I’m not very keen on grooming I’ll admit. I reuse outfits to put off doing laundry, so the first things to go in the hamper, sit there for a while. Across reddit, I’ve seen hundreds of pics where mushrooms and mold grow on people’s clothes, this thing had the same ingredients but was no mushroom.
On a Return of the Jedi shirt there were multiple growths. The largest was a thumbs length lump that had the texture and color of old tapioca pudding. It rooted out another inch across the shirt, covering most of Jabba the Hutt’s face. I scrunched the fabric underneath it, and even though its crusted surface looked like it would crumble, it stayed attached and moved with it. I was shocked, but never repulsed, really I just found it absurd. I took a picture and posted it, where people had a more volatile reaction than me. I’m not a plant expert, I had no clue what it was, and nobody else seemed to either. The poindexters came out of the woodworks to share their wisdom, but they were stumped. I didn’t keep it as some solemn duty to science and discovery, I wanted to see how gnarly it would become, I think I achieved both.
I tried to recreate the bottom of the hamper in a place where I could watch it grow. I laid the shirt in a wicker basket and set it over a register in my closet. I misted the shirt and continued to do so every few days. It was working, it grew little by little, as did the smaller ones growing alongside it. After three weeks the tendrils stretched out to Princess Leia, and left only Jabba’s lower half visible. It became more detailed, the crusties were finner and dimpled, and the entire upper layer was darker, like a withered potato.
I only touched it once, I poked the center of it gently and it sunk in. The top layer didn’t burst but it seeped a clear liquid, drops ran across the surface and trickled down to its roots where it mixed with another fluid. It was a foggy yellowish liquid that was oozing from underneath and soaking into the shirt. The growth slowed the week after I poked it; under the impression that I harmed it, I swore not to touch it unless absolutely necessary.
It really picked up the pace when its roots met those of another growth. Although the relationship seemed symbiotic, the smaller growth wasn’t as benefited as the larger one; eventually its progress stagnating completely. The girth widened where the roots met as the main plant spread further out. That width traveled into the roots of the smaller plant and caused a bulge in the center mass. The most sudden change betweening mistings happened when the smaller plant burst with new growth. All the material it accumulated in its center seemed to shoot out the side, leaving it severely deflated.
Eventually all the growths were connected, and behaved the same, they would swell up and the next day I would find a burst of growth. The large mass became the only one left, the others looking like knuckles in the root system. The roots wrapped themselves under the shirt, assumedly wrapping completely around it. It was running out of fabric and I figured I’d have to move it somewhere else, but it adapted by climbing up the basket.
It was to the point where I had to mist it multiple times a day to keep a steady growth rate. I attached a little humidifier on the lid to keep it constantly moist; by doing this I could go back to checking it every other day, and each time I did, it seemed to change drastically. Thicker, and more numerous roots would trace the grooves of the basket, each day the basket appeared an inch shallower. For a while, possibly ever since I poked it, a lump had been forming at its center: if that were the case it almost sounds like a welt or some kind of immune response. The crest of it became thinner, spreading and tearing; flaky like snake shed. The last of the threads snapped and a milky white lump was unveiled. The area around it was off-colored from the rest of the surface, an irritated organic purple. It looked like a pimple, or an infected bruise; it was the first time I had been grossed out by the growth. I wondered if touching it did infect it, if I disturbed vulnerable flesh.
I expected one day I’d take the lid off and find the boil popped, but it never did, in fact it looked to be healing. The swelling went down and the discoloration went away. A dark spot developed at the center of it, phasing in slowly from light gray to black, a dot the size of a pinprick. From there it spread, the empty absolute black covering more of the polished glistening white. Everytime I watered it, I spent a bit of time watching, there was always something different about its design. Given enough time watching it in one sitting the dark spot would shrink. I first took this as a negative reaction to the light, so I quickly put the lid back on and left it be. When I returned the dot was back to its previous size, but again would shrink as I had it uncovered. It was fascinating but explainable, plants react to light, some, like daylily’s, reacting quickly. What I couldn’t explain however, was how the dot followed my movement.
I took off the lid to refill the water tray, leaving it off while I was away. When I walked back into the closet the dot had drifted to the far edge of the white dome, facing the doorway. It had never moved before, only shifted in size, to see it actively look towards the light was a massive development. I quickly dropped to the floor for a closer look, and as I leaned over it, the dot creeped back to the center. I shifted my head to the right, after holding it there for a few minutes, again the dot creeped in my direction. I watched it for nearly an hour, shifting around and letting it follow. Even after all that time I couldn’t place what it was attracted to. When I flashed a light at it and moved from side to side, it would stay facing wherever I was: moving other objects around was the same. When I left or ducted out of view it pointed wherever I was last. It didn’t make sense, but I was left wondering if it was attracted to people, so I took a picture of my Mom and waved it around, nothing.
I was in a tough spot. I felt like it needed to be studied by a professional, a geneticist or something, but both the thought of giving it away or being dissected was tough. I tried to be really cautious about how much stimuli I exposed it to, I could’ve been pulling a pupfish out of its hole everytime I took off the lid. If I had more of them I might’ve been willing to go poking at it, but as far as I knew this was a Lonesome George.
I didn’t tell anyone about it after the initial posts, this was special, and personal. There was something sacred about it, something I would get to experience alone. I documented it plenty, endless pictures and videos, but it was never intended for anyone but me, it was more like a photo album than a report. I’d never been any good at taking
care of things, especially not plants, but this was thriving, and the routine came naturally. There was a synonymous pride I felt for myself, and for it, as it continued to grow.
There came a time when the basket was nearly full. The roots had already poured over the top and began their descent down the sides. As I studied the white orb more I’d come to accept it was an eyeball: while I could find some rational in the growth being natural early on, I was past that. The eye was nearly to the lid, the humidifier showering it directly with mist; I had to change the setup, but wasn’t sure of the best way to do it. I watched videos about transplanting trees that have become rootbound, I had no way of knowing what it would look like under the surface but it being rootbound was my best guess. Very hesitantly I lowered my hands into the basket, keeping it close to the edge. My gloved fingertips pressed at the seam where skin met woven wood: they sunk in a little and the yellowish fluid seeped out. I quickly pulled my hands away, strings of goo trailing behind. As the fluid continued to seep out little bubbles rose to the surface putting out a small squeal. Whatever air pockets were under it, must’ve been filling with the fluid. I worried that I injured it, that it was secreting some kind of sap from its wounds. I put the lid back on and decided I would have to make a new container large enough to house the basket as well.
I bought this large antique trunk, it was pretty worn out so it was very affordable. The inside was lined with this tattered paper with nature designs like vintage wallpaper. The things’ growth had been normal, better than I would’ve expected considering the incident; but it was still secreting the fluid, now leaking out of the grooves in the basket. I set it on newspapers while I searched for the trunk, having to replace them constantly. When I finally had the trunk where I wanted it, I hoisted the basket up by the handles.
It was incredibly heavy, until then I had only lifted it a few inches off the ground to swap out newspapers, doing that did not prepare me for what it would be like to actually pick it up. It had to be twenty pounds, which was too much for the wooden handles to hold. The soaked wood around the fasteners split, I managed to get an arm under the basket before it hit the ground, but the struggle wasn’t over. The fluid that had drenched the bottom of the basket was warm and thick, It seeped through the creases of my bare hand like unstirred honey. I hunched my body over the basket to support it in my lap, but the fluid seemed to only secrete more: it made a slick of my legs and slipped down them. The basket landed at my feet, crumpling until it burst in a geyser of yellow slime; ropes of it shooting across my carpet. Strung out across my feet was the growth: coiled up like a tumbleweed, coated in brine, and staring up at me. Its roots unfurled, wiggling free from its compact quarters: some of them twitched around, flinging and thrashing, others just slothed out as far as they could reach. All the while, that same hissing squeal escaped from somewhere within it, this time louder.
I stood there shocked for a minute, certain I killed it, but I managed to compose myself and started moving it to the new trunk. I didn’t bother putting on gloves, our germs were already intertwined: I scooped my hands under the main cluster and lifted up. It was like a faucet was turned on with the heavy stream of goo that poured out of it; not only did it wrap around my hands, but so did the roots. I didn’t have the support I did with the basket, so my hands sunk deep in between warm and wet tendrils. They coiled around my forearms, clinging to me, as I did to it. There were dozens of roots multiple feet long that I didn’t want to risk stepping on, so I limboed and rested it on my chest as I flung the danglers over my shoulders. The eye was six inches from my face, and as I stared into it, I realized we had never been so close. The horror was that we likely wouldn’t be again, if he even survived the ordeal, I couldn’t see there being an opportunity to hold him again. I don’t think the moment lasted long, trying quickly to get him comfortable, but it felt long.
I strung the long roots across the many dampened fabrics lining the bottom of the trunk; finally easing the rest of him into the center of it. The way he was splayed out in that big trunk made him look so small, just like he did when he was young. The squeal subsided, as did the leaking and limb movement. I couldn’t settle on being relieved or worried, fearing he might be calming down as a symptom of dying. Whatever he might’ve been going through, he at least looked at peace.
I spent many hours over the next days cleaning up the mess. Fighting the goo as it had already soaked into the carpet and crusted over, a putrid smell only worsening as it fermented. I ruined many towels trying to get the stain out of my carpet, each one going into the trunk: I had to give up when I had exhausted nearly all of them. There was no salvaging my outfit either, so it too went in the trunk. It became apparent that more of my clothes were in the trunk than the hamper, and that I had gone a month without doing laundry. My closet was bare, a few shirts hung on the rod, and the shelves holding scattered, balled up pants. It seemed more full than ever with the trunk almost spanning the width of the room. Despite my negligence in washing my clothes, I felt more productive than ever, cleaning was never a priority of mine, but somehow I made it one, and my other responsibilities faded away.
I think I was trying to keep my mind off of him, keeping busy while being near him, just existing in the same space. His growth seemed to halt, appearing withered, his former plump crusty surface, sunken with deeper grooves. His eye movements were slow, sometimes not acknowledging me at all, lost somewhere else. I had to force myself to check on him at times, a guilty feeling, but willing to admit I was scared of what I would find. Change did come eventually. As I walked into the closet to visit, I found lumps across the carpet. I knelt down and saw tiny growths, just like him and his siblings in their infancy. I rushed to the backroom and knocked the hamper over, everything in it had at least one of the tiny starts.
I knelt there on my bathroom floor laying out what had been the last of my clothes, awe strung across my face. There was a comfort I felt looking at all of them, at a time where I was still uncertain what would happen to the original, there was a solis in thinking I would always have a part of him. The only predicament was in deciding what to do with them: risk the consequences of transplanting them, or let them have my clothes. There might’ve been a time where I would gamble with their lives, perhaps it was an easier thought because the stakes were imaginary. They mattered a lot more than I could’ve predicted, and everything else much less. I figured they would matter to him most of all. I draped all the spore-covered clothes across my arms and walked to the closet; hooking the trunk lid with my foot I lifted it open and hovered over the opening.
“You won’t believe what I found.”
It was the first time I talked to him. People say plants like to be sung too, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it; even in complete isolation I felt embarrassed to do it. As I showed off every youngling I felt no shame, the room was aromatic and gentle, something conjured by our shared bliss. The little ones changed everything, it wasn’t a decision as much as it was an instinct, I was fully committed to caring for him and his offspring.
The young grew, with my undivided attention they were growing faster than the original had at their age. He kept growing too; just as he did with the basket, he outgrew the trunk. I pried out the nails and let the sides flatten out as his limbs spilled out like intestines. The fluid sloshed across the closet carpet and far into my bedroom. I stretched his limbs as far as they would go, laying them in the closet shelves, across my bed, and over curtain rods. I had a dozen humidifiers across the apartment by the time I realized it was better to keep the shower running. Occasionally I’d plug the drain and let a thin layer of water accumulate.
Often I would lay on the shower floor for hours, never to clean myself, just letting the water wash over me. It became a habit after finding out it soothed my irritated skin. One day, a sudden flair up covered my arms in red dry skin; it moved in patches to my chest and legs. Just frustrating at first but became debilitating, flakes of dead skin sprinkled off with every movement, and creases became a raw pink. Cleaning of any kind became impossible as the potent chemicals would light my hands ablaze, so I just spent my showers soaking as long as I could. The worst part of being in the bathroom was catching sight of myself in the mirror. Sometimes I wonder if I spent so long lying on the floor because I dreaded seeing myself when I got up. The image disgusted me everytime: my eyes were swollen, crusty at the lids, and purple inflated eyebags. I shattered the mirror and stopped turning the lights on, something I should’ve committed too long before to create a better growing environment, I just had to reach the point where seeing my undressed body in the light was the worst part of the day. My eyes did adapt to the darkness, and while I remained shrouded in shadows the most shameful features still stood out. There was some solace when I noticed my vision worsening; my swelling face gradually grew around them and I often woke with them caked shut with puss. I figured they were infected, as was the rest of me, and soon the bacteria would kill them. It was a reality I became quite accepting of; in part because I wasn’t alone in the experience; he was experiencing the same. His eye remained in the closet, a massive orb along the back wall, and as his far reaching roots swelled around the doorway it was doomed to be shut in.
We have coexisted for years now, thousands of young spawned and all of them attached; our lives intertwined all the while. There isn’t a place he doesn’t reach, and soon that will apply to me. His limbs meet mine now. Where once I held him and feared it would be the last, I know he fears the same, and he is likely right. He will care for me as he did his young, it comes naturally to him. He can fend for himself, and will be able to go on without me, that I am certain of; but I’m not ignorant to his appearance. He will be found someday, I just hope the discoverers find this post first. I’m sending this out as my final Will and Testament, a plea on behalf of my creation, that he may be afforded the same kindness he has shown me. He doesn’t know the cruelties of the world, and I hoped he never would; I don’t have any say over that anymore. All I ask is for the world to not be cruel to him.
Oliver Wright 3/14/26
submitted by /u/Walnut_St
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