I awake in the night to a glowing. From behind my eyelids a blue light seeps and grows, until I know I am not asleep and dreaming. I peel open my eyes and feel the dew on the grass under my hands.
My flower bed has been unexpected. It began with my mattress, an ancient mouldy present I gave myself before we set sail, from a dumpster outside Jacksonville harbour. Although the days have been sunny, I quickly found that no amount of airing or beating would dry or clean it. I resigned myself to a constant dampness, and found it wasn’t such a hardship.
Every morning, for the past week, I have woken up to more and more sprouts. First, patches of sweet smelling mould, different to that found on old vegetables. Rather than repellent, this mould became comforting in its life. A companion for the journey.
Soon to join the mould were tufts of grass, poking through the disintegrating material with their soft green fingers.
Before I knew it, I was sleeping in a flower bed. I tried scattering some of the tulip and daffodil seeds I’d brought with me, but none of them took. The bed would only grow of its own accord.
Amongst the thick grass, mushrooms and toadstools began to grow. I would pick them, eat them, and squash them during my sleep, but in the morning there would always be more. They grew with an unnatural speed.
So this night, I awoke to a blue glow. It was the mushrooms, and they seemed to be stretching towards me, urging me to speak with them. I brushed them with my hands, and they almost purred with strange, soft movement.
When I woke at dawn, the glow was gone, and the mushrooms were still. I thought I must have dreamed the whole scene. But I hoped not.
Simon: Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm, bioluminescence.
Alfie: Bobby, it looks like your mushroom sauce is a goer.