MR. WOLF AND THE RHODODENDRON

“Breaking News! Local police have uncovered another body in Prester Forest. This is the seventh one this month, sporting the calling card of Viridia’s first serial killer, The Wolf. The victim was left only in red garments with a wicker basket of her belongings, as well as photos taken likely days prior to her going missing. Female citizens are advised to remain indoors—”

The overhead TV was quickly drowned out by the bumping and thumping of the washing machine Lillian stared at. Her laundry, sopping-wet and soapy, spun violently in the cycle. The machine continued to groan on; the metal was beaten up on the outside as though it had gotten into a street fight with another washing machine and lost. It was still a better sight than the man who had stalked her from her shop-house and followed her for the hour-long walk. The machine at home must have been conspiring with him when it broke down.

Go away, Mr. Wolf. Let’s not make any trouble.

It had to be him, right? Why else would any decent person follow a perfect stranger? Her floral skirt swayed with her idle movement, and the begonias bent with the cotton fabric. Begonias that once represented her peace now flipped their meaning into a warning, like little orange stop signs. The sunlight peeked in through the large windows, kissed her hair golden, but as the man approached from behind, he blocked it out like an eclipse. He smelled of cheap cigarettes and musk. She took a reluctant breath and dared to look up, trying not to grimace. That would’ve been rude.

His nose was crooked as though he had snapped it back in place after someone broke it. Square angles made up his jawline, covered in dark, scruffy stubble. It wouldn’t have been too awful a sight if those pale eyes hadn’t been darkened with something distasteful— a wolf with no pack. Still dangerous, but manageable, thankfully. She offered a graceful smile.
Down, Mr. Wolf.

“Hey, little lady. I noticed you moved into that old flower shop a while ago. Thought I’d say hi,” he said. The air suddenly smelled of nicotine and Listerine. He was leaning too closely. Too eagerly.

“I did.” Her voice remained silky. “Hello to you, too, sir.”

“How formal. I’m—” She stopped listening and simply stared, nodding on occasion. He might’ve said, Jack or Rick. Something that ended in -ck. The washing machine spun on. A large hand on her shoulder snapped her back to the present moment, her own hand diving into her skirt pocket and gripping something as she felt her breath hitch. His side pressed against hers, invaded her space like bamboo shoots.

“You single?” His red flannel shirt brushed against her bare arms like sandpaper.

“No. My girlfriend is finishing her studies back in our hometown.”

“Oh. Such a waste," His hand brushed much too closely, “Still! I’d love to take your picture. You’re like something out of a fairytale,” he said with that too-confident grin.

“Oh, no, thank you. I don’t usually do pictures,” she said as dread curled in her gut like a wisteria vine around a pine tree, choking out other sensations. I am not prey.

“I insist. I’ll even give you one for your little girlfriend to keep.” He was insistent. She was already marked. Bile and chamomile built up in the back of her throat. She inhaled.
“Candy?” She pulled out a cloth from her skirt pocket and unwrapped it. Honey and flowers overpowered the chemical odors as the golden candies were revealed. Her nausea eased. “They’re a little stuck together, but they’re good! I made them myself.” She breathed again when he took his hand off her to take several pieces of her candy.

“That’s nice of you. Thanks, sweetheart,” he said with no small ounce of condescension.

She tried not to laugh as he grimaced when all four pieces hit his taste buds. “It’s got a bitter edge. I like it, but I thought candy was supposed to be sweet.”

“I’m diabetic. It’s specially made so I can have a treat here and there,” she said. She folded the cloth and put it away, a neat little half-lie. The buzzer sounded, calling an end to the conversation as Lillian turned to dig out her clothes. She could hang them upstairs and open the balcony windows. The walk home was still an hour, but she knew Jack-Rick wouldn’t make it that far. Wolves rarely ever hunted well under the influence. Rhododendron honey from home was a tad more potent, a flower with a different warning, one that it carried in its nectar. One that said, “Beware the danger that is me.” She turned and waved to the would-be killer and saw only a dead man smiling back at her as he adjusted his camera.

Nolani Clark is a trans-masculine student at Full Sail University writing under his chosen name of Niko. When he isn't experimenting with different genres or bulldozing through homework, he's drawing funny little skits for his art blogs or caring for two elderly relatives. Follow him on TikTok @nikonikoskyblue.