Welcome, you twisted bastards, to the latest slab of literary meat on the horror chopping block: Eat the Ones You Love by Sarah Maria Griffin. This isn’t your grandma’s cozy gardening manual—it’s a sapphic, Irish-tinged retelling of Little Shop of Horrors (basically) with a sentient, flesh-craving orchid named Baby who’s got more issues than a tabloid rack. This book is a slow-burn descent into botanical madness that’ll have you side-eyeing your houseplants for weeks. Buckle up, because I’m diving balls-deep into this weird-ass tale, dissecting its guts, glory, and a few gripes, all while trying not to sound like a pretentious prick. Let’s get to it.

Sarah Maria Griffin isn’t some newbie scribbler who stumbled into this gig. She’s an Irish writer with a knack for blending the mundane with the macabre, a literary alchemist who’s been churning out bangers for years. Her previous works—like Spare and Found Parts and Other Words for Smoke—showcase her love for the offbeat, the emotional, and the downright eerie. Griffin’s got a background in zine-making and poetry, which bleeds into her prose with a raw, punk-rock energy. She’s not afraid to get messy, and Eat the Ones You Love is her adult debut, a middle finger to conventional storytelling that proves she’s here to fuck with your head and heart. Hailing from Dublin, she infuses this novel with Irish vibes—crumbling malls, millennial despair, and a dash of slang that’ll make you Google “culchie” mid-chapter. Griffin’s a force, and this book is her latest love letter to the freaks and weirdos who dig the dark shit.

Michelle “Shell” Pine is a hot mess. Freshly dumped, jobless, and crashing with her parents in a nowhere Irish town, she’s the poster child for millennial burnout. One day, while moping through a dying mall with flickering fluorescents and the ghost of 90s consumerism, she spots a “Help Needed” sign at a flower shop. Enter Neve, the enigmatic florist with a smile that could melt steel and secrets darker than a peat bog. Shell lands the gig, sparks fly, and suddenly she’s got a new crew, a budding crush, and a front-row seat to some seriously weird shit.

The star of this fucked-up show? Baby, a carnivorous orchid with a hard-on for Neve. This isn’t some passive potted plant—Baby’s sentient, sprawling its roots through the mall like a green cancer, and obsessed with consuming the woman who tends it. Shell’s caught in the crossfire, navigating a love triangle, workplace drama, and the creeping dread of a plant that wants to eat its way to happily-ever-after. It’s a slow simmer of tension that explodes into a finale of gore and chaos, leaving you wondering if anyone’s getting out alive—or if you even want them to.

Eat the Ones You Love is a goddamn buffet of themes. At its core, it’s about hunger—not just Baby’s literal craving for flesh, but the emotional starvation that gnaws at Shell, Neve, and the whole damn mall crew. Shell’s desperate for purpose after her life implodes; Neve’s feeding a monster she can’t escape; and Baby’s lust for Neve is a twisted mirror of human obsession. It’s love as consumption, a theme Griffin hammers home with every slimy tendril and devoured mallrat.

Symbolism? Oh, it’s dripping like sap from a slashed stem. The decaying mall is a big, fat metaphor for late-stage capitalism—once a shiny temple of excess, now a rotting husk overtaken by nature’s revenge. Baby’s the ultimate fuck-you to suburbia, a primal force reclaiming what humanity built and abandoned. The flowers Shell arranges? Beauty masking rot, just like the relationships in this story. And don’t get me started on the Irish setting—it’s a nod to a nation wrestling with its own identity, caught between tradition and a globalized shitshow. Griffin’s not subtle, but she doesn’t need to be; the imagery hits like a sledgehammer wrapped in petals.

If there’s a message here, it’s that love can be a real bastard. Griffin doesn’t preach—she’s too smart for that—but she’s definitely poking at the underbelly of attachment. Baby’s fixation on Neve is a grotesque parody of codependency, a reminder that wanting someone too much can turn you into a monster. Shell’s journey, meanwhile, flirts with redemption: she’s clawing her way out of despair, but the book never promises a neat bow. It’s more like, “Hey, life’s a mess, and sometimes the things that save you also try to eat you alive.” There’s no moralizing, just a raw, unflinching look at how we fuck ourselves up chasing connection. It’s bleak, it’s funny, and it’s damn near perfect for a horror blog crowd that thrives on the messy stuff.

Griffin’s prose is a trip—lush, jagged, and occasionally a pain in the ass. She writes like she’s possessed, weaving sentences that pulse with hunger and heartache. It’s poetic as hell, full of vivid imagery that’ll make you smell the damp mall air and feel Baby’s roots slithering under your skin. But here’s the kicker: she loves to fuck with perspective. One minute you’re in Shell’s third-person headspace, the next you’re jolted into Baby’s first-person rant, no warning, no hand-holding. It’s disorienting, and that’s the point—Baby’s influence seeps into the narrative like a virus, screwing with your sense of who’s talking. I fucking love it!

I can imagine some readers bitching about this, but I find it innovative. Once you lock into the rhythm, it’s a mind-bending ride and really ramps up the tension. The lack of clear POV breaks mirrors the characters’ unraveling, and Griffin’s bold enough to let it feel chaotic. Add in some Irish slang and a knack for dark humor, and you’ve got a style that’s equal parts gorgeous and unhinged. It’s not for everyone, but if you’re here for the weird shit, it’s a treat.

This book’s got balls, and its strengths are what make it a standout. The atmosphere is a fucking knockout—the mall’s a character in its own right, all faded glory and creeping dread. You can practically hear the escalators groan and taste the stale pretzels. The cast is another win: Shell’s a relatable wreck, Neve’s a magnetic enigma, and Baby’s the most deranged narrator since Patrick Bateman. Side characters like Jen, Neve’s ex, add spice—her emails are a highlight. And that ending? Holy shit, it’s full of chaos and ambiguity that sticks with you. No tidy resolutions here, just a lingering unease that’s horror gold.

Alright, let’s not suck its dick too hard—there’s room to bitch. The pacing’s a slog at times, especially in the middle. You’re stuck in mall-worker banter and Shell’s moping while Baby twiddles his tendrils, and it drags like a hungover Sunday. It’s a slow burn, sure, but it could’ve used a tighter trim—maybe lop off some of that “found family” fluff and get to the good stuff. And speaking of good stuff: where’s the goddamn horror? For a book about a man-eating plant, it’s light on the carnage. The last 25% delivers, but I wanted more bodies hitting the floor earlier. It’s creepy, not scary, and that’s a letdown for gorehounds like me.

Eat the Ones You Love is ultimately a hell of a ride. Griffin’s crafted a horror gem that’s equal parts tender and terrifying, a love story wrapped in thorns. It’s got atmosphere to spare, characters you’ll root for (or want to feed to Baby), and a style that’s ballsy as fuck. Sure, it stumbles with pacing and skimps on the blood, but the payoff’s worth it. If you’re into botanical nightmares, sapphic tension, or just some weird-ass fiction to spice up your shelf, grab this. Just don’t blame me if you start talking to your ferns—they might talk back.

Tor Books
Published April 22, 2025