Low-beam headlights gloss the Welcome to Stonefield in a humming Cadillac fat with rusting streaks and wide dents. Pastel pines stand nicely at sideroads and just ahead is free country littered with a few leftover houses. The radio sticks from its slot like some rude head and the button glitters there from moonlight alone. Fog on fog means just the metal body cutting and chewing into new land barely seen; man flicks the radio on. Clicks and scratches—a static breaks out with some virile calls. Tarmac tongue rolls and rolls so that the houses far out rise and fall with him.
Alabaster wings flail and dry out into black forest. Man headless with stemmed flower stuck into a soiled throat, the azure bumps with the fast road and there his cerebral plant arrives and now only still it stays. Front of a country home, Flowerhead shifts out his car, and the humming reaches the ground that makes it tremble beneath his feet. The eggy moon glowers at this Flowerhead and away falls light shrouded with noctilucent curtains. Out from the birch door dances a man with a chest of ivy and face of deep-rooted brush. He booms a noise and Flowerhead wilts his emerald roost and looks on him.
“Come to fix your window.”
Ivychest sidles into the railing. Flowerhead makes his way and into the small cottage home; the window strumming amber glows. Cramped box with a dinner setup and two loungers.
“Problem with the HiStream4k?”
Ivychest comes aside Flowerhead.
“Stuck on orange—got me a lady come over one time and clicked her shoe on that box. Don’t know if that mean anything.”
“No, it doesn’t.”
“What do you wanna see outside?”
“I don’t know. I was thinking some of them real nice palms waving on a beach.”
“Gotta pay extra for graphics like that.”
“That expensive?”
“Think so.”
“What you mean? It expensive or not?”
“Came here for circuit repair, don’t know if that covered.”
“Man, I’m asking how much.”
“$400 easy.”
Fiery hands and bright body. I see a man with a flower in his throat and another with ivy on his chest. Pane of glass long as my arm span, and they cannot see me. Maybe a wave will do. Stringy arm swipes the air on top. Flowerhead keeps his fists-on-hips and Ivychest with his tasseled greens hiding his sides. Flowerhead comes kneeling just below me and down I’m looking—he fidgets with something out of sight. I shout. Nothing. I shout, again. Both plants rustle and now Ivychest joins Flowerhead below my waist.
Breaking this panel should do it. A big thump hits the screen, and a gray bar flickers. Ivy juts his look right up at my belly. Flower focuses on whatever’s down there.
“Your service is way out of tune.”
“What’s that mean?”
“Someone tampering with the power chords.”
“Can you fix it?”
“Maybe. Thing is there an anomaly in there.”
“What that mean?”
“Means there’ll be things in there you won’t like.”
“Deluxe don’t fix that?”
“You don’t got deluxe.”
“Oh, yeah.”
Flowerhead ticks some flames from his fingertips to solder the torn wires back into place. Some beeps and clicks—the switches flick and buttons mash for this circuitry box to close. Ivychest scratches the face of his bush; he steps over to his couch for a two-buttoned remote and on comes the television.
Fizzling blue and I’m turning into something giant. This bustling beach full of palms and crabs and towels. The window looks no larger than my ankle. I’ll try to move my head around. A huge snap forces my eyes back down on the beach. I switch my head to the right just slow enough, and I can see just an endless wash of sky, sand, and water. That panel down there is barely shining on the sand.
“Hell are those poles out there?”
Flowerhead reels from his crouch and stands with Ivychest. A perfect horizon with no clouds, but those columns were shaking just enough to notice.
“Those are legs.”
“Legs?”
“Yeah, that thing can flip out your programming. Maybe that’s what did it.”
“Well, go on! Get it out then!”
“I don’t know.”
“What you mean, ‘you don’t know’? Get that thing out my damn window!”
“May screw up the programming in the province, and that’d fry—”
“It can’t, and it won’t. Just fix that thing, already.”
Ivychest tosses the remote away and shovels into his pockets; he produces a billfold and a white, plastic pill.
“Said $400?”
“This got nothing to do with deluxe.”
“Then how much?”
Flowerhead runs sweaty fingers around the frame stuck to the wall. Completely smooth runs until a bump on the bottom peels some skin.
“This can’t be fixed.”
“Hell you mean now? You just come here to tick me off?”
“Got a defect, see there? Bottom-side?”
“What about it?”
“Probably tapped in from neighbors’ windows. Pumping out enough energy to keep on.”
“This gone kill me, ain’t it?”
“No, it won’t. But it also can’t be safe.”
My eyes are blurry in the throw of hard light. I have no nose. My legs are burred into the floor, and my only feeling is the shaking. My arms grow heavy, and I turn small, and I am forced into four legs. Hair on my head mats into a thick flush of fur and ears curl into ivory horns.
The scene changes again, and once more am I disoriented. Only white panic in my eyes, that’s the only thing I can understand. This place of constant change buckles my knees, so I fall onto my stomach only for brown, curly coat to fluff. Forest with soaring redwoods and babbling brooks; the grass green and shiny. My stomach growls so I stretch my long neck into the blades and itch in my throat forces me to bleat.
Vision split into narrow fields, my sides so clear and so wide.
Plants reduce to potted vestiges and a man enters his apartment. Outside stands other buildings—concrete jungle in the middle of nowhere. The dim room sparks into oak tables yellowed with light and stuck foliage bustling with breeze. The man stands front of the monitor, and he begins to remove his office attire and leaves to another room. The lights are stronger now, and I feel my mind empty. I clop my lunulas up and down; charging for the monitor, my coat tugs on my weight and my senses go shot.
The weekend’s soon; that’ll be nice to finally have time to see what new store downtown is about. Maybe I can see to talking to someone about getting a different job. The commute is out of my way, anyhow.
Back into the living room, my nightwear is still rumpled. Maybe a quick snack before I just head to sleep. Too tired. Fridge has an onion, milk carton, and granola bar. Bar’ll do. A huge thump sounds from behind his head. He swivels to his countertop, looking at his bedroom’s window—it’s intact. Where’d that come from? The same thump bangs from the television. He makes his way onto the couch as the granola teethes himself.
Screen whorls some green and blue into a globe icon; a documentary showcasing animals in non-native environments. A rainforest. Cameras focus on some bulky creature in the centerfold of some stretched trees, and there below sits a still ram.
