Short Stories

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

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

It's a spring day. Everything is green out, and outside is warm with just enough breeze. All in all, a perfect May day.

One thing in particular, though, makes May an even more perfect day. Today, May 12, 2026, marks the ten-month anniversary of my relationship with my girlfriend Luna Maxwell-Flores.

And today, I'm walking with my special woman, hand-in-hand with her. I thought I loved everything about her when she was a freshman, I a sophomore, but that love only grew stronger once I got to know her. I love the way the sunlight reflects off her black hair, the way her blue streak is situated perfectly on her bangs, the way her round glasses seem to perfectly frame her chocolate eyes, her entire face. The way her hand fits with mine like a puzzle piece.

I stare at her, trying to fit her entire image in my mind, all the way down to her black tank top, her light, comfortable black shorts, and the white Nikes she's been wearing since I saw her again when she walked into Java Delight, the café I work at.

We walk uphill, stopping to sit down at a cedar bench, our fingers still intertwined.

Luna rests her head on my shoulder, moving her free hand to my knee. "Isn't the view wonderful?"

I look over the hill and nod. Green all around me. People walking and talking, having fun. People are at peace here.

"You're my favorite person, Jaiden," says Luna.

And I can't help but smile. "You are, too, Luna."

Over the hill, a blurry figure with curly black hair, dark skin, a black leather jacket, and jean shorts approaches.

"Looks like someone else wants to join us," Luna comments.

As he gets closer, I notice his face is... familiar. But who is it? Oh... that's right! Cameron.

Cameron, now twenty, was a guy I dated, and later broke up with last year. Before Luna came around.

"Is this...?" she mouths. I nod.

"Cameron," I say.

"Jaiden! I wanted to speak to you, if you don't mind."

Silence for a bit.

"Go ahead." I stand up.

"Look." He sighs. "I was wrong. Wrong... about a lot of things."

"Damn right you were!" Luna chimes in. "You hurt Jaiden. You said you didn't want her."

Cameron chuckles. "Oh, that's so like Jaiden to tell you that. I was nineteen. A teenager. As a twenty year old, I can tell you that I was an insecure teenager, not in the right headspace."

"I'm sure you haven't changed since last year." She crosses her arms.

Cameron ignores her. "If we can get past this without your little friend chiming in, then maybe we can get down to business. I've been thinking about you, Jaiden, a lot. Especially those beautiful blue eyes I used to look at so frequently, your kissable pink lips and your rosy cheeks."

I felt a bit nauseous. "Yeah, we haven't seen each other in over a year and we're not even dating. Please don't talk like that."

"But... we will be dating. Hopefully." He smiles sheepishly in a way that almost makes me feel sorry for the guy.

"Yeah, no." Luna steps in again, grabbing my hand. "She's mine."

I find my voice and nod. "That's right, Cameron. We will not be getting to know each other again, not like that. I'm taken."

Cameron shakes his head. "Wha...her...noooo. I didn't think it was like you to like girls."

"What does that even mean?" Luna whispers to me. I shrug.

He starts laughing. At first, just a soft chuckle. Then, it gets louder. "Of course. Jaiden has another partner now."

"One that loves her," says Luna.

"One that wants me," I reply.

The laughter subsides and he walks off. Luna and I are left to hold hands and enjoy the weather while the flowers and our love blossom.

I have written a thousand iterations of this story. Including poems, short stories in different genres just exploring the same theme. I have settled with this simplistic version finally, although I'm happy with the idea behind it I'm still not haply with the execution.

Very difficult emotionally for me to post this, as I just want to keep this close to my heart and not publish it but here goes ig.

Essentially a lacanian analysis of desire. Nada ofc means nothing, but also the name of my own first crush (the story is entirely fictional). I actually secretly wish she sees it someday.

The response to this version by friends has been overwhelmingly negative, and I know it reads more like a reddit post than an actually good story but I can't put more effort into this lol. This version was completed about 2 years ago, only just posting it.

cross-posted from: https://sh.itjust.works/post/42214816

(I’m not too good at writing)

Here I stand behind the counter of Java Delight, the local café in my town, Oakburn. It’s my first, and so far, only job. I started working at age 16 and all my friends thought it an honor to work there.

I pull out my phone to look presentable even when I’m getting tired. It is midnight already, after all, and the store’s about to close in 45 minutes.

I run my fingers through my hazelnut-colored hair, the blue-gray eyes of my reflection staring back at me. I pinch my pale skin a little to give less of an impression that I’m really tired and to give some color to my cheeks.

Suddenly, I hear the bell ring, as it does each time a new customer enters. A young woman, or girl, around my age comes through the door. She has tan skin, waist-length, straight black hair with a blue streak in her bangs, and round glasses that sort of give her a cute nerdy vibe. She also wears a blue hoodie, black leggings, and white Nikes that give her a comfortable sort of look. I don’t think I’ve seen her in Oakburn before.

“Just a mocha, please.”

“One mocha coming right up.”

I turn around to prepare the drink.

“…Jaiden.”

I whip around again. “Yes?”

“It really is you.”

I squint my eyes at her. “…What?”

“We went to school together.”

I turn around to finish adding all the stuff. “I don’t remember you, though.”

She sighs, walking over to the end of the counter. “Ah, I thought you wouldn’t. I’m Luna. Luna Maxwell-Flores.”

“Luna Maxwell-Flores??”

I walk over to the end of the counter and give her the drink, feeling stupid. How could I forget my sophomore crush?

Luna looked different back then, but I suppose a lot could change in three years. Her hair was shorter, pure black, and she didn’t wear glasses. I’ve always been faceblind, so I suppose even those changes threw me off. She was cute then, and I must say, even cuter now.

I wonder if she’s just as nerdy… I clear my throat. No. Stay focused. She’s not your nerdy high school crush. She was your customer.

Rather than leave, Luna decides to stay and talk, I suppose until someone comes in again.

“I haven’t seen you in Oakburn.”

She shrugs. “I moved to the neighboring town, Pineview.”

“Ahhh. How is it?” I can’t find anything good to talk about or respond with.

“It’s good.” She fidgets a little. “A lot of trees and stuff. Pine trees.”

“Ah.” My face gets a little warm. She seems just as awkward as I am, maybe slightly less, but obviously cuter than I remember.

Silence.

Luna looks away, playing with her hands and tapping her foot.

I look away, too, a slight warm feeling rising in my chest.

“I, uh…” She starts to speak. “I should get going now. It’s already 12:30.”

She digs in her pocket, handing me a folded strip of paper. “Here.”

I wave. “Bye.”

She leaves, I get ready for closing time, and I unfold the paper.

“555-6789”.

I would definitely text her in the morning. Or well, in several hours.

i

Once upon a time, in the City of New York, a beautiful baby boy was born into this world, and the joyful parents named him Lexington.

No sooner had the mother returned home from the hospital carrying Lexington in her arms than she said to her husband, “Darling, now you must take me out to a most marvellous restaurant for dinner so that we can celebrate the arrival of our son and heir.”

Her husband embraced her tenderly and told her that any woman who could produce such a beautiful child as Lexington deserved to go absolutely anywhere she wanted. But was she strong enough yet, he enquired, to start running around the city late at night?

“No,” she said, she wasn’t. But what the hell.

So that evening they both dressed themselves up in fancy clothes, and leaving little Lexington in care of a trained infant’s nurse who was costing them twenty dollars a day and was Scottish into the bargain, they went out to the finest and most expensive restaurant in town. There they each ate a giant lobster and drank a bottle of champagne between them, and after that, they went on to a nightclub, where they drank another bottle of champagne and then sat holding hands for several hours while they recalled and discussed and admired each individual physical feature of their lovely newborn son.

They arrived back at their house on the East Side of Manhattan at around two o’clock in the morning and the husband paid off the taxi driver and then began feeling in his pockets for the key to the front door. After a while, he announced that he must have left it in the pocket of his other suit, and he suggested they ring the bell and get the nurse to come down and let them in. An infant’s nurse at twenty dollars a day must expect to be hauled out of bed occasionally in the night, the husband said.

So he rang the bell. They waited. Nothing happened. He rang it again, long and loud. They waited another minute. Then they both stepped back on to the street and shouted the nurse’s name (McPottle) up at the nursery windows on the third floor, but there was still no response. The house was dark and silent. The wife began to grow apprehensive. Her baby was imprisoned in this place, she told herself. Alone with McPottle. And who was McPottle? They had known her for two days, that was all, and she had a thin mouth, a small disapproving eye, and a starchy bosom, and quite clearly she was in the habit of sleeping too soundly for safety. If she couldn’t hear the front-door bell, then how on earth did she expect to hear a baby crying? Why, this very second the poor thing might be swallowing its tongue or suffocating on its pillow.

“He doesn’t use a pillow,” the husband said. “You are not to worry. But I’ll get you in if that’s what you want.” He was feeling rather superb after all the champagne, and now he bent down and undid the laces of one of his black patent-leather shoes, and took it off. Then, holding it by the toe, he flung it hard and straight right through the dining-room window on the ground floor.

“There you are,” he said, grinning. “We’ll deduct it from McPottle’s wages.”

He stepped forward and very carefully put a hand through the hole in the glass and released the catch. Then he raised the window.

“I shall lift you in first, little mother,” he said, and he took his wife around the waist and lifted her off the ground. This brought her big red mouth up level with his own, and very close, so he started kissing her. He knew from experience that women like very much to be kissed in this position, with their bodies held tight and their legs dangling in the air, so he went on doing it for quite a long time, and she wiggled her feet, and made loud gulping noises down in her throat. Finally, the husband turned her round and began easing her gently through the open window into the dining-room. At this point, a police patrol car came nosing silently along the street towards them. It stopped about thirty yards away, and three cops of Irish extraction leaped out of the car and started running in the direction of the husband and wife, brandishing revolvers.

“Stick ’em up!” the cops shouted. “Stick ’em up!” But it was impossible for the husband to obey this order without letting go of his wife, and had he done this she would either have fallen to the ground or would have been left dangling half in and half out of the house, which is a terribly uncomfortable position for a woman; so he continued gallantly to push her upward and inward through the window. The cops, all of whom had received medals before for killing robbers, opened fire immediately, and although they were still running, and although the wife in particular was presenting them with a very small target indeed, they succeeded in scoring several direct hits on each body—sufficient anyway to prove fatal in both cases.

Thus, when he was no more than twelve days old, little Lexington became an orphan.

ii

The news of this killing, for which the three policemen subsequently received citations, was eagerly conveyed to all relatives of the deceased couple by newspaper reporters, and the next morning, the closest of these relatives, as well as a couple of undertakers, three lawyers, and a priest, climbed into taxis and set out for the house with the broken window. They assembled in the living-room, men and women both, and they sat around in a circle on the sofas and armchairs, smoking cigarettes and sipping sherry and debating what on earth should be done now with the baby upstairs, the orphan Lexington.

It soon became apparent that none of the relatives was particularly keen to assume responsibility for the child, and the discussions and arguments continued all through the day. Everybody declared an enormous, almost an irresistible desire to look after him, and would have done so with the greatest of pleasure were it not for the fact that their apartment was too small, or that they already had one baby and couldn’t possibly afford another, or that they wouldn’t know what to do with the poor little thing when they went abroad in the summer, or that they were getting on in years, which surely would be most unfair to the boy when he grew up, and so on and so forth. They all knew, of course, that the father had been heavily in debt for a long time and that the house was mortgaged and that consequently there would be no money at all to go with the child.

They were still arguing like mad at six in the evening when suddenly, in the middle of it all, an old aunt of the deceased father (her name was Glosspan) swept in from Virginia, and without even removing her hat and coat, not even pausing to sit down, ignoring all offers of a martini, a whisky, a sherry, she announced firmly to the assembled relatives that she herself intended to take sole charge of the infant boy from then on. What was more, she said, she would assume full financial responsibility on all counts, including education, and everyone else could go back home where they belonged and give their consciences a rest. So saying, she trotted upstairs to the nursery and snatched Lexington from his cradle and swept out of the house with the baby clutched tightly in her arms, while the relatives simply sat and stared and smiled and looked relieved, and McPottle the nurse stood stiff with disapproval at the head of the stairs, her lips compressed, her arms folded across her starchy bosom.

And thus it was that the infant Lexington, when he was thirteen days old, left the City of New York and travelled southward to live with his Great Aunt Glosspan in the State of Virginia.

iii

Aunt Glosspan was nearly seventy when she became guardian to Lexington, but to look at her you would never have guessed it for one minute. She was as sprightly as a woman half her age, with a small, wrinkled, but still quite beautiful face and two lovely brown eyes that sparkled at you in the nicest way. She was also a spinster, though you would never have guessed that either, for there was nothing spinsterish about Aunt Glosspan. She was never bitter or gloomy or irritable; she didn’t have a moustache; and she wasn’t in the least bit jealous of other people, which in itself is something you can seldom say about either a spinster or a virgin lady, although of course it is not known for certain whether Aunt Glosspan qualified on both counts.

But she was an eccentric old woman, there was no doubt about that. For the past thirty years she had lived a strange isolated life all by herself in a tiny cottage high up on the slopes of the Blue Ridge Mountains, several miles from the nearest village. She had five acres of pasture, a plot for growing vegetables, a flower garden, three cows, a dozen hens, and a fine cockerel.

And now she had little Lexington as well.

She was a strict vegetarian and regarded the consumption of animal flesh as not only unhealthy and disgusting, but horribly cruel. She lived upon lovely clean foods like milk, butter, eggs, cheese, vegetables, nuts, herbs, and fruit, and she rejoiced in the conviction that no living creature would be slaughtered on her account, not even a shrimp. Once, when a brown hen of hers passed away in the prime of life from being eggbound, Aunt Glosspan was so distressed that she nearly gave up egg-eating altogether.

She knew not the first thing about babies, but that didn’t worry her in the least. At the railway station in New York, while waiting for the train that would take her and Lexington back to Virginia, she bought six feeding-bottles, two dozen diapers, a box of safety pins, a carton of milk for the journey, and a small paper-covered book called The Care of Infants. What more could anyone want? And when the train got going, she fed the baby some milk, changed its nappies after a fashion, and laid it down on the seat to sleep. Then she read The Care of Infants from cover to cover.

“There is no problem here,” she said, throwing the book out of the window. “No problem at all.”

And curiously enough there wasn’t. Back home in the cottage everything went just as smoothly as could be. Little Lexington drank his milk and belched and yelled and slept exactly as a good baby should, and Aunt Glosspan glowed with joy whenever she looked at him, and showered him with kisses all day long.

iv

By the time he was six years old, young Lexington had grown into a most beautiful boy with long golden hair and deep blue eyes the colour of cornflowers. He was bright and cheerful, and already he was learning to help his old aunt in all sorts of different ways around the property, collecting the eggs from the chicken house, turning the handle of the butter churn, digging up potatoes in the vegetable garden, and searching for wild herbs on the side of the mountain. Soon, Aunt Glosspan told herself, she would have to start thinking about his education.

But she couldn’t bear the thought of sending him away to school. She loved him so much now that it would kill her to be parted from him for any length of time. There was, of course, that village school down in the valley, but it was a dreadful-looking place, and if she sent him there she just knew they would start forcing him to eat meat the very first day he arrived.

“You know what, my darling?” she said to him one day when he was sitting on a stool in the kitchen watching her make cheese. “I don’t really see why I shouldn’t give you your lessons myself.”

The boy looked up at her with his large blue eyes, and gave her a lovely trusting smile. “That would be nice,” he said.

“And the very first thing I should do would be to teach you how to cook.”

“I think I would like that, Aunt Glosspan.”

“Whether you like it or not, you’re going to have to learn some time,” she said. “Vegetarians like us don’t have nearly so many foods to choose from as ordinary people, and therefore they must learn to be doubly expert with what they have.”

“Aunt Glosspan,” the boy said, “what do ordinary people eat that we don’t?”

“Animals,” she answered, tossing her head in disgust.

“You mean live animals?”

“No,” she said. “Dead ones.”

The boy considered this for a moment.

“You mean when they die they eat them instead of burying them?”

“They don’t wait for them to die, my pet. They kill them.”

“How do they kill them, Aunt Glosspan?”

“They usually slit their throats with a knife.”

“But what kind of animals?”

“Cows and pigs mostly, and sheep.”

“Cows!” the boy cried. “You mean like Daisy and Snowdrop and Lily?”

“Exactly, my dear.”

“But how do they eat them, Aunt Glosspan?”

“They cut them up into bits and they cook the bits. They like it best when it’s all red and bloody and sticking to the bones. They love to eat lumps of cow’s flesh with the blood oozing out of it.”

“Pigs too?”

“They adore pigs.”

“Lumps of bloody pig’s meat,” the boy said. “Imagine that. What else do they eat, Aunt Glosspan?”

“Chickens.”

“Chickens!”

“Millions of them.”

“Feathers and all?”

“No, dear, not the feathers. Now run along outside and get Aunt Glosspan a bunch of chives, will you, my darling?”

Shortly after that, the lessons began. They covered five subjects, reading, writing, geography, arithmetic, and cooking, but the latter was by far the most popular with both teacher and pupil. In fact, it very soon became apparent that young Lexington possessed a truly remarkable talent in this direction. He was a born cook. He was dextrous and quick. He could handle his pans like a juggler. He could slice a single potato into twenty paper-thin slivers in less time than it took his aunt to peel it. His palate was exquisitely sensitive, and he could taste a pot of strong onion soup and immediately detect the presence of a single tiny leaf of sage. In so young a boy, all this was a bit bewildering to Aunt Glosspan, and to tell the truth she didn’t quite know what to make of it. But she was proud as proud could be, all the same, and predicted a brilliant future for the child.

“What a mercy it is,” she said, “that I have such a wonderful little fellow to look after me in my dotage.” And a couple of years later, she retired from the kitchen for good, leaving Lexington in sole charge of all household cooking. The boy was now ten years old, and Aunt Glosspan was nearly eighty.

v

With the kitchen to himself, Lexington straight away began experimenting with dishes of his own invention. The old favourites no longer interested him. He had a violent urge to create. There were hundreds of fresh ideas in his head. “I will begin,” he said, “by devising a chestnut soufflé.” He made it and served it up for supper that very night. It was terrific. “You are a genius!” Aunt Glosspan cried, leaping up from her chair and kissing him on both cheeks. “You will make history!”

From then on, hardly a day went by without some new delectable creation being set upon the table. There was Brazil-nut soup, hominy cutlets, vegetable ragout, dandelion omelette, cream-cheese fritters, stuffed-cabbage surprise, stewed foggage, shallots à la bonne femme, beetroot mousse piquant, prunes Stroganoff, Dutch rarebit, turnips on horseback, flaming spruce-needle tarts, and many many other beautiful compositions. Never before in her life, Aunt Glosspan declared, had she tasted such food as this; and in the mornings, long before lunch was due, she would go out on to the porch and sit there in her rocking-chair, speculating about the coming meal, licking her chops, sniffing the aromas that came wafting out through the kitchen window.

“What’s that you’re making in there today, boy?” she would call out.

“Try to guess, Aunt Glosspan.”

“Smells like a bit of salsify fritters to me,” she would say, sniffing vigorously.

Then out he would come, this ten-year-old child, a little grin of triumph on his face, and in his hands a big steaming pot of the most heavenly stew made entirely of parsnips and lovage.

“You know what you ought to do,” his aunt said to him, gobbling the stew. “You ought to set yourself down this very minute with paper and pencil and write a cooking-book.”

He looked at her across the table, chewing his parsnips slowly.

“Why not?” she cried. “I’ve taught you how to write and I’ve taught you how to cook and now all you’ve got to do is put the two things together. You write a cooking-book, my darling, and it’ll make you famous the whole world over.”

“All right,” he said. “I will.”

And that very day, Lexington began writing the first page of that monumental work which was to occupy him for the rest of his life. He called it Eat Good and Healthy.

vi

Seven years later, by the time he was seventeen, he had recorded over nine thousand different recipes, all of them original, all of them delicious.

But now, suddenly, his labours were interrupted by the tragic death of Aunt Glosspan. She was afflicted in the night by a violent seizure, and Lexington, who had rushed into her bedroom to see what all the noise was about, found her lying on her bed yelling and cussing and twisting herself up into all manner of complicated knots. Indeed, she was a terrible sight to behold, and the agitated youth danced around her in his pyjamas, wringing his hands, and wondering what on earth he should do. Finally, in an effort to cool her down, he fetched a bucket of water from the pond in the cow field and tipped it over her head, but this only intensified the paroxysms, and the old lady expired within the hour.

“This is really too bad,” the poor boy said, pinching her several times to make sure that she was dead. “And how sudden! How quick and sudden! Why only a few hours ago she seemed in the very best of spirits. She even took three large helpings of my most recent creation, devilled mushroom-burgers, and told me how succulent it was.”

After weeping bitterly for several minutes, for he had loved his aunt very much, he pulled himself together and carried her outside and buried her behind the cowshed.

The next day, while tidying up her belongings, he came across an envelope that was addressed to him in Aunt Glosspan’s handwriting. He opened it and drew out two fifty-dollar bills and a letter. Darling boy, the letter said. I know that you have never yet been down the mountain since you were thirteen days old, but as soon as I die you must put on a pair of shoes and a clean shirt and walk down to the village and find the doctor. Ask the doctor to give you a death certificate to prove that I am dead. Then take this certificate to my lawyer, a man called Mr Samuel Zuckermann, who lives in New York City and who has a copy of my will. Mr Zuckermann will arrange everything. The cash in this envelope is to pay the doctor for the certificate and to cover the cost of your journey to New York. Mr Zuckermann will give you more money when you get there, and it is my earnest wish that you use it to further your researches into culinary and vegetarian matters, and that you continue to work upon that great book of yours until you are satisfied that it is complete in every way. Your loving aunt— Glosspan.

Lexington, who had always done everything his aunt told him, pocketed the money, put on a pair of shoes and a clean shirt, and went down the mountain to the village where the doctor lived.

“Old Glosspan?” the doctor said. “My God, is she dead?”

“Certainly she’s dead,” the youth answered. “If you will come back home with me now I’ll dig her up and you can see for yourself.”

“How deep did you bury her?” the doctor asked.

“Six or seven feet down, I should think.”

“And how long ago?”

“Oh, about eight hours.”

“Then she’s dead,” the doctor announced. “Here’s the certificate.”

vii

Our hero now sets out for the City of New York to find Mr Samuel Zuckermann. He travelled on foot, and he slept under hedges, and he lived on berries and wild herbs, and it took him sixteen days to reach the metropolis.

“What a fabulous place this is!” he cried as he stood at the corner of Fifty-seventh Street and Fifth Avenue, staring around him. “There are no cows or chickens anywhere, and none of the women looks in the least like Aunt Glosspan.”

As for Mr Samuel Zuckermann, he looked like nothing that Lexington had ever seen before.

He was a small spongy man with livid jowls and a huge magenta nose, and when he smiled, bits of gold flashed at you marvellously from lots of different places inside his mouth. In his luxurious office, he shook Lexington warmly by the hand and congratulated him upon his aunt’s death.

“I suppose you knew that your dearly beloved guardian was a woman of considerable wealth?” he said.

“You mean the cows and the chickens?”

“I mean half a million bucks,” Mr Zuckermann said.

“How much?”

“Half a million dollars, my boy. And she’s left it all to you.” Mr Zuckermann leaned back in his chair and clasped his hands over his spongy paunch. At the same time, he began secretly working his right forefinger in through his waistcoat and under his shirt so as to scratch the skin around the circumference of his navel—a favourite exercise of his, and one that gave him a peculiar pleasure. “Of course, I shall have to deduct fifty per cent for my services,” he said, “but that still leaves you with two hundred and fifty grand.”

“I am rich!” Lexington cried. “This is wonderful! How soon can I have the money?”

“Well,” Mr Zuckermann said, “luckily for you, I happen to be on rather cordial terms with the tax authorities around here, and I am confident that I shall be able to persuade them to waive all death duties and back taxes.”

“How kind you are,” murmured Lexington.

“I should naturally have to give somebody a small honorarium.”

“Whatever you say, Mr Zuckermann.”

“I think a hundred thousand would be sufficient.”

“Good gracious, isn’t that rather excessive?”

“Never undertip a tax inspector or a policeman,” Mr Zuckermann said. “Remember that.”

“But how much does it leave for me?” the youth asked meekly.

“One hundred and fifty thousand. But then you’ve got the funeral expenses to pay out of that.”

“Funeral expenses?”

“You’ve got to pay the funeral parlour. Surely you know that?”

“But I buried her myself, Mr Zuckermann, behind the cowshed.”

“I don’t doubt it,” the lawyer said. “So what?”

“I never used a funeral parlour.”

“Listen,” Mr Zuckermann said patiently. “You may not know it, but there is a law in this State which says that no beneficiary under a will may receive a single penny of his inheritance until the funeral parlour has been paid in full.”

“You mean that’s a law?”

“Certainly it’s a law, and a very good one it is, too. The funeral parlour is one of our great national institutions. It must be protected at all cost.”

Mr Zuckermann himself, together with a group of public-spirited doctors, controlled a corporation that owned a chain of nine lavish funeral parlours in the city, not to mention a casket factory in Brooklyn and a postgraduate school for embalmers in Washington Heights. The celebration of death was therefore a deeply religious affair in Mr Zuckermann’s eyes. In fact, the whole business affected him profoundly, almost as profoundly, one might say, as the birth of Christ affected the shopkeeper.

“You had no right to go out and bury your aunt like that,” he said. “None at all.”

“I’m very sorry, Mr Zuckermann.”

“Why, it’s downright subversive.”

“I’ll do whatever you say, Mr Zuckermann. All I want to know is how much I’m going to get in the end, when everything’s paid.”

There was a pause. Mr Zuckermann sighed and frowned and continued secretly to run the tip of his finger around the rim of his navel.

“Shall we say fifteen thousand?” he suggested, flashing a big gold smile. “That’s a nice round figure.”

“Can I take it with me this afternoon?”

“I don’t see why not.”

So Mr Zuckermann summoned his chief cashier and told him to give Lexington fifteen thousand dollars out of the petty cash, and to obtain a receipt. The youth, who by this time was delighted to be getting anything at all, accepted the money gratefully and stowed it away in his knapsack. Then he shook Mr Zuckermann warmly by the hand, thanked him for all his help, and went out of the office.

“The whole world is before me!” our hero cried as he emerged into the street. “I now have fifteen thousand dollars to see me through until my book is published. And after that, of course, I shall have a great deal more.” He stood on the pavement, wondering which way to go. He turned left and began strolling slowly down the street, staring at the sights of the city.

“What a revolting smell,” he said, sniffing the air. “I can’t stand this.” His delicate olfactory nerves, tuned to receive only the most delicious kitchen aromas, were being tortured by the stench of the diesel-oil fumes pouring out of the backs of the buses.

“I must get out of this place before my nose is ruined altogether,” he said. “But first, I’ve simply got to have something to eat. I’m starving.” The poor boy had had nothing but berries and wild herbs for the past two weeks, and now his stomach was yearning for solid food. I’d like a nice hominy cutlet, he told himself. Or maybe a few juicy salsify fritters.

He crossed the street and entered a small restaurant. The place was hot inside, and dark and silent. There was a strong smell of cooking-fat and cabbage water. The only other customer was a man with a brown hat on his head, crouching intently over his food, who did not look up as Lexington came in.

Our hero seated himself at a corner table and hung his knapsack on the back of his chair. This, he told himself, is going to be most interesting. In all my seventeen years I have tasted only the cooking of two people, Aunt Glosspan and myself—unless one counts Nurse McPottle, who must have heated my bottle a few times when I was an infant. But I am now about to sample the art of a new chef altogether, and perhaps, if I am lucky, I may pick up a couple of useful ideas for my book.

A waiter approached out of the shadows at the back, and stood beside the table.

“How do you do,” Lexington said. “I should like a large hominy cutlet please. Do it twenty-five seconds each side, in a very hot skillet with sour cream, and sprinkle a pinch of lovage on it before serving—unless of course your chef knows of a more original method, in which case I should be delighted to try it.”

The waiter laid his head over to one side and looked carefully at his customer. “You want the roast pork and cabbage?” he asked. “That’s all we got left.”

“Roast what and cabbage?”

The waiter took a soiled handkerchief from his trouser pocket and shook it open with a violent flourish, as though he were cracking a whip. Then he blew his nose loud and wet.

“You want it or don’t you?” he said, wiping his nostrils.

“I haven’t the foggiest idea what it is,” Lexington replied, “but I should love to try it. You see, I am writing a cooking-book and . . .”

“One pork and cabbage!” the waiter shouted, and somewhere in the back of the restaurant, far away in the darkness, a voice answered him.

The waiter disappeared. Lexington reached into his knapsack for his personal knife and fork. These were a present from Aunt Glosspan, given him when he was six years old, made of solid silver, and he had never eaten with any other instruments since. While waiting for the food to arrive, he polished them lovingly with a piece of soft muslin.

Soon the waiter returned carrying a plate on which there lay a thick greyish-white slab of something hot. Lexington leaned forward anxiously to smell it as it was put down before him. His nostrils were wide open now to receive the scent, quivering and sniffing.

“But this is absolute heaven!” he exclaimed. “What an aroma! It’s tremendous!”

The waiter stepped back a pace, watching his customer carefully.

“Never in my life have I smelled anything as rich and wonderful as this!” our hero cried, seizing his knife and fork. “What on earth is it made of?”

The man in the brown hat looked around and stared, then returned to his eating. The waiter was backing away towards the kitchen.

Lexington cut off a small piece of the meat, impaled it on his silver fork, and carried it up to his nose so as to smell it again. Then he popped it into his mouth and began to chew it slowly, his eyes half closed, his body tense.

“This is fantastic!” he cried. “It is a brand-new flavour! Oh, Glosspan, my beloved Aunt, how I wish you were with me now so you could taste this remarkable dish! Waiter! Come here at once! I want you!”

The astonished waiter was now watching from the other end of the room, and he seemed reluctant to move any closer.

“If you will come and talk to me I will give you a present,” Lexington said, waving a hundred-dollar bill. “Please come over here and talk to me.”

The waiter sidled cautiously back to the table, snatched away the money, and held it up close to his face, peering at it from all angles. Then he slipped it quickly into his pocket.

“What can I do for you, my friend?” he asked.

“Look,” Lexington said. “If you will tell me what this delicious dish is made of, and exactly how it is prepared, I will give you another hundred.”

“I already told you,” the man said. “It’s pork.”

“And what exactly is pork?”

“You never had roast pork before?” the waiter asked, staring.

“For heaven’s sake, man, tell me what it is and stop keeping me in suspense like this.”

“It’s pig,” the waiter said. “You just bung it in the oven.”

“Pig!”

“All pork is pig. Didn’t you know that?”

“You mean this is pig’s meat?”

“I guarantee it.”

“But . . . but . . . that’s impossible,” the youth stammered. “Aunt Glosspan, who knew more about food than anyone else in the world, said that meat of any kind was disgusting, revolting, horrible, foul, nauseating, and beastly. And yet this piece that I have here on my plate is without doubt the most delicious thing that I have ever tasted. Now how on earth do you explain that? Aunt Glosspan certainly wouldn’t have told me it was revolting if it wasn’t.”

“Maybe your aunt didn’t know how to cook it,” the waiter said.

“Is that possible?”

“You’re damned right it is. Especially with pork. Pork has to be very well done or you can’t eat it.”

“Eureka!” Lexington cried. “I’ll bet that’s exactly what happened! She did it wrong!” He handed the man another hundred-dollar bill. “Lead me to the kitchen,” he said. “Introduce me to the genius who prepared this meat.”

Lexington was at once taken into the kitchen, and there he met the cook who was an elderly man with a rash on one side of his neck.

“This will cost you another hundred,” the waiter said.

Lexington was only too glad to oblige, but this time he gave the money to the cook. “Now listen to me,” he said. “I have to admit that I am really rather confused by what the waiter has just been telling me. Are you quite positive that the delectable dish which I have just been eating was prepared from pig’s flesh?”

The cook raised his right hand and began scratching the rash on his neck.

“Well,” he said, looking at the waiter and giving him a sly wink, “all I can tell you is that I think it was pig’s meat.”

“You mean you’re not sure?”

“One can’t ever be sure.”

“Then what else could it have been?”

“Well,” the cook said, speaking very slowly and still staring at the waiter. “There’s just a chance, you see, that it might have been a piece of human stuff.”

“You mean a man?”

“Yes.”

“Good heavens.”

“Or a woman. It could have been either. They both taste the same.”

“Well—now you really do surprise me,” the youth declared.

“One lives and learns.”

“Indeed one does.”

“As a matter of fact, we’ve been getting an awful lot of it just lately from the butcher’s in place of pork,” the cook declared.

“Have you really?”

“The trouble is, it’s almost impossible to tell which is which. They’re both very good.”

“The piece I had just now was simply superb.”

“I’m glad you liked it,” the cook said. “But to be quite honest, I think that was a bit of pig. In fact, I’m almost sure it was.”

“You are?”

“Yes, I am.”

“In that case, we shall have to assume that you are right,” Lexington said. “So now will you please tell me—and here is another hundred dollars for your trouble—will you please tell me precisely how you prepared it?”

The cook, after pocketing the money, launched out upon a colourful description of how to roast a loin of pork, while the youth, not wanting to miss a single word of so great a recipe, sat down at the kitchen table and recorded every detail in his notebook.

“Is that all?” he asked when the cook had finished.

“That’s all.”

“But there must be more to it than that, surely?”

“You got to get a good piece of meat to start off with,” the cook said. “That’s half the battle. It’s got to be a good hog and it’s got to be butchered right, otherwise it’ll turn out lousy whichever way you cook it.”

“Show me how,” Lexington said. “Butcher me one now so I can learn.”

“We don’t butcher pigs in the kitchen,” the cook said. “That lot you just ate came from a packing-house over in the Bronx.”

“Then give me the address!”

The cook gave him the address, and our hero, after thanking them both many times for all their kindnesses, rushed outside and leapt into a taxi and headed for the Bronx.

viii

The packing-house was a big four-storey brick building, and the air around it smelled sweet and heavy, like musk. At the main entrance gates, there was a large notice which said VISITORS WELCOME AT ANY TIME, and thus encouraged, Lexington walked through the gates and entered a cobbled yard which surrounded the building itself. He then followed a series of signposts (THIS WAY FOR THE GUIDED TOURS), and came eventually to a small corrugated-iron shed set well apart from the main building (VISITORS’ WAITING-ROOM). After knocking politely on the door, he went in.

There were six other people ahead of him in the waiting-room. There was a fat mother with her two little boys aged about nine and eleven. There was a bright-eyed young couple who looked as though they might be on their honeymoon. And there was a pale woman with long white gloves, who sat very upright, looking straight ahead, with her hands folded on her lap. Nobody spoke. Lexington wondered whether they were all writing cooking-books, like himself, but when he put this question to them aloud, he got no answer. The grown-ups merely smiled mysteriously to themselves and shook their heads, and the two children stared at him as though they were seeing a lunatic.

Soon, the door opened and a man with a merry pink face popped his head into the room and said, “Next, please.” The mother and the two boys got up and went out.

About ten minutes later, the same man returned. “Next, please,” he said again, and the honeymoon couple jumped up and followed him outside.

Two new visitors came in and sat down—a middle-aged husband and a middle-aged wife, the wife carrying a wicker shopping-basket containing groceries.

“Next, please,” said the guide, and the woman with the long white gloves got up and left.

Several more people came in and took their places on the stiff-backed wooden chairs.

Soon the guide returned for the third time, and now it was Lexington’s turn to go outside.

“Follow me, please,” the guide said, leading the youth across the yard towards the main building.

“How exciting this is!” Lexington cried, hopping from one foot to the other. “I only wish that my dear Aunt Glosspan could be with me now to see what I am going to see.”

“I myself only do the preliminaries,” the guide said. “Then I shall hand you over to someone else.”

“Anything you say,” cried the ecstatic youth.

First they visited a large penned-in area at the back of the building where several hundred pigs were wandering around. “Here’s where they start,” the guide said. “And over there’s where they go in.”

“Where?”

“Right there.” The guide pointed to a long wooden shed that stood against the outside wall of the factory. “We call it the shackling-pen. This way, please.”

Three men wearing long rubber boots were driving a dozen pigs into the shackling-pen just as Lexington and the guide approached, so they all went in together.

“Now,” the guide said, “watch how they shackle them.”

Inside, the shed was simply a bare wooden room with no roof, but there was a steel cable with hooks on it that kept moving slowly along the length of one wall, parallel with the ground, about three feet up. When it reached the end of the shed, this cable suddenly changed direction and climbed vertically upward through the open roof towards the top floor of the main building.

The twelve pigs were huddled together at the far end of the pen, standing quietly, looking apprehensive. One of the men in rubber boots pulled a length of metal chain down from the wall and advanced upon the nearest animal, approaching it from the rear. Then he bent down and quickly looped one end of the chain around one of the animal’s hind legs. The other end he attached to a hook on the moving cable as it went by. The cable kept moving. The chain tightened. The pig’s leg was pulled up and back, and then the pig itself began to be dragged backwards. But it didn’t fall down. It was rather a nimble pig, and somehow it managed to keep its balance on three legs, hopping from foot to foot and struggling against the pull of the chain, but going back and back all the time until at the end of the pen where the cable changed direction and went vertically upward, the creature was suddenly jerked off its feet and borne aloft. Shrill protests filled the air.

“Truly a fascinating process,” Lexington said. “But what was that funny cracking noise it made as it went up?”

“Probably the leg,” the guide answered. “Either that or the pelvis.”

“But doesn’t that matter?”

“Why should it matter?” the guide asked. “You don’t eat the bones.”

The rubber-booted men were busy shackling the rest of the pigs, and one after another they were hooked to the moving cable and hoisted up through the roof, protesting loudly as they went.

“There’s a good deal more to this recipe than just picking herbs,” Lexington said. “Aunt Glosspan would never have made it.”

At this point, while Lexington was gazing skyward at the last pig to go up, a man in rubber boots approached him quietly from behind and looped one end of a chain around the youth’s own ankle, hooking the other end to the moving belt. The next moment, before he had time to realise what was happening, our hero was jerked off his feet and dragged backwards along the concrete floor of the shackling-pen.

“Stop!” he cried. “Hold everything! My leg is caught!”

But nobody seemed to hear him, and five seconds later, the unhappy young man was jerked off the floor and hoisted vertically upward through the open roof of the pen, dangling upside down by one ankle, and wriggling like a fish.

“Help!” he shouted. “Help! There’s been a frightful mistake! Stop the engines! Let me down!”

The guide removed a cigar from his mouth and looked up serenely at the rapidly ascending youth, but he said nothing. The men in rubber boots were already on their way out to collect the next batch of pigs.

“Oh, save me!” our hero cried. “Let me down! Please let me down!” But he was now approaching the top floor of the building where the moving belt curled over like a snake and entered a large hole in the wall, a kind of doorway without a door; and there, on the threshold, waiting to greet him, clothed in a dark-stained yellow rubber apron, and looking for all the world like Saint Peter at the Gates of Heaven, the sticker stood.

Lexington saw him only from upside down, and very briefly at that, but even so he noticed at once the expression of absolute peace and benevolence on the man’s face, the cheerful twinkle in the eyes, the little wistful smile, the dimples in his cheeks—and all this gave him hope.

“Hi there,” the sticker said, smiling.

“Quick! Save me!” our hero cried.

“With pleasure,” the sticker said, and taking Lexington gently by one ear with his left hand, he raised his right hand and deftly slit open the boy’s jugular vein with a knife.

The belt moved on. Lexington went with it. Everything was still upside down and the blood was pouring out of his throat and getting into his eyes, but he could still see after a fashion, and he had a blurred impression of being in an enormously long room, and at the far end of the room there was a great smoking cauldron of water, and there were dark figures, half hidden in the steam, dancing around the edge of it, brandishing long poles. The conveyor-belt seemed to be travelling right over the top of the cauldron, and the pigs seemed to be dropping down one by one into the boiling water, and one of the pigs seemed to be wearing long white gloves on its front feet. Suddenly our hero started to feel very sleepy, but it wasn’t until his good strong heart had pumped the last drop of blood from his body that he passed on out of this, the best of all possible worlds, into the next.

You wake at 05:30 in the morning, feeling somewhat groggy.

Instead of the alarm clock ringing like it normally does, a cheerful hologram appears: “Hi! I’m Kyle, your new alarm clock assistant!” You get dressed as Kyle explains all of the fantastic things he is capable of.

You head over to the coffee machine. “Hey there! I’m Evan! Are you ready for AI in your coffee? But first - tell me about yourself!”. You ignore Evan’s monologue and close your eyes as the synthetic coffee replacement is brewing. Real coffee costs more than your coffee maker nowadays, so it has to suffice.

You also brush off George the intelligent shoelace assistant, Cate the smart front door, Maurice the brand new elevator AI.

You try to ignore Eunice the walk-and-talk side-walk talk smart-AI as it pursues you tirelessly to tell you about its fantastic capabilities.

You arrive at the gym. The receptionist is out of order because its API has exceeded its quota, so you just walk into the locker room and change.

You put your stuff in the locker, accept the new terms and conditions, give the locker permission to share your personal information with all the different data brokers. The locker clicks as the lock engages.

As you step on the treadmill a holographic running companion joins you and starts monologuing about this fantastic new meal replacement powder they’ve been using recently. You’re not in a mood to listen so you put on your headphones and listen to ad jingles instead.

You head back to the locker room and shower. George the intelligent holographic shower buddy appears and tells you about his new AI features.

Your locker session has expired so you need to log into the gym again. First enter a pin code, then 2FA via text message on your phone, then verify your email, then you need to identify firehydrants and sidewalks for 15 minutes to prove you’re human, then accept the a new set of terms of conditions. As you click on firehydrants, George cheerfully keeps going on about his AI features.

Finally ready to head to work. You step into your car, which greets you as Ulysses, the new smart AI passenger. The car drives to work as you listen with closed eyes to a cheerfully enumeration of its fantastic new AI features.

You arrive at work just on time, you slip into your cubicle, sink into your chair, and put on your headset. You take a deep breath, and cheerfully speak into the microphone “Hey there! I’m Evan! Are you ready for AI in your coffee? But first - tell me about yourself!”

It’s gonna be a long day.

MORE MURAKAMI BAAAA. ILL NEVER STOP

Oddly lovely. Very worthy of analysis, deserves to be thought about.

I finally made a substack account and posted smth on there. I'm genuinely happier about this story than i have been about most. Would love it y'all check it out.

I love bolano as a writer. This was translated by Chris Andrews.

Give it a go folks. Its quite short

Sorry I havent posted in so long folks, life happened

(not monetized) I have more stuff at natebquill.com. Would love feedback on any of my works! I'm young and always looking to improve.