[story in need of a decent title]

H. P. Lovecraft was a really strange guy, and for some reason I've been talking about him all week long. That and reading stories by him. Anyway though, the thing with him is that he wrote a whole bunch of stories which were intended as scary disquieting creep-fests that just have way too much cutting edge (for the 20s) technology and perspectives of the characters who wait outside to really pull it off.

However, there's so many great concepts in his stories that everyone in the field is still mining them for ideas, despite having absolutely no idea who H. P. Lovecraft is. Most such people just figure that the Necronomicon is an actual book, big slimey monsters covered with tentacles and eyes come from Japan, and don't pick up on the fun of having everyone go insane at all.

The only author I can think of who lower ratio of recognition to contribution to his genre is E. E. "Doc" Smith, who wrote the Lensman series, and while he was at it came up with a few concepts like, say, tractor beams.

Anyway though, back to ol' Hippie Luvcraft. Weird parallels between him and me:

Anyway though, the point is, I read a whole lot of H. P. Lovecraft stories last night, briefly considered talking a bunch of weirdos (read: you people) into wandering around his home town some day, and in the end said nah, went to bed, woke up, and wrote this. Enjoy, or something.

The tree stood alone the hill, its reddish leaves blowing in the cool fall air. Below lay only the hard bare earth, deprived of even the slightest vegetation.

Having travelled all day and being low on supplies, we made camp at the base of the gnarled twisted trunk and noticed the strange bulbous fruits which dangled from the lowest branches. Like plums they were, but somewhat larger and malformed. Reddish-purple bean shapes, as big as a grown man's fist they were, and looking oh so tempting to our hungry eyes.

Peters was first to feast on this unseasonal fare. Taking first a cautious bite of the strange floral growth, then savagely gorging; the thick red juices oozing down his face and hands. Soon after, the rest of our small party followed suit, each feasting upon a bizarre malformed orb of watery pulp.

The taste was not like any I had met before. Somewhat tart and tangy it seemed, not sweet as one would imagine. There was something more as well. I could not place a finger on it, but the taste was profoundly satisfying. It seemed as if this one small fruit would keep me well sated for an entire day. Even the great thirst I had felt and the weariness of my bones left me, leaving only a sense of deep satisfaction.

After licking the strange juices from our fingers, we laid out our bedrolls. Talk was made of starting a fire, but the grown bore no kindling and we dared not harm our new benefactor. Besides, while the air bore a chill, we had suffered far worse of late.

The next morning we decided to scout the area and find our bearings, hoping also to find additional sources of nourishment. While the strange fruits were quite delicious, it is the nature of man to crave meat from time to time. While nothing but the fruit could be found we determined that civilization lay perhaps five days to the southwest. Thus, we harvested from the tree every fruit it bore, and made ready to leave in the morning.

That night however, tragedy befell us. Jensen, gone mad from his time in the wilderness, had taken our supply of the fruit and tried to sneak off on his own. We caught up with him in short time, and a violent struggle ensued. In the end Abrahms lay dead, his skull crushed by a large rock Jensen wielded. Jensen himself then fell prey to the savage blows of our revenge. Feeling a profound guilt, we buried the two men under the shade of the tree before returning to bed.

In the morning, we awoke to discover that our sustaining vegetation had yielded two more of its delectable children, full and ripe and shining in the light of day. It struck us then in morbid fashion how much like hearts they looked. Shaking such thoughts from our heads, our surviving troupe of three made out for town, stopping only to sleep, and feast upon the ghastly fleshy fruit.

Once back in the cradle of civilization we met with a terrible discovery. While the fruit of that fiendish red tree had spared us from death, the taste had spoiled us for commoner tastes. No longer could we sup upon a fine roast leg of lamb. No more could a mere boiled potato silence our snarling bellies. All that now satisfied us was our weird new discovery.

Having something of a green thumb, I began planting the pits from our dwindling supply in a variety of locations. While it seemed this odd manner of plant could grow in virtually any location, draining as it did all life sustaining elements from the earth, starving the nearby grass and flowers, not one seemed to bear fruit.

All seemed lost until a wild dog, madded and weak due to some vile illness, took leave of its life near one of the saplings. Sure enough, by light of day, a heart shaped bulge hung from a stem, but alas, the taste was foul. The secret was revealed to us however, and the next pit I planted in the cemetery.

As this young sprout grew strong and tall, the branches were quite heavy with fruit. Unfortunately, the bodies of the long dead yield only withered prunes that taste of dust, and the wild growth threatened to give us away, so we quickly felled the tree and took up our current way of life.

Ah, now that's a look I've seen before. Perhaps you recall the legend of the wendigo? Where those who eat the flesh of man become hideous brutes thinking only of murder? We're far from that I assure you. I myself devote most of my time to the arts. The works adorning the walls of this very room were painted by me over the years, and I dare say I might be able to turn a profit off them.

We don't even resort to murder to sustain our crop most months. Mr. Brown is considered the finest mortician in town, as I'm sure you're aware. Cremation is rather popular around here as you know, and it becomes quite easy to sneak the occasional fresh corpse out to my garden. Most people spread the contents of their urns on the breeze anyway.

Quite frankly, we would just be a trio of kindly old men keeping to ourselves and our eclectic tastes if it weren't for the occasional would-be sleuth or unruly brat who sneaks into our yard and meddles with our affairs. Now then, here comes Peterson with the axe. Oh, come now! Don't scream so. Nobody can hear you here. Perhaps you'd like to try our crop before you lose your head? There really is nothing quite like the flavor.