It began, as most impending disasters in Weedwick do, with the unmistakable scent of doom—specifically, the cloying, glitter-laced sweetness that meant pufffruits were about to erupt in a sparkly apocalypse.
Sweet. Too sweet. Like someone had boiled sugar with flowers and left it in the sun for a week.
Gary wrinkled his fronds. "Pufffruit season," he said grimly. "We're all doomed."
Pufffruits are... well, imagine a grapefruit, but fluffier—like a misbehaving pom-pom crossed with a party balloon that's been filled with weaponized confetti, spore-filled, and prone to bursting into sparkly pollen clouds when startled. Normally, they ripen in small waves over the course of a month. But thanks to my cursed Botanical Jackpot ability, every single pufffruit in the greenhouse decided to ripen. On the same day. All 147 of them.
I was still processing Gary's warning when the first one popped.
It sounded like a champagne cork, followed by a glitter explosion. Pink-gold spores swirled around the greenhouse in hypnotic patterns. Bramble sneezed, which made two more pufffruits burst. The chain reaction began.
"Containment protocol!" I shouted.
The plants scrambled into action. The snapvines tried to catch falling pufffruits before they hit the ground, but the sheer number overwhelmed them. Giggle-berries began laughing uncontrollably. The pollen ghost swooped down from the rafters, inhaled a lungful of spores, and started yodeling.
I grabbed a basket, scooped up as many intact pufffruits as I could, and sprinted for the pantry. Behind me, the air grew thick with shimmering haze. My skin prickled with magic.
Then the hallucinations started—slow at first, like reality had taken a step to the left. The spores didn't just blur the edges of the world; they painted over them in glitter and absurdity. Floorboards rippled like gentle waves. The ivy along the walls began singing sea shanties in three-part harmony. A tea kettle sprouted tiny legs and waltzed toward the door, followed by a procession of marching teacups. Even the chandelier vine was wearing what looked like a jaunty top hat made from a pufffruit rind.
The spores don't just smell sweet—they make your brain... playful. I glanced toward the fountain and swore it was performing synchronized swimming with the lilies. Gary was reciting Shakespeare to a cactus. Bramble was dancing with a pufffruit like it was the love of his life.
Through the chaos, the greenhouse door creaked open.
Twig stumbled in. "Moss, I need—" He stopped, eyes going wide at the glitter fog. "Why is your house... drunk?"
"No time to explain! Grab a net!"
Together, we waded through the chaos, catching pufffruits mid-air. Every time we caught one, two more would pop in our faces. The spores stuck to my hair, making me look like some deranged fairy queen.
A rogue pufffruit bounced toward the door to the castle proper.
"Oh no you don't!" I dove, catching it just as it exploded in my hands. My vision went pink and sparkly.
Just then, a gust of wind from the open castle door swept spores into the corridor. Seconds later, a commotion erupted in glorious slapstick fashion—villagers slipping on carpets of stray petals, goats chasing pufffruits down the muddy lanes, and a pair of street vendors desperately trying to net the bouncing orbs as if they were runaway fish—apparently, a few pufffruits had escaped into the village beyond Weedwick's gates. Villagers would later describe "tiny glitter bombs" bouncing through the streets, setting off sneezing fits, spontaneous dancing, and an impromptu conga line led by the blacksmith.
By the time I chased down the last escapee—pinned in a flowerpot outside the bakery—the greenhouse looked like a party aftermath. Pufffruit pulp clung to the walls. The snapvines were passed out from exhaustion. Gary was still quoting Shakespeare and now wearing a tea cozy like a crown.
"Order restored," I croaked.
Twig looked around, dazed. "You live like this?"
"Only on Tuesdays," I muttered.
By evening, I'd salvaged enough intact pufffruits to make jam. The rest... well, the courtyard birds and half the village pigeons were having a very colorful feast. The air still sparkled faintly in the moonlight, drifting lazily through the village square.
Gary sipped tea and sighed. "I told you. Pufffruit season. We're all doomed."
I just groaned and flopped onto the couch—only to freeze when a single, perfectly ripe pufffruit rolled slowly out from under the coffee table and came to rest at my feet, as if daring me to blink first, wondering what fresh chaos tomorrow would bring—and whether the blacksmith would ever give me back my pufffruit net.