HOME | DD

Description
One thing he could say, is that he was lost. As soon as his eyes awakened and he had lifted himself from the indent he had made in the wet and grating sand, it was clear. There was no one in sight. Not to the tapering horizon along the smooth beach to his left, with fragmented shards of wooden planks dotting the sand, nor to his mountainous right. There, the yellowish sand blended with the slate-grey of towering crags, which darkened with the black of eroding waves and mulch that seemed painted to the rock.

Flowen stood. He wasn't hurt. The floating raft he had clung to had deposited him along the stretch of the sandy shore. But the tide was rising, matching that of the late morning sun.
“Hello?” He called with a weak voice. There was little echo, and what there was was lost in the hiss of the breaking wavelets and dull roar of wind through palm trees. He set off to these trees now, dazed a little and without much purpose besides what he had learnt on survival shows.

A gust deflected by one of the towering palms blew across his body, and delved beneath his shirt with the warm flow of a strange temptress. His fingers fumbled lazily to find a set of buttons to close it, but the tips of his digits only ran over the broken remains of several cotton nubs. He scowled and pictured the plastic circles floating somewhere in the ocean behind him, perhaps above the wreck he had been lucky to escape from. The trail of his feet punctured the unspoilt sweep of the tiny dunes on the beach, and led now into the jungle behind the swath of aesthetically pleasing palm trees. Behind him, the sound quickly faded, and all he could hear was the wash of wind in the trees above.

“Hello?” He repeated loudly. “Is anyone out there?” Flowen brushed back large fan-like leaves that sprouted from the ground and swayed at his chest level. The lush green flora in which he almost swam through, reminded him of just how thirsty he was. He could not drink the sea water that ran in tiny streams down his legs and arms, or wring it from his sodden clothes. That much he knew also from the survival program. Putting that aside, he brushed the hanging leaves to one side and delved in deeper.

Now the sea was far away enough to become wholly silent, and masked by the thick trees which towered over head. It was just the quiet forest. Just the forest and his own breathing to keep him company. He had expected monkeys, perhaps some sort of snake or beetle to swing from tree to tree or slither over his foot, respectively. But there was nothing. No animal cries, no birds flapping away when he neared, and no sound. And now he felt exhausted. The breeze did little to refresh his spirit, and he believed it due to the sheer abandonment. He felt forsaken. And while it was true that there were no eyes looking at him, he was not alone.

It was apt that he was a botanist. A purist with high standards, he believed in the sanctity of vegetation and made strides to defend the territory of plants that he chose to guard. In short; a vegetarian with a gardening interest. Only the aphids that tried to ruin his crop would feel his wrath, but all else would be spared. The irony of eating only that which he saved was not lost, but he made do. Despite his knowledge of plant life, flowers, trees, and nature, he could not identify even a hint or a background for the flora that now surrounded him. It was almost alien. There were vines as thick as his thigh that did not dangle, but instead were slung around and over objects like rocks and trunks of trees.
“Ah!” Flowen exclaimed as he toppled to the ground. Something had caught his ankle. It felt like something reached out and purposefully entangled with his foot. “Get off-!”

But it didn't let go, and Flowen turned his head to see what root had caught him. A long green vine was there, and at the end was not a normal flower, but instead a bright yellow bulb, with charming red polka dots, surrounded by a halo of green leaves. The colour was unusual enough to startle him into temporary paralysis. Anything of that vivid shade in nature was rarely benign. A single word came to his mind, and it rebounded around the inside of his head before it burst. Poisonous.

Flowen scrambled to his feet, and hoped for dear life that the mere contact of vine and skin had not transferred the concoction to his body. At best it would merely hurt. With no contact or access to any sort of medicine, he became aware of just how vulnerable he was, and how calling out earlier would attract danger he could not deal with. But the plant would not let go. The vine creaked as it seemed to tighten around his leg, and more of it spooled from beneath an innocuous green bush. He tried again to shake it off, to stand up again, and every time he pulled his leg, the vine pulled a little harder, and returned him to the earth. For a second he turned away, and in the next wished he never had. The wash of light and dark greens and rich browns of towering trees was dotted with more than a dozen blotches of the same searing amber. Like faces, they peered from the growth and followed him without eyes. They emerged from the leaves with a sort of sentience that was utterly unheard of, surrounding him with no regard for personal space. Their bulbs were of various sizes, most close to the size of a fist with long vines as wide as a forearm, and some smaller than the palm of his hand. Flowen was not worried by the latter ones, but was by the few largest specimens, whose bulbs were as large as his head, and moved on stalks resembling that of a muscular leg. They also looked like faces for the sole fact that all bulbs, regardless of size, had a split down the centre, which opened freely, and was lined by a thick double-seal on either side, resembling lips.
“What bizarre flora is this...” Some part of his botanist’s mind was not focusing on the inherent danger that the rest of his body practically squirmed with. “An undiscovered member of Droseraceae..?”

From these lips leaked a viscous gas which swayed in the smallest of breezes. That was the poison. No doubt about it, the gas with an even darker tint like wispy velvet was an air-based toxin. And it leaked from all the lips, from miniature puffs from the smaller mouths to almost belches from the larger bulbs. Flowen drew in a large breath and held it in his lungs. There was a little unusual taste, oddly smooth like syrup, as he inhaled. That was even more dangerous. It goaded him. Flowen reeled back, and lifted himself onto his knees. He tried to stand, but not only had another girthy vine had slithered over his other ankle, but that tiny sample of the plants’ gas had not had no effect.. A short look back found the first bulb had pressed its lips into his skin. There was a movement against his back, right against the skin. The same leathery texture that had encompassed both his legs now crawled up his spine. It made a sliding bulge in his open shirt, and soon emerged behind his neck. Flowen turned his view away from the flower in front of his face, and looked at the bulb hovering over one ear. Up close, he could see the velvety texture of the plant's lips and petals much clearer than before. It looked soft, and as the bulb lazily wound around his neck, bumping into his skin several times, he felt its softness as well. And that sensation in his mouth and throat, an aftertaste he could only believe to be the beginnings of unwanted addiction. It freed his sinuses, dilated his throat to open up his lungs, finishing with a burning in them not unlike hunger.

“This is all its trap!” He thought, not speaking so he wasted no air. “Soft petals, smooth fumes, all to make me drop my guard!” He risked it. His hand which had lifted from the ground now rose to grasp the flower by the vine. With trembling fingers he darted for it, and though it had no eyes, it dodged. Flowen’s eyes went wide, and he let out an involuntary gasp of surprise. A little more of that delicious, syrupy, taste filled his mouth, and he saw also that the purple gas was gathering around his head like fog on a November morning. In his momentary distraction, and perhaps in some plant’s version of anger, the flower by his head started to trap him. The vine was quick enough to spool up the small of his back and over his shoulders to the tune of several long loops before he could act. It pushed over his arm and went to weigh it against his body. Flowen grasped it, and tried to pull. He should have known that vines were unimaginably strong, and the winching strength reeled in. It was around his neck now, and swiftly tightened with a similar leathery creak. A loop had seized his throat and pinned his fingers between the skin and the pliable vine.

And another attacked. It went around his waist after winding around his legs. The lips pressed into his bare stomach and puffed against him. He couldn't notice or pay much attention to the subtle tinge of his skin which changed beneath the plant's pseudo-lips, as his lungs were already beginning to tingle, and the vines had begun to encroach. Besides the little puffs of poisonous fumes that sounded like slow, static, laughter, there was a deep rustle in the brush. Far away bushes were pushed side by a mysterious, giant, figure. Flowen's eyes darted to see what it was, and in his momentary distraction, the flowers attacked him once again. That large one with a mouth as large as his head pushed forwards. It blindly lunged forwards, nudging into his chest and shoulder before engaging with his free arm. The lips opened, and after a puff of gas which rolled down his wrist, a long, wide, tongue lolled from within an obvious mouth. Before the thought of why a plant needed a tongue occurred in his head, the plant’s mouth came forward and swallowed his fingers.

“Hey!” He screamed, apparently already forgetting that his breath was important. “Let go of...my hand!” Flowen tightened his fingers, and attempted to push the plant away. The purple flesh sank between his digits, but the vine on which is hung seemed to be made of steel, for it did not bent nor give an inch to his pushing. Even if it did, there was still the loop around his neck which made his throat feel tender, and the knotted vines crawling around his lower legs which held him in place. Those bulbs which did not bite him with toothless maws or kiss his flesh with velvet lips hung back and leaked the poison. There was now a significant mist floating by his head, and when he forgot again to hold his breath, the treacle taste came back all the stronger.

There was another rustle in bushes in front of him, and again Flowen ignored it. Well, ignored implies intentional aloofness. Rather, with his hand halfway inside the mouth of one bulb, he was distracted. And as his fear of the seemingly sentient plants grew in his mind, his heart beat ever faster, and burned through the much needed stores of oxygen with increasing haste. And now he was becoming unstable, as the vines of numerous flowers outstretched from the unusual bush and draped over his frame. Around his shoulders and neck, pinning the desperate arm against his chest and winching the fingers of that hand around his throat, and around his chest and legs, entangling with his struggling limbs and ensuring the washed-up survivor known as Flowen would not be escaping. And to make matters worse, the bulb that engulfed his spare hand was seemingly discontent with just his fingers inside it. The lips opened, the tongue pulled, and Flowen’s hand disappeared inside. He froze as the tips vanished into its throat.

But as he looked over to see the toothless mouth gnaw harmlessly on his wrist, though the skin turned violet from the leaking gases, he caught sight of a different bulb emerging from the brush ahead of him. Flowen first saw its mane of acrid petals. They pushed aside the green leaves with ease, and slid forward above the ground with a constant, grinding slide. Until it eased through the vegetation with the speed of its own growing vines, he saw nothing else except for an impossibly girthy vine unfurl from a faraway tree, and collapse to the ground with an earthshaking thump. He had mistaken that murky, green, shape for another vast trunk, and his throat clammed up. Flowen missed as the smaller bulbs embraced him further and further, until the vines hung from his neck and shoulders like curtains.
“Help.” He mouthed to no one.

Then it emerged. A gigantic flower dressed in a pale shade of yellow with spots of bright red. The bulb had no eyes, but seemed to stare right at him. It was larger than he was, a truly thick version of the smaller mouths which clung to him, feeling all the world like mere irritating flies. Purple clouds that looked as thick as water drooled from the edges of its lips in a mockery of breath. Flowen froze in place, and forgot everything else. The head floated on its vine, which was as girthy as he was on his knees, which is to say; ultimately.. The acrid petals opened, the flower leaned in to show off a perfect replica of a beast’s maw, and bent towards him.

Flowen looked up with open eyes. The sweat trickling down his skin was dyed a pale pink.

Commission for www.furaffinity.net/user/arcad…
Story by www.furaffinity.net/user/solid…

Description
One thing he could say, is that he was lost. As soon as his eyes awakened and he had lifted himself from the indent he had made in the wet and grating sand, it was clear. There was no one in sight. Not to the tapering horizon along the smooth beach to his left, with fragmented shards of wooden planks dotting the sand, nor to his mountainous right. There, the yellowish sand blended with the slate-grey of towering crags, which darkened with the black of eroding waves and mulch that seemed painted to the rock.

Flowen stood. He wasn't hurt. The floating raft he had clung to had deposited him along the stretch of the sandy shore. But the tide was rising, matching that of the late morning sun.
“Hello?” He called with a weak voice. There was little echo, and what there was was lost in the hiss of the breaking wavelets and dull roar of wind through palm trees. He set off to these trees now, dazed a little and without much purpose besides what he had learnt on survival shows.

A gust deflected by one of the towering palms blew across his body, and delved beneath his shirt with the warm flow of a strange temptress. His fingers fumbled lazily to find a set of buttons to close it, but the tips of his digits only ran over the broken remains of several cotton nubs. He scowled and pictured the plastic circles floating somewhere in the ocean behind him, perhaps above the wreck he had been lucky to escape from. The trail of his feet punctured the unspoilt sweep of the tiny dunes on the beach, and led now into the jungle behind the swath of aesthetically pleasing palm trees. Behind him, the sound quickly faded, and all he could hear was the wash of wind in the trees above.

“Hello?” He repeated loudly. “Is anyone out there?” Flowen brushed back large fan-like leaves that sprouted from the ground and swayed at his chest level. The lush green flora in which he almost swam through, reminded him of just how thirsty he was. He could not drink the sea water that ran in tiny streams down his legs and arms, or wring it from his sodden clothes. That much he knew also from the survival program. Putting that aside, he brushed the hanging leaves to one side and delved in deeper.

Now the sea was far away enough to become wholly silent, and masked by the thick trees which towered over head. It was just the quiet forest. Just the forest and his own breathing to keep him company. He had expected monkeys, perhaps some sort of snake or beetle to swing from tree to tree or slither over his foot, respectively. But there was nothing. No animal cries, no birds flapping away when he neared, and no sound. And now he felt exhausted. The breeze did little to refresh his spirit, and he believed it due to the sheer abandonment. He felt forsaken. And while it was true that there were no eyes looking at him, he was not alone.

It was apt that he was a botanist. A purist with high standards, he believed in the sanctity of vegetation and made strides to defend the territory of plants that he chose to guard. In short; a vegetarian with a gardening interest. Only the aphids that tried to ruin his crop would feel his wrath, but all else would be spared. The irony of eating only that which he saved was not lost, but he made do. Despite his knowledge of plant life, flowers, trees, and nature, he could not identify even a hint or a background for the flora that now surrounded him. It was almost alien. There were vines as thick as his thigh that did not dangle, but instead were slung around and over objects like rocks and trunks of trees.
“Ah!” Flowen exclaimed as he toppled to the ground. Something had caught his ankle. It felt like something reached out and purposefully entangled with his foot. “Get off-!”

But it didn't let go, and Flowen turned his head to see what root had caught him. A long green vine was there, and at the end was not a normal flower, but instead a bright yellow bulb, with charming red polka dots, surrounded by a halo of green leaves. The colour was unusual enough to startle him into temporary paralysis. Anything of that vivid shade in nature was rarely benign. A single word came to his mind, and it rebounded around the inside of his head before it burst. Poisonous.

Flowen scrambled to his feet, and hoped for dear life that the mere contact of vine and skin had not transferred the concoction to his body. At best it would merely hurt. With no contact or access to any sort of medicine, he became aware of just how vulnerable he was, and how calling out earlier would attract danger he could not deal with. But the plant would not let go. The vine creaked as it seemed to tighten around his leg, and more of it spooled from beneath an innocuous green bush. He tried again to shake it off, to stand up again, and every time he pulled his leg, the vine pulled a little harder, and returned him to the earth. For a second he turned away, and in the next wished he never had. The wash of light and dark greens and rich browns of towering trees was dotted with more than a dozen blotches of the same searing amber. Like faces, they peered from the growth and followed him without eyes. They emerged from the leaves with a sort of sentience that was utterly unheard of, surrounding him with no regard for personal space. Their bulbs were of various sizes, most close to the size of a fist with long vines as wide as a forearm, and some smaller than the palm of his hand. Flowen was not worried by the latter ones, but was by the few largest specimens, whose bulbs were as large as his head, and moved on stalks resembling that of a muscular leg. They also looked like faces for the sole fact that all bulbs, regardless of size, had a split down the centre, which opened freely, and was lined by a thick double-seal on either side, resembling lips.
“What bizarre flora is this...” Some part of his botanist’s mind was not focusing on the inherent danger that the rest of his body practically squirmed with. “An undiscovered member of Droseraceae..?”

From these lips leaked a viscous gas which swayed in the smallest of breezes. That was the poison. No doubt about it, the gas with an even darker tint like wispy velvet was an air-based toxin. And it leaked from all the lips, from miniature puffs from the smaller mouths to almost belches from the larger bulbs. Flowen drew in a large breath and held it in his lungs. There was a little unusual taste, oddly smooth like syrup, as he inhaled. That was even more dangerous. It goaded him. Flowen reeled back, and lifted himself onto his knees. He tried to stand, but not only had another girthy vine had slithered over his other ankle, but that tiny sample of the plants’ gas had not had no effect.. A short look back found the first bulb had pressed its lips into his skin. There was a movement against his back, right against the skin. The same leathery texture that had encompassed both his legs now crawled up his spine. It made a sliding bulge in his open shirt, and soon emerged behind his neck. Flowen turned his view away from the flower in front of his face, and looked at the bulb hovering over one ear. Up close, he could see the velvety texture of the plant's lips and petals much clearer than before. It looked soft, and as the bulb lazily wound around his neck, bumping into his skin several times, he felt its softness as well. And that sensation in his mouth and throat, an aftertaste he could only believe to be the beginnings of unwanted addiction. It freed his sinuses, dilated his throat to open up his lungs, finishing with a burning in them not unlike hunger.

“This is all its trap!” He thought, not speaking so he wasted no air. “Soft petals, smooth fumes, all to make me drop my guard!” He risked it. His hand which had lifted from the ground now rose to grasp the flower by the vine. With trembling fingers he darted for it, and though it had no eyes, it dodged. Flowen’s eyes went wide, and he let out an involuntary gasp of surprise. A little more of that delicious, syrupy, taste filled his mouth, and he saw also that the purple gas was gathering around his head like fog on a November morning. In his momentary distraction, and perhaps in some plant’s version of anger, the flower by his head started to trap him. The vine was quick enough to spool up the small of his back and over his shoulders to the tune of several long loops before he could act. It pushed over his arm and went to weigh it against his body. Flowen grasped it, and tried to pull. He should have known that vines were unimaginably strong, and the winching strength reeled in. It was around his neck now, and swiftly tightened with a similar leathery creak. A loop had seized his throat and pinned his fingers between the skin and the pliable vine.

And another attacked. It went around his waist after winding around his legs. The lips pressed into his bare stomach and puffed against him. He couldn't notice or pay much attention to the subtle tinge of his skin which changed beneath the plant's pseudo-lips, as his lungs were already beginning to tingle, and the vines had begun to encroach. Besides the little puffs of poisonous fumes that sounded like slow, static, laughter, there was a deep rustle in the brush. Far away bushes were pushed side by a mysterious, giant, figure. Flowen's eyes darted to see what it was, and in his momentary distraction, the flowers attacked him once again. That large one with a mouth as large as his head pushed forwards. It blindly lunged forwards, nudging into his chest and shoulder before engaging with his free arm. The lips opened, and after a puff of gas which rolled down his wrist, a long, wide, tongue lolled from within an obvious mouth. Before the thought of why a plant needed a tongue occurred in his head, the plant’s mouth came forward and swallowed his fingers.

“Hey!” He screamed, apparently already forgetting that his breath was important. “Let go of...my hand!” Flowen tightened his fingers, and attempted to push the plant away. The purple flesh sank between his digits, but the vine on which is hung seemed to be made of steel, for it did not bent nor give an inch to his pushing. Even if it did, there was still the loop around his neck which made his throat feel tender, and the knotted vines crawling around his lower legs which held him in place. Those bulbs which did not bite him with toothless maws or kiss his flesh with velvet lips hung back and leaked the poison. There was now a significant mist floating by his head, and when he forgot again to hold his breath, the treacle taste came back all the stronger.

There was another rustle in bushes in front of him, and again Flowen ignored it. Well, ignored implies intentional aloofness. Rather, with his hand halfway inside the mouth of one bulb, he was distracted. And as his fear of the seemingly sentient plants grew in his mind, his heart beat ever faster, and burned through the much needed stores of oxygen with increasing haste. And now he was becoming unstable, as the vines of numerous flowers outstretched from the unusual bush and draped over his frame. Around his shoulders and neck, pinning the desperate arm against his chest and winching the fingers of that hand around his throat, and around his chest and legs, entangling with his struggling limbs and ensuring the washed-up survivor known as Flowen would not be escaping. And to make matters worse, the bulb that engulfed his spare hand was seemingly discontent with just his fingers inside it. The lips opened, the tongue pulled, and Flowen’s hand disappeared inside. He froze as the tips vanished into its throat.

But as he looked over to see the toothless mouth gnaw harmlessly on his wrist, though the skin turned violet from the leaking gases, he caught sight of a different bulb emerging from the brush ahead of him. Flowen first saw its mane of acrid petals. They pushed aside the green leaves with ease, and slid forward above the ground with a constant, grinding slide. Until it eased through the vegetation with the speed of its own growing vines, he saw nothing else except for an impossibly girthy vine unfurl from a faraway tree, and collapse to the ground with an earthshaking thump. He had mistaken that murky, green, shape for another vast trunk, and his throat clammed up. Flowen missed as the smaller bulbs embraced him further and further, until the vines hung from his neck and shoulders like curtains.
“Help.” He mouthed to no one.

Then it emerged. A gigantic flower dressed in a pale shade of yellow with spots of bright red. The bulb had no eyes, but seemed to stare right at him. It was larger than he was, a truly thick version of the smaller mouths which clung to him, feeling all the world like mere irritating flies. Purple clouds that looked as thick as water drooled from the edges of its lips in a mockery of breath. Flowen froze in place, and forgot everything else. The head floated on its vine, which was as girthy as he was on his knees, which is to say; ultimately.. The acrid petals opened, the flower leaned in to show off a perfect replica of a beast’s maw, and bent towards him.

Flowen looked up with open eyes. The sweat trickling down his skin was dyed a pale pink.

Commission for www.furaffinity.net/user/arcad…
Story by www.furaffinity.net/user/solid…