The Boy at the Grocery Store

There's this new guy in town - he works at the little store, Lenny's, on Main. Now, ours is a very tiny little town, people notice when the new guy, especially when he takes a shine to the Cheer-leading Captain of the local high school, whose family has lived in Little Ridge for four generations, and who's dating the Quarterback, whose family is even older. They're an institution, those two, and people notice when someone decides to throw a wrench in the works.

My point is this - I know something that other people around here don't. There's more to this than just some random new kid crushing on the Queen Bee. Because Parker, the Grocery Boy, gets this look in his eye when he looks at Lorrie Wakefield. He looks at her like his next meal, and every time she looks back she looks more and more hypnotized.

I hate knowing all of this, knowing the causes and effects of stuff like this. I hate knowing that every time they make eye contact, he prepares her a little more for when he steals her soul. I hate knowing that, sooner or later, he'll convince her to make a move, and then we'll all be lost. I hate knowing that, when they kiss, and I know that sooner or later they will, it'll all be over, and pretty, bright, happy Lorrie Wakefield will be gone forever.

As the only person around here who knows the score, is it really my duty to do something about this? Should I confront him, and risk one or both of us becoming injured or killed, and throw our sleepy little community into uproar? Can I risk him letting loose, and taking out the whole town?

Or should I just keep quiet, and let nature - or, perhaps, nature's extreme polar opposite - take its course? Can I sacrifice Lorrie Wakefield, and let this Soul-Stealer move on quietly, knowing that I let an innocent girl befall a fate worse than death?

I don't mean to dump on the rest of you, but I'm only seventeen. I shouldn't have to make these decisions, no one should. I need help.

- Joanne (sightbound82)

What Rambo Did

Right, okay, I waited overnight, like violetfu suggested. I don't think it tasted my blood... just all of my beer and most of my chocolate biscuits, from the crumbs I saw on my dash to the loo earlier.

So, now starving, I set out through what had, literally overnight, become a jungle. Rurounigochan, I did try Googling a solution. All I got was a load of botanical societies, who were sod all use, and a load of clips from 'little shop of horrors. Seriously useless.

I decided, whatever. It's either going to eat me, try to reason with me, or leave me to starve in that cupboard. So I e-mailed my mum, wrote out my last will and testament (in which I leave everything to my mate Rob down the road, who owns a market stall and could get rid of my stuff dead quick), and bravely stepped out into the hallway.

I was expecting a mass confrontation. I held my disinfectant like a grenade - I was Custer, making his last stand. I was that bloke out of Saving Private Ryan, the one who sacrifices himself for all the rest. I held myself like a hero, and boldly stepped into my living room, ready to face the demon head on, like a man.

Do you know what he was doing? Not engaging in battle with the poor sod he'd robbed blind and half-starved; not preparing himself for the end; not even plotting world domination, that was for sure.

No, actually, the bastard was sat on my sofa, drinking a Heineken from my fridge and watching a David Attenborough program about the life-cycle of something vaguely botanical, with an air of smug self satisfaction.

So I brandished my disinfactant, I turned to face him head on, and I shouted something to the effect of 'Get off my property you no good, two-bit son of a pond algae!' (oh yes, I went there. I took GCSE Biology, I know about pond scum)

Only, I don't think it sounded so Clint Eastwood when I said it.

And he turned his huge, plant/flower/demon face to me, and saw the disinfectant. Or maybe he just saw my I-mean-business face, and decided to call it quits. At any rate, he held up a vine, and produced from god-knows-where a slightly moss-covered packet of crisps and another can of beer. He even made room on the sofa, although there's soil between the cushions now.

Living arrangements have yet to be settled. And I'm so going down to Homebase first thing tomorrow morning and stocking up on weed-killer. You know, just as insurance against Leafy McGee (which is what he shall now forever be known as).

Thanks for all the help, guys!

- (no longer in the) broomcloset11

What Would Rambo Do?

This is where we’re supposed to get help, right?

Okay, here goes: A life, blow-by-blow account of one day in my cursed life.

I’m stuck in a cupboard.

Oh good Lord.

How the hell does this sort of thing even happen? Can anyone answer that, really? I mean, yeah, okay, memories are in tact, the whole selective-amnesia most people seem to be so good at hasn’t kicked in for me yet.

More’s the pity.

I’m twenty-eight, I’m a grown-up. There is no demonic, creepy giant plant thing out there.

Except, and here’s the problem: there bloody well is! I just stuck my head out of the door, and my head was almost chewed off! By a giant flower!

Right. Breath. Come on, Steve, what would Rambo do?

Rambo would have a machete.

Rambo would launch himself from the cupboard with a heroic battle cry, and defeat the botanic menace currently ravaging his living room.

I have a broom handle and a bottle of industrial-strength disinfectant. I don’t even have an overhead light, just the light of my laptop.

Help, guys?

-broomcloset11