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Runa

It’s not often I wake from the sound of sharp teeth turning flesh into ground meat.

That’s only because I try to keep my intimate affairs to the daytime.

Chewie is far too loud for nighttime feedings.

“Chewie!” I whine, throwing my pillow at the oversized Venus flytrap chimera.

She yelps like a dog that got its tail stepped on, but it does nothing to cease the loud crunching of her chewing.

“Please!” My begging is deplorable, “We have to open the shop early for the medium tomorrow.” I look over to my clock to see that it’s too late; it’s already tomorrow.

The early 2000s analog alarm reads two fifteen.

It’s today.

Crunch.

Crunch.

“Ugh.” I throw my feet into the mattress, frustrated, grabbing my only surviving pillow and wrapping it over my head to dull the sound.

She’s getting too large to stay in my room now.

I had assumed once Chewie reached maturity she’d stop growing, but it seems that there is no limit to my spell.

She just keeps getting bigger.

As a witch, I use my skills to keep my metaphysical shop going and the customers flowing in and out.

About four months ago I acquired a Venus fly trap that was crossbred with a tiger lily but I may have accidentally dropped an entire vial of actual tiger blood in the growth solution.

When Chewie here sprouted a trap with razor sharp teeth I had no option but to feed her.

Right?

Well, I thought so at least.

Except Chewie is nearly seven feet tall now and requires the same amount of fresh meat as a large jungle cat before she starts meowing like a caged predator waiting to be fed.

Because she can’t hunt on her own .

Okay, ethically I fucked up big time.

I was lonely.

I wanted a friend.

I wanted scary dog privileges in the shape of a plant and I should have probably consulted someone before attempting this spell.

And I would have, if I still had friends .

At thirty I’ve either outlived or successfully written off nearly every person who once took up space in my life.

My old friends refused to grow and remained in a permanent cycle of self-hatred toward each other, surviving off of morsels of dopamine disguised as gossip that I could no longer tolerate.

My elders and magical mentors became either too old to formulate coherent thoughts or like the rest of my family, are now dead and ashes.

A masculine groan echoes from the corner, forcing my sleepy eyes open.

“Oh shit.” I scramble off the bed in a hurry, “Is he still alive?” I ask knowing well she can’t answer, turning on the light before I slide into my cozy slippers to investigate.

Chewie continues to do what she does best.

She masticates.

“Chewbacca.” I call her by her full name, tone set to chastise.

The crunching stops.

Like a well trained beast she opens what any reasonable person would call a mouth, exposing three rows of razor sharp teeth on the top as well as the bottom.

All I can see are the legs of the polo-wearing country-club ass-bag I found at a local dive bar now lodged deep into the throat of my plant companion.

Okay, so feeding her a human wasn’t part of the plan.

It’s not my fault Chadrick Dickchad over here wouldn’t take no for an answer and followed me for three blocks after I left the bar last night.

It’s definitely not my fault he tried to get inside the shop and then got aggressive when I pulled out my pepper spray.

It might be my fault that the plant I’ve made sentient has become somewhat protective and decided to start turning some of my less favorable encounters into midnight snacks.

It might also not be the first time something like this has happened.

His legs are chewed to shit, minced meat with some shreds of clothing dangling from the plant’s pointed teeth.

She doesn’t mind the clothes, but she still whines as I examine the situation.

She’s an overgrown baby.

I have to grab the stepstool nearby and move it in front of her so I can get a better view into her planthole.

It’s hard to see from this far back, but the other option involves crawling inside fully.

It’s not a problem, sure it’s a challenge avoiding getting cut by one of her many razor-sharp teeth, but the issue itself is that I’ve already bathed and getting covered in the latex goop Chewie excretes from her mouth is not something I care for.

“Can you lean down a bit, sweet girl? Kinda hard to see from here.” I ask because somehow she understands me.

I realized that early on in her growth.

She angles herself so that her opening is directly above my head and her mouth comes ajar, pieces of the man showering down on me like a burst pipe–but instead of rain, it’s sloppy Joseph filling.

Bloody, chunky, tangled in clothes, sloppy joe.

Hold the barbecue sauce, because I’m barely even sure his name was Joseph.

I go to wipe blood off my face but it’s no use, my hands are just as covered and cause me to smear it over my eyes further, making it impossible to see.

Pulling my shirt over my head, I use the inner fabric to clean the gunk from my eyelashes.

That’s when I’m able to peer into the depths of the open mouth on Chewbacca’s trap where the Rolex twinkles, still stuck on her digestive glands.

Reaching up onto my tippy toes I can almost grab it, “A little more.” I grunt as she practically engulfs me into her opening.

I dislodge it with a tug, but somehow the action forces her to heave and once more I’m covered in the first half of tonight’s meal.

The quasi-digested half.

I gag, but hold it back, dreading that now I’ll be spending the rest of the morning cleaning this mess instead of sleeping.

Just what I need.

“Hope you feel better.” I sigh.

At least a real dog would be eating his own vomit now.