Pollen from the Winnipeg Wetlands

My eyes were itching. Not the normal spring allergy itch. It felt like someone had dumped a bag of microchips behind my eyelids and told them to start mining crypto. I rubbed them with the back of my hand, but that only smeared more of the blue gunk across my face. Everything in the greenhouse was coated in it. The ferns, the glass, the humidifiers. Especially the telescope lenses.

Dr. Pattfeld was vibrating. Not metaphorically. His actual physical frame was humming at a frequency that made the nearby beakers rattle. He was hunched over the main scope, his lab coat stained with what looked like neon snot. He didn’t look like a scientist anymore. He looked like a guy who had spent forty-eight hours in a basement trying to find the end of the internet.

"Aris, look at this," Pattfeld said. His voice was thin. Scratched.

"I’m busy trying not to go blind," I said. I leaned against a potting bench. The wood was damp. It smelled like wet dirt and ozone.

"The pollen. It’s not just plant sperm, Aris. It’s a network. It’s a literal fiber-optic fungal interface. It’s reading the observatory feed. It’s reacting to the wishes. The cosmic wishes."

"People don't make cosmic wishes, Doc. They make drunk requests for more satellites or whatever."

"No. They look at the stars and they want things. This stuff? It catches those wants. It processes them. Look into the lens. Tell me what you see."

I sighed. My lower back gave a sharp, annoying pop. I leaned over the eyepiece. I expected to see a star cluster or a smudge of dust. Instead, I saw a clear, high-definition image of myself. In the image, I was eating a burrito. It was a very specific burrito from the place on 4th Street that usually gives me heartburn. I was wearing a shirt I hadn't bought yet. It had a stain on the pocket.

"I see lunch," I said. "A future lunch."

"It’s the future, Aris. The pollen is refracting time. It’s seeing the 'next.'"

"Cool. Can it see if I get a raise? Because this gunk is ruining my shoes."

Pattfeld didn't laugh. He didn't even blink. "It’s sentient. It’s hungry for data. And the party is starting."

Outside, the bass kicked in. It was a low, thumping growl that felt like a localized earthquake. DJ Spore—a guy whose real name was probably Kevin and who definitely didn't have a degree in anything—was setting up in the main atrium. The 'After Dark' greenhouse party was supposed to be a fundraiser. Now it was just a humid box filled with twenty-somethings in fast-fashion outfits and a lot of bioluminescent dust.

I walked out of the lab. The atrium was a mess of green and blue. The lilies were pulsing. They weren't just swaying in the breeze of the fans. They were hitting the beat. Every time the kick drum landed, the petals snapped open.

Candice was by the bar. She was wearing neon eyeliner that matched the pollen on the leaves. She looked tired. We were all tired.

"Drinks are warm," Candice said. She handed me a plastic cup. The liquid inside was a suspicious shade of yellow.

"The plants are dancing, Candice."

"I know. It’s the bass. Spore is playing that heavy glitch-hop. They love it."

"They aren't supposed to love it. They’re plants. They’re supposed to sit there and photosynthesize."

"Tell them that," she said, gesturing to a row of succulents. They were vibrating so hard they were migrating across the table.

Councilman Rick was in the center of the floor. He was sixty, wearing a suit that cost more than my car, and trying to look like he enjoyed being around people who used the word 'vibe' unironically. He had a glass of champagne in one hand and a campaign flyer in the other. He looked like a man who was very lost and very determined to stay that way.

"The growth is accelerating," I muttered.

I looked down. A vine was creeping across the floor. It wasn't slow. It was moving like a clock hand if you sped it up by a thousand percent. It had little blue veins that flickered in time with the music.

"Hey, Rick!" I shouted over the music. "Watch your step!"

Rick waved at me. He thought I was a fan. "Great event! Very green! Very forward-thinking!"

He stepped right into the center of a star-seed patch. The floor there was soft. Spongy. The moment his polished leather loafer touched the soil, the ground erupted. It wasn't a slow sprout. It was a botanical explosion. Green stalks shot up, thick as thighs, wrapping around his ankles.

"Whoa!" Rick yelled. His champagne spilled.

"It’s a feature!" someone in the crowd yelled. "High-end VFX! Sick!"

"It’s not VFX!" I tried to scream, but the bass dropped. The floor literally heaved. The plants didn't just grow; they choreographed. They wove together into a cage, trapping Rick in a lattice of thorns and glowing leaves.

I ran toward the DJ booth. DJ Spore was wearing oversized headphones and staring at a laptop screen that was mostly covered in stickers.

"Turn it down!" I yelled.

"What?" he shouted back. "The drop? It’s coming!"

"No! The volume! You’re feeding them!"

"They’re plants, man! They don’t have ears!"

"They have sensors! They’re reacting to the pressure waves! Turn it off!"

He didn't. He pushed a fader up. The sound became a physical weight. My teeth felt like they were going to vibrate out of my gums.

In the middle of the floor, the 'petal prophecy' began. The large corpse flower in the corner—which wasn't supposed to bloom for another three years—split open. It didn't smell like rotting meat. It smelled like ozone and old books. A projection shot out of its center, hitting the glass ceiling.

It wasn't a movie. It was text. Or something like it. Symbols that looked like a mix between math and emojis.

"What is that?" Candice asked, appearing at my shoulder. She was holding her phone up, recording.

"Pattfeld says it’s a message," I said. I looked at the Councilman. He was currently being hoisted three feet off the ground by a very enthusiastic ivy plant. He looked like he was about to cry, or throw up, or both.

"Can you read it?"

I looked at the symbols. They were shifting. Changing. The pollen in the air was aligning, acting like a lens. I squinted. The 'future-sight' from the telescope was bleeding into my actual vision. I saw the symbols settle into English.

"It’s a setup," I whispered.

"A what?"

"It’s the start of a joke. A literal joke from the other side of the galaxy. The fungal network is just a long-distance relay for a comedian in Andromeda."

"That’s stupid," Candice said.

"Everything is stupid, Candice. Look at Rick."

Rick was now completely encased in a green cocoon, except for his head. He looked like a very angry grape.

"Help!" he squeaked.

I looked back at the ceiling. The symbols changed again. The punchline was forming. It wasn't words anymore. It was a map. A map of our solar system, but with a giant 'You Are Here' arrow pointing to a spot that was definitely not Earth. It was a cosmic prank. A 'your mom' joke written in the language of stars and spores.

I started laughing. It was a dry, hacking sound. The absurdity of it all—the humidity, the glowing snot, the trapped politician, the interstellar stand-up routine—it was too much.

"What’s the punchline?" Candice asked.

I pointed at the sky. The clouds were parting. The stars were actually shifting. Not much. Just enough to form a shape. A giant, celestial middle finger aimed directly at Winnipeg.

"That," I said. "That’s the punchline."

The music stopped. The plants froze. Rick hit the floor with a wet thud as the vines withered instantly. The blue glow faded, leaving us in a dark, damp greenhouse that smelled like disappointment and cheap beer.

I looked at my hand. The glow was gone, but the itch remained.

"Well," Candice said, wiping her eyeliner. "That was a weird Tuesday."

I looked up at the glass. The stars were back to normal. But I knew better. I knew they were watching. And I knew they were still laughing.

My skin felt tight. I looked down at my arm. A small, green shoot was pushing its way out from under my fingernail.

I really needed a new job.