2022-2023 — the TOWER

Mature for your age” is my domain, “burnt out” my kingdom and “ex gifted kid” my phylum. 

Every easy assignment, each word of encouragement I receive is burned like coals in the furnace of my chest.

Starved for more I dig endlessly to satiate an urge I cannot see or touch.

That disease, perfection was slipped into my sippy cup like arsenic into tea, unseen, it coats my throat and echoes in my speech.

Like a fungus it spreads its mycelium through my mind, connecting my passions and pursuits into a superorganism of toxicity. 

Roots reaching down into my lungs restrict my breathing without release until the deadline has passed only to be followed by another and another. 

Through my arms it reaches, indistinguishable from veins, my fingers freeze before even a single pen stroke, “If it isn’t perfect it’s pointless.”

With this equation as my doctrine, I follow it like a heavenly light across this churning sea of uncertainty, a prophet of the myth: perfection. 

Blinded I walk and pray that the stones will find my feet, accomplishment my sword and shield, achievement worn like a talisman around my neck to ward off what lies beyond the path laid before me.

Afraid that what lurks can smell my fear, I mask it with the perfume of humility and clothe it in faux strength, avoiding my mirror which sees through my disguise, my own gaze a giveaway.

Like monkey bars in a playground, others meet my standards with a mere stretch while I must face an endless climb comparable to Mt. Everest, my climbing rope sliced by the knife in my own hand. 

I am enriched and impressed by those around me and live to see their success, every flower’s uniqueness filling my heart, yet I cannot see the beauty growing at my very own feet.

I cannot enjoy the freedom of making for fear of imperfection, were I a spider I’d have made and destroyed a thousand webs seeking symmetry. 

My thirst for perfection lulls me with a song of fulfillment, like a snake it winds its way around my throat, tighter with each passing day.

Caught up in an endless race like a dog chasing its own tail to a point of exhaustion I have to command myself “Stop!

My pager begins to go off, and I am not in the best of mindset right now. I checked to see that it was from Johnson, and that he found several bodies in the forest. I groggily get out of my bed, put on my dark jeans, Daughtry T-shirt, slip-ons, and brown blazer before I head out the door of my secret room in the 89th Precinct. I quietly slip behind the new rookies, cubs I call them, as I make my way from the back door. One of them is carrying a pack of cards, most likely they’re going to play a game of Texas Hold ‘Em with the more experienced officers. One of them bumps into a sergeant, his face getting redder as his uniform got browner. Sawyer, as I hear one of them call her, apologizes, and goes to get a new batch of coffee.

I get my head together and make my way to the roof access. After reaching the top, I jump down and burst into a full sprint down 5th and Gulf, then winding past Phillips Boulevard. The feel of the wind against my face is always intoxicating.

I didn’t say hello to the cubs. I wouldn’t want to startle them since we have never officially met. Also, Johnson is a stickler for punctuality, and I would get an earful if I were late.

It’s not that I don’t like people, it’s more so due to who I am, or rather, what I am. See, I am an orphan, and it was several of the good folks here at the 89th that found me. Herein lies the rub, they found me surrounded by blood (not my own, thank goodness) and no sign of any relatives. Instead of tempting fate by trying to find and return me to my family given the circumstances, they kept me a secret and raised me. The way Ol’ Baskins saw it, someone or thing was after me, and it would be better if I were in a safe place. I have been described as a major asset to the 89th Precinct as I can determine clues based on certain sights and smells. I can also track down certain things and people if given the, let’s say, proper materials.

Enough about my living arrangements, I got to the park within seven minutes, a personal best if I do say so myself. I can smell the exhaustion on Johnson, which was par for the course for him. He was always skeptical about the supernatural, and in the seventeen years ever since he found me his beliefs in rationality have been brought into question multiple times.

“What have you got for me?” I ask.

“Three bodies, two passersby found them covered in some weird residue all over them,” he responds tiredly.

“Anyone witness anything?” I follow up.

“No, but the weirdest thing is how the bodies are positioned,” he responds. I stroll over to the bodies and remove the blankets.

The three bodies are sprouting from the ground, covered in leaves and a moss-like substance. I take a good whiff, and I almost reel back in repulsion, so I stop smelling. Then, I fix my eyes and focus on something akin to wisps, which was signaling some type of pheromone. I find the claw-like marks on the bodies, going from head to toe. I snatch a leaf from one of the bodies and begin to roll the leaf in my hands, trying to get a good feel as to why the killer would use a botanical theme for the murders. I take in its sensation, it’s silky at first, but then I feel it trying to seep into my skin, so I drop it and stomp on it.

“I take it you’re done with your preliminary inspection,” Johnson inquires gruffly.

I regained my composure, and I made eye contact with Johnson; the pain goes away in seconds. “I would have to say that this is a Sporedred attack,” I respond.

Despite my sheltered life, I was quite in the know about the supernatural. The 89th is part of a program that delves into more peculiar cases. Back when I was six, strange men came into the interrogation room and gave an outlined program that would benefit them and the 89th Precinct. They introduced a guy named Reinard, who would become my contact to help me in certain cases. The 89th Precinct was hesitant at first, but when they were told of how many crimes were related to people like me, they decided it was best for me to be trained so I could maintain secrecy. It was a harrowing regimen to get me ready to defend the public from the things that go bump in the night.

Reinard himself is a werefox, befitting his name. While the 89th Precinct had given me a home and general education, Reinard became my link to the supernatural and he has come in handy for a few cases. The information he gives may be pricey, but even he knows that the lid being blown off would be bad for people like us.

Now, regarding the Spordred; they are undead plant creatures, feeding off any organic matter and they tend to stay away from the sun. They are a recent phenomenon. No one knows their complete origins; not how to create them nor their overall purpose in the balance. The most recent trouble was over in the Balkan Islands in ‘94.

“So, I assume that you need to round these guys up?” Johnson said.

“It’s not that simple, Johnson” I retorted.

Johnson began to rub his temples before asking “And why is that?”

“Because the Sporedred do not attack without provocation, meaning that this is more than likely an accident,” I replied.

“Well, what am I supposed to say to their families. ‘I’m so sorry for your loss, but the plant monsters who attacked your children can’t come in and that it was a random occurrence?’

“Well, when you put it like that, it sounds downright ridiculous,” I replied.

“At the very least, can you make sure that there are no other Spore dudes around?” Johnson asked.

I simply nodded and did not bother trying to correct him. As I made my way out of the park and deeper into the forest, I began to ponder how the Sporedred even came across those people and what the three victims had in common. I was bamboozled, which describes how I feel about every case involving the things that go bump in the night. I began to sniff around, trying to catch a whiff of something that might be able to point me in the right direction. Suddenly, I got a strong, repugnant scent that reminded me of a corpse flower. Within fifty-two seconds, I am at the source of the scent, but I don’t notice anything significant. I could still see the tiny wisps, but nothing else was popping up. What am I missing here? I felt dejected, so I made a long trek back to the 89th Precinct.

By the time I got back to the Precinct, I was dead tired, the cubs had gone home, and Ol’ Baskins was waiting for me with a Tupperware canister of beef stew in the TV room. I am a proud carnivore; I don’t care that my diet upsets Vegans. Ol’ Baskins motions for me to sit down, and I do. Out of the seven men who found me, I like Ol’ Baskins the best. He is the only one who treats me like a normal human being. Sure, the other guys besides Johnson are nice, but I always notice trivial things that tell me that they don’t fully trust me. Whenever I need advice, want a shoulder to cry on, or even just need someone to go with me somewhere, Ol’ Baskins is my default. Ol’ Baskins takes a deep breath before asking me what I found.

“Not much,” I reply, “just a deep part of the forest and some wisps of smoke. It would be best to cordon off the area.”

“That may be our best solution, Hound,” said Ol’ Baskins. Ol’ Baskins handed me the beef stew and I began to chow down. I noticed that Ol’ Baskins had that look again, the look where he is disappointed when he can’t solve the problem at hand.

“I’m sorry sir. I just don’t know where they could have gone to,” I said.

“I never said I blamed you. I just cannot help but wonder what if this could happen again,” Ol’ Baskins replied. I could smell the despair coming from him, and I hate it when Ol’ Baskins feels that way. Ever since he lost his children in a gang hit and his wife left him all those years ago, he has always looked for ways to prevent families from losing their loved ones to murderers.

After I finished my meal, I bid Ol’ Baskins a goodnight and headed back to my room. I always like to think of it as my den. It’s cozy, spacy, and reinforced for, shall we say, special occasions that occur on the full moon. The next one was coming up in two days, hurray for me. I took off my Slip Ons and pressed my feet up against the wall. I felt not only the cool of the wall, but also the vibrations, and the electric currents going on through the wall. I drift off into slumber, wanting a fresh mind for the morning.

The next morning, I went out to begin my investigation anew. I visited the captain’s office, which had a folder on the desk. In big bold letters it read: FOR HOUND’S EYES ONLY. Well, isn't that sweet I thought. I quickly opened the folder and scanned the document. The document outlined how our victims were just run of the mill joes and how they did not deserve to die like this. Whoever made this was sloppy, but they were nice enough to list the victims’ addresses. I made my way out of the 89th Precinct and went to the three places listed on the folder. Over the course of nine hours, I began compiling evidence.

The first place was very barren and was more of a place to recharge than a proper home. There was an assortment of home living magazines and letters from a noted botanist. I quickly gathered the evidence and moved on to the next place.

The second place was a pigsty. The commotion outside made it easier to collect all the evidence, an envelope addressed to the same botanist as before, as well as a book about plant life thriving in harsh environments. It was my shortest round all evening, I was in and out within seven minutes.

The third and final place was neat, but nothing to write home about. I found formulas for improved compost and a list of endangered Amazon Forest plants. And once again, the same botanist’s name showed up. After I was finished inside the flat, I retreated to a high rooftop, isolated and ready to complete my investigation.

The pieces were beginning to fall into place. At that point, I was certain that I cracked the case. The noted botanist the three victims contacted was Dr. Toni Beals. She was working on a prestigious project that had gotten canceled and fell off the radar not long after. I ran back to the 89th Precinct and eagerly told Johnson and Ol’ Baskins of my findings, paging them of my imminent arrival. I reached the precinct within an hour of non-stop jogging, with Ol’ Baskins and Johnson waiting at the door.

“What have you got for us, Hound?” asked Johnson.

“Feast your eyes on this dossier, boyos,” I proudly declared as I handed the dossier to them. Ol’ Baskins glanced over tentatively while Johnson half-heartedly skimmed it over.

“Excellent work Hound. We’ll follow up on this in the morning,” Ol’ Baskins said while Johnson gave me a grunt. I headed off to my bunker, feeling the fatigue set in. I drifted off to sleep, content with the work that I had put in.

Johnson was banging furiously on my door at three in the afternoon, which informed me that I had overslept. Well, I better get ready for this, I thought to myself. That’s when Johnson barged in like a lunatic.

“HOUND YOU SON OF A -”

“Easy Johnson, he could’ve made a mistake,” Ol’ Baskins defended. I must admit, my brain was not firing on all cylinders, so I originally thought that I had eaten one of Johnson’s brookies again. So, when I opened the door, Johnson attempted to throttle me. It would have been the end of me if not for Ol’ Baskins and another officer holding Johnson back. At this point, I don’t think that eating the brookies was the cause of Johnson’s foul mood.

After Johnson calmed down, it was explained to me that two more bodies were discovered, but this time instead of claw marks it was strangulated by vines. Furthermore, these people were not even botanists, just teenagers that were out past curfew. The same moss-like substance was found on the bodies. This caught me off guard. How was this even possible?

“I thought you said that you found our guy.”

“I did. There is concrete evidence that Dr. Toni Beals is responsible for the Sporedred murders,” I retorted.

“Well, we just found her in her penthouse suite, murdered. You need to find whoever is responsible for these things, NOW!!” Johnson hollered.

“ALL RIGHT JOHNSON!” I had no idea what came over me, so I quickly left the building. Sometimes, I feel as though there is this deep rage, like a beast who wants to lash out. I put that out of my mind as I approached 9th and Quarter to talk to Reinard. If I had any shot of wrapping this case up, then it would require inside info. It was several minutes before Reinard tried to sneak up behind me.

“What took you so long?” I inquired.

“Can’t I freshen up for my favorite officer?” Reinard jokingly responds. I lazily roll my eyes at that remark.

“What do you know about a group of Sporedred that are attacking people in the city?” I asked Reinard.

“Not much, but what I do know is that they were always attacked in groups,” Reinard responded. Now there was something I had forgotten in all this mess; when Sporedred do attack people, it’s usually just a one-on-one encounter.

“Yeah, that is weird. That still doesn’t explain why they are all attacking people in the first place,” I pointed out.

“You are aware that there are plants that emit pheromones that can do a variety of things, including warning other plants of threats?”

“So, how could those people have been threatening?" I asked.

“Maybe they had a really bad black thumb instead of a green thumb?”

I felt that this was getting me nowhere as this sinking feeling started to grow. Reinard may have taken notice of this and patted me on my shoulder.

“Take this as a final bit of advice,” Reinard said, “you better start looking at the people who have the most to gain from this, however unlikely it may be.” As much as I hated to admit it, Reinard was right.

“All right, Reinard. You take care of yourself,” I said as I turned to face the frigid air the city was offering.

With the sun setting giving way to dusk, my mind was churning. How could the Sporedred move around undetected? How could the Sporedred know whom to attack? And could someone really have found a way to control them? I looked at a nearby sign that advertised a subway station. “Best way to travel underground.” That is what it promised with a picture of a cheery family in the background. Then, two realizations hit me.

To confirm my suspicions and follow up on Reinard’s advice, I called Ol’ Baskins on my phone and I asked him if the 89th Precinct had made any progress regarding Dr. Toni Beals’ project and if there was another botanist who fell off the grid. Ol’ Baskins responded that, in a strange coincidence, there was. All the victims were involved in an ambitious project that would target people to be tracked with plant pheromones.

The project included a person who went off the radar by the name of Murray Adams. As it turns out, Adams was forcibly booted from the project after expressing some radical ideas and claimed to have found new methods that would revolutionize botany and he swore revenge on all involved with the project. I quickly made my way back to the 89th Precinct, I had a lot of planning to do before the next night. And if my suspicions were correct, I would need all my energy and my wits.

The next night (before the full moon rose), I went back to the area where I had lost the Sporedred earlier. If I played my cards right, I could hopefully avoid the full moon and not have a bloodbath. The small green wisps were still there, meaning that they had not moved. This time I took off my slip-ons and placed my feet on the ground, inspired by the subway sign. I concentrated hard, and then I felt it rumbling through the surface. I prepared myself for what was to come. I braced myself and launched into the air with a flip.

As I returned from the flip, I struck the ground with a kick and landed on my hind quarters inside an underground tunnel. I never said I was graceful with my landings. I slowly and quietly made my way through the tunnel, following the scent to its source. I heard some weak walking, as if the feet doing the walking were not solid. I took cover behind the wall at an intersection, and there they were. A trio of Sporedred, lumbering along the ground with stringy and lengthy bodies. Their gait lacked any sort of passion, but the look on their faces told me that they were determined to complete their trek.

On their way to find more victims, I thought to myself. I moved and swiftly dispatched two of them, but the last one ducked. Thorns began to adorn its arms and it began to charge at me. I dodged the initial swipe, but I was not so lucky when the acidic thorns hit me on the next swing. I lurched over in pain, feeling the beast inside me wanting to claw out. The remaining Sporedred landed one more good hit on me before retreating in the direction it came from, much faster than when I first witnessed it. After recovering from the initial blow, but still feeling sore, I gave chase. I was determined to end this madness. Upon seeing the Sporedred leap down from a precipice, I slowed my pace and silently observed the lab below.

Murray Adams stood there, talking to something that appeared like a man, but was not.

“You told me that you could finish off Ziegler within a week. BUT HE IS STILL ON THE MORTAL COIL,” the mysterious figure screamed. Murray Adams recoiled in fear at this person but soon regained his composure.

“Ziegler’s security team has beefed up in recent days. Maybe I could try on a day that he is not expecting?” Murray timidly suggested.

“Do whatever you think best, but the Silver Dusk will have your head if Ziegler is not dead within the week,” the head man replied. That explained everything that had occurred over the past two days, and that made my blood boil. The Silver Dusk was a sect of vampires that sought to break out of the secrecy they were forced to live in and enslave humanity. I leaped down from the perch to confront both men. I could not let billions of people be treated as cattle.

“It’s over, Adams. I made the connection. I’m taking you to the station,” I told him.

“Sir, please. I took every precaution to make sure I wasn’t found out, don’t kill me,” Murray groveled.

“Deal with this interloper, and I will consider letting you live,” the head man said before disappearing into the shadows.

“Well, now that your employer is gone, how about you come quietly, and I won’t have to break all your bones,” I said all too smugly with a grin to match.

“I think not,” Murray said as he sprayed the area with an aerosol can. It was the same wisp that appeared at the crime scene. It took nine seconds for my grin to be wiped off my face.

A whole group of Sporedred burst up from the ground, all of them of various shapes and sizes. From small to bulky, to freshly dead plants to fully decayed, there was no limit. They all began charging me. I didn’t fare well in the first half of the encounter. Being pelted with blow after blow of thorny fists and acidic lashes was making me even angrier, and I started to show signs of my inner beast.

“My project was doomed from the start. I will have to start again,” Murray said despondently while he was packing his gear.

“But why? Why tamper with forces you cannot understand to-”.

“YOU DARE TELL ME THAT I DON’T UNDERSTAND MY OWN CREATIONS!!!” Murray screamed as he trotted towards me. “You are just like all the others. You don’t understand my genius. Harsh environments are no longer an obstacle, the threats that could be countered with pheromone tracking. I need to dispatch my former colleagues so that I can show the world, YOU DON’T SCREW WITH MURRAY ADAMS!” he screamed at the top of his lungs. He grabbed a cane and proceeded to beat me senselessly. At this point, I was feeling nothing but rage and was so infuriated to have this guy beat into me.

“Have a final look at the moon, if it offers you any solace,” Murray taunted as the sky roof opened and he made his way to an escape hatch. As soon as I saw the full moon, that was it. The transformation had begun. The familiar burning sensation in my body, the bones twisting and cracking, and the elongation of my nails, teeth, and hair.

I tore the Sporedred off me. I sank my claws and fangs into the fibers of their stems. Their bitter juices flowing in my mouth. A lot of werewolves say that they don’t remember what happens when they transform into the beast. But I do. I remember it all. Every. Single. Detail. I tossed a Sporedred onto the table with chemicals and a fire broke out in the lab. My flight or fight response took over and I leapt from wall to wall and jumped out of the sky roof. I caught a whiff of Murray’s scent. It smelled like human garbage, an apt description of him. I leapt past the trees, the foliage brushing past me until I reached the spot near the old bottling factory.

Murray had emerged from the hatch, just in time for me to start pelting the door with cinderblocks. A fragment ended up hitting Murray’s leg, getting lodged in there. I descended towards Murray, ready to tear him to shreds. Murray stumbles back, groveling in fear. I growled in satisfaction at that. This little worm had reverted to his spineless form again. I quickly lunged at him and dug my claws into his knees. Murray cried out in pain, and I threw him across the yard where he landed against a brick wall with a mighty thud.

I sprinted over there and towered over him. Normally, I would have said a cool one-liner. But being in my werewolf form, I could only snarl and growl at Murray. Murray reached for a pipe, and he swung at me. I caught it and gave it a twist, breaking his arm. I grabbed his throat and pulled him up. I could smell the fear emanating from him. The trembling, the tears in his eyes, his startled expression; it was all intoxicating to me.

“Please, let me go,” Murray begged. I will never understand why I did what I did next or even how, but I obliged his request. I began to understand Murray Adams a bit more. Whenever he was in a position of power, he was a God amongst men. But when faced with something that could crush him in an instant, he loses all his backbone. In a moment of weakness, I pitied him. He was loping away before I caught the scent of a Sporedred. It lunged out and attacked Murray. I hurtled onto the Sporedred’s back, slashing and strangling it while several of its juices were getting into my mouth. I felt my body getting weaker, reverting into my human form, and feeling drained. Fortunately, the creature crumpled to the ground before it could do too much damage to me. Unfortunately, Murray was not so lucky and started convulsing. I didn’t care that I was back to normal, I had to get back to the station. I pulled out my pager and signaled Johnson. I placed Murray over my shoulder, and I made my way back to the 89th Precinct.

As soon as I got back to the 89th Precinct, Murray was still hanging on for dear life as Johnson and Fitzgerald called for an ambulance. It did not take long for Murray to confess that he was responsible for the murders. He never mentioned who his benefactor was, but I’m still confident that it was a member of the Silver Dusk. The official cover story being that Murray covered the victims with specialized plants and moss to cover his DNA but the other researchers on the project were able to piece things together and gave his last known address to the police.

I just sat in my bunker, not wanting to talk with anyone about this. The press got their official statement, and Murray died from his injuries three days later. The cover story for that is Murray was also exposed to the chemicals used in his crimes and it eventually got him. He was a jilted scientist that was taking his revenge on unsuspecting people. I didn’t leave the Precinct, I mostly just stayed in my room reflecting on the past couple of days.

I just could not understand how much life could be lost within so few days. I cannot really describe it, but sometimes I feel that I should just give in to the beast inside and never look back. If you are wondering if there is a bright side to this story, there is. I stepped out of my bunker one day because I could not stay there forever. I went to the fridge when something unexpected happened.

“Who are you and what are you doing here?” I turned around and it was Sawyer.

“Well, I uh, I-.” I was just at a complete loss for words. I finally composed myself and sat down at the table. Because I figure that eventually, there is going to be a new guard led by the cubs, so I better start sometime by introducing myself. “How late do you work tonight?” I asked.

Moving On / Bo Ferguson

The drowning girl / Jay Watts

Perfectionism / Zoe Dixon

Love your Melanin / Eboni McCoy

"I like Yellow Green" / Jo Ro

Untitled / Carly Harrelson

Paper Cranes / Near Hollingsworth

Change / Carly Harrelson

The Stranger Project / Near Hollingsworth

Eulogy of a Friend / Bo Ferguson

Rituals of Hurt and Healing / Bo Ferguson

A Night Dark and Grim / Krista Rein

Hound: Pushing Daisies / Matthew Cooley

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