One short story looking for an audience: Buenos Aires Nightshade

Una flor carnivora
por puro instinto cumplo mi papel
soy una flor carnivora
y estoy hambrienta de tu rosa piel...

(Ana Torroja 1997)

 

Some plants naturally avoid incest, ruminated Gaetano and yet the flower petals expressed a randy sigh of fragrance in his ample palm. Then he cut through the tropical midst of the vast conservatory with agile steps receiving the bows from the admiring Zingiber, the African flame tree, the Mirabilis, the Hibiscus, the Bombox ceiba, the Passiflora, the Frisia, the Oleander, the Mandragora, the Milkweed and the Belladonna. Hesitated for a second… before stepping firmly out from the warm hydroponics lights stage to the grayed porteño evening air that was brittle inside his potent chest. Deftly, he dialed his cell and talked to Mr. Rubin about the dilapidated shutters on the first floor at the back of the decaying mansion in Belgrano, and the important package pick up of a time sensitive delivery to Europe, and he talked about their recently departed gardening staff — he could hear Mattilda fussing over Mr. Rubin in his expansive oak chamber upstairs from where he didn’t descend any longer. After a pause, Gaetano softened his broad lips to a “You too, sir” and snapped shut the device like the Venus flytrap.