Flower Children

by Georgea Jourjouklis

“July eighth, noon,” Curio said into the voice recorder on his phone. “Targets A, B, C, exit their Honda after four days away from the primary location.”

He raised a pair of binoculars—a cheap, dollar-store brand his grandmother gifted him a few Christmases ago—then peered through the window at his neighbours across the street. The hot July sun beat down on his face.

“Subject A is leading the others in,” he said, observing a middle-aged woman with dark hair, a loose, floral blouse, and Windsor sunglasses over her eyes. “Subject A is dressed in standard hipster fashion, holding a Costco bag with unknown contents.”

Subject B was the woman’s husband, a short, stocky man with a patterned scarf, long hair held back by a bandana, and a thick, cartoonish moustache. Subject C was a preteen girl with straight, brown hair, a flower crown, and a floral summer dress that reached her knees.

“Subject C is wearing outfit number three, essential for appearing innocent, simple, and inconspicuous. Subjects A and B have not changed their outfits in weeks.”

Once the family entered their house, Curio set down the binoculars and rushed to his computer to monitor the GoPro he had attached to his mailbox. The live camera faced his neighbours’ house, and if the front window had been open, he would have been able to see into their living room. Unfortunately, their thick, brown curtains had not been drawn in the two years they had lived across from him.

He mainly saw them in action around midday. The family loved the sun, and in the afternoon, they would set up lawn chairs in the garden. Curio called it ‘Lunchtime’.

Since he had graduated high school a year prior, he had the full year to spy on them without classes interfering, which meant a clear view of his neighbours lying in their side garden.

Curio had no concept of how long he was watching his screen, but he noticed his cousin, Sophie, walking past the mailbox camera, toward the porch. He had not invited her over a single time that year, yet she showed up at least once a week to check up on him and their grandmother.

Curio raced downstairs so his barely mobile grandmother did not have to answer the door.

“I got it, Grammy,” he called, then swung open the front door. “We’re alive. Thanks for stopping by.”

Curio tried to shut the door, but Sophie shoved it open. She was just over five feet tall but twice as strong, and she shared his harsh, dark eyes. Sophie wore a white blouse, and the neat bun atop her head was tied way too tight.

“Nice try!” she said, pushing her way past him.

He sighed. Sophie greeted their grandmother, asking how she was feeling and if she needed anything, while Curio headed back to his bedroom. A few minutes later, Sophie entered his room without knocking.

“Woah,” she said, her eyes scaling the walls, which were covered in photographs of the neighbours. Then she covered her nose. “It smells like dirty socks and vomit.”

“I don’t smell anything,” he mumbled, monitoring his camera.

“When’s the last time you…showered?” she asked, as gently as she could.

When he ignored her, Sophie walked over to his computer chair and put a hand on his shoulder. His eyes remained glued to the screen.

“I’m worried about you,” she said softly. “I mean, what’s so noteworthy about the Gallaghers?”

“My parents tried to tell you. You never believed them.”

Sophie wanted to take a deep breath, but the room’s stench stopped her. She had heard the conspiracy theories many times from her late aunt and uncle, but never had they stalked their neighbors to this extreme.

Sophie pulled up a chair and stared at him. “Dude, you’re telling me, without a shadow of a doubt, that these people are plants?”

“Flowers,” he snapped.

“Flowers, right.”

“You don’t believe me.”

Sophie put her head in her hands. She had tried to encourage him to seek professional help, but he claimed to be doing well after the accident. If this was “doing well” then she did not want to imagine him on a bad day.

“Look!” he said abruptly, pointing to the monitor. “They’re eating. This is the prime time for photosynthesis.”

“Curio, they’re sunbathing.” When Sophie received no response, she sighed. She leaned back in her chair and pondered it for a moment. “Alright, fine, let’s hear the rest. What did you find on them?”

Curio smiled, turning to face her.

“Here’s my theory,” he said, pulling out his notebook, which was filled, cover to cover, with notes and diagrams. “They’re some secret species—aliens maybe! They’re flowers, but they shapeshift into a human vessel. My mom saw one of them in their true form the day they moved in, and those curtains have been shut ever since.”

“And that’s why you don’t have any houseplants?” Sophie teased.

Curio nodded. “Got rid of them months ago in case they were spying on us.”

Sophie froze as her cousin answered with conviction.

“Curio, what’s the point?” she asked.

“To see one. I’m guessing they change back into their true form at night. I’d love to see, but that’s tricky proof. Instead, I’m gonna cut one of them in human form, and rather than blood, they’ll bleed chlorophyll.”

“Cut them?”

Curio nodded, taking out his pocket knife. It was only a few inches, but sharp.

“Absolutely not!” Sophie said. “You’re gonna hurt someone and get yourself in a shit ton of trouble. Think about Grammy.”

“You still don’t believe me.”

“I do believe you.”

Each time Sophie visited she was less and less confident that Curio would even answer the door, so the last thing he needed was someone calling him delusional. She had opted for the supportive approach.

“Seriously?” he asked, eyes wide.

“I mean, why not?” she continued. “You’ve done a lot of research, so you’re right, they’re flower people. But even so, they’re living peacefully. Who cares if half the people on Earth come from a different planet? Doesn’t bother me.”

Curio was quiet at first but then he turned away.

“It bothers me.”

“Why?”

“My parents weren’t crazy.”

“I never said they were,” Sophie said. “If we know the truth, isn’t that enough?” She squeezed his shoulder. “Do you even talk to Grammy about them anymore?”

Curio pulled away. He had not spoken to his grandmother about the accident in over a year, but he could hear her crying at night when she thought he was asleep.

“They would’ve been proud,” he mumbled.

“Please, Curio. You gotta let this go.”

“Get out.”

Sophie hesitated. She wanted to pull him into a tight embrace no matter what he smelled like, but instead, she rose from her seat and walked out of his room. Only his parents could comfort him.

*

Curio watched through his binoculars as a blue Toyota pulled up across the street. It belonged to an elderly gardener, Joe Kamau, who had been working for the Gallaghers since they had moved in.

Curio’s grandmother talked about him often. He moved from Kenya thirty years ago and had worked as an electrician, then a nurse, before settling down as a florist with his own flower shop in town. A few days a week he worked as a gardener, clearing weeds and hydrating the Gallaghers’ rich assortment of flowers.

Curio was sure he was one of them. It was too coincidental that he had started working for them as soon as they moved there. He fit right in. Some days he even laid on a lawn chair and sunbathed with them.

Joe was a calm and elderly man. Curio knew it had to be him.

*

When his neighbours left the house later that day, Curio went outside in the same t-shirt and sweatpants he had been wearing for three weeks. He crossed the street.

When he entered the side garden, the old man looked up from the weeds he was uprooting and smiled.

“Nice day, isn’t it?” he asked. “Can I help you, boy?”

“Just wondering if you needed some help cutting weeds. I’m the Gallaghers’ neighbour.” Curio pointed across the street.

“That’s right, I talked to your grandma a couple times. Nice lady.” Joe smiled. “Curious about gardening?”

“Yes, Sir. I brought my own knife. Mind if I cut a few weeds?”

Curio crouched beside Joe and watched him uproot a dandelion that had sprouted beside the hydrangeas.

“I guess you could do a couple. Just be careful, there’s some recoil to the tough ones,” Joe said, then directed him on which to cut.

Curio cut into the roots, but then swung the blade up and sliced the back of the man’s hand. He was praying to see a green ooze, but instead, only red trickled from the wound.

“Careful—Goddammit!” Joe yelled, stumbling back.

Curio dropped the knife as a chill shot up his spine. “I’m sorry! I didn’t mean it. I just lost control!”

Joe clutched his hand to his chest, the blood soaking through his white shirt. He mumbled curses under his breath, while Curio opened his backpack and pulled out some tissues.

“Let me help,” Curio said.

Joe offered out his bleeding hand, but he had a stern look on his face. Curio tried to avoid his eyes while he held the tissues against the cut.

“I’m sorry, Sir,” he said, again.

“You like hurting people?” Joe mumbled.

Curio’s stomach ached. “No, Sir. It was an accident.”

“Didn’t look like an accident. I should tell your grandma you’re out causing trouble for an old man.”

“Please, don’t—she’s not doing well—she can’t take the stress. I promise I haven’t been in any trouble before. It was an accident.”

Joe glanced over at the house, then back at his hand. They were both quiet for a moment.

“I heard what happened to ya,” Joe said softly, nodding. “I don’t have my parents either—gone fifteen years.”

Curio swallowed hard, remaining silent.

“You should go home,” Joe said. He turned to grab his watering can and tools. “I should head home too.”

“Am I in trouble?”

Joe looked back at him and frowned. “I think it’s fair that I don’t want you around here anymore. I’ll tell the Gallaghers about what happened.”

Curio tasted sour in the back of his throat. “Wait, don’t!”

“You don’t give me orders, boy.”

If the Gallaghers found out about the incident, they might act even more aloof—perhaps move away. His heart drummed in his chest.

“Just give me one day. They might tell Grammy and her heart can’t take it. Just one day to sort things out with her—tell them tomorrow if you have to.”

Joe thought about it for a moment, then reluctantly nodded.

“You got one day then. Not sure what that’ll do.”

Curio thanked him multiple times, but Joe just collected his tools, got into his car, and drove off without a word.

When the blue car was out of view, Curio walked over to the spot of grass where he had dropped his knife. When he picked it up, there was still a thin coat of dry blood on the blade.

*

Just after midnight, Curio crept downstairs. His grandmother was in her room and she always slept soundly so long as he closed the door quietly.

Curio snuck his way across the street and went around the back of his neighbours’ house where the basement door was. It had a staircase leading down. He was no longer worried about his safety or getting caught now that he had assaulted a man. If Joe was going to tell them tomorrow, then he had to see their true form while he still had the chance.

Witnessing the flower-people was the only thing that could satisfy his craving, even if that meant breaking in. He had been practicing lockpicking over his gap year for this reason, but to his surprise, the basement door was unlocked. They lived in a relatively safe neighbourhood, but this was still abnormal.

He turned the knob hesitantly and pushed his way inside. The basement was dark, so Curio used his phone’s flashlight to look around, and what he immediately noticed was the empty space. There was no furniture in the open-concept basement so his footsteps echoed against cement flooring. A staircase led up to an open door.

The stairs creaked under his weight, but he tried to stay steady and make it to the top without rousing anyone. When he reached the main floor, he shined his light both ways down the hall.

The house was relatively empty as well. The living room had a couch and a table, but no television or decor, and the kitchen looked as though they had not used it since moving in.

When Curio opened the fridge, there was not a morsel of food inside—nor were there any dishes in the cupboards.

He explored the hallway until he reached the master bedroom. He opened the door, as quietly as he could, and peered inside. There was no furniture in the room aside from three large plant pots, each two feet tall.

Curio’s stomach sank. Two flower creatures were asleep in their pots. They had tall, lanky stems with leaves sprouting from different sides, large daffodil heads, and beady eyes with no eyelids.

He lowered his light immediately. At first, he could only think to stare in disbelief, but then he realized only two of the pots were occupied.

The room light flicked on.

Curio jumped back and gasped, then he froze. Any urge to run melted away as he stared at the face of his mother. The same bobbed, brown hair, green eyes, and red lipstick. Every detail was the same, from her blue jeans and polka-dotted blouse to the one tooth that stuck out when she closed her mouth.

“Mama?” he asked.

Curio broke down in tears, gasping for breaths between sobs. He had seen her lying on the road, covered in shattered glass. He had cried at the edge of her coffin during her wake. He knew she was dead.

But now, she was standing before him, just as he remembered her. He rushed into her arms, and her bony hand stroked the back of his head.

“You’re not my mama, are you?” he cried, holding her.

She hushed him softly. “I’m whoever you need me to be.”

Even her warmth was exactly as he remembered, with a calming smell of lavender and freshly brewed coffee. Every hard day and low grade had seemed minuscule when she had held him in her arms and reminded him how loved he was.

“Curio, you’ve done something wrong,” her honeyed voice said. He pulled back, and she cupped his cheek with one hand. “You’re harassing innocent people. You need to let them be.”

Curio sniffled. “But I was right…”

“Of course, you were, my brilliant boy. And now you can hold that secret forever. They trust you with it. But you can’t keep pushing Dad and me away. I want you to find peace.”

“Thinking about you is too hard.”

“But you have to do it. Grammy lost a daughter. She doesn’t go a day without thinking about her. She misses her grandson too.”

“What do I do, Mama?” he sobbed.

“Comfort each other.”

Curio nodded, taking a deep breath. He hugged her once again, sinking all of his weight into their embrace. Then his mother kissed his forehead.

“Go home, baby. Get a good night’s sleep. Everything will be different in the morning.”

Curio pulled away reluctantly. He looked back at the flower-people and observed how peacefully they slept.

“I’ll miss you,” he whispered.

“I’ll miss you too.”

Curio nodded, sniffling. He watched as she transformed back into a daffodil and climbed into her pot.

When Curio returned home, he did not think about closing the door quietly. It slammed, so as he walked upstairs his grandmother called to him.

“Yeah, it’s just me, Grammy,” he said. Curio peaked into her room.

“You were out so late,” she said, her voice breaking slightly, then she sniffled.

Curio sat down on her bed and handed her a tissue. Then he caressed her brittle, greying hair, as tears leaked from his eyes.

“Were you thinking about Mom and Dad?” he asked.

His grandmother stared. She had not heard him mention them in so long that it paralyzed her at first. She slowly nodded, wiping her eyes with the tissue.

“So was I,” he whispered. They were both quiet for a moment as he caressed her hair. “Let’s get a good night’s sleep, Grammy. We deserve it.”

“We could talk about it tomorrow,” she said hesitantly.

Curio nodded. “Yeah, I think we should. Goodnight, Grammy.”

He kissed her on the cheek and walked out of the room, closing the door behind him softly.

When Curio lay down in his bed, he finally noticed the sour reek of dirty dishes, laundry, and body odour that had festered for months. But when he closed his eyes, he smelled lavender and dark roast coffee, and imagined a pair of outstretched arms wrapping around him, rocking him to sleep.

 

 

Georgea Jourjouklis is a current University of Toronto alumnus, a future English teacher, and a queer writer with a primary focus on novels, poetry, mental health, and normalizing queerness in the fantasy genre.