December 2021

A radio grapples with its essentially passive existence as the world crumbles around it Radios have become old-fashioned. I know that through the snippets of conversation I hear as I sit on my table. Despite that, they’ve never done more than talk about replacing me. There’s a man who uses me the most often. He has an impressive mustache and is often referred to as “the Communicator” by the people who talk through me. I connect people who are far away. It may not be the most exciting job—I care very little about human politics—but it’s fulfilling to know what I’m doing is helping people. And when people aren’t using me, I can look out at the island of Floracion. My room is near the top of a skyscraper that towers over the rest of the city. There are impressively tall buildings and people constantly going about their business, but that’s not the best part. The best part is the flowers. Floracion is overrun with moonflowers, aptly called “gigantics,” white flowers that only bloom at night and sometimes grow over a dozen feet wide. People make room for them everywhere. On the sides of buildings, in storefronts, on roofs. Most people are awake during the night to see the flowers, and I can’t blame them. It’s spectacular. And the Communicator comes into my room every day. He, like me, has an important job. He has to stay awake during the day to communicate with nearby cities and countries. Like me, he’s made a sacrifice—for me, my mobility, for him, his sleep schedule— but we’re both improving Floracion. Together. He uses me to talk to other people while I listen, learning what I can and speculating about the outside world. Those conversations make my life, stagnant as it is, worth it. I’m proud of what I do. It’s an important job, and Floracion is—in my highly biased opinion—one of the best cities in the world. How could any sterile buildings match the flowers’ beauty? The way the city makes every hour of the night busy? At some time in the evening, the Communicator leaves. His assistants sometimes stay longer, even sleeping here in some extreme cases, but they eventually go too. And I’m alone. Beauty Among Ancient Walls But one day, he doesn’t come. It’s not his absence that worries me, but the fact that he said nothing. His assistants are also gone. They always discuss their plans where I can hear them. Where are you? I think. Static bursts from my speakers for a moment, but it’s gone as soon as it starts, and I get no answer. I look down on the island. It’s night, yet no one is out. That’s beyond unusual. Not a single car is driving on the streets, and if there are any people, it’s too dark to see. Most of the lights on the buildings are out. I check the radio stations, but there’s nothing but music and static. Even the flowers seem different. With no sounds from vehicles or the usual racket from people, the white petals that almost shine in the moonlight seem eerie. They’re more like the pressed flowers that used to be kept in the room. Beautiful, but dead. There’s no wind. Not a single leaf on any of the flowers moves, but one moonflower—a gigantic that must be twenty feet across—moves. It rotates its head, the movement slow and deliberate. This is not the wind. It’s a predator looking for prey. It’s not doing that on its own, I think, but the irony is not lost on me. A sentient radio thinking that the flower cannot do anything on its own. Perhaps the world is stranger than I know. And like a flipped switch, there are suddenly more. The gigantics closer to the ground are moving to face the street. I remember one of the Communicator’s assistants mentioning a plant called the Venus flytrap. They have thin hairs that, if brushed against by an insect, will cause them to snap shut. The moonflowers are hunting. I watch in horror as the city comes alive, but not in the usual way. The flowers look everywhere, sometimes leaning down or looking up. One of them looks at the mountain. It has no eyes, but the way it keeps staring makes me feel like a hapless fly, my doom about to be sealed. I wouldn’t have been surprised if the moonflower grew legs and started walking toward me. But it didn’t, and I’m grateful for that. In the unknown time I have been around, I have perfected the art of zoning out. Of letting time pass by me as I blank, making unbearably long nights no more than a dull minute. I employ this tactic now, tuning in to one of the music stations for good measure. I think they call this genre “jazz.” It washes over me, helping me relax despite the strangeness of my situation. I don’t get much about humans, but I understand why they love music so much. It’s almost magical. Then the elevator bings. I’m reconsidering my moonflowers-growing-feet theory when someone decidedly human steps into the room. I watch in horror as the city comes alive, but not in the usual way. It’s a boy. He’s much younger than even the youngest of the Communicator’s assistants, a small girl with gravity-defying curls who had seemed to prefer looking at dog pictures than helping. When he looks at me, I remember why I do this. He looks at me like I’m his last hope. But more than that, he’s scared. Terrified. Tears hover in front of his eyes, balancing carefully on his lower eyelids without falling out. Does he know what’s going on out there? I wonder. He must, given how upset he seems. It was creepy enough for me to see the flowers moving. For someone who might be just feet away from them—that would be beyond frightening. The boy rushes toward me and begins to