Droning on the town is the rainfall in counterpoint sounds, is River recline on the couch and scroll through the internet, is her lavender skin press, swipe her phone, are the scroll downs recur:
In slow motion is a gif of a purple cat jump into a box with words printed on the side, Dark Heart.
A cropped photo of Prince that only shows his belly button.
Some mirror reflected water reflecting the mirror reflecting the water reflecting the mirror reflecting the water reflecting the mirror.
An ad with the words Dark Heart centered over what appears to be a sphere of mauve dirt.
Standing in her roommate’s doorway is River ask, “Casey, what is Dark Heart?”
In the violet windowsill is Casey listen to the counter-point rain, watch a video on her phone, say, “It is a flower, the flower.”
Sounds of ecstasy play from Casey’s phone’s speakers, f I n a a a l l y iiiit’s h e r e.
“What are you watching?”
“A slow-mo edit of a Dark Heart unboxing.” Casey shows River her phone, but it’s too far away, too slow, too blurry.
“Oh, have you seen Jamie?” River asks.
Casey shakes her head, No.
“Rent is due this week, and Jamie always pays early.”
On her back stoop is River sit with a pile of sludge cartridges beside, pull her vaporizer from her mouth, breathe out a cloud of lilac sludge vapor, squint, focus on fence.
Vines are creeping between fence boards, hugging them, infiltrating their yard.
Though mildly bothered by the neighbor’s inability to keep their plants under control, River’s not going to do anything that resembles yard work in the rain.
She takes another hit from the vaporizer, breathes out another cloud of lilac vapor, sighs, blinks.
In the living room walled with music spiral maximized is River lose herself in sludge brain and poly-rhythms with movements that never stop, only move from one part of her body to another.
A knocking at the door breaks the music’s enchantment, and River stumbles back into focus, turns the music off.
Opening the door reveals a delivery driver with a package held in two hands, and the logo on the side of the package reads, Dark Heart, and Casey comes out of her room, says, “That is for me.”
River grabs her vaporizer and a sludge cartridge, decides to sit on the back stoop and watch the rain.
When she opens the back door is River find the sun came out and find their entire backyard covered with the vines from the neighbors yard, and patterned like wallpaper print are the vines in bloom with dark purple flowers, the Dark Heart.
The flowers are large and funnel-shaped, and the their markings include spots and brush strokes of lighter purples.
River closes the door.
River knocks on her other roommate’s door, not Casey but Jamie, the one they have not seen for a while, but Jamie does not answer.
“Jamie, can I borrow your weed wacker?” River asks through the door, but Jamie does not answer, so River knocks again, says, “Jamie.” But no answer.
When River opens Jamie’s door are avalanches of Dark Heart cascade out of the room carrying Jamie’s belongings in the curds of large and funnel-shaped purple pedals and the curds of their spots and brush strokes of lighter purples carrying Jamie too, spill into the living room.
River stands knee deep in Dark Heart. Jamie lays asleep in the flowers.
Casey stands at her door with a blank expression, nods.
River calls the police, but no one answers.
“What is going on?” River asks. “I can’t handle this. We have to get rid of these plants.”
Casey says, “I like them. They’re cute.”
River wades through the flowers to the back door.
She wades through the flowers in the backyard.
In the shed is River sigh.
On the work table are all the plant killing tools River can find evenly spaced: backpack-mounted weed spray and obsidian pruning shears and double-bladed hand trowel and gardening gloves with the photo of Prince that only shows his belly button printed on them and safety glasses with purple to clear gradient lenses.
River bursts into Casey’s room, wields the obsidian pruning shears.
“Don’t,” Casey says, “It’s about to bloom any second.”
River pushes past Casey, releases the safety on the shears, snikt.
Casey wears a frightened expression.
River wields the sheers with a reverse grip.
She draws her hand up over her head, ready to stab down into the ball of purple dirt, but she pauses with widening eyes, lowers the sheers.
The sphere of purple dirt is levitating, glowing.
It sprouts. It stretches. A knot of self-similar shapes forms at the top.
River drops the shears, stares blank at the Dark Heart.
The vines grow.
They fill the room.
They start to swallow their house.
house house house house
house house house flower
house house flower flower
house flower flower flower
flower flower flower flower
No Glykon runs a small zine called Reality Hands. His work has been featured in
a bunch of places run by great people: Alien Mouth, New Wave Vomit,
Flood, Pull Trigger, and so on. He also has an album out on Obsolete