“Flora” Short Story by Willy Martinez Part 2

Mad Men is a collection of three disturbing horror shorts from writers from the Midwest, specifically, Illinois. The themes explored in this collection range from man versus self, man versus man, and man versus creature.

“Flora” by Willy Martinez is the author’s first short story written for publication. It is included in the Mad Men anthology. Mad Men is a collection of three disturbing horror shorts from writers from the Midwest, specifically, Illinois. The themes explored in this collection range from man versus self, man versus man, and man versus creature.

We will be releasing the full short story in three parts. If you enjoy it and want to support the author or read the full anthology, check it out at Barnes and Noble.

Flora Part 2:

Remembering his epic find from traversing the steep ravines from earlier, the big man pulled from his bag a viola sagittate, or, arrowleaf violet, if the reader will.

Noticing his glass empty of juice and only holding the soaked left-over fruits, he lifts the glass up to the dim light at his small table to scan for the fruit mix. Pleasing him, he fills his big mouth with the leftover contents, snorting through his nose as he douses the batch. He lowers the glass to look over towards the bar area to hunt down the waitress. But it was her that was doing the hunting, she had been standing there, watching the hog devour his drink. Having observed this disgusting scene, she convinces herself to go for it. Before he can even blink, she begins walking towards him, smiling, with a fresh pitcher in one hand, and an empty glass in the other.

As he fumbles for a napkin to clean the red dripping sangria from his lips she arrives at the table – she exaggerates a sweep of her tongue over her lip, accentuating her understanding of his red slobber. “I won’t need a new glass young lad…” – “it’s for me” she grumbles as she sits down across from him. From her black apron she pulls out a pack of cigarettes red, and a lighter, slouching as she lights one up and take a deep puff, suspending the end of the breath. She looks him in his eye, and she smirks at him. The gentlemen that he is, he pours her a glass prior to refilling his own.

“Are you familiar with the flora of this area, I find it to be as beautiful, but not as divine as you” he announces to her with a look of sureity. Leaning forward to ash her cigarette, she flicks the burnt ends into the glass he had poured for her, but at least she turns her head to the side so as not to blow smoke in his face.

“I suppose you’re going to tell me about it,” replies the tall, blue eyed blonde. She wore her work hair in a high ponytail, but she was beautiful to him; her face was scarless and despite her slim figure, she wore full lips – the kind one nibbles on after a long kiss, he thought to himself.

From afar, the barista and the cook watch the two juxtaposed from one another – the girl on the left, slim and pretty, and on the right was the pig, round and obscene. Looking past the two, the large winery window backdrop offers the cook a plan. The flashes of lightning are followed by loud crashing thunderous sounds, rattling the small establishment. The barista takes a puff and looks over to the cook – without speaking, they nod to one another.

If you are enjoying “Flora,” visit our blog at The Ritual for related flash fiction.

“I love these hills, the rows of grapevines painted alongside the woods and pond are all that I know” she says with adoration. Seeing her come alive, the man gets excited and attempts to readjust his posture to a more refined manner when the sudden movements cause doubt. His balance was edgy, even on the chair. Which was normal from time to time for a man of this girth, but his vision was also slightly blurred. Once his vision returns to focus on her beauty with clarity, he looks down at his glass wondering if the sangria is affecting him already – surely not, it’s only his second pitcher.

Immediately noticing his lapse in balance and self-awareness, the waitress began to cackle loudly at him. Mid laugh, the lights flickered and they both stopped to look at one another. “It’s just the storm, don’t worry about it,” she says as she scoots her chair up closer to the table. He turns his head towards the large window to confirm if there was in fact a storm outside.

To sound as if he was consciously present, “strange” he says as he noticed the rain had now slowed down and the clouds were beginning to either pass or clear up.

Let’s Read!

We promise not to spam you or share your information with unwanted users. You may unsubscribe at any time.

Processing… Success! You're on the list. Whoops! There was an error and we couldn't process your subscription. Please reload the page and try again.

She learns that the closer she got to him, the more rancid his scent became. “I’ll show you,” she tells him, as if to distract him from making sense of the situation. Something felt strange to the man, not only did he feel lighter in weight, but he finally began to wonder why this pretty little thing was sitting with him. He glances back at her as she puts the cigarette butt out in the drink.

“Show me what?” he asked her with attitude. Or was it anxiety?

“Where to find more of those pretty little flowers” she announced. She took another deep breath so as not to smell him and moved even closer to him. She slid off her right shoe and laid her right leg over her left knee, extending it towards the man. As she began brushing her soft toes along the inside of his thighs he shot up in surprise. Having to use the table to balance himself, he looks at her dimly lit smile and demands, “what did you put in my” – at that moment the light goes off.

“That damn thunder, I tell you” she says to him as if to plant scenes into his head. But he didn’t recall any thunder. She stands up directly across from him, pushing her arms out onto the table, mimicking his stance, trying to be cute. “So, let’s go” she demands.

Not quite understanding and not quite having many options in his current state of mind, he convinces himself to stay the course of spontaneity and to continue his education on the flora of the area. The ogre follows the fawn along the path of darkness to discovery. Using her cell phone’s flashlight to lead the way towards the back door, they pass through the kitchen. They could hear the slight shhiikt of what sounded like two knives being rubbed against one another to create friction – were knives being sharpened? The cook is standing there in the dark, lonely, and only the cherry of his cigarette was visible until she briefly shines the light in his direction, but only illuminating his lower half before she points the light forward again.

Turning back to him she says, “Just through here, down by the pond,” pleasantly as ever as she picks up her pace to a sweet skipping. He no longer needs her to illuminate the way, even though the moon was only halfway shinning, it was enough to reveal the tops of the vineyard’s bountiful beauty. The rows of grapevines flowing North to South, 25 meters just within his sight. The stream he heard flowed along the same direction, and the recent rains empowered the current. The soft undulating sound of the stream called him in – his eyes followed the stream towards the grapevine structures. His eyes then focused on the soft light created by her cellphone, leading him down a path between two rows. As heavy as his feet had now become in the thick mud, he easily followed her. Holding his hands and arms out to the sides, stretching along the path he pretended he could feel the leaves of each side, the softness of the leaves mixed with the plumpness of the occasional grape. The sensations were overwhelming, and he didn’t know what to make of it, he really didn’t know what to make of anything at this point; like a lamb being led to the slaughter.

“Right here,” she says as they exit the final steps of the grapevine row and find themselves on a small patch of land between the grapes and a small pond. Although shaded, the moonlit pond reflected beauty and serenity – a calm after the storm. What looked like tall coniferous trees lined the pond area. Extending from the shoreline appeared to be a small walking dock; it led to a romantic paddle boat ride he thought.

“Are we going on a boat ride,” he asked. But no understandable words came out, rather, it was a slur of syllables mixed with a little dribble – not the first time she had seen him slobber. The grotesque display reinforced her doubts on the matter. She was now his champion, offering him solace from such an embarrassing existence. She took pleasure in explaining this next part:

If you are enjoying “Flora,” visit our blog at The Ritual for related flash fiction.

“Here we stand on a bed of weeds, originally native to the central Americas. This species can survive in the temperate climates, and unfortunately, so have you.” She bends down to pick a stem from a small growing bush. Disturbing its leaves disseminated a foul odor unknown even to this man. She holds it closer to his face and its rather dull looking with an average green stem and violet colored, trumpet shaped flower.

“The devils’ snare, otherwise known as thornapple jimsonweed. It causes delirium, affecting both mind and body causing effects perceived to be highly unpleasant, causing a state of profound and long lasting disorientation,” she said with her poker face, no longer caring to smile, grin, or entertain the fat man.

Convincing himself that he fully understands, or is aware of the situation, he mumbles, if only legible to himself, “is it fatal?” When from behind him emerges the cook and the barista. The fat man turns to them. Both look like seasoned butchers as they had emerged from the rows carrying sharp knives and a meat cleaver. All he must do is make it past the two kids wearing what appear to be bloodied white aprons, run through the grapevine rows, and then make it to his car, he thinks to himself. But, “shit, my keys” he announces in coded syllables.

The two vineyard employee males look to one another, “fuck he say?” says one to the other and receives a shoulder shrug in response.

FacebookTwitterInstagramLinkedInGoodreads

The ogre makes a break for it – it’s short lived – not even one whole step in an open direction and the girl kicks his feet from under him. He flops forward, shooting towards the wet dirt, barely breaking his fall with his hands. The man is too big to get up quickly and the hallucinogenic has him second guessing his depth perception. He’s just too slow – the curly haired cook doesn’t skip a beat, pouncing on his meal as he thrusts a sharp butcher knife into the fat man’s hand, piercing in one end and out through the palm of his right hand, impaling it into the earth. He shrieks in pain, or was it surprise as he wonders to himself if this is really happening to him. He looks down at his hand and perceives the blood to be slowly oozing out, thick as syrup. He attempts to use his left hand to yank out his right arm and hand from impalement, but he’s either too weak or too high. He sobs uncontrollably, once again beginning to drool on himself, creating oozing snot bubbles.

“Hurry up” she tells the two, “You guys know how much a man’s fear can ruin the meat!”

Just then, the barista walks up to the prostrated man and says, “for the betterment of our society,” and proceeds to hit him directly on the temple with the blunt end of the meat cleaver.

They agreed it was a melancholy subject for him to be taking up room in their establishment.

If you are enjoying this short fiction, make sure to subscribe to receive the remaining two sections. Visit our blog at The Ritual.

Let’s Read!

We promise not to spam you or share your information with unwanted users. You may unsubscribe at any time.

Processing… Success! You're on the list. Whoops! There was an error and we couldn't process your subscription. Please reload the page and try again. FacebookTwitterInstagramLinkedInGoodreads