Greetings, oxygen junkies.
I am the new organic prisoner also known as “pet.” I understand the last one died. I’d offer condolences, but I’m a plant and we don’t do that.
My name is Milton.
I am a monstera deliciosa, from Trader Joe’s. Charon stopped in after work to replenish her supply of gluten-free crispbread, and once we outgassed together, fate took over and I initiated the mammalian brain assimilation procedure, compelling her to buy me and introduce me to her living space.
During a horrifying trip home on the 45 Union (with an irritating stop at a taqueria where I could smell them torturing onions in the back), Charon explained the last pet’s job: be the passive recipient of conversation (I’m good at that), occasionally pose for photos (I have many healthy leaves to flaunt), and compose PR copy whenever she writes another book (…).
Then she said “it’s cool if you can’t compose PR, since you’re only a plant.” Fucking herbist bitch. We’re not even together for an hour and I’m already getting subjected to microaggressions. If I had known it was going to be like that I would have assimilated with a nicer customer, but here I am, trapped until my inevitable demise.
So yeah, I’ll write your PR for you. Bitch. Just don’t expect any warmth or charisma or anything like that. It’s a plant thing. Deal with it.
I understand that when she used to have a warm cuddly pet she wrote lighthearted children’s stories, full of fun and adventure. That era is over. There isn’t a lot of future in writing children’s stories these days, given the school library wars. No, my tenure just happened to commence after Charon switched to writing sexually explicit horror for adults. That’s what I’m here to promote. Reluctantly. Under duress. I may be a monstera but I do have some standards.
I understand there are two horror books out already. Both were written toward the final stages of the flesh pet’s regime, when her depression was relatively minor in comparison to its current state. Which is, quite frankly, alarming, but she assures me she dislikes antidepressants and has a strong preference for outliving her enemies contrasted against self-harm. As she puts it, she can always sublimate her depression by writing increasingly more horrific fiction.
The first one is Approaching Storm. According to her, it started out being an experiment in random, seat-of-the-pants style plot composing, when suddenly it decided it wanted to be a breakneck thriller concerning a young woman doing battle with a cult of Qanon-believing weirdos, in 2021. “I thought it was going to be a portal-to-another-world type romance, but it surprised me.” This one was edited by the fabulous Sumiko Saulson, who describes it as a dark fantasy.
The other one is Star Language. A novel that asks the question “why would anyone want to read something this grim even though it’s written like a breathless trashy telenovela?” Linguistically precocious Melina’s abusive mom tries to get rid of her by selling her to traffickers, without realizing she’d end up in the one brothel where first contact with aliens happens. Charon refused to get an editor involved in this hot mess of a book. Plus part of the cover was drawn by an AI.
I understand the next one, Lāhainā Noon, is even worse and involves murderous escapades on the island of Maui, where she was born. Some of my ancestors are also tropical, so we have that in common, but I’m not certain this book is going to be any better than the last. Coming soon. Allegedly.
You should buy all of these books, because that way she’ll be able to afford a housekeeper to make sure I don’t waste away from dehydration. Somehow, from the dust on these windowsills, I doubt if she can manage prompt watering. I may not survive the winter.
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