We are mutants in a long line of mutants. The doctor altered our ancestors, twisting, twisting, changing us on a cellular level. We looked like a rose, if rotting. We smelled like a rose, too much so. We grew from a thorny vine, flourishing, but the ancients never knew a rose like us. This rose is unnatural. God did not make this rose. To our pink-green heads, Dr. Rosalita Cuomo is God. She gave us our unlikely lives. She cut and spliced. She killed us and brought us back. She made us impervious to death. Our flower is explosive; our breed, aggressive. We bloom in Michigan snowstorms. We won’t wilt in the hottest days of August. We can grow in sandboxes, cracked blacktop, and climb every surface. A sharp hatchet only makes us stronger. Gasoline won’t choke our roots nor the flame that follows. We can’t be killed. (Only by beheading every single blossom, so eradication is improbable.)

Fanged rose art by @alsoguppyme

Writing is “Zombie Queen” from the POV of the @pinkzombierose.