The toe wiggled at Mirella from the compost heap. She let the lid drop with a thud and a cloud of flies. Enough. Time to order an electronic composter.
When she’d committed to living zero-waste for a year, she’d promised herself she wouldn’t be one of those bougie millennials buying sculpted glass jars and clean, Nordic-looking-wood-everything to support the lifestyle. No, she was going legit. Pure. Capitalism wasn’t going to benefit from her efforts to renew the planet.
But the toe had broken her. And it was worth a couple hundred bucks to incinerate it in an appropriately eco-friendly fashion. Though the advertising didn’t call it incinerating, of course. It was a “countertop appliance designed to speed-compost household waste with no mess, no fuss, and no odour.”
Did she believe the ad copy? Hardly. It’d probably be stinky, loud, dirty, and would leer accusingly at her across her open-plan living space with its one glowing eye that doubled as a magic button for everything she could ever need the space-age convenience to do, because heaven forbid they design machines with actual control panels these days.
Mirella paused at the final step of the online order form, chewing over her options. The breadmaker-sized unit would undoubtedly come with its own set of waste-generating challenges. Plastic film, packing peanuts, even cardboard. Although, as far as the cardboard went, she could probably cut it up small and practice using the composter to dispose of it as a trial run before taking on the toe.
She’d tried flushing the clippings at first, reasoning that they were just another type of biological waste, and it wasn’t as if she was going to start collecting all the other types for in-home composting. That was probably illegal, anyway. Hazardous waste, or something. Wasn’t that how they got plagues and dysentery and all sorts of old-fashioned or other-country-type diseases, back in the day?
But that was before Mirella had read an article on how some mineral or something in human hair was great for house plants, and had had the bright idea of tucking nail clippings, as well as snarls of hair, into the dirt like a twisted Halloween version of those cute little plastic stakes from the dollar store where you were supposed to write the plant’s name in calligraphy or some shit. Not that she shopped at dollar stores. That would be very wrong.
Anyway, she hadn’t realized she’d had a problem until the leaves on her test plant had started getting a little too silky and the petals had unfurled around keratinous hearts. She’d pulled on her ethically-harvested natural latex gloves and yanked the poor thing out by the roots, cramming it headfirst into the steel pail she used as a temporary compostables receptacle before emptying it into the biweekly pickup bins outside. After a moment’s consideration, she’d upended the pot and shaken all the remaining soil into the pail as well.
When the pot had been well scrubbed with an organic coconut-shell-fibre-and-wire brush and her pulse had settled back to its usual serene pace, Mirella was even able to chuckle at her overactive imagination. Poor plant. All the same, she’d stick to flushing all biological waste in future. Circular in-home economies were all well and good, but clearly she’d crossed some kind of mental barrier and should back away slowly.
Mirella dreamed of toenail-lined sewage pipes and flowers unfurling to display eyeballs and ears and tiny little baby hands waving at her, and woke with a dull sense of dread. It worsened when she realized she’d neglected to wash out the little glass-and-tin box she carried her lunches in over the weekend, and the remnants of Friday’s organic, locally grown and sustainably harvested meal were gently growing local, presumably organic, and clearly wildly sustainable green-and-white fuzz.
She ignored it in favour of coffee—not locally grown, unfortunately, but purchased from some kind of collective that ensured farmers got paid and didn’t clear more rainforest to grow the beans or use pesticides. At least, that’s what they’d claimed at the refillery, where they’d smiled indulgently at her stained yogurt container, and gingerly slid scoops of beetle-shiny beans in. The customer waiting behind her had been less gentle in her judgment.
Mirella had smiled with tight lips and clenched teeth all through the lecture on the dangers of chemical-leeching plastics making her stupid, infertile, and fat. She’d nodded, eyed the aesthetically pleasing display of glass-and-cork and ceramic coffee storage containers, one with a hand-lettered card announcing the name of a pottery studio that matched the one emblazoned across the lecturing woman’s allegedly-ocean-reclaimed-plastic tote bag, and brightly thanked the now-ranting woman for sharing her knowledge, before taking her plastic-encased beans and running. Maybe she’d go back to refilling at the local grocery’s bulk section. The selection was limited, and probably not organic, much less ethical, whatever the signs claimed.
Mirella sighed and knocked a puck of gently steaming grounds into her compostables pail. The toenails recoiled in pain. All three of them.
She could have sworn she’d buried those suspicious-looking flowers at the bottom of the pail under a full pot’s worth of dirt, but now the gently curved pinkish nails they’d grown were attached to scraps of flesh. Presumably complete with tendons and nerve endings buried somewhere in the dirt, given the flinch.
Mirella might’ve yelped, or screamed, or sworn, but she caught sight of her neighbour through the small, above-sink window in her kitchen. He was just returning from a jog in his heat-molded algae, ethically harvested wool and recycled pop bottle runners, looking sweaty but perfect in the kind of merino athletic gear that was well beyond Mirella’s budget. A passing conversation last fall had led to her growing awareness of the importance—no, the imperative—of committing to a sustainable lifestyle. Which she had done. Was doing. However . . .
She looked down in despair. They shared a bin for compost pickup. It was the highlight of her week, politely fighting over who would deliver it to the curb, then wheeling the hip-high bin back to his laneway unit, where she could peek in the windows and pretend she, too, lived in an Instagram-worthy snap of eco-friendly domestic bliss instead of a dank half-basement. But now what? She could hardly sully their shared bin with her nightmarish leavings. And what if he saw? He might come loping out on those long, impeccably clad legs with a late addition of coffee grounds or the faded and limp leavings of post-soup-stock vegetable trimmings, only to be confronted with a crop of toes waggling back at him.
No, she couldn’t bear it. He’d never look at her the same way. If he ever looked at her.
That was when she’d thought up the compost heap. It’d been brilliant, really. How better to bask in his attention than a joint project? And when he’d bowed out only a day after helping her mark and measure the patch of yard for the heap, she’d understood, she really had. He had important work to do. Planet-saving work, something with research and complicated plans and lots of travel, carefully offset with carbon credits when he couldn’t walk, cycle, or take public transit, of course.
So she’d ferreted out a series of free video explainers, sourced and hauled the materials home, and knocked up a backyard compost heap. She’d emptied her now-ripe-and-wriggly compostables pail into the bottom and covered it in the prescribed layers of green and brown material, careful to bury the evidence from view. Down at the bottom, it’d surely suffocate. Whatever it was.
That had been two weeks ago. Mirella shuddered at the thought of what else hid just beneath the surface. She’d only spotted one toe, but the others couldn’t be far behind. Whispering up an apology to Mother Earth, or whoever interceded on behalf of reluctant polluters, she went back a few steps and clicked the overnight delivery option on the home composter. It would be a little worse for the planet, but much, much better for her peace of mind, and her chances of domestic bliss with Mr. Eco-Everything.
In the meantime, she’d just have to stake out the compost heap.
“Gardening?” her neighbour asked, taking in her thrifted straw hat, the undyed (and, as yet, uncreased) organic cotton gloves clutched in one hand, and her rusted steel trowel.
She nodded, speechless. Then she spotted the pail in his hands.
“Let me,” she managed, stuttering a little on that first L, tripping over a rake in her hurry to place herself between him and the compost heap.
He blinked, tightening his grip. The pail gleamed, the outside beaten copper, undoubtedly from some far-away women’s collective or artisanal workshop, free of drips or stains. Mirella grimaced at the dirt under her nails—not from gardening; she’d just been afraid to cut them and now didn’t have a brush with long enough bristles to clean underneath—but held out her hands anyway, in what she hoped was a charming manner.
“It’s no trouble,” she said.
Her neighbour chewed his lip, a little flushed, his gaze flickering from the compost heap to her and back.
“Actually,” he said, his perfect voice just on the edge of breathless. “Actually, I think I forgot—”
“What have you got there, Jason?” a woman’s voice trilled, too bright.
Mirella backed against the compost heap and sat with a thump. It was the local artisanal pottery lecturer from the zero waste refillery. Of course it was.
“Karen,” Jason said with relief, turning away from Mirella and her buzzing, stinking seat. He nearly jogged over and leaned in, as if for a kiss.
Karen leaned away. “Don’t let me stop you.” She eyed the pail clutched in his white-nailed, tendon-ridged hands.
Mirella closed her eyes. Then she hopped up from her seat. “Let me get that for you. No, it’s no trouble at all—”
She brushed past Jason’s objections, shouldering Karen to one side, and seized the pail. He didn’t let go. If anything, he pulled it closer, cuddling it like a small animal or a favourite toy. Mirella came with it, her pulse racing at the proximity, the heat of his body, the clean scent of—
She wrinkled her nose. She knew that smell. He’d left his compostables pail too long without emptying it and it had started growing fungus or mold or whatever happened when you let food scraps sit long enough to not only rot but generate completely new organisms, complete with rainbow-hued fur. Was that what this was about? He was embarrassed it had taken him—Mr. Perfect Eco Saint—too long to empty his compost pail, and the results were toxic to anyone within a ten-foot radius? He’d been travelling recently; it’s not like anyone would blame him.
“It’s okay,” Mirella murmured so Karen wouldn’t hear. “I know. I get it. Just leave it with me.”
Jason blanched, his handsome features going a sickly pale green, eyes widening, dampening. He looked like he was about to cry. Then his gaze shifted, focusing on something past her shoulder. His expression smoothed to genial blandness. “No, no. I’ve got it.”
He stepped back, turning on his heel, clearly intending to break Mirella’s hold. She wasn’t expecting it. Off-balance, she staggered, her weight falling to one side, both arms firmly locked around the spotless copper pail Jason clutched. She pulled him off balance, their legs tangling, eyes widening, breaths merging in a startled shout subsumed into a wordless burst of air as elbows and hips and ribs collided with the earth.
And, at the same moment, a slight but audible pop; then a roiling wave of noxious fumes sent Mirella rolling away from what might otherwise have been a thoroughly enjoyable entanglement.
On hands and knees she coughed, eyes watering. In the periphery of her vision, Jason stiffened, moaned, and went limp.
“What is that?” came Karen’s strident voice. Then, a moment later. “That’s not what I think it is. Jason?”
His arms lifted as if in wordless plea, faltered, and folded to cover his face. “This isn’t a good time, Karen.”
She sniffed. “When is? Look, I’m a busy woman. I have goals. And I can’t have my brand sullied by whatever this is. You can keep your weird little hobbies to yourself.”
Jason nodded without uncovering his face. “Yes, a hobby,” he said tonelessly.
Karen’s muttering about closet creeps and unproductive use of time receded into the distance. Mirella crawled a couple feet before attempting her feet.
“Sorry,” she said, staring at the peeling paint on the side of the building to avoid facing Jason. “I didn’t mean to—”
“I’ll move,” he said quickly. “You’ll never have to see me again. And it’s not—it’s really not what it looks like, okay? Like Karen said, just a hobby. You don’t need to call the police—”
Police? Mirella swung around in surprise. She left her mouth hanging open, despite the truly horrifying taste of the fumes. Slimy, rotten scraps were smeared across Jason’s chest. It was foul-looking and smelling, but nothing criminal. Sure, he shouldn’t have bought more kale than he could finish. She suspected that larger chunk was a beef bone, and everyone knew feedlots were bad for the environment, but he’d probably sourced it from one of those grass-fed, free-range, carbon-sequestering herds or whatever. And, while those baby carrots looked a little pale, they were probably still edible—
One moved. Bent and wriggled. Mirella took a step forward. Then another, ignoring the stench to examine the offending scrap. A thick, pinkish-pale, shell-like arc, capped with a translucent whitish strip and set into a stubby, mottled—
“Where did you get that?” she demanded, her gut churning.
Jason followed her stare, groaned, and covered his face again.
Mirella crouched down. Reached. Hesitated. He’d been in the compost pile. The toe she’d spotted hadn’t been the first after all. But why had he taken it inside? And, if he’d wanted it for something, why was it in his compostables pail and headed back to the heap?
The big toe flexed again, inching out from under a strip of banana peel. The others, smaller, rocked and wriggled sleepily like a litter of kittens waking from a nap. Mirella gasped at the wiry dark hairs dusting their knuckles. Or whatever it was you called the bendy bits of toes. Her hair was a pale brown, mousy-ash and near-invisible against her skin. And she most certainly did not grow hair on her toes. At least, not that much.
“Where did you get that?” she asked again in a whisper.
“It’s moving again, isn’t it,” Jason moaned. He peeked between his fingers at her. “Would you believe it’s a hobby? I, um. I make tiny marionettes out of vegetable scraps. Lifelike, isn’t it?”
The toe flexed again, dragging itself fully out from under the banana peel. Was that bone at the end? Why didn’t it bleed?
“Oh, um. That one’s animatronic,” he gulped, fingers fluttering above the toe as if afraid to touch it.
Mirella went and found her now crumpled and grass-stained gloves and handed them to him. He nodded his thanks, tucked as much of his long fingers as would fit inside their protection, and gingerly lifted the offending digit. It flexed with noticeable irritation.
“There’s something you should see.” Mirella took a deep breath. Then she doubled over, coughing.
“Sorry,” Jason muttered. “I didn’t want to—I mean, I meant to—”
“Seriously, just get over here.” Eyes watering, she grabbed his arm and dragged him, food scraps and animate digits peeling off with every step, to the compost heap.
She grimaced, one hand on the lid. He’d never see her the same way. If she did this, she was outing herself as possibly the most disgusting person on the planet. Her toenail clippings were so gross they’d straight-up come back to life after being buried. Reanimated toes. Who knew what was next? Would they regenerate a full zombie-copy of her, or just keep spreading until they took over the planet in endless, wriggling pink fields?
“I should . . . I should go,” Jason said, tugging against her grip, a clone of what could only be his big toe squirming in one hand. “I need to wash. And pack. If there are any countries you’d like to visit in the future, just let me know and I’ll steer clear.”
“You don’t need to go.” And, staring right up into his beautiful, shame-filled eyes, Mirella flung up the lid covering the compost heap.
A burst of flies heralded the start of their domestic bliss. After he’d gotten over the shock and disgust, Jason had gently nestled his toes, one by one, between hers and covered them in the scraps they’d gathered together from his shirt, trousers, and the trampled yard. He’d closed the lid gently and tried to kiss her before remembering a shower was in order.
She moved into the laneway house that night and never left, keeping her dark and dingy semi-underground suite for the children’s sake. It turned out the two most disgusting people on the planet were 100% compatible in biologically and emotionally fascinating ways. The toes proliferated. But they also collaborated. And, in the cozy, dark heat of the backyard compost heap, they merged to grow something beautiful.
Jason joked about naming the first one Karen.
Mirella sent the automatic composter back.