involuntary strain, her eyes swollen and glossy due to a mixture of fatal sickness and emotion. 

The woman squirms and whimpers as she's locked into a fit of paralysis. With her mouth gaped open, hundreds of determined ants erupt from her throat. They spill down her cheeks, flood her nose, and scurry all over her face and hair. Sally’s ears begin to vibrate, plagued with the sound of powerful and persistent buzzing, and familiar images flash quickly in the punished woman’s mind: A night out with two new friends. A man and woman. They were dating. Drinks. Laughter. A flurry of clustered bodies illuminated by coloured lights. She sees her old apartment. An intimate party. Unsteady movement. Lustful eyes. Malicious intent. She sees her mother. Her lifeless body. Blood and gore. She sees nothing. She feels fear. She sees her balcony and the bee that had died there. She sees her old bed and herself barely clutching to consciousness. She sees nothing. She feels skin against hers. She’s naked, and so are they. She tries to scream but hears nothing. She tries to fight but feels weak. She sees nothing. She feels pain, then numbness. She sobers, her guests are long gone. The room is spinning. She sees blood then feels pain. She tries to scream but hears nothing. She sees her palm and balls it into a fist. She hears buzzing. She begins to cry. The tears sting. She sees her Lucky Lilies. They blossom, wither, and die in seconds. She sees her old lamp. She hears buzzing. It grows louder, louder…LOUDER! until the bulb in the lamp bursts. Light and sound vanishing like lovers on the run. 

Sally lays in the middle of the walkway. The tension in her body begins to slowly release. Empty eyes stare blankly at the night sky reflecting the moon. What was once a busy gathering of ants transforms into vomit plastering her face. Her skin – once kissed by the radiance of a world on fire – sees the nightmarish glow of the flames fade from its surface. Foliage in the garden hisses jubilantly in the gentle, Spring breeze, untouched by fire or conflict, as if a clock had been rewound and the violent sequence of events had never taken place. A statue of the Gorgon, Medusa, stands proudly nearby, as if it had never sprung from its altar. 

Sally Cruz is dead. 

Her final moments were spent recalling the instances of profound trauma that had originally caused her to shut the world out. Recalling morbid omens and the death of her mother. Sally’s light had been extinguished by the very people she decided to trust with her metamorphosis; with her rebirth, free from the shackles of senseless cruelty. 

Shadows form over Sally’s life-depraved countenance obstructing the frosting of the moon. Mysterious figures stand over her now, and after a silent moment's delay, they drag her body from its place. 

ACT VI

–

UNSEEN IN THE MEADOWS

It’s a long walk from the rental truck the Petal Club had acquired for this fateful night. They left it parked in front of a modest country home standing at the edge of a vast and well-attended ranch, all belonging to Club member, Kenneth Banner. They’d promptly left the site of their numerous slayings after collecting Sally Cruz’s body from amongst the statues where she had met a nasty end. There’s a scarcity of words as the group makes their journey to what will be their final destination, the remaining members seemingly wracked with melancholy. It’s misguided to think those present now regret the senselessness of their morbid ambition. These sobering thoughts manifest from a much stranger place; a place of peace of sorts. The breaking of a deadly storm of uncertainty after a triumphant display, but it’s laced with a queer sense of longing. 

A myriad of thoughts and memories float between the fatigued Club members.

“Get the body to the truck, quickly. In a few hours rigor mortis will make it challenging to influence the limbs, we need to work fast.”

–

“You’re sure you know what you're doing, Govinda? We can’t afford to damage her body.”

“If Viking savages could do this then I don’t see why I cannot.”

–

“What about the estate?”

“Torch it. Every inch, every acre. This place is for nobody but us, so we’ll offer it to the gods – whatever god that’ll give us an audience – in exchange for their favour.”

–

“And what of the Chloris Greenhouse?”

“Leave it for the people. It’ll serve as a reminder of who we were and how generously we gave. But It will also speak to our radical ambition in its presence alone. It will speak to a profound beauty seldom realized, and it will bolster our legend by means of association, even when tomorrow fades into a new day.”

The joints of a wheelbarrow rattle quietly as the group moves under the cover of night. Within the tool, a crudely wrapped tarp containing the corpse of Sally Cruz and a single, black garbage bag. Kenneth Banner huffs as he lumbers with the tool and its burden. Each step taken by the group excites sibilance in the grass covering the rural expanse, horses watch curiously from their enclosure nearby in a lazy gathering. 

A barn waves a shy hello in the distance. Light creeps through small crevices in doorways, grimy windows, and cracks in the otherwise well-attended structure. Shadows and undefined figures create ripples in the little luminance observed by the group as they approach the barn; and shortly after that, indistinct chatter pours from its walls. The crew closes in on the sealed doors, and without delay, bursts through its threshold. 

Inside the barn, about a dozen adults abruptly cease activity, turning their collective attention to those who’ve just arrived. Anxiety promptly dissipates and is replaced by softened expressions at the introduction of familiar faces. Within the weathered walls of this offshoot barn, the Petal Club is met with their families. A mixture of joyful exclamations and relieved sighs explode from the group waiting inside. The families come together exchanging hugs and kisses. Miles joins his wife and daughter; Dr. Jones, his wife and son; Chen floats to her husband; Renzo, his wife and twin girls; Ben, his three sons; and Archie meets his wife, Vanessa, and son, Jamie.

Kenneth sets down the shaky wheelbarrow and draws out a somber sigh, longing for the fiancé he lost so long ago; for the family he abandoned trying to attain after being severed from his anchor. He dips a hand into his shirt pocket revealing a small photo and eyes it with a frown. The families of the Club members take turns embracing Kenneth, blanketing him in the love he condemned himself from experiencing without the one person that was truly for him.

“Keisha would’ve been so proud of you,” Miles’ wife, Aida, says softly, rubbing Kenneth’s burly shoulder. He nods without a word.

The group talks amongst each other, trading sentiments, until Archie interrupts the mingling of families.

“Let’s save the celebrations for later,” he says, “there’s still quite a bit for us to do.”

“Wait!” exclaims a female voice from the group, “where’s Thurston?”

For a moment there’s silence and the trading of uneasy glances. Kenneth, being near the wheelbarrow, gathers the single black, garbage bag resting on top of Sally’s wrapped corpse and walks it over to the woman – Thurston’s wife, Louise Beck. He stops in front of her and extends the burdened arm without a word. Louise adopts a dreaded expression as she stares at the garbage bag, understanding its contents immediately. She grabs the bag from Kenneth, hesitating with each motion. She stares melancholically at the bag as she musters up the courage to peer inside and confirm what she already knows. 

Louise sets the bag down at her feet and takes up a kneeling position. Kenneth had already walked off, relieving the woman of his immediate presence. The group stands idle, looking on, and preparing for inevitable protest. Louise spreads the bag open and immediately begins to shake with tears. She covers her mouth with a hand as she tortures herself with the sight of what remains of her husband. She finally plunges her hands into the bag and relieves Thurston’s severed head from its plastic limbo. Louise gasps observing Thurston’s eyeless countenance.

“His eyes…” she says with a quiver in her voice, looking around at the Petal Club members in a disturbed frenzy. “WHAT THE HELL HAVE YOU DONE WITH HIS EYES!”

The Club maintains a dutiful silence. Chen takes a deep breath, leaning on her husband as he holds her tightly with an arm wrapped around her back. Archie exchanges looks with Ben, the action laced with an unspoken message that is clearly understood. 

“Oh sweetheart,” Louise cries softly, turning her attention back to her husband’s severed head, “you were too gentle for this madness. This isn’t the way it was supposed to go. We should have just disappeared together...we should have just—”

Before she could finish, Louise was forcefully drawn out of her grieving state. In fact, Louise’s life had been abruptly ejected from her body altogether. The culprit, Ben Hoekstra, who used this opportunity to grab a dirty shovel from its resting place leaning against the barn wall among the row of harvested flora,  using it to strike Louise in the back of the head. Ben struck like lightning, and the impact killed the woman instantly, slumping her forward on what’s left of her dismembered partner. There’s pin-drop silence in the barn, those who anticipated the impromptu slaying but couldn’t stomach watching, averted their gaze, while others welcomed the sight.

“You were supposed to walk away from this,” rasps Archie, letting a wounded glance befall the now dead, Louise Beck. “But that emotionality would’ve jeopardized everyone else leaving with you. So instead, your reunion with Thurston has been expedited.” 

Archie shifts around in a languid turn addressing everyone present with his eyes.

“Nobody else then, I suppose?” he queries. There’s a noiseless assent from the group. 

Chen breaks away from her husband and glides to where Louise lays toppled over, bereft of life. She slides her fingers within the tangle of Louise’s hair, pulling her head back just far enough to access her eyes. With a look of juvenile elation riddled all over her visage, Chen digs the woman’s eyes from their sockets before letting her head fall toward the earth once more. Some members of the group observe the bizarre action with closeted disgust but no one intervenes.

“What do we do with her?” Ben inquires, breaking the silence.

“She can be a part of the piece,” Archie responds. “Take her head and hands.”

“But what about the rest of the body?” interpolates Miles.

“Dump it in the meadow and let the coyotes feast like kings for a night.”

Ben chuckles to himself, satisfied with his friend's answers. He looks to his adult sons – Elwyn, Zanza , and Fane  – and the men rush to aid their father.

“What do you need us to do, vader?” queries Zanza.

“Take our centerpiece out of the wheelbarrow and set her down somewhere that's out of the way,” Ben begins. “Then we’ll wheel Mrs. Beck behind the barn so no one here is forced to watch us cut her up. And be fucking careful, am I clear?”

“Crystal,” says Elwyn, launching into action with his two brothers. 

“And it's by time we finish up here too, huh?” Archie announces with the clap of his hands. Everyone, the Petal Club and family members alike, begin to skitter around the barn reengaging with the preparation of their morbid art installation and chatting amongst each other as they work.

Archie approaches his son, Jamie, as he fumbles around with one of his expensive cameras that is set up on a tripod near the barn’s entrance. The Club president looks around the space with great admiration. 

For months prior to this night, Kenneth had been doing work on this clandestine barn, secluded in the vastness of his ranch. The inside has been completely repurposed to accommodate the Club’s final, and most ambitious, floral display. The structure's innards had essentially been hollowed out, maximizing the openness of the space. The length of the back walls are lined with large, stone blocks in a ‘U’ shape, with more blocks embedded into the dirt just below the furthermost stone ledging. The design choice creates the look of a two-level bedding area for plant-life, and within the beddings stands a thoughtfully selected gallery of exotic plants harvested from the Club’s recently arsoned exotic conservatory. Placed in the middle of the barn is a lonely stone altar, patiently awaiting its centerpiece; and an assortment of cut, stemmy flowers lay bunched up off to one side eager to be put to use. 

“Look at what you’ve done here,” Archie says to Jamie with the sincerity of a proud father.

“I haven’t really done anything yet except set up the camera and lights,” Jamie laughs. “This was all you and the Club.”

“Mostly Kenneth,” Archie says matter-of-factly with a toothless grin.

“Mostly Kenneth,” Jamie echoes.

Archie glances over to where Ben’s sons had set down Sally’s body to see Dr. Govina Jones fixing himself to finish off the process he started in the back of the rental truck during the Club’s journey to the ranch. Archie excuses himself from his son’s presence and joins his friend and their centerpiece, looming over the two. 

While in the back of the rental truck, Dr. Jones had stripped Sally of her clothing and laid her face down. He brandished a number of tools he had prepared for this night, and with a sharp blade of his choosing, Dr. Jones cut into the dead woman’s back. He first sliced vertically along either side of the woman’s spine, stopping at the bottommost rib. He then sliced horizontally along the top and bottom ribs in a manner that connected the new cuts with the initial incisions along Sally’s spine. When Dr. Jones was satisfied, the Club helped roll the body up in a large tarp they had spread out in the back of the truck for the rest to be completed at the barn.

Dr. Jones stares down at the cuts he had already made in Sally’s back, contemplating his next move.

“The ladies suggest putting her in one of the gowns first,” Archie says.

“Won’t it be stained with blood?” Dr. Jones queries with eyes fixed on his work.

“If we decide it's that unsightly, Jamie can just edit it out. He’s pretty good at what he does.”

“Help me with the dress then.”

“Let the girls handle that. She can’t speak for herself now but I doubt Sally would appreciate a bunch of old men pawing at her body.”

“You’re ridiculous,” Dr. Jones says with a soft chuckle, “we’ll have to touch her body anyway.”

“True, but we don’t have to dress her. The girls would have a keener eye for how the dresses fit than we ever will.”

“You’ve always chosen to be righteous over the strangest things, you know that?” 

“You lot could try it sometime,” Archie chirps with amusement. “Plus, this is more of a creative choice.”

Dr. Jones rises to his feet, meeting his friend at eye level. They look at each other for a moment exchanging telepathic messages.

“We’re out of time,” Dr. Jones says. 

Archie looks down at Sally’s face-down corpse, letting his eyes follow the body’s length. “Maybe here, but we're on the cusp of something greater. Soon, time is all we’ll have.”

Archie turns his attention to the open space searching for a specific face – he finds it. He waves down Chen and she quickly joins the small gathering at Sally’s corpse.

“I’m trying to finish up with the girl’s body,” begins Dr. Jones. “you and the girls grab the gowns and find the best fit for our centerpiece and get her dressed. Once she’s clothed I can hollow her out.”

Chen begins a thought before being cut off. “Won’t the dress–” 

“Jamie can edit out bloodstains,” Archie interjects.

Chen laughs while giving the Club president a playful side eye. “Okay, done. The body itself is crusted in blood though. We’ll have to wipe it down first.”

“Whatever you think is appropriate,” says Dr. Jones.

Chen gets to work without delay. She gathers a group consisting of wives and daughters and explains their objective, they waste no time. Towels, rags, buckets of water and a clean tarp seem to appear out of thin air. They wash the cold corpse from head to toe, scrubbing the dried, morbid colour from its skin. They pat down the body with towels then signal the boys to transfer it to the clean tarp they’ve laid out on the ground. Beautiful, open-back gowns now seem to appear out of thin air as well, the determined group chat amongst each other debating colour and shape. The women finally decide, and their first choice is their best. laying their now – back exposed to the ceiling – the corpse of Sally Cruz fashions a stunning garb. The dress is long, flowy, and white, and it exposes the dead woman’s back. The girls had conjured up the idea to wrap a clean, dry towel across the corpse's chest, tucking each end into either side of the dress that tapers off to expose the back. Then they wrapped a towel across the body’s lower back and bottocks to protect from rogue droplets of blood. Satisfied with their work, they call for Dr. Jones to conclude his preparations. 

Dr. Jones pierces through the group with a bag of crude tools in hand. He drops down beside Sally’s corpse, eyeing the targeted area. Petal Club members and their families stand gathered watching Dr. Jones, enthralled, captivated by the process and eager to see what he’ll do next. Dr. Jones looks up and hails Renzo and Kenneth to aid him, they hurry over. Dr. Jones brandishes a flat tool and hands it off to Kenneth.

“Slide this here, under the ribs,” he says to Kenneth, pointing to the mentioned area. Kenneth obliges.

“Okay, raise it enough so we can get our fingers under there,” Dr. Jones instructs.

Dr. Jones gestures to Renzo and they slide their fingers into the bit of space Kenneth created using the flat tool. Renzo positions the back of his fingers along the body’s spine where the bottommost cuts were made, hooking the ribs with his fingertips; Dr. Jones doing the same for the topmost incisions. 

Spirited conversation manifests from outside the barn and it travels along the walls until stopping at its entrance. Ben Hoekstra and his sons have returned from executing the tasks entrusted to them. They stroll relaxedly into the space, wheelbarrow in tow, the severed head and hands of Louise Beck their burden. They’re confronted by the same expressions one would receive for being too rowdy in a library setting. They purse their lips shamefully as they set down the wheelbarrow and join the spectators.

“Remove the tool,” Dr. Jones says, focused. Kenneth listens, backing away with the object.

“On the count of three, we're going to pull the ribs towards us so it opens up like a door, understood?” Dr. Jones declares to Renzo. His friend acknowledges with a nod. 

Dr. Jones begins to count down from three, onlookers holding their breath as he does. As the count concludes, Renzo and Dr. Jones pulled at the areas they hooked with their fingers with careful force, struggling with the task until the bones snapped in a chorus – their structural integrity disappearing in a flash. The back ribs of Sally’s corpse open up like a grotesque doorway, revealing the gorey contents of her chest cavity. A number of enthused gasps ring out from the spectators. Dr. Jones signals Kenneth and the trio repeats the process on the other side.

Dr. Jones relieves his friends of their duties and begins to rummage through his bag of tools. He draws a blade from its home and hesitates before tackling the next step. He plunges a hand into the fleshy doorway, groping around until he finds a good grip on Sally’s left lung. He identifies where the Trachea diverges into the Primary Bronchi and carefully severs the lung, mirroring the process on the right side before removing the untethered organs from their place and setting them aside. As the macabre void stares back at the group, Dr. Jones sighs feeling as if a weighty burden had just been lifted off his shoulders. He smears a bit of blood on his face as he wipes sweat from his brow. 

“More towels,” Dr. Jones demands in a calm, low voice. His wife, Mimi, produces one instantaneously. Dr. Jones pats down the cavity with the towel, a crude attempt to soak up the body’s liquid life.

“I’m done,” he says, rising to his feet. “Let's pose her.” 

The spectators erupt in triumphant clamour, trading comments and smiles. The Petal Club members approach the body and move it to the lonely stone altar standing in the middle of the barn, being mindful of how they handle their precious centerpiece. They wrestle with the corpse’s limbs as they’ve become increasingly rigid, first influencing the legs to bend at the knees before setting it on the ground next to the altar in a maiden-like seating position, with the legs folded off to the left side of Sally’s body. Next – as several of the Club hold the body upright, defying dead weight – Kenneth begins to finger four oddly placed leather straps and a single leather collar, all mounted atop the altar; the collar anchored by a considerably short chain amidst the other straps that are fastened directly to the surface. Kenneth gestures to his friends and they comply already knowing what it is he’s asking of them. Renzo palms the lower back of the corpse, pushing its torso up against the side of the podium, while Miles and Archie influence the arms into the four leather straps. Kenneth buckles the straps onto the forearms, fastening them at the wrists and elbows. As Kenneth prepared the collar, Miles switched from an arm to the head of the body, pulling it back far enough for Kenneth to shackle the neck. Sally’s corpse is now secure, and the Club relinquishes their hold. The body slumps slightly from its own weight, only held in place by the myriad of straps applied to its limbs and neck. The positioning of the body itself appears graceful, despite the grisliness of the Club’s work. With a heavy, shackled head buried in folded arms atop the stone altar, the image of a winged woman consumed by sorrow becomes manifest in the center of the barn. The group's work is nearing a victorious end.

“She’s ready to be stuffed,” says Renzo, addressing no one in particular. Some of the onlookers seemed to be ready for this stage as they took the liberty of collecting the bunches of harvested red spider lilies that were laid neatly along one of the space’s side walls before the Club had finished posing the body. The eager mob approaches Sally’s corpse, stuffing the hollow cavity with the lilies – stem first – so it appeared as if the flora grew from the location naturally. They kept going, making adjustments to stem length with small cutters when needed, until Sally’s back had been touched by a sea of red. There’s positive chatter pinballing between those present, satisfied with the results of their labour.

“The metal stakes,” begins Archie, “have they been set up?” Several members of the group nod to confirm.

“Both ends of the bedding area Kenneth built,” Renzo responds.

“I’ll leave setting up Thurston and Lousie to you then.”

Archie turns to the rest of the group as Renzo breaks away to fulfil his duties. “Everyone else, grab a bag. It’s time to spread the petals around the altar.”

The gathering springs into action, retrieving medium-sized, tweed sacks from their resting place along one of the side walls of the barn. They plunge their hands into the bags, groping around and palming generous quantities of loose flower petals of all shapes and sizes, dressing the ground surrounding the altar with them. They continue until the ground near the podium is completely veiled by the petals creating what appears to be an idyllic, clandestine scene – if one were to omit the presence of Sally’s flayed corpse at the heart of this strange picture. 

With the dismembered body parts of his old friend Thurston and his wife Louise in tow, Renzo works to complete the task assigned to him by Archie. The burly old man approaches the rightmost end of the bedding area at the back of the space – the section that travels up the side wall to create the ‘U’ shape of the stone ledging – and stops in front of three slender metal stakes that have been stuck in the dirt. They stand parallel to each other, roughly eight or nine inches in length, separated by a few inches in distance and positioned against the innermost edge of the length of the ending block. Renzo offloads some of the butchered body parts he has on his person except those that belonged to Thurston. He drops Louise’s parts on the ground but places Thurston’s hands neatly on the stone ledge before him. He clutches Thurston’s head with two hands, eyeing the stakes before proceeding. Renzo then lowers the head over the middle stake, and after a moment's hesitation, pushes it down onto the spike, allowing it to pierce into the crudely sliced neck area. When he was satisfied with the positioning, Renzo moved on to the hands, placing them on the remaining two stakes in a manner mimicking someone holding the sides of their head. 

Renzo looks down at his work with a frown, plagued by the thought of something being missing. An idea strikes the man and he briefly abandons his workstation in search of something – he quickly finds it. Renzo returns with four white daisies and small snippers. He removes the stems from two of the daisies, cutting close to the underside of the flowers’ bulbs. He carefully places them in Thurston’s eye sockets before influencing the severed head's mouth open, as if it's screaming a noiseless scream. 

“That’s better,” Renzo whispers to himself. Content, he collects what’s left of Lousie and repeats the process on the other end of the makeshift garden.

The group gathers at the entrance of the barn. They mingle, admiring the product of their labour, laying eyes on every part of the dreamy scene they’ve manufactured in the clandestine seclusion of Kenneth’s barn. Various exotic plant-life stands proudly at the back wall of the space, flaunting their beauty from the garden area constructed for them; the severed body parts of Thurston and Louise bursting from the dirt like hellish flora. Healthy, freshly harvested flower petals dress the ground encompassing the stone altar creating a hypnotic sea of colour – reds, whites, purples, greens, and more; the vibrant cascade of colour enough to demand the attention of wandering eyes and mesmerize the viewer. At the center of the barn stands the stone podium, and secured to it, one of the biggest draws to this morbid art installation, the corpse of Sally Cruz. The dead woman’s back made to face the barn's entrance, showcasing the beautiful Red Spider Lilies bursting from the body’s hollowed chest cavity, complemented by the macabre wounds inflicted on the back by Dr. Jones, intended to appear as if the sorrowful looking woman is spreading a set of grotesque wings. 

Excitement and relieved sighs bounce between those present. Finally, the Petal Club’s vision is close to realization. The Club members meander around the group commending each other, sharing laughs and embraces. 

Archie turns to see his son Jamie staring at him amidst the group. They say nothing to each other but Archie signals him with a simple nod. Archie strolls out ahead of the gathering and begins a short speech.

“What we’ve done here tonight is no easy feat,” Archie begins in his trademark raspy tone, letting loving eyes befall his conspirators. “This little idea I had – what now seems like so long ago – will soon materialize, and you all have a hand in it. For those that’ll go back into the world after tonight, remember fondly your role in something far grander than the mundanities of the polite society we’ve been forced to bend to. For those whose mortal story ends here in this barn, well, it's been a pleasure. Your resolve is the reason we’ve gotten this far. I’ve been blessed in this life to connect with such inspired and impassioned friends who believe wholeheartedly in the beauty of what we’ve accomplished here tonight; and I’ve been blessed with a son that will capture it all and shake the very world itself with our combined vision. Spring is the time of renewal…rebirth! Tonight – through this piece we’ve created – we’ll be reborn, and with our lives renewed we’ll find that our flames can no longer be extinguished. It’ll burn forever in the hearts and minds of the people for generations to come. THIS is our claim to immortality!”

“THIS IS OUR CLAIM TO IMMORTALITY,” the group echoes fervently as the Club president concludes.

“Now, let’s clean up and get this show on the road,” Archie declares with a big smile.

The group wastes no time. They float around the space making quick work of all loose ends and rogue equipment scattered about, clearing the area so nothing has the opportunity to ruin this long awaited moment. They dump all that they’ve collected outside the barn, telling themselves they’ll clean it up when everything is all said and done.

Archie approaches the altar amidst the hustle and bustle inside the barn and sits on the altar's surface off to one side. He folds his arms and wears a softened expression as he looks down at the body of Sally Cruz.

“It’s a cruel thing what we’ve done,” Archie says softly to Sally’s corpse. “Surely that’s what they’ll say, surely that’s what they’ll think, but I don’t regret it; not the end result. What I regret is making you suffer. I never knew your story, Sally, and I never will, but I could tell from the moment I first laid eyes on you that this world had not been good to you. We added to that suffering for a time, but to die once means to never die again, and this new life we’ve given you – as strange as it is – is always and forever…”

Archie pauses for a moment, studying the dead woman sat on the ground next to him.

“You’re so pretty the way you are now,” he continues, enchanted by Sally’s macabre metamorphosis. “And to think, you may have gone your entire miserable life without spreading your wings. Your light shines brightly, Sally…bright enough to guide me through the terrible abyss that I’ll surely be cast in, like the angel you are.”

Archie chuckles to himself, looking up and staring straight ahead.

“I may be a bit overzealous in thinking that. After all, you’re of pure soul. But me…the Club…well, we’re just creatures of ambition and insatiable hunger…but I suppose that’s what makes nature so beautiful isn’t it? That contrast.”

Archie gets up without another word. He hunches over with a groan and removes the towels that had been left clinging to Sally’s corpse as they no longer serve any purpose. He drops them outside the barn and rejoins his friends.

The gathering has separated into two groups: those who will be leaving and those who will be staying.

Those that will be leaving after tonight stand out of the way at the barn’s entrance, making sure to shut the doors before Jamie is ready to shoot. The group consists of Ben’s sons Elwyn and Zanza, Renzo’s wife and twin daughters, Dr. Jones’ son, Miles’ daughter, and Archie’s son Jamie.

The rest consist of Archie and his wife Vanessa, Miles and his wife Aida, Dr. Jones and his wife Mimi, Chen and her husband Daryl, Ben and his third son Fane, Renzo, and Kenneth. Silently, they begin to strip themselves of all their clothing until they stand amongst each other naked. They hand off their clothing to the eager group standing at the entrance and take that opportunity to say their goodbyes as well.

Archie and Vanessa approach Jamie, who has been preoccupied with adjusting his cameras as the Petal Club and a few others make their final preparations. His focus shatters as his beloved parents meet with him to say their final piece.

“All your documents are in order?” queries Archie straightforwardly.

“Yes, dad,” Jamie responds.

“You’ve purchased your plane ticket?”

“My flight is at 4:30pm, tomorrow.”

“You’ve got the bag of cash for the Cruz family?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Shirely Cruz’s driver's license is in my wallet, you memorize that address and toss it with everything else, you hear me?”

“I hear you, old man.”

Archie pauses for a moment, only wishing to lay eyes on his son. He grabs Jamie by the shoulders and pulls him in for a hug, and after releasing him, Vanessa does the same.

“After tonight, you leave here and you never come back,” Archie rasps with Jamie’s head held lovingly between his hands. “On top of what you’ve earned as a photographer, your mother and I have left you enough money to never work again. Live lazily, the way God intended. Enjoy good food and art. Find love and make love. When you have kids, raise them well, as your mother and I have raised you. Tell them about their grandparents, tell them we love them; and when they’re ready, ONLY when they’re ready, tell them about this night.”

Stifling tears, Jamie nods.

“I love you, dad…I love you, mom,” Jamie croaks, just barely swallowing the knot that’s been stuck in his throat.

“I love you, hunny,” cries Vanessa softly, wearing a thin-lipped smile behind her tears.

“We love you, boy,” answers Archie with a warm smile, “and we’re so proud of you.”

Archie and Vanessa break away reluctantly, but they understand their time is up. For everyone else whose final destination is that old lonely barn, they make their peace with their families and do the same. They gather at the right side of the barn near the sidewall, standing in a line, shoulder-to-shoulder – Archie, Vanessa, Dr. Jones, Mimi, Miles, Aida, Chen, Daryl, Ben, Fane, Renzo, and Kenneth.

Jamie moves over to one of his equipment bags and pulls a camera out of it. He flings its long strap over his head and allows it to dangle from his neck. He then collects two items that had been left off to the side until the arrival of this moment: a set of thorn crowns and a single knife. He approaches the doomed lineup and one-by-one places a crown on each of their heads. When a crown adorned each of their heads, Jamie began taking various photos of those within the lineup, continuing until he felt content. Jamie then brandishes the knife, delivering the tool to the first in line, his father. 

“Wait!” exclaims Chen suddenly. The Siren gives her husband a look, and nearly in unison, they hold a hand out in front of themselves. They open their palms revealing three eyeballs in each of their possessions. Without delay, husband and wife tilt their heads skyward and drop an eyeball in their mouths, swallowing them whole one-by-one, until nothing remains.

“Okay,” Chen groans as the stolen organs of sight struggle to slip down her esophagus. 

Jamie – who had made his way to the camera set up on the tripod during Chen and Daryl’s display – triggered the device to begin a fixed recording of the stone altar and the flora beyond it. He finds himself back in front of his father, and after getting comfortable with the camera that’s slung around his neck, he gives his father a nod to signal his readiness.

With a poised grip on the weapon, Archie lifts an arm and turns the blades to his wrist. He pauses momentarily – counting his breaths – and then slices vertically, cutting through skin and flesh. Red, hot blood gushes from the wound, flowing down his forearm, wetting his hand before spilling to the earth. He transfers the knife to his bloodied hand and cuts into his remaining wrist. Feeling satisfied, Archie hands off the knife to the next in line – Vanessa – to repeat the same process before breaking free from the lineup. 

Archie walks toward the stone altar where the dead body of Sally Cruz sits beside it with head buried in arms, and starts to orbit the podium. He travels round-and-round, with no indication of stopping or deviating from his path. He marches on, step after step, trampling the vibrant sea of flower petals beneath him and staining many with his lifeblood as it pours from the gashes on his wrists. 

It isn’t long before Vanessa joins Archie in his circuit. She falls in line behind him, lapping Sally and the altar over and over again; her crimson life divorcing her veins by the second. A moment goes by, and Dr. Jones follows suit. Then his wife Mimi, and then Miles. The lineup shrinks as each person slits their wrists and joins the bizarre orbit of Sally’s corpse and the altar, until the knife rests on the ground – bloody and unpossessed – having no more wrists to cut.

No one remains in the lineup. The entirety of the Petal Club and their family members that wished to take part in the collective's final and most gruesome project, follow one another around Sally and the altar as their lives gush from their wrists in a scarlet deluge. They march on silently as they continue to lap the dead woman, the sea of flower petals pressed beneath their bare feet soaking up more and more blood as it cascades from the doomed marchers’ bodies. The exotic plant-life at the back of the barn watches the disturbing scene from their place, hushed and unmoving.

A couple minutes tick by and those who were first to begin their deathly orbit start to buckle. Their pace has slowed and their steps have lost their power. They stumble and stagger onward, unwilling to halt their activity until they’re truly unable to move. Their breathing is laboured, huffing as they power on, and they each appear as if the colour is draining from their skin. One by one, each marcher looks worse than they did just seconds before – a lap prior. They begin adopting the bleak expression of the person ahead of them, their eyes peeking under heavy lids like soulless, curtained windows.

A few moments decay and suddenly Archie collapses. His body hits the ground heavily but nobody in the train gives it their attention. They continue to march, rounding Sally’s corpse and the altar time and time again. Archie, with a little life left in him, weakly claws his way through the bed of flower petals carpeting the ground. He groans one strained groan after another, head teetering up and down with eyes drifting about, unfocused. Flower petals find themselves stuck to the man's open wounds as he wills his way forward, the rest of the marchers stepping around him as they move. 

Then, Vanessa collapses next, but she doesn’t start dragging her body along like her husband. When Vanessa dropped, she never moved again; her limbs only twitched as death shrouded her in its lightless veil. Archie ceases movement shortly after, splayed face-down with the thorn crown boring into his forehead.

As the blood continues to flow, death fills the barn. Members of the train drop one after the other: Dr. Jones then Mimi; Miles then Aida. Those who can manage try to drag themselves forward, mimicking the actions of their deceased president; but those who can’t, simply die where they land. 

Chen falls next – the life exiting her body no further than where she landed – and her husband Daryl falls immediately after. He musters all the strength left within his dying vessel to claw his way to his lover's side, but he dies at her feet.

Ben had been using the cane his late wife gifted to him to support himself as he orbited Sally and the altar, but in his weakened state he could no longer maintain his grip. The cane slips through his fingers and finds a new home amongst the dead bodies and flower petals. Ben tries his best to continue without his cane but his steps are feeble and unstable. In his delirious state, he stumbles over the corpse of Miles’ wife, Aida, losing his footing. He pitches over, unable to recover his balance, and hits his head on one of the corners of the stone altar. Blood sprays from the new wound and he perishes instantly. Fane, wishing to be close to his father during his own final moments, lays on his back next to Ben. He takes several shallow breaths and stretches a weak hand toward the ceiling, clutching at something unseen to everyone but him, until he drew his last breath and ceased breathing forever.

Finally, Renzo and Kenneth collapse almost simultaneously. They land at opposite ends on the altar. Renzo – landing on his side – lets out a deep, prolonged groan. His limbs curl in a disbursing manner as his muscles spasm wildly until he becomes completely still and silent. Kenneth lands face first. He doesn’t move nor fight to push on. He lays amidst a sea of bodies and flower petals huffing and bleeding profusely until what’s left of his life drains out into the dirt. He passes several moments after his fall.

From start to finish – and with steeled nerves – Jamie had been capturing the entire process with his two cameras. Recording the ghastly spectacle with one and photographing the scene with the other. He found himself entranced, not only with the monumental task he was charged but also with the morbid beauty of it all. He couldn’t help but feel profound admiration for his parents, the Petal Club, and all who decided to lay down their life for the Club’s final gift to the world.

The rest of the onlookers meant to leave with their lives tonight, watch Jamie work in silence. A whirlwind of grief and happiness surges within them. They’re moved by what had just unfolded before them, and they realize that they’ve just changed the world forever. 

Even as those who have sacrificed themselves to bolster the impact of this art piece lay sprawled out and dead on the ground, Jamie continues to snap pictures. He captures the bodies of the Petal Club members as they lay unmoving, still warm. He captures the section of the altar that had been stained with Ben’s blood when he hit his head during his collapse. He photographs Sally’s sorrowful corpse, taking intimate shots of her grotesque wings and the Red Spider Lilies bursting from her back; and he photographs the exotic flora and foliage beyond the altar, unperturbed by the cold hand of death. By the time Jamie felt content, he had taken hundreds of photographs of the scene.

“Jamie,” Elywn says from the entrance of the barn, “it's been a while…we should probably wrap up.”

Jamie stands erect, looking as if he’d just been drawn out of a dream-state.

“Yeah,” he responds, “I think I’ve gotten everything I need.”

EPILOGUE

–

“Almost one year ago, the shocking and bizarre deaths of the Petal Club and many members of their individual families rocked the world. The passing of the widely celebrated troupe left a string of bodies and destruction in their wake, including the burning of the Sleeping Gorgon Estate, and the slaying of the winner of their famed Flores Immortales Festival flower contest, Sally Cruz, and her mother, Shirely Cruz. In terms of the Club’s family members that weren’t among the deceased at the barn, that we now know belonged to Kenneth Banner, the question still remains: where have they gone? As investigators overseas continue to piece together the details of that haunting night last June, only one thing has been made certain: the Petal Club was never murdered. In fact, it’s believed the Club were the conspirators and the hands behind their own demise. Tonight, we here at CWA News London will be explor–”

“Ahhh- bollocks!” exclaims a man sunk into his living room couch with a TV remote in hand, angrily flipping from channel to channel. “I can’t escape hearing about these old farts even after all this time. This is Leicaster for Christ sake, what do we care about some dead western freaks!”

The man’s phone pings from receiving a text message and he stops on a random channel, turning his attention to his cellphone. 

“I’ll be over in a few, xx,” the message reads.

“K, doors unlocked,” the man quickly responds, abandoning his seating and standing erect. He shuts off the TV and tosses the remote onto the couch, stretching exaggeratedly as he goes. He grunts with displeasure and glances over at a picture of a man placed on a cluttered side table.

“You win, Charlie,” the man says to the picture. “I guess I’ll open a book.”

The man’s phone ping’s again as he selects a book from a shelf nearby.

“I thought I told you to quit being short with me,” the message reads. 

“Christ…” the man scoffs with a roll of his eyes. Disregarding the message, he tosses his cellphone across the room onto the couch. He walks over to a single-seat couch tucked away in the living room and plops down onto it with the book he had grabbed off the shelf. He finds his way to the first chapter and begins reading.

Several minutes creep by and the man suddenly hears clamour at the front door.

“Martin!” bellows a shrill female, british voice from the front foyer. “Martin, come look at this!”

The man – Martin – promptly shuts his reading material. A part of him is relieved he's been saved from reading another word, even if it was just to honour his dead brother. The woman kicks off her shoes onto a tray at the front door and rushes into the living room with a small box in hand. She quickly finds herself in front of the couch dangling the slender box before Martin with a big smile on her face.

“I appreciate your enthusiasm, Claire, but cardboard is hardly exciting,” Martin quips as he makes his way to his feet. Claire drops into the couch and places the box in her lap. She glances back at her painfully slow boyfriend and pats the seat cushion to her right.

“Come sit,” she says. Martin obliges.

“I was on the Petal Club website last week and strangely enough there was a book for sale,” Claire explains.

“Seriously? You too?” Martin responds flatly, obviously annoyed. “The lot of them are dead,” he continues, matter-of-factly.

“Yes, love. Dead for almost a year now, which is why this book randomly appearing on their site for sale is strange. So naturally, I purchased it.”

“Naturally,” Martin says behind a sigh.

Claire rummages through her bag and reveals a set of keys. She selects a key at random and uses its jagged teeth to slice the tape sealing the package. She excitedly swings open the cardboard flaps to reveal a book. She relieves the box of its contents and passes off the book to Martin before moving the box from her lap to the floor. Martin studies the outside of the book with a puzzled expression.

“The thing’s rather plain, innit?” he says.

Martin being an open and vocal hater aside, his statement is correct, the book is rather plain-looking. In terms of length and width, the book is certainly larger in dimension than that of a novel. Its size is more akin to a textbook or encyclopedia of sorts. The front and back covers are wrapped in a material closely reminiscent of tapestry. The book is jet-black, absent of any graphics or text indicating its title, except for a tiny gold skull embossed on the butt of the book's spine.

“Gosh, could they have made this any more cryptic…” comments Claire.

“Who’s to say the Club even made this,” Martin suggests. “Could be a hacker using the Club’s site to make a quick buck. Preying on old bones and naive broads like you,”

“Watch it,” Claire bites with a glare.

After analyzing the outside of the book, Martin finally decides to open it up. The first page doesn't offer much more information on the mysterious tome besides its title on an otherwise blank page – UNSEEN IN THE MEADOWS. The second page fashions a large graphic and nothing else. The graphic depicts a skull with flowers in place of eyes while an assortment of flowers explodes from behind the brainpan; and behind the flowers, a system of thorny vines twist and wind in all directions. Martin flips to another page, this time containing an ominous foreword from a familiar name. It’s reads:

This is our last hoorah. Our most important contribution to this world that we’ve abruptly left behind, but nothing about what we’ve done is sudden. This book is our testament to the beauty that can often be discovered in the macabre and taboo, if one can find it within them to relinquish the boring notions drilled into them by civilized society. Death is inescapable. It’s held our wonderment since the earliest iterations of art and literature, and it is we, a collective of green-thumbs, that have decided to leave text and paintbrushes behind in favour of something a score more visceral — more radical. We bloom, wither, and die much like the flowers that made us beloved by many, but rest assured we are not dead. Not truly. This book is the life everlasting we made our mission to obtain. This book is our claim to immortality!

Yours, forever and always,

Archie Hemmings and the Petal Club

“Baby… I don't like this,” says Claire, uneasily.

Martin feels a lump develop in his throat but he finds it within himself to dismiss his partner's concern. “Well, you bought the thing. Might as well see it through.”

Martin hesitates to flip the page despite his showing of indifference, but when he finally does, Claire’s fears are fully realized. The pairs faces twist from fearful anticipation to full blown horror. The man chooses not to pause on a page for too long as an onslaught of images from that fateful night in Kenneth Banner’s barn assaults them page after page.

Claire gasps in horror, using her two shaky hands to cover her mouth as she tortures herself by looking at the grotesque images within the book, until she springs from the couch unable to take any more.

Martin continues to flip through the book. He goes faster and faster, scanning whatever page he lands on in sheer disbelief. His breathing becomes shaky and his thoughts cloudy, but he’s able to muster a single comment to sum up this disturbing experience:

“Jesus…these people are sick.”

END