Polenth Blake lives where the mushrooms bloom in autumn. She has two pet cockroaches, except on Fridays, when they get to be in charge. Her fiction has appeared in Nature and ChiZine. Her website lurks at http://www.polenthblake.com.
DEAR FUNGUS,
I’m writing to discuss my concerns about your recent behaviour. I accept that you need somewhere to live, but did you have to litter my lawn with your mushrooms?
I could cope with the wood mushrooms. They were easily removed. But this time, you produced the most foul-smelling mushrooms imaginable and they’re attracting flies. If you don’t take action, I’ll have to report this to the neighbourhood committee.
Thank you for your prompt attention to this matter.
Yours sincerely,
Jane Goodworth
I appreciate you dealing with the flies. Eating them wasn’t what I had in mind, but it solves the problem nicely.
However, I’m not happy about your change of abode. When I said I was unhappy with mushrooms in the garden, I didn’t mean you could move into my door frames. I admit you have taken care of the house’s dry rot issue, but you’re not an improvement. Your spores are giving Aunt Mabel terrible asthma. I’ve kept her from ripping off the door frames and putting you outside, but I can’t hide the crowbar forever.
She blames me for touching the wood mushrooms. How could I know it’d upset you so much? All I wanted was a clean lawn.
I’m willing to compromise. You were right. The garden is the best place. I hope we can arrange a relocation plan that suits both of us.
Sorry about the exterminator. I should have given you a final warning. I do think it was a bit excessive to eat him. Were those poison spores you were firing?
Having weighed up the options, I’ve decided you can keep the house. All I want in return is for you to uncover the front door. Or maybe one of the windows. I know we haven’t always seen eye-to-eye, but it isn’t much to ask.
P.S. That exterminator wasn’t a cheap snack.
You ate Aunt Mabel.
I’m not angry. I never write letters when I’m angry. It would be silly. You’re a fungus. It’s like blaming a flood for drowning people.
So, I hope you understand why I tried to set you on fire. You left me no choice. No hard feelings.
You’ve cut off the phone lines. Accidentally, I’m sure. If you could just reattach them, I can call the fire brigade. It’s best we go our separate ways, before either of us does something we’ll regret.
I didn’t know Aunt Mabel liked to draw. She’d sit at the bedroom window looking down into the garden, pad in hand. I assumed she was writing letters about the local children. They’re always sneaking into the garden.
At first, I thought her pictures were random dots. Then I realised — it was the old drifts of mushrooms covering the lawn. It’s like finding pictures in clouds. The shapes are random, but they’re there. Squares and triangles. People and mushrooms. I’m not sure if the person is picking the mushroom or patting it. I suppose you don’t know either.
I saw one of my neighbours today. I wrote HELP on a piece of paper and held it to the last uncovered part of the window. He waved and walked away.
I remember him. He’s the one with three cats, after one had a kitten. The housing agreement clearly stated a maximum of two. They’re a health risk. He should have thanked me when one didn’t come home.
And you. I kept the garden nice. I never used weed-killer. It isn’t just about looks, after all. The rot can be within. It kills the spiders and beetles, not just the weeds. Next thing you know, pests everywhere with nothing to eat them.
You never thanked me.
Aunt Mabel wanted a mobile. She brought one a few months back, so she could call her bingo friends. I threw it away when she wasn’t looking. Mobiles mean unsightly towers. They say it doesn’t lower house prices in the end, but I don’t believe them. Better that we all write letters, don’t you think?
It doesn’t matter. However we talk, it’s always one-sided. I send letters and no one replies. I phone up and get an answering machine. Aunt Mabel told me I ought to listen first, but I always listen. She was just angry about the phone.
I wish I hadn’t thrown it away.
You’re everywhere. You’ve eaten holes in the door. The pattern almost looks like a cowering cat. Do you want me to cower? Is that why you’re waiting?
Maybe they’re not coming for me, but they’re not going to let you slink away. You’re too dangerous. They’ll kill you. The monster always dies.
We’re a lot alike, you and me. No one wants us here. We could have been friends, if only you listened.
There were children in the garden. That girl from next door was singing again. I’ve talked to her parents before about it. Irritating habit.
A boy called her to look at the mushrooms. I could’ve shouted to warn them. I stopped myself. You might as well do something useful while you’re here.
I waited for the screams, but they never came. Only songs and laughter.
Dear Jane,
I’m writing to discuss my concerns about your recent behaviour. I accept that you need somewhere to live, but did you have to litter my lawn with your neighbourhood?
We could have been friends, if only you listened. You thought my pictures were random dots. However we talk, it’s always one-sided.
The rot can be within. Next thing you know, pests everywhere with nothing to eat them. Eating you wasn’t what I had in mind, but it solves the problem nicely. The monster always dies.
Yours sincerely,
Fungus
P.S. Sorry about Aunt Mabel.