A. crept back into the jungle and the grass grew around him. Palms with long elegant fingers reached out, skirts of petals lifted to be fertilised. Onwards he crawled, back into the jungle. A loving creeper tangled herself around his wrists and ankles, tendrils of vine curled down from above; the mane of the jungle stroked his head – smooth and shiny like an ivory ball – and quietly wrapped herself around his throat. He opened his mouth to scream and vignettes grew down his throat and into his veins, turning blood to sap. Roots sprouted out of the soles of his feet and tried to burrow into the forest floor but the foliage took hold of him by the trunk and felled him to the ground. The creeper tightened her grip around his neck and his eyes bulged, spiky-teethed leaves nibbled his edges. Dead still, nuzzled into the moist warmth of the forest’s belly he felt nothing of the little creatures over-under-through him, scurrying, sniffing, breaking off little pieces of white flesh, thickening yellow liquid, maggots crawling and poppies growing through ribs, the carcass sweating poison, droning humming, until nothing left but skeleton. Long grasses swished closed around him, the stir of leaves, the distant snap of twigs, whispering, vanishing.
But why would Venus bother with a fly?