The house plants preyed on the weak and unsuspecting. Devouring their prey with a ferocity unthinkable of grandma’s old geranium. From their terracotta pots snuggled into shelves, nooks and cute macrame hangers, hunting, watching. When they are finished nothing of you remains, not a scrap of skin, or even a scream.
Robin Locke dwells in a den in the icy cold land of Minnesota where they spend their time hiding under blankets, writing strange tales, the odd poem and talking to their imaginary cats.