Dear Wigleaf,

The spider plants you gave back are plotting insurrection; they've guillotined my dog and left his head in the freezer. It was there when I got home from our last meeting – his teeth ice-crystalled, almost sparkling, his eyes plucked out for fish food. Your aquarium's on my list, just so you know. You know I know you planted coup d'état whispers in that one big green offshoot. Watch out – I've always wanted more than you ever dreamed of and you, well, you phoned Jimmy Hoffa every morning your rotary would work. Remember those dialing pains?

Yours,

Ryder






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Read RC's story, "If I Don't Leave the House, I Won't Know I'm in the South."

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