In the Midst of the Garden

And out of the ground made the Lord God to grow every tree that is pleasant to the sight, and good for food; the tree of life also in the midst of the garden, and the tree of knowledge of good and evil.

— Genesis 2:9 King James Version

‘Have some,’ said the billionaire, laughed. Perfect white teeth. Face dead drained of color. ‘Not what you expected?’ he said. ‘Pizza on a Gulfstream. Probably expected caviar or something,’ he said. ‘Champagne. Salmon terrines. Things like that.’

‘You never have nice things on the Stream,’ said the attorney, leaned back on soft leather, steepled his fingers. ‘No surprise there.’

‘You should try it,’ insisted the billionaire. ‘Flown all the way from Naples. Some fancy pizzeria. Blasted in the microwave,’ he giggled.

‘An insult to Italian cuisine, no doubt,’ said the attorney. He smiled, but his eyes did not follow suit. His mind was elsewhere.

‘You like the plane?’ asked the billionaire.

‘It’s fantastic,’ said the attorney. ‘You ask me each time we fly on it,’ he said.

‘I know,’ said the billionaire. ‘It’s a nouveau riche thing. One never stops wondering whether others appreciate how well you’ve done for yourself.’

‘You inherited,’ said the attorney. ‘You’ve been flying in jets since you were a baby.’

‘That’s what makes it funny,’ said the billionaire. ‘Why it’s a joke.’

‘I don’t get it,’ said the attorney.

The billionaire shrugged, took a slice of pizza, looked at it longingly, dropped it back in the box.

‘At least you’re losing weight,’ said the attorney. ‘Your paunch is gone,’ he pointed, and the billionaire laughed. The laugh seemed painful, labored. It sounded like shattered glass in a paper bag.

‘Down a hundred from two hundred pounds,’ said the billionaire. ‘In less than a year. You have an asshole’s sense of humor,’ he said.

‘I am an asshole,’ said the attorney.

‘Once I’m dead and you control the trust you can use the plane whenever you please,’ said the billionaire. ‘Go all Richie Rich,’ he said.

‘Listen,’ said the attorney. ‘I’m clear on the paperwork. I did it myself. Planes and yachts and share portfolios. But you haven’t answered the other question,’ he said. ‘The one that really tickles my fancy.’

‘I’m dying,’ said the billionaire.

‘Not that. I know that,’ said the attorney, looked at the bloated face. ‘Looks like you’ve been dead a while,’ he said. ‘That’s not the question, and you know it.’

‘About the beneficiary,’ said the billionaire.

‘Yes,’ said the attorney. ‘The son you don’t have. If you had a son, I would have known,’ he said.

‘You’ll meet him soon enough,’ said the billionaire. ‘After I’ve died. It’s all been arranged. You’ll raise him like we’d agreed,’ he said.

‘There’s something wrong about this,’ said the attorney. ‘You won’t give me more than that?’ he asked. ‘Just a story full of holes?’

‘I give you what you need,’ said the billionaire. ‘When he’s grown, he’ll take over. That’s enough. You don’t need to know everything. Everything that matters is in the paperwork.’

‘I’ll raise a child and preserve your wealth,’ said the attorney. ‘That’s no small thing. It’s your entire legacy. Maybe I’m entitled to know,’ he said.

‘You’ll get your reward,’ said the billionaire. There was something menacing in his voice. ‘More than. You’ll be richer than you have any business being,’ he said.

‘How do you know I won’t screw you over?’ asked the attorney, a little shadow-smile on his lips.

The billionaire coughed. There was blood. He dabbed at it with a handkerchief, stared at the red and black spots. It took him a while to catch his breath. He looked out the little round windows at the pillow clouds outside. Then he leaned over, put a hand on the attorney’s knee, made deliberately dramatic eye contact. ‘I’ve retained others as well,’ he said, with a wink. ‘You’re not the only one. You know how this works. I’m not a fool,’ he said.

The attorney shrugged. He’d expected nothing less. Checks and balances.

‘You’re my dearest friend and I love you,’ said the billionaire. ‘You and your extraordinary billables,’ he said.

For a while, the plane thumped quietly on turbulence, each man an island.

‘Where are we going?’ asked the attorney.

‘Where am I going,’ said the billionaire.

‘OK, then,’ said the attorney. ‘Where are you going?’

‘The tract,’ said the billionaire, and the attorney rolled his eyes.

‘That frost-bitten patch of shit land,’ said the attorney, shook his head in disbelief.

‘The very same,’ said the billionaire.

‘They won’t sell,’ said the attorney. ‘You know that, right? They’ve been living there time immemorial. For them the money is an abstract thing. You’ve offered ten times more than market,’ he said. ‘They haven’t even budged.’

‘I’m making them a deal,’ said the billionaire. ‘A better one.’

‘Is that what the satchel is for?’ asked the attorney, nodded at the leather bag at the billionaires feet.

‘It’s a gift,’ said the billionaire.

‘For whom?’

‘None of your business,’ said the billionaire, with a refractory little smirk.

‘A lot of secrets,’ said the attorney. ‘Even for you. It makes me worry.’

‘Not secrets,’ said the billionaire. ‘Some things are just private.’

‘Even from me?’ said the attorney. ‘It’s always been my business to know,’ he said. ‘It’s why you trust me enough to do this for you.’

‘Some things are private,’ said the billionaire.

‘Like offering a fortune for land that’s practically worthless, and creating a trust for a child that doesn’t exist, and a dodgy bag with an undisclosed gift,’ said the attorney.

‘Exactly like that,’ said the billionaire.

‘Maybe I’m starting to think you’re losing your marbles,’ said the attorney.

‘Come now,’ said the billionaire, shook his head. Even that looked painful. ‘You don’t think that.’

The attorney stood up, poured himself a drink from the bar up the aisle. Beams of light slanted crepuscular, played on the cabin’s interior.

‘You’re right,’ said the attorney. ‘I’m just curious. Doesn’t matter. I’m committed. I gave my word and the papers are signed,’ he said. ‘Even if you’re mad as a hatter.’

‘Good,’ said the billionaire. ‘You’re wearing me out. I don’t think I have a lot of wear left.’ He reclined with a long rattling sigh, fumbled with a pillow under his neck. He pressed a button. For the nurse. For his medication.

To help escape his body for a while.

‘I’m sorry this happened to you,’ said the attorney. ‘I can’t believe there’s nothing to be done.’

‘We’ll see about that,’ said the billionaire.

***

They met in a forest, in a timber structure among darkening trees, floor to ceiling aluminum windows watching the world.

It was twilight and the day was long-shadowed and cool.

The billionaire’s Range Rover sped in with intent, as though to sweep all obstacles from its way. But there was no one there. No obstacles whatsoever. Just a quiet gray-gravel path, a couple of watchful lazing cats, red cedar, the shy chatter of woodland creatures. Somewhere down a green-grassed slope, a river murmured, and mountains crowned the distance, snow-capped, heavy with time.

The billionaire was alone. Which was a rarity. It took him a while to get out of the car. By the time he was done he was covered in sweat and his heart was racing. His body felt like it was made of cardboard and phlegm. It was a bitter thing. He fought back tears. A year ago, he ran five miles a day. He had felt immortal. Now he could hardly stand.

There was no one to meet him. Also a rarity. Probably intended as a slight.

One foot in front of the other, like an infant or very old man, the billionaire made his way. Twenty feet that felt like a mile. He had to put all his weight against the door to get it to open. He sort of stumbled inside, arms flailing.

It was bright inside. White-washed. The billionaire blinked. Rubbed his eyes. The place smelled of new paint. An unwholesome smell that promised a headache.

There were business-chic shades of calming pastel, colorful scatter cushions, a large boardroom table. There were faux leather seats and a deep-piled carpet and conference-style charging points and bottled water and keto bars. A little espresso machine. Note pads and pens.

Not unlike his own boardroom in his high-rise headquarters. Not what he’d expected. He had a picture in his head. Of some sort of hut with a muddy entrance. Of wood fires and smoke. Of wrinkled old people and angry, glaring youths. Loincloth. Things like that.

The billionaire thought there was a smell of woodsmoke in the air. Something acrid. But he wasn’t sure. His illness played with his senses.

The woman stood facing the setting sun, cerise on her cheeks. She was slight and short. With her ash white hair tied severely in the nape of her neck, she seemed very old. She was wearing an expensive-looking ivory pantsuit. She turned to him, her face serene. Her eyes showed deep crow’s feet, but her skin was smooth and rosy. She looked like she could live forever or keel over anytime.

There was something cheeky about her solitariness, no doubt. The message not lost on him. Their show of confidence. No need to send the works, they said. This single little lady could handle him, they said. This was not what they’d agreed to. It smacked of bad faith. The boardroom could seat thirty. Easy.

‘I expected to meet the elders,’ said the billionaire. ‘I’ve come a long way. I don’t have time to waste,’ he said.

The woman walked over. The way she sashayed, one foot crossing the other, made him think of a feline. Smooth, soft-pawed, sheathed claws. She took him by the arm, helped him over to two Hello Kitty tub chairs and a small coffee table facing the red setting sun. She seemed to take his weight without effort. He resented this. He was probably half her age. It made him feel like a wraith, a shadow. It made him think he’d made a mistake coming here. On his own. That he had overestimated himself.

And the strange smokey smell did not help, did not put his mind at ease.

‘I thought we could sit here,’ said the woman, in a warm, low-pitched voice. A little husky. Charming. ‘The boardroom seems excessive for just the two of us,’ she said.

‘I asked a question,’ said the billionaire. But he sat. He was exhausted.

‘I speak for the elders,’ said the woman. ‘For all of them. Whatever assurances I give you, you can bank on,’ she said. Her smile thinned. Something glinted hawkish in her eyes. ‘What’s in the satchel?’ she asked.

‘That’s for later,’ said the billionaire, trying to project a strength he did not feel. ‘First, let’s speak.’

‘We’ve spoken before,’ said the woman.

‘I don’t remember that,’ said the billionaire.

‘We’ve spoken before,’ said the woman. ‘You’ve been trying to buy our land for a long time,’ she said. ‘I can’t see the point of this meeting. I thought you might finally accept our refusal if we give it in person.’

‘The deal is different this time,’ said the billionaire. ‘I’m not coming for the land. Not now. Maybe later.’

‘You want the land because you want the tree,’ said the woman. ‘We all know that. You can’t have it,’ she said. ‘There’s no amount of money that will change that.’

‘Like I said,’ said the billionaire, ‘this is a different deal. A more focused one. I’m ill,’ he said. ‘I’m sure you can see that. I’ll be dead soon unless you agree to help me,’ he said.

‘I see,’ said the woman.

The billionaire blinked and coughed. There was smoke in the room. He was sure of it now. He could see it. A thin blue veil. Smelling lively and green.

‘That’s a difficult thing,’ said the woman. ‘A difficult negotiation. Dangerous, even.’

The billionaire tried to get up, but his limbs had no strength. He heard voices behind him. Weak voices. Like from afar. But heading their way.

‘What’s this?’ said the billionaire. ‘You’re drugging me,’ he said.

The woman laughed and the approaching voices seemed to coalesce in that laugh. ‘Things are different here to what you’re accustomed to,’ she said. ‘There’s no treachery, except for what you bring with you.’

‘No,’ said the billionaire, shook his head stubbornly. ‘I’m not here for your Zen bullshit,’ he said.

‘You can leave,’ said the woman. ‘If you want.’

The billionaire felt anger swell. Anger riding on fear.

He thought he could take it by force, if they refused to help. He could take the tree. He could steal it. He had people that could do things like that. It won’t be easy. It won’t be legal. There were risks. But it could be done.

He stood up. With all the strength he still felt in his heart. Tall and strong. But his body did not follow. He stood there, looking down at himself, at the bald spot at the back of his head. He thought he looked worn out and ugly.

The billionaire blinked, and the boardroom was gone. He was sitting in a large hutch, much like he’d imagined before the meeting. He had a headache. He closed his eyes, but he could still see. His body felt distant. Like it had gone somewhere. He felt like a feather on an updraft.

‘This is not right,’ said the billionaire. ‘You’ve done something to me,’ he said.

‘What do you want?’ asked the woman.

‘You know what I want,’ said the billionaire. ‘I want to use the tree. I want to live.’

‘No,’ said the woman. ‘You don’t understand.’

But the billionaire felt ready for this. He had expected them to say that. He thought he understood better than they did. He thought he understood perfectly well. Unencumbered by their peasant morality, he felt, he was free to look at it all with a clear open mind.

***

‘I know everything about the tree,’ said the billionaire. ‘I know it was an ordinary tree. Long ago. One of many on the river. One day,’ he said, ‘it was struck by a light like lightning that came from a dark thing hovering in the clouds. A light that was warm and blinding and that scorched the land and killed everyone in the valley. And I know the light cracked the bole of the tree and made a fissure, and that the tree’s roots lifted away from the soil, and that the roots became hard and gnarled like muscle. And then the tree grew and grew till it was larger than any other tree, and its trunk turned red like blood and its leaves black-blue.

‘For a long time,’ said the billionaire, ‘everyone kept clear of the tree because it was strange and it scared them and it seemed to whisper and move. They thought it might be sacred. Or cursed. Or both. They remembered the death it had brought when the light struck, which seemed like a warning.

‘Now this is probably more fiction than fact,’ said the billionaire. ‘But it seems there was a war and there were bodies choking up the river, some of them washing onto the roots of the tree. And the story goes there was a wounded man that crawled into the fissure because he’d thought no one would look for him there. And they say he’d died there from his wounds, and that the fissure drew him in and that the tree consumed him.

‘But you know all this,’ laughed the billionaire, something unhinged in his voice. ‘And as interesting as all this is, it’s the next bit that clinches it, isn’t it?

‘Because,’ said the billionaire, ‘came spring, the tree bore a single great fruit, and when the fruit ripened it fell to the soil and burst, and there was a baby inside, and as the boy grew they learned it was the man that had died in the fissure.’

He paused. For effect. ‘The very same man,’ said the billionaire, his face tightening in a grimace, his eyes feverish. ‘Renewed. Born again. All his memories intact.’

He held his stomach and laughed. The laughing hurt, but he could not stop. He looked around the hutch for the woman, but could not see her. Somehow, he knew she was listening.

‘Imagine that!’ said the billionaire, with glee. ‘The tree had brought him back. All of him. Body and mind. As he grew, he remembered. Every detail of the life he’d had. He was fully, indubitably himself.

‘But the tree must eat,’ said the billionaire. ‘In the beginning, you put dead people in the fissure, but gave the roots nothing, and the fruit came through rotten and corrupt, or not at all. It’s trade, not a gift, you learned.

‘See?’ said the billionaire. ‘I know the stories. I know all about the tree. I’ve made it my business. I always know my business.’

***

‘You know a great deal,’ said the woman. In an instant, the hutch was gone and the smoke bore him along, and he could hear the river’s cool murmur.

The grass beneath him felt moist, smelled peppery and alive, made him think of childhood, of being young and strong, hale and fearless. He looked up at the black open sky, at the reckless sweep of the Milky Way, felt icy air bite its way into his broken lungs. He dug his fingers into the ground, reclined, closed his eyes. He wondered whether he had died or was dying.

‘You’ve drugged me,’ said the billionaire. ‘They’ll come for you if anything happens to me,’ he said, even though he wasn’t sure that was true, couldn’t remember whether he’d told anyone where he was going.

‘You spied on us,’ said the woman.

‘My drones fly quietly and out of sight,’ said the billionaire. ‘They see and hear everything. People speak. Tell each other stories. To their children. Around campfires. In boardrooms. In bed. Especially when they think no one’s listening. Most of it is nonsense. But if you listen well, you find stories that are true,’ he said.

‘Then you know what the tree demands?’ asked the woman. ‘For its roots. What it eats?’

‘Of course,’ said the billionaire. ‘It demands its due. As it should. It demands a body for a body. The tree’s a good businessman,’ laughed the billionaire. ‘I like that. Nothing is free. Reciprocity. Mutual benefit. It’s a very rational tree,’ he said.

The river had become full-throated. The way it may roar after a storm. The billionaire opened his eyes and looked at the tree. His breath misted in shallow little puffs. He rubbed his knuckles to keep them warm. The tree whispered. The woman felt like a weight in his mind.

The tree towered, its trunk like a Doric column, its roots squirming slowly, like earthworms. He could feel it watching. It seemed to move, bending ever so slightly, like it wanted to get a closer look.

‘And the rest,’ asked the woman. ‘Do you know the rest of the story? The bad part,’ she asked.

The billionaire shrugged, smiled patiently. ‘All that good and evil nonsense,’ he said. ‘I don’t buy into that. Never had. There’s nothing wrong with doing what it takes to survive,’ he said. ‘You took your due. You claimed what was presented to you. It was a gift. It would have been wasteful to leave it fallow. It would have been a profound ingratitude to have access to immortality, and turn your back on it. You did nothing wrong,’ he said.

‘For a long time none of us died,’ said the woman, her voice like water over smooth cool stones. ‘Some of us kept going for hundreds of years,’ she said. Then, softly, a shameful whisper: ‘We fed our babies to the tree,’ she said. ‘Where else to get bodies when no one dies? A life for a life. A body for a body. To keep ourselves going. It was wrong,’ she said. ‘It took us a long time to see that. We told ourselves justifying lies. But it was murder,’ she said.

The tree sort of twisted like it had an itch.

‘Now, we hardly ever use the tree,’ she said. ‘Except in deserving cases. There was a time we even thought of destroying it,’ she said.

‘You need bodies to feed the tree,’ said the billionaire, feeling things were going well for him. ‘For the roots to eat. I can fix that. I have access to bodies,’ he said. ‘People die all the time. For a thousand different reasons that’s no one’s fault. Things get lost,’ he said. ‘People make mistakes. Computers crash or get hacked. Bodies are signed out to go to places that do not expect them and where they never arrive. If you’re connected, there are many ways,’ he said.

He grinned. Pleased with his pitch. He looked for the woman and, sure enough, she was right there. Next to him. Had probably been all this time. For a while they sat together in cool white moonlight, bats flitting about on papery wings. The tree stretched and swayed like any old tree stirring in a breeze. Except, there was no wind.

‘I can help you,’ said the billionaire. ‘If you do this for me. If you give me to the tree. If you give me another chance at life. I can give you as many bodies as you want. You can live forever,’ he said. ‘All of you. Forever.’

‘What do you have in the bag?’ asked the woman.

The billionaire smiled, opened the bag, scooped from it a dead baby, its little body in a blue fetal curl, rigid, its face hard-lined and severe like that of a long-suffering old man. He laid it before the woman, happy to show he could deliver what he had promised.

‘His mother died this morning,’ said the billionaire. ‘In childbirth. Out on the streets in the middle of the night in a screaming gale in the freezing cold. Some homeless woman,’ he said. ‘They found the two of them together. She’d kept it as close as she could, but the nights are long this time of year. It never had a chance. Had been doomed from the outset. From the day of its conception. Happens all the time. I’m not a monster,’ said the billionaire. ‘It’s not like I killed it. But it’s dead and small and easy to travel with, and we might as well use it. This way, at least,’ he said, ‘its death serves a purpose. It did not die in vain.’

The woman sat inscrutable, her head angled so she could watch him, her eyes shimmering obsidian, like the night sky, full of stars.

The billionaire thought he saw something calculating there. And that seemed like a good thing. What he had feared was heated emotion, shock. Calculation served self-interest. It was what he’d been hoping for.

‘We can do a lot of good,’ said the billionaire. ‘You can use the tree to save yourselves,’ he said. ‘Everyone you care for. Everyone you consider deserving. But first you save me,’ he said. ‘That’s the deal.’

He waited in the quiet, listening to the river, waiting for the woman to say something. He did not want to overcook his pitch.

‘You’re reasoning is sound,’ said the woman.

‘Of course,’ said the billionaire.

‘It’s remarkable what one can achieve with reasoning,’ the woman said. ‘Long ago, we also reasoned. Until everything made sense. Until things appeared the way we wanted them to,’ she said.

The billionaire coughed. Dabbed at his mouth. ‘Are we on the same page, then?’ he asked. ‘You’ll put me in the tree. When it bears fruit, you’ll make sure I make my way home. When I’m old enough to remember myself, you’ll have whatever you need to feed the tree for as long as you want. You’ll live forever,’ he said. ‘Like in the old days.’

There came a breeze. It picked up fall fragrances and the smell of something dead in the river.

The tree no longer swayed. Not even a leave stirred. It stood in quiet anticipation. Like it was holding its breath.

‘We’ll give you to the tree,’ said the woman. ‘Like I said,’ she said, ‘we still use it. In deserving cases.’

***

The coughing fit came and refused to let up.

His chest jumbled with sharp stabbing things until his throat tasted like iron and he felt raw and empty. He rolled over on his side and pulled his legs into his chest and wheezed and wept, and blacked out a while.

When he came to, he found himself in an embrace. He smelled fecund soils and fragrances of things verdant and alive, and the embrace tightened.

The billionaire opened his eyes. Hesitantly. Scared he might start coughing again. He saw the woman, not far away, her white hair bright in the cool moonlight, bent over the fissure with the dead baby in her hands, watching him, her eyes dark like death itself.

And then he understood.

‘No!’ said the billionaire. Softly, breathlessly. ‘Take me out!’ he said, feeling the churning movement of a thousand hungry things, not far beneath.

The roots tightened, drew him in.

Ever, ever downward.

He tried to shout, to let out his fear, but his lungs were empty.

Then it was dark, and the moon was gone, and there was no air to breathe, and soft suffocating sand everywhere.

Lucretia My Reflection

Kandy Fontaine adjusted her green-tinged mustache, micro-tuning the nanotech processors. Today the ends flared like the holocentric village villain; tomorrow, or in the next instant, the ends would justify the mean streets her etheric form would wander. 

Truth be told? She was tired. Tired of playing the game. Tired of conforming. So very tired of witchery as usual.

Yes, she had become a cybermagus and a mistress of magick war. She invented Grimwar and enjoyed being the local admin, outsourcing responsibility for the other nodes to various randoms, some of them beastheads–the parrots she dug special. One parrot in particular had looped through several tunnel systems in timespace and had replaced practically its entire body, such as it was, with robotic parts. 

The chaosian play was good as it got, but Kandy realized that she could play forever and the sweetness would continue to follow the law, diminishing returns chasing themselves down the rat’s alleys where the dead men lost their phones.

Lucretia buzzed her.

“Kandy,” she said, pausing to dab at her Fuck Me Red ™ lipstick implants in the mirror. The nanotech particles caused her face to shimmer, and behind tincture of drug couture she became a princess with the keys to the seven worlds.

“My reflection or yours,” said Lucretia quizically. Kandy’s pussy pulsed and warmth spread along her limbs, but she also recalled that the last time she and Lucretia hooked up–some gentech prince in vircher space thought it might be fun to watch their avatars fuck–she’d felt degraded and used, and not in the good way.

“Honesty, or…”

“Girl, you know I’m always honest,” said Lucretia. Which was a damn lie.

GhostDance at 5 zm was key to their reconciliation. They met at Shirleyz City of Dizbusters beneath the lava flow of Death Moon Omega. Both hit the Strobe heavily beforehand and their eyes glittered with skull-clots that chased each other in circles. Holograms of Dr. Gruje Panasky followed them down the streets and byways of adventure that snaked, split and became avenues of sin. 

“We have to stop doing this to one another,” said Kandy finally as their avatars melted back into the writhing pixelated black silkworm bedsheets. “We’re too much alike, and that means one of these days we’re going to jolene one another.”

“D’ya mean like that story where jolenes formed an alliance within the body of a single cyberwhore?”

“Kind of, yes.”

“But that has less than nothing to do with us. Think about this in relation to any response. What kind of feedback response did you get from your therapist the last time you discussed us?”

Kandy didn’t want to go down that road, and said as much. She kissed Lucretia one final time on those lips that were always fading to cyanosis…fantastic flavor, she thought, strawberry switchblend. 

Lucretia pulled out a single blade. It shivered between them. Kandy discovered she no longer had feelings either way. She could die then and be through with all of it.

“Do it,” she said. “I’m ready. Do both of us.”

“I’m ready too,” said Lucretia.

Afterwards they found themselves walking in comfortable silence along the beach of the Luminous Shore, as the other ghosts flickered and zipped in and out of their peripheral vision.

“Twas always thus,” said Kandy after awhile.

“Indeed,” said Lucretia.

“What exactly was up with that gentech prince?” asked Kandy, not really interested in the answer.

“Hell if I know,” said Lucretia. Her chrome skull was becoming more exposed, while Kandy’s was just growing in.

Fucked Up Fairy Tales: Pudding Fairies 

Empress Cherrypop, her flaming red hair unbound and floating in the etheric breeze, gazed down from the crystal balcony of the Euphoric Palace at the writhing mass of pudding fairies below. 

Their gelatinous forms shifted and merged in obscene configurations, reminding her of that documentary on deep sea creatures she’d watched with Silver last night. The way they moved, pulsing with an inner light that made her think of bioluminescent horrors.

“They’re getting restless again,” Silver whispered, wrapping cool arms around Cherrypop’s waist. Her silver hair cascaded over both their shoulders, mixing with the empress’s flame-red tresses like metallic blood.

The pudding fairies had been acting strange ever since that ancient grimoire had been discovered in the palace kitchens, bound in what appeared to be human skin and written in a language that looked suspiciously like binary code.

Below, the pudding fairies began to form a massive spiral, their bodies melting together into a hypnotic vortex of vanilla, chocolate, and blood-red strawberry. It was beautiful in a nauseating way, like watching flesh dissolve in acid.

“Something’s emerging,” Cherrypop said, her voice tight with anticipation and dread.

The spiral began to pulse with an otherworldly light, and from its center rose a figure that made both queens gasp. It was the Mistress of Graves herself, but reconstituted in pudding form, her body a shifting mass of dessert that somehow maintained the shape of a woman in a flowing gown. Her face was a constantly moving tableau of features that seemed to be drowning in custard.

“Welcome to my kingdom,” the pudding apparition gurgled, her voice like someone drowning in butterscotch “I’ve come to claim what’s mine.” 

The fairy creatures below began to keen in harmony, a sound that made Cherrypop’s teeth ache and Silver’s skin crawl with goosebumps.

What happened next occurred with the terrible inevitability of a nightmare. The pudding fairies began to rise, forming a massive wave that threatened to engulf the palace. But Cherrypop and Silver had been prepared for this moment. They joined hands, their ancient queer magic surging between them like electric current.

“Now!” Cherrypop commanded, and Silver pulled out the secret weapon – a massive spoon forged in the fires of the palace kitchen by the royal chef, who had been mysteriously transformed into a talking teapot the week before. The spoon began to glow with an inner light that matched the bioluminescence of the pudding fairies.

The Mistress of Graves let out a shriek that sounded like a thousand spoons scraping against the bottom of empty bowls. Her pudding form began to collapse in on itself as the fairy horde was sucked into the vortex of the magical spoon, their bodies compressing into a single serving of the most dangerous dessert ever created in the Kingdom of Euphoria 

When it was over, all that remained was a single bowl of innocuous-looking pudding on the crystal balcony. Cherrypop and Silver looked at each other, their faces reflected in its perfectly smooth surface.

“What should we do with it?” Silver asked, prodding the bowl with one perfectly manicured finger.

Cherrypop smiled, a wicked gleam in her eye. “Let’s serve it at the next royal banquet. I hear the Duke of Tartland has been plotting against us.” She leaned in to kiss her partner, tasting of cherry wine and revolution. “Besides, who doesn’t love a good pudding?”

The pudding in the bowl wiggled slightly, and both queens could have sworn they heard it giggle.