Queen’s Bouquet

A former beauty queen cultivates something carnal.

Content Warnings: Violence, murder, sexually explicit content, whorephobic language, misogyny, dubious consent, plants, mommy kink, blood-drinking

The white cabinet designed for china plates and delicate baubles, instead sparkled with plastic rhinestones and faux-satin. The titles Miss and Lady scrawled in white, silver, and gold across different sashes and photo frames. Each photo features a bold smile that threatens the crack the very glass that holds it so dearly. The same visage in every frame.

A maintenance man tracks dried mud at the foot of the cabinet. He leans in, almost smudging the glass with his oily nose. Squinting like he can’t quite make out the image of the young woman wearing the two tier tiara that sits encased in glass. He rocks onto the balls of his feet and the floorboards creak, not unlike Blanche’s bones in the early morning hours.

She watches him with the same smile plastered all inside the cabinet. Wrinkles carve out her smile, define her cheeks and eyes. Her hair is shorter and greyer but still voluminous and styled to surround her face like a burst of sunlight. The effect was more admirable when she was a proper blonde. Now her sun-kissed hair resembles moonlight. Or a rat’s hide. That’s how one boy described it.

The maintenance man turns, looking at Blanche with a bored expression. “This you?”

The fly wanders right into her meticulous web. Blanche acts a lady still, fanning herself as if the cool fog of morning doesn’t linger on the front porch. “Yes, that’s lil old me.”

He taps the glass, gesturing at one of the sashes. “Must of got this one only yesterday.”

The two laugh. Blanche notes the fingerprint the maintenance man has left behind. Then she finds his machine-stitched name on his coveralls: Donny.

“Could I fetch you a drink, Donny?”

The half-moon illuminates Blanche’s garden. Not that she needs light to navigate the raised beds and winding pebble paths that she has cared for two decades. Some women have hobbies, most have children, few– if any, have both.

The flowers she tends to each day. Even in winter when frost nips at their leaves. It seemed child-enough to her, creatures helpless without her. Needy little things. Quick to droop and whine when they didn’t get what they wanted.

Like all mothers she had her favorite– her magnolia tree which she’d raised from sapling to maturity. The white petals with purple veins, like Blanche’s skin, captured moonlight. Even in all her pageants, her nights in smoke filled men’s clubs, and afternoons on the sandy dunes before ocean waves, Blanche had never seen anything as beautiful as her magnolia tree.

As she unwraps the burlap Blanche feels eyes on her. Every woman her age learned to feel the presence of a gaze; to have eyes hidden behind meticulously combed hair, resting just below the crown. But when she turns around, no one else is in her garden.

Two fireflies dance a few yards away from her. Partners in flight, never leaving the other.

Ignoring the light, ignoring the wet chill in the air, she returns to her burlap bundle, muttering curses under her breath as her hands shake.

Hot breath fogs up the glass of the cabinet. A skinny frame bends over to ogle the photo with edges the same yellow as his teeth.

“You still got that swimsuit?”

This maintenance man is hardly a man at all: newly eighteen, if Blanche had to guess. Or perhaps seventeen and working under the table for family. A shame he finds himself here.

“Would you like to see it?” She offers, playing with the diamond on the chain round her neck.

The boy grins the way a dog does when a t-bone is dangled above its nose. “Yeah Miss ‘Bama. I’d love to.”

Whatever job the boy had been sent out to fix is forgotten. Blanche holds his hand, guides him through her house like the child he is, up to her room. Even before she touches him, he pants like he’d been replacing shingles on her roof in the summer heat.

“Oh Miss ‘Bama.” He rips his hand from her’s and takes her wrists.

“The swimsuit is just–”

“Fuck that,” He brings her hand to his crotch. “Heard old ladies aren’t so tight but have experience. Bet you’re gonna rock my world.”

She rides him like a dressage horse, tugging at his mane to get him to perform for her. While he bucks his hips she drags a painted nail down the side of his neck. Draws a surgeon’s Y across his chest. Takes note of the gold fillings at the very back of his wide, moaning mouth.

Her sheets stink of men, gentlemen of all types; young & old, single & married, fat & skinny. She recalls the days when they would make messes on her stomach and thighs for fear of proof. At some point that changed and men would leave her money along with a plea for her not to tell. She misses it– now the men in her bed say nothing. Not even while inside her.

The boy below her has his eyes shut so tight no light can reach him.

It would be so easy to do it now. Make a mess of him.

But the sheets– she thinks and then feels the boy tremble as if he’s succumbed to a terrible cold. Blanche touched his lips. “Open your eyes, dear.”

Still, the boy says nothing.

“Dear…”

He shakes his head, his whole body tightening like the skin over his eye sockets.

“Let me fetch you a drink.” With that she slides off him and ignores the milky sap dripping between her legs.

Tonight’s bundle is much lighter, though taller, than the rest. But the vigor from today’s excitement only drains her and Blanche must pause her walk to sit on the edge of a flower bed. The fireflies dance closer to her now, but Blanche does not notice. They dance at the trunk of her magnolia tree as if its low branches will hide them from her over-shoulder glances.

In the garden beds orange butterfly weed is in full bloom– though no butterflies ever come, perhaps deterred by a certain smell. Tall purple sage tickles her nose like a girlish friend. And her most favorite bleeding hearts droop over her knee, the perfect shape despite their season having passed. Her garden is always in bloom. No amount of humidity or frost can wither their leaves.

Blanche’s niece once suggested submitting the garden to a contest, offering her aunt a chance at new glory, shiny new challaces to display in her den. Blanche thought better of it, wanting to avoid the same questions that pestered her in her youth.

What is your secret? — The key to her smile, her grace, her floating walk in heels, her figure, her smooth skin, shiny hair, and delicate touch. How do you keep her garden so lush? So colorful, with such variety? So vibrant and charming after all these years?

Her answer disappointed most everyone.

Men.

Blanche wonders who will care for the garden when she is gone. There are nieces and nephews in her life if only for her deed and living will. Hardly capable of giving her garden the nutrients it has become accustomed to in her care. She maintains she is spry enough to take on an apprentice if she so desires, someone younger than her to shadow her. Till she eventually succumbs to the earth, melts away with an obedient shadow to stand in her place.

That would however, require a witness, and Blanche has no patience for a witness.

The fireflies brush the back of Blanche’s neck. Her whole body turns and though there is no person in sight she trembles, the nerve of whatever had frightened her sending her halfway to a conniption.

This man does not stop at the cabinet, refusing to pay the toll as all his counterparts have. Instead he walks past the sparkles, the skinny frames, and the titles with no mind. Blanche doesn’t dare call him back, to make a show of herself. She follows him to the kitchen with the sink that is always clogged.

The window above the sink to the back garden filters sunlight. “Beautiful tree,” the maintenance man, with a badge reading Harv, remarks.

“Why thank you.” Blanche chokes up as if the complement is for herself.

He gets to work, on his hands and knees crawling under the sink like a child climbing down a gopher hole. Without offering, Blanche goes to the fridge to make the man a drink, grabbing the pitcher of lemonade she always made special.

She sets the pitcher down on the counter, condensation dripping down the pitcher’s side like sweat off a brow. It’s rude for him to ask her for a glass but she tempts him anyhow, curious if this Harv has any hospitality, if he will insist she have a glass too.

And she just might. Despite knowing better, she might just take a sip of that sugar-at-the-bottom sweet lemonade. She, after all, is different from the men she entertains.

“Let me fetch you–”

A jaunty tone like raindrops on a xylophone interrupts her. Harv moves so fast, grabbing at his back pocket, he clips his crown on the sink counter. “Hey, love?” He speaks over the line as if God’s name had appeared on caller-ID. Blanche is sure the devotion in his voice is sacrilege if that isn’t Jesus-fucking-Christ himself on the phone.

“Okay, okay, don’t panic now.” He stands up, picking up his tools as he moves. “I’m on my way, just take deep breaths, okay baby?”

Blanche’s stomach fills with air, her lips tight.

Harv slips his phone back in his pocket. “I’m real sorry ma’am, something came up. I gotta go. But I’ll make sure they send someone else out.”

“Is that your wife?” She asks in a voice so tightly wound it’s as if she’s asking about a mistress.

“Yeah. I’m real sorry but I’ve got to go.” He marches out of her kitchen.

Blanche grabs the pitcher of lemonade and follows. “At least have a drink before you go. For the road!”

“No thank you.”

He’d been raised right, she thinks; just as she swings her arm, holding onto the pitcher handle like a purse. Lemonaid splatters across the floor, the walls, the cabinet with all of Blanche’s hard-won memories. Harv falls to the floor like an old oak, glass in his cheek and eyes. The puddle of lemonade on the floor appears strawberry-flavored.

Harv– the man, groans, more taken aback than truly injured. Already his shoulders roll, palms pushing up from the sweet-soaked floor. Blanch isn’t sure how long it will take for the sugar crystals in his wounds to bring him sweet release. What she does know is she can’t risk him leaving this house, that not even the very edge of his pinkie-toe nail can step over her property line.

His toolbox spilled out on the floor with sparkling steel that rivals the rhinestones of her championship tiaras. Blanche does not know if a screwdriver in the ear or a hammer to the nose made much of a difference mess-wise. The man groans and Blanche reaches for the floor not even noticing what object she has picked up.

A wrench, dull and heavy, collides with the man’s skull. Blanche expects to see cracks, like when she would drop her childhood porcelain dolls. The man continues to groan and she strikes a second time, the wrench splitting his cheek and hitting the floor, splintering the wood beside him.

The room reeks of lemons and copper; Blanche recalls old competition dressing rooms back when talc powder had metals and hung in the air like pollen.

The burlap sack is stained red as if Blanch were foolishly carrying a bundle of maraschino cherries, liquor and all. Her back against her magnolia tree Blanche feels lost in her own Eden. The mishap with the man forces her to reflect, to wonder how many wives sit at home wondering where their no-good husbands are. Surely, if these women missed their husbands they would have made a fuss. She would have been caught long ago if she was not providing a service.

But this wife might feel a bit more inclined to find her husband’s whereabouts, not out of love, but pure curiosity. He said he would be there for her– a common enough lie, but Blanche had heard the urgency in his voice. A woman, somewhere, waited. How long would she be willing to wait?

The fireflies are back, dancing in front of Blanche– two yellow lights spinning in perfect circles an eye-width apart. Child-like, Blanche reaches for them, taking just a half step forward from the tree. Her hands extend in an attempt to capture one of the fireflies. To cup it in her hands and watch through her fingertips as it glows. The bugs avoid her grasp and fly–fast as lighting, to the magnolia tree.

The fireflies land on the trunk and Blanche thinks the grain in the wood looks rather like a face. One with high cheekbones and a striking nose with a small, almost forgotten chin. The fireflies dimmed– no, it was too fast. The light goes out much too fast like the bugs have been blinked out of existence for just a moment. The light returns. Gone again.

Tree bark begins to churn and swirl. Blanche wonders if inhaling the sweet scent of lemonade and cyanide is finally hitting her. Firefly eyes draw closer toward her, attached to that noble face held aloft by a regal neck. A woman steps from the tree like a queen stepping to meet her subjects. Her skin, the pale ash of the magnolia bark and her hair high upon her head, purple and white, a flower still blooming.

Blanche reminds herself to breathe, her trembling hands showing her age.

Dryad says, “Now you’ve done it, Blanche.” Her voice is amused. “Now you’ve ruined everything you’ve worked so hard for.”

“I-I can fix this,” Blanche says, indignant.

Dryad’s head tilts to one side, eyes glowing brighter now.

“Who are you?” Blanche shouts. She grabs her chest like the woman of the wood will plunge her splintered hands into her ribcage and tear her heart right out. “What do you want?”

“We want the same things, Blanche.”

“How do you know my name?”

Dryad’s voice is softer now. “I have always known you.” She steps toward Blanche who does not run, doesn’t so much as flinch. “The sun and soil fulfill my needs but you Blanche, you fill me with debauchery. I crave now because of you.”

Blanche recalls when she fell ill, a simple flu, but it took weeks for her to feel right again. Those labored walks around her backyard where her garden looked as disheveled as she felt. She chalked it up to her foul mood and aching body. In fact, it appears her garden has developed an appetite as she suspected.

“I must be going insane,” Blanche decides. “Finally nothing more than an old, crazed hag.”

“Don’t say that–” Dryad takes Blanche’s hands. “You are glory Blanche, like the sun.”

Blanche fails to hold back a snort. “The sun has given me nothing but these wrinkles.”

Something cups Blanche’s cheek though both Dryad’s hands hold firmly onto her own. The touch is smooth and fragrant like a silk scarf sprayed with perfume. “Those lines in your face remind me of roots,’’ Dryad says. “Deep, strong roots which pull from the earth. A mark of perseverance, of power.” Blanche realizes then it is a branch that touches her face, a bundle of magnolia flowers caressing her cheek.

“I can’t take it any longer–” Dryad hisses. “I need you.”

With that Blanche is pulled into the foliage, branches trapping her, scraping her skin. Somehow Dryad is on top of her, eyes no longer resembling a single firefly, light pouring from her sockets.

From a cut in her cheek, a drop of blood falls down Blanche’s cheek and she mistakes it for sweat. Till Dryad leans down and runs a thin tongue-like pistil across her skin. Dryad reels back, holding her hand over her mouth–though it does nothing to stifle the moans escaping her mouth. Blanche watches on as Dryad whimpers, the branches around her shake like a fall breeze blows through them.

“Your taste…” Dryad breathes. “Sweeter than pollen, nectar, and sap. You comfort me like soil and refresh me like rain.” Dryad dives forward, now sucking at the little cut. Thinner, wispy pistils now paw at Blanche’s cheek. Dryad does not lay on top of her, does not push her down. While her mouth attacks Blanche’s cut, it feels far from bad. If Blanche allowed herself to give into the sensation, she would have felt true pleasure for the first time.

But Blanche is too confused, too overwhelmed to appreciate the sensation in her body. She grabs a handful of petals and pulls Dryad away from her, the creature whimpering like a kicked dog.

“What are you doing?” Blanche demands. She sees now how stamens outline Dryad’s mouth, floating about like jellyfish tendrils, a poisonous lipstick. Dryad’s pistil hangs from her mouth and Blanche thinks she looks rather like a whore. “All this for my blood?” She clicks her tongue. “After gorging yourself on men for the last decade.”

Though her mouth is still open, Dryad manages to speak. “I’m sorry…”

“Hardly a worthy apology.” Her brows furrow, though Blanche is starting to enjoy this nightmare she’s stumbled into. “I raised you from a twig to a proper plant. Show me you know better. Show me I didn’t cultivate a common whore.”

“I-I apologize Miss Blanche.” The pistils begin to retreat back in Dryad’s mouth. “I’m so, so, sorry.”

Blanche sees the scene plainly. Her hand buried in magnolia petals, Dryad straddling her hips looking at her with desperate gold eyes, and the jagged branches surrounding her keeping her trapped. What she can not find is a way out.

“I always considered you my pride and joy,” she tells Dryad. “Perhaps you’ve earned a reward– though a lady hardly should want much of anything.”

“Show me how to be your lady. Anything to taste you again.”

Dryad had gushed over her wound, made a mess of herself for it. “You want my blood?”

Though Blanche still holds onto her petals Dryad nods. “Yes.”

“Already forgetting your manners.”

Dryad goes stiff as if she were a trunk once more. “Yes, ma’am. It would be a delight to taste you further.”

Blanche lifts her arm and drags it across one of the branches, her thin skin tearing. As soon as Blanche’s fingers drop the petals Dryad leaps like a hunting dog released from its lead. She takes Blanche’s arm, fingers wrapping around it, literal vines–growing and spreading, desperate to keep her in place. The pistil dives into the wound like a butterfly’s proboscis. Blanche bites her lip hard but the pain is not so different from the prodding she receives at her doctor’s visit. It’s not nearly as deep and sharp as a cock being clumsily shoved inside her. The stamens dance along her skin, catching droplets of blood and feeding them back into Dryad’s mouth.

“My monster…” Blanche breathes. “Will you ever be satiated dear? Have I spoiled you already? Made you a glutton?”

To her shock, her dismay, Dryad’s mouth leaves her arm. The branches begin to rustle again. Even the flowers of her hair shake, some of them floating down and landing on Blanche’s chest. “Miss Blanche!” Dryad sobs.

Blanche had never experienced an orgasm and so she did not recognize it.

But Dryad’s skin is slick with sap and her expression reminds Blanche of images of saints praying; beyond peace. Appearing as a revelation. Slowly her vine-fingers retract from Blanche’s body though the wound still spills blood.

Dryad asks. “Am I still to your liking?”

Blanche falls silent. Blood drips down her arm and splashes her blouse. She thinks of poinsettia flowers; bombastic, bright, festive, and deadly poisonous. Foxgloves with their dainty pink skirts and demure drooping; so toxic even the pollen can cause headaches. Nightshade gets all the attention, the trollop, all the fear and pearl clutching. When in truth so many beloved flowers are rotten to their core.

“I made you,” she reminds Dryad. “You mold to my needs.”

She brushes the back of Dryad’s hand with a fingertip, no longer minding the gash on her arm. “You can change shape… Make yourself…” She feels filthy saying it. “Larger.”

“I will make myself what you want of me, mother.”

Spinster Blanche had only ever received such a title in jest. Even now she did not feel maternal. But mother sounded good in Dryad’s mouth. Blanche wanted to hear it again.

She takes Dryad’s hand and brings it beneath her skirt. “If you’re good, I may let you use your mouth next.” She promises Dryad.

“Please, mother…”

“Already asking for more when I’ve given you so much. Spoiled. Rotten thing.”

Dryad only had to slip the tips of her fingers inside before stretching herself, turning her digits to vines, reaching up inside Blanche like her core were the sun.

Blanche’s breath caught in her throat and Dryad offers her another finger, another stalk for her bouquet, dying to hear that hitch again. The vines inside Blanche writhed till they eventually wrapped around themselves forming one, thick branch of pleasure. Blanche’s head rolled back into the grass, so overwhelmed she would shut her eyes if her Dryad were not staring at her with such blazing eyes.

“Mother you look so beautiful on your back,” Dryad coos. “Opening your legs for me.” Her other hand reaches for Blanche’s breast, limbs once again growing and splitting. Dryad’s hand, now twice the size it once was, wraps around Blanche. “I want you like this forever.” Her voice drops low, bearing the weight of her words. “Inoculate me.”

Their lips meet and Blanche does not fight against the brambles surrounding her or the growth within her. Dryad expands, inside and out. It grows past Blanche’s cunt, burrows beyond her fruitless organs, and seeds itself in her stomach. Blanche’s fingers wrap around the mangled branches till she can no longer tell where her fingers end and the wood begins. She lifts her chest, heart to heart with Dryad. Her fragile skin hardens.

The sun rises and dewdrops shine like rhinestones against Blanche’s leaves.

Arin writes romance and erotica of the paranormal variety. They live in New England with their partner, lizard, and cat. You can sign up for their newsletter here: https://subscribepage.io/aafairview