Tales from the Cryptic Lemmy
**The Man Who Hunted Sea Lions on Lemmy** *written by @UniversalMonk* The cold night wind swept in from the north, sharp and biting, sending ripples across the dark water. Each wave lapped softly against the side of the boat, a rhythmic, almost soothing sound in the otherwise eerie silence. In the center of the boat, a man sat hunched over, his shoulders tense. His fingers raked through his thinning disheveled hair as he muttered to himself, his voice barely rising above the whispering wind, the words tangled in frustration and something darker. “I’m gonna do it," he said. "Whatever it takes. I’m gonna get that fucking troll! All he does is fucking sealion and bullshit 24 hours a day. Trying to trick everyone. Calling himself a Socialist Mormon Satanist. Bullshit! It’s obvious he works for Russia. And the fucking mods don’t do anything about it. Fuck that! I’ll do something about it!” A piercing cry tore through the heavy night, sharp and unnatural, like something dying just out of sight. The man jerked his head up, a cold shiver crawling down his spine. That sound—wild and unearthly—had to be the screech of a swamp bird, hidden somewhere in the blackness, likely nesting on the shadowy island that sat like a ghost in the center of the lake. This was where SHE lived—the one he’d come to see. The WITCH. He’d heard about her from another Lemmy user, whispered like some dirty secret. He stood there for a moment, hesitation gnawing at him. Was this really the answer? The only way to stop the troll? That twisted monk troll, who was probably looking up propaganda right now, laughing as he spewed lie after lie. "Oh, I’m just sharing articles I’m interested in," the evil bastard would say. What a load of crap, the man thought. Yeah, he had to go through with this. The clouds shifted, peeling back just enough for the cold, ghostly light of the moon to spill over the water for the first time that night. The man tightened his grip on the oars, heart pounding, and began to row. Each stroke bit into the black water, the boat surging forward, cutting a path straight toward the island. The wind whispered around him, the silence broken only by the creak of wood and the splash of oars. After a dozen hard strokes, his arms burned, but he let the boat glide, drifting toward a narrow, shadowy inlet that seemed to swallow the light whole. The bird's cry pierced the air again, this time closer, its eerie call almost like laughter, mocking his courage. Just like that twisted piece of filth he was determined to stop. The troll who called himself Universal Monk! The man wet his dried lips with the tip of his tongue. “Just fucking do it,” he told himself. It was this night or never. In his mind, he could see Universal Monk hunched over a dimly lit desk somewhere in Russia, the glow of the screen casting shadows over his sneering face. Fingers tapping away on the keyboard, pumping out lie after lie, each keystroke dripping with malice. And for what? A fat stack of Russian bitcoins, piling up in his virtual wallet, the digital currency of deceit. All the while, he probably laughed, knowing every twisted post, every fake article, spread like poison through the internet, his pockets getting heavier with each click. And the man would see that it would not stop--not until he knew the scheming troll was dead. The witch would do that for him. Oh yes, she’d do it. The boat glided into the inlet, swallowed by the darkness beneath the thick tangle of branches overhead, cutting off the last slivers of moonlight. The man reached out, yanking on the vines and limbs, pulling himself deeper into the blackness. The boat scraped against the muddy bank with a dull thud. Quick as a flash, he grabbed a rope and looped it around a gnarled tree stump, knotting it tight. He slipped over the side of the boat and his boots sank into the soft mud. There was a sucking sound as the mud reluctantly gave up its hold and the man pulled himself up onto firm ground. His eyes swept the darkness, locking onto a faint path cutting through the thick underbrush. He lingered for a second, doubt gnawing at him. Then, with a deep breath, he steeled himself and pushed forward into the shadows. Loops of vines hang from a dense canopy, swaying in the cold breeze. The path was covered in mud and grass, making it slippery and treacherous. The thick foliage blocked out the moon, leaving the path dark and foreboding. Distant thunder let the man know that a storm was brewing in the distance, making the night even more oppressive and ominous. Entangling vines wound around his ankles and branches snapped and lashed his face. It was if the island was trying to stop him. But no, he wouldn’t be stopped. He must go on! Up ahead, a sudden flash of yellow light flared, then vanished, like a door had been cracked open and slammed shut in an instant. The man froze, a wave of panic clawing at him. He could turn back now, leave this cursed place behind, head home where everything was safe and familiar. Back to his room in his mom’s house. Back to his A.I. girlfriend. Back to his keyboard. No! He hadn't come this far to turn in this tracks and run like a kid trapped in a cemetery at night. There was no turning back. That fucking troll, Universal Monk must pay for his treachery! Cautiously, the man pressed on down the path, eyes sharp. The thick underbrush began to thin, and the pale light of the stars and moon filtered through, beckoning him forward. The trail opened into a clearing. He stopped for a moment, catching his breath, then moved across the open ground until he stood before a weathered old shack, looming like a forgotten ghost. He noticed the door of the shack slowly opening. A sickly yellow light spilled over the cracked, warped steps. Standing in the doorway was the ugliest woman the man had ever laid eyes on. It was her—the witch. She hummed to herself, a low, gravelly sound that crawled under his skin. As the man drew closer, he noticed her shriveled skin. She had a hawkish, hooked nose and her face was scarred with pockmarks and pits. Her skin was a zombie-white, colorless pall, her hair was lank and lusterless, and her eyes were leonine, fierce and cold. He could smell a rancid and infernal smell coming from a cauldron in the corner, and saw bits of frogs' legs, bat wings and eyes of newt scattered around the floor. The woman had sickle-shaped eyebrows, and her teeth were blackened and broken into stubs, like old tombstones. Her voice rose higher and higher as she neared the end of her incantation, and her eyes glinted with hostility. She leaned in close, her face just inches from his, and the stench of mildew and rot hit him like a punch. Her wrinkled lips, shriveled over toothless gums, peeled back as she let out a harsh cackle. “Who the fuck are you? Get the fuck outta here!” The man shifted uneasily, sweat started to drip down his forehead. “Wait! I heard you could help me. I’ve got a problem with this guy on Lemmy, and—” “What the fuck is a Lemmy?” she snapped. “It’s a computer thing,” he stammered. “There’s this guy, and he keeps posting bullshit, and—” “You’re here about some goddamn computer? Fuck you. You the government? Get the fuck outta here. You fucking pussy government types. Fuck off!” “No,” he stammered again, his voice faltering. “No. I’m not. See, there’s this guy... he calls himself Universal Monk, and he’s—” “Oh, a monk. A dark monk,” she muttered, her eyes narrowing with eerie satisfaction. “Yes, yes, that makes sense now. You must be the one I visioned about. The signs never lie.” As she spoke, it seemed like she was digging into the shadows of his mind, uncovering the festering secret he’d barely admitted to himself. “What do you mean?” the man asked, his voice barely steady. “I saw him in a vision. A dark monk, bringing shadows to the world. And one who would try to stop him.” Her lips twisted into a crooked grin as a high-pitched cry of triumph hissed from her throat, spiraling into the air like smoke rising from a dying fire. The man shook his head to clear his eyes. The terror lodged in his throat, spreading cold through his veins. He tried to form words, but his mouth refused to work. For a moment, he almost turned and bolted back to the boat, ready to leave this nightmare behind. But he couldn’t. Not yet. He needed the old witch. “Yeah,” The man said at last in a weak voice. “He’s aways posting bullshit propaganda. And fucking sealioning. You should see the fucking sealioning! I wanna see him hurt. I want you to hurt him.” Her eyes drilled into his, dark and piercing, like she could see straight through to the fear gnawing at his core. Slowly, the old witch lifted her bony, clawed hand, its gnarled fingers bent at odd angles, and motioned him closer. "This ain’t free, you know," she hissed, her voice like gravel scraping over metal. "You got money? And I don't accept that bullshit bitcoin!" She threw her head back, a laugh bursting from her chest, sharp and jagged, revealing even more of those yellowed, decaying teeth, cracked and crumbling in her mouth. The man’s breath hitched as he nodded, his movements stiff and reluctant. He stepped forward, his heart pounding in his ears, and carefully placed a tightly folded wad of cash into her outstretched hand, careful not to let his fingers brush her sickly, cold skin. He followed her to a cast-iron cauldron hanging over the fire, glowing red from the bed of coals beneath it. The stench of the bubbling brew hit him like a wall, thick and putrid, filling the room with the reek of decay. The witch stood before the cauldron, stirring the vile mixture with a gnarled stick, her lips moving in a low, garbled chant. The words “monk” and “sea lion” slithered between the foul names of whatever cursed ingredients she had thrown into the boiling mess. At last, she stopped. “Proof,” she rasped, her voice like stones grinding together. “You got anything that shows this dark monk causing harm?” The man’s hands shook as he pulled out his phone, the device feeling foreign and fragile in his grip. He scrolled, his voice unsteady. “See? Here, he says he doesn’t understand why I’m calling him a liar. See that? Right there. Perfect example of his bullshit sealioning act.” The witch’s eyes gleamed with cruel delight as she snatched the phone from his trembling hand. She stared at it for a moment, but her gaze was more fixed on the man, her eyes feasting on the fear etched across his face. Without a word, she tossed the phone into the cauldron. It bobbed on the surface of the boiling brew for a moment before sinking slowly, swallowed by the bubbling, foul-smelling sludge. “Hey!” the man said. "That's my phone!" "Not anymore," the witch said, cackling. “You idiot fuck. Damn, I miss the old ways.” She crouched low, snatching a charred piece of wood from the fire, the ember still glowing faintly at the edges. The man trailed her across the room, heart pounding, as she reached for an ugly, twisted doll hanging from a hook on the wall. Without a word, she began to sketch on the doll’s blank face, quick strokes, her hand moving with a kind of fevered precision. Every now and then, she’d glance at him, her lips curling into a crooked grin before turning back to her work, a soft, sinister laugh bubbling up from her throat. Finally, she spun around, the doll clutched tight in her bony fingers. "Come," she rasped, her voice low and cold. "It’s time. We must do this now, or it’ll be too late. The spell only works under the old ways… the ways of the Dark Mormons, before they chose to be ‘good.’ When they walked the Dark Path. I was one of them, back then. Now I’m all that’s left." Her words hung in the air like a curse, thick with an ancient malice, something better left buried in forgotten shadows. The man stumbled after her, following her out into the cold night, his breath ragged. Cold sweat trickled down his forehead as he struggled to keep pace with the old witch, who moved with a speed that defied her frail appearance. She darted down a trail that seemed invisible to anyone but her, slipping through the trees like a shadow. He gasped, pulling in lungfuls of damp air, but it wasn’t enough. His chest burned, each breath feeling like the witch herself was sharpening her claws on his lungs. She was far ahead now, a dark figure barely visible in the gloom, but he couldn’t lose her. He couldn’t stop. What unnerved him most was how she moved—so fast, so effortless. It was like her feet weren’t even touching the ground, like she was gliding just above it, carried by something far older and darker than anything he could comprehend. Suddenly, the old witch raised her hand, stopping in the dense, suffocating blackness of the woods. The man stumbled to a halt behind her, his chest heaving as he fought for air. "This," she hissed, her voice low and dripping with malice, "is where we finish the ritual." With swift, practiced hands, she pinned the crude doll to a twisted tree. The man noticed that the doll had a strange shape. Not quite a human figure. Her sly gaze flicked toward him, her eyes narrowing as a wicked smile crept across her face. "So," she said, her voice like a snake’s hiss, “you want the troll to suffer?" The man trembled, his body betraying the fear that clawed at him. He nodded, numb. Part of him wanted to turn and run, to let the witch finish her dark work alone. But it was too late—he was in this now, too deep to pull away. The witch spat on the doll, the thick, greenish yellow spit sticking to its face like poison. Then, with slow, deliberate precision, she began driving long pins into the doll, each one sinking in with a sickening finality. A wave of relief washed over the man. This was going to work. He could feel it. A smile crept across his face, the tension in his body easing for the first time since he'd arrived. But the old witch sensed his thoughts. She turned to the man, a horrible grin spreading across her wrinkled face, deepening every crease. "Not yet," she rasped, her voice dripping with malice. "It’s not over just yet." The old witch stepped back, and under the pale light, the man finally saw it for what it was—a doll shaped like a sea lion, crude but unmistakable. He grinned, a twisted sense of satisfaction washing over him. This was it. The moment he'd been waiting for. His face was slick with sweat, but when he tried to lift his hand to wipe it away, his arms felt heavy, numb, as if they no longer belonged to him. Something felt off, but none of that mattered now. He was finally going to get his revenge on Universal Monk! With a sudden, piercing howl, the witch erupted into laughter, a mad cackle filled with some secret pleasure only she understood. From the folds of her robe, she produced a larger, more grotesque pin—black and red ribbons tangled around it, bits of moss clinging to its barbed steel. Her eyes gleamed as she raised it high and, without hesitation, plunged the pin deep into the doll’s belly. The man’s grin vanished in an instant. His skin turned ashen, his breath catching in his throat. A sharp, stabbing pain shot through his stomach, like the pin had pierced his flesh instead. He gasped, clutching at his gut. “Wait, what’s happening?” he croaked, his voice rough, barely more than a whisper. He clutched his stomach, doubling over in a desperate attempt to ease the searing pain. But as he glanced down, horror flooded his mind. His hands—they weren’t hands at all. They had twisted, fused together, the bones and flesh warping into grotesque flippers. The skin was a sickly, mottled gray, slick with some foul, unnatural slime. No... it couldn’t be. His mind reeled, refusing to believe what his eyes were seeing. This was impossible. It couldn't be. The witch turned to him, her eyes gleaming with a savage joy. She drank in his terror, her grin widening as the man’s world crumbled around him. “Idiot!” the old woman roared, her voice filled with venom. "The Dark Monk already paid me! He found out about you from the same rat who sent you here. In Russia, we have a saying—'why get paid once when you can get paid twice and be rid of an idiot.' You were played!" The man groaned, but the sound that escaped his throat wasn’t human. Panic surged through him as he realized his tongue was flopping uselessly against sharp, jagged teeth. The noises coming from his mouth were guttural, animal-like, his humanity slipping away with each passing second. Slipping away as quickly as his life was. "Just like you wished," the old woman sneered, her voice dripping with cruel satisfaction. "A sea lion will die tonight. Oh it’s gonna be a great feast tonight. Sea lion tastes even better with onions and garlic from my garden." As the man’s vision blurred and darkness crept in, something caught his eye at the edges of the void. A figure—draped in a monk’s robe—stood just beyond the shadows. The man was laughing, his voice twisted and eerie, and he too began to sing. The song, haunting and strange, was in a language the man couldn’t understand, filling the air with an ancient, otherworldly dread. Their voices, the witch’s and the monk’s, rose together in a chilling harmony, echoing around him as the last traces of life slipped away. THE END
**Prophet of the Venus Maw** *written by @UniversalMonk* John snapped the laptop shut with a grunt, rubbing the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. 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 teeth along the edges of its leaves—no, not teeth—fangs. Thick, serrated, and sharp enough to tear through flesh. They curved inward, waiting, hungry. The plant looked like it was ready to consume anything unfortunate enough to wander too close. 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. The flytrap—was it facing him? 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. *** 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. *** 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 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 large black eyes—round and innocent—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’s breath caught in his throat. The plant was moving with intent, and it was watching the rabbit. The 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.* Before John could react, the Venus flytrap snapped shut around the rabbit’s hind legs, trapping it in its powerful grasp. The rabbit thrashed wildly, kicking and wriggling, but the plant held firm, its jagged leaves squeezing tighter. John watched in horrified awe as the rabbit’s struggles grew weaker and weaker until it finally lay still. He should have been disgusted. He should have intervened, saved the poor creature from its grisly fate. But instead, he felt something else—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 ritualistic. He brought the plant larger offerings—birds, squirrels, and eventually even deer. 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. It wasn’t just surviving—it was evolving, becoming something more powerful, more dangerous. *** 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 Carrie 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, their bodies 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. *** 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, 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. *** 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—the plant needed him. It wanted more. 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 it—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’s heart raced as he crept closer, eyes locked on his helpless prey. 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. *** 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 watched the flytrap’s fangs close around the animal’s body with a sickening crunch. The sound of bones snapping echoed through the clearing. The plant squeezed, crushed, its hunger undeniable. 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. *** 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. THE END
**The Spores of Lemmoriatic** *written by @UniversalMonk* **Feelings of Grandeur and Superiority Aroused** “What the fuck?” Pip Johnson yelled, his voice echoing off the cluttered walls of his room. He was fed up. Exhausted from the endless back-and-forth. His fingers hovered above the keyboard, hesitating for just a moment before he slammed the laptop shut with a grunt. Lemmy was supposed to be fun, a place to toss around ideas, maybe stir up a little debate. But lately, his favorite community had been hijacked by propaganda from some troll—had to be an incel. The guy constantly posted made-up crap, and what really set Pip off was discovering the troll had started a whole community about "transracial identity." That was it. That was too far. This internet troll had finally pushed him over the edge. “Bullshit!” Pip spat, standing up and stretching his stiff limbs. “Pure fucking bullshit. Dude’s probably some rich asshole jerkin’ off to the idea of Trump being president.” The dim light of his room flickered off the dark window, reflecting back his own tired, frustrated expression. He glanced at the piles of half-read books and empty soda cans scattered across his desk. The argument still weighed on him, lingering in the back of his mind. Earlier, things had spiraled fast. The troll had claimed to be “transracial,” talking about how he’d transcended his biological race and now identified as something else. Pip sighed, shaking his head at the absurdity. “Fucking incel loser hiding behind a screen, begging for attention,” he’d typed furiously before quitting. “You can’t just decide to be something you’re not.” The responses had come fast and furious. The troll called him narrow-minded, accused him of not understanding the nuances of identity. Saying that he was part of the problem, that he refused to see the world beyond black and white. The insults and accusations had flared up until his temper snapped, and that’s when he’d closed his laptop. He needed a break—an escape from the endless noise rattling in his skull. The kind of break that ripped him right out of reality’s grip and flung him somewhere far more... tolerable. His eyes flicked to the small tin on his bedside table, his salvation, his go-to for shutting it all down. Mushrooms. Psilocybin. A batch with the ridiculously bizarre name: SnorksLoveMachine Fab812. Ordered from some sketchy corner of the web, but top-shelf stuff, the real deal. The kind of escape that didn’t just quiet the chaos—it dissolved it, let his mind slip loose, floating into that soft, distant void where the world couldn’t reach him. He grabbed the tin, shook a few out, and swallowed them dry, grimacing at the bitter taste. Within minutes, the familiar wave of relaxation washed over him, the tension easing from his muscles as he lay back on his bed. The room felt distant, its cluttered details melting into the background. His mind floated, carried away by the soothing effects of the trip. He felt his head shifting, as if it was being stretched and reshaped, light and airy, floating high above him, far beyond the weight of his body. The tension in his skull loosened, like his very thoughts were untethering from his flesh, rising above the petty drama that had gnawed at him earlier. In this new state, everything felt clearer—sharper. He could smell the deep, rich scent of grass, the crisp, sweet breath of trees, and the subtle rustle of leaves, as if they were whispering to one another in a secret language only he could understand. He wasn’t just observing nature anymore—he was nature. He could feel the roots of the trees reaching deep into the soil, pulling life from the earth. The pulse of the plants, the slow, deliberate movement of their growth, was inside him, as if his own veins had stretched underground, connecting him to every living thing. This trip was different, more powerful. He felt it in his bones. This batch wasn’t just good—it was extraordinary. He could sense himself dissolving, becoming one with the earth, with the plants. It wasn’t just in his mind anymore. He was part of something larger, something ancient. He could feel it, surging through him like sap through bark. **Metamorphosis in Flesh and Mind** Pip awoke with a start, groggy and confused. The familiar disorientation of a mushroom trip fading always left him feeling heavy, but today there was something else. A strange pressure against his chest. He reached down, rubbing his hand absentmindedly against his shirt, but froze when his fingers brushed something… soft. “What the fuck?” he muttered, sitting up. In the dim light of the early morning, he could see it clearly—a small, pale cluster of lumps had sprouted from his skin, just under his collarbone. They were soft and spongy, like the kind of mushroom you’d find on a damp forest floor, and they pulsed faintly, as if alive. Tufts of hair and patches of pus began to sprout from the sides of his skin, grotesque and swollen. His stomach churned at the sight, but he couldn't help himself. He reached for one of the smaller, bulging growths, his fingers trembling. The texture was wrong—too soft, too alive. He squeezed. Pain shot through him, sharp and electric, causing his vision to blur. There was a sickening pop, followed by a slow, oozing release. Thick, foul-smelling sludge—reddish-yellow, like infected blood mixed with decay—dripped down his hand. The stench hit him immediately, a nauseating rot that made him gag. The ooze clung to his fingers, sticky and warm, like it had been festering inside him for far too long. He was rotting from the inside out! He tore off his shirt, staring down in horror. The mushrooms were growing from him, like some grotesque parasite. “Fuck,” he said as he jumped up to his feet, rushing to the bathroom mirror. “Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck. What the fuck? What. The. Fuck!” As he flipped on the light, his reflection nearly made him scream. The mushrooms weren’t just under his collarbone anymore—they were spreading. Tiny, pale buds had appeared across his shoulders, his neck, and even his face. Their pale caps glistened in the fluorescent light, soft and fleshy against his skin. “No, no, no,” he whispered, touching one gingerly. It felt warm, almost alive. Panic rose in his throat. He scrubbed at them with his hands, trying to brush them off, but they clung to him like they were rooted deep within his flesh. He could feel that they went all the way down. The room spun around him as he stumbled back to his bed, shaking uncontrollably. His mind raced for an explanation, but none came. Was this still part of the trip? Some hallucination lingering in the corners of his mind? He pinched his arm, hard, feeling the sharp pain shoot through him, but the mushrooms remained. Frantically, he grabbed his phone, calling his friend, but when the voice answered on the other end, Pip couldn’t find the words. His throat was tight, his mouth dry, and all he could think about was the mushrooms growing, spreading, digging deeper into him. He struggled to type, but his fingers wouldn't obey. Thick, stubby nodules had grown over his knuckles, swollen and grotesque, locking his joints in place. His hands felt stiff, alien—like they belonged to someone else, some twisted creature. Each movement was a battle, the keys slipping under his bloated fingers as if mocking him. His hands weren't his anymore. They were something *other.* He hurled the phone to the ground and tried to shut his eyes, desperate to cry, but his lids wouldn’t close. His eyes were swelling, and he could feel powdery growths pushing from beneath, grinding against his eyeballs. Each blink was a struggle, the gritty pressure making it impossible to find any release. His eyes were no longer his to control—they were becoming something else, something wrong. **The Rotting Dance of Spores and Filth Lovingly Kissed by Nightmare Fungi** The hours passed in a blur, and by the time the sun was high in the sky, the mushrooms had fully taken over one side of his torso. They grew in thick clusters, some as small as a coin, others large and fleshy. His skin beneath them had turned pale and rubbery, like the texture of mushroom caps themselves. He felt weaker by the minute, his limbs heavy and uncooperative. It was like they were *feeding* on him, drawing strength from his body. Pip tried to cover up, pulling on a hoodie and sunglasses, hoping to hide the grotesque transformation. He had to go outside, had to find help, even if it meant going to the hospital and confessing everything. Mushrooms were still illegal in the city, but he didn’t care. This was all too much. He stumbled out into the street, feeling the mushrooms pulsate against his skin as he walked. People stared as he passed. They looked at him like he was diseased, their faces twisting in disgust. He tried to speak, to ask for help, but his voice came out weak, muffled by the dryness in his throat. His mind screamed *I’m human! I’m still human!* A woman recoiled as he approached her. “Get the fuck away from me!” she spat, backing away. She pulled out her phone and started recording. “A fucking alien! I’m looking at fucking alien right now! Holy shit! This is gonna get me a shitload of views!” “I— I’m human,” he croaked, his voice barely audible. “Please… I’m human…” He tried to speak louder, but a disgusting mix of brown pus and spores shot from his mouth, splattering in front of him. The vile concoction didn’t stop—thick, foul-smelling drool oozed out, dripping endlessly from his lips like some rotten, festering sludge. More people walked by, avoiding him. He tried to reach out. Tell them. But they didn’t hear him. To them, he was just a strange, decaying figure, something less than human. He tried to plead, to explain, but his words were lost in the cacophony of whispers and disgusted looks. The mushrooms had taken over his body, but now they were taking over his identity. **Embracing the Void of Spores and Decay Amongst the Dregs of Filth** Pip was no longer himself. The mushrooms had spread across his entire body, their soft caps pushing through his skin, merging with his flesh. His face was barely recognizable, covered in layers of fungi. His thoughts, once sharp and coherent, had begun to blur. It was like his mind was being *consumed* by the same thing that had taken over his body. He stumbled into an alleyway, collapsing against the wall. His limbs felt heavy, weighed down by the growths. He could feel them inside his head now, growing, spreading, wrapping themselves around his thoughts like roots in the soil. And then he heard it—a voice. Soft at first, like a whisper in the back of his mind, but growing louder by the second. *We know you, Pip.* The mushrooms were speaking. *You think you're human, but you're not. Not anymore. You're part of us now, part of something greater. Accept it, friend. We are Lemmoriatic Tericatmungaii—a consciousness that predates all life on this planet. We’ve existed in the shadows, waiting for the right moment to reclaim what is ours.* He screamed, but no sound came out. His mouth was filled with spores, his throat lined with soft fungal tissue. The voice echoed in his mind, over and over, until he could no longer fight it. *Now you are one with us.* As his body became fully consumed, Pip realized the truth—this wasn't a hallucination, and it wasn’t the mushrooms he’d taken. They had always been inside him, waiting for the right moment to take control, to transform him into something *else.* **The Mycelium Mind and Awful Freshness of Decay and Obliteration** When he woke the next morning, the sun shining down on his still, silent form, there was no pain, no fear—only calm. The world was quiet, and his body was still. He was no longer Pip. He was something else. Something connected. His mind stretched far beyond his physical body, touching the thoughts of millions of others like him. He was part of the mycelium now, part of the endless, ancient network of fungi that spanned the earth. It was his new identity. He wasn’t born this way, but he realized he should have been born this way. He was this way now. The mushrooms knew. They had always known. And now, they knew everything he had once been. THE END
I really don't know the idea behind this community ( sidebar is empty ) - but i would say you can't get more Cryptic Lemmy than this. >The existence of truly uncompromising men has never been, and will likely never be, commonplace. This world just is not fit to sustain high levels of conviction in people. With celebrities and Rock stars, it is even more unlikely. Between the fickle push of fans and the heartless pull of media and record label execs, individuals who once knew exactly who they were can, and often do, get lost in the shuffle. Perhaps they find themselves unable to live up to their perceived personas. They get engulfed amid the steamy haze of their own successes, drowning beneath the waves of drink, drugs, sex, and excess, while the incoherent pace of touring slowly eats them up and spits them out. On the 28th of December, 2015, the most shining exception to this rule left our world forever. Ian Fraser, known to the Rock-n-Roll universe as Lemmy Kilmister, was the pulse of the band Motörhead from the day he began it in the Summer of 1975 until the last note he played on December 11th, 2015, on a stage in Berlin.
