Begonia Park
Written By: Robin S. Bloom
My quiet reverie in the park is interrupted by voices upon voices — by clownish music blaring from an ice cream truck, and the barking of a hot dog vendor pitching his wares.
Up until this time, Begonia Park was my tranquil haven for reading and contemplation, rarely entered by the townsfolk oblivious to their own oasis.
The park is now desecrated by candy wrappers and soiled napkins littering the carefully manicured grounds. Unleashed mongrels lift their legs on the flowering Magnolia trees, and rabble barrel through the begonia gardens!
No place is sacred — except perhaps the pond, which is encompassed by a heavy iron eight feet high fence adorned with pointed finials. No one goes near it, and the enormous lock on its gate wards off trespassers.
I spy Mr. Cosgrove, who is studying the geothermal caverns beneath Begonia Park. He is a newcomer like myself, preceding me by a mere month.
I gingerly make my way to Cosgrove, recoiling from sticky fingers and smudged mouths. I narrowly dodge a burly oaf gorging on hot dogs positively swimming in mustard.
Before I can reach Cosgrove, a bearded man breaks from the crowd carrying a comically large key. He unlocks and opens the massive iron gate.
The crowd hushes and stands motionless. I am resigned to do the same.
“Let us begin,” says the bearded leader.
As soon as his words are uttered, the burly oaf grabs Cosgrove by the shoulders, leaving yellow mustard stains on his azure shirt.
Cosgrove’s face registers disgust, then astonishment as the oaf and another ox of a man hoist him off the ground and convey him through the open gate. The hulking pair expertly subdue their prey by one taking hold of Cosgrove’s upper torso and the other gripping his ankles.
Cosgrove’s indignant protests become panicked shrieks as they cast him effortlessly into the pond.
The two quickly exit the enclosure, and the leader locks it behind them.
I must inform the police — but the police are already present, witnessing this unholy baptism.
Cosgrove stays submerged as the seconds tick. I hold my breath, praying he is doing the same.
At last the water surface is broken by a Crocodilian Monstrosity. It holds the bleeding lifeless body of Cosgrove up in triumph between its saw-toothed reptilian jaws before easily and hungrily gulping him down.
I am beyond shock! The scene too horrifying for my eyes — the applause and cheers too sickening for my ears.
I realize now Begonia Park is a Venus flytrap, designed to attract and ensnare provender for the Monster, but more importantly — to provide entertainment.
I am unnerved by a child’s glance in my direction.
I must get out.
I struggle to wear a mask of composure as I nonchalantly amble to the entrance, but the townsfolk form a blockade trapping me between themselves and a hedge of tall thorny shrubbery.
I get a sudden whiff of mustard as a hand clamps down my shoulder.
Robin S. Bloom, a native Pennsylvanian, lives in a small town between the Poconos and the Anthracite Coal Region. She is a watercolor artist who also likes to dip her pen into ink, and says writing is like painting with words.Inspired by her rural roots, her down-home stories have an underlying darkness she calls “Cozy-Creepy.”