A flower grew through my TV on the first day of summer. It appeared overnight, smashing a hole in the screen and unfurling a ring of ten-inch petals.
I pulled it out; it was probably a weed. Perhaps an isolated seed had floated in on a draught. If only the flower could understand I didn’t appreciate a broken TV.
I flicked the light switch so I could better inspect the damage. Nothing happened. The kitchen light wasn’t working either. The smell of rotting meat wafted past, so I knew the fridge had stopped too. Something had cut my power.
With the electric lights dead, I resorted to opening the curtains. I saw dozens of grey-brick houses, none with lights on. The nearest house had a few small flowers hanging from the window. Those farther away had disappeared under a blanket of vines.
Concerning, I thought. But I couldn’t go anywhere, so I couldn’t do anything. I muddled through my day in natural light, using a torch in the evening until I fell asleep.
A brush across my cheek woke me up, a vine tendril curling down from the ceiling. Creeping plants had covered the walls overnight, and a mat of flowers had sprung up on my bedside table. In the living room, plants had smashed every piece of furniture, punching through tables, chairs, cabinets, couches, and electrical appliances. Anything useful was destroyed.
I ran towards the door. A white rose, taller than me, blocked my way. Its roots lay unburied in a heap on the floorboards. They started moving, like a ball of snakes, pulling the plant across the floor. Its branches swung through the air, the thorns making schick-schick noises as they sliced against each other.
I ducked behind a hedge that was formerly a couch. The noises stopped. When everything seemed still, I stuck my head up.