Three days after I was born, as I lay in my silken cradle, gazing with astonished dismay on the new world round about me, my mother spoke to the wet-nurse, saying, “How does my child?”

And the wet-nurse answered, “He does well, Madame, I have fed him three times; and never before have I seen a babe so young yet so gay.”

And I was indignant; and I cried, “It is not true, mother; for my bed is hard, and the milk I have sucked is bitter to my mouth, and the odour of the breast is foul in my nostrils, and I am most miserable.”

But my mother did not understand, nor did the nurse; for the language I spoke was that of the world from which I came.

And on the twenty-first day of my life, as I was being christened, the priest said to my mother, “You should indeed by happy, Madame, that your son was born a Christian.”

And I was surprised,—and I said to the priest, “Then your mother in Heaven should be unhappy, for you were not born a Christian.”

But the priest too did not understand my language.

And after seven moons, one day a soothsayer looked at me, and he said to my mother, “Your son will be a statesman and a great leader of men.”

But I cried out,—”That is a false prophet; for I shall be a musician, and naught but a musician shall I be.”

But even at that age my language was not understood—and great was my astonishment.

And after three and thirty years, during which my mother, and the nurse, and the priest have all died, (the shadow of God be upon their spirits) the soothsayer still lives. And yesterday I met him near the gates of the temple; and while we were talking together he said, “I have always known you would become a great musician. Even in your infancy I prophesied and foretold your future.”

And I believed him—for now I too have forgotten the language of that other world.

It is no secret that Borges is my favourite writer ever. He's the face of this community and I've posted several stories and analysis posts too. And I shall continue to do so.

This story really influenced my writing style. Infact one of the OC stories I've posted in this community is heavily influenced by the narrative structure of this short story.

Trying to mix the real and unreal together is smth I love to include in my writing.

She was awake, my sleeping beauty. He had waked her; he had given her what she lacked, and what few men could have given her: the sense of peril, which is the root of love. Now she needed what she had always had and never needed, her serenity, her strength. I stared at her and finally said, “You mean to live with him?”

Beautiful prose, rips into the human soul even if it is a very short story.

Now who doesn't like a horror story about teeth?

Quite intense writing.

'she had tried for years to explain to them that if all you had was mud, then if you were God you made it into human beings, and if you were human you tried to make it into houses where human beings could live.'

16 little folksy stories. As short as a paragraph most of em.

Now who would've expected a Tolstoy short story with a link to the anarchist library eh. (Not me, that's for certain)

Discovered by recommendation of the incredible historian William Dalrymple.

Lovely lovely read. An absolute pleasure to have read

('Intro' to 'zizeks jokes')

Authorship in comedy is smth I'd like to explore sometime too.

One of the popular myths of the late Communist regimes in Eastern Europe was that there was a department of the secret police whose function was (not to collect, but) to invent and put in circulation political jokes against the regime and its representatives, as they were aware of jokes’ positive stabilizing function (political jokes offer to ordinary people an easy and tolerable way to blow off steam, easing their frustrations). Attractive as it is, this myth ignores a rarely mentioned but nonetheless crucial feature of jokes: they never seem to have an author, as if the question “who is the author of this joke?” were an impossible one. Jokes are originally “told,” they are always-already “heard” (recall the proverbial “Did you hear that joke about …?”). Therein resides their mystery: they are idiosyncratic, they stand for the unique creativity of language, but are nonetheless “collective,” anonymous, authorless, all of a sudden here out of nowhere. The idea that there has to be an author of a joke is properly paranoiac: it means that there has to be an “Other of the Other,” of the anonymous symbolic order, as if the very unfathomable contingent generative power of language has to be personalized, located into an agent who controls it and secretly pulls the strings. This is why, from the theological perspective, God is the ultimate jokester. This is the thesis of Isaac Asimov’s charming short story “Jokester,” about a group of historians of language who, in order to support the hypothesis that God created man out of apes by telling them a joke (he told apes who, up to that moment, were merely exchanging animal signs, the first joke that gave birth to spirit), try to reconstruct this joke, the “mother of all jokes.” (Incidentally, for a member of the Judeo-Christian tradition, this work is superfluous, since we all know what this joke was: “Do not eat from the tree of knowledge!”—the first prohibition that clearly is a joke, a perplexing temptation whose point is not clear.)

The light began as a pinprick through the blackout curtains that had been forced over me. Like a lead blanket being gradually removed, the weight holding me down began to lift. The light, at first far and dim, became closer and more brilliant. I became aware of the dryness in my mouth, and how hard it was to breathe and to swallow. The light had now completely surrounded me, a cold, white light. I began to shiver. I could smell the smell of chemicals and medicine, and yes, the smell of blood, though it was now much more subdued. There was also the smell of a man. It was a familiar smell, I recognized it, but couldn’t place where I knew it from. There were sounds, though unintelligible.

I found I could move my head. As I lolled it from side to side, I could feel that I was on a cold, flat, hard thing. It smelled of metal and chemicals. I heard a muffled voice and felt a gentle caress on my head. I shivered. My heart began to race. My breathing quickened. The hand quickly left and there was suddenly the smell of some dried meat just before my nose. I reached out with my mouth to take it and found a treat to chew. The muffled voice came again, and I could feel, suddenly, a pain on my side, and the feeling of a hand on my hip.

I dropped the treat I had been chewing and yelped and lashed out, biting at the pain. I could not see the cause, for the white light was still blinding all around. But I could smell the smells of latex, of man and of medicine. Then there was another hand, on my neck, holding my head down. I struggled against it, kicked my feet and pawed at the attacker, but I was still too weak. I relaxed when I had no more energy to fight, but each time the hold loosened, I would again struggle against the oppressing hands, trying in vain to get free, to fight or to flee in my blindness and pain. I again smelled the smell of dried meat before my nose, but this time refused to grab it. Instead, I had tried to bite the hand which placed it there, though my bite found no mark.

I could smell another familiar scent, in my moment of fear and rage, faint as it was: the smell of dogs and of blood. The musty smell of the autumn forest, the foul smell of burned gunpowder, of boar. The smell of man. My man. I could smell it for only an instant. I lifted my head to smell the air, but received only the clinical scents of my surroundings, and of the familiar scents of these yet to be identified men around me. I relented in my struggle and the pain in my side subsided. The man’s hands left my neck and my hip. There was another muffled voice, and another dried meat in front of my nose. The muffled voices of the men retreated from the room. Then the light became dim. The brilliant white which blinded me at all sides, had become a soft grey. A soft thud, and there was silence. Shapes appeared in the shadows then, a cupboard here. A chair there. A window with dim light streaming through. I found that I was exhausted in that moment. I had used all of my energy trying in vain to escape, and I dozed.

The door opened after a while. The smells at once hit me: My pack, the hunt, the forest. My blood mixed with the blood of the boar. My man with his muddy boots and his burned gunpowder. My tail slapped the metal I was laying on. I heard the muffled sound of his footsteps approach, could see his vague figure standing before me. I lifted my head, to search for his hand. I yearned for the caress of his rough hand on my head. I yearned for his love, for his acceptance. I yearned for him to tell me it would be okay, that we were going home. That I am a good girl. In my yearning, though, I feared. I feared the smell of that gunpowder. I feared the smell of that boar. I could hear her shrieks and yells again. I could see her charging me. I could again feel the immense hurt in my side as her tusks found their mark, and as her hooves stamped upon me. I felt myself shiver.

My head was still up when I heard a harsh, muffled voice, and the receding footsteps and the door opening and shutting. The scent of my man wafted out of my life, and never again did return.

I was once a warrior, red in tooth and in claw. I was once fearless. The pounding of our relentless feet against our foes still resonates with me. I still remember the scent of blood in the air, I yearn for it and despise it as a sailor yearns for and despises the sea. I remember the baying of the pack. My pack. Us. I remember the fell voices of my comrades, teeth bared. I remember the man’s gun, though I don’t understand it. The boar would always die upon hearing that terrible roar and smelling that foul scent. Sometimes with a cry, sometimes without. But we knew that when the gun again fell silent, the day’s wonderful and terrible battle would be over.

I was once a warrior.

I remember the cold of the moist ground between my toes, the way it would give just a little under my weight as I bounded through the trees. I remember the smell of the wet woods in autumn. I was alone when I found the sow, laying on her side, her young all about her, some suckling, some sleeping. She let out a cry and stood immediately to her feet. The cry was met with a long howling bark from away in the trees. My pack would soon arrive and we would kill the sow and we would go home and get extra dinner and maybe some head pats. The sow, of course, knew of our intentions, knew that we were all killers. But she too, was a warrior, red in tusk and in hoof. The baying approached. The sow bent low her head. My teeth bared, my fur upon my neck and back stood on end. I didn’t want to fight alone. I’d seen what a sow protecting her young could do. But if she had to charged, I would have to fight. She bellowed a guttural, low growl. Her young, blindly rooting at her feet, still searching for a teat. A momentary glance to the squeaker was all it took, one fraction of a second of divided attention, and the sow charged.

The pain was unlike anything I’d experienced. I caught the scent of blood. The shrieks and moans from the sow deafened me, I couldn’t hear my own cries of pain and terror, anger and agony. She had gored me. Kicked me. I hadn’t had time to fight back. I began to feel very tired, I tried and tried to fight. I grabbed some thick fur in my mouth, but didn’t get through to the flesh beneath. It became dark and I became more tired. I had fallen somehow. The sow continued to trample and gore my side as I lay dying. I fell asleep then.

I dreamed of pain, and my pack barking and killing. Of the man’s gun and of a boar’s death cry. I dreamed of my pack, lapping at the blood from my side. I dreamed of being nuzzled by my friend, as if I was sick. I dreamed of my man, the truck and the bumpy road. I dreamed of a white light and of darkness. When I awoke, I was at a place I thought I knew. It was no longer the forest. It was quiet and dark, though the scent of blood and chemicals and medicine permeated through the blackness. My side and my chest hurt. I tried to stand, but my legs could not hold. I fell again. I was vaguely aware of a familiar sound, a man talking. Not my man, though. This was the other man, the one with the treats and medicine.

There was a pinch on my back leg, I yelped, more in surprise than pain. Then the man said something, it sounded good. Like I was a good girl. I couldn’t tell though, the sound was muffled, as if I were submerged beneath meters of thick water. I became heavy and the pain went away. I could have died then. I could have gone quietly away, like the others. I could have accepted death then as my fate: felled in battle.

Fear overtook me then. I tried to stand, to run. But I could not. My muscles all failed. There was another sound by the man, deeper and farther away. In fear, I succumbed to the blackness. A warrior I was no more.

@shortstories Here is a short story about a haunted car. Heard it before? Bet you haven’t. https://www.writing.com/main/view_item/item_id/2341951-Many-Careful-Owners
#shortstories

A horror/weird fiction short story I wrote last week. Playing around with a sort of creepypasta-meets-John-Langan narration style (at least that was what I was going for).

https://www.wattpad.com/story/398752936-a-new-chapter-walvic-high-school-au

It's a story based on Wallace and Gromit: Curse of the Were-Rabbit where the characters are in American high school. My friend ships the two and some of the scenes are her idea, including the name.

The Grasp of Midnight's Thorn

written by Universal Monk

PART ONE

Blood trickled from the deep gash on his hand, dark crimson drops seeping into the soil beneath his prized rose bushes. The rich earth drank it up greedily, staining the roots of the thorny plants. Derek Ahmaogak winced, disgusted by the sharp sting that pulsed through his fingers. His small spade slipped from his grasp, falling uselessly to the ground. He wiped the sweat and dirt from his face with a grimy sleeve, the scent of iron clinging to his skin.

Being a native from the Inupiat tribe, he often felt the weight of his ancestral roots pressing him to master the land, to connect with it in the way his forebears had, but gardening had proven a fickle and unforgiving task.

The sky above had turned a bruised purple, the sun sinking low on the horizon, casting an eerie glow that made the world seem as though it were on the verge of nightfall. Shadows stretched long and jagged across his garden as Derek sighed, feeling the ache in his muscles from the day’s labor.

“Over it,” he muttered, shaking his head. His gaze turned to the house, where his laptop waited, promising an escape from the frustration and pain.

He had heard whispers about a new, mysterious corner of the internet. For years, he’d lurked in forums filled with conspiracy theories, forgotten lore, and the ramblings of half-crazed prophets. But lately, his interest had spiraled into something more mysterious,

It began with a hidden Lemmy community, buried deep beneath layers of cryptic links, accessible only through a private browser extension. At first glance, it seemed like a strange offshoot of Latter-day Saint theology—a sect of Dark Mormons calling themselves The Covenant of the Obsidian Testament.

They claimed to practice ancient rites long hidden from mainstream followers, rituals that Joseph Smith himself had allegedly sealed away to protect the world from their power.

The posts were a tangle of cryptic phrases, dripping with strange, ancient-sounding words that tugged at the edges of Derek's curiosity. Symbols danced between the lines, and scattered clues teased at the corners of his mind.

There were references to old, long-forgotten writings. One thread blazed out like a beacon in the dark: "The Veil of the Forgotten Seer: Rituals of Eternal Ascendance.” The title seemed to pulse with forbidden promise, pulling him in, whispering of something far more dangerous than he could ever imagine.

He couldn’t resist.

Late one night, with nothing but the dim glow of his monitor lighting his cluttered house, Derek clicked on the link. His heart pounded as he read the post, detailing a ritual tied to an ancient, forgotten text buried deep within the one of the original manuscripts of the Book of Mormon.

It spoke of a plant—no ordinary plant, but a seed said to have been passed down from ancient times, tied to something far older than any religion. The Dark Mormons called it “Xymethra’s Bloom.” A plant that could grant unimaginable insight, but only to those willing to nourish it with their own blood.

Derek scoffed at first, but as he read on, his curiosity turned to obsession. The more he read, the more he convinced himself that this could be his chance. He could finally be someone. Finally do something that no one else had dared. This wasn’t just some online community; this was power—real power, hidden from the world.

He posted a response, half expecting to be ignored. But the next morning, his inbox had a single message. The sender was anonymous, but the message was clear: "You are chosen. The seeds will arrive soon. Prepare the soil. Prepare yourself."

It felt like a dream. Four days later, a small, unmarked package arrived at his door. Inside, wrapped in old parchment, were three small seeds—black as night, shimmering with an almost unnatural sheen. A note was tucked alongside them, written in small neat handwriting: “The soil must be fed with blood. Only then will Xymethra’s Bloom rise.”

Derek’s hands shook as he held the seeds. For years, he had searched for something like this—something to prove that the world wasn’t just a monotonous grind of existence. Now, it was in his hands. The next day, he went to his backyard, an unkempt patch of dirt barely touched in months. He dug a small hole and dropped the seeds into the soil.

With a deep breath, Derek peeled away the bandages from his hand, exposing the still-healing wound. He gave it a squeeze, forcing a few drops of blood to fall onto the soil below. As soon as the crimson droplets touched the earth, the air seemed to shift—subtle but unmistakable, like the world itself was holding its breath. He quickly covered the seeds and stepped back, heart racing.

The wind picked up, carrying with it a low hum, almost like a whisper.

Derek smiled. Finally, something was happening.

PART TWO

Days passed, and Derek found himself returning to the garden again and again, watching the patch of soil where he’d buried the seeds. At first, nothing seemed out of the ordinary, and doubt gnawed at him—had he really believed that some ancient ritual would work? Knowing how Lemmy was, it was probably some sort of hemp seed or something.

But on the fifth day, something changed.

A single sprout had broken through the soil.

It was unlike any plant Derek had ever seen. The stem was thin, but it shimmered darkly in the sunlight, almost as if it absorbed the light rather than reflected it. The leaves, black and veined with red, seemed to pulse with a strange energy. Derek knelt down. He reached out to touch one of the leaves, but the moment his fingers brushed the surface, a sharp jolt shot up his arm.

His breath hitched. The plant was warm, alive in a way that felt almost sentient.

The next few days were a blur. The plant grew at an alarming rate, its black vines twisting and curling as they clawed their way through the soil. Every morning, Derek would find it had spread farther, its roots thickening and burrowing deeper into the earth.

He couldn’t stop watching it—obsession consumed him. He barely ate, barely slept. The Dark Mormons on Lemmy had been quiet since sending the seeds, but their final message echoed in his mind: “Prepare yourself.”

One night, as the wind howled outside his window, Derek sat at his kitchen table, staring at the plant through the back door. It had taken over half the garden now, its dark tendrils creeping toward the edges of his yard. The moon cast an eerie glow on its leaves, making them shimmer like black glass.

His phone buzzed, snapping Derek out of his daze. A new PM blinked on his screen—a message from the Dark Mormons.

”Another package coming your way. And instructions.”

The words were simple, but they sent a wave of excitement and unease coursing through him.

Days later, a plain, unmarked box arrived at his doorstep. Inside was a set of cryptic instructions for a ritual called ”The Rite of Xymethra’s Grasp.” To unlock the full power of the sinister plant, he would need more than just a few drops of blood. It required insight—an intimate bond with the dark forces that had given life to the black bloom.

The ritual’s ingredients were strange, almost ludicrous. A small vial of rare wine, included in the package, was to be mixed with a few drops of his blood.

But it was the other bottle that made his skin crawl.

Sealed inside was a spider, desperately clinging to the top of its web, avoiding the thick, sloshing goo that sat ominously at the bottom. The liquid seemed alive, bubbling and shifting, its surface gleaming with an unnatural sheen.

Derek's hands shook as the truth of the instructions sank in. The spider and the thick, sloshing goo weren’t just part of the ritual's theatrics—they had to be consumed together, in one swift swallow, whole and unbroken.

Derek’s hand shook as he read the instructions. He hesitated for a moment, but the desire to see the ritual through overpowered his fear. He needed to know what the Dark Mormons had promised—he needed to be someone, to have the world know him, to unlock the secrets of the forgotten prophet.

Derek arranged everything meticulously on the kitchen table. The chalice sat before him, filled with the dark, swirling wine, while the bottle with the thick goo sloshed unsettlingly at the bottom, the spider skittering desperately on its tiny web near the top, trying to avoid the viscous liquid below. His knife gleamed under the dim, flickering light, poised above his palm.

With a steadying breath, he pressed the blade into his skin, watching as his blood dripped into the chalice. The wine deepened in color, swirling with unnatural patterns that made his head swim. He hesitated for a moment before lifting the chalice to his lips, tipping it back.

The wine was thick and bitter, burning as it crawled down his throat, leaving a searing trail in its wake. He had hoped it would stir some bravery for what came next.

It didn’t.

"Fuck it," he muttered through gritted teeth, eyes shut tight. "Let's do this."

He tilted his head back, uncorked the bottle, and opened his mouth wide to catch the spider. With one swift motion, he tipped the vial back, forcing the goo and spider into his throat.

The spider wriggled frantically against his tongue, its legs scratching the roof of his mouth as he fought to swallow, choking back the urge to gag. The thick goo oozed down his throat, and as the final drop disappeared, a wave of nausea slammed into him, bringing him to his knees.

He heard a noise outside, a low, unsettling rustle from the garden, like something alive stirring in the night. The plant—it responded to him, as if aware of the ritual he had just completed. Heart pounding, Derek staggered to the back door, fumbling with the lock before wrenching it open.

The wind howled through the opening, carrying the sharp scent of damp earth and decay. The once small plant now loomed, its black tendrils twisting and writhing in the moonlight.

And there, at the center of the garden, a bloom opened—a large, grotesque flower with thick, fleshy petals, dripping with some kind of viscous black liquid.

The air felt thick, oppressive, like something ancient and malevolent was stirring beneath the earth. Derek’s mind raced. Was this what the Dark Mormons had been talking about? Was this the power they had promised?

He stepped closer, drawn in by the bloom’s hypnotic pull. The ground beneath his feet seemed to pulse in time with the plant. Something was growing underneath—something large.

And then, Derek felt it. A sharp, searing pain in his chest.

PART THREE

Derek clutched his chest, his breath coming in ragged gasps. He staggered toward the monstrous bloom, the black liquid dripping from its petals forming a slick, oily pool at its base.

The plant groaned. The vines writhed faster now, twisting and curling, reaching out like the fingers of something hungry, eager. The ground beneath his feet trembled, a low rumble that seemed to echo from the deepest recesses of the earth. Derek’s eyes darted across the garden, and that’s when he noticed it—every other plant in his yard had withered, their once green leaves now shriveled and blackened. The life had been drained from them, leaving behind only death.

His mind raced. This was no ordinary plant. The Dark Mormons had never mentioned what lay beneath the soil, what ancient beast his actions had stirred awake.

The pain in his chest intensified. He fell to his knees, clutching at the earth, gasping for air as the movement under his skin became more violent. His veins bulged, writhing like snakes beneath the surface. He screamed, his voice lost in the howling wind, but the garden seemed to drink in his agony, the plant blooming wider as if feeding on his pain.

And then it happened.

The skin on his chest burst open, and something slid out—a mass of wriggling, black tendrils, dripping with the same viscous liquid that bled from the flower. Derek’s body convulsed, his blood mingling with the soil, seeping into the roots of the plant. His vision blurred, the world around him spinning as the grotesque tendrils spread across his chest, rooting themselves into the earth beneath him.

The ground trembled violently now, and Derek’s body sank deeper into the soil, his legs disappearing into the dirt. He struggled, but the more he fought, the tighter the plant's grip became. The vines wrapped around his arms, pulling him closer to the monstrous bloom.

Derek’s breath came in shallow gasps, his body nearly consumed by the earth. He glanced up at the plant—its once-shimmering black petals had shifted. They were no longer just petals; they were eyes. Hundreds of them, blinking, watching him as he struggled. His heart pounded in his ears, terror overwhelming him.

The thing beneath the garden—the ancient beast he had unknowingly summoned—was waking.

Suddenly, the bloom twisted, and from its center emerged a woman’s face— grotesquely distorted, its lips curling into a malevolent grin.

Derek’s blood ran cold. This was no plant. It was a conduit—a doorway for something older, something far more malevolent than he had ever imagined.

The wind died. The world around him seemed to hold its breath.

And then the she-beast spoke.

Her voice was a rasping, guttural sound, like stone grinding against stone. "You sought power, but power demands a price. You are the offering. Your blood has watered the roots of darkness. Let us mate now, become one with the soil, one with me."

The vines constricted tighter, pulling him down, down into the earth. Derek screamed, but the sound was swallowed by the garden. His body, now entangled in the plant, began to wither, his skin turning black, his bones creaking as they were slowly crushed by the relentless pressure.

As the last breath escaped his lips, Derek’s consciousness flickered. His soul, now bound to the ancient power beneath the soil, lingered in the garden. He felt the pull of the earth, the ancient beast's malevolent presence seeping into his very being.

Now, he was no longer Derek. He was part of the garden, part of the monstrous bloom that consumed him. His mind dissolved into the collective consciousness of the ancient creature, lost in an eternal nightmare.

In the center of the garden, the plant pulsed with new life, its black petals glistening in the moonlight. The tendrils that had once been Derek’s body twisted and writhed, merging with the roots of the dark, ancient beast that lay beneath the soil.

The wind picked up again, carrying the faint whispers of screams and laughter, but there was no one left to hear. Only the garden remained, its monstrous bloom waiting, watching.

And far beneath the earth, the ancient beast stirred.

END

It was Saturday afternoon, and Victor was exactly where he wanted to be: buried under the covers of his king-sized bed, fit for a king like him. Victor had spent the whole day in bed so far since he went to sleep there the night before, with Wallace in his dreams. Now, Victor was awake enough to actually enjoy the day, and best of all? He didn’t have to go to school.

Without much thought and a great deal of boredom, Victor scrolled through TikTok posts on hunting and the like.

Victor had a hunting rifle of his own, actually. His dad, Harold Quartermaine, had given it to him as a small child to keep him out of the house so “he didn’t have to deal with his constant whining”.

Victor sighed, sinking deeper into the covers. And yet here I am, in bed, but at least I’m away from Dad right now. At least he doesn’t think I whine anymore. In fact, Victor’s dad hasn’t said anything of the sort in a long time.

Victor shook his head, deciding not to think about it and watch a video by @thehuntingexpert792 on how to properly hunt a rabbit.

All of a sudden, a message appeared on the screen.

“Hi” from Wallace.

Victor suddenly felt as if he had a ton of coffee, which he usually drank when he wanted, or needed, to stay wide awake, especially for hunting and late-night calls with his friends.

People generally found Victor unapproachable, so he didn’t have many friends besides his own little group with Bernard Cedarwood and Tristan Goldman. They were from his middle school, though.

Victor then focused his eyes on the message again.

“Hi”.

He began to feel giddy, a feeling he was long used to by now. “What is this feeling?” he would ask himself, he would ask his dog Phillip for so many days and nights. It just dawned on him a few days ago after he had his first dream about Wallace.

Love. A crush.

With shaky hands, his face gradually turning warmer, he sent back a message.

“What ho!”

What ho? Seriously?

Victor facepalmed. Why am I always so awkward? That’s the best I could think of??

That’s what he always said to the girl he used to like, Campanula Tottington. But of course, she didn’t like someone like him. A mere nobody. A slimeball.

Victor felt his phone buzz again.

“LOLLL”

Wallace thought it was funny? Campanula never did.

“LOL”, he replied.

As the feeling began to rise in his chest, Victor planned on doing exactly what he should have done: ask out that blithering idiot.

Wallace was always a blithering idiot, but admittedly, a cute blithering idiot. A handsome blithering idiot. He didn’t see it when they first met, when he got mad at Wallace for his peaceful ways and the way he seemingly could win over his Campanula, but none of that mattered.

His hatred toward Wallace turned into fixation. And dreams. And well, he didn’t hate Wallace. Not for a long time, he didn’t. He was in love with him.

“Would you…” Victor typed the words on the screen. “Hey, I want to ask someone….”

No, no. The first one was better.

“Would you like to go bowling sometime?”

Wallace’s reply was almost immediately, much to Victor’s surprise and content.

“I would love to, Victor. I’m the inventor, but you’re the one who always has the smart ideas.”

Victor’s face got hotter, feeling even giddier.

Smart ideas?

Wallace, the utter vegetable he thought he hated, was actually a cute vegetable. Maybe even his vegetable. And that vegetable thought he was smart.

“So”, began Victor.

“Yeah?”

“It’s a date? LOL”

Victor began even giddier. He swore the room was spinning, and his face got even hotter than before. “A date?!” he giggled. “Nah, nah, Wallace and I are just friends, right Phillip?”

Phillip barked in a way Victor saw as sarcastic agreement, like “Yeah, right”.

But Wallace? He just answered: “If you want it to be 🤷‍♂️”

“WHAT”

“Did I say something wrong?”

“Oh no no no! You said everything right Wallace.”

“Is it a date?”

Victor sighed, taking deep breaths to ease his giddy feeling. “Of course”.

My mom and dad give me everything I ask for. Delicious food, toys, clothes. Love. That is, under one condition. To never open the basement door. I often find myself drawn to it. Wondering what would happen if I opened it. I had tried once. One single time when I was young. My parents punished me. I never forgot the sight of blood flowing down my body, a dark red liquid- like burning oil. I never dared again. But today, my parents aren’t home. They went outside to buy some bottles of my medication. It’s a strange medicine that makes me feel sick.. As if I have another consciousness just waiting to burst out- a hidden predicament that keeps buzzing in my mind.

But they say it’s just for my own good…Maybe it is. I walked up to the basement door, and broke open the lock. I peeked outside and smiled. For the first time in my life, I had walked out of the basement and felt the sun on my skin.

I took my first step into the sun, blinking at the golden blaze overhead. The world outside was quieter than I imagined. Too quiet. No birds. No breeze. Just… stillness. I walked down the driveway, barefoot. Everything seemed frozen, like a photograph waiting to be smudged. A man watering his garden stood perfectly still, the water arcing midair like glass. I blinked. The image twitched. Then the sky rewound.

Suddenly I was back at the basement door. Had I opened it? I couldn’t remember. My mind was fuzzy…but the fuzziness had a clarity now.. Like glass which had finally been broken, light inching through the cracks. A note was wedged beneath the doorframe: "Take your medicine." But I had already flushed the pills…right? I couldn’t remember… Suddenly, a jab of pain stabbed my mind, my eyes widening as if a hidden memory had been remembered once more. I turned and saw the basement for what it really was.

There were no windows. No clock. No calendar.

Only rows of photos taped to the walls— photos of me at different ages. In some I looked frightened.

In others… restrained.

One had today's date scrawled across it: "Exit Protocol Initiated- Subject shows signs of curiosity." Flashbacks flooded my mind. Or were they memories? I don't know. There were rows of tanks. Not filled with fluid. Filled with bodies. Dozens—no, hundreds. All in various stages of decomposition, each wearing the same bracelet as mine.

It was all me—strapped to a gurney, eyes half-lidded, lips parted as if mid-sentence. Beside me stood my parents. But not my parents. People wearing their faces. People who looked like them but didn’t blink. Didn’t age. My stomach turned.

I checked the mirror nearby. My reflection looked normal—until it glitched. Just once. Then again. For a moment, I saw something beneath my skin. Wires. Fiber. A flicker of light in my pupils.

I flinched as the door creaked open, trying to suppress the burning pain in my chest- or was that programmed too? Was all the love, the happiness, the joy I had felt until now, just a facade composed between the lines of coding? Just a predetermined emotion, that never was truly mine?

My mother stepped in. But she was too young. I noticed it this time. All too perfect. Her smile glitched at the corners.

"You weren't supposed to wake up yet," she said, her voice crackling like a broken speaker- as if it warped through somewhere on the walls, as if they knew what I’d seen. "We’ll have to start the simulation over."

Darkness surged in. When I opened my eyes, I was at the dinner table. Warm food. Toys. Love. And a basement door. Still locked. Except this time, I remembered.

I finally knew. I wasn’t their child. I was their experiment.

Fog hushed the marsh as Josiah trudged through knee-high reeds. Somewhere ahead, a bell rang slow and distant.

Then she appeared. Barefoot. Dress torn. Eyes sad.

She held up a lantern.

“You dropped this,” she called out.

He raised his own. Still in hand. Still lit.

The girl stepped closer. “You dropped it when you drowned.”

The flame inside her lantern turned red. Josiah looked down. His boots were gone. Water up to his chest. Breath shallow.

Behind the glass of her lantern, a tiny version of him pounded and screamed.

The girl smiled. “I’ll take good care of you.”

Prophet of the Venus Maw written by Universal Monk

PART ONE

John snapped the laptop shut with a grunt, rubbing the bridge of his nose. He was sick of it. Lemmy was supposed to be a place for discussion, but lately, no matter what he typed, the responses were always the same: criticism, accusations, harassment. Just because he didn’t fall in line with the majority’s narrow view, they jumped on him like vultures.

He had tried to start a new community on the site, one dedicated to his passion—the study of plants. It should’ve been a quiet, focused space for discussion and discovery. But of course, others from a different corner of the site showed up, harassing him, accusing him of spreading propaganda. Propaganda?! About plants? The very thought was absurd. What kind of twisted logic could turn his harmless interest in nature into some kind of ideological battle?

But whatever. In the grand scheme of things, it didn’t matter. He had more important interests, bigger ideas, things the small minds of Lemmy clearly weren’t ready for. His thoughts drifted back to his love of plants. That was where his mind could roam free, where he didn’t need anyone’s approval or validation. Let them bicker over nonsense online; they’d never understand the brilliance of what he was working on.

With a shrug, he pushed the thought of Lemmy out of his mind. He was done wasting time there. There were far more interesting things waiting for him in the woods, where the plants didn’t care what anyone thought.

He preferred the solitude. There was a peace in the way the trees swayed and whispered to each other, like ancient sentinels sharing secrets that only the forest knew. The rustle of the leaves, the creak of old branches—it was a symphony that made him feel more at home than any city or crowded town ever could.

Cities were too loud, too full of people and their endless chatter. Here, he could lose himself in the dense undergrowth, studying the plants and animals that thrived in the shadows, marveling at the occasional strange phenomena the forest had to offer.

John had taken early retirement for this. For the stillness, the quiet, the endless green. He’d traded the humdrum grind of office life for this decrepit old cabin deep in the woods. The pension wasn’t as padded as it could’ve been if he’d stuck it out another five years, but he didn’t care. He’d lived a sparse, debt-free life, knowing this was where he belonged. Surrounded by nature, the wild beauty of it all, he didn’t need much.

He ran a muscular arm through his short, graying hair, the lines of his tanned skin catching the morning light. He’d spent decades behind a desk, but now his body was stronger, leaner from days spent hiking through the woods. Today was no different. He was itching to get out, to explore, to see what the forest had in store for him.

But among all the things that fascinated him, it was carnivorous plants that truly captured his imagination. The quiet menace of these green hunters, lying in wait for their prey, had become his obsession. The way they lured insects with sweet nectar, then snapped shut—swift, efficient, deadly. John could watch them for hours, utterly entranced.

John set off, his boots crunching against the leaf-strewn path as he made his way toward the south side of the woods. This part of the forest was thicker, darker—untouched. The trees here stood taller, their branches intertwined like skeletal arms. Each step felt like breaking through layers of forgotten earth, the thicket pressing against him, thick with secrets. His pulse quickened. He loved this feeling, the thrill of the unknown.

Suddenly, something strange flickered in the corner of his eye. He stopped. Just ahead, half-hidden beneath a tangled curtain of vines and moss, was a Venus flytrap. But not just any flytrap. No, this one was monstrous. It towered over the others he'd studied, easily three times larger, its leaves a deep, sickly green, so vibrant they seemed to hum with life. It almost glowed in the shadowy underbrush, as if it didn’t belong here, as if it had come from somewhere else.

The leaves of the monstrous plant bristled with jagged, bone-white fangs—not mere teeth, but cruel, serrated blades, each one thick and wickedly curved like a predator’s claw honed for slaughter. Glistening with a sickly, sap-like sheen, they lined the edges of the fleshy, mottled foliage, pulsing faintly as if alive with malice. Each fang arched inward with grotesque precision, forming a ravenous maw that seemed to quiver in anticipation, eager to rend and shred any hapless creature that strayed too near. The plant itself loomed, its verdant bulk heaving with a grotesque, almost sentient hunger, as if it could taste the air for the scent of blood, waiting to snap shut and feast on the screams of its prey.

John’s breath hitched. His chest tightened with a strange mixture of awe and fear. He dropped to one knee, eyes wide, heart pounding in his chest. Slowly, as if approaching a wild animal, he knelt closer. The air around the plant felt different. Heavy. Alive. He could almost hear it breathing, each leaf twitching slightly as though it sensed his presence. The grotesque beauty of it was overwhelming, captivating.

He spent the entire afternoon crouched beside it, his fingers trembling as he scribbled frantic notes into his worn, leather-bound journal. Each detail more incredible than the last. This flytrap was different—ancient, powerful. It wasn’t just a plant. No, this was something more. Something that had been waiting, watching, growing. And it had chosen to reveal itself to him.

As dusk crept in, the forest shifted around him. Shadows stretched long and thin, creeping across the ground like fingers reaching for something just out of sight. John stood up slowly, his muscles stiff from hours of crouching beside the flytrap. He stretched, feeling the satisfying crack of his spine.

But then, a faint rustling caught his ear, soft but unmistakable, like something shifting in the brush.

He froze, eyes narrowing as he glanced down at the plant. His heart gave a small jolt. Was the flytrap facing him now? He was certain that when he had knelt earlier, the plant's leaves were angled in another direction, away from him.

But now... now it seemed to have turned. Its massive, fang-like teeth were pointed directly at him, as if it had shifted, watching him. The dark, fleshy leaves twitched ever so slightly in the waning light, a movement that felt unnervingly deliberate.

Was it like that before? John’s pulse quickened. He took a step back, unsure. He blinked, shaking his head, trying to shake off the creeping unease crawling up his spine. Plants didn’t move like that. Not without a reason.

It was the wind, surely. Or maybe he’d just been sitting so long, his mind was playing tricks on him. Still, he felt the weight of the plant’s gaze, if that’s what you could call it, bearing down on him. It was as though it had been observing him the entire time, and now, it had decided to show a little more of its true nature.

John swallowed hard, his throat suddenly dry. He didn’t want to leave. Every fiber of his being told him to stay, to continue watching, studying. But it was getting late. Reluctantly, he backed away, never taking his eyes off the plant.

“I’ll be back,” he muttered under his breath, his words more a promise than a plan. He knew he couldn’t leave this discovery alone. No, he needed to understand this thing—this creature—no, this being. It wasn’t just a plant anymore. It had revealed something deeper to him, something ancient and unknown, and he couldn’t stop now.

As he turned and made his way back through the thickening shadows of the forest, he found himself replaying the moment over and over in his mind. The plant had moved. He was sure of it.

Marking the spot in his memory, John swore he would return tomorrow. And every day after that if he had to.

PART TWO

Over the next several days, John found himself drawn back to the plant, unable to stay away. He spent hours sitting beside it, sketching its jagged leaves, observing the way it moved ever so slightly, as if sensing his presence. It was more alive than any plant he’d ever studied. And soon, John’s fascination turned into something deeper.

He began to bring the flytrap offerings. At first, small insects, which it devoured eagerly. The snap of its leaves closing around a fly or beetle thrilled him in a way he couldn’t explain. It was as if the plant was communicating with him, showing its appreciation. He even started talking to it, telling it about his day, his thoughts, and the solitude of his life.

“I know you’re more than just a plant,” he whispered one evening as he watched the flytrap digest a beetle. “You’re something special, aren’t you?”

The plant seemed to respond, its leaves shifting ever so slightly, like it was acknowledging him. John smiled, feeling an odd connection, like he had found a kindred spirit in this silent predator.

PART THREE

One day, as John sat in his usual spot beside the flytrap, the forest seemed to hold its breath. The air was thick, charged with an almost unnatural stillness, when a baby rabbit emerged from the undergrowth.

Its soft brown fur shimmered under the dappled sunlight, each hair catching the light in a way that made the creature almost glow against the dark green backdrop of the woods. Its delicate ears twitched, constantly alert, swiveling at the slightest rustle. Its innocent black eyes scanned its surroundings, always searching for danger but never suspecting what lay right beside John.

The flytrap seemed to awaken. There was no mistaking it this time. The plant’s massive leaves quivered, not from the breeze, but from something deeper, almost instinctual.

Slowly, they began to shift, the jagged edges of its fanged leaves curling ever so slightly inward, like a predator preparing to strike. John stared, amazed. The plant was moving with intent, and it was watching the rabbit.

The small rabbit, oblivious to the danger lurking nearby, bent its head, nibbling at a patch of grass. It took a small hop closer to the plant, its twitching nose brushing the air. John felt his pulse quicken as he watched, frozen in morbid fascination. The Venus flytrap's leaves stretched outward, slow, deliberate, like a snake uncoiling.

It wasn’t just reaching for the rabbit. It almost seemed to be hunting.

In an instant, the Venus flytrap’s grotesque jaws, bristling with needle-sharp, bloodstained spines, slammed shut around the rabbit’s hind legs with a sickening crunch, ensnaring its trembling flesh in a vise of merciless, verdant horror.

The rabbit’s desperate shrieks pierced the air as it convulsed in a frenzy, its sinewy legs kicking wildly, claws scraping uselessly against the plant’s slimy, iron-hard grip. Each thrash splattered crimson flecks across the leaves, which pulsed and tightened with obscene delight, their jagged edges sawing deeper into the creature’s mangled fur and muscle.

John stood frozen, his stomach churning, as the rabbit’s frantic struggles ebbed into pitiful twitches, its wide, glassy eyes clouding with terror and pain. The plant’s maw constricted further, emitting a wet, grinding squelch as it crushed bone and sinew, until the rabbit’s broken form slumped lifeless, swallowed by the insatiable, quivering green abyss.

He should have been disgusted. He should have intervened, saved the poor creature from its grisly fate. But instead, he felt something else. He felt admiration. The flytrap’s efficiency, its unrelenting hunger for survival, mesmerized him.

It wasn’t just a plant anymore. It was a force. A living, breathing thing that thrived on the cycle of life and death, and John had played a part in that.

From that moment on, John’s visits became ritual-like. He started bringing the plant larger offerings, such as birds, squirrels, and even a dead baby raccoon he had found nearby.

The plant grew larger with each meal, its leaves thickening, its reach expanding. And with each visit, John became more and more convinced that the Venus flytrap was sentient. And it was growing, becoming something more powerful, more dangerous.

PART FOUR

Weeks passed, and John’s obsession with the plant deepened. His once-careful observations turned into long, rambling conversations with the flytrap, his voice low and reverent as he knelt before it. He could swear he heard it whispering back, a soft rustling of its leaves that seemed to form words just out of reach.

“You understand me, don’t you?” he said one night, his voice hoarse from hours of talking. “You’re not just a plant. You’re alive. You’ve always been alive. The whole reason me and Tasha broke up was that she didn’t understand me. Funny isn’t it? You, a plant, understand me more than my last girlfriend!”

The plant’s leaves twitched, and John smiled. It was listening.

But as his connection to the plant grew, so did the rumors in the nearby town. People had started noticing the strange behavior of the animals in the forest. Hunters reported finding carcasses, animals that had been drained of life and left to rot in the underbrush. Some claimed they had seen John wandering the woods at odd hours, his eyes wild, muttering to himself.

The local authorities were starting to take notice. They had heard the stories about John, how he’d become obsessed with some monstrous plant deep in the woods. Some thought he was crazy. Others thought he was dangerous.

PART FIVE

The flytrap had become a monster now, its massive leaves stretching out like thick, curling tendrils, nearly wrapping around the entire clearing. The once small space now felt suffocated by the plant’s sprawling presence.

Its serrated, fanged edges gleamed in the faint light, giving the impression that it could devour anything that dared come too close. John stood in awe, marveling at its size, its raw power.

But a dark shadow had begun to creep into his thoughts, an unsettling feeling stirring deep inside his mind.

Before he had discovered this plant, he’d overheard strange tales whispered in hushed voices at the town’s old tavern. They were stories meant to be laughed off, but there had always been an edge of truth in the eyes of the storytellers. A flicker of unease.

They spoke of this southern stretch of the forest, where the trees grew darker, thicker. The locals called it cursed, a place where rituals once took place, performed by an old sect known as the Dark Mormons. Sacrifices had been made in those woods, they said. Terrible sacrifices to dark forces that slumbered beneath the earth, forces that predated even man himself.

John hadn’t believed it then, not really. They were just tales, meant to scare off drunken listeners. But now, sitting here, surrounded by this unnatural, towering plant, the stories came flooding back to him with a cold clarity.

One tale in particular gnawed at his mind. Jebediah Lecent, a devout follower of the Dark Mormons, had lost his grip on sanity over 120 years ago. The man had slaughtered his entire family in the dead of night, then, in a fit of frenzied devotion, hacked off his own feet with an ax.

He believed the blood he spilled would fertilize his garden, making it grow so he could donate the bounty to the dark cause. A garden to bring forth their prophet, born not of flesh but from the earth itself, deep beneath the soil. Something ancient, slumbering, and hungry.

At the time, John had scoffed at such stories, brushing them aside as backwoods superstition. But now, as he gazed at the grotesque majesty of the flytrap, he couldn’t shake the feeling that the plant was somehow tied to those old, twisted legends.

It had grown far too fast, its roots spreading too deeply, its tendrils too knowing. The way it seemed to recognize him, the way it responded to him as if it knew his very thoughts—no, this wasn’t just a freak of nature. It was something ancient, something alive in a way plants shouldn’t be. And it was using him.

A chill ran down John’s spine. The plant wasn’t just growing. It was awakening. An ancient force, long dormant, was stirring—and the flytrap was its vessel.

But John didn’t care. The plant had consumed his every thought, his every desire. It was his world now, and he was bound to it—body, mind, and soul.

PART SIX

One night, as John crouched beside the flytrap, his mind thick with days of isolation and the fog of obsession, a sound pierced through the usual rustling of the leaves. It wasn't the familiar whisper of nature. No, this was different. Sharper, more distinct.

More.

John's breath caught in his throat. He blinked, his pulse quickening. Had he imagined it?

More, the voice repeated, this time louder, commanding.

His heart hammered in his chest as he glanced around, but the forest remained deathly still. The only sound was the faint groan of branches shifting in the wind. Yet, the voice... it was unmistakable. And it wasn’t just in his mind. It was coming from the plant!

John stumbled to his feet, his legs shaking. The words echoed in his head, compelling him, pulling him closer. He had to feed it. He didn’t know why, but he knew with certainty that the plant needed him.

He wandered through the woods in a daze, his mind fogged, consumed by a single purpose. He needed to find something, anything to offer the flytrap. His eyes darted through the tangled trees, desperate, frantic, as his breath came in shallow gasps. He felt the plant’s hunger gnawing at him, an unrelenting pull.

And then he saw a deer, limping through a patch of moonlit undergrowth. It was wounded, its back legs dragging awkwardly behind it, twisted and useless, like it had been hit by a car or mauled by something larger. The animal grazed quietly, unaware of John’s presence. Its weakness made it the perfect offering.

John moved quickly, his movements mechanical, as if he were no longer in control. He stalked the deer, his breath shallow, his heart pounding. When he finally reached it, he grabbed the animal by the throat, dragging it toward the clearing where the plant waited, hungry, eager.

PART SEVEN

The plant's massive leaves snapped open, wider than he'd ever seen, a gaping maw lined with jagged teeth, glistening in the dim light. John shoved the deer forward, his heart pounding as he shoved the deer forward, its hooves skittering on the damp earth.

The flytrap’s teeth slammed shut around the animal’s quivering body with a grotesque crunch, the sound of splintering bones reverberating through the silent clearing like a gunshot. The plant’s fleshy, pulsating leaves constricted with ravenous ferocity, grinding the deer’s flesh and sinew into a pulpy mass, blood oozing in viscous rivulets from the crushed form.

Each sickening squelch of the tightening grip echoed the plant’s insatiable hunger, its verdant bulk shuddering with grotesque delight as it devoured its prey alive.

But something was different this time. The leaves didn’t just stop at the deer. They twitched, then began to reach further. They were reaching for him.

Before he could react, thick tendrils snaked out from the base of the plant, coiling around his ankles like vines with minds of their own. John’s eyes widened in horror as they yanked him toward the flytrap’s gaping maw. He struggled, adrenaline flooding his veins, but it was useless. The plant’s grip tightened, dragging him closer, pulling him into its grasp.

For the first time, John understood. The plant hadn’t just wanted his offerings. It wanted him.

“Unbeliever,” the voice whispered again, cold and distant. “Come to me. Fulfill your destiny. Hail, the return of the Prophet Smith!”

John screamed, thrashing against the plant’s hold, but it was no use. The flytrap’s tendrils were like iron, pulling him closer and closer to its waiting jaws.

PART EIGHT

When the authorities finally arrived at John’s cabin, they found the place in disarray. Books and notes were scattered across the floor, journals filled with frenzied scribblings about the plant. But there was no sign of John.

The townspeople whispered of the Venus flytrap, of the monstrous plant that had consumed him. But no one dared to enter the forest, not after what had happened.

The clearing where the flytrap had grown remained untouched, its leaves still and silent. But some nights, when the wind was just right, those who wandered too close to the edge of the woods claimed they could hear a voice.

A soft, whispering voice.

“Bring more. The prophet will return upon waves of blood.”

The plant’s hunger was never-ending. And its patience was eternal.

END

Whispers from the Elder’s Garden (written by Universal Monk)

The Abernathy estate loomed at the edge of town, overgrown with wild, unnatural flora.

Whispers claimed that long ago, a sect known as the Dark Mormons had twisted the land with forbidden rituals, making the garden a place where strange things thrived. The townsfolk avoided it, but curiosity clawed at me.

One evening, against my better judgment, I ventured closer, peering through the rusted iron gate.

The garden was alive, its plants twisted in grotesque forms, black petals sickly glistening under the pale moonlight. A thick, unnatural mist clung to the ground, swirling around the plants.

As I watched in horrified fascination, one of the vines twitched, seeming to pulse with life.

Suddenly, a figure emerged from the mist, cloaked in shadows, silent, yet undeniably beckoning me forward. I fled, heart racing, desperate to escape. But the next morning, a note was waiting on my doorstep: ”Return tonight.”

Against sense, I returned. The gate creaked an eerie welcome. The plants seemed to whisper, their movements hypnotic. Too late, I realized I’d walked into a trap. The garden claimed me, consumed me.

Now, I wander the estate, a shadow among shadows, doomed to forever beckon the next soul who dares visit.

END