My Dame’s Rocket launched last night. As the full moon’s soft glow swept across the garden, I watched its purple peddles spread wide. She was finally awake.

Good.

My patience was at its end.

Immediately I snatched it up, plucked the pedals, and crushed them in my hands. I cackled.

Running into the shed, I tossed the dead flower into the steaming black cauldron; its contents bubbling and hissing as they melted.

And then something unexpected happened.

It exploded. My dark concoction blasted in every direction.

I was covered.

I was bummed.

That was supposed to be my dinner. Dame’s Rocket butternut squash stew.

Chic Fil A, it is, then.