(recalling Gregor Samsa)

 Anna’s daughter could smell it. Especially strong when her mother was home. She couldn’t find a noun for what “it” was which gradually seeped into her every orifice. Something was always cooking. Even at night with no one in the kitchen. Her father said that she had an overactive imagination. Meals tasted different lately. Something about the beef or chicken was off.  Gradually it happened with cookies, candy and ice cream too. It’s vegan her mother said with each item she served, handed out or spooned into bowels. Kept repeating what spread to towels, sheets, everything in the house. Finally, the house, too. Where’s your mother, her father called out when he came home late from work one day. She pointed to the door. Anna, he called out several times. On getting no answer he forced open the door. Hundreds of vegetables melded into one enormity lay on the bed. Anna, he cried out? What is this thing? Where are you? I’m right here, It’s Vegin, she said. It’s me. A powerful smell overwhelmed Anna, who passed out on the floor beside her father.