I bring grave tidings Ghosts, Ghouls, and Goblins!
Oh you poor, poor fool. You thought you could be the hero, didn’t you? Thought you’d go down in history? Well…
This week’s Writing Group prompt is:
The Monster of Your Stories
RULES AND GUIDELINES BELOW!
Make sure you scroll down and read them if you haven’t! You may not be eligible if you don’t!
Anyone who knows me well will know I adore this prompt. I love monsters, and the different legends and stories about them, and finding new ways to tell those stories. I’m excited to see what you guys come up with!
These words could be said in many different ways, in many different contexts. Or they might not be said at all, rather felt within the story, as the main character meets the monster they’ve heard so much about.
Let’s start there. Perhaps you want to write about the main character hearing about a monster, and going out to fight it. What do they find when they do? Do they find that it is everything they heard? Do they find it is far scarier than the stories? Did they scoff at the stories…only to learn it is everything they said it was? What does that cost them? Or is it the opposite? Did they blindly believe the stories, only to find it isn’t so evil as the stories said? You could easily do something like in How To Train Your Dragon, and have the main character realize that the monster is not everything they’ve been told.
What happens when the monster is human? Are they an innocent, painted in scarlet? The town pariah who really shouldn’t be treated so poorly? Or are they a true horror, worse than any beast in the dark? The “monster” in the form of a man might march towards the main character, full of power and intimidation, grinning as they ask “Am I everything the stories said?”
Of course, the “monster” could be something halfway between human and beast, like a werewolf, vampire, or zombie. Perhaps someone is cursed to be a monster of the stories. How do they cope with knowing they are becoming something out of a fantasy book? Or…what if they choose to be the monster from the stories? Like how, in The Case Study of Vanitas, one of the characters hears all the whispers of a beast, and realizes that there is no monster, but everyone’s hate is creating one. So he decides that he will become the monster from the stories in order to protect the person he loves. What happens when someone wants to be the monster everyone tells stories about? Does this make them a villain, or a sacrificial hero?
Some of my favorite stories, however, are about someone realizing, to their horror, they are the monster from the stories.
One of my favorite lines in all of media has to do with this. In Thor (2011), Loki learns that he is a Frost Giant, and is upset his parents never told him. Earlier in the movie we hear Odin tell a story to him and his brother as children about how terrible the Frost Giants are. During the argument with Odin, Loki tearfully says “because I-I’m the monster parents tell their children about at night?” It’s an incredibly powerful line that makes him very easy to sympathize with. It’s amazing to me that that single line was what might have been what initially made myself and other fans fall in love with him, even though he was meant to be a villain. This idea of a character not just learning they are the monster from the stories, but the stories they were afraid of themselves is an incredibly powerful one worth exploring.
I’ve been rewatching a beloved show of mine, and was reminded of one of my favorite uses of this idea. In the show the characters are looking for a werewolf. Throughout the episode we hear stories of the wolf, and see the massacres it creates. The main character later realizes, at a grave price, that she is the werewolf, and it is a horror for her to learn she is the monster from the stories. I love this idea of a character not knowing what they are, and seeing their reaction when they do.
The “stories” are a very intriguing aspect of this prompt, partially for this reason. Because stories can be told to the monster themselves, before they even know they are a monster. The monster can hear the rumors said about them, and choose to bask in them, or shrink from them, or else feed them. What qualifies as a “story” has near endless possibilities. Stories can be written, or told. And stories can easily skew information. The thing about this prompt is it gives you the opportunity to explore…just how true are the stories in the first place? And if they’re not accurate, what (or who) created the skew?
The song “Requiem” in Dear Evan Hansen comes to mind as another use of this prompt. Connor’s family are all mourning in different ways. Connor didn’t treat his sister Zoe too well, so at the climax of the song she sings: “I will sing no requiem / tonight / ‘Cause when the villains fall, the kingdoms never weep / no one lights a candle to remember / No, no one mourns at all / when they lay them down to sleep / So, don’t tell me that I didn’t have it right / Don’t tell me that it wasn’t black and white / After all you put my through / Don’t say it wasn’t true / That you were not the monster / That I knew” I find this notion to be an interesting use of the prompt, because it’s a “no one mourns the wicked” idea, but the “stories” in this use are the stories she told herself. She believed he was the villain, and at some point stopped seeing the good in her brother, and is now struggling to hear that he was in pain. What happens when the stories come from inside? When we tell ourselves that someone or something is a monster? In some ways, these are the most dangerous stories of all. Sometimes fear makes you start to believe there is a monster, and spin stories for yourself…when there is nothing there.
Even in our normal lives we have stories of monsters. Maybe someone tells the story of a person who hurt them…only for the one listening to the story to realize…they are that monster. Rumors surrounding a high schooler might make them out to be a monster, when they’re just trying their hardest to get by. A news story might speak of a criminal…when in reality they are innocent. In reality, people are layered. Someone who is a monster to you might be a hero to another. Perhaps you could explore this idea—not just how stories can be skewed, but how different stories paint the same person as different things.
My technical challenge for you is to write the story in second person. And/or to write it from the monster’s perspective. The prompt is “The Monster From Your Stories.” My challenge is to make the “you” the reader in some way or another. However, second person is notoriously difficult to write well. It is easy to incur resistance from the audience instead of sympathy. Perhaps you can use this to make your monster extra monstrous? Regardless, don’t underestimate how challenging this might be!
My content challenge for you this week is to write about a monster from stories you yourself have heard. This could be a monster from history—be it a notorious figure, or an urban legend. This could be a fantastical monster like Medusa or Grendel. This could even be your own fears, the stories you’ve told yourself. (Do take care, however, that you don’t break the fanfiction rule!)
Remember, these challenges aren’t mandatory! They are meant to be a fun bonus if you’d like to have a little extra challenge. But, if you don’t want to use them, please don’t feel obligated to!
You’ve heard the stories, haven’t you, little hero? If you have, you know there’s no defeating me. Not today. Not ever.
—Kaylie
—
Remember, this is part of our weekly Writing Group stream! Submit a little piece following the rules and guidelines below, and there’s a chance your entry will be read live on stream! In addition, we’ll discuss it for a minute and give you some feedback.
Tune into the stream this Saturday at 3:00pm CST to see if you made the cut!
The whole purpose of this is to show off the creativity of the community, while also helping each other to become better writers. Lean into that spirit! Get ready not just to share what you’ve got, but to give back to the other writers here as well.
Rules and Guidelines
We read at least five stories during each stream, two of which come from the public post, and three of which come from the much smaller private post. Submissions are randomly selected by a bot, but likes on your post will improve your chances of selection, so be sure to share your submission on social media!
Text and Formatting
- English only.
- Prose only, no poetry or lyrics.
- Use proper spelling, grammar, and syntax.
- Your piece must be between 250-350 words (you can use this website to see your wordcount).
- Use two paragraph breaks between each paragraph so that they have a proper space between them (press “enter” or “return” twice).
- Include a submission title and an author name (doesn’t have to be your real name). Do not include any additional symbols or flourishes in this part of your submission. Format them exactly as you see in this example, or your submission may not be eligible: Example Submission.
- No additional text styling (such as italics or bold text). Do not use asterisks, hyphens, or any other symbol to indicate whether text should be bold, italic, or styled in any other way. CAPS are okay, though.
What to Submit
- Keep submissions “safe-for-work”; be sparing with sexuality, violence, and profanity.
- Try to focus on making your submission a single meaningful moment rather than an entire story.
- Write something brand new; no re-submitting past entries or pieces written for other purposes
- No fan fiction whatsoever. Take inspiration from whatever you’d like, but be transformative and creative with it. By submitting, you also agree that your piece does not infringe on any existing copyrights or trademarks, and you have full license to use it.
- Submissions must be self-contained (everything essential to understanding the piece is contained within the context of the piece itself—no mandatory reading outside the piece required. e.g., if you want to write two different pieces in the same setting or larger narrative, you cannot rely on information from one piece to fill in for the other—they must both give that context independently).
Submission Rules
- One submission per participant.
- Submit your entry in a comment on this post.
- Submissions close at 12:00pm CST each Friday.
- You must like and leave a review on two other submissions to be eligible. Your reviews must be at least 50 words long, and must be left directly on the submission you are reviewing, not on another comment. If you’re submitting to the private post, feel free to leave these reviews on either the private or the public post. The two submissions you like need not be the same as the submissions you review.
- Be constructive and uplifting. These submissions are not for a professional market, and shouldn’t be treated as such. We do this, first and foremost, for the joy of the craft. Help other writers to feel like their work is valuable, and be considerate and gentle with critique when you offer it. Authors who leave particularly abrasive or disheartening remarks on this post will be disqualified from selection for readings.
- Use the same e-mail for your posts, reviews, and likes, or you may be rendered ineligible (you may change your username or author name between posts without problem, however).
- You may submit to either or both the public/private groups if you have access, but if you decide to submit to both, only the private group submission will be eligible.
- Understand that by submitting here, you are giving us permission to read your submission aloud live on stream and upload public, archived recordings of said stream to our social media platforms. You will always be credited, but only by the author name you supply as per these rules. No other links or attributions are guaranteed.
Comments on this post that aren’t submissions will be deleted, except for replies/reviews left on existing submissions.
Shadow
By Cody Phillips
The door to the house erupted as the cloaked figure stepped through. “Tonight you die, then you will be reborn as you should be.” came the raspy voice out of the eternal void that lay in the folds of the cloak.
As Eric arrives at the college, he jumps out of the car and runs to the door hoping he’s not late to his meeting with Mr. Golend’s office.
As I walk into his office Mr. Golend welcomes me, “Ah, Eric, you’re here please, take a seat. Now to address I did like you Eric but then your mark started to show.”
“What are you talking about?! I don’t have a mark anywhere!” Confused Ecric stares at him not realizing what he has in his hand until he’s too close for Eric to run. A long sword like those the Crusaders used in his hand. In one swift motion, he uses the hilt of the sword to knock Eric unconscious.
Eric wakes up masked and strapped up to an old torture styler chair. “Uh, what the heck teach why did you knock me out? I don’t even have a mark!” Suffering from a possible concussion and possibly drugged Eric slumps still groggy.
“Now Eric don’t play dumb you know what we mean. You did have the dream after all didn’t you?” Mr. Golend comments yanking off the mask. “We are the last defenders of this world trying to protect it from your kind. Your kind is demonic, monstrous, evil, we have wiped out many of you but your kind still is a curse to this world.” As the men in robes and armor slowly gather around all with swords at their hips. Then blackness clouds the room from some unknown source the smoke and shadow cover Eric in a dome. “STOP THEM KILL THE BEAST!” Mr. Golend yells as all the men draw their swords
“Take the sword boy” A raspy voice commands as weight pulls at Eric’s hip. Emerging from the dome Eric’s body is changed now covered in scaly armor and a skeletal system.
Spectrophobia
By Koryan
Everyone has irrational fears spiders, dentists, driving, but you, your irrational fear, mirrors, specifically seeing yourself in a mirror in the dark.
How did you get this fear? Was it playing Bloody Mary as a child and being terrified of any horror stories? Or something else, that you couldn’t quite place. Who’s to say how this fear came about?
Oh yeah that’s an irrational fear. Due to this irrational fear, you never kept a mirror in your room.
But nothing could prepare you for what was to come.
You often heard, whispers, “Come in,” and “follow me,” through the night, but played it off as a dream, or your mind playing tricks on you.
One night as you turned the lights off in your bathroom and dared look at the mirror and saw your reflection moved. Your stomach dropped, and body breaking out in a cold sweat. Your reflection didn’t move with you it moved on its own.
You ran out of the bathroom and hid under the covers, it’s just a trick of the light, yeah that’s it, your mind playing silly little tricks, you told yourself over and over until you succumbed to slumber.
A few nights had passed since the incident, you were never one to have nightmares, but here you are delirious from fitful sleep, endless nightmares, and mirrors plaguing your every waking moment and unconscious one. You became so paranoid that you avoid mirrors at all costs.
Until you passed a mirror unconsciously, you felt something grab your wrist pulling you away What once was a single step to the next room over now felt like an endless corridor.
You turned your head as you felt something breathing down your neck, your eyes widen as a dark ashen figure with red eyes and a wicked smile pulled you through the mirror.
“Let’s play a game,” it breathed.
It had switched places, tethering you to the mirror world, and it on the other side. You saw your world fade as your ‘reflection’ walked.
The world around you became an empty void filled with horrified shrieks.
The battle beast
By Reidrev
There were four of them. All armed with swords, all wearing armour, all climbing up the narrow stairs of the tower where the princess was detained before her exile. They bribed the guard to enter, didn’t need to spend a lot, he was on their side and King Morgan would be too, once they were done. He had to be. They were doing the right thing.
All of them knew the stories about this monster of the battlefield. Most of them knew they would die today. But life’s a small price to pay for peace. They tried to be sneaky, they wouldn’t have a chance if they weren’t. When they kicked down the door, however, the Alea Ylsure was ready.
She grabbed the head of their leader, Gwendolyn, and threw her effortlessly against the barred window. Before anyone could react, she rushed and pummeled her face, the sounds of bone cracking were followed, in an instant, by the sound of flesh. Three to go.
Taking Gwendolyn’s sword, the rose pommeled one, the beast welcomed her next opponent. The already shaking Maddie and Sylvain. They weren’t good fighters, Maddie had her skull cracked open by a terrifyingly strong swing of the sword, that broke on impact. Two remaining.
Sylvain managed to swing his sword only for it to be blocked by the remaining handle of Alea’s weapon. That’s when Gustav threw his net, the others laughed at him for bringing it, he didn’t care, Gustav was cool like that, they loved him.
The net ensnared her legs but Sylvain didn’t react. He was too shocked to see his fiancee’s head like that. Tearing the net apart Alea lunged again, she snapped Sylvain’s neck way too easily. One remaining.
Gustav, rage and tears filling his eyes rushed at her. Alea allowed his blade to graze her cheek, she took hold of his wrist. She turned around and swung him. She took his blade, stabbed him with it and then moved to the unconscious leader and, just to be sure, she cut her head off.
Made in His Image
By Vin
The first coherent thought you have upon waking consciousness is that having a body hurts.
There is a bespectacled man standing in front of you, holding a scalpel in grey-gloved hands. “I’ve done it,” the man breathes in awe. “I have done what they said I could never do. You sit upon this table–alive!” His last word rises into a cry of triumph as the scalpel clatters onto the table.
Your limbs scream as you move. You feel hot, bordering on feverish. There is something in your veins, burning and gushing and pulsing, and for a horrible, dizzying instant, you feel as if you are going to pop. As you stagger upright, the man moves away from you and you are suddenly aware of how small he is next to you.
Moving into the light allows the man to see you fully for the first time. His features, which had been proud and sharp, devolved into a puddle of disgust.
“No. No this isn’t right. This is all wrong. What–what are you?” There is grief and something like shame in his eyes as he beholds you. “You were supposed to be a thing of beauty. Not like this.”
You follow his gaze down onto your arms and see yellowed, cracked skin stretched thin as gossamer over blue and black and purple veins that bloom from underneath like a river of bruises. Idly, you trace your fingers over them, following their intricate twists and turns. You don’t understand. They’re beautiful.
A scrape of metal draws your attention back to the man. He’s picked up the scalpel again. His eyes, which had looked upon you with such pride mere moments before have now narrowed into hateful slits. “You’re a monster. You should never have existed. I could never have created such an ugly thing.”
His hands are clenched tight around the scalpel, the veins in his arms jutting from his trembling arm. His blood pulses jaggedly in the same shade of blue, black, and purple veins beneath his skin.
Later, on your hands, his blood is dark cherry red.
What Makes A Monster?
by Lunabear (A Song for: Kit) [CW: Suicidal thoughts, violence, attempted murder]
Kit surveyed the manor’s grounds from her bedroom’s balcony. The marble fountain below burbled without interruption. The few scattered trees waved their branches, almost like a greeting. The full moon dazzled the world with its unfiltered light.
The object of her gaze, however, was the stone surrounding the fountain. How smooth and blemish free it was. She wondered what it would look like with the imprint of her–
Her lids squeezed shut against the thought. She tightened her hands around the metal railing. Traveling down that mental avenue would lead to another spiral.
“But,” Kit mused aloud, “what if I could jump and simply float? Just for a little while?”
Her Maker’s menacing tone caressed her inner ear. “And how long would THAT existence appeal to you before you grew bored of it?”
Her entire body tensed, but she didn’t open her eyes. “I’m not sure, but I think any life away from YOU is one worth living.”
“Really now?” He chuckled. “You wish to be free of me that badly, Nikita? To the point that ending yourself would be preferable?”
Her jaw clenched, the ends of her fangs bending against her bottom teeth. Lifting tear-filled eyes, she wasn’t even surprised to see him floating in the air in front of the balcony. “Yes!” It was a choked whisper. “I’ve done horrible things, hurt people, KIL-KILLED them! Because of you! You made a monster out of me!”
He touched down next to her without a sound. He stroked her hair like a caring parent would. “Oh, no, dear, sweet child. You made a monster of yourself; all I did was guide you.”
She attempted to move out of his grasp, but her head snapped back so hard that she couldn’t scream.
His crimson gaze burned into hers. “But if you wish so much to leave, then by all means.” With inhuman strength, he pried her from the balcony bar and threw her over.
Soundless, she plummeted towards blackness.
Startled awake, she bolted upright in bed. Nightmares were rare. Noticing the sunset, she stifled her cry at the open balcony door.
Muse
By Sniperaxiom
Stories can become mangled and disfigured during their long trip by word of mouth before they are recorded on paper. This is a danger faced by tales even when they are not forced to endure a storyteller’s personal agenda.
My story is one that has been dragged through both intentional and unintentional factual dismemberment. I have become a legend that has been twisted and adapted to suit many messages, times, and cultures.
To really understand who I am, imagine yourself as I am. A being from a society completely built up of creatives. From a world where whimsey and terrible beauty are mundane.
Imagine you find yourself in a world where these things still hold their value, where your works would be met with wonder just as you dreamed.
This world is home to a species that values creativity, rejoicing at their small achievements. Though you might feel almost offended that they fancy themselves creatives with their feeble works, certain individuals, through their endearing earnestness, alleviate your initial wrath and awaken admiration.
Their unrefined potential fascinates you, and you begin to seek out worthy recipients to receive your inspiration.
This was the situation I found myself in. I now admire the humanity in which you belong. Your unrefined potential fascinates me.
In my time working almost completely unseen amongst you, I have passed on through many artists. I found that my services could be- addictive. Though my enlightenment sometimes results in a mental or physical toll on my partner, they seem to be unable to reject me, and so, I do not reject them.
I am fully aware when my partner begins to wither away. I dry to avoid this nastiness but artists tend to be secluded and do not often have family or friends for me to siphon.
I know my partners would agree that bringing beauty into their world is worth the prices that must be paid.
To explore how much more I can create working outside of the shadows, I reveal myself to you, that you may meet the monster behind your stories.
History is Written by the Wealthy (Genre Break Universe)
By MasaCur
“What’s your read on this Dracul fellow, Simon?” Konstantin Garumov asked in Russian. The train was stopped at the Belgrade station, on the way to Transylvania.
Simon Merryweather shook his head. “Dracul is an idiot. I mean, blindingly stupid. No vampire has been this easy to track. The only person more moronic than him is…”
The door opened. Van Helsing and Bram Stoker entered.. “Hello, my friends! Dr. Garumov! Lord Merryweather!” the Dutch occultist announced.
Merryweather indicated Van Helsing, as if to finish his sentence. “Good day, Van Helsing, Stoker. Is there new information?”
“My family has come through!” Van Helsing announced. “They have sent me the family sabre!” He held out the sheathed sword in front of him, and tried to pull it loose.
Merryweather ducked as the sword came free before it could slice into his head. His top hat was not so fortunate.
“You idiot! You could have killed me!” Merryweather cried out. He looked at his mutilated hat. “This cost me ten pounds!
——————–
Dracul lunged toward Konstantin. The burly Russian doctor thrust his sword deftly into the vampire’s mouth, catching him by surprise, and halting his attack.
“Hold on, I’ll remove his head!” Van Helsing swung his sabre toward Dracul’s neck, but hit the blade emerging from the back of Dracul’s head, pulling the sword from Konstantin’s hand.
“Whose side are you on?” Konstantin yelled.
Simon cut down the drapes. “Force him into the light! We can kill him that way!”
——————–
There was a knock at Bram Stoker’s office door.
“Come in!”
Van Helsing entered. “Mr. Stoker, my friend! How is your manuscript selling?”
Stoker shook his head. “It isn’t. Merryweather paid for the commission, but no one at the London Times believes it actually happened. And the writing is too dry to market as fiction. I was thinking of adapting it to the theatre, but currently Henry’s sceptical that an audience would connect with it.”
“You could rewrite it as fiction. Change the character names. Make it so I was the hero?”
“Why would I do that?”
Van Helsing grinned. “I can pay you.”
The Forest For The Trees (Chronicles of The Dragon: Kat)
By Makokam
Kat stumbled and fell against the sharp stones. She failed to completely stifle the cry of pain as they gashed her shoulder open.
Her Mother turned and snatched her up, shushing her as she carried her away. Hurrying through the darkness, lit only by the dim glow of souls, they found a decently sized nook a good distance away from where Kat fell. She rocked the girl slowly and stroked her hair. “Don’t worry. You’ll be fine. It hurts, but it will heal. Sooner or later. We have to be strong Katarin. We need to be to escape this place. To get revenge on the monsters that banished us here. And we will get out. I don’t know how long it will take, but there is a way to open a portal out of here and back to earth. We just have to find it. And then they’ll die. At your hand. And the world will be a better place once we rid them of it.”
* * *
Charles sat stroking his wife’s hair, as she rested her head on his lap. It wasn’t often that she talked about her childhood, but when she would start unprompted, he knew it was best to simply listen and provide what comfort he could. She talked about how happy she was when they escaped, and how excited she’d been to take revenge on the people responsible for her living torment, and how, at the last moment, her “mother” revealed that the “monsters” were her true parents.
“And when she told me to kill her, I…just acted. And then he came in and he caught her as she fell. She said something to him before she died, and then he looked at me, and then at mom, and…I’d never seen anything so fast. Or felt so terrible. He killed her right in front of me. All I could do was run.
“I don’t understand how someone like that could freely walk the earth, when people like me were left to suffer.”
Charles couldn’t help thinking she was focused on the wrong monster.
Seeing Red
By: The Missing Link
I see red, the world a dull throbbing crimson. Rusted rebar juts from what used to be a family house, stained in three shades of red. Where am I? Right… the residential district. Damn my head hurts.
As my thoughts return, unconscious tears clear my vision, and the noise conquers my senses. Through the ringing, a siren sputters out in the distance.
I numbly walk towards it, dragging my legs through rubble towards the top of the hill I had my first date on. Once upon a time, there was one of those slides you burn your legs on in the summer and a swing set that squeaked just too much. All that remains today is a view that brings everything flooding back. My childhood, the draft, the flash, and the giant cloud erupting from where city hall used to be.
I start to let my rifle slip when I hear a cough. I spin to find one of them, crouched over a child.
“Don’t move!” I shout, rifle leveled. I will not let him hurt her. I know the stories. I know what they do to prisoners, to children.
He stiffens. Bloody hands drift slowly to his head. He speaks in his strange tongue, the only familiar word, “Help.”
“No help is coming for you.”
He shakes his head, gesturing.
A trick, surely. The child coughs again, and blood stains her lips. My attention slips from the man to see an improvised bandage blooming red on her chest. I look towards the horizon where the hospital is… was.
Against my better judgement, I sat down. The fatigue hit all at once, and I rummage through my bag with my remaining energy. It’s still there.
The invader stares at me as I inject the girl with the painkiller. He hums softly as the girl drifts off to sleep, passing her last moments without pain.
Neither of us speak. Even if we wanted to, words wouldn’t come. We know what the other is thinking. “This is the monster I was trained to kill.”
By: Hastaw
One day, the grass changed. It became like seaweed, swaying long and thick in the breeze.
One night, a great wave grew. Though, where the source was, no one knew.
It looked beautiful at first, still like a painted picture and graceful in its movements. Fish red and blue were swimming without a care. The only problem for them when they hit air.
The tidal force grew into a frozen tsunami, never once changing its state of matter. A rather dire state.
Once, the rushing water soared over our town; it has drowned all our resources now.
Wet and hungry, the town travels. The wave is ever hungry still.
We stop and try to find an end or beginning to the wave; it never stopped or started.
The wave was hundreds of people tall, and thousands strong. It sluggishly approaches us without a sound.
It moves so slowly you think it never moves at all. We began to think of it like a giant wall. The town stagnated, and that was our downfall. To rest and not be wary, that was our call.
We tried to warn the other towns. They all thought we were crazy. We tried to warn them. We kept trying until there was nowhere else to go. They all sunk. It was quite the show.
We couldn’t be in more of a dire strait than we are now. We were moving slower than tar.
But complacency, was the greatest monster to us by far.
Humpty Dumpty
By Basil Lemme
My friend Humpty sat on my Wall,
My friend Humpty had a great fall,
All the kings horseman and all the kings men,
Couldn’t put our hearts together again.
Dearest Humpty,
I’m sorry. Two words that have held so much weight, that releasing them has proved to be a relief- despite the bricks on my back. I am bricks after all, so my strength is engrained in my lack of veins as my sentience is cemented in my cement. But flowery language can’t salvage what we had. Those long days when the tireless sun would beat ruthlessly down on my skin, searing the red to a ghastly shade of brown- the only thing that got me through it is the thought of our time together. Those summer nights when you would sit atop me after your long days of work for the king. But you are but flesh and blood, I should have known I’d need to be more gentle for you to tolerate my rough exterior. But I was selfish, I couldn’t get over my pride. That day you climbed me I convinced myself it was your misplaced foot and not my chipping bricks that caused that fall- but I’m starting to second guess it. I wish you were here, you didn’t deserve that. I should be the one broken and reassembled, but you are human- and you will never forgive me for what I did. And I will never forgive myself. I’m sorry my imperfections led to your downfall. I wasn’t smooth enough, I wasn’t structured enough, I’m a mess and I need you to fix me. Please Humpty, I’m sorry, I know I am the monster in your story, but I want to be your refuge again. If you’d just let me.
Sincerely,
The Brick Wall
I know you know better
by Reinkarnitor
“It’s over! You can not win! Not against me!” Fiona said with a wide grin, her sharp fangs lighting up in the light of the lanterns.
John stood in front of her and was breathing heavily.
“As if I’d ever give up! I rather die than submit to a monster like you!” he claimed.
Fiona laughed hysterically and then jumped forward, pinning him to the ground. She opened her mouth wide and then with a wild smile brought her fangs down on his neck. John screamed in pain and red liquid dropped on the street.
And then…Fiona stood up and spit it out again.
“Puah! Tomato Joice is really disgusting!” she complained. “We have to find something that tastes at least a bit better.”
John stood up again. “It’s not like you can swallow it anyway” he teased her, which lead to her giving him a gentle punch on the shoulder.
He chuckled and rubbed his arm.
“Not the point. I can still taste it, you know?”
“Yeah I know. Say, was my last scream too much? I tried to put a bit of terror into it…”
“Sounded fine for me…but you know that a normal vampire attack would not lead to a single sound of the victim, right?” she berated him. “We like to…well…be more subtle about it.” Her red eyes lit up as she said that.
“Sure, sure. But the theatre play I agreed to help writing has to have some more…uh…pep…like what humans imagine a vampire being like.”
“Calling me boring now?” she teased him with a sly grin, and he laughed. “Nah, I get it. A monster, huh?”
At that John went silent.
“Fiona…I…I am so sorry.”
“Don’t be. It’s just a play. I know you would never think like that about me.” She stepped forward and gave him a small kiss on the cheek.
“Yeah…” he answered, having calmed down a bit again.
“Although…I have to admit I wanted to bite you for real there” she added with a giggle.
“You…agh…stop teasing me like that!”
She laughed heartfully, as did he.
Bystander. A Story from the Chronicles of the Dragon by Makokam Productions. Written by Alex Nightingale.
Fire and ash was all he could see. Unable to find balance, he crawled on his stomach over the harsh, unforgiving floor; glass dug into his palms, jagged pieces of stone tore his shirt open. Yet he kept crawling.
At least the screaming had stopped. He opened his mouth, tried to scream and received a mouthful of ash. Concrete scraped above him. He was sure he’d soon be crushed; crushed beneath the boot of bad luck and the dragon above.
A beam of light hit his face, slicing through the ash. The fires around him flickered and bent, making room for him. He looked up, blinking in the bright light. A silhouette stood before him, a hand extended.
“Just a few meters,” a female voice called. “You can do it.”
He crawled, hope flooding his heart. He had a way out, he could make it.
It was pure agony, forcing his torn body over the torrent of rubble, before a hand grabbed him and pulled him out. He saw his saviour properly now. She was short, dressed in a black leather jacket and khaki cargo pants. Her hair was short and spiked, giving her a punk aesthetic; light brown, with red accents held within. She held a hand raised, blocks of stone and concrete hovering in the direction of her outstretched palm.
She dropped the hand and the blocks fell with it.
“You’re…”
“Yes. And no, I’m not with the big leagues. You can call me Charlotte. What’s your name?”
“I-I’m Jack.”
“Pleasure to meet you,” she lifted him up by the arm. “Come on, I’ll get you to safety. Away from the dragon.”
The screams were back. Fire burned in the skies and skeletons of skyscrapers clung to life.
“Is it really him?”
“Unfortunately, yes.”
“Why…” Jack coughed.
“Am I not fighting the big bad?” Charlotte finished, bitterness stinging in her voice. “Someone has to help those caught in the crossfire. Come on, I’ve built a safe zone not too far from here.”
Jack let Charlotte haul him away from this warzone, as the dragon above scorched the earth around.
Of Lies and of Plagues
By Strong Berry
Hush now, little one. I have a story for you. The story of our people, of plagues and of lies.
It started many generations ago. Before our clan was nomadic, we lived with the people of the north, the Cevenrees, in tiny wooden villages next to theirs’. As you know, both our peoples worship the same god, but, as you know from your brother and sister, even sibilings fight sometimes. They thought that we should worship God the same way they did, with their scripture and their prayers. We continued to worship our way, which sometimes led to fights, but those weren’t much, and it was better than being in the wild, so we stayed.
One day, a plague broke out there. An invisible deadly poison that drifted through the air from mouth to mouth. Though we got sick and suffered and died just the same as them, soon, our ancestors started to hear a lie. First, whispers, then accusaions, and lastly angry yells. They said that we were the ones who brought this plague, that we were the worshippers of the devil, that we wanted to kill the ‘true’ believes. It’s all lies, of course, but to the sick Ceverenees, it didn’t matter. The words turned to, eventually, burning down our wooden huts, taking all of our valubles, and kicking us out to the harsh wilderness.
Do you think kicking us out eased their suffering? Of course it didn’t. But their words spread out, that our little clan was responsible for, not just plagues, but for all disasters and that we wanted to kill every other people. Now we move from place to place, hoping for each one to be the last stop in this journey. But every time, and every land, as soon as a disaster hits, the lies show their ugly heads, and we either flee ourselves, or are chased out.
From this tale, little one, I want you to learn: A lie is like a plague, so do not tell lies and do not spread them, or else… you might just poison someones’ name.
Pleasant Dreams (Not for Stream)
WriterOfThought
The Moon bore witness to the young dreamer. Her true self lay hidden, even in sleep, and the Moon knew just who to send to provide hope. He, too, had experience in hiding his natural form.
And so, in the void, they stood face-to-face. Her cap and jacket hid just as much truth as his enchanted cloak. But the Moon knew best that honesty is the only policy that darkness allows.
Berri wanted to curl into a ball, letting her hat and jacket hide what she used to pray was never there. The man that stood across from her, though, didn’t move. He watched her try to hide, but there are very few things a con artist like him couldn’t see.
She tried to say something, but the void ate her voice. She nearly began to panic, grabbing her throat, but the man began to speak, his homely voice evoking a sense of trust.
“It’s alright, love,” he said. He had a fatherly air, the kind of father who could ward off nightmares. Berri listened.
“You’re in a dream,” he explained. “Right now, it’s the only way you could ever see me.” Berri looked at him in confusion. Of course this was a dream, but that didn’t make her any more trusting.
He looked at his hands, and a thought struck him.
“Let me show you that you can trust me.” He removed his cloak, and in a matter of seconds, a monster stood before her. Where once stood a lanky redhead now stood what her mind only understood as an ogre. Green skin, under fangs, yellowed eyes, something out of a video game or a movie.
But his voice stayed the same.
“Well, I showed you mine. You can show me yours.”
She thought about it for a moment. True, she was also hiding, but just because they were both hiding didn’t mean she should trust him. It just meant they were honest about lying.
Still, if it was only a dream…
Berri took off the hat and untied the jacket. Her ears and tail nervously peeked their way into the open air.
“It’s like the moments after taking off a mask. You forget you don’t have to play a role.”
Berri stretched, and noticed she heard her own yawn.
“Ah,” the ogre said. “Now your voice is done hiding, too!”
All Berri could do was laugh until the rising sun took her back into reality. At least for a few moments she could be herself.
“Through a Glass, Darkly” (A Shadows of the Stellar Age/Chronicles of the Dragon Crossover)
By: Arith_Winterfell
Berri found herself in the dark, surrounded by the hum of machinery. The lights came on abruptly. She could see the machinery now. It looked advanced. Very advanced. Sleek metal on steel deck plates like something out of a sci-fi movie. And standing next to the light sensor on the other side of the room was a brown bear. As the bear approached Berri realized it looked to be a man with a bear’s head wearing a jumpsuit.
“Eh, what are you doing down here?” the bear asked in a gravelly human voice.
Another therianthrope, Berri thought. The bear-man seemed to gauge her expression, then the figure just put up it’s all too human, if furred, hands.
“I’m not down here looking for a fight,” the bear man said, “you’re not in any danger from me.”
“I’d think kidnapers would be more . . . threatening,” Berri said.
“I didn’t kidnap you. And I’m Terry. Who are you?”
“I’m Berri. So, are you a prisoner of this gang too?”
“Gang? Love, I’m just the custodian here at Dynocorp Labs. I’m sure as hell not gonna standby if Dynocorp is gonna start experimenting on us gene-modded folks. Especially since they don’t pay me much since the Purity Riots last year.”
“Gene-modded? Purity Riots? What are you talking about?”
Terry looked genuinely concerned, “Love, they do something to your head? The Baseliners, un-modded people, rioted last year saying we were taking their jobs. Heh. Not like we are going around with guns demanding their jobs or something. You think they’d remember it’s folk like us who were made that way to colonize Mars all those years ago. Instead, all they can seem to do is curse us as animals nowadays.”
“Mars? Wait, where are we?!”
Terry looked away for a moment, saying, “Dynocorp Labs, Elmyr Space Station. The Corolis Star System. Why?”
But when Terry turned back to look at Berri, she had already vanished.
The Dog Days Are Just Starting (For Makokam’s The Chronicles of the Dragon: Berri)
By i-prefer-the-term-antihero (Kaylie)
The little girl held her parent’s hands, glancing around the coffee shop. Her mother stopped her conversation with her father to mutter, “Oh no.”
The little girl blinked up to see her scrunched face.
“It’s one of THEM,” her mother said under her breath.
The girl followed her mother’s eyes to the woman sitting at the table. Well…not quite a woman. She had ears on the top of her head, spotted, floppy. Like a dog. They reminded her of that border collie she saw at the park the other day.
“One of those animal people,” disdain lined the murmur.
They moved forward in line and the little girl saw that the dog-lady had a tail too. As she worked on her laptop it would wag periodically, then go still. She must feel excited about what she was working on.
“Don’t stare, Honey. It’s rude.” Her father turned her head so she faced forward. “Did you hear about that story in the news recently?” He muttered to her mom.
“I did.” Her mother tutted. “I’m not surprised.” She shook her head. “They’re not right. It’s only so long before they all go feral. They don’t belong in civilized society.”
As they reached the front of the line, the little girl spared a glance; the collie girl’s ears drooped.
She must’ve heard them.
******
The teenage girl fell onto the wet lawn, the rain whispering in hushed tones into her sensitive ears, her t-shirt soaking through, her fur sticking wet to her skin, her tail tucking in close to her.
It smelled like wet cat.
The door shut. The sound was soft, but cut through the rain’s chatter.
Her heart thrashed, and breath shortened. It took her a moment to find her voice at all. When she did, screams sputtered out, “MOM! DAD!” and she half-ran, half-crawled to the door.
She fell into the wood, pressing her hands against it. They turned to fists, slamming painfully against the door. “PLEASE LET ME IN!” She didn’t know how long she spent shouting before the rain mixed with her sobs, “Mom…Dad…Please…It’s still me.”
Oh? You’re Approaching Me? (Corrupted Desire x Chronicles of the Dragon)
By Marx
Normally, I rather enjoy the screams of my victims. But considering my intended target is currently escaping, her fading shrieks are nothing more than a taunt.
The being who stands before me tosses his cigarette to the side as a threatening crimson glow burns in his eyes. I can immediately tell that he didn’t merely save that woman out of the goodness in his heart.
He was hunting.
I personally avoid fighting unless I have to. I prefer battles of wits. It’s much more fun to break down someone’s mind than their body. But as he approaches me, it’s clear that this won’t be a conversation.
Either I fight or I flee.
I’ve heard rumors of this… Jonathan. I have no idea where he came from but he’s made quite the reputation for himself, especially amongst the demons.
He might be useful to me later, but for now he needs to learn his place like any other rabid dog.
I have tortured thousands.
I have killed hundreds of thousands.
After that whole archangel business, even Heaven doesn’t fuck with me.
I am nobody’s prey.
I gather my dark magic into a small but explosive orb of pure energy. It shouldn’t kill him. But it will cripple him.
It will… humble him.
And if it does kill him, he’s useless to me anyway.
He knows what I’m doing and still he approaches. He doesn’t even attempt to defend himself.
Cocky mongrel.
Fine.
Let’s play.
In a blur, I launch my attack and it hits him square in the chest, engulfing him in a storm of magic designed to tear him limb from limb, atom from atom in the most excruciating way imaginable.
I don’t hear screams, so I do it again.
And again.
And again.
After the fifth attack, I realize he probably died after the first and I’m just blowing up a corpse.
Boring…
This is why I don’t fight. It’s always so–
My eyes bulge as he steps from the magical chaos storm unscathed, his eyes glowing brighter now.
A chill goes through me as he grins.
“My turn.”
Monster or Hunter
By Qurtan
Tarien stood in shock and silence as Eron took his sword out of the thing that used to be a woman and wiped the blood off his blade clean. The body still convulsed
.
“W-What did you do?”Tarien quivered. Eron looked at him now with a blank expression on his face but his bright blue eyes revealed the anger under that expression.
“My damned job.” he growled
“But she wasn’t a monster, she was a person who needed help.”
“She killed five people Tar there was no helping her after she changed.”
“They attacked her first and you didn’t have to kill her”
“I wasn’t paid to help her. Now come on, we have a bounty to collect.”
He then began to drag the corpse still by the hair walking it back to town and Tarien slowly followed. He then took note of the corpse’s changes, long claws, row of needle-like teeth and most unsettling of all her purple eyes that still felt like they had life in them, pleading. She was a koal’nae like in the stories but she didn’t lure anybody to kill them and her children were still alive so she wasn’t that far gone wait…
“Her children, what about them, what will they do without a mother.”Tarien pleaded, looking for any sign of sympathy in Eron he was silent then…
“What’s done is done, they are not our problem.” and then he went silent again.
“How can you just do that with no feeling like it was nothing,”Tarien asked.
“It’s not nothing,” he finally said, “it’s the only way I can do what I do, and what I do is what needs to be done.” and with that they remained silent all the way back to the town.
Guard dog
By:Boople
Jack could almost see why they were called werewolves. His friend’s face had been stretched against its will to make room for an unnatural amount of pointed teeth. Their skeleton had exploded in length, with the musculature stretched out desperately clinging on to each tendon. As the morning sun poured its golden light onto the thickly forested scene, Jack saw that no fur had sprouted from his friend’s body, though he could see how people mistook the shreds of skin that remained as such in the dark.
Admittedly he was disappointed.
He wanted a monster, a beast he could order around on a leash to get what he wanted. But now all he had was less money and one less friend. He had more of each in spades but he hated being wasteful.
The pool of blood that had oozed out of the warped and skinless corpse was cold by now, but still held a beautiful shade in the waking sun. Framed by the body once curled up in pain, Jack took the time to use this new mirror to tidy up his hair before going back to the van to get gasoline.
He was excited too, hearing all these fantasies of wolfmen tearing through scared hunters in terrific and bloody fashion. He was even thinking of what color of collar he’d get the thing. But as Jack emptied the tank those fantasies disappeared, Jack had responsibilities after all, people to extort, to kill, to scare. He did love the theatrics that came with his position as “the new boss”.
He struck up a cigar with his boss’s old lighter, wiping away an old red smudge he hadn’t noticed before. He took a drag as he sat on the hood of his car, the low sun now illuminating the leaves of the canopy. As shadows danced through his smoke puff Jack flicked the cigar towards the gas drench body. He drove off with the roar of the fire behind him and the roar of his engine ahead, thinking about what monster he’d try to get next.
Source of the Story
By:Iskritt
A man swung open the tavern doors and immediately felt the tension in the air. The tavern’s patrons were hunched over their tables, murmuring to each other. Normally at this time of night, the taverns were lively with late-night drunks and joyful performances. Right now, however, worry seemed to stifle any such revelry. The man approached the bartender, scanning the room as he did so.
“What’s with the mood in here?” The man asked, leaning forward over the bar.
“What do you mean? With the stories goin’ around I’m jealous of anyone able to keep a smile on their face.”
“What stories?”
“You haven’t heard?” The bartender asked, finally turning his full attention to the man. “Where’ve you been that you haven’t heard?”
The man shrugged. “Enlighten me.”
“Towns all around the kingdom are being destroyed one by one.” The bartender said. “No one knows how. Towns are thriving one day, only to be found in ruin the next.”
“No one knows anything?”
The bartender shook his head. “No witness or evidence is ever left behind to determine anything for certain, but people certainly have their theories. Most of them utter nonsense if you ask me. Magic and monsters are beyond our understanding. People trying to attribute illogical answers to a problem that will undoubtedly have a logical solution.”
“Oh, I think it’s perfectly logical.”
Before the bartender’s eyes, what had once been a man standing before him was now a creature unlike anything he had seen. Its skin was void of color or texture, and its eyes pinpricks of light so bright that he feared the entire tavern would be blinded. The patrons immediately began a mass exodus from the tavern, screaming in fear and alerting the surrounding town.
“I think you would be a fool to not recognize your stories of my work as anything other than evidence of your frailty against the power that stands to ruin you.” The beast roared over the panicking patrons. “Now run and scream all you wish. I have a new story to create.”
In minutes, the town was nothing but ruin.
Reflections
by Shinigamma
Karn wiped the blood off his sword as he descended the stairs. That bank teller’s screams had really given him a headache. Now he’d shut her up, along with the guards, hopefully nothing would disturb him while he raided the vault.
He threw open the vault door and cursed. Inside, there was nothing except a mirror in the centre of the room. Karn looked behind it but found nothing. He raised his fist to smash the damn thing… and paused at what he saw reflected in the glass.
A man of the same height. Where Karn was grizzled, wore a filthy black cloak, and had a mean glare, this man was clean-shaven, wore a trim suit, and had gentle eyes.
The man was Karn.
“What the hell is this?” growled Karn.
“I’m you,” said the reflection, “But from another lifetime.”
“What’re you talking about? You mean if we’d been born some poncy noble?” jeered Karn, spitting on the floor, “Never known a day of hardship, have you?”
“On the contrary,” said the reflection, raising his sleeve, showing the familiar red marks from where the orphanage matron had laid the poker.
Karn grunted. “So, what’s so different about you?”
“I made a different choice.”
“What choice?”
“I spared a life.”
Karn froze.
“When we were part of the Rat’s Teeth. And they brought that little girl to us-”
“No…”
“Said we had to cut her throat-.”
“They’d have killed us if we didn’t!”
“They nearly did,” said the reflection, “I was cut up, and left for dead in a ditch. Only… while they were doing that, the girl escaped.”
Karn dropped to his knees.
“She brought the townspeople to save me. Her parents petitioned to have my sentence commuted. I have a family and live a better life.”
Karn clutched his head.
“I had no choice!” he wailed, “Please, I had no choice.”
“Nobody chooses their circumstances,” said the reflection, turning to go, “But whether we are the heroes or villains of our story… that is a choice.”
“Wait, don’t go!” cried Karn. But the reflection had gone.
Letter To Rome
By Wangles Bojangles
To: The Holy Diocese, Vatican City
From: Father Ramond Pikard
Your holiness, and cardinals of the faith, thank you for your swift response in this urgent matter. I can see why the individual you dispatched is ranked so highly within the order. The boy’s condition is stable, and the spirit has been exorcized. I must, however, make one request. Should this man ever be needed in another situation here in my parish, please inform me so that I may may make arrangements to NOT be present.
His methods, while effective, were like nothing I have ever seen. He offered no suplication to the Lord, burned no incense, wielded no holy alloys or meteorite. He made no prayers, recited no passages or holy invictions to the spirit. He simply spoke to the demon. Directly, as if he were scolding a child. He claimed he knew the beast, claimed he had sensed it as soon as he arrived. Indeed when he arrived, his only preperation was to ask me for some paper, to which I handed him a bank recipt. He proceded to draw a stange glyph upon it with a marker, and it burst into flame the second he held it towards the house.
I do not know exactly what he said to the demon at the end, but the sounds it made before fleeing the boy’s body. Dear lord, I’ve never heard such awful things. I do not believe the technique he used had anything to do with the divine. I have seen the evil ones express fear before, but this was not fear of any angel or servant of God. This demon responded with panic. Absolute, mindless terror. I do not know who, or what that man is. I do not wish to know. I do not wish to learn what kind of being one of the fallen would refer to as “monster”.
Meditations on Monstrosity
by Aracnarquista
I am sorry for interrupting your promenade through words and tales, but bear with me a moment. I’ll let my pen rest for a while and ask you to remember the stories you’ve been told so far. Think on how they made you feel, think on how they functioned.
I ask you to consider who is indeed the monster here.
We share something, you and I, reader and storyteller. We both inhabit the story – at least, for a while. Once I put my pen to the page, I populate a world with characters and ideas; during that moment, I live in that world. More than that, once I tell my story, my voice and signature will live into it. I’m a prisoner of everything I ever wrote, and I can never escape having written those tales.
Your situation is peculiar. While you read my stories, you are summoned to my world. We may be separated through time and space, but the magic of narrative links us – and, more importantly, it binds you to the story, while you experience it. It may be for just a moment, and then you never think about it again…
Or the story may burrow into your heart, and become part of you.
We both can be prisoners of my tales.
Why would a story have a need to keep us shackled? Is it fair for us to be its prisoners?
Consider this: when I write, I instigate conflict. If you read my best stories, you know I make my characters suffer. I distill emotion from their pain and tribulations. Through their experiences, I can reach you. Do you see it? Do you feel it?
I write their pain to hurt you.
There is cruelty in it, sure. But it is not just that. I want to wound you so you can learn from it. I want you to heal. But my tales must hurt you first.
From this perspective, I am certainly a monster. Ink in my hands, guilty as charged.
But what does that make you, dear reader? A victim?
I’m just part of why my characters suffer. You come here to see they suffer. You enjoy these stories. You savor a sadistic pleasure through their pain… and a masochistic delight through your own. I see you suffer as well, and still, you come back for more stories.
Who is really the monster here?
Hey… Can I Borrow This?
By ThatWeirdFish
The bedside table rattled as a huge hand flopped over and crushed the alarm clock. Three out of six eyes cracked open to survey the damage, squinting rebelliously against the morning sunlight.
“Seventeen… I need to buy cheaper ones…” Bobster’s husky voice grumbled. With a groan, he pulled himself out of bed.
“Dayssssshift, again?” His partner whined, curling into the warm space he left behind. “You jusssst got back from the confrenccccccce.”
“No rest for the wicked.” Bobster said, smiling as he patted their pouting cheek. “I promise we’ll get dinner tonight.”
“French?” Their citrus-yellow eyes gleamed.
“Of course. Only the best for my gor-gal.” Bobster winked.
Cackles were shared, and a pillow knocked books off the shelf.
“Go before your punsssss kill me!” His partner laughed, coiling their tail around them.
“Love you, Su.” Bobster said as he pulled on his trousers.
“Love you, Bo.” Surrey coo-ed back, nestling into the warmth he left behind.
Later, at the movie studio, Bobster was taking his lunch break when the realization of what he agreed to hit him. He abandoned his sandwich, and shadow hopped to his friend’s side.
“Don’t scare me like that!” Dave yelped, dropping his pushbroom. He then leaned in and hissed. “Also, dude, I’m at work. Just call me!”
“Sorry, but I need your car tonight and you don’t answer reliably.”
“Of all the… be thankful we’re in the back.” He made a couple of strokes with his broom before cocking an eyebrow over his glasses. “Why?”
“Date night.”
Dave pinched the bridge of his nose. “Bob…”
“I promise there will be no blood stains this time.”
“Bob…” Dave’s voice tensed.
“And it’ll be parked in your driveway by 6 a.m. with a full tank.”
Dave pursed his lips, staring calculatingly into the pair of Bobster’s eyes that were closest to his eye level.
“Ok, but-”
A scream pierced the silence of the stockroom. Bobster fell through his friend’s shadow back to the studio before Dave could blink.
“W-what was that?” Dave’s coworker demanded.
“Nothing, must have been the lights.” Dave smiled through clenched teeth.
Reflection.
D. Wish
There he goes again.
Again and again, the same pale figure that inspects himself once in the morning before venturing off to work, disappearing out the front door to a rustbucket of a car.
Each day I stay behind to view his life. Each day I get to see the patheticness of the daily life of this human, this imperfect creature.
At home he returns, exhausted from another day of work, from a job that he hates and back to a place where he finds disgust.
He enters the tiled room, I watch him. He inspects his teeth, his hands soon falling to the sides of the sink as he grips them tight. I am so close I can SEE the veins in his arms pop, his muscles flexing.
Is he crying? It is amusing how humans are pathetically weak.
But alas, he does not cry. Not this time.
He disrobes. The squeak of a faucet turning as the room fills with steam. But he is silent, the only sound being the padding of feet along the tile before the steady stream of water was interrupted with his body. Does he think this will help him?
A lowly human. A flawed man. A confused male.
And then he is done. His washing is finished before he stands and waits for the water to finish dripping from his ugly form. The room is so humid now, the mirror being occluded, hiding him. But I see him. I see him the moment his hand wipes along the glass. I STARE at him with eyes of sorrow and sadness. To meet his gaze as he looks through me and I at him. I want him to speak. I want him to say the words.
“Stop… please stop.
Say it again. Say it.
“Please. I just want to be normal.”
There is nothing normal about you. You are hideous… you are a monster. I can see his hands grip the sink again, head bowed down before taking a few deep breaths. Again I see his eyes, those blue eyes showing nothing inside besides a broken man and like night after night, a flop to the bed and its lights out.
I will be here again for the next spiral. I am always here. And I live it everyday with him.
A bit of reading
By contract
Oh, how foolish of you…
What is that? You can’t stop reading, can you?
Welcome into my claws! A good trap, isn’t it?
Your species never stops distracting me. You simply never learn…
“That thing is cursed!”
“Destroy it!”
You keep saying the same thing, but in the end all your feeble minds break and fall under my grip.
That’s funny. Always repeating the same mistake, yet thinking you can do better each time. I suppose you don’t share that thought right now…Oh, but I don’t need to suppose I can just see it for myself.
I was right! What a fun game!
Maybe you didn’t know, but what you hold might hold you back…
Oh well, you are living it now, so I will just tell you to be careful you don’t cut yourself, paper can be sharp…
But we are not done yet, we have more to come…Turn the page.
What are you waiting for? Turn the page. It’s useless to resist. I can make the urges that animate you stronger and stronger…Let me corrupt even your dreams, your memories and everything else…
——————————————————————–
See? It wasn’t that hard to succumb. We will do great together.
Oh? What is that?
I feel something wet dripping on me…
How clumsy of you…
You were warned, you can’t deny it!
Now look at this drop of blood expanding on the paper…Look at it engulfing the black ink in dark red…Look at it, look at the letters below, keep looking, never look away.
You will see the truth, what you wanted from the beginning…
You will see I don’t need a rewrite, it’s you who need it…
Let me help…
Yes, And [borrowed Chronicles of the Dragon: Jonathan]
C. M. Weller
“I heard he wiped out an entire city just because someone pissed him off.”
“I heard someone chained him up and threw him in the marinara trench and he just… walked out again.”
“It’s MARIANA trench, dumbass. Not marinara. Marinara is a place where ships go.”
“That’s a marina. Marinara’s the pasta sauce.”
“I saw a jewellery store named Mariana once. Everything there was gaudy as all shit.”
“Forget that. Why is this asshole even a hero? He like nuked a place. He nuked a bunch of places.”
“I heard he got bit by a death rattler, and after four days of excruciating pain? The rattler died.”
The teenagers in the candy aisle at the bodega laughed at the old joke. Recycled a thousand times or more by now with every legendarily tough character.
“Yeah no, but… this guy is in the league of heroes or whatever. It’s bad enough that superheroes wreck the business district every other week, but – this guy? The Dragon? He could crack a shit and our whole city is a glow-in-the-dark crater.”
Jonathan, tired of waiting for them to move along, stalked around the corner he’d been hiding behind. It was too long to wait for a bag of Mintie Chus.
A small pack of sloppy hoodies turned his way. Two out of the pack recognised him and elbowed the others. Some gestures indicated that he was the very monster they’d just been joking about.
“I’m actually on medication so that doesn’t happen again,” he said, deadpan. “Pass a packet of the mint ones, thanks.”
The one who’d told the snake joke hurriedly offered a pile she snatched off the rack with both hands. “Please don’t kill us?”
Jonathan plucked one out of the middle, making the other bags but two spill onto the floor. “Thanks. I really try not to.” As he turned to weave his way to the counter, he added, “You might want to pick those up before you get in trouble.”
The Screaming shadows
By Tamela Redfin
Glenn knew he had to somehow thwart Augen. But how?
He paced the cell, thinking about Nora. How could someone so sweet enter the world in such a vile way? Only one answer: Augen Vene.
“Be careful, you’ll wear out the floor.”
Glenn paused. Oh no, was that Lou? Glenn heard they were the older twin of Augen. And even more cruel.
An androgynous figure entered the outside. “Who are you?” They asked. Yes, it was them.
“The name’s Glenn.” He was ready to fight but noticed Lou flinch.
“Please don’t attack.” They pleaded. “Look, I didn’t know my brother would do this. Oh what did Manny do to you?”
“Manny?” Glenn raised an eyebrow.
“You think he was born with the name Eye Veins? Anyway, we need to get you out of here.”
Glenn removed a picture of Nora from his sleeve. “I want to meet her. Do you know where she is?”
Lou stared at the picture sadly. “That will be a dangerous trip, Glenn. Her mother and father are protective of her. But it would be a better place than here. We should get you out first.”
They reached into their pocket and fished out a single bronze key. They shoved it into the lock, turned it and–
Pop!
Glenn smiled for once in a long time. “Danke, Lou. Now to go find my schmetterling.”
Dephan Ding’s Monster
By Chaz Jazzman
Dephan Ding is a famous horror writer, writing masterpieces that will send chills down his spine. But then he wrote a story about a serial killer, which spiraled out of control. The story was great, the scariest story you could get your hands on.
Everything was great until mutilated bodies started showing up everywhere. They were all killed in the same manner as the victims in Dephan Ding’s books. The first one died from blood loss after his arms and legs were sewn off, and the legs put in the arm spots, and vice versa. The second victim was a female; just like in the books, she was found, eaten alive by rats, from the inside out. The rats were dropped into her stomach, like in the book. It was the internal bleeding that killed her. The third victim was found, hanging upside down from a clothesline with holes in his head to allow all of the blood to drain out to the pavement below.
The police had come to Dephan Ding, knowing all of the events that happened in his book. After a thorough search, they determined him innocent. But everyone knew that there would be a final victim, a final mutilated corpse.
Dephan Ding sat in his room overlooking all of Dangor, Daine, working on his next story. He heard a knock on the door. “Who would be out at this hour in the rain,” Dephan thought to himself out loud. He opened the door to his house, when all of a sudden, a man with a knife jumped at him. The man was wearing exactly what Dephan’s character was wearing at the time of the fourth murder, a bear costume. Dephan knew he was the final victim. “YOU ARE MY MONSTER, YOU CANNOT KILL ME,” Dephan bellowed lunging at the killer with the hardcover of his latest novel. The man in the bear costume was too quick and dodged Dephan, stabbing him in the back with one knife, then grabbing other knives from his costume, he inserted knives all along his spine and left him to die.
Dephan was killed by the monster of his stories.
Atrocious Rumors.
By Galer.
Luka wandered in the forest at night, where the decrepit hut was.
He wanted to check on the rumors of a ghost woman named Laika who ate kids and hexed people that dared to enter her territory.
However, his objective was to investigate whatever was producing the bad luck in this place. Magicians and civilians alike were complaining about the sudden spreading of a curse.
Some people believed that Laika was the cause of it. He had to test those rumors himself.
“So… I am going to guess you are the reason for the bad luck epidemic we have right?” Luka asked. When he said that, a cloud of ectoplasm began to coalesce in from of him. “Oh, Joy.”
What greeted him was a deformed woman’s face letting out a scream of dammed., Lukas’s reaction was just to smile and turn his head into one of a wolf and roar as hard as he could, intimating the ghost when Luka got near her.
“Hey hey hey!” Laika the ghost yelled, turning normal while putting her hand in a surrender gesture. “I did nothing wrong. I didn’t harm anybody… Not too much”
“So is that a confession?” Luka interrogated, his head back to normal. “Because I will ask you to stop that bad luck wave now.”
“…What? Ok, I am strong but not to that degree” Laika said, confused. “Dammit, you save someone from a rich jerk and they create a horrible rumor to damage your reputation.”
“So if you aren’t the reason for this then who is it?”Luka asked.
“…I don’t…Oh shit, some idiot may have touched the cursed stone” Laika complained in, frustration. “My reputation is already bad. I don’t want more people accosting me because of a dumbass.”
“So that meant you knew what is causing all of this?” Luka explained, “Maybe you can help with that It could silence the rumors and deal with the curse.”
Laika smiled and nodded in agreement with Luka.
Luka smirked, it looked like he didn’t need to do this task alone at least.
We Hunt Monsters
(A Tale from Aetherion)
By Berith Quinn
When I was a child, my father always used to warn me about monsters. He always said that they lurked just outside in the woods. Waiting for us to take a step outside, or that if I were naughty, they would come for me when I slept and whisk me away. Like a good little child, I listened and obeyed. Like a good little child, I believed my father.
However, as I grew older, my father’s tales were just that. Tales, nothing more, nothing less. Fanciful stories to keep me afraid, and not question the lessons that I was taught. Even when we ventured further and deeper into the woods for hunting, I never saw one of my father’s monsters. Not one glimpse. Not even a distant call. Nothing.
Despite my father’s warnings, I became more arrogant, because I thought that I knew the truth. That monsters never existed. They were just a lie to coddle a child. Nothing but a lie to confine me. To control me.
Or so I thought.
I will always remember that last hunt with my father. I was too arrogant. Too proud. Too boastful. I made too much noise, and made too much of a mess. A part of me wanted to prove my father was wrong. That there were no monsters. That his stories were nothing more than silly lessons wrapped up in even sillier superstitions.
That’s when they came. Countless beasts surged out from the undergrowth. Like a plague of vermin, they swarmed my father as he told me to run. So run I did. I never looked back, despite my father’s wails, or the senseless chattering of the monsters.
But why am I telling you this, my child? Because the monsters come for us. I can hear them clambering at the entrance of our cave. I hear the squeaking of their armour, and I see their torchlight.
Remember, my child, we are Kernon Sidhe. Our claws rend flesh from bone. Our fangs pierce the toughest hide. Our eyes see in twilight’s gloom. Today, my child, we hunt monsters.
The Siluman
By Xavier Twentyone
Michael’s mother used to tell him great stories regarding the Silumans.
“They are like ghosts, yet have a physical form. They are like humans, yet beyond mortal understanding. They are essentially a race, yet so diverse in their forms. You will forget what I just said, but I promised that I will take you to Mount Jawi to meet one of them.”
Indeed, he truly forgot about anything she said, but they arrived at the foot of Mount Jawi at dawn anyway to fulfill her promise.
“Look my son, the kids that welcome us, some of them are not real kids. You won’t understand what I just said because they can shapeshift.”
Indeed, Michael didn’t understand what she meant because the kids that he saw were quite ordinary and healthy despite living in poor conditions like this village. The village was only the beginning of their journey to the top of the mountain.
After climbing a lot of stairs and going through a lot of places, somehow they arrived at an odd mansion almost at the peak of the mountain.
Michael’s mother knocked at the door and was greeted by a beautiful young lady in a red dress. She smiled at Michael.
*****
I couldn’t remember most of the conversation between them because my head always hurt. This is what I can remember.
“So, how — — he?”
“- years old.”
“Oh how y—-, I love young b—! If you —- — –w, I’II give — —- than – promi—.”
They were silent. After that, my mother started crying softly.
“–, – —- do that.”
“fine, I’ll —- — make him — serv—.”
*****
When you and your mother left the house, she told you another story regarding the Siluman. You didn’t remember the story till now, but you will remember once you enter this mansion again.
“Siluman has many types. There are the beautiful types like angels and goddesses, there are the animal types like Boar, Snake, and Tiger. The one we saw was a Monkey Siluman. You won’t remember what I said because she won’t let you remember.”
what if you’re the monster, you hated so much?
Neutrino
I lived on 44th Avenue, I lived in an old broken apartment. I had no money and I was broke, but I did not do anything and I just survived on what little to no money my mother used to send me.
perhaps the only worthwhile thing or even anything as a matter of fact, that I did was see my drunk neighbor beat up and rape his wife, from my window.
that poor retched asshole used to drink so much he hadn’t a single clue of what he used to do. Every morning he would wake up and kiss his wife and by the end of the night, I used to see him, beat her up, and rape her.
he hadn’t a single clue as to what he was doing but continued doing anyways, she used to scream from pain, she used to beg him for mercy, cry for help but he would just not listen.
I used to see her and her desperate attempts to escape him but that poor soul just could not do it, her thighs were full of scars her beautiful face full of marks. SHE WAS HELPLESS.
I woke up today, I was rather lightheaded for some reason, anyways I went to the window but, to my surprise there were none. I looked frantically at where I was and then I looked in a mirror.
I was petrified by what I saw in it.
I saw the neighbor. I saw his body. I panicked.
I was so scared I threw everything in my room, I cut myself to see if I was even real, and then….. then I saw HER…
she was laying down on the sofa, bleeding.
she woke up and she came crawling to me, she could not say anything as her insides were bleeding but she gave me a kiss, I didn’t know what was happening, I saw myself again in the mirror and there I was, SMILING.
The Dark Room
J. J. Peterson
Sometimes, Anna got so wrapped up in her books she began to think they were real. Late at night in her bed, surrounded in darkness with only the pages of her book lit up, the world seemed alive. The darkness would swirl and the shadows became animated as dragons took to the skies and Dark Lords sent forth their armies. Out of the edge of her vision knights would charge across her room and kings stride past into their halls. In the dark, anything could happen. And so everything did happened.
In the darkness of her room kingdoms rose and fell, lovers found both bliss and death, and traitors collected bounties, hung, and were replaced by others. In the depths of the shadows of her room, Anna saw a glimpse into a reality so foreign, but yet so real, that her own reality, the one we call earth, became skewed in her eyes.
One book, called Murdock’s Monster, in particular, caused some horror. As she read about a monster, who, clothed in darkness, sucked the light from the world and, slipping from shadow to shadow, snuffed out lifes like one snuffs out a candle. While she read the story, the shadows in her room again began to swirl, though this time she saw them begin to close in on her little circle of light. Her circle of reality began to shrink until all that remained was a patch of light, just big enough to light up the page. Tendrils of blackness crept around the edges of the book, locking it in place, and around her, Anna felt the darkness thicken, coalesce. Horrified, she read on, enraptured with this demon of darkness. The story grabbed hold of her by the throat and she could feel Murdock’s Monster suck the life out of her as yet another innocent died at its hand. In her room, the darkness became more vivid, and the light a little less strong. And so, Anna read on.
The Wild Escape
DeathsHead419
Silver moonlight streamed through the boughs over Lovell, shimmering on the chicken blood covering his hands. Six times he had stolen one of his master’s birds and carried it into the woods. Six times had offered them to the wolves at the runestone. Tonight would make seven. Lovell carried the lifeless sacrifice down the forest trail, the cold wind whispering through the needles overhead.
The cold made his back hurt, the fresh lashes which had cut his flesh the night before yet to heal. Memories of being shouted at, of walking on eggshells around the man who had bought him were almost enough to make him run away as he was. Almost. A howl echoed through the night, the sound only eliciting excitement now as he hurried the last few paces into the clearing with the stone.
And there she was, the moonlight making her fur glow bright. Neither human nor wolf, but a creature between, a werewolf from legends. Lovell stood at the edge of the clearing, watching as two full wolves entered behind her, rubbing against her legs as she pet them. Then she lifted a clawed hand and beckoned him.
Trembling, Lovell stepped up and offered her the chicken.
She lifted her hand and pushed it back, opening her mouth and motioning to her lips and biting down. Lovell as he looked down at the raw chicken in his hands. With a final push he lifted it to his lips, opened wide, and bit down.
His whole body shuddered as he ate, feathers, bones, everything. His jaws grew an inch longer, his sense of taste and smell coming alive. Warm fur sprouted from his skin as his nails twisted into claws to better let him devour his first real meal. And then the chicken was gone, Lovell licking the blood from his hands.
The Werewolf, the other werewolf, smiled as she offered her hand. Lovell took one last look back down the trail, then grasped her hand, the two howling together as they fled from the slavery behind and into the freedom of the forest at night.
Another Story From the Bloody Typewriter
by Lee Strangely
He was slipping.
Clickity-clack.
He was running thin.
Clickity-clack.
He needed its help.
Clickity-clack. DING!
Sitting in his chair in the dark, the keys pounded away in the back of his mind. His fingers twitched and jumped with the sound. He grabbed one hand with the other, hoping to stop them. They knew the sound, the one he wanted to forget.
He hadn’t written anything in weeks. Outside, the wind wasn’t howling, it was crying; it shouted at the author to write something, anything. His stagnation, and the incessant sound, agitated him greatly.
He marched his way down the hall and threw open the study door. His silhouette loomed in the opening. At the tip of the author’s shadow, just barely in the light, sat the typewriter with a single letter-key, jittering, itching to go.
As he glared, it slowly began to slam letters into the paper.
“H-E… W-A-S… S-L-I-P-P-I-N-G…”
Though it was away from him for so long, it still had some energy left to make an attempt.
“Don’t,” he growled, stepping forward.
A couple lines down it continued, “H-E, W-A-S, R-U-N-N-I-N-G… T-H-I-N…”
“Stop, right, now.”
It continued to type steadily, even as the author began stomping his way closer.
“STOP!” he shouted, “I… don’t… need… you!”
“H-E, N-E-E-D-E-D, I-T-S… H-E-L-P”
In a blind rage, he slammed his fist into the keyboard, then yelped in pain. He saw his now bloodied hand to find several puncture marks along the side of it. The typewriter’s keys repeatedly jolted, trying to return to normal as the needles within them remained stuck out. The author’s blood pooled in the massive dent left in the machine, trickling along the broken keys and gears.
For a moment, he actually felt somewhat proud…
But only for a moment.
The blood quickly drained away, deeper into its mechanisms. As it did so, every part, piece, and covering began forcibly straightening themselves out, while groaning like an old man.
To his horror it was soon operational again, picking up where it left off and dinging upon finishing its work.
At the bottom it read, “He then submitted.”
The Hunt
By Vex
You have heard about it, the creature that destroys. Everywhere it goes, it would spread fire and death. You know of its strength, how within a blink of an eye, it can kill you. All those around you dare not face it, preferring to huddle in fear, magnifying its persona to heights no being could ever reach. Some claims go so far as to say that they are as large as trees and have strength enough to crush boulders. But you know the truth. You know their conniptions are false, for you have killed them before. These creatures are not strong or tall, they are small and weak. They are careless creatures and you have killed some before, yet no one shows you respect? What do you do then? Do you let their claims of fraudulence go unchallenged? No! You hunt more and bring the spoils home. Some still doubt you, but as you bring more and more home, they begin to believe. They join in your hunts and all uncertainties vanish. There really are pathetic creatures. You hunt and hunt, until you are recognized as the leader. You are confident, so you hunt. This time however, it was different. The creatures were alert. No matter, they are still weak. All you had to do was attack. You crouch under the grass with your pride and inch ever so slowly towards the prey. Then, thunder roared through the cloudless sky, and fire flashed out from your prey. Your comrades collapse all around you, bleeding and twitching. Your shoulder bleeds profusely, and you smell your own blood. Holding still, the creatures approached. They go to each of your comrades and blast fire in their heads. One by one they stop moving, one by one they die. What did you have to prove? Why couldn’t you have let the legends live? By now, one of the monsters arrived in front of you. He points a black stick at you, and in return you lunge. You lunge only to be met, with fire.