“Why do you hate nature?”
“I’m not obliged to explain anything to a stranger. I don’t want to see you on my porch. And I don’t want to book your desert tour.”
“When people don’t want to book our tours, they don’t say they hate nature. They say they don’t have money. They say they’re busy or sick or untrained.”
“Should I say I loathe nature?”
“It’s not about the word choice! I see the paintings hanging there in your living room. Do you know how many masters created landscape paintings? Have you heard of Monet, Aivazovsky, Cole?”
“I collect portraits. Please, stop staring at my walls. I want you to leave.”
“How can you hate nature? How can you hate deserts, forests, seas?”
“The sea roars at you. It sucks you in. Famished sharks lacerate your neck and malevolent dolphins pass your bloodless head to each other. Razor-sharp corals pierce your thighs and brainless fish devour your eyes.”
“Fine. We don’t sell scuba diving courses. We camp out in the desert. We eat egg sandwiches and feed camels leaves. Then we gather around the campfire and tell each other stories. Our guys will like yours. Some of them enjoy horror.”
“Please, leave. Leave before it’s too late.”
“Alright, I see. Night owls peck your eyes out. You get lost and starve to death. Blah, blah, blah. We’ve been camping for 10 years all over the world without any incidents. You can read reviews on our website.”
“Spit on the step.”
“What?”
“Just do it. Just spit on the step. Alright. Good job. Now kneel down and look at your saliva.”
“What the hell is this?”
“It’s a camel thorn.”
“You’re pranking me, aren’t you?”
“You’re full of them. You’re so accustomed to them pricking the inside of your cheeks, grinding the food you eat. They stuff your stomach, twist your intestines.”
“You’re messing up with me, creep.”
“Here, take this.”
“Why do you give me a knife?”
“Cut your arm.”
“I’m not going to do this, psycho.”
“You’ll be surprised when you see what you see.”
“Alright, I get it. You’re some Houdini disciple. You know what? I’ll cut my arm. I will.”
“I bet you’re educated enough to know that when people cut their skin, blood oozes out of their wounds. Where’s your blood, sir? Where’s your blood?”
“What the—”
“Sand replaced your blood. Quartz gobbled up your erythrocytes. Feldspar consumed your leukocytes. Mica wiped your thrombocytes out.”
“You must be pranking me.”
“Come on, stop this. You’ll cut your entire arm off. Give me the knife back. When’s your next trip?”
“It’s—I don’t really remember. Soon. It’s in the middle of May. It’s in a week.”
“Carnegiea blooms in May.”
“I know it blooms in May! What are you talking about? Tell me what you did to me!”
“Carnegiea inside you ages faster than you. Its flower will blossom soon.”
“Are you trying to convince me I have a damn cactus inside me? Carnegiea is 49 feet tall.”
“So? Human’s digestive tract is 30 feet long. You don’t realize how many weird things are stuffed inside people—especially people like us.”
“Tell me what you mean.”
“I mean your heart will blossom soon.”
“What? And? I don’t understand.”
“I don’t know what will happen then. You may fall in love. You may die.”
“Is it a threat?”
“It’s a warning.”
“What did you mean by ‘people like us?’”
“Do you have a napkin?”
“A napkin? Yes. Here. What are you going to do with it?”
“I’ll blow my nose. I feel a bit under the weather.”
“It’s disgusting. Why is this thing so big?”
"Touch it.”
“Are you seriously asking me to touch your snot?”
“It’s not snot. It’s a jellyfish.”
“Damn! It stings!”
“It hurts, doesn’t it? It hurts when algae clings to the back of your eyes. It hurts when bristle worms writhe in your brain, erasing your memories. It hurts when urchins sleep somewhere behind your sternum and every second can be your last.”
“This is why you hate—Oh, shit. My chest burns. I—I can’t speak.”
“The petals. They’re unfolding in your chest. I’m sorry. I hoped you’d fall in love.”
Nora Ray writes about the sad and the bizarre. Her fiction appeared in Ergot, Surely, Guilty, and is forthcoming in MoonPark Review. You can find her on Twitter/X: @noraraywrites.