Sunday Scaries
Volume I, Number 51
Microfiction by Pat Harrigan
Content Warning: Language and Horror
51. The Florist’s
Lilacs, pink and purple fuschia. Playful daisies and bright pink rosacea. Scents each unique, indescribable, untransmittable.
Can I help you, sir?
White roses with pine needles and silver bells. Soon it will be Christmas Day.
Matt walked over to the customer. He looked in a daze. A bereavement? He would have to be gentle, no upselling. I can show you a fine selection of tasteful arrangements over here, sir, he said.
The man was muttering to himself: Hydrangea, alstroemeria and curling willow, hydrogen, nitrogen and carbon. Veruca, yellow gerberas, solidaster, and ashes.
There was no one else in the shop. The customer walked over to the front door and locked it, pulled the shade down.
Sir, I—
The customer clamped his hand over Matt’s mouth and pushed him back into the wall. A vase crashed to the floor.
Crème blooms, orchids, calla lilies, Stunning Heart Bouquets, the Ray of Sunshine Basket. The customer, strong as hell, forced Matt to his knees, crouched next to him, wrapped his free arm around his torso, pinning his arms. His whispers smelled good, like gardenia petals.
Garden Joy, with shades of raspberry and peach.
Matt struggled but it was no use. The next thing he knew his face was being pressed down into an open bag of potting soil. Now the man’s hand was on the back of his head, heavy as an oak branch. He sank into the sweet earth, mouth and nostrils full.
Sin, sinuata statice, verbena and carnations.
Magnolia and jasmine, bones and teeth.
Freesia and honeysuckle.
Heliotrope.
The hand was gone. A moment later Matt heard the door unlock, open and close.
Coughing and spitting, he wiped the damp soil from his face. The shop was empty. The door opened and Mrs. Brant came in with her knit handbag and her wheelie cart.
My goodness, you’re a fright! she said.
Matt, rising to his feet, thought: Cancer, psoriasis, alopecia and hyacinth.
💀
