Eye on the Prize

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She thought they had pretty flowers, little white bonnets covering petite yellow faces. The deep green, wiry vines along which the flowers bloomed adorned the fence out front—she thought it looked nice that way.

But all the while the roots were spreading. When the vine sprouted out back, it rose from everyplace. Between cracks. Splitting rock, brick. It coiled around the sunflowers, the vegetables, the trees.

Constricting. Killing.

She tried pulling it. One stem at a time among thousands. Eventually it disappeared.

Strong enough now, it wriggled one night through floorboards, up bedposts, and around the sleeping woman's neck. 

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