prompt_id,prompt,story_id,story_title,story_author,story_url,link,genre,is_sensitive,categories,likes,story_text,posted_date,comments
prompt_0003,Write a story about a monster trying to become more human. Or about a human trying to become more monstrous.,zg3kwr,Vanish,AnneMarie Miles,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/zg3kwr/,/short-story/zg3kwr/,Thriller and Suspense,0,"['Horror', 'Suspense', 'Fiction']",23 likes,"
I tried to be gentle. I tried to come to you slowly, revealing myself in fragments under the growing dimness of dusk. I stepped ever so carefully into the downward cast of the yellow streetlamp’s sepia light, sending forth first a finger, then, a tentative but eager-to-caress hand. I moved so gently, so slowly that I felt the cloak of darkness removed from my face inch by inch, nose first, before there was no more hiding. I did this for you, as not to startle you, didn’t you see?I even smiled, those sparks of kindness you all boast so easily, like the one you’d given me, and yet, you still screamed. Shrieked, even. A shrill shriek of survival, one of horror and fear, as if the very sight of me would be your upending. And how you ran, just took off as if the wind came and swept you away, leaving no blame for yourself.I offered you my most sincere attempt at kindness – an approach akin to that of a person who wishes to greet a cute puppy – and, how was it that you repaid me? Screaming and running away.Could you see how that would have made me angry?Do you understand why I had to do what I’ve done?All I’d ever wanted was to be with you. To be more like you. I just wanted to learn from you. If not for your outburst, things could have been different. I thought maybe you were different. I’d wanted you to be different.I’d hoped that you would be the one to accept me, welcome me, and show me what it was like to be like you, a glowing firefly in the night, leading me out of my solemn and lonely abyss. I thought you would be unlike the others, who’d taken one look at me and condemned me to hell with a snarl, thrusting a spear of fear between us like a barrier. Me. And them. Water. And oil. Two things that could never mix.I’d hoped you’d be different. I hoped it with all the blood pumping in my chest. I thought you would see how much I’d longed for us to mix, and how much I’d dreamt of the opening of your arms, wide, like I’d watched you do to so many others around you. Even that bowling ball of a man I saw you squishing faces with, his arms barely able to stretch around his own belly to wrap around you as you rocked slowly together behind your bedroom window. It was such a wonder to me how he was not greeted as I was, what with the cruel things I’d seen him doing. I’d wondered how the fear would gleam in your eyes once you’d finally learned the truth about the man you let stay in your bed, all those dirty and lustful glances he’d given the children at the park when you were not around. Telling you he had late meetings so he could take the long way and feed his devilish desires, window-shopping the younglings as they played.Yet, you did not look at him as the foul and disgusting monster he was. Instead, it was I with whom you’d shown such disgust and foulness, a violent terror shooting through those eyes at my unveiling this evening.You were certainly not how I’d hoped you would be. You were just like the others, who saw my burned and battered face, the scarred and charred mask of skin I’d been forced to present. I saw the judgment glinting between your lashes, just like the rest of them. Monster, they’d called me, without even giving me a chance. Without even a hello or a flicker of pity – even that I would have understood, maybe even welcomed. Perhaps, that was what I’d been missing: a sympathizing and tender outreach, a compassionate soul there to guide me towards the light. Afterall, darkness was all I had ever known. All I had ever seen, save for the blinding blaze of the flames my mother tossed me into, spouting about how I’d belonged in hell for devouring my twin brother before he’d had a chance.I’d heard people say there is darkness in all of us. Perhaps, I’d consumed all of my brother’s when I took his life for my own. Perhaps, we would have been all right if he’d not vanished before his first breath… Though, perhaps not, what with the mother we had. He’d gotten the better end of the deal, I’d supposed. And what had Mother expected? She, the tree. I, the apple.For years, I tried to be a good person. I tried to be anything but the sum of my scars. Tried to make friends, tried to reach out. But you tell me how much of it one can take before he breaks? One year? Five years? A decade? Try three decades. Thirty. Years. Monster. You hear it enough, you start to believe it.No one gave me a chance. No one gave me the time of day. Just gruesome looks and disdained scowls. No hello nods passing on the streets or returned waves. No pleases and thank yous at the shops, just flashes of fear and short silent submissions, anything to end our interactions quickly.People saw me and saw a monster. So, I’d said, A monster? That’s what you want? That’s what you get. I’d decided I’d become the very thing deserving of those unpleasant greetings. I’d become the thing people always feared to be true, hiding away, seeking comfort in darkness, making nightmares a reality. What freedom, what relief to finally surrender to myself.Mother would have been proud, I’d thought. Though, I never did lift the pillow to find out, as she wiggled and writhed beneath my arms. Just a couple of minutes, Mother. You’ll see your son soon. Even then, I wasn’t convinced I was “monstrous” enough for her. After all, I’d done her a favor. Her death, my first, was much gentler than the ones who’d followed. The kindness I’d shown my mother was perhaps the last bit that existed in my body. Or, so I’d thought.The day that I met you enlivened a remaining ember I hadn’t realized was still burning. There was a weak and muted flicker of something other than darkness that remained somewhere deep inside me. Somewhere you were able to touch. Do you remember? That day at the coffee shop? Your purple polka dot headband, tied primly in a bow. Your hair pulled back into a high bun, with just a few curly strays dancing around the edges of your cheeks. How you’d actually smiled at me before asking for my order. And then how you’d thanked me once I’d paid, wishing me a good day. There was no grimace in your manner, no hesitation at my mutilated face.You were so pretty, so kind. Not like my mother. Not like any of the others. How had I gone so many years without this perfect human?That is the most profound thing about darkness. Even a flash of light is enough to change the entire atmosphere. You were that light. So, there was still goodness in the world. There was still hope for me, past be damned. You showed me that.And, so I’d followed you home that day, and many of the days since then. I watched you. I protected you, like the rarity that you were. I tried to preserve your kindness, study it, waiting in the shadows for our next encounter. And when I’d discovered there was already a man in your life, I’d followed him, too. I had to make sure you were safe, that no one was threatening your goodness. As if your light was already spreading to me, the way fire always does, I cared for you by taking care of him. There was no room for a pedophile in your life. He was a threat to you, a rapid of white waters sure to extinguish you. I couldn’t let that happen.But after he was gone, you disappeared. The next day when I went into the coffee house, hoping to see you, expecting to see you sparkling with relief and joy, for finally you were free! I did that. I’d envisioned it many times… me waltzing into your shop, you ready with open arms to thank me. Me, your savior. You, my savior.But you were not there. Then, or the next day. Or the next. Where were you?I watched outside your house, the lights going on in the morning, then off as the evening turned to night. But you did not leave. You'd disappeared in plain sight, left me alone, locked yourself up in your house as if freedom meant absolutely nothing to you!Had it been one more day out there waiting, I’ll admit, I’m not sure I could have forgiven you for such ingratitude. So, you can imagine my delight when you stepped out for a walk this evening, the horizon still bleeding its last drops into the twilight, like a sign – you, my last dash of hope.Monster, they’d called me. They, but not you.So, why then, did you scream? Why such a vile and repulsive response at the sight of me, as I stepped out into the light to greet you? What had changed between our first meeting?I did not take you for flighty, and yet, you’d made my breath go raspy and harsh in our chase, as if I were a wolf and you, a delectable lamb. I’d only wished to greet you, to reacquaint ourselves after our unbearable separation, to re-fortify the promise of our union.That was the moment I’d realized it, those endless, suffocating seconds: you were just like the others. There was no light in you at all. You saw me as they did.Monster.Imagine the anger. Imagine the betrayal.I’d only ever wanted to be with you, to be more like you. But, oh, how you fooled me.You were much harder to carry to the car than I’d thought you’d be. And you certainly had a strong and fiery fight in you. I suppose, that was the light I thought I’d seen. Because looking at you now as you lay on my table, there is neither life, nor light behind those wide, unblinking eyes. 
","September 14, 2023 04:03","[[{'Rebecca Miles': 'Hello Sister Scribbler! Well this has more than a hint of Frankenstein\'s monster in it, raising the same powerful questions which were so important then and still can worry us today: are we born pure, or are we fallen from the start and actually, as we see in that book, are we the victims of how we are treated by those around us? I think it is one of the most haunting and devestating moments in any book when Victor finally succeeds in bringing his creation to life and then flees from it and the poor ""monster"" is left to cope with life where ...', 'time': '20:46 Sep 14, 2023', 'points': '3'}, [{'AnneMarie Miles': ""I'm actually so happy to hear you enjoyed it as I know you were rooting for a monster comedy from me! I tried to muster one up but this character just kept nagging at me!! And I honestly wasn't sure if he was going to be human or not, and his story felt very close to Frankenstein, especially since I just read Shelley this past summer. \nThis was definitely an experimental piece, much different than I am used to writing so I felt a little out of water, but so far am pleased with the bones of it, though I'll probably be tweaking it endlessly un..."", 'time': '03:10 Sep 15, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'AnneMarie Miles': ""I'm actually so happy to hear you enjoyed it as I know you were rooting for a monster comedy from me! I tried to muster one up but this character just kept nagging at me!! And I honestly wasn't sure if he was going to be human or not, and his story felt very close to Frankenstein, especially since I just read Shelley this past summer. \nThis was definitely an experimental piece, much different than I am used to writing so I felt a little out of water, but so far am pleased with the bones of it, though I'll probably be tweaking it endlessly un..."", 'time': '03:10 Sep 15, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Nina Herbst': 'So who is the monster: the MC or the people who drive him to snap, and to give up and become what they saw? \nGreat story, so very well written and engaging!', 'time': '21:45 Sep 16, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'AnneMarie Miles': 'Something to think about huh? Perhaps I should have put this under Speculative.. \nThanks for taking the time to read and comment, Nina!', 'time': '22:01 Sep 16, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'AnneMarie Miles': 'Something to think about huh? Perhaps I should have put this under Speculative.. \nThanks for taking the time to read and comment, Nina!', 'time': '22:01 Sep 16, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Kevin Logue': 'Oh my! This was spectacular, honestly, the story is creepy and engaging, the protagonist is even likable in a sad way when you discover why he is scarred, but the prose. Chefs kisses. So good.\n\nI felt like this was horror version of Phantom of the Opera crossed with Lovecrafts, The Outsider, with a added dash of stalkerness.\n\nThere is so many great lines but this one really spoke out to me >> I tried to be anything but the sum of my scars.\n\nAnd the way you use punctuation to add rhythm I can learn a lot from >>> One year? Five years? A decad...', 'time': '12:22 Sep 16, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'AnneMarie Miles': ""Hey Kevin, you've made my morning with this comment! Thanks for taking the time to invest some time into my story. This was such an experimental piece for me, so it makes me smile to know it was enjoyable for you. \n\nI did intentionally put a little backstory in there to hopefully elicit a small amount of sympathy for the MC. I mean, you tell me how many angels are going to come from a mother who's willing to throw their child into a fire? That's gotta mess someone up.. I've always been interested in abnormal psychology and personality disord..."", 'time': '13:38 Sep 16, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'AnneMarie Miles': ""Hey Kevin, you've made my morning with this comment! Thanks for taking the time to invest some time into my story. This was such an experimental piece for me, so it makes me smile to know it was enjoyable for you. \n\nI did intentionally put a little backstory in there to hopefully elicit a small amount of sympathy for the MC. I mean, you tell me how many angels are going to come from a mother who's willing to throw their child into a fire? That's gotta mess someone up.. I've always been interested in abnormal psychology and personality disord..."", 'time': '13:38 Sep 16, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Marty B': ""A great dark story about a MC who just wants to have a human connection, but for some reason impossible.\n The story gives does not pick a side between nature (She, the tree. I, the apple.) or nuture (No one gave me the time of day. Just gruesome looks and disdained scowls.) but either way the MC is pure selfish evil.\n\nIt's probably me as a bad reader- but I feel this sentence, a key connection in the story- would be more impactful broken into two. -\n'The day that I met you enlivened a remaining ember I hadn’t realized was still burning, a we..."", 'time': '02:08 Sep 16, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'AnneMarie Miles': ""Hey Marty! Thanks for reading. I believe most psychological disorders are rooted in a lack of human connection. I'm certain that would mess anyone up. \n\nThanks for the suggestion. This was a new voice for me so it's good to have some feedback on how it's reading. I'll consider tweaking it."", 'time': '02:12 Sep 16, 2023', 'points': '2'}]], [{'AnneMarie Miles': ""Hey Marty! Thanks for reading. I believe most psychological disorders are rooted in a lack of human connection. I'm certain that would mess anyone up. \n\nThanks for the suggestion. This was a new voice for me so it's good to have some feedback on how it's reading. I'll consider tweaking it."", 'time': '02:12 Sep 16, 2023', 'points': '2'}, []], [{'Belladona Vulpa': 'Engaging, and fast paced. \nI felt for the coffee girl, just because she did that job she was unlucky enough to meet him.\nUnreliable narrator that fits the stalker profile, he sounds just like an abuser from the start blaming his actions on his victims, and he has quite a big ego.\nI like all the complexity you added to the he characters and backstory. \nThe story brought to mind a Criminology lecture from a really long time ago, about how labels affect people. Predictable (based on the character you fleshed out) but also quite fitting resoluti...', 'time': '15:56 Sep 15, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'AnneMarie Miles': ""Thank you for taking the time to read and comment, Belladona! Yes, that poor coffee girl. I think about how stalkers/psychopaths can fixate on strangers and how unlucky those random individuals are. Very creepy. I'm glad the backstories worked. This is quite different than what I usually write so it was a bit of a challenge, but a fun one! Thanks again!"", 'time': '00:51 Sep 16, 2023', 'points': '2'}]], [{'AnneMarie Miles': ""Thank you for taking the time to read and comment, Belladona! Yes, that poor coffee girl. I think about how stalkers/psychopaths can fixate on strangers and how unlucky those random individuals are. Very creepy. I'm glad the backstories worked. This is quite different than what I usually write so it was a bit of a challenge, but a fun one! Thanks again!"", 'time': '00:51 Sep 16, 2023', 'points': '2'}, []], [{'Lei King': 'I must express my admiration for this story. It was a truly eerie tale, and the conclusion was a fitting resolution. Although the protagonist did not aspire to become a monster, he was ostracized by society and viewed as repugnant. Consequently, his behavior became increasingly monstrous, culminating in his heinous actions with his mother and the cleverly alluded-to gruesome end with his beloved betrayer. This story is a masterpiece of the highest order.\nYour friend, Lei.', 'time': '10:02 Sep 15, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'AnneMarie Miles': ""Thank you, Lei!! It was so different than what I usually write I wasn't even sure what to make of it, or how to value it. I'm glad it worked out!"", 'time': '00:53 Sep 16, 2023', 'points': '2'}]], [{'AnneMarie Miles': ""Thank you, Lei!! It was so different than what I usually write I wasn't even sure what to make of it, or how to value it. I'm glad it worked out!"", 'time': '00:53 Sep 16, 2023', 'points': '2'}, []], [{'Delbert Griffith': 'Creepy! Damn, this was a tale Poe would have been proud to pen. The first-person POV/inner dialogue added to the darkness because the reader could see just how bleak and desperate the MC\'s thoughts had become over the years. \n\nA couple of things:\n""I offered you my most feeble attempt at kindness – "" I don\'t know if ""feeble"" is the right word here. Maybe ""genuine"" or ""sincere."" \n\nAlthough I loved the POV and the inner dialogue, I felt like you had too many questions in the dialogue, and that you had ""I"" a little too much. Perhaps this is just...', 'time': '12:40 Sep 14, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'AnneMarie Miles': 'Delbert, good morning! Thanks for being the first one to examine this. It was certainly an experimental piece, so there was bound to be a few hiccups here. I love dark, but this voice was definitely very different for me. Though this was the first time I really felt this character approach me and ask to tell his story.. so that was quite neat. \n\nThank you for these points of critique.   These specific suggestions are invaluably helpful. I think my intentions with the use of questioning and ""I"" were to portray the narcissism of this character...', 'time': '13:10 Sep 14, 2023', 'points': '2'}]], [{'AnneMarie Miles': 'Delbert, good morning! Thanks for being the first one to examine this. It was certainly an experimental piece, so there was bound to be a few hiccups here. I love dark, but this voice was definitely very different for me. Though this was the first time I really felt this character approach me and ask to tell his story.. so that was quite neat. \n\nThank you for these points of critique.   These specific suggestions are invaluably helpful. I think my intentions with the use of questioning and ""I"" were to portray the narcissism of this character...', 'time': '13:10 Sep 14, 2023', 'points': '2'}, []], [{'Natalia Paredes': 'Jesus this was gripping to read! I really liked imagining how the ""monster"" looked like, and slowly getting bits and pieces of the full story like picking up clues on a trail. Great solution to avoid exposition dumps, which I think I can use from now on in my own writing.\nPretty solid prose too. The colors and visuals work together very well, especially at the end when the woman goes out to walk in the afternoon. The orangy colors not only feel hot and passionate (like the emotions of the MC), but they also remind me of Halloween haha. And o...', 'time': '22:56 Sep 18, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Michał Przywara': 'Great story, and it raises lots of questions, as others have said. Right from the start is the most interesting question of all: who\'s speaking, and what have they done? ""I tried to be gentle."" is a delightfully ominous opener. \n\nMuch can be said about where evil comes from - are you born with it, or does life guide you towards it. Nature or nurture, etc. Clearly a theme that\'s plagued the MC his entire life. But, there\'s another interesting thing that happens here, to do with judgment.\n\nThe MC has been judged a monster all of his life. Pre-...', 'time': '21:05 Sep 18, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Scott Christenson': 'Great writing and an interesting take on the monster theme. Bringing us very close to the mind of the monster, he seems like a violent stalker who justifies his evil actions. All really good villians in fiction have some sort of internal logic they are operating by, so we can have a slight 10% understanding or even empathy of where we are coming from.\nJust for feedback, I think you could possibly cut a few \'you\' later on once you set the scene that the narrator is speaking to the reader. \n""Imagine the anger, can you? Imagine the betrayal.""  ...', 'time': '05:13 Sep 18, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Aeris Walker': 'Fantastic job with this one! You made us feel pity and sympathy for the narrator and then steadily turned the tables until we too, became disgusted with and disturbed by him. And what I love about this is that his behavior makes sense: this character has endured serious trauma his entire life. He doesn\'t even know what a normal family/relationship looks like, so we can understand why he becomes obsessed over the first person to show him kindness.  \nThis line was concisely and powerfully worded: ""window-shopping the younglings as they played....', 'time': '20:48 Sep 17, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0003,Write a story about a monster trying to become more human. Or about a human trying to become more monstrous.,2dm0dj,Doctor D. and Mr. Hyde,Mike Panasitti,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/2dm0dj/,/short-story/2dm0dj/,Thriller and Suspense,0,"['Coming of Age', 'Contemporary', 'Creative Nonfiction']",21 likes,"
You stood me up. Or at least Freud would’ve said you stood me up. Me, a former client forking over a check in the high triple digits every week hoping that I’d hear a different existential interpretation than my own, expecting that somehow your take on things would open my eyes to something new, like some kind of salubrious psilocybin trip. I decided to terminate therapy because you disclosed something you perhaps shouldn’t have. “I took ayahuasca in the Peruvian jungle, four years ago,” you confessed. “When I was under the mind-expanding influence of that shamanic substance, I had a vision.” You slightly shifted the cross-legged position you were sitting in and ran a hand through your immaculately coiffed hair. “First, money rules everything. In the absence of monetary transactions, anarchy reigns. Second, humanity has become a cancer on the Earth, and, lastly, teenagers are committing suicide at unprecedented rates because of global warming.” I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. There might have been elements of truth to what you were saying. But that truth was only partial at best. How was this any different from my own fixation on black/white race relations and my monomaniacal belief that phallic obsession is the root of all evil? However, I wasn’t about to argue with you. The vision you had was about as valid and equally crazy as my own. When I got home, I texted I no longer felt the need to be seen by you and recommended you never reveal what you told me about your ayahuasca trip to other clients. Although I knew I would miss the friendship I felt toward you, there was no way I was going to allow my parents to keep paying more than I could make in a year working at World Market to someone who’s take on life was as delusional as mine.  I felt we were more like peers than we were therapist and client. And a peer doesn’t pay another peer for chit-chat and advice. After I stopped being a client, I hoped you'd be able to keep making the payments on the new car you had bought with your ill-gotten gains but you probably had to take it back to the dealer to work out the terms of a shameful return.Early this summer, I thought of texting you a message about an art show where I was going to exhibit a painting. Although you claimed I was stuck in a starving artist narrative that would hamper my ability to earn a living from my creative efforts, you also repeatedly requested that I give you one of my paintings. Free of cost. In appreciation of your invaluable wounded healer’s wisdom. I still haven’t sold a work, but I also don’t regret not having gifted you one.Despite all the evidence stacked against the advantages of continuing to have any sort of dealings with you, I was pleasantly surprised when I received a text from you about a year after we had last seen each other. In the text, you invited me to celebrate my fifty-fourth rotation around the sun with a breakfast or a lunch. I suggested going Dutch, but you insisted on paying for a meal at the restaurant of my choice. I opted for a morning meal at an upscale café not a block from the location where I was arrested for breaking and entering and assault on a peace officer. Although it wasn’t considered for purposes of my release, you gave a convincing testimony on my behalf in court. I ended up getting a mental health diversion after waiting two years in the county jail where you came to see me twice, charging my parents seven-hundred dollars above the hundred and fifty the county paid you on each occasion. You told my mother that if for whatever reason I wasn’t able to see you during these visits, you would charge her the full amount anyway. The world is ruled by money indeed. Or is it more like your world is, Mr. Ayahuasca? But it seemed that you were willing to atone for your shortcomings by taking me out for my birthday. Perhaps we could put the past behind us. On the agreed upon day, I waited at the restaurant, and when you hadn’t arrived at ten past nine, I asked to be seated. At twenty past nine I texted I’d be ordering without you. When I moved from table to bar counter, I noticed a pretty blonde, blue-eyed woman who also seemed to be waiting for someone. She sat four stools down from me and I contemplated planting myself next to her and starting some conversation. Who knows? Maybe, just maybe, we’d hit it off and she’d be the one to bring an end to my many little miseries. Maybe she’d be the one to satisfy my need for a woman who is an embodiment of both Mother Mary and Mary Magdalen, a woman who could devote herself to me like I did to her, and fuck me similarly. Clearly, you would’ve called me out on the savior complex this desire of mine makes manifest.I wanted to take the chance with this woman and see where fate would take me, but fucked me didn’t make the Mojo move. As my mind aborted this course of action, my phone rang. It was you on caller ID. I surmised you were calling to apologize, and that was exactly the case.  Your excuse was you had been suffering from insomnia and had slept through your alarm. But what would a cynical psychoanalyst say? Whatever they would’ve said is what my mind told me. I could hear Sigi’s Austrian- accented English echo in my mind's ear, “Your former doctor’s carelessness is an expression of sublimated hostility or passive aggression, at the very least.” The person I assumed was the date the woman at the counter had been expecting arrived and I was tempted to tell him, “Never keep a lady waiting.” But I didn’t want to be a schmuck to a schmuck, so I’ll be one to you, oh, wounded healer who is also an oblivious fool. Unless you do some soul-searching, I’m through with you for a second time and for good. Although you texted me additional “sincere apologies,” you had ruined my day. All I did was reply with another text calling you “a wreck.” I also wished that you take care and farewell. In my book, love is the heavy antidote to madness and to receive it you’ve got to be worth its weight. You are light as a feather and warped like a board. Goodbye and good riddance, indeed, Doctor D.
","September 09, 2023 19:46","[[{'Mary Bendickson': 'Ouch and good riddance indeed.', 'time': '00:07 Sep 10, 2023', 'points': '4'}, []], [{'Graham Kinross': '""peace officer,"" is this a typo?\n\nA lot of people get into psychiatry and therapy hoping to work out their own problems, including someone I knew. I\'m not sure it works for them but hopefully they are at least self aware enough not to put their problems on other people. Breaking professional practice to tell you they took drugs is a bad sign though. Then again, everyone\'s human.', 'time': '09:29 Sep 11, 2023', 'points': '3'}, []], [{'Kevin Logue': 'Damn Mike you put a lot of soul on the page there, such a unique yet darkly wholesome voice you have. I have always held a disdain for the world of therapy and this tale only heightens that. Hope life is better now.\n\nThanks for sharing.', 'time': '11:56 Sep 18, 2023', 'points': '2'}, []], [{'E. B. Bullet': ""Ah shit, I typed out a whole comment and then the page froze ..\n\nTLDR, I love your characterization! I feel like you built such a story solely from one character's perception of another, which is fascinating. I loved the flow! Great job ~"", 'time': '13:38 Sep 17, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Mike Panasitti': ""Thanks for reading, E.B.  I've lost comments here as well, so I feel for you.  Thanks for typing out a second one."", 'time': '15:46 Sep 17, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Mike Panasitti': ""Thanks for reading, E.B.  I've lost comments here as well, so I feel for you.  Thanks for typing out a second one."", 'time': '15:46 Sep 17, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Helen A Smith': 'Good to see you back Mike. Your absence was noticed as I gain from reading your stories. \nI got bugged reading your account of Mr Ayahuasca. Clearly a messed up person who prioritises money over everything. There was a glimpse of an interesting backstory as to how and why Mr Ayahuasca was drawn to the role of therapist. \nSomehow a bit heartbreaking that he didn’t turn up to the restaurant. It was the least he could do under the circumstances. \nIncredible that he wanted to be given a painting for free, but then many don’t appreciate the time ...', 'time': '07:26 Sep 17, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Mike Panasitti': ""Thanks for reading and the kind words, Helen.  I've missed interacting with my Reedsy cohort!"", 'time': '15:33 Sep 17, 2023', 'points': '2'}, {'Helen A Smith': '✍️', 'time': '15:59 Sep 17, 2023', 'points': '2'}]], [{'Mike Panasitti': ""Thanks for reading and the kind words, Helen.  I've missed interacting with my Reedsy cohort!"", 'time': '15:33 Sep 17, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Helen A Smith': '✍️', 'time': '15:59 Sep 17, 2023', 'points': '2'}]], [{'Helen A Smith': '✍️', 'time': '15:59 Sep 17, 2023', 'points': '2'}, []], [{'Joe Malgeri': ""Glad you returned, Mike. I read this with a knot in my stomach, once again wanting to beat the shit out of the greedy, businessman, bullshitting shrink who needs his own shrink. He pretends he's your buddy, with one arm around you with his other hand in your pocket. And as you already know, trusting our gut feelings works best. But, with most of us our mind often steps in and decides to give others the benefit of the doubt, wondering if our feelings are paranoid, although generally they're not. 'Tis our culture altering our human nature. Any..."", 'time': '15:14 Sep 15, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Mike Panasitti': ""I could've been more forgiving toward Dr. D., but, for me, indignation is more literary than cheerfulness.  Maybe I need an attitude change.  Thanks for reading, Joe."", 'time': '19:53 Sep 16, 2023', 'points': '1'}, {'Joe Malgeri': ""In my opinion your attitude is just fine, Mike. I don't see it as an attitude, I see it as you having integrity and intelligence, and the shrink as having the attitude. You're much more forgiving of such a monster than I would be. You're a decent guy, more than he deserves in my eyes, although I never met him, so I can't say for sure, and what do I know? - Not enough. Interesting and well written story either way."", 'time': '22:03 Sep 16, 2023', 'points': '2'}]], [{'Mike Panasitti': ""I could've been more forgiving toward Dr. D., but, for me, indignation is more literary than cheerfulness.  Maybe I need an attitude change.  Thanks for reading, Joe."", 'time': '19:53 Sep 16, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Joe Malgeri': ""In my opinion your attitude is just fine, Mike. I don't see it as an attitude, I see it as you having integrity and intelligence, and the shrink as having the attitude. You're much more forgiving of such a monster than I would be. You're a decent guy, more than he deserves in my eyes, although I never met him, so I can't say for sure, and what do I know? - Not enough. Interesting and well written story either way."", 'time': '22:03 Sep 16, 2023', 'points': '2'}]], [{'Joe Malgeri': ""In my opinion your attitude is just fine, Mike. I don't see it as an attitude, I see it as you having integrity and intelligence, and the shrink as having the attitude. You're much more forgiving of such a monster than I would be. You're a decent guy, more than he deserves in my eyes, although I never met him, so I can't say for sure, and what do I know? - Not enough. Interesting and well written story either way."", 'time': '22:03 Sep 16, 2023', 'points': '2'}, []], [{'Delbert Griffith': ""First - great to see you back, my friend. I have truly missed your tales and your insights, Mike. Yours is the rare mind that sees way more than most, and can also write about it with verve and clarity.\n\nSince this is creative nonfiction, I'm assuming this happened to you. Fuck! The man is a leech, and leeches should be dealt with appropriately. That's all I'm saying about the matter.\n\nI think money (the love of it, anyway) is the root of all evil. Put another way, the lust for power is the root of all evil. Everything boils down to control...."", 'time': '10:46 Sep 15, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Mike Panasitti': ""Yes, healing leaves scars, Del.  Fortunately, I can say none of this was traumatic.  Memorable, yes, but nothing that left an open wound.  I also could've been more forgiving toward Dr. D., but the indignation made for a better story.  It's a pleasure to connect with you here on Reedsy again, and thanks for reading."", 'time': '19:38 Sep 16, 2023', 'points': '2'}]], [{'Mike Panasitti': ""Yes, healing leaves scars, Del.  Fortunately, I can say none of this was traumatic.  Memorable, yes, but nothing that left an open wound.  I also could've been more forgiving toward Dr. D., but the indignation made for a better story.  It's a pleasure to connect with you here on Reedsy again, and thanks for reading."", 'time': '19:38 Sep 16, 2023', 'points': '2'}, []], [{'Aoi Yamato': 'Always good.', 'time': '02:07 Sep 13, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Mike Panasitti': 'Thank you, Aoi.  I hope you have been well.', 'time': '07:48 Sep 13, 2023', 'points': '2'}, {'Aoi Yamato': 'bored but well. stories help.', 'time': '00:57 Sep 14, 2023', 'points': '2'}, {'Mike Panasitti': 'Bored usually means staying out of trouble, and that is good.  Boredom is a symptom of being good, a condition that more people should catch.', 'time': '17:37 Sep 14, 2023', 'points': '2'}, {'Aoi Yamato': 'boredom is trouble.', 'time': '00:56 Sep 15, 2023', 'points': '2'}, {'Mike Panasitti': 'So is fun, sometimes.  Stay out of trouble, Aoi!', 'time': '16:02 Sep 15, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Mike Panasitti': 'Thank you, Aoi.  I hope you have been well.', 'time': '07:48 Sep 13, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Aoi Yamato': 'bored but well. stories help.', 'time': '00:57 Sep 14, 2023', 'points': '2'}, {'Mike Panasitti': 'Bored usually means staying out of trouble, and that is good.  Boredom is a symptom of being good, a condition that more people should catch.', 'time': '17:37 Sep 14, 2023', 'points': '2'}, {'Aoi Yamato': 'boredom is trouble.', 'time': '00:56 Sep 15, 2023', 'points': '2'}, {'Mike Panasitti': 'So is fun, sometimes.  Stay out of trouble, Aoi!', 'time': '16:02 Sep 15, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Aoi Yamato': 'bored but well. stories help.', 'time': '00:57 Sep 14, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Mike Panasitti': 'Bored usually means staying out of trouble, and that is good.  Boredom is a symptom of being good, a condition that more people should catch.', 'time': '17:37 Sep 14, 2023', 'points': '2'}, {'Aoi Yamato': 'boredom is trouble.', 'time': '00:56 Sep 15, 2023', 'points': '2'}, {'Mike Panasitti': 'So is fun, sometimes.  Stay out of trouble, Aoi!', 'time': '16:02 Sep 15, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Mike Panasitti': 'Bored usually means staying out of trouble, and that is good.  Boredom is a symptom of being good, a condition that more people should catch.', 'time': '17:37 Sep 14, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Aoi Yamato': 'boredom is trouble.', 'time': '00:56 Sep 15, 2023', 'points': '2'}, {'Mike Panasitti': 'So is fun, sometimes.  Stay out of trouble, Aoi!', 'time': '16:02 Sep 15, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Aoi Yamato': 'boredom is trouble.', 'time': '00:56 Sep 15, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Mike Panasitti': 'So is fun, sometimes.  Stay out of trouble, Aoi!', 'time': '16:02 Sep 15, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Mike Panasitti': 'So is fun, sometimes.  Stay out of trouble, Aoi!', 'time': '16:02 Sep 15, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Danie Nikole': '“love is the heavy antidote to madness and to receive it you’ve got to be worth its weight.” \n\n— such a beautiful line', 'time': '23:30 Sep 18, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0003,Write a story about a monster trying to become more human. Or about a human trying to become more monstrous.,rlhwag,Ginger Monsters,Chris Campbell,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/rlhwag/,/short-story/rlhwag/,Thriller and Suspense,0,"['Funny', 'Fantasy', 'Teens & Young Adult']",20 likes,"
	The sound of plates smashing, furniture being upturned, and guttural, echoing roars, finally subsided as an uneasy peace drifted through the Skarion household, replacing the previous turmoil. It was a case of the calm coming after the storm.	Standing around the dishevelled dining table in the storm’s wake, was Roger Skarion, his wife Barbara, Roger’s mother, Emily, and a very uncomfortable-looking seven-feet tall male creature of seemingly unknown origin, covered from head to toe in shaggy, matted ginger fur.	“That is enough!” Scolded the petite Barbara in a stern but commanding voice. “It may not seem like it now, but family time around the dinner table is for us all to come together in family unity, sharing a meal that I take great lengths to make. This is one of the last bastions of where we all learn the nuances of being decent human beings. My goodness, what will the neighbours think of the racket you just made?”	Head bowed from the chastisement, the hairy one shuffled his large unshod feet uncomfortably from side to side, creating a swaying motion that reverberated up through his body.	“Stop swaying!” The older Mrs. Skarion snapped. “You need to grow up, young man. Follow your father’s lead and practice some self-control. Tell him, son.”	Not to be the ogre, Roger attempted to sooth the situation.	“Now, let’s all calm down, everyone. Shouting at the boy doesn’t do any good.”	“It did with you, Roger.” His mother reminded him. “And look how you turned out.”	“Yes,” muttered Barbara. “Brow beaten and tamed.”	“He turned out a fine specimen of a man. Just like his father,” Emily added.	“Dad was a monster,” Roger declared. “Are you comparing me to him?”	“My darling boy. Your father wasn’t always the way he was when you were young. I remember a time when he projected himself as a dashing young man sweeping me off my feet and carrying me away to his den to ravage me.”	“Mother. I don’t need to know that. Your grandson doesn’t need to know that.”	“I’m sorry that monstromy skipped a generation,” Emily noted. “The old books talk of such a happening, but until you came along, I thought it was just an old wive’s fairy tale.”	“Father thought I was hideous.”	“But he grew to love you, my sweet angel.”	“So, why did he never take me to the family gatherings?”	Clearing some broken crockery from her chair, Emily sat down as she explained.	“As I said, skipping a generation was new to us all. No-one had ever experienced it with their own brood. It was common knowledge that the females of our species were born more human-like and that males normally came out looking like big colourful fur coats. With your smooth, pink skin, taking you to the new pup introductions would have caused a stir amongst the packs. They may have attacked you out of fear. So, your father and I agreed that you would be brought up as human, go to human schools, and become human. That never hurt you, did it?”	“No, Mother. But your absence at parent-teacher conferences was noted. The school nearly reported me to social services as being orphaned.”	“That’s why we hired the best actors to portray us, remember?”	“That only worked until the man playing my father ran off with the school principal. That’s when things got messy for me with the endless teasing of Your father is a shaggy shagger.”	“There’s an old saying in Transylvania that says, Never trust a man that carries his own mirror.”	“Is that because vampires can’t throw a reflection?”	“No, son. It means that they are vain and self-centred. He turned out to be a typical actor. In love with himself. And there’s no such thing as vampires.”	“Just monsters,” Barbara quickly slotted in.	With a loud bellowing roar, the shaggy son of Roger, voiced his impetuous adolescent opposition to the conversation.	“Stop talking about me!”	“Easy boy,” Roger calmed. “Not all discussions of monsters are about you.”	“Of course, they are,” he argued. “I’m a monster, so mentioning monsters is referring to my cursed appearance.”	“Darling,” Barbara interrupted. “You are not a monster. There is a perfectly good explanation for the way you look.”	“Barbara!” Emily interrupted. “Too soon!”	Wrapped up in his own dilemma, the ginger beast ignored his mother’s comment and prattled on about his monstrous appearance.	“So, who’s reflection stares back at me in the bathroom mirror each morning? Who do the neighbourhood kids call Yeti and Sasquatch? Who do the Scottish family on the corner call, Jimmy, while adding that my hair alone could adorn a thousand clans’ sporrans? Then there’s the spectrum kid at the end of the road. He sees me and just yells, MONSTER at the top of his lungs, every time I pass his house. Even the bus driver announces Standing room only for gingers - when I get on.”	“You need to understand that monsters are defined by their actions, not their looks,” Barbara tried to sooth her son’s inner turmoil.	“You even gave me a monster’s name,” he concluded.	“That was your father’s doing. Cyclops was always meant to be a pet nickname. Nothing more.”	“But I have TWO EYES, Mother!”	“That was my fault,” Roger chimed in. “You were born with so much matted fur on your head, that some of it had stuck hugging tightly to your right eyelid, concealing it and preventing it from opening. We had to run you through a late-night car wash to realise the mistake.”	Roger paused, as if he had not meant to say that, then looked for support from his wife and mother – who bit their lower lips, preventing them from further comment that might insult the boy. But Barbara composed herself to insert some motherly love, in the attempt to allay her son’s quandary.	“You were such a cute ball of sticky fur, when you were little,” Barbara complimented, almost teasingly – confusing her son as to why. “So, we shortened your name to Cy.”	“Cy Skarion,” Cy repeated. “So, how did Dad get the name, Roger?”	“My name has also been regenerated,” Roger spoke up. 	“What was it before?”	“It was… Rogon, the Restless,” Roger replied, like he had just been reminded of his past.	“What, mine was just Cyclops? No title?”	Nervously fidgeting, Roger attempted to evade the question, while he contemplated his answer.	“Well?” Cy waited for a logical explanation.	“Tell the boy,” Emily prompted.	“…You were to be known as, Cyclops the Dreaded,” Roger sighed.	Waiting for the natural teenage outburst, all were surprised – if not relieved – to see Cy smiling and responding in a calm manner. To most, a teenager smiling at his parents was completely unheard of and quite unsettling, but Roger weathered the unexpected response.	“Cyclops, the Dreaded,” Cy repeated out loud. “That’s not so bad. In fact, that’s quite terrifying.”	Grandmother Emily let out a guffawed chuckle, insinuating a more practical explanation.	“What?” Cy suspiciously enquired.	“The boy needs to know the real answer,” Emily amusedly huffed.	“Then, you tell him, mother,” Roger instructed.	Addressing her grandson directly, Emily stifled the desire to giggle as she explained.	“It was my idea, dear Grandson of mine. You came into this world so furry, that it had matted in your mother’s pouch. Your whole head looked like a cross between a Rastafarian and the old child movie star, Shirley Temple - who had a golden mop of curly locks of hair on her head. Except, yours was a mop of tangled ginger. I suggested the title but plurally - as in the letter S being added to the end. Cyclops, the Dreads, is what I suggested, but your father insisted on naming you to be compliant with monster naming recommendations.”	Taking a moment to digest the information, Cy began to hyperventilate, as another wave of anger overtook him.	“But if I am not to be presented at any gatherings, then I don’t want to be a monster anymore. I want to be human!”	“It’s not that easy,” Grandmother Emily interjected. “We will have to shear you.”	“So?” Came the expectant petulant reply.	“So, you’ll be pinker than pink underneath that rug, like your father.”	“That’s hardly a solution, Emily, is it.” Barbara argued. “He’d have to be sheered every day to pass as human. And what would we do with the ginger mop on his head?”	“Carpet dye!” Emily blurted out. “Roger’s father used to do that on a regular basis, until age negated the need to.”	“I think regular hair bleaching would be more convincing, and some blonde curls would be very attractive,” Barbara suggested. “Less monstrous.”	“We live in modern times,” said Emily. “The days of mythical monsters have passed. The humans have managed to take up that nom-de-plume mantle with their endless wars, incessant greed, and a vanity that makes them think they are entitled to things not earned.”	Grandmother Emily was a cantankerous old woman who liked to argue everything presented to her. But in her gruff observation; to her, the day of stereotypical monsters had disappeared and been replaced by man’s own inhumanity toward his genetic brethren. The term, Despot replaced dictator and ethnic cleansing replaced genocide. But a re-branding of evil is like re-painting the halls of Hades, red. It’s still Hell, and nothing could convince her otherwise. 	“Monsters are no longer distinguishable by their appearance - as in days of old,” Emily continued. “As my own mother used to say, The monster you cannot see, is the monster most dangerous.”	“I thought she used to say that it’s not the dead you should be afraid of, it’s the living,” Roger queried.	“Same thing, you eejit!”	“Okay, didn’t realise you spoke double-entendre.”	“Roger, darling,” Barbara interjected. “We’re getting off-topic.”	“Yes, thank you, Babs.” Roger appreciatively replied. “Back to the subject of who gets the honour of humanising young Cy.”	“It should be a father’s duty,” Emily pointed out.	“Think of it as a bonding session between father and son, darling,” added Barbara. “Besides, he’s almost a man. He needs a certain male privacy, at this stage of life.”	“If you insist,” Roger acquiesced. “Cy, are you ready to become human?”	“I am, Father! More than anything.”	“Excellent! I still have the electric shearing scissors in the upstairs bathroom. They will make short work of the process.”	“But what about the upcoming gathering?”	“It is not for us, my son,” Roger emphatically stated. “As Smoothies, we are to turn our backs on the pride and follow the path of the humans. So, I ask you once more, are you ready to transition to the furless side?”	Almost in tears, Cy’s emotional response shouted, “Hell, yes, Father!”	“Then, let us ascend to the chamber of re-genesis.”	Guiding his son out into the hallway and up the stairs toward the bathroom, Roger flashed a knowing wink back towards his wife and mother.	Upon hearing a door closing upstairs, Barbara filled two tea mugs from the freshly boiled kettle in the adjoining kitchen, returned it to its electric cradle, and chuckled to herself.	“Do you think he bought all that monster nonsense?” She asked her mother-in-law.	“That boy has been gullible since he first could walk,” Emily replied. “Imagine at five years old refusing to have his hair cut, because he watched some old video of Bob Marley and other Reggae artists stomping around a stage.”	“Yes,” Barbara chuckled again. “It’s taken us years to talk him into cutting it all off. I thought it near to impossible to convince him that it’s unhealthy to not wash your hair.”	“You both played your parts quite well,” Emily congratulated. 	“And you too, Emily,” Barbara reciprocated. “Those nights at the Amdram Society have certainly paid off. Bravo,” she added while feigning applause. “I mean, he’s starting high school next week. That ginger mess of knotted hair would have been ridiculed in this Baptist town we now find ourselves living in, and what he doesn’t need are small town bigotries directed at Gingers – especially abnormally tall Gingers. Best to instil a little abstract reality into his life. God knows, he needs something to snap him out of his Rastafarian fantasy world and become a productive member of society.”	“I blame those video games he’s always playing,” Emily bluntly stated. 	“They call it virtual reality,” Barbara explained. “Where they live in what’s called the world of Sim.”	“More like, a world of sin,” Emily countered. “There’s only one reality, and that’s the one staring you in the face,” she undeniably stated.	“Too true, Emily. We have come to realise that we have indulged our boys’ selfish requirements for too long and it has reached a point beyond any reasonable tolerance, so his father and I thought it was time to finally put our foot down and not let him get his way all the time.”	“What happens when he finds out you deceived him?”	“That’s easy. We’ll just tell him that monsters do what monsters do. They lie.”	“But aren’t you worried that you’ll now become the real monsters in his life?”	“Let’s face it, Emily. Until he’s done with his teens, his parents will always be the ogres on his path to independence. We can only hope that when he reaches that turning point in life, he won’t be so fucking naïve…”	 	 
","September 12, 2023 15:08","[[{'Delbert Griffith': 'Funny AND serious. This was fun, fun, fun! As usual, your humor is top notch, Chris. I like the ""ginger"" aspect of it. Historically, red-headed people were seen as evil. That was a nice touch. You always seem to get a lot into each of your tales.\n\nThe first sentence - delete the semicolon. It\'s used incorrectly, and it\'ll read much better without it.\n\nI also think you should revisit this paragraph:\n“Monsters are no longer distinguishable by their appearance - as in days of old,” Emily continued. “No, today’s abominations wear the guises of p...', 'time': '15:05 Sep 14, 2023', 'points': '4'}, [{'Chris Campbell': ""Delbert,\n\nMany thanks for catching the typo and your suggestion for Grandmother Emily's rant. \nIt was something that I was experimenting with, but after re-reading several times, I found it pulled me away from the comedy, so I've removed that section. \n\nThank you for your honest opinion. It has improved the piece.\n\nYes, the plight of the Gingers is another tale to tell. Without any social commentary added. 🤔\n\nCheers, mate!"", 'time': '01:55 Sep 15, 2023', 'points': '4'}]], [{'Chris Campbell': ""Delbert,\n\nMany thanks for catching the typo and your suggestion for Grandmother Emily's rant. \nIt was something that I was experimenting with, but after re-reading several times, I found it pulled me away from the comedy, so I've removed that section. \n\nThank you for your honest opinion. It has improved the piece.\n\nYes, the plight of the Gingers is another tale to tell. Without any social commentary added. 🤔\n\nCheers, mate!"", 'time': '01:55 Sep 15, 2023', 'points': '4'}, []], [{'Michał Przywara': ""Ah, yes, the teenage years - good take on the prompt :) Is there anything more monstrous? Well, actually, the grandmother raised some great points there, and the story dipped into the more serious from the funny. But otherwise it's quite amusing, conveying the frustrations of both the parents and the youth. \n\nThanks for sharing!"", 'time': '20:41 Sep 13, 2023', 'points': '4'}, [{'Chris Campbell': ""Thanks, Michal.\nWhat a parent will do to get their teenager to cut his hair, hey?\nYes, Grandmother Emily decided she needed to opine. I guess that's what old people like to do. 😄"", 'time': '02:29 Sep 14, 2023', 'points': '4'}, {'Chris Campbell': 'I decided Grandmother Emily needed to chill, so I took the serious tone out of her. Thanks for the feedback.', 'time': '02:51 Sep 16, 2023', 'points': '3'}]], [{'Chris Campbell': ""Thanks, Michal.\nWhat a parent will do to get their teenager to cut his hair, hey?\nYes, Grandmother Emily decided she needed to opine. I guess that's what old people like to do. 😄"", 'time': '02:29 Sep 14, 2023', 'points': '4'}, [{'Chris Campbell': 'I decided Grandmother Emily needed to chill, so I took the serious tone out of her. Thanks for the feedback.', 'time': '02:51 Sep 16, 2023', 'points': '3'}]], [{'Chris Campbell': 'I decided Grandmother Emily needed to chill, so I took the serious tone out of her. Thanks for the feedback.', 'time': '02:51 Sep 16, 2023', 'points': '3'}, []], [{'Martin Ross': 'Nicely done!', 'time': '15:11 Sep 13, 2023', 'points': '4'}, [{'Chris Campbell': 'Thanks, Martin.', 'time': '16:11 Sep 13, 2023', 'points': '3'}]], [{'Chris Campbell': 'Thanks, Martin.', 'time': '16:11 Sep 13, 2023', 'points': '3'}, []], [{'Mike Panasitti': 'Several serious topics here, dealt with humorously.  It was only mentioned in passing, but I appreciated the idea of social re-branding.  Monstrosity is frequently  rendered more acceptable, or amenable to discussion, when nomenclature changes - the ginger family here being no exception.  Well done.', 'time': '15:24 Sep 17, 2023', 'points': '3'}, [{'Chris Campbell': 'Thanks for the feedback, Mike.\nFood for thought.', 'time': '16:42 Sep 17, 2023', 'points': '3'}]], [{'Chris Campbell': 'Thanks for the feedback, Mike.\nFood for thought.', 'time': '16:42 Sep 17, 2023', 'points': '3'}, []], [{'Kevin Logue': ""There is a lot to love in this story, the plot for one, the dialogue and witty exchanges are excellent as always, but the twist...ye got me, hands up, didn't see it coming. Was there a little real world parenting coming through here? Ha.\n\nThe idea of ginger, Rastafarian, Shirley Temple almost gave me a spit take. \n\nWonderful edition to your almost 100 strong collection. Bravo good sir!"", 'time': '12:05 Sep 16, 2023', 'points': '3'}, [{'Chris Campbell': 'Kevin,\nMany thanks for your great feedback. \nI was hoping to spring the surprise on readers. \nGlad to have made you laugh.', 'time': '15:10 Sep 16, 2023', 'points': '3'}]], [{'Chris Campbell': 'Kevin,\nMany thanks for your great feedback. \nI was hoping to spring the surprise on readers. \nGlad to have made you laugh.', 'time': '15:10 Sep 16, 2023', 'points': '3'}, []], [{'Michelle Oliver': 'Love it! As always your tone is pure gold, such comedy in the deliver of absurd lines with total conviction. Late night car wash indeed! The twist at the end was great. The whole family pulling together to change the ways of the child, hilarious. Only you could possibly image such a situation. Well done.', 'time': '07:14 Sep 16, 2023', 'points': '3'}, [{'Chris Campbell': 'Ha ha, thanks, Michelle.\nI even managed to fool my partner, and she is very hard to fool when it comes to plot lines.\nThanks for your great feedback.', 'time': '09:35 Sep 16, 2023', 'points': '3'}]], [{'Chris Campbell': 'Ha ha, thanks, Michelle.\nI even managed to fool my partner, and she is very hard to fool when it comes to plot lines.\nThanks for your great feedback.', 'time': '09:35 Sep 16, 2023', 'points': '3'}, []], [{'Danie Nikole': 'So… \n\n I tried to pick out a few lines that made me laugh but quickly realized I was laughing all the way through. \n\nStill, \nI enjoyed this line so much— \n\n“The humans have managed to take up that nom-de-plume mantle with their endless wars, incessant greed, and a vanity that makes them think they are entitled to things not earned.” \n\nThere is no better comedy sometimes than reality. \n\nBest, \n\nDanie', 'time': '22:59 Sep 14, 2023', 'points': '3'}, [{'Chris Campbell': 'Thanks, Danie.\nI think we all need to take note of human behaviour and mock ourselves once in a while.\nThanks for the great feedback.', 'time': '02:49 Sep 16, 2023', 'points': '3'}]], [{'Chris Campbell': 'Thanks, Danie.\nI think we all need to take note of human behaviour and mock ourselves once in a while.\nThanks for the great feedback.', 'time': '02:49 Sep 16, 2023', 'points': '3'}, []], [{'Mary Bendickson': 'Monsters are everywhere.', 'time': '17:33 Sep 14, 2023', 'points': '3'}, [{'Chris Campbell': 'Indeed they are, Mary.\nThanks for reading my story.', 'time': '02:50 Sep 16, 2023', 'points': '3'}]], [{'Chris Campbell': 'Indeed they are, Mary.\nThanks for reading my story.', 'time': '02:50 Sep 16, 2023', 'points': '3'}, []], [{'Marty B': 'Teenagers boys are monsters, for sure, and always trust grandmas- they know what is up!', 'time': '05:07 Sep 18, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Chris Campbell': 'Thanks, Marty.\nDitto ditto!', 'time': '08:09 Sep 18, 2023', 'points': '3'}]], [{'Chris Campbell': 'Thanks, Marty.\nDitto ditto!', 'time': '08:09 Sep 18, 2023', 'points': '3'}, []]]"
prompt_0003,Write a story about a monster trying to become more human. Or about a human trying to become more monstrous.,yrqvag,Modern Day Monsters,Mary Bendickson,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/yrqvag/,/short-story/yrqvag/,Thriller and Suspense,0,"['Fantasy', 'Funny', 'Speculative']",16 likes,"
 
Modern Day Monsters
How to build a modern day monster inspired by Mary Shelley:
Believe misused power could destroy society.
Believe in the Gods, here is a chain of them:
Zeus: God of Sky, Weather and Fate. Call on him if questioning destiny.
Aphrodite: Goddess of Love, Passion and Beauty. She will find love for the loveless.
Poseidon: God of River, Seas and Earthquakes. Beware the Elements.
Artemis: Goddess of Wild Animals, Disease and Children. Call on her for animal attacks, disease attacks and child attacks.
Demeter: Goddess of Agriculture and Farm. Farmers call on her.
Barbatronus: God of Aging. Aging will happen with or without his help.
Minoscurus: God of grass types a cow eats. All cows should call on him..
Imbecilia: Goddess of Stupidity. Go to her with bad decisions. She can make them even more stupid.
Jarubadinka: Goddess of ridiculous names: Come to her at age ten when being relentlessly teased.
Gobarium: God of saying, “Go Bury 'em,” when asked what to do with corpses.
 Hemalorus: God of Running out of toilet paper. Fear him.
Prometheus: God of Fire. Known for defying the Olympian gods by stealing fire from them and giving it to humanity in the form of technology, knowledge, and more generally, civilization...
This is a partial list including some of the lesser known deities. Acknowledgment must go to the genius of the acting troupe Studio C for portraying the unknown gods and goddesses numbers six through eleven mentioned above. Feel free to add more as necessary. They can also be beneficial when combined. Think Hemalorus following a run in with Imbecilia after eating Minoscurus's grasses.
Or a person can choose to rely solely on the one size fits all, omnipotent one true God, Yahweh. Like a loving Father guaranteed to show the Way, He'll have all one's needs covered and lead to an abundant life if they follow the Good Shepard through the narrow paths and dark shadows to green pastures and still waters. Trust in this three-sided omnipresent, all-knowing protector and the after-life is assured against raging demonic monsters. (Ignore the 'Ghost' in the third person. He is a friendly Spirit-type like Casper.)
Back to making Monsters more modern:
Borrowing from Prometheus, use technology and knowledge to fashion electronic boxes someone can talk into to control all facets of daily life. Give them names like 'Alexis' and 'Siri' with soothing, reassuring voices making them convincing it is fine to follow their instructions or that they are securely in control. But please stay awake behind the driving wheel of an automatically controlled automobile. All the bugs are not worked out one hundred percent yet. 
If the small boxes are not aesthetically pleasing enough, use alchemy and other modern day advances to cobble together bits and pieces of titanium, steel and spare body parts to assemble a humanoid capable of realistic interaction to heighten the experience so Imbecilia's dominance is not felt. Be sure to include the enviable capacity of gaining knowledge through experience so the creation is evolving rapidly to become smarter than its creator. 
Remember to take extensive notes so if the first model is wildly successful the effort can be duplicated and the result marketed to a wide audience eager to make their lives simpler by turning menial tasks such as thinking or writing for themselves over to automated initiative.
Once the recipe is perfected stand back to not impede its progress. Watch it work and pray to Yahweh (the only logical, intelligent choice) that it will not make humans obsolete. 
This potential production could be referred to as a Progressive Pantheon. 'Progressive' because it is perpetually moving forward with little regard to what it may be doing to society as we have known and cultivated it. Replacing common sense supposedly for common good. Forsaking all balance for unattainable equality. 'Pantheon' because it has been granted a god-like characteristic of infallibility to it. 
What could some of these Progressive Pantheons be like if married or merged?:
Plutus (wealth and abundance)/ Phoebe (intellect and prophecy) = Smart know-it-all that can predict how much good it will be. Plusbe.
Zelus (rivalry, jealousy, envy)/ Nemesis (revenge, retribution) = Green-eyed monster out to get even. Zelesis.
Momus (satire, mockery, criticism)/ Ananke (necessity, compulsion, inevitability) = Need to make fun of and criticize whatever one can inevitably mock and move on. Anamomk.
Coeus (inquisitive mind)/ Tyche (luck, fortune,chance) = Inquiring minds want to know but will chance a lucky future. Coetyc.
Deimos (fear, panic, terror)/ Achlys (misery, sadness) = Let's not even go there! Aach-Dielys.
What if evolution really were a thing and reincarnation was a possibility? Juries are still debating both issues. Could we evolve into smarter beings each time we came back through reincarnation having remembered all we knew in the previous life and adding to it continuously with each subsequent life? Or would we simply bore ourselves to death over and over again? If we can't humanly achieve this can we have our artificial intelligent beings reproduce and become smarter with more human-like characteristics with each generation? Something to think about and possibly develop. Or maybe not.
Please remember no matter what masterpiece crafted with the help of Aristaeus, God of Useful Arts, be mindful to include Elpis, Spirit of Hope, and Althea, Goddess of Healing and Compassion. That's even if someone happens to combine Eris, Goddess of Strife and Discord, with Chaos, God of the void from which the universe originated, and accidentally ended up with a Cat-aloneus that is determined to do what it wants and plans on ruling the world one day. (Maybe one dwells within already? Beware!) 
The creation needs to be trained with patience and shown the love of Eros. Try to keep it from falling into the darkness of Erebus or the underworld of Hades. But bless it with gifts from Aphrodite so it is not hideous to look upon or easy to hate. Otherwise, the disastrous results of one Dr. Victor Frankenstein whose creation wound up killing a chain of the scientist's loved ones and finally his maker himself may be repeated unintentionally. 
Overall, unleashing a modern day monster is a delicate operation that must be handled with expertise and understanding. The monster within may become the monster most feared controlling all of mankind.
","September 15, 2023 00:55","[[{'Joe Malgeri': ""Very amusing, informative, and well structured. I could imagine those of past years believing in so many Gods, making them so confused they question every move each other makes, while accusing those who experience misfortune of justifiably being punished by a God. Thus, chasing their own tails within a giant web of Gods and a maze of choices. Funny stuff, Mary, excellent ideas. The Greco-Roman god of wealth - MAMMON, there’s nothing He can’t buy, have mercy, He's spider to us flies."", 'time': '07:47 Sep 19, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Mary Bendickson': 'Thanks for your analysis.', 'time': '15:42 Sep 19, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Mary Bendickson': 'Thanks for your analysis.', 'time': '15:42 Sep 19, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Michelle Oliver': 'Artemis: Goddess of Wild Animals, Disease and Children. Call on her for animal attacks, disease attacks and child attacks.\nHahahah I could hardly read the rest I was laughing so hard. \nYou present this whole article with such wit and excellent pace. You make some excellent points about our world and the idols we build, grow and accept. There is real danger in mindless acceptance and your story highlights this with humour.', 'time': '15:04 Sep 18, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Mary Bendickson': 'High praise indeed from one whose writing I admire greatly 😄. Thank you 🙏\nMichelle, maybe I should come right out and ask you if you are an editor and if so, would you consider editing my manuscript since you already have it. What are proper procedures for asking? I need to get on with publishing. Still contacting some of pros I met in Nashville. Know you are crazy busy. And crazy talented.', 'time': '18:37 Sep 18, 2023', 'points': '1'}, {'Michelle Oliver': 'I am not an editor, I have given feedback in a critique group, but by no means am I a professional.', 'time': '21:59 Sep 18, 2023', 'points': '1'}, {'Mary Bendickson': ""Thanks. You are always so good in your critiques I was guessing you might do it 'on the side'as if you aren't busy enough.😁"", 'time': '06:27 Sep 19, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Mary Bendickson': 'High praise indeed from one whose writing I admire greatly 😄. Thank you 🙏\nMichelle, maybe I should come right out and ask you if you are an editor and if so, would you consider editing my manuscript since you already have it. What are proper procedures for asking? I need to get on with publishing. Still contacting some of pros I met in Nashville. Know you are crazy busy. And crazy talented.', 'time': '18:37 Sep 18, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Michelle Oliver': 'I am not an editor, I have given feedback in a critique group, but by no means am I a professional.', 'time': '21:59 Sep 18, 2023', 'points': '1'}, {'Mary Bendickson': ""Thanks. You are always so good in your critiques I was guessing you might do it 'on the side'as if you aren't busy enough.😁"", 'time': '06:27 Sep 19, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Michelle Oliver': 'I am not an editor, I have given feedback in a critique group, but by no means am I a professional.', 'time': '21:59 Sep 18, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Mary Bendickson': ""Thanks. You are always so good in your critiques I was guessing you might do it 'on the side'as if you aren't busy enough.😁"", 'time': '06:27 Sep 19, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Mary Bendickson': ""Thanks. You are always so good in your critiques I was guessing you might do it 'on the side'as if you aren't busy enough.😁"", 'time': '06:27 Sep 19, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Martin Ross': 'This was great — I learned AND laughed, but the summing-up was very apt for the frightening times in which we live. Well-done!', 'time': '13:11 Sep 18, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Mary Bendickson': ""Don't know  about the learning. So much was made up. But thanks for the 👍. 😜"", 'time': '14:17 Sep 18, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Mary Bendickson': ""Don't know  about the learning. So much was made up. But thanks for the 👍. 😜"", 'time': '14:17 Sep 18, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Jonathan Page': 'Wow!  Mary, this was very funny and the writing was excellent.  I really enjoyed your combinations of the old Greek Gods to create a new pantheon of more humorous or terrifying deities.  I think Anamomk is my favorite.  I love your allusions to the many idols in our lives, particularly the technological ones, that we blindly follow without equating this to the way older generations personified and worshipped important aspects of nature they watched closely with governing spirits.  All-in-all a delightful read with some incredibly deep ideas ...', 'time': '23:43 Sep 16, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Chris Miller': ""Aha, a Progressive Pantheon. An Elegant Literature writer. Good luck in both competitions, Mary. \n\nYou had me wondering about some of those gods' names..."", 'time': '23:32 Sep 16, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Mary Bendickson': ""Takes one to know one.😏\nThink I see that once in a while on here. Don't hold too much hope on either site with this one but thanks.😄"", 'time': '18:44 Sep 17, 2023', 'points': '1'}, {'Chris Miller': ""Both tough ones. I'm especially struggling with the EL one."", 'time': '18:49 Sep 17, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Mary Bendickson': ""Takes one to know one.😏\nThink I see that once in a while on here. Don't hold too much hope on either site with this one but thanks.😄"", 'time': '18:44 Sep 17, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Chris Miller': ""Both tough ones. I'm especially struggling with the EL one."", 'time': '18:49 Sep 17, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Chris Miller': ""Both tough ones. I'm especially struggling with the EL one."", 'time': '18:49 Sep 17, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Ralph Aldrich': 'Hi Mary I like your stories and would like to thank you for all your comments.  i will not be entering anymore contest but will still post for free. thankk you once again, Ralph Aldrich', 'time': '16:32 Sep 16, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Mary Bendickson': ""You have had some good ones. Sorry you won't be entering again. Hope all is well. Still follow you so I think I will see anything you put up."", 'time': '18:48 Sep 17, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Mary Bendickson': ""You have had some good ones. Sorry you won't be entering again. Hope all is well. Still follow you so I think I will see anything you put up."", 'time': '18:48 Sep 17, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Kevin Logue': ""I couldn't help but read this with a kind of future dystopian infomercial voice in my head, think when Arnie steps off the train in Mars in Total Recall and there is all the screens telling him what to do and how to behave. \n\nWas thoroughly enjoyable, playful, and even philosophical.\n\nParticularly like this one >> Barbatronus: God of Aging. Aging will happen with or without his help."", 'time': '12:44 Sep 16, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Mary Bendickson': ""Thanks for liking and commenting. Pick your slate of gods carefully. You'll need them to make your way through life.😄"", 'time': '13:53 Sep 16, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Mary Bendickson': ""Thanks for liking and commenting. Pick your slate of gods carefully. You'll need them to make your way through life.😄"", 'time': '13:53 Sep 16, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Marty B': 'Gods and monsters- both create and destroy/ or destroy then create. \nIn this all depends on your perspective!\n\nThanks!', 'time': '01:16 Sep 16, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Mary Bendickson': 'Thank you.', 'time': '02:10 Sep 16, 2023', 'points': '2'}]], [{'Mary Bendickson': 'Thank you.', 'time': '02:10 Sep 16, 2023', 'points': '2'}, []], [{'Michał Przywara': 'Whole time I was reading this, I was thinking of explosives. Yeah, there\'s useful everyday uses for them, but we also use them to blow people up. \n\nSeems like the question might not be ""should we make it"" so much as ""who is making it, and why"". Or maybe we\'re doomed to follow the cycle of creating something, taking it too far and messing up, and only afterwards figuring out where we went wrong and fixing it. After all, you don\'t earthquake-proof a skyscraper if one\'s never fallen down before. \n\nThough I fear, for the most part, our new digit...', 'time': '20:35 Sep 15, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Mary Bendickson': 'Thanks for enjoying and commenting 😁', 'time': '21:20 Sep 15, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Mary Bendickson': 'Thanks for enjoying and commenting 😁', 'time': '21:20 Sep 15, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Lily Finch': ""Mary, my favourite two: Imbecilia: Goddess of Stupidity. Go to her with bad decisions. She can make them even more stupid.\n\nJarubadinka: Goddess of ridiculous names: Come to her at age ten when being relentlessly teased.\n\nBut you're bang on with those and the monster within. \nNicely done. LF6"", 'time': '19:46 Sep 15, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Mary Bendickson': 'Thanks for enjoying', 'time': '21:18 Sep 15, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Mary Bendickson': 'Thanks for enjoying', 'time': '21:18 Sep 15, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Karen Corr': 'Ha Ha! You got me at “Hemalorus: God of Running out of toilet paper. Fear him.”\nI cringe imagining the monsters He could creatith.', 'time': '11:08 Sep 15, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Mary Bendickson': ""Thanks for liking and commenting. I don't do monsters so great but have run ins with Hemalorius way too often."", 'time': '13:50 Sep 15, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Mary Bendickson': ""Thanks for liking and commenting. I don't do monsters so great but have run ins with Hemalorius way too often."", 'time': '13:50 Sep 15, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0003,Write a story about a monster trying to become more human. Or about a human trying to become more monstrous.,3t0t9p,Elderakin,Anthony Carello,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/3t0t9p/,/short-story/3t0t9p/,Thriller and Suspense,0,"['Science Fiction', 'Thriller', 'Suspense']",16 likes,"
Walking through the desolate landscape of Ruitina, Kurt Westin glanced over to his partner on this mission. His name was Alex, and he was a young cadet, freshly out of school. Kurt felt terrible for him for being sent on this mission, knowing that the kid did not know what was happening. The two arrived on this planet a few hours ago to investigate a report of strange sightings on and around Ruitina. Officially, this planet inhabited no form of life, but Kurt knew that was far from the truth. This planet used to be a lush paradise, filled with wildlife everywhere. It wasn’t discovered until three hundred and fifty years ago, because it was on the far outer reaches of the multiverse. The Order decided it would be a perfect planet to perform some experiments on. Now, the public had been getting increasingly upset with what The Order had been doing on the core worlds. So, when they found this untouched planet full of bountiful nature, they took it as a sign to expand. The Order scraped all their other operations and moved to Ruitina.In the years to come, they worked tirelessly to clean up their image. The public slowly forgot about their horrendous past by getting into charities and fundraisers. Kurt, however, didn’t forget about it. Frankly, he didn’t care about what they did either way. While the Order had been operating on the core planets, Kurt hadn’t been in his current form. The body he had right now was a fraction of who he used to be. “I just checked the map, and it says we’re close to where the door should be.”The words coming from Alex snapped him out of his thoughts. Shaking his head, he forced himself to stop lamenting the past. That form is gone, taken by those weak, cowardly….. He stopped himself again before his thoughts took him to a dark place. Kurt sighed and turned toward Alex.“Kid, what did they tell you when they sent you on this mission?”Alex didn’t seem to understand what Kurt had said at first, but then he responded.“We are here to look into reports of the unusual sightings in the area. However, before I left, my captain told me this mission was mostly redundant, as there had been no life in this part of the multiverse. I am, though, looking forward to learning from a senior officer like yourself.” After Alex finished talking, Kurt almost laughed at the naivety of what he said. Instead, he just shook his head, pulled out a small container he kept in his pocket, and took out a cigarette. Taking a deep breath of the nicotine-infused smoke, he relaxed and took a few moments to finish his smoke. For all Kurt knew, it might be the last one he ever got to have. He had never smoked before but took to the habit when he became trapped in this human body. Once he finished smoking, he took the butt of the cigarette and tossed it to the ground. His partner had waited patiently for Kurt to finish his smoke. He appreciated that and would try his best to keep him alive in the events to come. Then, at that moment, they heard a blood-curdling groan from beneath them. Alex turned toward Kurt in a panic, his face letting his emotions through. He knew the boy could feel the shift in the air; perhaps the human wasn’t entirely stupid. Kurt was told that Alex had finished top of his class and was supposed to be a natural talent. Kurt hoped all his skill and wits would be enough to save him. As the sound got louder, Kurt knew there wouldn’t be much time until the beasts were upon them. Kurt took in a deep breath, then exhaled heavily. His body then began to transform. Bone could be heard breaking and moving around inside his body. The sound of tendons snapping and skins stretching could be heard throughout the desolate planet. Kurt’s former skin seemed to fall away as the new form took shape. He was now towering over Alex, who seemed like he was about to cry. The form Kurt currently inhabited was a lesser version of what his actual body should be. It was, however, far better than being trapped in that human form. He leaped up into the air, flapping his dark purple wings. Those in The Order would often talk about him when they thought he couldn’t hear them. They would describe him as an eldritch monster or say he looked like something out of a horror film. If he had to say which imaginary beast that the humans invented, he looked the most like it would have to be the dragon. However, the dragon from books and stories looked a lot friendlier than Kurt did in his proper form. He thought he looked beautiful in this form and was always annoyed when he had to go back to acting like a human. Being around humans for so long started to grow inside Kurt a deep disdain for them. They were, after all, the ones who took his true form away from him. Saying he was a danger to all of humanity when that simply wasn’t true. All Kurt had ever wanted was to be free, and now he served a group of humans.As he flew over the top of the man known as Alex, he wondered why he ever felt sorry for him. He was part of the species that had taken so much away from Kurt. Even the name Kurt wasn’t his actual name. They had taken that away from him, and when he tried to remember his actual name, he felt a sudden pain in his brain that threatened to render him unconscious. He could worry about that later. For now, he had a swarm of monsters to deal with. After a few moments, the ground beneath Kurt burst open. Swarms of monsters and unimaginable horrors spewing out of it. Kurt sighed because he was frustrated at the fact that he was always the one that The Order sent to clean up after their mistakes. He made a reminder to talk with his handler when he got back to headquarters. Kurt’s enormous form swooped down with his powerful jaws, and he bit a monster straight in half. It tasted sour, and Kurt spit the remains of the beast out of his mouth. After all, all these beasts were experiments gone wrong. For the rest of the fight, Kurt decided he would try and use his razor-sharp claws. After fighting for a few minutes, he began having thoughts about that pesky human who accompanied him on this mission. Kurt wondered if he was still alive and wanted to look for him. While he was chipping away at the monster swarm, he began to lazily search for the human. He didn’t really care if he died but was more curious to see if he could survive this many monsters. Once the swarm began to get thinned out a bit, he thought he saw a glint of light within the multitude and went to investigate. To Kurt’s surprise, it was the human after all, and so he left him to fate. It wasn’t Kurt’s fault they had sent someone with him. He had told them many times he preferred to work alone. Hours of mindlessly killing monsters went by. Kurt wondered why they had sent him on this mission. A squad of well-trained soldiers could have quickly done this. That was when Kurt felt that something had changed. The monsters began acting differently. It looked like they were retreating to the hole they came out of beneath the ground. Kurt didn’t know how he knew it, but he felt like something powerful was about to emerge from the hole. A few tense moments later, a monster the likes of which Kurt had never seen before erupted from the spot. When he first looked at the gargantuan creature, he thought he recognized it, but he shook his massive head and focused.When the creature was above ground, it flew in the air for a bit and took in its surroundings. It then landed on the ground and sat facing Kurt and appeared to not want to fight. He had to admit that the creature’s actions perplexed him. Kurt had never met a monster that didn’t just charge straight at him. What surprised Kurt more was when he heard the monster’s voice.“I’m surprised to see you here.”Kurt froze at the creature’s words. The first reason was that this creature was intelligent. On top of that, he seemed to know Kurt.“My name is Kurt. How do you know me?”The creature paused for a second, then burst into a fit of laughter. He rolled over onto his back and continued to laugh. The creature was so giant that his laughter caused the very earth to shake. Kurt simply waited while the creature composed himself. While he waited, he observed its form. It was a dark red color and had wings similar to his own. Kurt had to admit that the creature looked similar to himself in a lot of ways. The rough-looking skin, the spikes running along its back, and even the head looked like his own. Now, the creature seemed to compose himself and was sitting upright. When the creature spoke again, it was in a slow and calculated tone.“You are not Kurt. Your captors may have given you that name, but it is not your TRUE name.” Kurt had been so involved in what the creature said that he didn’t even see the human sneaking up behind it. He wanted to warn the creature, but it was too late. The human jumped up onto the enormous creature and struck at it with his sword. The blade left a deep wound in the creature’s neck, and he erupted into life. He flew into the air and shook the human off of him. Kurt could see that the creature was losing a lot of blood, and, for some reason, it pained him to see the creature bleeding. Kurt watched as they fought. It surprised him to see that they were an even match. As the fighting continued, the human was getting the upper hand. His sword was contacting the creature’s tough hide and made some deep cuts. The creature was dripping blood, and Kurt knew it wouldn’t last much longer. So, he intervened, flying in between them. With a swing of his massive wings, he pushed them apart and turned to the creature.“WHAT IS MY TRUE NAME?”The creature, who was obviously suffering from blood loss, took a moment to answer.“Elderakin…”Before he could say anything else, the human jumped up and stabbed the creature in his throat. He made a gurgling sound before his eyes glossed over, and he was dead. The human was breathing heavily and had a look of accomplishment on his face. Is this human incompetent, ignorant, or just plain stupid… Could he not see that I WAS TALKING TO THAT CREATURE?His thoughts blurred and became a jumble in his head. His vision began to dance as he felt his head start to fill with pressure. Whatever had kept him trapped for so long fought desperately to stop him from saying his actual name. The more he tried to think about it, the more it fought back until he felt like it was reaching a breaking point. He was sure that he was going to pass out if he didn’t stop his thoughts. Then, he said it.“My name is Elderakin.”A power surged out from his body as the human and the body of the creature were thrown back. His body began to morph again, growing in size. He retained the same look, but he grew to an unimaginable scale. Soon, the planet became too small to hold him, so he pushed off of it and into space. He looked back at the desolate world and thought of the human who had killed one of his kind. He opened his mouth, and a plume of violet energy came billowing out. It turned the planet into nothing more than dust. Elderakin was content that he could get revenge for his fallen brother, but it wasn’t enough.With all of his memories restored to him, he remembered what had happened to him. He grimaced, as the memories were not pleasant. He had been a prisoner for far too long. Never again would he meet the same fate. Things would be different now. Elderakin would not be so trusting this time. As he made his way through the cosmos, he had one goal on his mind—the termination of humanity.
","September 08, 2023 16:11","[[{'Joe Smallwood': 'Hi Anthony,\nThanks for taking the time to read ""Natal Day.""\nWhat is in a name? If you can name something or someone, it is the beginning of a relationship. Not surprised your MC had a different name after the transformation.\n I like dabbling in Sci Fi too. I like how it is such a blank slate, you can do or say practically anything.', 'time': '14:52 Sep 11, 2023', 'points': '3'}, [{'Anthony Carello': ""Thanks for commenting! I'm glad you enjoyed the story and hope you can enjoy the others! \n\nVery true about what you said about Sci-fi. That is the reason why I love writing stories."", 'time': '16:59 Sep 11, 2023', 'points': '2'}, {'Joe Smallwood': '👍', 'time': '23:21 Sep 11, 2023', 'points': '3'}]], [{'Anthony Carello': ""Thanks for commenting! I'm glad you enjoyed the story and hope you can enjoy the others! \n\nVery true about what you said about Sci-fi. That is the reason why I love writing stories."", 'time': '16:59 Sep 11, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Joe Smallwood': '👍', 'time': '23:21 Sep 11, 2023', 'points': '3'}]], [{'Joe Smallwood': '👍', 'time': '23:21 Sep 11, 2023', 'points': '3'}, []], [{'Kevin Logue': 'A mix of scif and fantasy, reminded me a bit of Starship Troopers. Some good moments of building intrigue with Kurt talking about being in this human body, and laughing at Alex notions while they we on the planet.\n\nIntergalactic Dragon hell bent on human destruction....nice. 👍', 'time': '09:16 Sep 19, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Anthony Carello': 'Glad you enjoyed and thanks for commenting!', 'time': '10:50 Sep 19, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Anthony Carello': 'Glad you enjoyed and thanks for commenting!', 'time': '10:50 Sep 19, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0003,Write a story about a monster trying to become more human. Or about a human trying to become more monstrous.,n79fkn,The Grotesque,Jonathan Page,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/n79fkn/,/short-story/n79fkn/,Thriller and Suspense,0,"['Thriller', 'Suspense', 'Fantasy']",13 likes,"
My scaly flesh is hard as stone. A natural armor. I have always had a tough exterior. But I fear I have reached the point where I will petrify completely and be arrested in an eternal prison of stone if I do not cast off my armor before it is too late. I feel my soul, like a firefly trapped in a jar, buzzing about, and smashing against my concrete ribs—encased in a dark stone prison. I feel my essence suffocating and gasping as I become solid.Evil words echo from the flying buttresses and stained glass. The dust of betrayal flies from men’s mouths in the atriums and plazas. Like a forge and hammer, the words buffet my flesh. From the confessional, the whispers of sin slither up along the vaulted ceilings, then steaming to vapor, seep through the open axis, whistling past the great bells, smacking my face like an acidic dew that burns. The burning of hatred, the stench of decomposing souls, animates my stone heart—an engine of courage that opposes frightful drafts from hell. The fourteen-hundred-degree heat of jealousy hardens like a forge. The vengeful blows blunt, flatten, and bevel my hard edges. My cells are the repurposed skeletons of coral, forams, and mollusks. Calcite and aragonite paste cement the joists of my ribbed wings. Reheated again and again by evil deeds and evil words, my armor is quenched in cooling water, steaming with the dross of rancor. The rains run off my back. I grip the hilt of my vorpal blade in two hands and lean over it, stony-eyed, looking past it over the city.Perched over Rouen, I see everything. But nothing touches me. Between Paris and the sea, I am the guardian and protector of all that is set upon by evil, the oppugner of every evil thing that prowls the shadows.I have received word from Romanus that the Union will be called forth from the shadows to hunt some vile beast that has crawled out from the depths of hell. It is my business to send the demon back. But I will not work for free. This time, I have a request for the ancient mage. After an eternity of service—a one-way conscription from the heavens—I have served—truly served—what seems an eternity. And now, I wish to bargain for a reward. A chance, for once, to know kindness rather than the self-absorbed grasping of groveling malcontents and slinking malignancies. To know her, face-to-face.I watch her in the square at the Place du Vieux-Marché farmer’s market. She strolls through, almost skipping in the fresh morning light, and collects a baguette in her basket, two plump fresh tomatoes, a sharp block of cheddar, some olive oil, a half dozen carnations, and two bars of dark chocolate.Rebecca, the beat of my stone heart, my Cherie. My temptation. She is mah fee in the morning when she leaves her mum to go for groceries. She is Becky to the food vendors in the square, who smile and offer her their best. She is Babz as she tends to her tables and delivers drinks at La Couronne, surely one of the finest restaurants in all of Normandy, dating back to 1345. In each light, I see her, alighting, and lighting up the faces of all she meets, courteous, exchanging pleasantries, giving sincere praise—What lovely flowers, Dauphene… such fresh goat cheese, Pierre—brushing off the dust of baseness like a housekeeper dusting away evil and drawing the curtains to bring in a brilliant, clean light.Though the nights in Rouen are stunning with the Cathedral Notre Dame lit like a witch’s pyre, the dark of night enchanted by the endless strings of lights strung and shining off row-after-row of timber-framed houses. The clicking of heels on cobbled streets. The echoing of laughter down the alleys. Yet it is the mornings that are most special to me.Nonetheless, even as I marvel at Rebecca and the good nature that morning brings, I smell, hear, feel, even taste the foul stench of a hoarding creature, a green-eyed monster, whose ravening appetite and corrupting spirit is infecting the square.Left unchecked, it won’t be long before a girl is burned at the stake.* * *In the great fall, there were two sets of fallen creatures. The Dark Angels fell to hell and though Enoch interceded, their fate was sealed. But there were also the Watchers who were conscripted to stand guard over man. I was one of these. We are the most ancient. And our fate is less certain. It is believed, and I believe, some of us have lived up to our oath. Alas, it is also the case, as well you know, that some of my kind could not resist the temptation of human women—as I have, all these many centuries—and they fell too. Terrible as their betrayals were—with worse consequences—the Nephilim, the Flood—it cannot be said that they gave in to a small temptation. The forbidden union of fallen Watchers and fair maidens gave rise to both the Biters and the Reprobates. These are demigod cousins, half-breeds, born from the same parentage. Biters are monstrous beasts. They possess the energies and magic of the angelic host, mixed with the corrupted rotting core of lustful, envious men. The stuff of folklore and fantasy. Of this group, Gargouille is one of the worst.As for the Reprobates. This group resembles man in all aspects but possesses a touch of divine agency. These are the fair people: the mages, witches, augurers, and mavens. Romanus is one of these.A group of us pure hearts—the Union—sprung up. A group of Watchers, Dark Angels, Reprobates, and even a few Biters, all committed to dispatching evil, rather than reveling in it. Yet, in eleven centuries, Gargouille has risen from the shadows time and time again. Often subdued, but never dispatched. He feeds on man’s greed. He is the spirit of all that glitters in the eyes of man. Gargouille slithers off the banks of the river Seine into Roumare Forest. I can smell his skunksulfur sweat from the cathedral. He flares his muzzled lips to reveal rows of teeth with calcified tartar and corral, teeth the size of nightmares. He scans the landscape. Snorting and sniffing with his wet nostrils, he sees something stirring in the bogs among the beeches, oaks, and black pine. A litter of hogs, kept by a local artisan. The perfect meal after such a long slumber.He chortles and churrs with delight as he smells the tender flesh of the piggies and anticipates his meal. He slinks through the stink of the bogs. Weak. Oh, so weak. But soon he will feed and grow stronger. Soon he will be at his full strength. Soon he will hunger for larger game, treasure rooms, mountain vaults, and emerald palaces. For those most sacred treasures locked in human hearts.* * *Romanus struts into the atrium in an emerald, green, and black plaid suit—an Italian Murano Suit of wool and linen—finely tailored to his regal and rawboned build—all elbows, knees, and shoulders. He leans on a long gold-knobbed cane of glistening silver that he clicks heedlessly as he comes. He climbs the right-hand tower, where I am perched. His face is draped in a regal beard, with a thin moustache, and a pointed Barbe Espagnol. His ears are slightly pointed, and his eyes have a green halo around the irises. A dead giveaway for a sorcerer of old.I shake off my long slumber and stretch out my wings. Yawning so as to accentuate my beastly chest and pointed talons. I come to my full height, almost nine feet tall.“Old man,” I say.“My dear Gargle, I assume you know why I’m here,” he begins.“I received your letter—you want to call up the Union—Les Chasseurs Grotesques,” I say.“So far it is only some pigs, but you know what comes next,” he says.“Why should I intervene? It is man’s lust that has fed the creature of envy back to health,” I say.“Come now. You have a place in the Silver City, but I am damned. I must atone. And you are the only one strong enough to vanquish this thing,” Romanus says with a shrug.“Have you forgotten that Dalia paid for her life the last time? We have no magnet—we would need to recruit a new magnet at the very least—”“—And we will, we will—”“—and Solomon Barnes was also taken in the flames. We will need a trimmer. Without a magnet and a trimmer, we have no chance of subduing the monster,” I conclude.“Tis a problem, ‘tis, it is.”“When was the last time you tried to recruit a magnet or a trimmer in Rouen? Do you know how few of the fairy people are left in this city,” I say.“Well then, it is settled. I’m off to find some new recruits. And as for you—it is time to fly. Time for reconnaissance.”“Old man,” I say, stopping him. “This is the last time.”“What?”“When this is over, I want you to turn me into a man,” I tell him.“Why on earth would you make such a foolish demand,” he says, his green eyes swirling like kaleidoscopes in the middle of Ferris wheels. “You would slough off your Gargoyle’s armor—leave yourself vulnerable and unprotected—Gargle? Why?”“I have my reasons,” I say.“Ahh, a taste of the forbidden fruit, is it?” Romanus asked.“It isn’t forbidden if I am mortal,” I say. “All I have to do is be willing to pay with a death.”* * *Rebecca and Olivier drive their Fiat along via D982 toward Roumare Forest, tracking the River Seine to the South. The operator of the restaurant has sent his head server and the chef out to the pig farmer to pick up some fresh pork and pig belly for the night’s entrée.“I bought some Converse Sneakers for Chloé while I was in the states,” Olivier says.“Do you think she will like it,” Rebecca asks, placing a baby sunflower in the front of her hair.“Oh yes, quite so,” Olivier says.“I sometimes dream of being whisked away from the busy, busy work of the day-to-day—to a cabin in a forest where all is quiet and serene. Bathing in the stream. Dancing in wooded meadows. Trapping game. Cooking from a big hearth fire. Quiet nights whistling with the sounds of the forest. Really experiencing life rather than trying to subdue it or accomplish it.”“This is a good…” but Olivier stops in the middle of the road—midsentence—as a slinking beast the size of an elephant crawls out onto the dusty road and turns its serpentine head toward the car, all catfish whiskers and rhinoceros horns. It glowers at them with deep green eyes, framed in red burning halos.Rebecca screams.* * *In the basement of the Taverne de Thor, Léo le Lutin and Henri le Nain are at it again.Leo flips a gold coin into the air, and says, “Ahntee up, chump.” Leo is about three-and-a-half feet tall in a short green suit with coattails, donning a deep red beard, complete with a bow tie and top hat, a buckled belt, and buckled shoes. A cast iron stone pot sits next to him, full of shiny gold coins. Leprechauns are known as magnets because they attract the Gargouille with their treasure.Henri pulls a chunk of solid gold out of his duffel slamming it on the pool table, and says, “Ayy, matey, ahm in.” Henri is wearing a Herringbone Tunic and leather chaps. He is also about three-and-a-half feet tall with a dusty beard and a pocked face marked with acne. His pickaxe lies in the corner. Dwarves are known as trimmers because they can hedge in the Gargouille from its rear due to their immense strength and otherworldly speed.Leo stands over the pool table on a footstool and breaks the racked balls. Henri goes next and pockets three balls before missing (also using the stool, and carrying it with him as he goes).Romanus stands over them with a pitcher of Kro beer. “Boys, I’m looking for a magnet and a trimmer.”“You are weeth the Union, no,” Leo asks.“We want no part of that,” Henri says. “We are out for ourselves.”“Well boys, it is your lucky day—I can pay for your services,” Romanus says.“It won’t be cheap,” Leo says.“I’d expect not,” Romanus says, pouring a beer for each of them.* * *As I fly over the Roumare Forest, I can hear Rebecca’s screeching and sobbing. I dive toward the sound of the screams and the air fills my enormous wings, which flap heavily in the misty, musty wooden air. I unsheathe my sword and feel the venom of the dragon’s breath drift up like smoke from a bonfire, tickling my nostrils with acrid ammonia.As I reach the roadway, I dive toward the Gargouille.Romanus, his magnet, and the trimmer are nowhere to be found.I drive my sword deep into the neck of the Gargouille but draw no blood. Instead, a ghoulish green fog leaks out from the wound and it shakes its head like a dog. I shake my wings and stab the beast over and over, driving it back into the ancient forest.I look back over my shoulder at Rebecca, terrified, trembling in the passenger seat of the Fiat. As I fly off to look for Romanus, I think, I will be seeing you soon, My Cherie.* * *The Gargouille must have circled back, and I now see it clasping the Fiat in its talons and flying toward the center of Rouen. It is making a direct path for Le Gros-Horloge—the great clock.I follow closely behind it all the way into the Place du Vieux-Marché. I see that the new magnet (Leo) has climbed the clock tower. I also see on the ground by Romanus one stumpy little trimmer (Henri) readying his pickax.Romanus is divining a binding spell to pull the Fiat from the clutches of Gargouille. And as Gargouille flies overhead a magical force like an invisible barrier pulls against the small car. Gargouille pitches upward and angles his wings down, beating them furiously, but to no avail. Romanus safely brings down the Fiat by the center of the square.Ever ravenous, Gargouille spots Leo flicking a gleaming gold coin and takes the bait, heading toward the clock tower. His wings beat the air so hard that a small drizzle of friction fire rains down and drops like hail on the roof of the Fiat.Close on the heels of Gargouille, I unsheathe my sword and prepare for the battle of a lifetime.I call down to Romanus, “Ready the flames and build a bonfire.”As Gargouille pulls back to navigate the tight-cornered alley framed by Le Gros-Horloge, I thrust my sword into his belly and pin him to the clock. He snaps his jaws and groans a gruesome hawr-awr-awwrrr. Eyes are encircled by flame and a tongue of fire crispens the air and ash shoots forth from his nostrils.“I am ready,” Romanus shouts.I withdraw my blade and grab the creature's head with one taloned claw and aim its body like a dart, down toward the pyre erected in the central square. Gargouille flails and spirals as he falls. I rear up on my haunches in mid-air, raise my blade high overhead in a stabbing posture, sailing forward to deliver the mortschlag.My blade slices through the beast's liver and is lodged deep in the ground, pinning the monster.Henri is fast at work binding Gargouille’s tail to the street with a blizzard of railroad spikes. Romanus is quickly assembling and rolling large balls of hay into the circle of the pyre. And then he sends forth a bolt of flames and the pyre blazes, engulfing the creature in an inferno of orange tongues of flame.Romanus throws a stray black cat from the alley on the witch’s pyre to appease the devil.Rebecca and Olivier look on in shock, surely never to be quite the same again.I draw my blade and sever the evil head from the mount of its shoulders. And so as to ensure this slithering appetite never feeds its hunger again, I fly to my old perch and with a handful of lava-like flame, mortar the severed head to the high end of the right tower. I then thrust my sword down its throat to create a rain spout.I toss my sword away on a high parapet. I will not be needing it.* * *I descend to the ground, falling in slow, deliberate paths, dancing above the smoke and sulfur of the flames and the rancid dragon flesh on the pyre.Romanus waits for me beside the circle. He slaps my but with his cane and says, “Well done, old chap—very, very well done.”“Now fulfill your promise old man,” I say.“Close your eyes he says…”Stones and monuments have been used the world over as markers since the beginning of time. They mark graves. Are piled into cairns at mountain summits. From the boundaries of plots of land. Designate sacred places and holy ground. Preserve commands on tablets. They are the first and last time capsules, connecting the distant past to the limitless future. And everyone knows the finality of the words “written in stone.” But my future is not.As I open my eyes, I look out at the passenger seat of the Fiat, and say “… I never guessed she’d look even lovelier with human eyes.”
","September 13, 2023 22:46","[[{'Robert Egan': 'Nice bit of worldbuilding in this story. I got the sense that this could be a self-contained chapter in a novel or part of a larger collection of stories. Hope that sorcerer of old, Romanus, finds his way into something else!', 'time': '23:51 Sep 18, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Danie Nikole': 'Good read! \n\nLoved the vivid imagery \n\n""I feel my soul, like a firefly trapped in a jar, buzzing about, and smashing against my concrete ribs—encased in a dark stone prison.""', 'time': '10:01 Sep 18, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Mary Bendickson': 'Such drama to win the heart of a fair maiden!', 'time': '21:53 Sep 15, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Jonathan Page': 'Thanks Mary!', 'time': '08:27 Sep 16, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Jonathan Page': 'Thanks Mary!', 'time': '08:27 Sep 16, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0003,Write a story about a monster trying to become more human. Or about a human trying to become more monstrous.,7c7ozn,Like People,Tori Lewis,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/7c7ozn/,/short-story/7c7ozn/,Thriller and Suspense,0,"['Horror', 'Suspense']",12 likes,"
	I have watched him for many days now. From the edge of the woods, I watch him still, hidden from view by the shade of the trees. I have seen people come and go, arriving in their–what is that word I mean?--automobiles. There have been many people in his house. They come with…plates piled high with their food–cooked and bubbling. With wet faces, they tell him they are sorry for his loss. They call it a tragedy. I am unfamiliar with this word and its meaning, but I am learning their language and will soon speak it as they do. It will be natural and… precise, and all the words will be the right words.
	“Such a tragedy,” they say. I hear them when they stand in the grass behind his house. “She was so young. I didn’t even realize we had bears in these parts.”
	They speak of the woman who lived here. She came into the woods, and I did not let her leave. I need food like they do, but I do not want it cooked and bubbling. They found the parts I did not like and blamed a bear. I do not know what a bear is, but I know that I am not one. 
	I see the people wrap their limbs around him and press their fronts to his. They place their claws on his back and pat, pat, pat. Their claws are not long and sharp like mine. It must be a great pleasure to feel a claw at your back that does not rip your flesh. If I were to pat him in that way, I would tear him open, and there would be… blood–blood on his clothing, blood on the grass where they stand and talk of tragedies and bears.
	“We have to go, but give me a hug,” one says to him, and they grab him, press their fronts together, pat, pat, pat with their claws. It is called a hug, then.
	“Give me a hug,” I try with my own voice. My voice does not sound like theirs, not yet, but I am willing to–what is that word?--practice. I will practice until it is right, until it sounds like people. “Give me a hug,” I will tell him, and I will wrap him in my claws–pat, pat, pat–careful not to tear him open.
	I have lived in these woods for very long–long before there were houses and people in automobiles, and here I have been…lonely. There was no one to watch before, but now I see him; him with his wet face and red eyes. Now I see people who hug and bring plates of food. I see, and I am…jealous. I am jealous of their closeness and their touch. I long to step out of the shadows and have one of them pat my back with their short, stubby claws, but the spikes of my spine are sharp and there would be more blood on the grass.
	They would see me and be… afraid. The woman was afraid when I caught her in my claws and she saw my face. I ate her head first so she would stop screaming, then I spat out the hair and bone, for they are difficult to… swallow. I am concerned the others would scream too. Oh, to be people–to walk around with their smooth skin and short claws; to smile and hug with a wet face when there is a tragedy.
 They are leaving now, going away in their automobiles, and soon it will be night. I can see through the large… windows of the house. I can see he is alone, surrounded by plates of food, but he does not eat. His face is still wet, and he buries it in his short claws. 
	He can help me, can help me be more like people. 
	I wait for the sun to set and watch as he walks up the… stairs and disappears from view. In the darkness, I cross the line of trees and make my way towards the house–my front and back claws digging into the flat, green grass, ripping it from the earth with every step. But how to enter this house? Earlier I saw people come and go through this–what is that word I mean?--door; they pushed the door open after twisting this knob. I try to grab it, but my claws make it difficult; I try, and I try, but it feels as though the knob is unable to turn, so I twist it with all my might until I feel something give. The knob becomes loose and falls to the ground as the door swings open. 
	I am inside now. 
	I hear a noise overhead, as I step further into the house. The struggle with the door was louder than expected, and I fear I may have… startled him. I stand back on my hind legs, stretching to my full height, and press my ear to the floor above my head–no, not floor…ceiling. I hear the sound of footsteps, light and quick. I will go to him now and explain why I broke the door. I will go to him and ask him to help me. 
	I find the stairs I watched him climb through the windows, and I know I must practice to walk like people. I remain on my hind legs and lift one clawed foot to the first step. There are branches along the stairs that I grab to help steady myself, long smooth branches on either side to keep me upright. One foot before the other. This is how I must walk now. Upright on two legs–two legs instead of four–one foot before the other. Stairs are tricky. I must take my time with stairs, bend my legs in the middle at the… knees. 
	I am on the stairs very long, for I do not want to fall. The ceiling is low above me, and I must keep my head down and curve my back, else my spikes will scrape. When I reach the top, I am startled to see the man in front of me, half hidden by another door, not far away. He screams, and the sound is… familiar. It is the scream of the woman in the woods, but this time will be different. I will not bite off his head. I need him to help me. 
	I move forward, still standing tall on my back legs, for he must know I can walk like people. If I walk like people, he will be less afraid. I move towards the door, but he slams it in my face. This door is not as difficult to open as the first. It opens easily as I push on it with my front claws and large head. The man is hiding when I walk–walk like people–inside this space, this… room. He does not stop screaming, but I know how to help him feel–what is that word I mean?--safe. Stretching my claws out towards him, I raise my head, and with my best voice, I say to him, “Give me a hug.” 
	He does not come to me. He does not reach out with his own limbs. He does not press our fronts together. He is afraid, and I must show him I mean him no harm. Stepping further into the room, I block his path as he tries to run away. With my claws, I grab him–grab him like I did the woman–but this time, I am careful. I bring my claws to his back, pull him to my front, and pat, pat, pat. He is wiggling and fighting, and I cannot help but hold him tighter. Pat, pat, pat. He screams in… agony, and the rush of blood spilling over my claws tells me what I have done. I have torn him open. I did not mean to, but as I lean over his body to peer at his back, I see my claws have ripped it to shreds. I hold him out in front of me as the blood drains from his tiny form. His mouth begins to move, and I must bring him to my ear to hear the words he speaks.
	“M-m-monster…”
 Monster. I am unfamiliar with this word and its meaning. So many words to learn from people. I know much of this language, but there are many words I still do not know. His body is limp in my claws. His blood has spread all across the floor, the spray slowing to a… trickle from the cuts in his back. How am I to be people now? 
	I set him down on the … bed in the room, and as I turn to leave through the door, I am startled by what I see on the wall: myself, my… reflection. I am very pale, like bone, and large. I am large and take up all the space in the… mirror. My claws drip with blood, my large head scrapes the ceiling above despite the hunch in my spiked back, my wide and pointed mouth gapes before me. I am afraid of what I see. It is no wonder the man screamed and fought as he did. I cannot be people like this. I cannot be people looking the way I do. 
	He can still help me, can still help me be more like people. 
	I look down at my claws, my claws which shredded his skin so easily, and I am struck by a… idea. I look back to his form on the bed. The blood has seeped into the sheets, turning them a deep… red. I look away, ashamed, back to the wall. My reflection is haunting, and I tear my eyes away from it the second they land on the mirror again. If I am to be like people, changes must be made.
	The spikes on my back–the spikes sticking out, upward towards the ceiling–must go. People do not have such spikes. I reach around, and with my claws, I grasp the first spike, at the base of my spine. I rip and pull with all my might, and soon it breaks off. I am overcome with a terrible feeling that ripples out from where I tore the spike, and the sound ripped from my throat is unlike any I have ever heard before. The walls of the room rattle from the force of it, but I cannot stop now. My own blood joins his on the bed, and my claws move up to the next spike. Though it is unbearable, though I wish to fall to the floor–to fall to my knees on the floor–I break it off as well. Another scream shakes the room, yet I do it again and again and again, until all my spikes are in a pile on the floor. Now, my back is smooth, smooth as it will ever be, with slight bumps along the stretch of my spine. This is far more… tolerable. This will do.
	I need my claws, need them for one final task. I grab his body, lifting it from the bed as gently as I can, making slight, precise cuts where skin meets bone. Soon, the two are separated: skin from bone. I cast the bones and innards aside, and they join the pile with the spikes from my spine. The skin is thin… delicate, and I lay it out neatly along the bed as each piece is pulled free from the rest of his remains. 
	These claws; I no longer have need of them. They have served their purpose for years, leading up to this night, this night where all things change, and I become like them–like people. I know the terrible sensation will return. I know I will scream in agony–like I did with the spikes, like the man did when I tore his back–but it must be done. I lift the first of the claws to my mouth– my mouth lined with many sharp… teeth–and I bite. I bite down on my claws like I did the woman’s head. Blood fills my wide and pointed mouth, and it bubbles around the scream I cannot… stifle. I rip my limb away from my mouth and spit the claws out onto the floor. My pile of things is growing: spikes, bones, innards, claws, and very much blood. I do the same with the claws of my other legs. The… pain–pain is the name of the terrible sensation–is too strong, and I fall, my large, dark eyes closing before I hit the floor. 
	I sleep. I sleep for very long, but when I wake, I am pleased to find my long, sharp claws are no more, and the blood has dried on all my limbs. I stand back on my hind legs again and look at the mirror to see the work I have done. These changes are good, they will make it easier, despite the pain. Turning to the bed, I reach for the first piece of skin–skin I stripped from his hind legs. I drape it over mine, but there is not enough. My hind legs are much longer than his, but I cover what I can. I do the same with the other; then I move to the front legs; the front legs I do not use to walk anymore, for I walk upright on two legs–two legs, instead of four–with one foot before the other. 
	The skin I cut from his middle must be pieced together across my chest and… stomach, but I use every scrap to hide as much of me as I can. When all that remains is my head, I look at the skin I have left–the skin I stripped from his face. The holes for his eyes do not line up with mine, so I grab a broken claw from the floor and… slice two new eye holes so I can see. As I stretch the skin over my head, his…lips split open and slide up the sides of my pointed mouth. I have lips now, lips like people have. In the mirror, I still see the bone white of my own flesh peeking through the stretched and layered bits of his skin, but I am–what is that word I mean?--proud of how much I look like people. 
	Tomorrow, they will return–they will return with their plates of cooked and bubbling food, which I will eat. I must learn to like the taste of cooked meat, for that is how I must eat it now. They will come back in their automobiles, with their outstretched limbs, and I will say to them, “Give me a hug.” They will, for I look like people now. I wear this skin, I walk upright on my two legs, I speak their words as if I have for very long. They will see me, and they will not be afraid. They will hug me, and I will place my short, stubby claws on their backs and pat, pat, pat, but this time there will be no tearing of flesh. With our wet faces, we will stand in the grass and speak of tragedies and bears, and nothing will watch us from the shade of the trees. Not anymore.
 
","September 12, 2023 19:47","[[{'Karen McDermott': 'What a haunting body horror. I liked the Frankenstein-esque tone, and that we are left not knowing entirely what the monster looks like, before or after the attempted surgeries.', 'time': '14:39 Sep 16, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0003,Write a story about a monster trying to become more human. Or about a human trying to become more monstrous.,2hbq6z,Choose Life,Jed Cope,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/2hbq6z/,/short-story/2hbq6z/,Thriller and Suspense,0,"['Horror', 'Thriller', 'Suspense']",11 likes,"
The sun abandons a city brim full of life. This overcrowded and noisy place buzzes with an electric vitality that heats the pavement beneath my feet and shines bright lights through my eyes and into my brain. There was a time when this cocoon of hyperactivity enlivened me. But tonight I am tired. Tired of this life. My bones ache and once again I am sinking below the surface of humanity, my breath caught inside my chest, making me feel sick to my stomach.
 
I sink lower and lower until I am where I deserve to be. I find my level and the pressure of the world above me reassures me. I belong here. I should never have had ideas above my station. I should have quit those aspirations a very long time ago.
 
But I haven’t. Hope springs eternal in the foolish heart. And I am as foolish as they come. I have very little of worth within this frame of mine, but I do contain a childish naivety that does nothing other than hurt me. I am my own punishment and I dwell in a world named Purgatory. This is my world, and yet it rejects me with every fibre of its being. I am witness to it and nothing more.
 
Tonight is like any other night. I have gone forth into this world to observe someone of interest. I take my time. I always take my time. I have all the time in the world and I dare to think I may be mastering patience. Damping down my disastrous urges. Holding them at bay for as long as is possible.
 
Waiting.
 
Besides, I have to be sure. Even after all this time, I have to be sure. This in the face of my utter certainty. I knew at first sight. Love is not the only thing that can strike in that initial instant. There are always two sides to everything and I dwell in that other side.
 
So does he.
 
I saw him for what he was from the off. 
 
He spends a lot of time pretending that he is something other than what he is. He pretends so often and with such aplomb that he thinks that he believes his own lies, but how can he when he is focused so totally on his inner darkness?
 
He’s a monster in the making, and I should know. I’m as monstrous as they come.
 
I have been watching him for quite a while now. He has not made this easy for me. He is reclusive and no wonder. His biggest fear is to be caught in his lie. Ultimately, he is ashamed of what he is becoming. He knows what he is doing is wrong, but he does it all the same.
 
What I saw from the start was an absence. Where his humanity should have been there was darkness and in the darkness lurked a heady cocktail that could easily be mistaken for rage and hate, but within that was also fear and shame. This man is no man and what is left is wounded, cowardly and weak.
 
Tonight, I watched him lurk in his own shameful, dark hewn pain and eventually bring himself forth into this night. I followed him from his flat. His broken nature obvious to anyone who would take just a moment to gaze upon him. Shoulders sloped, head fallen forwards, eyes downcast. Always pay attention to the eyes. The eyes don’t lie. His eyes look down into the depths of despair and this is where he dwells. This is where he wants to take others. He intends to seduce the vulnerable and drag them under. Torture them whilst whispering sweet nothings in their ear. He’s very good at sweet nothings. He’s filled with nothingness after all.
 
Sometimes, I have to remind myself that they know exactly what they are doing. This life of theirs is all about choices. They are no different to everyone else. Even though I know their nature and what they are about, I still lapse. I find myself swept out by a deceptive tide into their sea of lies.
 
He enters a bar and I follow suit. The bar is not a dive, but neither is it fancy. There is a formula for many things and this bar follows a formula in the hope that it works well enough to still be here in a year’s time. The attrition rate for these places is startlingly high, but it is masked by the next iteration. The bar fails, new owners come along, the façade changes, but inside it will essentially be the same. 
 
Always the same. 
 
Seeing through the smoke and mirrors depresses me so utterly. Under the layers of reinvention, under the paint and wallpaper it is all the same. Nothing changes. Ever. It is all a dance, and when the music stops there is a dark anarchy that threatens to consume everything. 
 
The veil behind which chaos hides is dangerously thin. We create an illusion to hold back our own madness, but the madness is there all the same and it pushes us hither and thither, pushes us closer and closer to that fatal edge.
 
I watch as he deploys a smile, and I wonder why his intended victim does not see how that smile falls so short of his eyes. There is nothing behind those eyes, but she is blind to that. Too busy is she in mirroring his smile. She wants this too much. She grasps what little he offers her and makes it into something far more than it could ever be.
 
He makes her do the work. He uses her against herself. He’s found his victim. She has had a bad run of it and she’s desperate for affection. All he has to do is smile and say the right things. Words are one of his most effective weapons. She is another of his weapons now. He uses words like a chef uses ingredients, only a chef cares about those ingredients and they have meaning. But he does not care. There is no meaning. There is only the dark urge. She is his drug and he will use her. 
 
I have seen where that use leads. I have marvelled at how long the symbiote can feed from its host. Fifty years and counting in some cases. You would think the host would wake up to its plight. But then no one wants to wake up to the true reality of their existence. The very prospect of that is terrifying and they are too invested in the way things are to ever question them, even in the face of worsening torture and pain.
 
I observe his actions. From where I sit, they are methodical and they are clumsy and obvious. He is a badly programmed robot going through the motions. I see this again and again. Sometimes it’s the same robot going through the exact same patterns over and over. Simple, sad and deadly dangerous.
 
There are many ways to kill someone. A person who experiences death doesn’t necessarily cease to exist. Death is being torn away from everything you love and value. Death is isolation from the world that counts.
 
She thinks he’s charming. He is not. Nonetheless, those who escape his kind will recount those early stages and they will all say that creatures like him were charming, when all they are, are liars. Lies used to perpetuate the wants of the victim. Deception is easy. It is merely a gentle push.
 
I smile despite myself as he does his pushing and she enjoys a fantasy that will ultimately be her undoing. 
 
“I will save you,” I whisper across the bar to the damsel in denial.
 
I know this to be a lie. I do not do this for the poor unfortunates drawn towards these collapsed dwarf stars. They are of no consequence to me. I know my nature. This is sport. Anything more is a salve to a conscience I no longer possess.
 
I blink and the evening is already in its dying throes. I come back to myself via the music playing a little too loudly. Music has always spoken to me. Music persuades me that maybe there is still something of worth within this old shell of mine. I take a moment to enjoy the song that is playing and I am moved.
 
Disappointment taps me on the shoulder as he finishes his act and takes his mark from the bar. I watch him leave and entertain the possibility of a swift and merciful end for the thing that should have been a man, but was too cowardly to be so. I would be doing the world a favour. I’m a problem solver. Maybe I can’t bring light into this world, but I can rid it of some of the dark and I figure that’s something of worth that I can do until I solve the ultimate problem; the meaning of my existence. I’ve still not worked out why I’m here, and what I am for.
 
There is no solace in understanding that no one else has either.
 
I do not rush. There is no need. I know where he is headed and were I to be wrong about this, I could smell him from a mile off. That smell of his is what attracted me to him in the first place. He thinks he’s clever. He believes that he can hide in plain sight. 
 
I see you. 
 
I see you well enough.
 
I think this to myself as I unfurl from my seat and drift out into the neon clad night. Soon enough, I have caught up with the deliriously happy woman who is hand in hand with a giant leech. I swallow down my frustration at the blindness that she shares with so many. I resist the sudden impulse to call her out on this. To reveal him for what he is.
 
That would not do.
 
It appals me that in this we are similar, he and I. I do not want to be exposed. I protect the secret of what I am fiercely and jealously. Yet, I convince myself that I am better than him.
 
I’m different.
 
They enter his flat. It is one of the four flours of an old Victorian house. One of many grand houses that were the norm for a family a hundred or so years ago. Now too expensive for many of the denizens of this sick city. A city poisoned by such as he.
 
I enter the house itself and then I knock on the door of his flat. Fittingly, he lives in the depths of the house, in it’s basement. 
 
He opens the door, “hello?” he says.
 
I stand before him and watch the veneer he has been wearing these past few hours ripple and then dissolve. Behind it is the sneering mask of unfettered callousness that is ever present. He never grew up. He never learnt to control this aspect of himself. He is a dangerous one trick pony and I see right through him.
 
I am smiling and he sees in my smile, his own. Only my smile is no deception. Mine is turned right up to eleven on the dial and he sees it for what it is; the snarl of a predator.
 
“I see you,” I say quietly to him.
 
I am rewarded with the sight of him diminishing. I have unmasked him. I am using him against himself. Two can play this game, but I will always, always win.
 
I take his limp hand and lead him to the slaughter. He does not go willingly, but he is weak. He cannot organise himself into any semblance of resistance. He has deceived and denied for so long, he has been rendered a loose and incoherent bag of lies.
 
“You didn’t even have to invite me in,” I say softly.
 
His eyes go wide. I have confirmed his suspicions and he now knows me for what I am. The myths and the legends stipulate that I must be invited over the threshold. Regardless of the truth of it, his lies and his foul deeds have invited much worse than I over this threshold. He disregarded the warnings and he thought he was in control. Never was this the case. In the circumstances, I am a blessing.
 
We enter the living room and he stands dumbly and awkwardly. Much changed from the charming liar in the bar.
 
“Steph!” I say brightly, “I have heard so much about you! It’s so good to meet you!”
 
I cross the room and she stands to greet me, confusion writ large across her face. I take her hand and slip my arm around her waist, “but my, you are more beautiful than I could have ever imagined!” I say this whilst staring deeply into her eyes. She responds to me just as I knew she would.
 
And then we dance. 
 
I swirl her around and around, her already dizzied mind taken on a rollercoaster ride of senses and emotions. There is music, but none that anyone other than the two of us can hear. We dance and dance, she is breathless with an excitement she has never before experienced and I could take her in that moment. I could give her exactly what she thinks she wants and I could take everything from her, but somehow I don’t, and we are out in the street, going around and around until we come to a stop under the amber halo of a street light. 
 
I kiss her once before we part forever, “you’ve had a luck escape, Steph. Never sell yourself short again. You are good enough. You were always good enough. Never let anyone make you think otherwise. That includes you. You’re destined to live a good life with good people. Go. Go now, and make it happen.”
 
I gaze down into her eyes. Eyes that cloud over as I speak, “Daddy?” she whispers in a small voice.
 
“It’s OK,” I say in a voice that she knows only too well, “go home now, chickadee. Tomorrow’s another day…”
 
“…and the sun always comes up!” she says brightly.
 
She turns then, and skips away.
 
I have a pretty good feeling that Steph’s going to be OK. Now to make sure of that and ensure no one else is drawn away from where they belong in this strange and sometimes wonderful world.
 
Nursing a fragile feeling of elation laced with something that might be happiness, I return to the flat. He is exactly where I left him. He has not moved. He does not have the wherewithal to do so. I closed him down and he has nothing left.
 
He is nothing.
 
I could lie and say that this hopelessness speaks to me. That I see there is nothing here for me, and so I walk away. That is a mistake so many people make. I will not make that mistake. I will not falter. 
 
Gently, I lead him to the threadbare and battered sofa and guide him to a seated position.
 
“You can come back now,” I say to him, “she’s gone.”
 
He awakens from his self-imposed hypnosis, confusion flitters across his face like a startled bird and then there is shock and fear. I have breached his defences, of which there are many. No one is supposed to do that. He has spent a lifetime constructing those defences so that no one can see who he truly is.
 
Including him.
 
“There’s nowhere to hide,” I tell him.
 
“No!” he gasps.
 
That is the last of his resistance. 
 
I burn him alive with the truth. I expose him to its light and he chokes on his own screams. I give him everything and he cannot take it. He is crushed and pathetic. I hold a mirror up to his true self and his shame consumes him.
 
When it is done, I consume him, ridding the world of a small piece of evil.
 
I have convinced myself that I am making the best of a bad situation. I did not choose to be this way. Or if I did, then I do not recall making that choice.
 
The lies we tell ourselves.
 
Perhaps I pursue these broken would be monsters in the pursuit of my own redemption. How much of myself I see in them is a mystery. I once heard someone say that we are more similar than we are different. I hope not. I hope the people milling around me are better than that. I have had over two hundred years as a monster and still I resist the nature of the beast that I am. I refuse to admit that I am no longer human and I keep up the pretence of my humanity in the hope that the fantasy of my existence will one day magically transform into reality.
 
Two centuries ago, I lost myself. I lost my humanity. I lost it to charm, charisma and an empty promise that contained my demise. I have fought against that truth ever since. 
 
Maybe that is what it is to be human.
 
Is it enough?
 
Only time will tell, and I have a lot of that on my side. Far too much of it. And I’ve had time enough to discover that it’s far easier for some to give themselves over to the darkness and unleash the monster that lurks within. 
 
Easier to be a monster than a decent human being.
 
Problem is that most people deny the existence of monsters, when we all have that dark side. Far too many people turn away from their true nature instead of doing what is right and shining their light into the darkness.
 
I don’t see that changing.
 
In fact, it’s getting worse.
 
Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have monsters to catch and a hunger that will not be ignored.
","September 10, 2023 13:38","[[{'Heather Van Rensburg': 'Spine chilling', 'time': '16:18 Sep 16, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Jed Cope': 'Glad it hit the spot!', 'time': '21:13 Sep 16, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Jed Cope': 'Glad it hit the spot!', 'time': '21:13 Sep 16, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Mary Bendickson': 'A monster gone good?', 'time': '21:40 Sep 10, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Jed Cope': ""Well... not exactly.\nDon't think I'd invite him for dinner..."", 'time': '10:48 Sep 11, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Jed Cope': ""Well... not exactly.\nDon't think I'd invite him for dinner..."", 'time': '10:48 Sep 11, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0003,Write a story about a monster trying to become more human. Or about a human trying to become more monstrous.,5pzuph,Monster with Two Faces ,Danie Nikole,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/5pzuph/,/short-story/5pzuph/,Thriller and Suspense,0,"['Horror', 'Sad', 'Speculative']",8 likes,"
 T/W: Mentions of childhood sexual abuse, disordered eating, and addiction. Please read at your own discretion.I am not a monster.She tries to persuade me every time I see her. The problem is, she doesn’t know me like I know me. She doesn’t know I have two faces. One, an angelic face acceptable to society. It’s the one I show her and everyone else. The other face, is an unsettling one, with the coolness of its dead grey eyes, and the chill of its lifeless skin. I keep it locked inside the most hidden parts of me. I can’t show it to the world. They won’t accept it.“How are you doing today, Nicole?” She asks, as she sips her chamomile tea.The smell makes me nauseous. I hate the smell of lavender. If not the lavender, it could be the honey. Whatever smell exists inside her cup making her so calm. My fingers itch to shatter the mug in her hands and watch her lose her composure. I detest the way she tilts her head. Mostly, I can’t stand the pity in her eyes as she uses her words to claw at my layers.She wants to understand me. I want to understand why she wastes her time. I’ve spent years with myself and even I don’t know how I became this sick creature writhing in on itself in front of her. Actually, that’s a lie. It takes a monster to create a monster. Still, what happens when a monster wants to become human? I search her face like she holds the keys to my humanity. “I can’t complain,” I smile through my words, “Life treats me well enough.”The clock ticks down on the wall like a slow dripping faucet, fifty eight minutes to go. She watches me watch the door. I imagine I look like a dog thrown in a tub for a bath. I need to be clean, yet, I watch the door because I hate the water. I watch it like my life depends on it. Any second the door will crack open with an escape from this horrible magnifying glass I’m under. I wait for more words to pour out of her like suds washing away the dirtiest parts of me. “Last time, we made real progress. I’m proud of you for sharing pieces of your past. It can be hard to share parts of yourself with a stranger.”Her words irritate my nervous system, setting me on edge. I’m not sharing parts of me to make her proud. She speaks to me like I have a choice being here. I don’t have a choice. I am sick. I am so sick inside. Society says sitting on a couch is the answer to sewing my aching flesh back together into something that looks human.“It isn’t hard, actually. When I talk about myself I don’t feel anything at all. It’s like talking about a stranger to a stranger.”She takes another slow sip of her disgusting tea and pierces me with her eyes. They’re green with layers of yellow like a dying lawn on a hot summer’s day. Her legs cross in crisp pants, white like hospital walls. I stare with an empty feeling in my chest at her sandals. Her toes peak through the tops with a fresh red pedicure. Rich blond highlights color her hair, not a single strand out of place. She holds herself together with confidence and grace. I can’t help wondering what it’s like to love yourself like that. I can’t help wondering what it’s like to love yourself at all.“Last time, we spoke about your uncle. Do you want to talk more about what happened?”“How’s your boyfriend?” I ask. “Is he still out of town? Must be hard.” She takes the bait, “He should be back the first of next month.” We spend the next thirty minutes talking about the places he travels for work. She’s oblivious to the way I can bat around our conversations like a cat with a mouse. I can’t say why I waste these sessions like this. I can, but no one will like the answer. I waste them because I want help and I don’t want help. I want to pretend I’m putting in the work to be more human. Look at me, I am one step closer to being like all the other humans around me. I’m not an empty shell. I am not a monster. With ten minutes of our session left on the clock, I feel safe sliding over another dirty part of me for her to clean. My fingers tangle themselves in the grey fleece blanket on her couch while I choose my words. I won’t tell her the full truth. I’ll tell her half and see how she reacts. You never know with humans. They say they want to help you. They only want what’s best for you. In my experience, they will throw you under the bus the moment it serves them. I’m not condemning them, don’t get me wrong. How could I? I do the same thing and worse. Sometimes, I throw people under the bus for no reason other than because I feel like it. “I think I have an addiction,” I confess. Her response is safe and neutral, “A lot of people struggle with addictions. It takes a lot of courage to ask for help.” I rearrange my face into what I think looks like relief, “That makes me feel better.” Her lips are glossed over with rosy pink tint. I watch, fascinated with the way they glisten as she speaks. “What are you struggling with?”I pause before I answer. I’m shifting through my memories of the night before. I’ve been seeing the same man for six weeks. His name isn’t important. I don’t bother too often with things like that. It lasted a little longer this time than it usually does. Thoughts of his hands on my thighs and his lips on my neck make me shiver. I consider how to tell this perfect blond woman in front of me how sex is the only thing that makes me feel anything at all. Six weeks before him, it was someone who only lasted ten minutes. Anthony, was it? We locked eyes in the elevator on our way to Biology. College campus was always deserted for our late night classes. He had dark hair and a lazy smile. His brown eyes lingered on mine a bit too long after the doors closed, and I knew. I closed the gap between us and slipped my tongue into his mouth. He tasted like strawberry pop tarts. He didn’t move for a moment and then, there he was, sliding warm hands up my dress like they had a right to be there. Men are like that. “I can’t seem to stop eating,” I confess. We have only a few minutes left of our session. She spends this time talking to me about how to sit with cravings. It’s all in one ear and out the other. She tells me when the impulses hit me, try to resist for as long as I can. If I can resist for one hour, resist for one hour. If I can resist for five minutes, resist for five minutes. I smile and thank her for the session. “You help me so much. I am grateful for these discussions. I can’t tell you how much you’ve done for me since I started seeing you for therapy,” I lie. I quickly shoot for the door. An hour of compassion, real or fake, is too much for me. It makes my skin crawl when people show things like affection or kindness. I wish she would tell me I’m disgusting. I long to hear her tell me I am a waste of space who can’t be saved. Anything, out of those perfect pink lips, resembling the truth. Instead, she wastes all our time with empty words as she tries to convince me I am not a monster. Hours after our session, I find myself with a strange man I don’t know. We had talked earlier on a dating app. He’s attractive enough, with a single dimple on his left cheek when he smiles, not that looks really matter much to me. I slide into a green Toyota Camry with a missing passenger mirror. It smells like cigarettes and old fast food bags.“Baby you are so hot,” he tells me, as he paws at my thigh with his calloused fingers. I’ll be honest. There is a small part of me who wishes I would stop doing this to myself. I hate the way I give myself to anyone who asks. Yet, that’s the thing about addictions, even if you hate yourself for it, you can’t stop. I take his hand and slide it further up my skirt. I hear him breathe in deep and I can tell how much he wants me.His car brings us to a gloomy looking house in a sketchy part of town. We are in a dark room that smells like sweat. Before I can blink, he is on me. His fingers are wrapping around my throat. He holds me down taking what he wants. His other hand is lost in my hair. He pulls it rough enough it stings bringing tears to my eyes. I want to scream for him to stop. I don’t. Like I told you before, I’m sick inside. I hold myself hostage and force myself to lay still. I won’t escape from this. I’ll stay until I learn to love it. If I were a bit more human, this would be nothing for me. I’d love it all the same ways all the other humans do. It’s only because I am a monster that I feel disgusting inside. The night sky is empty, abandoned by the moon, as we climb in the car for him to take me home. He tells me how captivated he is by my smile. How when he saw it for the first time, he felt like he was the only person left in the world. He asks me when he can see me again. I already know the answer as I climb from his car to the asphalt parking lot, glittering in the streetlight. The concrete stairwell swallows me into its many shadows and I am indifferent to the fact I’ll never see him again. Another week passes, and I am on her couch again, the Therapist. I can feel the bruises on my thighs. There are marks all over my body she can’t see even as I sit in front of her. It’s always like this. How often do we sit in front of another person’s eyes and they can’t see the wounds covering us? It makes me laugh. Part of me thinks I should confess. I don’t bother. You can’t tell someone about the wounds you inflict on yourself. Wasn’t I asking for it? “How are we doing this week, Nicole?” “I’m fine, how are you?” Small talk makes me gag. Even so, I’ve learned to play the game over the years. It’s empty when someone asks you how you are. They ask, yet I promise when you tell them what’s really beneath your surface, they will avoid you after. We’re all liars here. Monsters like me are more willing to admit the truth. Ironic, isn’t it? “How are the nightmares?” My body clenches at her words like she hit me. This is what I’m here for, I remind myself. I’m here to fix my disfigured mind, my malformed thinking, my disturbed existence. I’m here to become human again. “He was in them,” I admit. As soon as I say the words, he’s there with me on the couch. He tucks loose pieces of hair behind my ear and drags me back to our memories together.“You’re such a pretty girl, Nicole. You know it don’t you?” I am ten years old again, and I nod. I love it when he makes me feel special like this. I am the only one he talks to this way. I mean so much to him. He places an innocent hand on my shoulder and then pulls with long fingers at the lace on my sleeves. “Do you like this dress I bought for you?”“I love it,” I tell him, while I give the white lacy dress a twirl for his viewing pleasure. I never knew my dad, so this relationship is special for me. Uncle Dean always goes out of his way to do nice things for my sake. No one has to tell me how lucky I am to have him take care of me. He pulls me onto his lap where he tugs at my fly away curls, twisting their chestnut-colored locks in his hands. People tell him all the time what a cute little girl he has. They tell me I look like him. It’s almost as if I’m his daughter, and not his niece. “I’ve been thinking, Nicole. You are getting older now, and with what a pretty girl you’re turning out to be, we have some things to talk about.” I look at his eyes, a cold mixture of grey and blue, and hang on to his every word. I’ve noticed in the past the way people look at him when we go out together. His hair is blond and wavy in a way that compliments his fair skin. His shoulders are broad and the arms he holds me with are strong with thick muscles. He’s handsome. It’s not just me who listens when he speaks. It’s like the people around him can’t help it. His words are always captivating. His smile makes you feel like you are the only person in the world. I’m proud he belongs to me. “I’m worried boys will start giving you problems,” he frowns, and it crushes me.I study his lips and wonder what’s wrong with me that boys will give me problems. I can’t stand the look of displeasure on his face. I’ll do anything to replace it with a smile. My fingers find the bottom of my dress where I tear at it helplessly. I can’t let myself be a burden to him, not when he took responsibility for a child who wasn’t his.“I think it’s important for me to teach you how to handle them for when your older, don’t you think?” I nod, eager to cheer him up. “You’re a good girl, Nicole. I know you’ll do fine,” He leans in close to my ear with my curls still twisted in his fingers, “When you get older, men will expect you to please them. I don’t want you to worry. I’ll teach you how. I’ll teach you everything you need to know.” A voice startles me from my memories, “Nicole? Nicole, where did you go?”I look up and see her, the Therapist. The one who is supposed to hold all the answers to my questions. The angel who tells me none of this is my fault, and how I am not the monster he made me. I smile towards her as if I had been here on the couch with her the whole time. I smile as if I don’t remember every single lesson he taught me. “Is everything alright?” Her eyes are concerned. “You have tears running down your face.” I lift a hand to my cheek and realize she’s telling the truth. I touch the wetness with fingers that don’t feel like my own. This happens to me all the time. I’m in my body, but I’m not. I don’t understand where the tears come from, either. After all, I am a monster. I’m numb. Whether I hurt others or make them laugh, I feel nothing inside me at all. “This is a safe place, Nicole. I’m here to listen.” I can’t help finding her words amusing. I’ve been to safe places before, you see. That’s where I discovered “safe places” are the most dangerous places of all. The places where you let down your guard, and trust the people around you, leave you vulnerable. Those kinds of places are where monsters live. You enter them and never know they’re watching you, waiting. They wait for the moments they can bury their claws into your flesh, taking things from you that you will never get back. Monsters are real, despite those who lack conviction. It’s only fools who believe in safe places. “Last night I sat on my kitchen floor and ate an entire cake,” I lie to her again, “I couldn’t stop myself. Don’t you think that makes me disgusting?” I can’t tell if her sympathy is real or fake. I can’t tell if she only has one face, the face she looks at me with. Or, if she too, has another one buried deep inside her. I study her cheetah print shirt and the gold hoop earrings underneath her straightened hair. I can’t tell if she’s human or if she’s another monster like me. We hide so well, sometimes, that we don’t even recognize the monsters deep inside ourselves. “Of course, I don’t think that,” she tells me. Her words offer me the smallest amount of relief. I feel myself relax for only a fraction of a second. It’s all I can ever relax after I turned into this creature. I give her my best smile. “You don’t think I’m a monster?” She reassures me she doesn’t. I slide out of her heavy wooden door after the rest of our session has passed and remind myself, she is a professional. If she saw a human without a beating heart in front of her, she would know it wasn’t human anymore. The fact that she doesn’t, it means there is still hope for me.I am not a monster. 
","September 14, 2023 18:01","[[{'Derrick M Domican': 'This is evocatively written but so heartbreakingly sad 😢\nThere is hope for everyone.\nExcept the real monsters.', 'time': '18:11 Sep 14, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Danie Nikole': 'I appreciate you so much for taking the time to read and leave your thoughts. Nicole’s character holds a special place in my heart.', 'time': '18:44 Sep 14, 2023', 'points': '2'}]], [{'Danie Nikole': 'I appreciate you so much for taking the time to read and leave your thoughts. Nicole’s character holds a special place in my heart.', 'time': '18:44 Sep 14, 2023', 'points': '2'}, []], [{'Mary Bendickson': 'Now this is a real monster story. Thanks for liking mine.🥺', 'time': '16:00 Sep 19, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Mike Panasitti': ""I've spent the past few weeks slogging through a memoir about a woman whose sex addiction was the result of familial trauma.  This story was so much more realistic and honest.  A compelling read."", 'time': '04:24 Sep 19, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Danie Nikole': 'Thank you so much for taking the time to give feedback. Raw and honest was what I was shooting for. I wonder which memoir you are reading?', 'time': '08:55 Sep 19, 2023', 'points': '2'}, {'Mike Panasitti': 'The memoir is called Lovesick.  It is by Sue Silverman.  It is very good, but I appreciated how you broached the same difficult issue by means of a short story.', 'time': '14:04 Sep 19, 2023', 'points': '1'}, {'Danie Nikole': 'Thank you for sharing with me. I’ll have to check it out. 💜', 'time': '15:25 Sep 19, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Danie Nikole': 'Thank you so much for taking the time to give feedback. Raw and honest was what I was shooting for. I wonder which memoir you are reading?', 'time': '08:55 Sep 19, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Mike Panasitti': 'The memoir is called Lovesick.  It is by Sue Silverman.  It is very good, but I appreciated how you broached the same difficult issue by means of a short story.', 'time': '14:04 Sep 19, 2023', 'points': '1'}, {'Danie Nikole': 'Thank you for sharing with me. I’ll have to check it out. 💜', 'time': '15:25 Sep 19, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Mike Panasitti': 'The memoir is called Lovesick.  It is by Sue Silverman.  It is very good, but I appreciated how you broached the same difficult issue by means of a short story.', 'time': '14:04 Sep 19, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Danie Nikole': 'Thank you for sharing with me. I’ll have to check it out. 💜', 'time': '15:25 Sep 19, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Danie Nikole': 'Thank you for sharing with me. I’ll have to check it out. 💜', 'time': '15:25 Sep 19, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0003,Write a story about a monster trying to become more human. Or about a human trying to become more monstrous.,h8fgc0,To be human,Eddie McKenzie,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/h8fgc0/,/short-story/h8fgc0/,Thriller and Suspense,0,"['Horror', 'Fiction']",7 likes,"
There was something so terribly, wonderfully different about them all, and he knew that he was not like them. He knew this in the same sort of way that one knew that the sun would rise the next day or that the worms would pick a skeleton clean, and so he did not question why it was that they were all so very different from him. The answer was perfectly simple after all, he was a monster and they were not. They were not born with the same sort of darkness to them that he was, the same desire to claw and tear and destroy until there was nothing at all left but the beautiful carnage beneath his feet, the viscera that dripped from his jaws and stained the world with its elegant claret.But it was lonely being a monster. Cursed to live a life where people feared him and other monsters only wanted to use that of which was monstrous within him for their own ends. He didn’t like to think that he was lonely, but there were times, watching the people at play with such ease amongst their friends, that he found the solitudinal nature of his existence was, well, horribly lonely.So, he watched, he listened, he observed, and he learnt. He learnt what it took to make a patchwork of himself. He learnt what it took to make himself unrecognizable from the monster he really was.He could see their teeth as they flashed in the sunlight. Blunt, ineffective things that seemed better suited for smiling than they were for biting and tearing. No, they weren’t like his at all. His were too sharp, and there were simply too many of them. If he were to bear them in a smile, it would seem a threat and good people don’t make other people feel threatened like that. But he could fix it. He could make his teeth look just like everyone else’s and nobody would need to know they were made to hurt and not to grin. It would hurt, of course, to grind away his teeth until they’re nice and neat and rendered perfectly useless. But humans did not need to use their teeth to hunt, and so if it must be that he would never again be given the chance to sink his teeth in hard, to taste the thick blood as it bubbled out of the wound, then that was all. A necessary pleasure lost in favour of pretending to be better, more human than he really was.He could see their eyes. Twinkling, darkening, always flickering with a dance of emotions that seemed to come so naturally to them. No, they were nothing like his own. His were dark and flat and utterly dead. One could gaze into them for an eternity and learn nothing at all, for there was nothing to be learnt from their lifeless surface. He knew, though, that it made people nervous to be caught in his eyes for too long, as if the moment they met his dead-gaze it would steal away whatever life they held. But he could fix it, and it would almost be too easily done. He would simply replace his own eyes with the eyes of another, of a human who, like people did, wore their emotions in their eyes and nobody would be aware that he had borrowed them to hide that he could not wear his own. It would be a little tricky, not the business of popping out his own eyes, no he had always hoped for an excuse for it anyway, but to navigate a stranger’s eyes to the empty sockets and, worse, to see the world through their eyes. But maybe then he could look upon a person without wondering what it might be like to see their entrails spilling onto the ground, but rather to see them as a friend.He could see how they moved about their day. Each step seemed to flow like a dance, elegant and graceful and as smooth as torn silk. No, they did not even move like he did. His movements were always too much, too angular or pushing just a little too far. He would bend too much and he would see the way those around him would stiffen with alarm, and yet he would not bend enough and would be met with much the same reaction. There was a middle ground somewhere to be found, that much was obvious, but he could never tell where it was. It was a habit that seemed to come naturally to those who were human, and so it was not a habit he found. So, he would bind his joints and deny himself the fluidity of his movements, and he would take to leaning upon a cane to mask his stiffness as something far more familiar, something more human, and he would learn the arbitrary rules for the game he never knew he was playing, and nobody would ever think to question if he was anything other than human.He could hear the way they talked. There was a musicality to it all, all wavers and tones and songs that came so naturally to them. No, he did not sound like that when he talked at all. He was always too flat or too much, never finding the space in between where he was expected to be. He never gave enough when he spoke, though he had concluded this was more the result of monsters simply wearing and conveying their emotions differently from humans, but if he were to try and portray himself as human, he knew he would have to learn to pretend. To play at parrot, to play at echo, to bounce back whatever emotions were given to him to carry a conversation, to feed into whatever intensity he was given even when he felt it to be absolutely ludicrous. Of all the little things he needed to learn to pass as human, this seemed the least important, but it was necessary all the same. Even the smallest crack to his façade could cause his mask to fall away and reveal to the world that he was nothing more than a monster playing at pretending to be human.He could see in them all the things that he was lacking. Their hands were gentle and delicate where his were violence and twitching with the energy of all the dark, bad things inside of him. Their conversations flowed so naturally between them all that it seemed to be coming from a single mind where anything he might add would frighten them and push them away again. They were neat and well proportioned where he was too long, too pointy and too angular and just too much and his uncanniness left gazes wandering from him as if he was so wrong that an onlooker could not bear to tolerate him for more than a passing glance. In all the spaces he could see humanity within them, an intrinsic goodness flowing through their veins like blood, all he could see in himself was the monstrous, the wrong and the dead.So, he resolved to wear a face just like them and maybe, just maybe, he could walk among them and he would not be so very alone.And it worked, truly it did. It did not matter that he did not recognize himself in the looking glass or the distorted face looking back at him from a wine glass, for why should it matter if he knew himself or not when those around him could do it for him. They liked what they thought they saw of him, those fabricated spaces that he created to hide the truth, and so as long as that was all they saw of him, then they liked him too. The him that they thought was no less human than they were. The him that they did not see practicing and mirroring all that he saw to try and make it seem natural. They did not, after all, see him tightening the stitches each and every night, tugging up a smile or keeping him from falling apart at the seams.As long as they thought that he was just like them, they would not think to look too hard, to try and see the gaps that exposed his insincerity. They would not see the darkness that lay underneath it all, the truth of the monstrous that he sought to hide by any means he had.If they never saw who he was, they would like him, and he would never have to be alone again and that was all that really mattered in the end. 
","September 09, 2023 04:18","[[{'David Sweet': 'I like this narrative. I think, if you wanted, you could do even more with this in a longer narrative form. I love the transformation, but I would like to see it happen over a much longer period and his interactions with others during the transformation. I know you are constrained here by word count, but you should really consider it.', 'time': '15:40 Sep 16, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0003,Write a story about a monster trying to become more human. Or about a human trying to become more monstrous.,kgxofk,Maabeloff's Transition,George Georgerfrost@gmail.com,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/kgxofk/,/short-story/kgxofk/,Thriller and Suspense,0,"['Horror', 'Fiction', 'Fantasy']",7 likes,"
 
	When Gustav looked in the mirror, it was always the same.  That monster that he loathed was staring back at him with those marble black eyes.  His reaction was always the same, a groan of disgust would rise in him until he could no longer bear looking at his own reflection.
	It was an accident.  A horrible, senseless accident had turned the child prodigy into this disgusting creature who was forced to wear a mask when he went into public which wasn’t often these days.  He had played the palace at St. Petersburg in front of the Czar who offered a standing ovation.  But that was such a long time ago.
	Wrong place at the wrong time.  Antichrist attempted to assassinate the Czar when he finished playing Tchaikovsky on the piano.  When he wandered into the green room where the bomb was planted, it detonated, blowing off his ears and bottom jaw. The heat from the explosion melted his left eye and charred both ears which the surgeon had to remove.  All he was left with was a scarred disfigured face that shocked anyone who happened to see his unmasked face, especially the children who would scream and run from him whenever he passed them on the street.  
	He would retreat to his private room to sulk and wonder why he had been chosen to carry such a heavy burden.  Even the gargoyles on the ceiling of his father’s estate were as frightening to look at as he was.  His father insisted that Gustav wear a face covering so he would not disturb the hired help around the fine country estate in Toksovo. Boris Svantovock drew the short straw and he was tasked to feed the jawless Gustav his evening meal.  It usually turned out to be a messy affair, but Boris was adept at handling the rebellious son.  
	“How is Gustav this evening?” Madaline would ask when Boris would come into the kitchen with a plate filled with discarded chunks and bits Gustav could not or refused to ingest.  
	“Each day he seems to become more obstinate.” Boris would nearly shake as he put the platter on the counter near the kitchen sink. The general disorder and disarray disgusted Boris who had been schooled in proper etiquette. “I was not hired to do this kind of work.  The boy does not have a proper jaw and most of his meal winds up on his shirt.” 
	“Ivan, his father feels that we can care for him.” She shook her head.
	“The boy needs to be put into a home for the disabled. “ He sighed.
	“He would never hear of it.” She smiled, “He feels his family has the resources to care for him here.” 
	“Yes, provided one of us deals with him.” Boris slammed the leftovers into the garbage can. “I don’t know how much more I can take.  His face…is not a face.  He has only one eye while the rest of his face is scar tissue.  It isn’t human.” 
	“I have never seen it, Boris.” She put both hands on her hips. 
	“You are lucky.” He sighs a long exhale.  “The face is not human.”
	Madeline coughs into her hand and when Boris turns, he sees Gustav standing there. Using his chalkboard, he writes, “I was hoping to get another biscuit.” 
	“I shall get it for you.” Boris declares feeling a bit uneasy that Gustav heard his last comment. Boris reaches into the steambox and removes a biscuit. “Do you want me to feed it to you?”
	Gustav shakes his head and exits the kitchen with his biscuit. 
	“He heard me.” Boris hisses.
	“He moves like a shadow at times.” Madaline stirs her stroganoff.  
 
	Fidgety and restless, Gustav puts on his face covering and leaves the grounds without telling anyone where he is going.  The streets of the town are bustling with a traveling show set up on the banks of Kagalovsky even though the ground is saturated with rain and very swampy.  Wearing his face covering, no one seems to notice him as he moves through the crowd.  
	There is a sword swallower dressed like a Cossack who smiles when he is placing the sharp blades in his maw. Gustav knows that one mistake could be fatal which makes this display tantalizing.  
	The explosion was nothing more than a flash of intense light.  He did not remember the sound even though he was almost completely deaf for almost a year. The bomb was placed up high which turned out to be eye level when it detonated. A juggler who had just lit a cigarette was blown to bits, but the bomb was so powerful, it ripped Gustav’s face apart even though he was standing several feet from  the unfortunate entertainer.  
	He tasted blood and then he didn’t as his jaw had been severed and was left hanging by a small strip of flesh from his injured face.  The heat made his skin bubble.  Rescuers thought he was dead.  They put him on a litter and covered him with a blanket. It wasn’t until he moved his fingers that the medics realized he was alive. His father never left the hospital and spent every night in a chair by his bed for the three week stay. 
	A sign was posted that claimed, “Madam Bavatar could cure anything.” 
	There was a large rather hostile looking man at the entrance of the tent.  When Gustav tried to enter, the man stopped him, “You must pay the fee.” 
	“How much?” Gustav wrote on his chalkboard.
	“Are you dumb?” The large man asked.
	Gustav wrote, “Da.” 
	“It’s one thousand Rubles.” He told Gustav.
	“That’s a lot.” He wrote.
	“Yeah, but she can cure anything.” The man held out his hand. 
	Gustav peeled the mask back revealing his hideous face. The man shuddered as he was startled and  shocked by the boy’s appearance.  Gustav put the money in the man’s hand, but he eyed Gustav, “My mistake…two thousand rubles.” 
	“Can she fix this?” He wrote.
	“I’d like to say yes, but your face is very damaged.” He held out his hand as Gustav put more rubles in his hand. 
	He walked into Madam Bavatar’s tent where she sat in an incense fog with a shiny turban headdress sitting atop her head. Two strapping men dressed in loose fitting shiny pants flanked her on both sides.  The room was dark, so Gustav could not see very well with his one eye. 
	“Who do we have here?” She purred as the men on either side stood as still as statues. “I have been told that you are in need of some powerful magic.” 
	“Magic?” He wrote down, “I am beyond magic.” 
	“Let me have a look.” She put her hands on his face covering and peeled it back from his face.  She gasped upon seeing the scars and physical damage. “You poor child. Your transition will take everything I have to offer, but it shall be worth the trouble.” 
	“What must I do?” He wrote.
	“Just sit there, my child and let the herbs and magic do their best to restore what was lost.” She dipped a dirty rag into a bucket.
	The first contact with the wet cloth made Gustav jerk in his chair.
	“Try to sit still.” She put the cloth back into the bucket. “This may take some time.” 
	Her touch was gentle and he could feel a tingling of the places she touched with the damp cloth. With his left eye he watched as she continued to massage his face with the cloth.  A wry smile crossed her face as she worked.
	“How are you feeling?” She asked.
	“Strange.” He wrote on his chalkboard.
	“Strange, eh?” She chuckled.  “What happened to your face?” 
	“Bomb.” He wrote.
	“Oh dear.” She shook her head as she continued to apply the cloth to his badly damaged face. “Let me see.” 
	She took a step back and smiled.  It had been a long time since someone had looked at his face and smiled.  Wiping her forehead with her sleeve and the back of her hand, she whispered, “It is beginning to work.” 
	He grabbed for the mirror. She shook her head, “Do not expect miracles yet, Gustav.  There is so much more I have to do.” 
	“Angel.” He wrote.  
	“You will sleep on my couch tonight while the elixir does its magic.” She dabbed the cloth on his face. “A healer from the Jewish settlement taught me this.  He was an ancient man named Hogarth.  He had a white beard that nearly hung to his knees.  His fingers were bent with age, but he restored the face of a young man who had been badly burned in a fire.”
	“I am a monster.” He wrote.
	“I must confess that your face has been badly damaged, but I can already see improvement.” She assured him.  He finally reached the mirror and put it up to his face.  
	His reflection had changed in the time she had been working on him.  In place of the wrinkled burned flesh was now pink new skin.  He became excited.
	“Keep calm.  The best has yet to come.” She put her hand on his shoulder and with the other retrieved the mirror from his hands.
	“What about my jaw?” He wrote.
	“Patience.”  She shook her head, “Some miracles take longer than others.” 
	It made sense.  Already he had seen improvements in his appearance, but living without a mandible had caused him great pain and grief.  If Madam Bavatar could produce that miracle, he would consider the fortune he had paid to be well spent. He closed his eyes so he could feel every nuance of his transition as she continued to apply the elixir to his mutilated skin.  Areas that were once pained and sore, areas that were a source of constant pain were soothed in the salve  she continued to apply.  
	His fingers were poised over the keyboard of the grand piano set on stage before the Czar.  Only fifteen years of age, Gustav Maabeltoff was one of the most celebrated prodigies in Russia.  His well earned reputation at the Moscow music school had garnered him an audience with Nicolas II.  His whole family was seated in darkness off stage as the bright stage lights burned down upon him. The conductor stood in the pit with the rest of the orchestra, but he would give the boy a nod to begin his piece Tchaikovsky’s Piano Concerto 1.  Alexandra had told his father that this piece was one of her husband’s favorites.
	“I will play it.” Gustav affirmed as the Empress smiled and nodded. As it turned out, it would be the last time Gustav would play the piano, but he played it flawlessly for Nicolas II.  The czar stood up once he had played the last note and the rest of the audience followed suit. 
	“That was impressive.” The juggler said as he put the cigarette to his lips.
	A second later the entire world disappeared. 
	“Your transition has started.” She said as she put the damp cloth into the bucket. He put his hand to his face and felt places that weren’t there before, places where the knot of scars untangled into a fresh new carpet of soft skin.
	“I feel sleepy.” He wrote.
	“That is good.” She put her hand on his new regenerated cheek. “It is time for you to sleep the sleep of Adam in the Garden when God removed one of his ribs.”
	He did not understand what she was talking about as a warm blanket of sleep filled his head.  She led him to the couch in the room and covered him with a warm blanket, but he was already asleep before she left the room.  
	His dreams were filled with visions of his early childhood when his grandmother sat him down at the piano to teach him some old folk tunes. 
	“Remember Gustav, keep your fingers just so.” She held his arms about six inches from the keyboard, “These tunes are meant to be lively to make the peasants dance.  Their labors are hard and they need a little release from time to time.” 
	In her gentle manner she taught him to play Karlinka.  As his fingers struck the keys she would sit on the bench next to him and clap her hands to the tempo of the music.  “Podmoskovnye Vechera” was a bit more challenging, but once he had mastered it, his father decided he needed a teacher to help him master some of the classic compositions.  Later his teacher would recommend enrolling him in a music school.  
	“I have an invitation from Czar Nicolas.” His mother held the envelope in the air as she danced in excitement.  His mother would die of consumption before he would travel by train to St. Petersburg with his widower father.  In the winter palace decorated by a heavy snowfall, Gustav saw that the city was magic as ice skaters glided on the frozen water like angels.  
	Hidden from view were the Cossack guards sensing that a terrible event was about to take place as voiced in some of the renegade newspapers circulating through the city. Jewish intellectuals were spreading the writings of Karl Marx like gospel writings, forecasting the coming of a new order in Russia.  Every day it seemed, there was a new raid on one of these radical newspaper publications imprisoning the publishers as they torched the buildings. 
 
	Gustav woke up and yawned.
	His senses told him something was different.
	He put his hand to his face.  He felt his jaw that was absent just the day before.
	“Good morning.” She emerged from her bedroom dressed in a long robe. “Sleep well?” 
	“I did.” His own voice seemed foreign to him.
	“You don’t say.” She chuckled as she poured a cup of tea from a samovar. 
	His fingers were feeling his new jaw for the first time.  After a moment of exhilaration, his fingers ventured up to where he felt his ear.  “I have a jaw…and an ear.” 
	“I see.” She sipped the hot tea from her cup. 
	“How can this be happening?” His voice echoed the joy that was spilling from his heart. 
	“You did well in your transition.” She confirmed. 
	“I cannot believe it.” He looked in the mirror at a reflection that was not hideous to look at. “It was just like it was before the explosion.” 
	“It is.” She could not help but smile.
	“I cannot thank you enough.” He hugged her.
	“You must go home and show the others.” She whispered in his ear.
	“They won’t believe it.” He took one final look in the mirror before leaving.  
	Boris ran his finger over Gustav’s face in disbelief, uttering, “How can this be?” 
	“I went to a healer.” Gustav told him.
	“A death mask.” He gasped. “It’s a good thing your father is away on business.  He mustn’t see you like this.” 
	“No, this is my face.  This is how I used to be.” Gustav put his face in front of the mirror. 
	“I find it troubling.” Boris put his finger to his lips as he shrugged. 
	“How can this be troubling?” Gustav pointed to his face, exasperated. 
	“It is something that covers who you really are.” Boris shakes his head.
	“I was a deformed monster until I met Madam Bavatar.  She fixed me.” Tears ran down his cheek.  Without warning a piece of his cheek landed at his feet after being soaked with his tears.  Boris bent over and picked up what had fallen from Gustav’s cheek.
	“Seems to me there is a flaw in your transition.” He shook his head as he held the fallen bit of flesh to Gustav’s eyes. More tears followed along with more pieces of his face.
 
	Glen Hawthorne looked at himself in the mirror and smiled.  Once his transition was complete, he’d change his name to Gwen.  He still appeared quite masculine, but over his transition, his face would soften and the makeup he was using would look more natural.  At the moment, however, he looked like a boy dressed as a woman.  A male impersonator.  His psychiatrist told him the transition would take time.  
	“All good things come with time.” He said during one of their sessions. 
	His father called him a freak.  His mother called him an abomination.  She quoted from the Bible so he would know that God hated him too.  
	His friends read him a story about a Russian man named Gustav Maabeltoff who went through a physical transition only to have his transition melt away in a wash of tears as his own father rejected what he had become.  They read it from Pinterest.  The story was entitled “Man with no face.” 
	“Sounds like a bunch of BS.” Glen commented as they laughed after reading it to him. 
	It was quite clear, the meaning. If he went through it, he would become a monster just like the unfortunate Gustav Maabeloff.  
	She did not feel like a monster as she stared at herself in the mirror.  To her, beauty and ugliness are just subjective anyway.
 
","September 09, 2023 21:23","[[{'Mary Bendickson': 'Was this true about Gustav?', 'time': '00:23 Sep 10, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'George Georgerfrost@gmail.com': 'No, Mary, Gustav is fiction, but the disfiguration is based on some research I did with my book ""The Woman Who Made Tin Faces"" about a woman who fashioned masks for the French soldiers who suffered facial disfiguration during World War I.', 'time': '18:55 Sep 10, 2023', 'points': '1'}, {'Mary Bendickson': 'Good job. It sounded like it was based on fact.', 'time': '20:06 Sep 10, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'George Georgerfrost@gmail.com': 'No, Mary, Gustav is fiction, but the disfiguration is based on some research I did with my book ""The Woman Who Made Tin Faces"" about a woman who fashioned masks for the French soldiers who suffered facial disfiguration during World War I.', 'time': '18:55 Sep 10, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Mary Bendickson': 'Good job. It sounded like it was based on fact.', 'time': '20:06 Sep 10, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Mary Bendickson': 'Good job. It sounded like it was based on fact.', 'time': '20:06 Sep 10, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0003,Write a story about a monster trying to become more human. Or about a human trying to become more monstrous.,dtj3p4,Fire and Ice,Sally-Ann Hodgekiss,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/dtj3p4/,/short-story/dtj3p4/,Thriller and Suspense,0,"['Fiction', 'Crime', 'Sad']",7 likes,"
This is a game. I am the last piece on the board, and I am wondering why I ever thought of playing.Body heat warms a small space, Eskimos a testament. It was warm for a while. The storm has fled this desolation, but the cold remains, invulnerable.I. Not so.The pain is gone. Like fourth degree burns, the cold is horrific, but welcome because the nerves are destroyed or perhaps indifferent. Emotions are worse than cold, but just like pain, they eventually realise there is no one listening. Fire and ice. Desire and hate. These concepts sit beyond my reach in this empty place.We are the same now.Sink down into a crystal-clear glacier and look back up from just beneath the glass and this is what it would be like. Absolute stillness, the pulse a metronome. Perpetual, because we have entered the realm of the impossible.My heart lazily reminds me it is still there, fuelled by an unreasonable, primal driven consciousness that hides where even the cold cannot reach. That is what keeps it ticking despite its waning enthusiasm. Week by week, day by day, hour by hour, minute by minute, fleeting moment by moment. A lullaby, that is about to go all Hans Christian Anderson. No. A reproach. You deserve to breathe that last desperate, unsatisfying breath.Silence.In that moment, the ‘self’ switches off like a lightbulb. But those can be turned back on. More aptly, a foot coming down on a bug.Is.Is not.A never ending nothing.An atheist’s end.If there was a god, he or she would never dream of turning their head in this direction. Even their flawed creations couldn’t be that stupid, could they? Darwinism. That’s it. The universe weeding out extreme stupidity the only way it can. Evolution. Science has seen it stagnate. I’m not complaining. A burst appendix would have seen me dead and gone, but will generations thousands of years ahead thank us? Cure? A natural culling that breeds a better version of ourselves has slipped beyond our grasp, yet I am captured.Irony?Is that irony.Astronauts know irony. We wanted to be Astronauts. To go where there was nothing and no one and just be. Clothing, food, a flimsy shelter. The helicopter shrunk and faded, the safety line to the space shuttle severed. Freefall. Astronauts floating about revel in the vast unending nothing; heart beats, the creak of their suit all magnified. It is not empty. That is an illusion. Yes, they know the folly, but wonder pushes aside and says, ‘here’, here is marvellous place to be. The ultimate untethering from humanity. The silent radiation is killing them. Even with a mild exposure their cells are being changed, destroyed. The cold is radiation of a sort, uninterested as it passes through leaving you forever altered.Untethered. Yes. We achieved that at least.Philosophy. That’s what an untethered mind embraces. Abstract thoughts that coalesce and evolve when one has left behind the self. Devoid of the emotions that guide us are we still human? Are they necessary? Here, now. The answer is no. The sun, the ice, the frigid air do not feel but are felt.The sun favours this place. Dazzled, she does not want to look away. Night is a memory recalled with closing eyes, but to her it is unimaginable. Every indulgence has a price. Unlike me, she does not pay. Eventually she will slowly turn her blinding face to one mirrored in its isolation and as equally magical. As she looks down, she is mesmerised, us her favoured children? Personification. Where no god would bother, she holds her gaze. She does not laugh, merely observes. She is there. She will always be there. This curio will not. An unmeasurable insignificance. Observe. Move on unaffected.Despite the futility, you will come. My own observations? When I had a voice, I spewed sentiment down the lens. Captured. All that I was waits in those artificial minds. It waits for someone to let it out. Soulless. Look. This happened. Closure. Move on. No judgement, because I have slipped beyond judging. There is no deity to critic my efforts. I am beyond caring about what has happened or how I am perceived. Atheism is a life without consequence.I wonder why more people don’t see that.Perception. Self-awareness. The cold, forever lacking, hungers for it. It is a skill that should be sharpened to a point in such desolation. Nothing to distract, solitude, but there is no internal adjudication here. There is nothing to perceive. The aware me sits on an emotional level that is too many floors below to count. I am in the great glass elevator if it was made of obsidian. The environment has swallowed me whole.There are no differences to discern.Not awareness. An inventory. Senses. Eyes decided all on their own they were threatened. Fight or flight, they fled the only way they could. A clam of sorts that can’t be pried open. My tongue might work, but I have long since been denied the possibility. Swollen, it remembers and shivers, ice its only companion… Was its only companion. There is nothing to assail my nostrils, not anymore. Nerves have long since been destroyed or more likely given up relaying the messages. Sound is one to be debated. Like taste it is denied by circumstance but does my heartbeat count as hearing? I think not. The ears are looking out, not in. And yet I hear it.The pendulum falters.Death reaches up to greedily pull me beneath the surface.I will not thrash or flail.They do not wait.There will be no reckoning.Huuuuuh. Huuuuuh…Ethan readies the footage. Mike backed it all up and sent it to Ethan’s colleagues at police headquarters in Sydney along with the bodies.According to Mike, this memory card is where it all went wrong.Mike looked pale; his eyes swollen. “Watch that one, then the second. It will be upsetting for you. I was… The ones who found them are a mess.”Mike wouldn’t tell Ethan more, but he can guess.The memory cards were tucked into Cindy’s pocket in the second layer. His stomach drops thinking about it. In his job he has seen some confronting things, but this… Each layer of Cindy’s gruesome clothing was as disturbing as the last, well almost. The holes...Cutting off that last bloodied parker revealed not monster, but a tiny gaunt, broken young woman.His friends. Cindy did that to his friends. He swipes at a tear. This is so messed up.Cindy was the medic and an artist, her notebook a view from the rear. A graphite testament to the toll the journey gradually forced them to pay. Some of the drawings… The one from the top of the crevasse is disturbing. Bones shattered Cory looks up, his face contorted with pain and fear. Turn the page and Cory is still. Ethan was in the warmth of the research station, and yet he shivered. He shivers now. Pages were torn out. Two pages before those images and one after.God. Eight. Eight men and woman following in the footsteps of Scott, Wilson and Bowers. The irony. They were only two days from the pick-up point but heading in an unexpected direction, the target overshot. So close.He presses play.Cindy is filming. There is a date stamp in the bottom corner. It is just as they expected. They were already stopped eight days before the second storm abated. The wind is fierce, the sky clear, Cindy’s voice distorted. She glances towards the tent, tears frozen on her cheeks. “We should have left Cory. He was just as dead breathing as not. Sean will be next. I told him not to go down, but we knew he had to. The rope slipped through my hands, but I wasn’t the only one.” She glances to the tent again. “It cut halfway through his calf when he dropped. Pulling him up only made it worse. It’s definitely broken. I’ve done what I can. The blood. We have none to give. He won’t survive without it. We need to leave him. Sean agrees. They call me cold, but I feel it, the pressure change. Cory had the radio and the emergency beacon, all beyond his reach. Hanna should have let Sean drop the rest of the way when he pleaded. They would have found us. We are turned about, the crevasse lost. Hanna drove us onward without thought. You need to know. I tried to convince them. If she finds the memory cards... I can’t trust any of them except Fahad. Kelly is a passive bystander. Fahad and I are leaving when...”The camera angle drops, her leg and snow in view.“Cindy, you know the rules. The camera has six batteries. Group vlogs only. The book. Hand it over. I know you have it. We can’t warm Sean up. Just a few pages. Hand it over or I will take it.”Scuffling. “You don’t need to burn it. You just want the drawings. Hanna please. Sean has lost too much blood. None of us match. I’m sorry. You need to prepare yourself. Stay with…”“You bitch.”The camera drops and all you see are feet as they struggle. One screams and falls. It is Cindy. Hanna comes into camera view. She opens up Cindy’s jacket and yanks out the book. She rises out of frame. There is ripping and then the book is dropped next to Cindy, pages fluttering wildly in the wind. Cindy scrambles for it, rolls onto her back and you can hear her sobbing. “I’ll tell them.”Hanna returns and stomps on Cindy’s ankle.Cindy screams.No one comes. God. No one comes.“You tell anyone about what you saw, and we will leave you for dead.” Hanna does it again.Cindy yowls.Ethan can’t believe it. His stomach is in his throat. Hanna. This was her third season at the station. Her and her husband were the most experience of them all. They were the heart of this place. This side of her… Sean’s injury made her behave so out of character. It must have been a shock. He wonders how hard Cindy tried to save Sean, or Corey. Cindy is still, but she can’t stay there. Ethan knows she will freeze. Would that have been better?Still on the ground, Cindy sniffs, turns, and looks into the camera, eyes puffy, “It should have been her.”The camera comes back on. Cindy’s voice is punctuated by groans, her face contorting as she speaks. “I was right about the storm. Two days. They are outside talking. My ankle. It’s broken. I can feel the displaced piece of fibula beneath the swelling. I’ve bandaged it. I used one of the bloodied ones I took from Sean. Hanna had to be restrained when I unwrapped it. The pain is unbearable. Kelly threw a lot of medical supplies down the crevasse at Cory, even though I told them it was a waste. He couldn’t move to get to his pack. He couldn’t move to get the poorly aimed supplies. He was bleeding out. His arms… The looks I got, but I was right. Hanna used the rest of the morphine to ease Sean from this world. There is nothing left for me. No one but Fahad will help me go outside. Ibuprofen is a feather when a sledgehammer is needed.” Cindy moans, her face contorted. “Hanna wanted to keep Sean in here. He was an ice brick. She wouldn’t take the clothes before he stiffened. They put him outside. She dug him out after the storm.” Cindy looks around and drops her voice. “Jacob is coming. They think I don’t know about the affair. Cory did.”The footage starts again. It shakily pans around the tent. Three of them have been stripped down to their thermals, their bodies pushed to one side in a gruesome pile. Hannah is facing the door, an ice-pole lodged deep in her eye. There is blood sprayed on the side of the tent and signs of a struggle.Oh God. Ethan bolts. Head over the toilet bowl, he retches. There is nothing but bile. He was right. Cindy was a monster. Only a monster could do that. In the background the footage rolls on. He is spent. He can still see the screen.Cindy’s voice is flat. “They should have listened. Daniel saw it all too late.” Cindy sits with a thud and a moan. She props the camera up so she fills the screen. Blood is smeared across her face. “Fahad. Oh god.” She sobs. “Hanna caught him going through her pack. Hanna was hiding supplies and he found them. She shifted the blame. They believed everything even though I saw her plant the evidence. They’ve known her and Sean for years. This is my and Fahad’s first season.” Cindy begins to sob again. She pulls herself together and swipes at tears and mucous. “They left him outside. They took his jacket, tied him up and left him outside.”Ethan is still sitting on the bathroom floor. What? He runs to the computer.“I tried. When they brought Fahad in, he was blue. Alive, but the hypothermia was severe. I tried to warm him up. He was making no sense, dropping in and out of consciousness.” Cindy draws in a shuddering breath. “He was… He was gone by morning. They took his clothes and put him outside again. Hanna grinned. Daniel saw. He hadn’t helped, but he didn’t try to stop them. Jacob demeans Daniel. Daniel listens. He never speaks… spoke up. Oh…” She shatters. “I think that was when he realised Hanna was the one to worry about. Hanna saw us talking that last time. When we came in, Kelly was bracing herself in the corner and Jacob and Hanna had the ice axes. Jacob was furious. He accused me of pushing Cory. I had shown Daniel the footage. Daniel tried to tell Jacob, stepping towards him with his hands raised in submission. Hanna…” Cindy drops beyond reach. “She swung and missed. I fell. She turned, and while Jacob and Daniel struggled, she buried the axe in Daniels shoulder. Something snapped after Sean died and she unravelled, embracing the monster unleashed by grief. This was what was left. A beast. Daniel howled but kept his focus on Jacob. They fell. Daniel on top. Hanna tried to get the pick out… Kelly ran. She dived past, not even grabbing her jacket or boots. I don’t remember picking up the testing pole. I don’t know how I got to my feet. The pain. I knew pain and Hanna was hurting Daniel. The sound. I would be next. I thrust it at the back of her head. But she heard me coming and turned. I was already falling towards her, my ankle giving way. It hit the side of her nose and then slid into her eye.” Cindy turns to the side and retches up nothing. She turns back and wipes her mouth. “I only wanted her to stop. It was so still. The quietest it had ever been, as if the ice and the air and my heart all froze in horror. I was on top of Hanna. She wasn’t moving. Daniel groaned. I checked Hanna, but she was…. I had… Jacob…” Cindy closes her eyes, squeezing out tears. Her words are punctuated by sobs and moans. “Jacob and Daniel fell, the pick between them. Jacob had no pulse. Daniel… He was in a really bad way. Kelly had pulled out the pick before I… He was haemorrhaging blood. I put pressure on the wound, but Daniel grabbed my shoulder. The axe. His chest. He knew. He knew and he smiled.” Cindy is a mess, her face... Devastation. Unbearable pain. “Daniel has a brilliant smile. He said I had to tell them, his family. Tell them he loves them, that he is sorry he left. His son.” Cindy is gone again. She pulls herself together. “He wanted to tell Luke he is sorry he won’t get to see him grow up. I held his hand. Tell them I held his hand.” Cindy takes in a huge breath. Ethan sees the tension leave her. “They didn’t need the clothes.” She laughs, then looks to the side and sobs again. “I couldn’t pull it out. I didn’t mean to put it in there and now I can’t… Please don’t think poorly of them. Even in the deepest ocean depths life survives, but this place will not tolerate the living. We are trespassing. We have no right to disrupt this… devastating tranquillity. It tried to erase our humanity and for some of them, it succeeded. Jealousy, suspicion, fear. It drew them out and then… We have no right reprimanding it for being true to its nature.” Cindy repositions herself with a moan and pauses, listening. “It’s quiet again. I know you won’t come in time. That’s not your fault. I don’t think we are anywhere near where we are supposed to be. You will get here eventually. They found Scott.” She takes a deep breath. “I hope the recordings survive. Hanna really did push Cory. I don’t want to take the blame for that. I’m not innocent, I hated Hanna for what she did. I know she is probably a good friend, but her heart froze and then her mind. Robert Lee Frost understood. Some say the world will end in fire, some say in ice. From what I've tasted of desire I hold with those who favour fire. But if it had to perish twice, I think I know enough of hate to say that for destruction ice is also great and would suffice.”
","September 10, 2023 07:12",[]
prompt_0003,Write a story about a monster trying to become more human. Or about a human trying to become more monstrous.,yad5up,A Time to Kill,Howard Seeley,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/yad5up/,/short-story/yad5up/,Thriller and Suspense,0,"['Adventure', 'East Asian', 'Historical Fiction']",6 likes,"
	Camp Page in Chun Cheon Korea was the perfect place to pop my cherry. For six months, I’ve been training to be a sniper and now I’m finally getting my first assignment. It was a Saturday morning in 1953, when Major Bak called me into his office. “Here is a permanent pass for you. It will get you in and out of the front gate anytime, night or day. Now I want you to meet your partners. When you go out the gate, go straight ahead to the top of the hill. There, you will see several stores on the right on Myong Dong Road. Go there and find the barber shop. When you go inside, ask for John.”
	“You’re not coming with me?” I asked. 
	“I am sorry, Corporal Ellis, but I cannot come with you. I am very well known around here. If I am seen going into that barber shop, I risk having all the informants from there being captured. Your file said you can speak Korean, so you should have no problem asking someone for directions. Isn’t that true?” 
	All I could do was stare at him. Here I was, in the middle of a foreign country, with no way of determining the difference between friend or foe. As I looked out the window facing the road up the hill, I knew I had no choice. “I guess if someone asks who I am, I could tell them I’m a reporter for Life Magazine, major Bak.”
	Major Bak laughed. “I doubt if they will ask you anything, except for money or cigarettes. Hell, a pack of Lucky Strikes will buy you a personal guide to the barbershop.” 
	Rising from his chair, he joined me at the window, and replied, “The weather looks good today. You better take advantage of it while you can.”
	My time for procrastination had come to an end. After saying my farewells, I left the building and began my journey up the hill. Before I knew it, I was walking down Myong Dong Road and found the sign saying Yi Bal So (Barbershop). As I went inside, I was greeted with cigarette smoke filled room with a man getting a haircut and two others talking to the barber. But when they saw me come in, they went silent. “Naneun jon-eul chajgo issseubnida (I am looking for John),” I said. The two men who were talking to the barber looked at each other and walked out the door. The barber quickly finished with his customer, and he ran out as well. Now it was just the barber and me.
	“So,” he said. “You the big FBI man, huh?” He eyed me from top to bottom. “You no look like much. You think you can kill the big honchos up north?” 
	It was my turn to look at John from top to bottom. I didn’t see much that differentiate from any other Korean, except for the cold, calculating look in his eyes. “Who says I’m from the FBI?”
	John began to laugh. “No secrets here. Everyone talks. I listen. You join Army, you shoot good. FBI hears this and recruits you. Here you are today. So, big FBI man wants to play soldier. Good. I hope you can kill those soldier men. All number ten.” As he looked outside to make sure no one was watching or listening, he whispered, “Come back tomorrow morning. 5 a.m. You go on fishing boat up Han River. Go north and kill number ten soldiers. Dangsin-eun ihae? (You understand?)”
	“Ye. (Yes)” 
	He bowed to me. “Good-bye FBI man. See you tomorrow.” 
	After returning his bow, I went back to Camp Page, wondering, how did my story come to light?
	After returning to Camp Page, I reported to Major Bak and told him what happened and when I finished, he asked only one question. 
“Do you have everything you need?” 
I thought about the rifle, scope, and everything I needed to carry in my backpack. I knew the mountainous terrain would be difficult to traverse, even without carrying a load. But this is what I trained for. “Yes sir,” I told him. “I have enough supplies to last for three days. With a little luck, I’ll be back before then.”
	“Very well, Mr. Ellis. Get some rest. You may not get much until you return.” 
	When I returned to the barracks, I tried to get as much rest as possible, but my sleep was restless. As I laid in bed, all I could think about was my first mission and my first target, but one question overwhelmed all else. What happens to me when this is over?
***
	As the sun began to rise from the east, I found myself huddled in the hull of a river fishing boat. The door above me was slightly ajar, permitting a beam of light to enter. A slight odor of gasoline filled the air and even though the hull was empty, it was overpowered by the stench of rotten fish. The smell made me feel nauseous, but I knew I was banned from going up on deck. If the North Koreans spotted my big nose or round eyes, we would all be shot on sight. With little choice in the matter, I did my best to ignore the smell and stayed below. My only hope was knowing I could be allowed on deck after sunset.
	So, when midafternoon hit, I was surprised to see the crewmen signaling for me to come up. “Everything, you bring,” one of them whispered. “Balli (Quickly).” I grabbed my gear and headed up to greet the sunshine and fresh air. I felt like I was just released from thirty days of solitary confinement. 
	Another of the crewmen was on shore signaling for me to follow him. This is it, I thought. the crewman grabbed my scope bag and began to guide me through a mountain pass. 
	The crewman spoke to me in simple Korean. “Maybe two kilometers, camp ahead. Big honchos there. You kill the general. Understand?” 
	“Ye,” I replied. 
	The crewman and I went up the path, then turned off into a wooded area. Ten minutes later, we came to the edge of a clearing. From there I could see an encampment in the near distance. The crewman pointed at the camp. “Geugos-e (There).” 
	It was still light out and decided I didn’t need the scope. Taking out my binoculars, I began to search for a general. With all the men standing around him, it didn’t take long to find him. I leaned up against a tree and took aim. I was about to fire, when I saw another general come out of a tent, joining the first general. 
	The crewman grew agitated and whispered, “Balli, FBI man.” 
	But the line of sight wasn’t perfect. I waited as the two generals pivoted around each other. I took a deep breath and continued to wait. Then it happened. Both generals were lined up in my sight. As I squeezed the trigger, the bullet exploded from the rifle, and a moment later, both generals dropped dead from a single shot. Grabbing my backpack, I ran as fast as I could to the boat. Fortunately, the crewman was three steps ahead of me, leading our way back to safety. 
	Occasionally, I would glance back and see if anyone was following us. Though I saw no one following, I wasn’t tempted to slow down. We jumped back on the deck of the boat and the crew man pointed at the cargo hold. “Jump. Balli.” He tossed the scope bag into the hold, and when it hit bottom, the sound of the lenses shattering pierced the surrounding silence. 
 That’s it, I thought. All my future missions will have to be completed in daylight hours. Then I smiled to myself when I realized I wouldn’t have to carry that bag wherever I went. I hopped in the hold and did a quick inspection of the scope. When I opened the bag, I saw it was hopeless. The front lens was separated from the scope and was shattered into several pieces. I closed the bag up and threw it in the corner. No sense worrying about it. Then I heard the boat engine come to life and felt us moving again.
	I looked up and saw a crewman peering down at me. “How soon before we get back?” I asked.
	He smiled at me and showed me three fingers. “Three days, FBI man.” 
	I could believe what I heard. “Three days? Why so long?” 
	He waved his arm at the cargo hold. “No fish, here. Now we fish. Empty boat, no good. Look bad. Fish, one. Go home, two.”
	At that moment, I realized he was right. If we went back to Chun Cheon without a catch, suspicious eyes would turn our way. I looked at my surroundings and a question came to me. “If fish go here, where do I go?” 
	The crewman began to laugh. “No go. You stay here. Fish stink. You stink. Same, same.” 
	If I hadn’t spent most of my life not swearing, I would have said something that would have even made a prostitute blush. But I didn’t. Instead, I closed my mouth and prepared myself for the worst. I wasn’t sure how many fish they could catch in three days, but I was sure it would be far more than I wished for. 
	Three hours later, my hell began. I heard the crew groaning, as they dragged the fishing net to the deck of the boat. Moments later, the load was dropped in the cargo hold and I was surrounded by fish flopping around. It wasn’t long after, they took their last gasp of air and ceased to move. I pushed them as far away as I could with my foot, knowing it was only the beginning. The smell wasn’t overpowering, but I knew that would change by the next day.
	At sunset, I was greeted by another load of fish and as before I pushed them off to the side. A crewman peered down to check on me. “Fishing finished today. Eat time. Rice, fish, kimchee (spicy pickled cabbage), makgeolli (rice wine).” He signaled for me to come on the deck. I was more than happy to oblige. The sun had set, and the stars were coming out in the cloudless sky. I sat with the others, as we shared a meal. They talked among themselves about fishing, their children’s accomplishments, and their nagging wives. Not one word was whispered about what transpired today. There was no wind and the sound of them talking would carry across the water 
	I sat there quietly, thankful not to be sitting next to the fish. Later, when the makgeolli warmed up everyone’s spirits, they began to sing cultural songs. They continued to sing, until the last man fell asleep. As I laid on the deck, ready to join them in their slumber, a chill ran into the air making it impossible for me to sleep, forcing me to face my inner demons. During my training in the FBI, I was constantly reminded how killing someone in cold blood could affect my life. Nightmares would be my closest companions. Depression was sure to follow. I was promised I would be seen by world renown doctors to get me through this trauma. But as I laid there, only one thing ran through my mind. It was the thrill of the hunt and how I hungered for more. Before I fell asleep, I knew my dreams would be pleasant, recognizing the fear in the hunted’s eyes. Before, I was bound by the unknowing, but now I know and am eager for my next mission. My mind was at peace, and I closed my eyes with the echoing of rifle fire dancing in my head.
	It seemed like only a moment had passed when someone shook me awake. Seeing the stars were fading in the pre-dawn light, I knew dawn was coming. 
	The crewman who woke me pointed at the hold and said, “Go.” 
	Instead of arguing, I went back to join the fish and pushed them away from my corner. By the time we returned to Chun Cheon, I came to realize those three days were the most miserable and wonderful of my life.
 
 
","September 13, 2023 19:32","[[{'Howard Seeley': 'Enjoy!', 'time': '20:14 Sep 13, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0003,Write a story about a monster trying to become more human. Or about a human trying to become more monstrous.,fooock,devour,Masha Kurbatova,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/fooock/,/short-story/fooock/,Thriller and Suspense,0,"['Horror', 'Speculative', 'Romance']",6 likes,"
   The bar’s called The Bar, since local lawyers come a lot. Dim lights, wooden walls, a taxidermied longhorn’s head reaching bug-eyed from the door: this place tries for retro, but is much too polished. 
   I perch on a barstool. My feet dangle a foot from the floor. My dress -- brown and boxy with bitty flowers -- is for babydolls. I feel like something small, sweet, and barely-baked: a blob of cookie dough taken half-raw from the oven. Around me, adults sit with crossed legs and straight backs, their muscled flesh bulging under sequins and silk suits, their polished toes bound by leather shoes. I too am an adult, in age. But these lawyers smell something babyish wafting off me. Their backs turn to me. They have sex and violence on the brain, and search for people who are the same.  
    Bartender’s French accent: “What can I get you, cherie?”  
   Curly hair sits on his skull like a tight wool cap. Black t-shirt clings to his biceps. 
   “Vodka cranberry,” I reply. “Please.” 
   A risk: no one gets the ratios right. Always too much cranberry, too little vodka. But it seems the easiest drink to make. I dare not ask for something difficult.
   I hunger for attention. I sniff for a look or a smile, like a starved squirrel searching for cached acorns. I am not ugly: big wonky eyes and thin hair and a frowning mouth, a soft belly and a curved back. But I acknowledge I am meek, a gas station daisy, a scruffy lost lapdog, a kid caught playing with mom’s makeup and thinking she’s grown. No lawyers even look my way.
   The bartender talks to me. Quick black eyes, jumping eyebrows, smile cutting fast. He’s a cricket, his long limbs bouncing. A joke is etched in his bones, a spring holds together his muscles. Energy emanates from him. Is he flirting? 
   “What is your name?” He asks. I tell him. 
   “My name is Nic,” he says. 
   “Are you French?” I ask. 
   “No, but I speak it. Do you?” 
   “Un petit peu.” 
   “Ah! Un petit peu!” His eyes gleam devilish. 
   I stay long, and then it’s late. Few lawyers remain. As we speak, I lean closer to Nic. I know for sure he’s flirting now, the way a wolf circles in on a lost lamb. In the fuzzy dark of early morning, his hand clasps both sides of my throat. Hungry fingers bite the skin. My lower back tingles. 
   “My shift ends in fifteen minutes,” he whispers. 
   “I’ll wait.” 
   I remember little of the night. Nic’s apartment, screaming, teeth, a tongue sliding slimy into my ear, bones separated by mere centimeters of skin. My every pore emits static. White blinding pleasure, or maybe pain. I spent the night there, and the next day, and the next. 
   After a week, I suppose he’s my boyfriend. We talk, and he’s funny, but conversation is a courtesy. Most of our time together passes in the dark. Our time apart is a blur, too. Clarity comes only when we meet, then dissolves like sugar cubes into the black coffee of night. 
   One day, in my shower, I spread soap like frosting around my navel, and I think of him. I comb shampoo through my hair -- loose strands on my fingers. I go again -- a clump. What? 
   I paw my hair -- with every stroke, more strands tear loose. Out of the shower, into the mirror. I touch this new white patch on my scalp, skin naked from lost hair. This never happened before.      
   I’m late to meet Nic. I blowdry. The hot air hurts the bald spot. I wear a beanie outside. I take the subway to his apartment, my head lolling on the orange seat. I am so tired, and I spend the night at his. The next morning, my stomach is full of stones. My limbs disobey. I’m so drowsy, I can’t leave his bed. I tell Nic that. 
    “Then stay,” he says. His fingers slide under my panties’ elastic. 
   “I can’t. I have work.” My own fingers can’t rise above the sheets. “Maybe I’m sick.” 
   “Then call in sick.” 
   I do that. Nic brings the phone up to my ear, and when I hang up, he throws it on the bed’s far corner. His hips are atop mine. 
   I always close my eyes; I read somewhere that most women do during the act. I peek this time. Nic’s hot breath is on my neck, and I stare into his mouth: the teeth are long, sharp, thin, like toothpicks all lined up. His eyes, always dark, now swim in black ink. His fingers dig and pinch soft bits of me, like he’s tearing bread to eat. 
   I’m feverish and frightened. I’m seeing things, I think. I fall asleep. When I awake, it’s dark and I’m alone: he’s gone to work. My mouth is raw, flowing warm and coppery. Blood seeps from both gums. I touch my tongue to my top teeth. The molars rock. I press with a finger. They slip out.
   The moon outside his window offers no comfort: she’s thin as a toenail, veiled by smoggy clouds. Only the sick glow of the city shines on my blood splattering Nic’s pillow. My five teeth lie there like little pearls. 
   In the groggy grey morning, Nic returns. He stinks like cigarettes and spilled drinks, and when he plops beside me on the mattress, his hungry hands reach right for me. 
   “No, Nic, stop,” I croak. “I can’t. I really, really don’t feel good.” 
   “Oh.” His face softens, then tightens, concerned, like a father calculating the extent of an infant’s illness. 
   He slides my head onto his lap, combs through my hair. It feels good. He’s never touched without taking. His forearms bulge, so very strong. It’s like, the worse I feel, the healthier he is.
   My mind is warm and milky. I drift in and out. He has a plastic container of steaming soup when I wake up, and he spoonfeeds me salty broth. I’m so fucking hungry. My greedy lips slurp and slurp and slurp. 
   I stay in Nic’s apartment. Work is forgotten. I don’t call them. I don’t call anyone. I’m still sick, surely, but getting stronger with his care. He walks me to the shower, scrubs me with soap. He feeds me applesauce, soup, porridge with golden streaks of butter. He rubs my back. He doesn’t leave the apartment, except for bar shifts. I beg him to stay. I need him, always. Hunger yowls like a stray cat inside me when he steps away.  
   And then, we are in bed, my bare cheek on his pants, and we haven’t slipped inside each other for two weeks, and when he yawns, I look at his face, really look, and it’s grey, drained, tired, lined, hungry. I rub his head, and find his loose curls in my fingers. 
   When he goes to the bathroom, I spy through the open door. His arms are braced against the sink, stares into the mirror, counting teeth with his tongue. They are much sharper than a human’s. This time, I am sure. 
  “Hey, come back to bed,” I ask. He obeys. 
   “My dear, you drain me,” he sighs. 
   “I’m sorry, I’ve been sick. I feel really weak.”
    “Oh really?” He squeezes my bicep. The flesh he touches is rock-hard. I’m confused; I’ve never had such muscles. 
    “I’ve been alive five hundred years,” he continues, “And never met anyone as hungry as me before.” 
    “Five hundred years?” I stare at his name, embossed onto his work shirt. Nic. Last name, Ubus. Rearrange the I and the N in his first name, you get-- 
    He shifts, trying to stand. I dig my babyhands into his skin. 
   “Don’t go,” I growl.
    “Cherie, I’m afraid we must part ways.”
     “No. I need you.”
    “It’s not me you need.” His fingers touch the softest part under my chin. “Trust me, I understand your hunger better than anyone. I try to drain my women slowly, pace myself, take care of them so I can feed longer. They always die, of course, but I find someone new. You will find new prey too.”  
   I see his real form now. Incubuses do have wings, like leather stretched on scraggly branches. His ears point hairy and sharp. His eyes sink deep and black. His three-inch teeth drip saliva on my forehead as he kisses it goodbye. 
   He closes the door gently on his way out. I stare. Every boyfriend leaves, always the same accusation: needy. Nic was right, though: I do find alway find new prey. 
 
","September 10, 2023 03:29",[]
prompt_0003,Write a story about a monster trying to become more human. Or about a human trying to become more monstrous.,z4q2kq,How to Kill a Mockingbird,Jimmy Creole,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/z4q2kq/,/short-story/z4q2kq/,Thriller and Suspense,0,['Fiction'],6 likes,"
A narrow lake glints like a knife in the distance, wedged into dark, snow-dusted mountaintops flashed through with sheer rock faces. The road and its gravel shoulders snake upward, looping lazily through cloistered huddles of squat buildings, the town trickling down from the mountain like a little stream. Mabel stands before an old barn at its base, breathing into her scarf and braced against the bitter mountain air, rifle in one hand and a little blue Government-issue handbook titled ‘Guide to Paracausal Creatures’ in the other that she uses to scratch her head through her itchy cap. She has never been a fan of the cold, and according to the book, neither has the thing she’s hunting. It’s some joke, she thinks, that they would both wind up here. 
“Hellooo? Anyone home?” Mabel shouts across the wind. “Come out little guy, helpless human ripe for the taking!” The barn creaks softly in response, but there is nothing. Mabel sighs. She turns around and starts counting down from thirty in her head. In her little book there is a two-page spread on Class 3 Signal-Receptive Water Entities. How to spot them, how to draw them out. They don’t like being seen. Look away and count to thirty, it says. She stops when she hears movement. Taking a deep breath, she wheels back around, bringing up her gun. Mabel has learned about the things, her handler has even told her the old sailor’s tales of stalking low-tide horrors in the shapes of long dead friends or wives across the sea, but this is the first time she has ever seen one. It is almost in the shape of a human, four, maybe five limbs, the fading imprint of the person it wore for its last victim. It ripples, flesh shifting like water, taking a quick step back as if caught off guard. Don’t give it time to change. Kill instantly. The last part is bolded. Mabel shoulders her rifle, loosing a round with a hollow crack. The impact makes waves in the thing’s body, pushing it further back as it loses its shape. She chambers another, looking over her sights at the writhing, seething mass as it quickly begins to change. Crack. She fires again, but the thing sinks low and she just misses it. “Shit,” she whispers under her breath as she sees a flash of newly formed eyes and teeth, quickly enveloped in a thin veil of roiling flesh. The movement settles as Mabel goes to chamber a third, but she freezes. A face. So delicate that for a moment Mabel is afraid to move lest she disturb it. It opens its eyes, its expression quickly contorting into pain and fear as it stumbles to its feet, clutching a bleeding arm in the other. 
“Mabel! Stop! You’re hurting me!” Ellie hops gingerly between bare feet in the snow, naked and shivering in the cold. Her breath condensates around her, and Mabel can even see goosebumps. Perfectly human, She is just as she remembers, down to the little mole below her belly button. Mabel takes deep breaths.
“Mabel please, it’s so cold.” Ellie takes a step forward, tilting her head slightly in that way she does when she wants a hug. 
“Stay back!” Mabel shouts. Ellie stops, tears welling up. 
“Why are you being so mean to me? I love you.” Mabel bites her lip as Ellie speaks, fighting back her own tears. 
“You fucking coward! Leave her out of this!” Mabel’s voice trembles as she chambers the round. Ellie begins to sob, squatting down and hiding her face behind her elbow. Mabel remembers the last time she saw her. She was crying then too, arms full of hastily packed bags that Mabel had to help her fit through the doorway of their flat. One moment she was there, the next gone. Mabel never looked for her. Maybe she should have. She only tried to forget, and after two years she thought she nearly had. Mabel aims at Ellie’s head, before lowering her rifle.  
“Fuck...I don’t get paid enough for this shit.” Ellie looks up sniffling, as Mabel sighs. She can’t do it. She sits down in the snow, rifle across her lap. The two are quiet for a minute, looking at each other as Mabel regains her composure.
“You should give me that,” Ellie finally says, pointing at the gun. 
“Why?” Ellie stares at her for a moment before responding.
“You know my dad likes to go hunting. I thought I’d try it too, bond with him a little. We’ve been so distant since mum died.” 
“Clever,” Mabel says, shaking her head. There is a pause, before Ellie speaks again.
“I’m cold, and hurt. I think you should go get me a blanket and first aid kit from your car.” 
“And leave the gun here?” Ellie nods and smiles, showing her dimples.  
“If you hold it, you’ll have to make two trips,” she says.
“I don’t think so.” Ellie frowns and opens her mouth to respond but Mabel cuts her off.
“Listen…Ellie. I’m not giving you the gun. But I might let you live, if you tell me why you left.”
Ellie pauses, as the thing digs deeper into Mabel’s mind. Mabel closes her eyes, and Ellie starts speaking.
“I…don’t know. I think...I think maybe I was afraid.” Mabel breathes out with the wind, keeping her eyes closed as Ellie inches closer. 
“Afraid of what?”
“Afraid of…I’m sorry. It wasn’t you, I just…I just saw myself old and still in that shitty flat in that shitty town and, I don’t know if you didn’t see it or if you were ok with it but, it scared me, and I ran.” Ellie’s form begins to shift, her mouth stretching a little too wide, teeth a little too long. Her eyes lock on to Mabel’s throat. “God, I sound so selfish. I’m sorry Mabel. You don’t deserve me.”
“You’re right. I don’t.” The creature lunges, its shape twisting as it abandons its likeness for speed. Crack. It pinwheels back on its own momentum as Mabel plants her third round right between its eyes. It falls to the ground, flesh twisting impossibly before quivering, then falling still. Mabel breathes a sigh of relief, her heart pounding in her chest. Burn the body after the kill. She fetches a gas can from her car with shaking hands, spilling some on her gloves as she pours it out over the formless body. The creature makes a gurgling sound, twitching weakly as it detects Mabel’s intent. 
“Goodbye, Ellie,” she says, striking a match.
","September 16, 2023 03:39","[[{'Martin Ross': 'Wow! Compelling and really well-written. Thanks!', 'time': '15:33 Sep 19, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Joe Malgeri': 'Excellent story with an excellent title.', 'time': '19:23 Sep 17, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0003,Write a story about a monster trying to become more human. Or about a human trying to become more monstrous.,0i3qre,Shadows Within,Wilbur Greene,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/0i3qre/,/short-story/0i3qre/,Thriller and Suspense,0,"['Suspense', 'Thriller', 'Fiction']",6 likes,"
The town of Blackthorn, draped in history and whispered secrets, sprawled out like a living relic. Cobblestone streets and gas-lit lanterns framed row upon row of gabled houses, their wooden facades gossiping of times gone by. Every resident knew each other, and every story, true or not, was passed around like a cherished heirloom. Children raced past white picket fences, urged by hushed tales of the foreboding mansion on Hawthorn Hill — its crumbling walls and overgrown ivy testifying to years of neglect. The mansion's dark windows seemed to watch the town, holding onto chilling tales that made even the bravest of souls cross the street to avoid its shadow.
 
Situated in the heart of a town where whispers clung to the air like fog, Vincent's mansion stood silent and decaying. Once the lifeblood of community gatherings, it now bore the weight of shadows and murmured secrets. Townsfolk, who once revered Vincent's charm, now hurried past, clutching their cloaks tighter, eyes averted. Rumours, like invasive vines, had wound their way around his reputation, speaking of unspeakable deeds committed within those walls. Vincent, trapped by his own memories and the town's wary gaze, lingered in the mansion's cold embrace, a spectre of his former self.
 
Located in the suffocating quiet of Vincent's home, a constant presence lingered—a creature, birthed from his darkest regrets, shadowing his every move. Its whispers, dripping with malice, echoed the sins of yesteryears, ensuring Vincent never found solace. To others, Vincent seemed to flinch at unseen threats, his eyes darting to empty corners. They whispered about madness, unaware of the grotesque fiend that danced mockingly before him. The more he tried to confront or flee, the tighter the creature's grip became, a chilling reminder that some inner demons are inescapably tied to the soul.
 
In the town's dimly lit hall, Vincent stepped hesitantly through the entrance, his eyes darting around, searching for familiar faces. He yearned for the warmth of past friendships, but as he attempted to mingle, his monstrous guilt loomed larger. It sneered at each outstretched hand, whispered doubts with every introduction. Yet, Vincent pressed on, his determination to reconnect acting as a faint light against the engulfing darkness of his internal tormentor. Every nod of recognition, every cordial exchange became a silent battle won, but the real fight, against his internal spectre, was only just beginning.
 
As Vincent moved through the crowd, hushed whispers trailed in his wake. Eyes, once friendly, now held a mix of suspicion and wariness. The very air seemed thick with unspoken judgments. Each sidelong glance, each muffled giggle, fed the beast within him, making its chains strain and its roars louder. The weight of their collective doubt pressed down on him, making every step heavier than the last. In this sea of murmurs, his inner demon thrived, casting an oppressive shadow over Vincent's fragile hope, threatening to drown him in a tide of remorse and isolation.
 
Right at the dimly lit corners of the town's judgment, Eleanor stood out like a solitary candle flame, unwavering and bright. Their past was a tapestry of shared laughter and secrets, and she seemed untouched by the venomous rumours. She looked at Vincent with the same warmth, seeing beyond the scars of his past. In her presence, the beast within him whimpered and recoiled. She was his lighthouse, guiding him through the stormy seas of doubt and fear. With Eleanor by his side, the chains binding his inner demon seemed a little less unbreakable, and redemption a touch more attainable.
 
Inside the dim gloom of Vincent's mansion, Eleanor held out a tattered newspaper clipping, its headlines screaming of the event that had doomed him. ""Look closely, Vincent,"" she urged, her voice a tremulous whisper. The shadows seemed to dance menacingly as he read, the words revealing a heartbreaking accident, not malevolence. Eleanor's eyes pleaded with him, urging recognition of innocence. But the weight of years of self-blame bore down on Vincent, his mind rebelling against this unveiled truth. In the stark silence, his inner monster hissed, refusing to be banished by a mere twist of fate.
 
Within the old mansion's walls, darkness took on a new depth when Vincent entered a room. Shadows, once benign, now writhed and contorted, mimicking his tormented spirit. Eleanor, on one visit, watched a teacup slide eerily across the table, its journey ending with a soft thud against her hand. Windows, previously shut tight, would rattle violently, their panes frosting over in an instant, while icy gusts would envelop the room, the temperature dropping inexplicably. All these unnatural happenings mirrored Vincent's escalating inner chaos, the physical realm now echoing his psychological torment.
 
In a bold move, Eleanor sends out invitations for an evening at the mansion, a place many had avoided for years. Whispers fill the town square. What could she be thinking? The night arrives, and the grand old home, dimly lit, becomes the stage for confrontation. As guests hesitantly step in, Eleanor, standing beside Vincent, addresses the murmuring crowd. Her voice, firm yet compassionate, recounts the misconceptions, urging them to see the man, not the legend. Yet, as she speaks, lights flicker and shadows dance ominously, a tangible sign of the battle for Vincent's soul that rages within.
 
As the clock chimed, the atmosphere in the mansion grew palpably tense. Gentle murmurs transformed into sharp gasps as windows shuttered violently, extinguishing candles. The grand chandelier swayed menacingly, casting grotesque, writhing shadows on the walls. A bitter cold descended, causing breaths to fog and glasses to frost over. Voices of confusion and fear filled the hallways as the party-goers clung to one another. Eleanor, her resolve unwavering, shouted above the din, trying to rally the town's spirit. But with each new unnatural event, the weight of Vincent's haunting guilt threatened to plunge the entire gathering into an abyss of fear.
 
Among the thickening darkness, with the mansion quaking from unseen forces, Vincent, pale and with eyes rimmed red, stood at the room's epicentre. He spoke, voice quivering, recounting years of silent agony. ""I've been imprisoned,"" he began, his confession unveiling the shackles of his self-inflicted solitude. Every whisper of blame, every sidelong glance, he had internalized, allowing it to fester and grow into the monstrous entity now raging around them. As he spoke, the room's temperature seemed to drop further, the shadows deepening. ""This is my demon,"" he choked out, tears streaming, ""a creature born of pain and regret. I gave it life, and now it seeks to consume me."" The air grew still, every eye fixed on the broken man at the room's heart, waiting for the demon's next move.
 
Amidst the enveloping gloom, Eleanor's voice rose — clear and resolute. ""This isn't the Vincent we knew!"" she exclaimed. One by one, villagers stepped forward, their voices overlapping, weaving tales of Vincent's generosity, his compassion, moments when he'd been a friend, a saviour. Mrs. Hawthorn remembered when Vincent had mended her broken fence without being asked. Young Peter spoke of the time Vincent had found his lost pup during a storm. Each memory acted as a ray of light, piercing the all-consuming darkness. The room began to brighten, the oppressive chill lifting. As the stories cascaded, the monstrous shadows receded, shrinking under the weight of collective goodwill and truth. The demon, born of isolation and falsehood, couldn't withstand the community's united front.
 
The mansion, echoing the room's sentiment, began to shed its years of decay. Cracked walls seemed to mend, and faded paintings regained their vibrancy. The air, once stifling with the weight of suppressed memories, now felt lighter, almost hopeful. As the townspeople rejoiced, Vincent stood in quiet contemplation. Eleanor approached, her gaze understanding. Together, they acknowledged an unspoken truth: the demon had receded but lingered still, a shadow in a distant corner. The battle had been won, but the war was not over. The mansion, now gleaming but with the occasional creak or groan, served as a constant reminder of the healing journey ahead. A journey Vincent no longer faced alone.
 
Vincent, once a recluse, now walked the town streets with purpose, his head held higher. Markets buzzed, children played, and life resumed its normal rhythm, but with a new undercurrent of understanding. Conversations were softer, gazes kinder, judgments more restrained. The episode at the mansion had unveiled a universal truth: everyone harboured their personal battles, hidden behind stoic faces and whispered secrets. Vincent's demon had merely been more visible, a mirror to the town's collective psyche. As days turned to weeks, the town's silent acknowledgment bound them closer, a community forged stronger in shared vulnerability.
","September 10, 2023 07:20","[[{'J. D. Lair': 'The power of community, for good or ill, personified. May we all have an Eleanor in our dark moments.', 'time': '00:00 Sep 17, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0003,Write a story about a monster trying to become more human. Or about a human trying to become more monstrous.,fp56d0,Catching the Westbound,Gregg Voss,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/fp56d0/,/short-story/fp56d0/,Thriller and Suspense,0,"['Horror', 'Thriller', 'Suspense']",6 likes,"
Near Glasgow, Montana
Left foot. Right foot. 
            Breathe. 
            Then run like hell. 
            Only my legs won’t move in any other direction but toward that old man, sitting there in his lawn chair behind an off-white clapboard farmhouse, the extinguishing flame of the westward sun behind me lighting up his hazel irises.
            He has this kind of smirk on his face, like he’s expecting me. Or expecting someone, that is. Maybe Hondo, who is back in the boxcar of the freighter he stalled, out here in the middle of nowhere. I can’t see Hondo because I can’t turn my head, but I know he’s watching me.
            Left foot. Right foot.
            The codger is wearing a puke green, short-sleeved collared shirt that looks as if he bought it at Walmart a long time before he retired. Ditto for his straight-legged blue pants with creases that look sharp enough to cut ma’s Thanksgiving turkey. Black socks and no-name gym shoes on his feet. A gold wedding band on his finger, and white hair combed over left to right. Thick horn-rimmed glasses perched on his beak.
            Just a good old Montana boy, taking in the sights. Why’d that train stop, Mildred? But I don’t get the sense that there is a Mildred. 
            He’s alone. Glasgow is probably a mile or more away. We passed the dilapidated white-brick station, what, 20 minutes ago?
            Out here, there are no witnesses.
            By the way, that knife I’m holding is heavy. It’s not like those switchblades or butterfly knives we had growing up in Odessa. It’s not a meat cleaver, but I’ll bet it’s sharp enough to cut through muscle and maybe even bone. Hondo thrusted it into my hand after he helped me out of the boxcar. I couldn’t do that by myself.
            I was already under his control.
            If he wasn’t a monster, Hondo would be an interesting cat, man. He got himself elected the Hobo King back in August in Britt – that’s in Iowa, mind you, where the National Hobo Convention is held every year. He had this…charisma about him, a certain dark, daring inflection in his voice, as he made his case in front of everyone about why he should be elected king. I was caught up in his speech, in which he talked about riding the rails since the late 60s after getting kicked out of the University of Wisconsin for participating in some anti-Vietnam protests. About how, for him, everywhere is home.
            After they elected him king, we were sitting around the fire smack dab in the middle of the jungle, which is where he asked me my name.
            “Jimmy,” I said.
            “No, no,” he replied. Like that wasn’t sufficient or even acceptable. “Where you from, boy?”
            “Odessa, in Texas.”
            “Permian Basin?”
            “Yessir.”
            “You work in the oil fields?”
            “Yessir.”
            “Then as my first act as Hobo King,” he said, standing and waving his arms around like Elvis might, in front of everyone who was there, “is to rename you Wellhead.”
            Wellhead. Damn…it. Maybe I once went by the name Jimmy Gates, and maybe I once played football for Permian High (Go Panthers), but I passed into the pearly gates of Hobo-dom at that exact moment.
            Keep in mind, I’m no tramp or bum. A tramp is someone who travels but doesn’t lift a finger to work. A bum doesn’t travel or work, like a panhandler. He lives on what he can get from others. But a hobo, man, a hobo goes from place to place on the rails, picking up work as he, or she, can find it. It’s a front-row seat to the rich tapestry they call America, baby.
            Which is why I went with Hondo. After the convention, we made our way to Minneapolis to hop a BNSF train headed for Seattle, where there was work, he said. Opportunity, at least for awhile, until the rails called again.
            He lied.
            I was dozing in this empty, rust-hued boxcar we commandeered, miles and miles of golden tallgrass fields flying by, the occasional tree and farm field breaking up the landscape. I wasn’t…happy. I was content. There’s a difference. 
            Was it a hard sleep I fell into? I would guess. 
            I didn’t hear the footsteps, not even the ones in my dream. There was a light touch on both shoulder blades, and a leathery, chapped hand tousled my longish blonde hair, shifting it opposite my left-to-right part. 
            I opened my eyes and Hondo was staring into them with a frown.
            “You got something there, boy—hold on,” he said, and used a curved finger with a yellowing nail to scrape something out of the corner of my left eye. Piece of eye boogie. The Sandman was everywhere. Even here. 
            There I was, light, on a pillow, the tallgrass still flying by behind Hondo, but it was starting to blur into a yellowish sea. Waves and everything. I had no idea where we were, so I asked him.
            “We’re close,” he said, and then his face started to blur like the tallgrass, his tan facial features congealing into a color that was almost as rusty, but not quite, as the boxcar in which we were riding. There was something different about him now, malignant, like cancer. Or malicious. I don’t know what either of them mean, really, outside of the fact that they’re bad. I liked using big words around dumb west Texas girls. 
            “I’ve got something I think you ought to know, Wellhead,” he said, his lips barely moving. 
            “Yeah?” I replied, still lounging in that euphoric feeling, almost a dreamland escape.
            “I’ve got powers,” he said. “Serious powers that’ll blow your mind.”
            And with that, he pulled out the knife I’m holding now as I’m creeping toward that old fart in the lawn chair. 
            “I’m hungry,” he said.
            Here, I was thinking he was going to gut me like a deer, eat my liver and heart, throw me out the door and wave goodbye as a I floated out into the tallgrass sea.
            No. Much different. First, he placed the knife in my right hand and I clutched it involuntarily.
            I couldn’t look away. His cowboy hat fell to the floor and his face began to puff up and out, as big as a basketball, his nose turning into something like a pig snout, the color turning from rust to an off-pink. His fingers curled into his palms and became cloven hooves as the rest of his body bloated, snapping the buttons on his worn flannel shirt.
            “So very hungry,” he said, his voice both rising and scratchy, speaking with a deliberateness, almost a spacing after each word. “I haven’t fed since my time with Angel Maturino. 
            “You will bring me to eat as well.”
            Believe me, every instinct, every brain cell was screaming to run, to cannonball out of the side door and roll, Dick, roll, but like I said, I couldn’t move. I was listless, or rather inert, to use a word that would impress those west Texas girls. 
            “Now you’re wondering how you will bring me to eat,” said Hondo, or whatever he really was. “A few miles ahead of this train is a despondent boy, who is ready to end his life by jumping in front of this train. He will do it, and the train will have to come to a complete stop in front of a man’s house, an older gentleman. You will take that knife, and bring me to eat.”
            “I don’t want to do that,” I bleated like a little kid.
            “Then you will surely die.”
            The boxcar shuddered and there was a skeeeel as metal wheels slid along the tracks for what felt like at least a mile before the train came to a complete stop. The way the shadows well, it looked as if the sun was descending into the tallgrass somewhere far away.
            “You must understand, we are legion, on the rails, in semi-trailer trucks, even in package delivery trucks in big cities,” he said. “We are the unseen, the ignored, which allows us to operate unchecked. Like any living organism, we must feed, or we shall die.
            “We work together as a network might, sharing information. My siblings were present in Britt, and I learned of this present opportunity from them. All it took was a bit of coordination to ensure the boy took his life, setting in motion a chain of events that will result in a feeding.”
            Hondo sat back on his haunches and clicked his front hooves together two or three times, seemingly to gloat about being right.
             “I must feed,” he said again.
            “How will you…?”
            “You are under my control, even now,” he said. “I will guide you from this train to a home, where you will kill and bring me meat.”
            He stopped and made a snorting noise that I thought was a laugh.
            “Eh, your proverbial pound of flesh,” he said. “You will bring it to me.”
            “Then what?”
            “There will be other…opportunities. We will work together until you are captured by your authorities, much like Angel Maturino was. His crimes—”
            “Don’t you mean your crimes?” I spat.
            “Semantics. His crimes were committed in your state of Texas, which has the death penalty. Consider that we are in Montana, which also has the death penalty. It would be a terrible shame if Hondo had to turn you in. Who’s going to believe a raving lunatic that a…creature…compelled you to commit such heinous crimes?”
            The train had come to a stop by then, and Hondo rose. He slid open the opposite door, the one behind my back, turned me around and threw my legs over the side. A hard kick to the back and I was out of the train, onto the gravel, down a short berm and into the tallgrass, which itched my bare arms. But I couldn’t move them, and that knife, it felt—check that, feels—real heavy, like some of the wrenches I used back in the Texas oil fields, dreaming up big words to use with the girls that night at a dusty honky-tonk. 
            So here I am, step by step toward that antique bastard, who almost looks like he’s ready to laugh but is holding it back, his cheeks reddening. 
            I’m going to kill him, I think.
            I don’t want to, but I’m going to.
            I will bring to eat.
            Fresh meat for Hondo.
            I’m about 50 yards away now, and the old man is simply grinning.
            “Hey there, son,” he says to me. “Hey there, what you got in your hand there?”
            Any idiot could tell I had a BFK (big effing knife). Was this guy mental or something?
            Breathe. C’mon, try to relax.
            Now I’m about 25 yards away and he says:
            “You don’t really want to kill me, do you, boy?”
            I can’t answer. My voice suddenly left me, and he knows that, too.
            He’s almost yelling now, but not quite.
            “I’ve seen you before,” he says. “I saw you in Angel Maturino, a sad young man who was possessed by something that overwhelmed him. I was there in Texas, you know.”
            He stops and dabs something from the corner of his mouth with his forefinger. It’s dark and I think it’s tobacco juice. He’s chawing. Someone is trying to kill him and he’s toking up on Skoal.
            “His crimes were monstrous, and he paid for them with his life,” he says, which I don’t know and suddenly my heart speeds up. “But there is a way to beat this Hondo.”
            At that name, my eyes widen to the point of hurting and I actually move my head about an inch. It hurts and my head snaps back into place.
            How does he know that?
            “Like I said, son, I know you, but I know him, too,” he says. “He’s been a pain in the rump for more years than I can remember, back to when I was a kid in Texas. I knew he was coming for me, so I waited here in Montana until the time was right. Well, here we are.
            “We gonna have us a showdown.”
            Old guy leans up in his chair, and spits a big loogie into the wind, which grosses me out. 
            “Here’s what you do,” he says. “You kill me.”
            Say what?
            “You kill me,” he says again. “You lift that damn big knife and bring it crashing down on my chest.”
            My eyes widen again and I know realize I’m within striking distance of this crazy coot. Even if I wanted to kill him, which I don’t, I couldn’t lift—.
            Check that. My right arm starts to go up, at first inch by inch and then it flies up to the point where I can see the shadow of my arm and the knife in front of me, its tip erect and barely quivering. I try like hell to stop myself, but I can’t. 
            “Go ahead, boy, you know this is the only way,” the old man says simply, as if resolved to his fate, which is in my unfeeling hands made hot by the summer swelter of the east Montana sun. I notice I’m sweating, so that involuntary part of me, like my eyelids, is unaffected by whatever is—.
            Wait. 
            My eyes.
            I can still close my eyes.
            If I close my eyes, I can’t see what’s in front of me. I try it, and sure enough.
            If Hondo, or whatever that hellish beast is back in the boxcar, needs my eyes to do his thing, then maybe I’m not giving him the satisfaction. 
            I scrunch them closed and fight any urge to open them, of which there is none.
            Apparently, I’ve got him. Hondo, that is.
            You will bring me to eat!
            I want to know what’s going on in front of me. I desperately do. 
            But I can’t afford that. I can’t pay for that decision with his life. Or mine.
            You will!
            Then there is another voice. Older. Masculine. Almost husky.
            “It’s okay, son,” it says. “It’s okay.”
            I feel as if I’m turning, that disorienting feeling that I can only imagine is like vertigo. It’s a spin like a scary rollercoaster where you’ve shut your eyes. My arm lashes out again and again, but connects with nothing but air.
            I stop turning and I must be facing west and thus the boxcar where Hondo is, because the sun is warm on my face. I’m not sweating, but almost. I keep my eyes screwed shut, hoping that whatever is happening before me is in my favor.
            It’s been several minutes since the voice in my head went away, and I’m so tempted to open my eyes. 
            What if I do? 
            What if I don’t?
            Am I going to be left here, maybe with a dead body and a knife in my hand?
            What brings me back to life is the sound of boxcars jarring. My boxcar. 
            Er, Hondo’s boxcar. Whoever’s. I don’t care.
            I finally open my eyes and there’s the old man, standing in the doorway and waving at me to hurry.         
            “Come on, son!” he yells over the tallgrass and his lawn.
            The train’s moving. But how? Didn’t some kid off himself? I’m new to the whole hobo-ing thing, but even I know that the cops and whatnot get involved in a case where someone gets hit by a train.
            “Come on!”
            I toss the knife into the tallgrass as I cut through it. Hopefully nobody’ll find it.
            Chug. Chug. Chug. The metal wheels are starting to pick up speed.
            A hand reaches out to mine and I grab it. It’s smooth, like those of the smarmy, suit-wearing execs back in Texas that lowered themselves to come out and meet with the drones operating the machinery.
            A couple of steps and I’m on board.
            “You’re okay, son, you’re okay, Hondo’s gone,” the old man says, resting his hands on his hips in apparent triumph.
            “Wh-where is he?”
            “Dead. Gone.”
            “You killed him? Where’s the body?”
            He sits down and rests his back on the opposite wall. He takes a deep breath and starts to talk.
            “Well, son, I suppose you’d like to know what’s going on,” he says.
            With a doddering chuckle, he launches into this, this…bizarre tale.
            Hondo was right. There are creatures that are hidden in plain sight in our world—including the Texas oil fields. They are meat-eaters, and they kill to survive, just like we kill cows and chickens. We’re unnamed fodder for them, just a bunch of wild animals running around that need to be tamed before they’re dispatched.
            “And there are some of us that have been tasked by the highest powers in the land to deal with these entities,” he says, “to ensure they can’t kill with impunity.”
            I shudder.
            “You mean, the government?”
            “The same. Your politicians know a lot more than they’re letting on.”
            I whistle. What the hell have I stumbled into?
            “I was in Britt,” he goes on. “In a different form, of course. I’ve been watching Hondo for a long time, decades, as a matter of fact. I knew what he was up to. You see, they can’t just kill, they need humans to do the actual, how do you say it, dirty work.”
            It’s been a wild night, and I’m as out of it as I was when I worked in the oil fields, just devastatingly tired. I put my head back and close my eyes.
            “That’s right, Wellhead, get your rest.”
            I perk up to my nickname and my eyes pop open.
            “How do you—?”
            “You want to know where Hondo is?” the pig-like form in front of me says. “He’s meat, just like you.
            “Rest yourself, because we’re going into business together, you and me. You’re perfect for the job we’re going to do.”
","September 10, 2023 23:50",[]
prompt_0003,Write a story about a monster trying to become more human. Or about a human trying to become more monstrous.,8sw757,Being Frank,Martin Radford,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/8sw757/,/short-story/8sw757/,Thriller and Suspense,0,"['Funny', 'Fiction']",6 likes,"
Being Frank“Hey doc’, any chance you could pass me that can of three-in-one oil, on top of the workbench?”Frank struggled with the adjustable spanner, “Damn modern technology, those Luddites down the road have got the right idea -dea-dea.” A heavy hand the size of a bucket hit the rear of his oval-shaped head. The stutter instantly stopped.“Hot Dang, Frank, that looks like it is getting worse?” Asked a concerned Wolfie, raising a rear leg high into the air. The werewolf attempted to retrieve a cup of coffee from a wooden table, by poking a long curved claw through the handle of his aluminium mug.“No, no — Not again!” Frank and Wolfie watched as the mug simply swivelled on the bend of the claw and the contents fell with a splash onto the riven stone floor, disappearing into the ancient cracks with hardly a gurgle.Wolfie hung his furry head in shame. “I’m not getting that old am I Frank? I can’t even remember using my front paws held together. Like when I am, you know — Human.”Frank’s eyes opened wide, pulling against the stitches at the edges of his already too-tight lids.“Wolfie Grey-Hair, did you just say — The H word?”“Sorry Frank,” choked his best friend. “It-just-sort-of-dribbled-out…” he stammered the words loosely and ended the sentence with a wet gulp.Doc dropped the oil can onto the shelf near where Frank was sitting. He looked sympathetically at the two despondent creatures.“Well, I may be wrong and barking up the wrong tree.” He paused as he saw Wolfie narrowing his eyes into expressive slits of annoyance. Without giving the creature a chance to respond, he continued his conversation.“But, unless I am very much mistaken, you both look like someone who needs cheering up. Follow me to my lab, and I will show you the results of my latest experiments.”Frank slid awkwardly off the top of the Stainless Steel pathologist's table to stand next to his two friends. For some reason, he always felt incredibly comfortable sitting there. He told his friends it felt like he was in a womb before being born. Doc never had the guts to tell him how close to the truth he actually was.On the way to the lab, they crossed the recreation room to reach the stairs to the cellars below.They were interrupted, as twelve bundles of fur rushed as one, towards Frank. He paused as they ran in circles around his massive black boots, occasionally jumping up for him to catch them in his gigantic arms. He'd playfully toss the ball of fluff into the air, before dropping the foxlike creatures back to the safety of the floor.Wolfie sighed, “Sorry Frank.” He watched the activities for a few seconds before firmly raising his voice. “C'mon kids, give Uncle Frank a break.”“But, Uncle Frank is already broken.” A young female cub innocently squeaked. Realising his daughter had already grasped one of life’s oddities at the tender age of nine months. A toothy grin spread inch by inch along the wiry muzzle of the extremely proud werewolf.Wolfie attempted to redirect their attention elsewhere.“Hey look, Cleo's bandages have come loose. Why don't you see if you could help her tie them up again?” He watched as his brood finished harassing poor old Frank, and was now speeding in leaps and bounds in Cleo's direction. She reacted as if they were her own children, swinging bunches of five baby wolves at a time, by their skinny tails.Turning towards Frank, Wolfie raised a hand to the side of his maw and whispered in a conspiratorial voice. “What you reckon Frank? Yummy mummy, or what?” He dug his friend in the ribs with his snout as there wasn't currently an available elbow to use.Frank's eyes were slightly glazed. Either he was deep in thought, or his tear ducts had kicked the bucket again. This time it was the former reason, as Frank was lamenting his lack of a mate.He had tried dating Cleo once, but as they were getting fresh with each other their amorous activities rapidly came to a sudden halt.As soon as Frank began removing her copious covering of bandages. Brown dust poured between the gaps, creating a small cone of Cleo essence upon the floor.The doc's creation faired no better, as various parts she found herself clutching had unceremoniously detached themselves. Leaving her rather embarrassed and confused about where to put them.Shaking his head to clear the recollection firmly from his head, he noticed Wolfie was already descending head first down the spiral staircase leading to the doc's lair.He clunked heavily downwards himself.As he reached the bottom he realised apart from Doc and Wolfie, strangers were already lounging around the perimeter of the high-ceilinged lab.A forty-foot-high gorilla waved a hand in greeting. “Hi, I’m Gus. I used to be royal, but after falling off the Empire State Building, I was booted out of the super primates club.” He scratched the back of his head muttering to himself. “Shame really, I was just getting over my fear of heights…”Standing next to him were two legs and a thick lizard-like tail.Gus could see that Wolfie and Frank were itching for an explanation for the oversized limbs. He jabbed a thumb over his shoulder in the direction they were staring at. “That’s Zilla, she shouldn’t really be inside here as she is so tall, it must be putting a crick in her neck stooping down so far.”A loud roar filled the room in agreement with Gus’s suspicions.The giant Gorilla casually shrugged his shoulders, “I did warn her, but she insisted she wanted to come…”Doc coughed, “Sorry to interrupt your introductions, but I would like to unveil to you all my latest creation.”He walked dramatically towards a large white tarpaulin hanging from two chains. Whatever lay behind was obscured from everyone's view.“Gentlemen,” Doc began. He was interrupted by an angry roar from above. “Ladies and Gentlemen,” he continued in a frustrated voice. “If you would just give me a moment, as I appear to have tied these restraints with the wrong sort of knot…” He struggled for a little while before everyone heard his sigh of relief as the final knot relinquished its grip.“Today, I would like you to meet — Ethel.”He pulled the final cord and the drape fell to the floor.Unable to help themselves, Frank and Wolfie snickered openly before hearing Zilla’s grumbling in female solidarity. They stared at Gus hoping to distract themselves from the sight of Ethel standing on a podium in all her glory.Gus’s eyes flicked between the werewolf and the self-assembly human. Every third flick he directed them towards an entity currently known as Ethel and shuddered.Ethel was butt-naked, ugly as sin with more hairs on her chest — Than Frank.Doc appreciated that Ethel would not win any beauty competitions, but what the heck? He didn’t have a lot to work with, at that particular time.Ethel waved. “Hi Boys,” she said through broken teeth. “Come down and see us sometime.”Frank fought the urge to vomit with all of his willpower. Which, to be honest, wasn’t very high on a scale of one to three.“Mmm,” was all Frank could manage vocally, although Ethel took it as a positive response.Wolfie waggled a pointed ear. “Did I just hear what the Ethel thing said correctly?” No point in being too polite, he did have standards you know. Doc adjusted the knot of his tie and looked at Wolfie questionably. “What do you mean?”“She mentioned the word — US!” He sought support from Frank and Gus, who nodded vaguely in response.“Well, funny you should mention that.” Doc waited until he had their full attention. “There was a road accident down by the park yesterday. It involved a bulldozer hitting a group of cyclists. I know what you are thinking. A rampant bulldozer on the A259 heading towards oncoming traffic at speed. What are the chances, eh?”Everyone else in the lab could only shrug and sigh heavily in response.“Yeah,” said Doc in reflection, “Some said it was probably stolen and had fallen off the back of a lorry.” He scratched his head. “Dunno really. Anyway, where was I?”Three sets of hands and a lizard's tail emphatically pointed towards Ethel.Doc rubbed his hands together in glee. “I was walking to the chemist’s to pick up some formaldehyde when the whole scene played out in front of me. I was really lucky as I was at the right angle to watch the young lady dressed in that stretchy stuff, hitting the ramp of the bulldozer blade. She flew upwards still sitting on her bike, like a Kangaroo on a pogo stick. Her head hit the tree trunk, and killed her instantly.”“That was a shame, what happened next?” said Wolfie, his long tongue hanging out in anticipation.“Well, I waited until the emergency services had removed the rest of the carnage, and I stole a ladder from a nearby garden. I then phoned Egor and asked him to give me a hand. As soon as I managed to convince the stupid hunchback to stop hacking at his wrist with an axe. We extracted her from the tree and transferred her to my workshop.” Doc smiled, stabbing at a button on his desk.“May I proudly present Tanya…”As the podium smoothly rotated and Ethel moved from focus, a beautiful busty blonde took her place instead.“That’s amazing,” said Frank. “However, did you manage to put a face and body on either side of a living corpse?”Doc interlocked his fingers and pulled them back with a snapping noise.“Simples, never forget there is always going to be a flip side to any mistakes you might have previously made!”
","September 08, 2023 16:56",[]
prompt_0003,Write a story about a monster trying to become more human. Or about a human trying to become more monstrous.,f2trs3,Chance Meeting,Paul McDermott,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/f2trs3/,/short-story/f2trs3/,Thriller and Suspense,0,"['Fantasy', 'Mystery', 'Romance']",6 likes,"
Chance Meeting
 
 
 
	A pair of tiny, gold-flecked orbs stared at him. The pupils narrowed, vertical feral slits unlike any Ryan had ever seen. He sensed alarm, even panic, and realised these emotions were not his own. They belonged to … whoever was watching.
	They resolved as the features of a perfect, delicate face: one which had no page or chapter in any book listing the flora and fauna of the natural world.
	A foot in height, female in form: hair the colour of purest gold cascading to her waist and held in place by a coronet plaited from fresh Michaelmas daisies. A glistening green sheath dress clung to her body, tied over her left shoulder. Ryan saw she was barefoot, but decided this was probably from choice. The bow in her hand suggested someone accustomed to hunting, a reason for her right shoulder remaining bare.
	. His instincts were to be polite: he made a small formal bow.
	“Good day, madam – miss? – milady?”
	From such a diminutive creature the genuine, unforced laughter of her response was impossibly loud. It echoed around the forest.
	“No lady, Sir! Not by any definition of my people, or yours: not unless customs have changed since last I was so courteously greeted by … ” she paused, as if uncertain whom (or what? Ryan wondered) she was addressing. Unaccountably he felt it was important for him, personally, to win this lady’s favour and approval. Her words were courteous yet he sensed they were delivered with a touch of mockery, as if the speaker considered herself superior to anyone she might chance to meet this perfect summer’s day. Of one thing he was certain. The next step in this dance must come from him, and before the brief silence became an embarrassment.
	“Might I have the honour of your name?”
	If he could gain a brief advantage, he was determined not to squander it.
	“Well spoken, Word Warrior, and softly! I must watch my way with you! Yet you ask, and I must answer. I am Eithne of the Elves. This woods is part of my ward. What name do you go by?”
	“My friends call me Ryan. And ‘of the Forestry Commission’, I suppose. They are my employers” he added.
	Eithne’s eyes sparkled. Her voice mellowed, losing its formal edge:
	“Friend then I name you, Ryan! It seems we both have the best interests of this woods in our hearts. Let us share our thoughts!”
	At once Ryan was alongside Eithne in a glade some distance from the stream where they had met. They sat on an ornate bench which appeared to have been woven rather than carved, a comfortable size for two. Before them was a carafe: two glasses and a platter of assorted food appeared alongside. He started involuntarily, and discovered that he was still gripping his lunchtime beer. He offered the bottle, which she took in both hands. The perspective change made it appear oversized, clumsy. She held it for a second under her nose, testing the aroma of its contents, wet her lips with the tiniest of sips and passed it back.
	“The taste is different, and I like the way the bubbles tickle my palate, but I prefer wine! Will you join me?”
	She poured into both glasses and raised her own to eye level. Ryan sensed an opportunity to regain some control.
	“Let us toast our mutual interest in these woods: You referred to it as your ‘ward’. Is it something you have a duty to protect?”
	“Oh, you are quick! Tell me, Ryan of the Forestry: will you lead me as merry a dance if I appear to you in another form?”
	Instantly she was on her feet. Ryan rose more carefully.
	“Eithne, I cannot answer your question without knowing what your ‘other form’ might be: but should we not drink the toast in our present bodies?”
	Eithne smiled.
	“You show remarkable agility of mind: one step ahead of me, every time! I toast you with an open heart!”
	She raised her glass and drank deeply.
	 He followed her lead, and had to restrain himself from emptying the glass in a single draught. It contained the taste of all known herbs used to tease the flavour out of a Sunday joint combined with the aroma of every summer flower growing in the fields, enhancing a sunburst of flavours which blossomed in his mouth.
	She gestured with her free hand: the food platter floated up to settle within reach. Eithne selected a delicacy, nodding her approval when his hand joined hers on the plate. Was it entirely by chance their fingers touched? Ryan knew it hadn’t been a deliberate act on his part, but Eithne’s eyes suggested a glint of mischief. Was she challenging him, testing his knightly virtues?
	Suddenly the ground beneath his feet shuddered. He strove to look away but her eyes had become glowing slits of cold fire, denying him freedom.
	“Be not afraid: I mean you no harm!”
	Eithne’s lips didn’t move, but her voice was unmistakeable.
	“Trust me, Ryan of the Mortals! Eat, drink!”
	She crushed the savoury slowly on her tongue, and emptied her glass. As he drained the last of his wine, he felt the glass fall. Too late, he flailed to catch it. Everything was happening in ultra-slow motion: he couldn't close his fingers to make a fist. His eyes bulged in disbelief. His hand no longer ended in fingers and an opposed thumb: it had become a cloven hoof. His upright posture now felt unnatural: completely, utterly wrong. A stag is one of Nature's fleetest fourfooted creations: Eithne demanded his obedience, and he was unable to refuse. Enough Mortal instinct remained in Ryan's new perception of the world to accept this as a gift: where she led, he would follow.
	He pawed the ground and hesitated, a silent statue shuddering with urgent, untested energies. He raised his head to confirm that this shapechange was real. As his eyes feasted on her his breath grew short, his throat dry. The sheer, savage joy of unbridled lust filled his senses. This was no longer the puny, brittle framed biped which had been Ryan moments earlier. Stag Ryan planted his forelegs on solid earth where they belonged, a full-grown alpha male of the deer family, in his first rutting season. He roared a full throated challenge, magnified as it caromed off every tree bole, branch, leaf and flower stem before soaring into the distance. His pose could not last forever: as he landed his right hoof struck a shard of flint, raising a shower of sparks as the stone shattered into a dozen fragments.
	Eithne had grown from a minute sprite to assume the form of a virginal white doe, perfectly proportioned in every way, utterly desirable. Whatever remained of Ryan had no thought for anything else. He rose once more, consumed by passion, and launched himself gracefully through the air, easily clearing the twenty yards which separated him from his heart’s desire.
	The shimmering white doe had been ready, and bounded away before his rear hooves left the ground. An impertinent flash of the miniscule scud which almost covered her rump was all that remained to greet him as he landed. A carillon of teasing laughter gave him a direction to follow: the chase was on, with Ryan the Hunter. His superior size and strength were no advantage against Eithne’s lighter frame and nimble feet, which enabled her to slip easily through gaps and barriers which Ryan had to bully his way through or find a way around. He sensed that she was not distancing herself from him as quickly as she could.
	‘Like all women, she wants to be caught’ a tiny voice deep within assured him ‘ … the rest is up to you!’
	He was not yet at one with his unfamiliar body, but he was learning fast. The only thing which mattered was to capture and dominate the beautiful creature impudently leading him through a forest which had taken on an added lustre of mystery and magic. As he leapt another impossible thirty yards in a single bound, his male urges heightened another notch. Somehow he found extra reserves of stamina to increase his speed to a flat out gallop. The tiniest detail of every tree, plant and shrub was sharper, clearer, more acute than anything he’d seen in his years as a mere mortal. His enhanced panoramic field of vision registered an impossible number of hues and grades of colour on nature’s palette. The permutations and possibilities of the most prevalent forest colour, green, could not be counted. Like a human fingerprint, the shading and the foliage on every tree and bush was unique, subtly different from even its closest neighbour.
  “Trust me!”
	He careered, almost out of control, round one more tight bend. Time no longer had any significant meaning. They had been hurtling through the densest thickets and the trackless forest for an unconscionable time, barely bending each blade of grass, without damaging or even bruising the stem of a single bush or flower. Despite his bulk, and the crashing sound each time his hoofs struck the ground, Ryan felt exhilarated, lighter than thistledown. He could hear the heavy throb of blood coursing through his temples, but his breathing was effortless, his energy boundless. He sensed he could run forever, if need be, to capture his prize.
	Eithne careened onto a dusty, grassless track and turned left, heading west. She slowed to a brisk trot, looking over her shoulder to make sure he followed. The track opened out into a meadow of level, trimmed lawn with a magnificent ancient oak in its exact centre. The sublime symmetry of the scene could not be natural. Some unknown expert gardener had planned and sculpted this idyllic lovers’ bower scene as a testament to Nature’s beauty, his tour de force a genuine labour of love.
	Eithne stood beneath the single oak, her breathing calm, controlled despite the madcap chase. Ryan dug into the turf, carving out two shallow ruts with his forelegs. Eithne’s flimsy white tail flickered more rapidly than ever across her rump as she stood and gazed at him soulfully. For a moment her eyes became the emerald green they had been in Elvish form, pinning Ryan in mid-stride. He reared to stand erect, perfectly balanced as he bellowed triumphantly to the whole forest, displaying for Eithne his throbbing, glistening shaft, surely too vast to enter her dainty buttocks. Eithne’s eyes changed back to the innocent hazel brown of every doe. She settled on a slightly wider stance of her graceful legs, turned her head once more towards the massive oak and bent her neck in submission.
	He slowed to a walk and touched her with his nose: warm and moist. Eithne’s moan resembled a feline purr of pleasure. Seconds passed, and her moans increased in volume and intensity as Ryan mounted her, his full length pulsing rhythmically in the one sweet spot for which it was designed.
	A tiny part of Ryan’s faltering thought processes warned him the difference between his massive body and her slender frame was too great for their mating to last long.
	Eithne slowed and gazed at Ryan, imploring his patience. She took the most delicate of steps forward and placed her forelegs against the trunk of the oak.
	Ryan’s broad shoulders made it easy for him to place his forelegs on either side. Now it was possible to push just a centimetre deeper into her wanton, receptive flesh. When their moment of simultaneous ecstasy arrived it engulfed them, passing with a speed which left them unable to stand. They lay spent on their bellies, nuzzling, touching noses as they sought to force breath into air-starved lungs. Ryan sensed they were safe from discovery by any member of the Natural, Mortal or Faerie worlds.
	The sun had reached its zenith, and Ryan could feel the gentle warmth of the summer day dappling on his back through the protective canopy of foliage above them. All his senses were preternaturally alert, alive and vibrating. A thousand and one minute sounds wafted from all parts of the forest as nature’s orchestra rested from their matinee performance and settled to drowse through the warmest hours of the day, preparing for an afternoon encore. One by one, the individual performers of the morning’s magnificent orchestral manœvres in the park faded into a comfortable, peaceful hour or three of well-earned rest and recovery.
	He must have dozed for a while, along with every other plant, animal and elemental in the forest. Ryan opened eyes he hadn’t intended to close. It required a conscious effort to raise his head from the tussock he had used as the softest imaginable pillow and take stock of his surroundings.
	Nothing had changed, yet everything seemed different. The scents of the flowers and the rich, loamy earth thrilled his supersensitive nostrils, satisfying him in ways no mortal had a right to experience or enjoy. His ears caught the love song chirruped by a grasshopper too far away to be visible, and could even identify the moment it paused and was answered by its mate in a slightly more reedy, feminine-sounding lilt. The infinitesimal nuance of difference between the two was something no human ear could possibly hope to discern, but for him it felt so right, so natural …
	He relaxed and stretched, luxuriating in the heat of the sun’s rays which recharged him as they caressed every inch of his body. His eyes drooped. He was close to dozing once more when he suddenly realised why the soporific beauty of the forest glade felt different.
	The full spectrum of forest favours, greens and golds, sable and silver, the shimmering subdivisions of shade which defied description in mundane mortal words were still everywhere he chose to look, but his enhanced stag’s field of panoramic vision had somehow altered: shrunken, restricted to something closer to that which he had known before his transformation. He felt a pang of loss and regret, deprived of the extra dimension of enhanced vision he had so briefly possessed. Reluctantly he forced himself to postpone his study of his surroundings and concentrate on a close examination of his body. He could sense he had undergone further subtle changes: a waspish inner voice snickered he might not be grateful to discover what they were.
	The reason for his altered vision was immediately clear. He was no longer the powerful muscled package of full grown stag, crowned with superb branching antlers. 
	He lay on his left flank, basking in the afternoon’s warm glow, and had resumed a human form – of sorts, he corrected himself. He wore no clothing, nor was there any sign of the garments he had been wearing prior to his shapeshifting and madcap pursuit through the forest.
	Human in form, but now reduced in stature roughly to Eithne’s height. His skin colour had also altered subtly and now matched hers: a smooth, creamy hazelnut-brown. This wasn’t a wild guess. She had also reverted to her earlier form and lay curled in sleep within a comfortable arm’s stretch: a sumptuous feast for his eyes, though they had lost the extra depth and clarity he had been temporarily granted while Monarch of the Forest. Like him she was completely unclothed, but there was no sense of lewdness, immodesty or moral judgement in their exclusive, private world.
	Ryan gazed at her with joy and with wonder: with love, perhaps? He hesitated to use such a powerful word to describe how he felt after one brief chance meeting, but there was one thing about which he could be certain. Baser terms suggesting any hint of desire, lust or selfish personal gratification had no place in his thoughts.
	Eithne reached out for him, chanting in a silky, seductive whisper. There was an odd, hungry look in her eyes: these had reverted to feral golden slits.
	Her hands touched and caressed his face, his neck, his shoulders: he found it impossible to speak. He attempted to pull back, free himself from her entwining arms, but was unable to move.
	Eithne’s voice came to him again. There was a subtle alteration in the timbre of her words, percolating to him slowly, glutinously, reaching his ears in the rising sap of a plant: perhaps the lifeblood of the ancient oak which towered above them.
	“This time will be on my terms, Ryan of the Mortals. Rest easy! Elves, like oak trees, are renowned for their longevity even amongst other Faerie folk. We will be together now for a term you would only understand as Forever …”
	Trussed securely within Eithne’s stiffening limbs, Ryan had a final moment’s glimpse of daylight before the gaping wound in the bole of the giant oak snapped closed around him.  
 
 
 
 
 
","September 08, 2023 21:30",[]
prompt_0003,Write a story about a monster trying to become more human. Or about a human trying to become more monstrous.,cx9rmz,The Box,Eva Moon,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/cx9rmz/,/short-story/cx9rmz/,Thriller and Suspense,0,"['Fantasy', 'Fiction', 'Horror']",5 likes,"
	Krshmi didn't set out to wreak havoc. But whenever he left his cave on the mountain, panic and destruction trailed behind him like beans from a torn sack. He was pretty sure it wasn’t always like this. He seemed to remember a time when he was much smaller and hardly monstrous at all—not so normal that the people who lived in the valley below welcomed him as one of them, but they didn’t chase him away either. But the older he got, the larger and more monstrous he grew. And he was very old. Now, whenever he went out, children screamed. Mothers quailed. Grown men turned and ran. He could have ruled the world through the fear he inspired. But what he wanted was a quiet, normal sort of life, perhaps a friend to pass the time with. He tried disguises: masks, veils, hats with wide brims, a coat that brushed the ground, walking on his knees. It made no difference. 
	In time, his loneliness grew into pain. His pain grew into rage. And his rage grew into madness. He became the thing people expected when they saw him. Then they learned what terrible destruction monsters were capable of.
	One day, as Krshmi trampled a village into ruins, a little hunchbacked girl carrying a long, narrow box in her arms limped out from behind a tumble of broken masonry that might once have been a house. She stood in front of him and looked him straight in the eye for a long time, as if waiting for some sign from him. He turned his attention from her to the box. There was something mystical about it. Something otherworldly. It was the kind of box that made him think perhaps he’d seen it before in some other lifetime. Though if he had, the memory was long gone. After a while, Krshmi thought to ask the girl where her mother was, but it had been so long since he last spoke that his words came out more broken than the masonry. 
	She took a breath and held the box out to him.
	“This is for you,” she said.
	He didn’t try to speak again. He just nodded and took it from her. It was intricately carved, very old, and had a tiny brass lock. Where had it come from? How did this small child come to possess it? Was there a key for the lock? When he looked up to ask her these questions, she was gone.
	He carried the box to his cave on the mountain. 
	It took days to open the lock, because he did not want to damage the box and his monstrous hands were clumsy. But finally, it opened. Inside, he found a yellowed parchment, tightly rolled, and tied with black string. 
	It took weeks to open the scroll, because the parchment hadn't been unrolled in ages and tended to crumble and crack. But finally, it lay flat, the corners held down by smooth rocks. It was a map.
	It took months to learn to read the script on the map, because it was even older than Krshmi himself. But finally, he understood it. The map claimed to lead to a magical forest with the power to restore youth. Krshmi snorted. He had been around long enough to know something so unlikely could not be found in an ordinary small village, in the ruins of an old house, in the hands of a child.
	He put it away and tried to forget about it, but it haunted him. What if it was true? What if there really was a magic rejuvenating forest? If he could be young again, small, and only slightly monstrous, maybe he could have a normal sort of life. He thought of the little hunchbacked girl. Maybe he could even have a friend. 
	In time, curiosity and hope got the better of him. He retrieved the map. 
	Following such an old, mystical map wasn’t easy. The towns had different names, if they hadn’t disappeared entirely. Rivers had changed their courses, sometimes even entire mountains had washed away. And mystical maps don’t like to give up all their secrets, even if you can read the script. It took a hundred years to find the forest. At times he felt he had been and would forever be moving in circles without end, and nearly gave up hope. But the search gave him something to focus his mind on—a sense of purpose. 
	When he finally found the forest, he experienced an emotion that was so unfamiliar he couldn’t remember the name for it. It made him feel even bigger than he was, but not in a monstrous way – more like he was filling up with air and becoming lighter. His feet wanted to move in a way that didn’t trample and destroy, and he let them for a moment. If someone had been there to see it, they could have told him it was “dancing,” but he was alone. He went in among the trees.
	The changes were slow.
	One day, as he walked along one of the paths he’d worn into the forest floor, he tripped on the hem of his coat, which hadn’t reached past his knees in centuries. Another day, as he tracked a deer into a clearing, he saw that his shadow didn’t completely cast the clearing into darkness but allowed the sun to shine around the edges. And on yet another day, when he looked at his face in a pool of water, his wrinkles and crags were still there, but they were far less wrinkly and craggy than they had been. 
	It took a thousand years, but there came a day when he looked almost normal. Not so normal that people would welcome him as one of their own, but they might not chase him away either. He felt a desire to venture back into the world. Surely, so much time had passed that no one would recognize or remember the monster he had been. He might live a quiet, normal sort of life. And perhaps find someone to share it with.
	As it turned out, he didn’t have to worry whether anyone remembered him. The world was now terrorized by a new monster, Akhlo. She was more fearsome than he had ever been. She slaughtered people and animals by the thousands, and despoiled the land, the oceans, and even the very air without pause or remorse. Wherever she brought her foot down, not only did she flatten anything that was under it, but nothing would grow there again. At his most monstrous, Krshmi had never done much more than trample villages. If he’d still been a monster, he might have admired her, but he wasn’t, so he kept his head down and searched for a place to live.
	He tried a small village, first. But the villagers were so fearful of strangers, they drove him away with pitchforks and clubs. Next, he moved into a ramshackle house at the edge of a prosperous town, but the doors of every business were closed to him. From there, he went to a large city, thinking city dwellers would be more accustomed to seeing different sorts of people. But after so many centuries of solitary life, he was unable to adjust to the clamor and crowds. He was just too different to fit in, no matter what he looked like on the outside.
	He crept back to his cave on the mountain, resigned to a lonely existence. After some years, he bumped his head on a low stone at the cave entrance and realized that he was starting to grow monstrous again. Should he go back to the forest? But then he had another thought: If he waited long enough to become truly monstrous again, perhaps he and Akhlo could trample the earth together. But was it even possible to catch up with her? And if he did, would there be anything left to trample?
	One day, he woke to the sound of thunder. He looked outside and saw Akhlo’s hulking form approaching across the valley. Fire rained down from a black sky and every house and tree and bush, down to the last blade of grass, was burned to the ground. Krshmi left his cave, carrying the old box in his arms. He approached Akhlo in the field of cinders and ash where she towered over him and looked her straight in the eyes. They were fiery red and so filled with pain and rage and madness that he wanted to run away screaming. But he stood his ground, waiting for sign of … something. For an instant, he thought he saw a flicker of … something. Curiosity? Loneliness? But it vanished. Her attention turned to the ancient box he carried in his arms. He took a breath and held it out.
	“This is for you,” he said.
 
END
 
","September 09, 2023 01:07","[[{'David Sweet': 'Love how the story comes around full circle!', 'time': '12:59 Sep 16, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0003,Write a story about a monster trying to become more human. Or about a human trying to become more monstrous.,k9c7i8,The Hunger,Glenda Bailey,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/k9c7i8/,/short-story/k9c7i8/,Thriller and Suspense,0,['Horror'],5 likes,"
	Cindy watched as last hint of the red sun dipped below the horizon. She wrung her hands as she paced back and forth; the knot of worry in her belly overtaking her pangs of hunger. She remembered when the sun was a golden ball in the sky, but those days were gone. 
	She had idly observed as mankind tortured Mother Earth; tearing off her cloak of trees; raping her soil, plunging deep to extract her oil, coal, and diamonds. Mankind had violated her water and defiled her air with careless abandon. They had ripped her apart and she could take only so much torture. Mother Earth was dying, but not without a fight.
	Fires, floods, and earthquakes, wreaked the earth. The waters were emptying of living organisms. The contaminated earth was refusing to grow anything.  The sky was dark with smoke, and the sun blazed red. In ten short years, the world Cindy once knew had become a dangerous place in a fight for survival.
	That afternoon, Cindy had been preparing for another foraging mission when her fifteen year old daughter, Cassie, laid a hand on her shoulder. 
	 “Mom, you were out all night. You haven’t eaten in a week and you need your rest. I can handle this.”
	“I’m not letting you go out there alone,” Cindy said as she looked at her daughter’s emaciated body. 
	They needed food desperately and Cindy was exhausted from looking for something to fill their bellies.
	“I know what I’m doing, Mom. You taught me well. Besides, it is the middle of the day. You rest and I’ll be back before you know it.”
	Cassie kissed her mother’s forehead and whispered, “I love you,” as she walked out the door. 
	Cindy now wondered what kind of a mother would willingly put her child in such danger. 
	When Cassie was born, Cindy was the most loving of mothers. She would take Cassie to the park, sing silly songs, bake cookies with her, and then read her bedtime stories as she rocked her to sleep. She would shower her with affection – little kisses on the cheeks and bear hugs several times a day. She had dreamed of all the milestones to come – prom, graduation, marriage, and being a grandmother, but those dreams were not to be. 
	Instead of teaching Cassie how to write the alphabet or to add and subtract, Cindy taught her how to survive. She showed her how to set traps for game; how to build a fire; how to set a perimeter of protection; and, most importantly, how to defend herself because the world had become a very dangerous place. Provisions were limited and the fight for survival was ruthless. There were no pretty dresses and high heels. It was camouflage cargo pants and work boots now. Fancy steak dinners with wine in elegant restaurants were a thing of the past. Cindy taught Cassie how to root for grubs and worms; how to shoot and skin pigeons; how to trap rats, frogs, bats, and snakes – whatever nourishment they could find. Most importantly, Cindy taught Cassie how to defend herself because it was desperate times and people were willing to resort to desperate measures. 
	Cindy marveled at how much she had changed. Time and circumstance had transformed her into someone she hardly recognized. It had started with small things – trespassing and stealing - which went against everything she believed in her prior life. She wrestled with her conscience, knowing what she was doing was wrong, but she reasoned whatever Higher Being there might be, would forgive her. As time went on, she did unimaginable things in order to survive and her conscience became quieter and quieter. Whereas, she once would ruminate if she was rude to a sales clerk, now she could slit a man’s throat to take his can of peas and not give it a second thought.  And she wondered what kind of an example she was setting for her daughter. She knew how depraved she had become and wondered how much worse she could get.
	Cindy grabbed her jacket and her knives and headed out the door. She had to find Cassie.
	The moon cast a feeble light on the old school. The wind swept icy fingers down Cindy’s back. A pile of leaves rustled and swirled and an old swing set screeched as it swung back and forth like a pendulum. Cindy scanned the lot for any sign of movement. Finding none, she squeezed her body through the gap in the chain link fence, her ears perked for any sound of danger. She crouched low, making her way along the fence line until she could dart across the parking lot. She eased the back door open; it howled in protest, screeching like fingernails on a chalkboard. Cindy paused to make sure no guards appeared, but the moans and groans from the people inside deadened what noise she made. She entered the building and the stench of mildew, rot, and unwashed bodies assailed her senses. Cindy silently inched her way to the gymnasium, slowly slithering along the wall until she found the bleachers. She crouched low, hiding behind the seats. She knew she had to be careful as it was feeding time for the horde.
	Cindy watched the swarm of hollow eyed, emaciated people and knew she looked no better. The crowd started to part as they formed a queue, leaving her with a direct line of vision to the center stage. Her heart shattered as she realized there was nothing she could do; she was too late. 
	Two men were holding Cassie; stretching her arms out like a gruesome parody of Christ on the cross. Another man withdrew a knife from his belt and cut a strip of flesh from Cassie’s arm. He tossed it to the first person. He cut another sliver and passed it to the next person. 
Cindy’s eyes filled with tears and her mouth with saliva as she joined the line-up. 	She loved her daughter; she truly did, but she was hungry, too.
","September 14, 2023 05:09","[[{'Emilie Ocean': 'Thanks for sharing The Hunger with us, Glenda. I loved reading about Cindy, her reasoning, and her needs. :)', 'time': '18:00 Sep 18, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Glenda Bailey': 'Thank you, Emilie. I am glad you enjoyed it.', 'time': '22:42 Sep 18, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Glenda Bailey': 'Thank you, Emilie. I am glad you enjoyed it.', 'time': '22:42 Sep 18, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0003,Write a story about a monster trying to become more human. Or about a human trying to become more monstrous.,xh71u5,"Of the Land, Sky and Waters",James Lane,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/xh71u5/,/short-story/xh71u5/,Thriller and Suspense,0,"['Adventure', 'Inspirational', 'Fantasy']",5 likes,"
Korlach Longnail finished the last of his worms and wiped dirt from his chin. “How do ya goblins eat that filthy mess?” said the stagecoach driver. Korlach struggled to answer. In his twenty-two years, no one ever asked him that. “It’s how we eat in Grengorock,” Korlach said. And what of it? These humans were so peculiar. All that work to eat: kill, and skin and cut and boil. If a goblin found food, he ate it, just like every other creature of the land, sky and waters. The driver twisted around in his seat. He wore a white shirt lined with silver buttons and stained yellow at the collar. Bulges of flesh pressed tight against his clothes, as though it would all burst out at any moment. “A word o’ advice,” he said. “Your in Breckinwood now. No more eating like a goblin. And get yourself to a tailor. You can’t be walking round bare chested like that, it ain’t decent.”From a man that looks like a hairy onion bulb. Korlach stifled a laugh. He had a point, though. Korlach had to learn how to fit in among the humans, at least for a while. One year at the tannery and I’ll earn enough to go south. I’ll swim in the diamond sea, and climb the spirit peaks, and find all the treasures this world has to offer.Korlach gave a nod to the driver and set his inward gaze on the spirit peak summits.The driver tipped his hat, turned in his seat, and gave his horse a lash.***Besides the smell, the work at Tarry’s Tannery wasn’t so bad. The other tanners came to love having Korlach around. They gave the goblin the most gruesome jobs: scraping gore from hides, scrubbing the putrefaction shed, mixing bate water with pigeon poop. Korlach did it all with vigor and a smile. His favorite job was dung hoarding. On quiet afternoons, he’d grab handfuls of feed and dash through tall grasses out to the old horse barn where the pigeons roosted. Under the shade of oaks, he’d watch the birds have their fill. If he was hungry, he’d snatch one and have his fill too.Jagger, the hunter, was the only real pain. He was always full of humor, at Korlach’s expense. On their first meeting, Jagger chucked a festering, maggot laden wolf’s hide at Korlach’s head.“Hey ya dirty gobbler. This remind ya of home?” the hunter said.Korlach shrugged. “We’d never leave so much on the hide for them to eat.” He picked up a maggot and popped it into his mouth. He didn’t like it. Far too sour.“Diirrrtyyy Gobbler,” Jagger said. And he laughed. So loud that his two brown bloodhounds howled along with him. Some of the other tanners laughed too. Korlach didn’t know what was so funny about it. But it mattered little. At the end of every week, he tucked his hard earned money into his sack and got forty pecks closer to his dreams. Two thousand pecks. That’s all I need. Only one year and I’ll be free.***In Korlach’s fifth month at the tannery, his father fell ill. He wheezes all night, and his coughing fits are dreadful. Korlach’s mother wrote. He hasn’t hunted in a month. Please come home. Korlach bought a quill and ink in Breckinwood-town for two pecks, and wrote back to his mother.I’m sending a human healer. Make sure to cover yourself from neck to ankle when he comes. And do not eat live things in his presence. Do what he says and he can help.Korlach packed eighty pecks in with the note. The rest of his savings he gave to Milty, the Breckinwood-town healer.Milty tapped the corners of the peck notes on a gold band around his middle finger. “This will cover my wage, but I’ll need to take an armed man with me,” he said. “Pardon me, you're a decent fellow, Korlach, but we all know what your kin are capable of.”What are we capable of? Does he think my family will eat him? It’s been a hundred years now since that happened. “How much do you need?” Korlach said.“Two thousand should cover it. Go talk to Marla. I’m sure the tannery can work something out.”***“Of course we can work something out,” said Marla, the pay clerk. The youngest daughter of Tarry, was a plump, red-faced, genial lady. Her office was in town, far away from the stench of the tannery. It smelled like vinegar and lemons. Marla set a paper on her desk and pushed a quill forward.“What does it say?” Korlach put his hands on the desk and drew his face close to the form. He could read a few words of the human tongue, but studying it was hard after the sun-up to sun-down shifts.“We’ll pay Milty now and deduct it from your wages. We want you and your family to be well. Just an X, right here is all we need.” Marla handed Korlach the quill.  While Korlach signed the form, Marla sprayed her desk with vinegar and water, and gave it a hearty wipe.***“I did all I could,” Milty said. The healer stood at the doorway of Korlach’s shack. He handed Korlach a note from his mother.Please come home… the note started. Korlach set it down. He stuffed sixty pecks into an envelope and asked Milty to give it to the porter. Milty left, and Korlach cried the whole night.***By the end of his first year, Korlach had saved one hundred and fifteen pecks. Half his wage went to Milty, and half of what was leftover went to his mother. Of his ten pecks a week, much of it went frivolously. He found a keeper in Breckinwood who sold honeycomb and kept some larvae in it, free of charge. Soon after, a daily yearning for the bitter royal jelly drenched in sweet honey supplanted his visions of the diamond sea and spirit peaks. He didn’t have to wait a year for that.Korlach got a visit from Tarry in the fall. The old owner didn’t come around too often, but when he did, he’d bring a bag of gophers hunted off his land and hand it to Korlach with a bright smile. “That should keep ya through winter,” he’d say, no matter the season.Korlach usually waited for Tarry to leave and go dump the dead gophers in the woods for the buzzards. Only buzzards love dead things more than humans. But on this day, Korlach didn’t have the time to dump it. Old Tarry asked him to take a walk.“You know, I had my doubts' bout hiring you, seeing how your kind is,” Tarry said. “Hand it to me Marly, she insisted. What a blessin. Since you came to work, the moaning from the boys is down and the coin is up. And I want to give you a little reward for helping me.” “Thank you sir, in truth I could use—”Tarry smacked Korlach’s shoulder. “We’re tearing down the ol barn and taking all them pigeons and setting up coops.”“Coops?”“Yup.” Tarry said. He stopped and put both hands on his hips. “Goin up right aside the skinning shed. Gonna save you heaps of time.”“How will they fly?” Tarry slapped a knee and laughed. “Don’t you worry, I know, I know, you like to pluck a few.” He dipped his head and gave Korlach a wink. “Won’t have to chase after em anymore. Them birds will be mine now, and you’ll get a quota.”Korlach stayed silent and stared up at Tarry. What is he talking about? How could a man own a bird? They live in the sky.Tarry scratched his gray grizzled chin. “One a day. How’s that sound? If you want more, I’m sure we can work something out.”Korlach looked to the barn and saw a pigeon flapping his wings atop a busted plank.“Hey, whaddya say then?” “Very generous, thank you,” Korlach said with a bow. He learned that important humans loved being bowed to. Within a month, the stables were down, and the coops were up. At night Korlach would take the dead pigeons from the bottom of the cages - there were always a few - and put them in the woods for the buzzards. ***In the first days of spring, in his third year at Tarry’s Tannery, Korlach fell ill.“Oh, how awful you look,” Marla said, coming into his shack. She swatted away a fly and set a flask on his dresser. “It’s potato broth soup with shallot and ginger. It’s what I give my babes when they're sick, and well, you’re family too.” “It’s very kind, thank you,” Korlach said. His throat was hoarse and raw and he shivered under his light blanket. It was soaked with sweat, and even the light wind from the open door felt a winter gale.Milty came in behind Marla, clutching a case. He had two new rings: a dainty ruby on his pinky, and a thick gold band with an emerald on his pointer. “It’s awful, Milt,” Marla said. “He hasn’t worked for four days.” Milty withdrew a brass rod from his case and peeled off Korlach’s sheet. He poked a yellow, leaking sore on Korlach’s chest. “It’s pigeon pox.”“Can you close the door?” Korlach said with chattering teeth.Marla went for the door, but Milty stopped her. “Keep it open. The humors in here are foul.”Marla pulled a kerchief to her nose. “Can I catch it?”“No,” Milty said. “Only pigeons and goblins get it. Both so because of the awful things they eat.” He took off his spectacles and rubbed the dark circles under his eyes. “I can do some bloodletting now, but I’ll need to order white saffron from Pottstown to cure it. And it’s not cheap.”“Whatever it takes to get him well. It pains us all to see him like this.” Marla left, and Milty set to work. He put his knife to a sore on Korlach’s belly. “You’re getting a little round at the waist,” the healer said, peering over his glasses. Two days later, Milty came with a white saffron elixir, and Marla came with a form. “Just an X, right here is all we need,” she said.***By the end of Korlach’s fifth year at Tarry’s Tannery, he'd saved five hundred and seventy-four pecks. On Milty’s advice, he stopped eating pigeons, and worms, and maggots and any other living thing. “If you want to live, that is.” He bought new furs and boots and linens for every change of season, from the tannery, at the family rate. He moved from his shack and paid for lodging in town, away from the bad humors. Walking to work made his legs ache, and after too many complaints of him sitting on the job, Marla said he needed to take better care of himself. She found him a stagecoach, for eight pecks a week. Spring came with floods. One bad day, his driver searched for a different route around the muck and sludge. He found one, but not before toppling down a ravine first. The horse died and the driver broke an arm. Korlach was scratched and bruised, but otherwise unharmed. Though a curious thing happened then. Korlach came close to death, yet felt more alive than he’d had in years.“Why should I have to pay?” shouted Korlach in Marla’s office.“I'm trying to help you,” said Marla.“I’m not paying for that horse.” Korlach shook a form in his hands. He could read it well enough by now.Marla's cheeks grew pink and she scrunched her brow. ""I don't understand this anger, Korly, look,"" she said. She set a thick finger on the form. ""It says here that damage incurred on undesignated routes, without expressed approval, will be the acceptee’s liability. That means–”""“I know what it means!"" Korlach batted Marla's hand from the page.Marla let out a squeak and clutched her palm with exaggerated anguish. ""Are you ill again? Let me call for Milty.""Korlach laughed. ""I am ill, yes I am."" An urge came to him. One he hadn't felt since the pigeons were caged.""I'll make more soup."" Marla said. She held up her hands and the fat under her arms jiggled like wings. ""And you know, it's high time we talk about a raise.""This is why my grandfathers ate you. Korlach kept laughing. He snatched a letter knife off Marla's desk. She shrieked. He drove the knife into a stack of forms and tore straight down the middle, before digging in his nails and shredding the whole lot.Marla fled to a corner and trembled. Korlach stared at her. His heart raced and he felt strong. Like he did at the bottom of the ravine. Like he did when snatching pigeons. Her silver hoop earrings shook as she mouthed voiceless pleas. She was not like a pigeon. She was a pitiful creature dying in a coop that smelled like vinegar and lemons. He dropped the knife and fled.He hurried to his lodging and stuffed two hundred pecks in an envelope addressed to his landlord. The rest he took to the porter to have sent to his mother. From there, he trudged through the sludge and the muck of the spring floods. His legs and feet ached, and he wheezed with every step, but he kept on.It was dark by the time he made it to Tarry’s Tannery. The only sounds were the pigeons grunting and crying. He found a claw hammer in the skinning shed and lifted bolts and wrenched on wire and set the birds free.“What did you do?” said Jagger. The hunter had been sleeping in a hammock not far away. His two bloodhounds woke him as they yammered and rushed for the fleeing birds.Korlach hurled the hammer at Jagger's head and sprinted away. He heard a clunk and Jagger howl.It felt good to run. Curse these humans and their tight clothes, and dead meat, and soulless contracts. He could hear Jagger shouting and the dogs barking. He ran to the woods and rushed up a hill. His chest was tight and his breath was shallow, but he kept running. Sweat poured off him. Korlach stopped and tore off his tucked-in shirt and mud-caked trousers and hurled them down the hill.Behind him, the dogs sniffed his clothes and yelped for their master. “I'm gonna make me a nice pair boots from yer hide, ya dirty gobbler,” Jagger hollered. At the top of the hill, Korlach looked at the rushing river twenty feet down. White foam over black rocks sparkled under the moon like diamonds. Pigeons cooed overhead. He was naked and atop the world and he saw all the beauty of the land, sky, and waters. Korlach leapt off the summit into the river, and for that moment, he was free.
","September 10, 2023 14:21",[]
prompt_0003,Write a story about a monster trying to become more human. Or about a human trying to become more monstrous.,v8l03r,Befriending a Vampire over a Rare Steak,Daniel Rogers,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/v8l03r/,/short-story/v8l03r/,Thriller and Suspense,0,"['Funny', 'Friendship', 'Horror']",5 likes,"
""So, you say biting is out of the question?"" The Count asked matter-of-factly as they walked on a crowded Manhattan sidewalk.
 
""Absolutely,"" the Doctor answered.
 
""What if no one was looking, and a lonely madame really wanted me too?""
 
""No!""
 
""How about a suicidal man who was about to jump?""
 
""Still no!""
 
""Really? That seems a bit wasteful. He would have died anyway. Why shouldn't I suck his blood?""
 
""Not even if he begged you. You said you wanted to ditch the ""monster"" image. There are no exceptions.""
 
""Yeah. Alright. But this is going to be a lot harder than I originally thought. I mean, my favorite midnight snack is a jumper."" The Count paused and corrected himself, ""I mean, used to be a jumper.""
 
""You'll get over it. Now follow me and try to act normal.""
 
""How do I do that?""
 
""You know. Less Count-Dracula like.""
 
""You mean I should walk with bad posture like the rest of these schlubs?"" The Count eyed the mass of walkers around them.
 
""It would help. No one walks as straight as you do.""
 
""What's wrong with the way I walk?""
 
""It's creepy and unnatural."" They turned a corner. ""Oh, good, we're here; T.J.'s Steakhouse.""
 
The two of them dashed into the steakhouse and waited in line. They made an odd couple. The Doctor, in khaki pants with a blue and white golf shirt, and the Count, in a black suit, tie, and cape. They could not be more opposite. The Doctor looks tan and healthy due to all his vacations in the Caribbean, and the Count looks sickly and ghostly white due to his aversion to the sun.
 
It was the middle of the night, and the steakhouse was hopping. Waiters and waitresses flew across the floor with plates of sizzling steaks with baked potatoes. The bar in the restaurant's center was full of people boozing it up and flirting. Every table was occupied as well. It is a typical night for the restaurant serving the best steaks in Manhattan. Most men wore suits, and the ladies wore evening gowns or cocktail dresses. The Count fits in more than the Doctor if you overlook the cape.
 
""I like this place,"" the Count said.
 
""Yeah. Well, the wait is going to be an hour."" The Doctor hated waiting.
 
""I lay in a coffin all day. An hour doesn't matter to me?""
 
""I see your point.""
 
""You look anxious,"" the Count stared at the Doctor. ""Is something bothering you?""
 
""Is something bothering me? Are you kidding? Oh, I don't know. How about the fact that I'm waiting in line with Dracula.""
 
""Are you having second thoughts about our deal?""
 
""No. A deal is a deal. Besides, I owe you big time for not sucking my blood.""
 
""You give me too much credit. I already had two pints of blood from your hospital's blood bank, so I couldn't have had another ounce. You might not be here having this conversation if you walked in on me before I had those pints."" He laughed in a frighteningly evil way that caused people to move away from him.
 
""You have got to work on your laugh.""
 
""Sorry. I have tried, but changing my laugh has been hard. I practice in the shower, but I'm unsure what to do since I can't see myself.""
 
""What do you mean? Just use a mirror.""
 
""Really? Did you just go there?"" The Count rolled his eyes.
 
 ""What?"" After a few moments, comprehension hit the Doctor. ""Oh. Right. Mirrors. I forgot. Sorry.""
 
""Don't worry about it.""
 
The Doctor noticed an old woman trying to eavesdrop on their conversion, so he moved the Count over to a window, away from her prying, and spoke in low tones. ""Anyway, you need to find a less evil laugh if you ever hope to get rid of your monster image.""
 
""Do you really believe a monster can change? I've been this way for over eight hundred years.""
 
""Yes. I do. If you really want to.""
 
""I really do, but I also want to suck your blood right now. You have my favorite type: A.B. negative, a rare delight.""
 
The Doctor looked pale as he squirmed a little. ""Remember, our deal. I agreed to help you become a civilized human and provide donated blood in exchange for you not sucking my or anyone else's blood.""
 
""I still remember. You have my word. I'm letting you know how I feel, that's all. I don't know why, but I feel comfortable sharing my feelings with you.""
 
A bench on the wall opened up, and they both sat in silence. Ears were everywhere, and neither one of them wanted to be overheard. The Doctor noticed people trying not to stare at the Count. They would look at him and then dart their eyes to the floor or ceiling. The Doctor looked at the Count. If the Count saw their looks, he didn't show it. After half an hour of this, the Doctor's phone dinged.
 
""Finally, our table is ready.""
 
They were led by a hurried young lady to their table and given menus. ""Your waiter will be with you shortly,"" the lady then hastened back to the waiting throng.
 
""She is O negative,"" the Count said.
 
""That kind of talk is exactly what you must refrain from.""
 
""I'm sorry. I meant to say she is hot.""
 
""Yeah. I'm sure that's what you meant.""
 
The waiter arrived and took their drink order.
 
""I'll have a Bloody Mary,"" the Count said.
 
The Doctor glanced at the Count sideways but didn't say anything. ""And I'll have a Pepsi.""
 
The waiter left.
 
""Bloody Mary? Really? The Doctor said.
 
""It's like your non-alcoholic beer. You got to give me this.""
 
The Doctor raised his hands; ""Alright.""
 
They both studied the menu until the waiter came back with their drinks. ""Do you know what you would like to order?"" The waiter pulled out a phone-sized tablet.
 
""Yes. I'll have the thirty-two-ounce T-bone with a baked potato and a Caesar salad. Oh, and I want my steak medium-well, please.""
 
""And for you, sir,"" the waiter asked the Count.
 
""I'll have the New York strip,"" the Count ordered.
 
""And how would you like that cooked?"" The waiter asked.
 
""Rare. Really rare. If you could just not cook it, that would be great.""
 
The waiter laughed. ""Good one."" He typed on his tablet, ""One very rare steak."" He stashed the tablet away and said, ""Alright, I'll bring that out as soon as possible.""
 
The Count and Doctor sat quietly. The noise of the crowd and background music grew louder as the awkwardness of the situation settled in. It was weird from the beginning when the Doctor walked in on the Count sucking a bag of blood. The Doctor recalled their strange conversation that included words like, ""Why are you drinking blood?"" and ""I won't drink your blood if you agree to help me."" The Count's deal seemed ridiculous, but the Doctor liked his blood where it was, so he agreed. The Count said, ""I don't want to be a monster. I don't want people to look at me like you do now. Could you help me be normal, like a real human?"" At that moment, the Doctor pitied the Count and knew he would do everything he could to help.
 
""So, Count. Should I just keep calling you that?"" The Doctor asked.
 
""My victims call me Count Dracula. You know, it's what they hear in the movies. However, my friends call me Stephen. The ""Count"" is optional.""
 
""Stephen? Really? It's such a normal name.""
 
""Yeah, I know. That's why I go by Dracula. It's more intimidating. Don't you think so? If I went around as Count Stephen, instead of fearing me, people would just laugh. No one would fear a Count Stephen.""
 
""That is a good point, Stephen. Um. Just calling you that makes me feel less fearful of you.""
 
""So, Doctor. Do you have a name?""
 
""Kyle.""
 
""Kyle. I like that name,"" 'Count Stephen rolled the name over in his mind like a fine wine.
 
""Now that we have been introduced, where do we go from here?"" Kyle asked.
 
But the waiter showed up with their food before Count Stephen could answer. ""Here is your T-bone,"" he put a plate in front of Kyle, ""and the barley-cooked New York strip is yours. Does it look correct? They both gave an affirmative. ""Great. I'll check back with you later. Enjoy your meal.""
 
After the waiter left, Count Stephen answered the question. ""It's simple. You teach me how to be normal, and I will stop being a monster, and by ""monster,"" I mean sucking people's blood. We can meet once or twice a week, just like an A.A. meeting.""
 
""You mean an M.A. meeting, Monster's Anonymous,"" Kyle laughed at his joke.
 
""That was so sad. And you even laughed at it.""
 
""What? It was a good one.""
 
""We clearly have different tastes when it comes to jokes.""
 
Kyle acted offended, ""Anyway, I can do that. Let's start with once a week and add more if needed.""
 
""Sounds good to me. Now, I must stop talking. I take eating very seriously.""
 
 
*************************
 
 
Their first meeting was at Starbucks. There wasn't much of a crowd, and they quickly found a quiet corner and then got right down to business.
 
""Okay. I've never done this before, so you'll excuse me as I make this up as I go. Now let's see."" Kyle pulled out his phone. ""Alright. Ah, here it is. Have you bitten anyone since we last met?""
 
""No,"" Count Stephen said.
 
""Did you almost?""
 
""Yes, but only once.""
 
""What caused you to almost snap?""
 
""I took a walk around three in the morning on Wednesday and saw a jumper. You know how I hate to see a good jumper go to waste. Well, I thought he was a jumper. Turns out he was just looking over the side of the bridge at a fancy yacht passing under. Before I realized my mistake, I already bared my teeth and did the arm thing, you know, where I raise them in the air, flaring out my cape. It's really cool and scary. After that, he almost jumped, but I stopped him, and we started talking. I apologized and bought him a drink. After a few, we were both laughing at the whole thing.""
 
""Now, Stephen, you know you can't walk around at night with nothing to do. That's a serious trigger for you.""
 
""I know. I know. I won't do it again.""
 
""Also, you really must lose the cape. Did you go to that all-night clothing store I told you about?""
 
""I meant to but never got around to it.""
 
""If you want to be normal, you must dress normal. Before our meeting next week, I want you to get some new outfits. I don't want to see your count-dracula-suit again. Got it?""
 
""Yes.""
 
""Now, let's talk about meeting new people.""
 
 
*******************
 
They continued to meet each week and grew more comfortable with each other. They met several times over the next few months and made significant progress. Count Stephen stopped seeing people as food and actually made friends at some neighborhood bars. Things were going well until the night when they didn't.
 
One night, Kyle left early for their meeting when he heard a scream from an alley across the street. He crossed over and took a look. It was littered with trash and very dark. At first glance, he couldn't see anybody, but then he spotted some moment near a side door.
 
""Hey, you."" He picked up an empty beer bottle and cautiously walked. ""Show yourself. I'm calling the police right now.""
 
""Don't do that, Kyle.""
 
""What the? Is that you, Stephen?""
 
""Yes.""
 
He walked closer and recoiled at what he saw. Count Stephen was holding a woman in his arms, and she looked dead. He stared without completely grasping the scene. Kyle recalled all their meetings and conversations for the past few months. He thought of the progress made. And yet Count Stephen was holding a dead woman. 'How could he do this?"" The Doctor thought to himself. ""How could he betray him like this?"" For the first time since they met, he saw a monster.
 
""What have you done?"" Kyle whispered.
 
""She's not dead. She just fainted. It's common for this to happen when I show my teeth.""
 
""But you are still holding her. You were going to bite her if I hadn't shown up. Weren't you?""
 
""It's possible. I bite a lot of women.""
 
""But you said you wanted to change.""
 
""I do, Kyle!"" Count Stephen broke from his calm Count Dracula demeanor and shouted. ""I just can't. A monster can't change. I can't change because I am a monster. Look at me."" He bared his teeth, causing Kyle to jump back. ""You see, even you see me as a monster, and you're my closest friend.""
 
Kyle recovered and took a step forward. ""I admit you startled me. However, I don't see you as a monster. Well, maybe for a second, but as I've got to know you, I see a person struggling to improve. You kept coming to our meetings and did everything I suggested. I respect you for trying, and I believe you can change. So, there is a monster inside you, but there is also a good person. I've seen him. You are good, and you are a monster. The question is, which one will you be right now?""
 
Count Stephen's face went blank. He looked between the woman and Kyle with indecision and confusion mingled together. His gaze stopped on the woman's neck. He longingly went over her veins with his eyes. She was available, and the smell of her blood was intoxicating. He bent towards her neck slightly, then stopped. He raised his eyes to Kyle and thought of their friendship. He couldn't do this in front of him, but how could he control it? His emotions were tearing him in two. For a moment, it appeared the monster was about to win when he suddenly laid the woman down and began to weep.
 
""It's so hard,"" Count Stephen said in between sobs. ""The monster inside of me is so strong.""
 
""I know, but I believe the good is stronger,"" Kyle put his hand on Count Stephen's shoulder. ""I'm still here, and I'm not going anywhere. This is just a setback.""
 
""A setback?"" Count Stephen straightened up and regained his composure. ""Really, Kyle, I just about killed a woman, and you call it a setback. I worry about you.""
 
""We are going to get through this, but first, we must get this poor woman home."" He reached into her purse and found her I.D. ""I'll call an Uber,"" he picked up the woman. ""You stay right here.""
 
Fifteen minutes later, Kyle came back. ""She's safe. The poor woman started to wake up and asked who I was. I told her I was a good samaritan and that she had too much to drink. I think everything is going to be okay.""
 
""Thank you, Kyle. I owe you.""
 
""Yes, you do! What were you thinking?""
 
""I wasn't. I was walking down the alley, minding my own business, when this woman stumbled into my arms. I bared my teeth out of habit. You know what they say about habits…""
 
""They are hard to break,"" Kyle said.
 
""No. They are stubborn, but that works. Anyway, that's when she screamed and then fainted. The next thing I know, a delicious neck is staring at me. I'm happy you showed up when you did. Who knows what would have happened.""
 
""I'm sure you would have done the right thing.""
 
""You have more confidence in me than I have. I'm not sure I would have.""
 
""Well, just have confidence in my confidence that you would have done the right thing.""
 
""I must have really shaken you up. What kind of nonsense advice is that?""
 
""The hungry kind. Do you want to get a barley-cooked steak? I know a place,"" Kyle smiled.
 
""I would love to,"" Count Stephen began to walk when he paused, unfastened his cape, and let it fall to the payment. They walked out of the alley looking a bit more normal.
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
","September 15, 2023 02:58","[[{'Joaquin Otanez': 'I read your story and I really liked would it be possible to use your story and narrate myself for my YouTube channel. With credits due and a link to your story.', 'time': '18:56 Sep 18, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Mary Bendickson': 'Perfect prompt performance.😜', 'time': '20:53 Sep 17, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Daniel Rogers': 'Thank you', 'time': '03:47 Sep 18, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Daniel Rogers': 'Thank you', 'time': '03:47 Sep 18, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0003,Write a story about a monster trying to become more human. Or about a human trying to become more monstrous.,gt5m9j,The Cult: The Beginning,Maxx Randell,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/gt5m9j/,/short-story/gt5m9j/,Thriller and Suspense,0,"['Horror', 'Thriller']",4 likes,"
           He was in love. 
           Such elegance and near-perfection — nay, absolute perfection — sparkled in his eyes. A thing of pure beauty. If man strove to create perfection in art, this was nature finally equalling man in his endeavour. He had finally found perfection and it cleansed him, changing him.
           It made a believer out of him.
           With a smile creasing his lips, Dr. Malcolm Holt studied the infected blood sample. The virus sat in the slide under the illuminating eye of the microscope, the only cell within the sample. It replaced … no, Malcolm knew it didn’t replace, but the virus transformed the red blood cells, the white blood cells, even the plasma into itself. He saw the signs in this dead sample. 
           The virus had risen two months prior — in three rural, near-nameless, and forgettable towns scattered across the world’s most northern parts — forcing humanity to take its first true step into horror. Not the mundane horror of evil or the lowest levels of humanity or the havoc of some natural storm, but the genre of horror people thought only lived in books and movies. Zombies walked the earth for three weeks. 
           These weren’t, however, typical zombies.
           From the recovered bodies and video evidence, Malcolm’s team ascertained that these zombies only shared one common trait with the zombies of the horror genre: their hearts stopped beating, yet they walked. The infected, as they became known, seemed to have only one goal: not to eat, only to infect. If a victim was bitten once and the infection passed on, the infected moved on. Thick black veins appeared first as the blood was slowly transformed. Teeth became black as viral fluid spread over the lips and tongue. Lastly, before the heart stopped and before the infected rose, the person’s eyes filled with the same blackness, almost as if the virus wanted to view the world.
           And why not? It was perfection personified.
           Then winter set in. The freezing north claimed the infected as its own victims. Its frozen grip once more kept the virus contained, imprisoning it and preventing it from blossoming in the world. 
           But such beauty needed to be unveiled to the world.
           When Malcolm and his team went for the infected, the bodies seemed preserved by the cold, but they were wrong. So wrong. The tissue of each person was remarkably intact; the damage of everyday movement had been fixed by the virus itself. It was replacing muscle fibre, ligaments, and even brain tissue with itself. In the lab, Malcolm’s team let one infected muscle be completely replaced and it disintegrated. The virus could not be sustained by the muscle fibre alone, it needed something more.
           That was the sign of his first mistake and his first revelation, both born of the exact same discovery: the virus was in larval form. 
           But how to cocoon it? 
           How to let it transform? 
           He needed more samples, living samples. All the samples they were allowed to study were frozen and dead, but the virus thrived on the dead; death would not stop it.
           Then it happened by accident. 
           One day as Jeremy, his lab assistant, was bringing in new samples to be studied, the glass container fractured and shattered. With all the cuts he had over his hands, and the glass going right through the protective suit, being frozen didn’t matter. The virus found a new home. Malcolm had his ‘living’ sample. Instead of grief, glee filled his being like he had never known before as those black veins spread over his assistant, as the viral fluid filled the mouth, and as the eyes filled with that same blackness. When the heart stopped, Malcolm was as giddy as a person could be.
           Jeremy was in isolation, of course. Malcolm knew the military would never pass up an opportunity to weaponize a virus. He had seen it too many times, even fought against it.
           He used to get excited about finding a cure to pandemic problems. He was one of the most respected doctors in his field. Finding a new virus and then coming up with the cure for it … that was a rush few things could beat. What could be more exhilarating than defeating Mother Nature, the greatest force on the planet, after all? Nothing. He was purposefully brought in to find a cure. But like so many times before, the goal soon became weaponizing the virus. That was why they kept Jeremy.
           The happiness Malcolm now felt went beyond anything he had known before when he discovered something tiny but new about this virus. The paleness of the infected skin was a direct result of the virus itself, and not because the bodies they recovered were frozen. But why? He needed more data to better understand the perfection standing before him. Man could not create such beauty. Nature, Malcolm found, lacked the ability as well, given that he had always found a counter to it … until now. Beauty, now, began to change him. He needed more.
           “Begin,” he had ordered.
           Placed on a treadmill, Jeremy was forced to run. However, run he did not. The treadmill started and his assistant went flying off. He struggled to rise as the right tibia broke through the skin. Still, to Malcolm’s hidden glee, Jeremy rose. The bone snapped back into place over the next few hours as his assistant simply stood there. The muscle hung loose where the bone broke through. The virus didn’t need the tissue, it seemed, just the bone.
           “Fire,” Malcolm had ordered next.
           Malcolm watched with excited anticipation as the soldiers filled Jeremy’s torso and limbs with bullets. Taking days, the virus repaired what it needed of the body, leaving what it didn’t to wither away.
           “Don’t you see the beauty of this virus?” Malcolm asked his colleague. Barely able to pull himself away from the microscope, he nearly missed Samantha’s lack of understanding, her dismissive head shake, and the sickened expression on her face.
           “Malcolm, it kills people,” she argued. “That’s not beautiful.”
           “Look at its elegance,” he tried to counter, pulling Samantha to the microscope.
           Pulling away, she fired right back. “You are a highly respected doctor in immunization. You’re meant to kill these things, not worship them. What is going on with you? I know Jer —”
           “This has nothing to do with Jeremy,” he cut in. He needed her to understand that it was the virus; it was always about the virus. “Samantha, look at its elegant design. The virus is flawless. No need goes unaccounted for, no energy wasted. Look at Jeremy’s wounds. The bones, certain muscle groups, they’re all repaired, but it doesn’t need the skin, so it doesn’t waste energy fixing it. The virus doesn’t even require the body’s hair, so it’s shedding it. Look!”
           “Elegant? That’s sick, Malcolm. Jeremy was your assistant, your friend, and you seem to care more about the virus than what it took from us. He was my friend, the godfather-to-be to my unborn baby. I mourn and you’re talking … no, you’re praising the thing that took him from us!” Samantha became sullen, her words grief-stricken. “You need help, Malcolm. Grief must be driving you to thoughts you would never have had before. I’m going to ask for your transfer.”
           No! He couldn’t allow it.
           In a panic, Malcolm grabbed a handful of Samantha’s brunette hair with one hand and used his other to subdue one of her arms, the other one flailing widely. It was larval. The virus needed a chrysalis to gestate in. Forcing her forward, Malcolm slammed her into the door of the isolation chamber that held Jeremy, subduing her. Why didn’t he think of it before?
           “What are you doing, Malcolm? Malcolm?” She begged; he didn’t listen.
           It was all so clear to him now. All he had to do was punch in the code and throw the dazed Samantha in. Slamming her head into the door one more time for good measure, he didn’t hesitate; the door swung open and he shoved her in. Jeremy wasn’t quick, but with the blood running down her face, neither was Samantha. His assistant proved the faster and bit into her shoulder.
           Then Jeremy came at Malcolm.
           Closing the door with an ecstatic energy, Malcolm stared through the observation window as Samantha finally composed herself. She was calm, too calm, as she made her way to the observation window. He didn’t like it.
           With a tremor in her hand, she pressed the intercom and asked, “Why?”
           “I tried … I really tried, but I needed living samples. At first, I injected the virus into the food, but no one got infected. There was no small outbreak, no one even got sick. The stomach acids seemed to me, at the time, to be just as deadly to the virus as the cold. But what if it needed to be in the blood to survive? So I caused an accident. I cracked the containers knowing they would shatter within Jeremy’s hands,” he tried to explain, get her to understand.
           “You did this to him?” Instead of understanding, that judgmental disgust was back.
           “Look, in a few hours you’ll turn but … but look,” he couldn’t stop his excitement. “Look. Look! The video evidence was right. Once infected, the other infected don’t bother the victim. It’s not about hunger. They recognize like kind. It’s almost as if they know.”
           “So? Like recognizes like, Malcolm. It doesn’t mean the virus has any kind of intelligence. It’s a fucking virus,” she screamed, her calm facade exposed by her anger.
           “I’ve seen its DNA structure, Samantha. It’s almost as complex as ours. Why not a hidden or subtle intelligence?”
           “Dammit, Malcolm,” she slammed her fists at him, pounding on the glass, “it doesn’t make it sentient. Why did you do this to me?”
           “It’s larval, Samantha. Larval! It needs a chrysalis and your womb, your child, will be that chrysalis. What comes out will be beautiful. It was so simple, I missed it until you threatened to take this away from me,” Malcolm cursed her last actions, but couldn’t hide his ecstasy at how events played out. He was so lost in that ecstatic moment, he forgot one thing: the isolation chamber had a computer tied to the emergency protocols in case an outbreak occurred and isolation was a last resort. It was his protocol from way back. When Samantha turned towards it, panic replaced everything again.
           He was hours away from perfection being born, he couldn’t be done.
           “What are you doing Samantha? Samantha? Samantha!?” He kept calling out, but now she was ignoring him. He found her stoic in expression now, that didn’t matter. “Samantha, don’t do this, please, I beg of you.”
           “May God forgive me,” she said before activating the emergency protocols. “In hours, I’ll transform. I’ll be one of the infected. In thirty minutes, I’ll be ash and so will this entire base. Let’s see your perfection survive that.”
           “No,” he begged. “Samantha please.”
           “It can’t be deactivated except by the person who initiated it. Your protocol, remember! But I won’t deactivate it.” Sitting in a chair, Malcolm watched her sink into herself, but her state didn’t matter. Only the infection running through her into her child did.
           “Samantha, I’m begging you. Please turn it off. Don’t do this.”
           “I won’t have my baby turn into one of those things or something else for your experiment and madness. I don’t know what happened to you, to my friend and colleague, to one of the most brilliant minds and compassionate souls the world has ever seen, but my child will not suffer for your sudden madness.”
           “It’s not madness, Samantha. I’ve seen perfection in all its glory,” he tried one last time, but she was not listening.
           It wouldn’t be long until security checked all internal feeds to see why the protocols were activated; Malcolm had to move. The military would see what he’d done. They would never let him live, but he had to see the virus come to fruition.
           He had to know why it emerged now, what its purpose was. He had to know. No one could stop him, or the virus. It had to thrive. It had to live. There was only one way that would happen now. He had to escape with the virus.
           “Dr. Malcolm Holt,” the solders called out from his door, but he was ready.
           With a vial of improvised acid, he threw the corrosive fluid into the soldiers’ eyes as they entered his lab. Blinded, the four men flailed as he expected and hit the traps he’d set. Needles filled with samples injected the virus into the soldiers. His distraction would sadly work. They would have to execute the soldiers and the infected, couldn’t have an outbreak now. Then, as if fate was on his side and wanted the virus to survive, he made it to cold storage in his mad dash through the facility without running into any other soldiers. The distant gunfire told him what was going on: all infected were sadly dead.
           “Stop Dr. Malcolm Holt at all costs,” the loudspeakers boomed. “Shoot on sight.” Damn them, damn them all. How was he going to escape now? “I repeat, shoot on sight.”
           Standing before the last of the samples of nature’s exquisitely beautiful masterpiece, Malcolm was lost. Not knowing what to do, he was confronted by two cold realities: infect himself, escape, and never see the fruition of the virus, or risk losing the virus completely to the emergency protocols. Protocols that would incinerate the entire compound, gutting it and destroying everything inside.
           But the virus needed to complete its metamorphosis. It was more important. It had to go on, even if he had to sacrifice himself. With a needle in hand, he extracted a blood sample from one of the frozen infected and placed it against his arm. With its black blood oozing in the glass barrel, another realization washed over him: these specially designed needles each had a sealed, glass barrel to prevent infection from accidentally getting out. After removing the sealed, glass barrel from the needle, it was a simple matter of swallowing it. He knew it would get passed any metal detectors and would not dissolve before he could retrieve it.
           More gunfire as he left cold storage, but why? Four soldiers had been infected and they should have been dead by now. Was there something to the virus he had not yet discovered? He had another reason to escape with it. Approaching the exit, Malcolm found his answer. Jeremy was standing at the heavy door, one of the infected soldiers next to him, already turned. “How?” The single word voiced so many questions about the situation. One of the answers was easy. In his mad dash, lost to thoughts and driven to save the virus, Malcolm failed to notice the lights flickering and the power ebbing.
           He would laugh if he could.
           Instead, he silently wept. 
           Now, he did grieve in that moment. Not for Jeremy or the others, but for Samantha and her baby and, most especially, himself. Her child could have been something special and he could have brought the final form of the virus to the world. He grieved at the irony of it all: the virus he wanted to save would kill him.
           Then, as despair set in, Jeremy planted his hand against the door and forced it open. A chilled breeze swirled in, causing both infected to momentarily tremor. “What?” Bewildered, Malcolm was not going to waste this opportunity. Rushed footsteps echoed from behind him, so he ran. “Thank you,” he breathed out, dashing passed his former assistant and the soldier.
           “Dr. Holt, stop!” He heard the order as the door clanged shut behind him.
           Making it to the snowmobiles, Malcolm took one last look back. The two infected must have advanced on the soldiers for gunfire erupted and screams followed. By the time the emergency protocols detonated, Malcolm had barely made it beyond the blast radius. Still, he was close enough that the tip of the shock wave threw him and the vehicle into a snowbank.
           Found hours later by rescuers, a half-frozen Malcolm spun a tale that even he nearly believed was real. He was a highly respected immunologist, after all, praised for his work throughout the world. Faking a little delirium was easy; nothing would stop his mission now, a mission that would change the world forever.
           He would need more believers like himself, however.
           He would need a new assistant … many of them.
","September 14, 2023 01:53",[]
prompt_0003,Write a story about a monster trying to become more human. Or about a human trying to become more monstrous.,k6x62y,Project Un: R. Gunson - Paradigm Prime,Samuel Bowen,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/k6x62y/,/short-story/k6x62y/,Thriller and Suspense,0,"['Science Fiction', 'Fantasy', 'Horror']",4 likes,"
	Humanity must survive. The thought passed into the mind of Captain R. Gunson of the Paradigm Prime sitting in the remnants of his ship. The scraps that remained of the 5th generation Starship had been repurposed entirely as base camp for the crew. Laboratories, medbays, and sleeping quarters. Gunson scratched his chin with the metallic prosthetic of an arm. The tablet holding his log book lay on top of his locked trunk. It had been 3 years searching for D.A.W.N. and yet nothing had been found. His crew had scoured Dathanem from Landing Point to Nav Omega. They had encountered many monstrosities, but only abandoned facilities. 	Gunson sighed. The sound was like a rasping growl through the air filter strapped over his mouth. He was not accustomed to failure, but this mission became more and more pointless as time went on. D.A.W.N. had sent a distress call; Paradigm Prime had answered. Gunson clenched his fist as he remembered the hell it had been to land on Dathanem. The anomaly riddled planet had distorted the signal so much that they had landed over 100 miles away from the nearest facility. By the time they had learned this, over half the crew had radiation poisoning. 	Then came the monsters.	The horrid things came like nightmares. Men merged with every kind of impossibility. Some with tentacles for arms. Some breathing fire. Some craving flesh. Bullets ran out, and the crew had to resort to primitive weapons. Spears, Swords, the like. 	Humanity must survive. The horror of Dr. Ren’s face haunted his memory. The prosthetics started three weeks after arrival. They repurposed nearly a fourth of the ship to revitalize the crew. 2 months later, not 1 of the 150 crew members had all of their organs. 17 of the men had been killed by the monstrosities they had come to dispose of. Gunson stood up and paced the room. His pacing took on a limp as his metal leg didn’t have the flexibility of flesh. The fluorescent light of a single strip of lights lit his room. It’s faint hum blended with the creaking of bolts holding his hip together. Gunson swore under his breath and let his hand fall on the door panel. The door slid open with a shriek of metal.	Two crew stood outside his door, stood up straighter and saluted. The black suits that marked them as his crew blended in with the dark metal of their limbs. Their helmets glowed from the inside with twin red lights. If Gunson looked long enough, he would see that same dark metal like a skull replacing the faces of Jack and Harris. Kal had assured him that their mind and memory were still intact; All safe within the Aexian flesh. Gunson continued down the hall with satisfaction. The beasts that roamed the wasteland of a planet at least had resources they could use. His engineers found the strange substance Aexis within the bodies of the monsters. Gunson suspected Aexis was what D.A.W.N. had been tampering with before the distress call. Many of the scraps they found from the abandoned labs had traces of Aexis. 	Gunson passed by the medbay doors. He could hear the screams inside. The crew understood the amputations were necessary, but pain remained pain. Regret perched itself in Gunson’s mind. Anesthetics had run out last year. But the crew would survive, in fact they would be improved. Rations were a quarter of what they had been as more and more relied on electricity rather than sustenance. Gunson stopped as Tils and Feona dragged carcasses back from a hunt. The two legged beasts were a mockery of humanity. Like hairless apes with bulging eyes, the bodies did not bleed. They only gaped in silent screams and snarls. Tils and Feona took the bodies to the lab. There Daren would grind the bones to retrieve the Aexis from the marrow. The blood would be stored in containers for separation so that the Aexis could be taken from that as well. Kal would take the Aexis and create the tech needed to keep the crew alive. Humanity needed to survive. 	Gunson made it at last to the Generator and Operating Network. Gunson entered the G.O.N. and was accosted with the smell of feces and rotting flesh. Aexian beasts were hooked up with tubes that filtered into coils. Shrieks and cries came from the monsters’ flesh imitations of human faces. Their white eyes were streaked with red. Their skin was shades of beige to brown. Nothing at all like the silver metal of humanity. These monsters were being used as batteries to power the most important piece of Paradigm Prime. The Network sparked with power. Rows upon rows of servers blinked happy shades of green. With this, humanity would survive indefinitely. No more reliance on flesh and blood. No more need for food or drink. Only energy and metal were needed, and the Aexis beasts gave them that. 	The G.O.N. kept all 150 personalities of the crew perfectly simulated. Not only sustained, but also connected. The crew could talk to each other as needed through the collective communication. Perfect during hunts, and convenient for night watches. Every pair of eyes were now his eyes. Every word said to any of them, would be available for later use. Gunson felt the pulse of Aexis through the generator in his chest get stronger. Humanity could survive. 	He caught a glimpse of his reflection on a servo screen and wished he could smile. The skull-like grin of metal would have to do. His audio receptors lowered their gain to block out the wailing of the beasts. Gunson stared at his eyes. The red glow of ascension pulsed where his old eyes had been. This was the face of humanity. Dark metal streaked with silver and crimson eyes. Humanity could survive. But it would not just survive, humanity could ascend. Gunson chuckled with a string of musical auto-tuned notes. What did humanity do if not transcend its limits? 	Humanity would ascend.
","September 14, 2023 04:21","[[{'Christine Bialczak': 'Super creepy! Nice job!', 'time': '17:43 Sep 18, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0003,Write a story about a monster trying to become more human. Or about a human trying to become more monstrous.,1r97je,The Scout,George Hughes,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/1r97je/,/short-story/1r97je/,Thriller and Suspense,0,"['Science Fiction', 'Funny']",4 likes,"
The Scout
 
Hello Humanity. I am the cause of your annihilation. It has been nice knowing you.
 
You will have determined from my opening statement that I am not human. I am from a planet located twenty-one light-years distant. The name of my world does not directly translate, but as you named your planet after the soil, you could think of my home as ‘Ruup’, which would be phonetically close. I am thus, to you, a ‘Ruupling’. Similarly, my designation would be unpronounceable. Instead, you may identify me as First.
 
I have lived among you for two years. I have studied you, assessed and analysed you. I have interacted with you in many ways, much of which I regret. I have reluctantly become you somewhat, but my subterfuge has set off a chain of events that will cause your Armageddon. I owe you an explanation and an apology. Let me assure you that the destruction I am warning of is inevitable but not immediately imminent.
 
Our autonomous reconnaissance vessels detected life here many years ago, and Earth was short-listed as a ‘Ruup’ colony. It is our nature to expand our presence, which we have been doing for millions of years. We have occupied outposts in hundreds of galaxies, and it was only a matter of time before we found this blue gem of a planet. I was selected for the prestigious scout role and despatched on a lifetime mission to study Earth. The diversity of lifeforms here is astounding, and its beauty is incredible. Humans have considerably reduced that variety and polluted the natural splendour, but it is still an excellent planet to live on, which is what we plan to do.
 
My initial report to ‘Ruup’ extolled this tertiary planet's abundance of fresh water and food. We are, in a very singular way, like most of you. We are carnivorous. Our primary interest in this outstanding ecosystem is the abundance of meat, and the planet's most prevalent food source for a carnivore is the 8 billion of you. The statement may offend you, but you are essentially bipedal bags of protein and water with inferior brains. I arrived with a supply of nutrition from ‘Ruup’, but as my work progressed, it was (and I must stress this point) imperative that I ate some of you.
 
Initially, I selected James Donnelly. He was cutting down a tree, so he deserved to be eaten. He was a man of inferior taste. I do not mean his red chequered shirt and green chinos. I am asserting that his meat was highly unpalatable. Jim was food, but not as we know it. I felt sick. Not because eating a sentient being is abhorrent; you do the same with cows and pigs. It was not because of all his fat. I was sick because Mr Donnelly tasted of plastic. Why have you poisoned your flesh with millions of tiny exfoliation beads?
 
I had to be sure that Donnelly was not an exception. So, I tried eating Geoff Humphries of Wisconsin. And Mrs Sarah Humphries. They were equally vomit-inducing. I consumed their dog and cats, which were also unpleasant in the mouth. Why have you domesticated so many dogs and cats when they taste so bad? I then went to the upper floor of the Humphries home and found their (orphaned) children, Gary and Sally. With hindsight, after further assimilation into human culture, I now know how awful you view the eating of children—even the ones with dull names. In my defence, I had hoped their younger flesh might be more tender, flavoursome, and less polluted by fragments of plastic that you flush into your rivers and seas. I lament eating them and their three pets.
 
I sampled some herbivore farm animals, but they were bland and unhealthy. It is red meat eaters that usually produce the superior red meat. A lion tends not to sit on a couch for hours eating a whole box of doughnuts and is lean and tasty but much more challenging to capture than a logger. A docile cow offers enough meat to feed a ‘Ruupean’ for almost a week but is too fatty. Inevitably, in my quest to continue my research, I had to devour more humans. I found that the more athletic specimens, such as joggers and backpackers, especially those who consumed filtered water, were easier to stomach. In the long term, it is possible that surviving humans could be farmed and exercised regularly to produce tastier and healthier meat for our consumption. However, your innate arrogance and misplaced sense of superiority suggest you will not readily accept your revised position in the food chain.
 
In my quest to research food varieties, I had to disguise myself. My natural appearance is very unlike Homo Sapiens. A ‘Ruupling’ has purple skin, six fingers on each claw, four eyes, six olfactory holes and a large mouth with three layers of razor-sharp teeth. To facilitate our colonial aspirations, we developed technology to change how others see us. A device we call a manifestation configurator that altered our skin DNA to make us look like an indigenous species. It was housed in the interplanetary craft I occupied, which I hid in a forest while sampling small mammals. A ship and equipment made from a metal alloy proven to be unexpectedly but utterly soluble in the acid precipitation you call rain. As I caught forest creatures in those hideous Donnelly clothes, the wind changed, a storm arrived, and my transportation and technological advantage dissolved, leaving me forever looking and having to behave humanly.
 
Let me summarise for you. I have informed ‘Ruup’ that Earth is a highly habitable planet with abundant food, low intelligence, and primitive defences. I have no way to communicate further, no transportation, no alternative. The process of colonisation has been initiated. I would have downgraded my assessment had I been able to, but I am sure this planet will be classified as a priority based on the information I relayed. By my calculations, allowing for message file transmission times, mobilisation process initialisation, governmental administrative workflows, military resource prioritisation management, and inter-galactic transportation schedules, a large fleet of ‘Ruup’ ships will invade Earth within the next 36 to 38 years.
 
On arrival, the fleet will destroy your satellites, immediately ending your navigation ability. The infantry ships will land, and ‘Ruupean’ soldiers will overwhelm you. They will have lethal weaponry and be motivated by the intense, painful hunger that only space hibernation can create. The military will massacre and consume millions of you and then belatedly discover, as did I, that humans are revolting. The subsequent anger and frustration will be immense, and the slaughter will continue until humanity accepts the new reality of servitude to your alien overlords. It is not personal, just the new order.
 
Once the mass killing stage is over and peaceful coexistence becomes a possible but unlikely outcome, you must alert the ‘Ruup’ leaders to a food type that humans currently farm and consume across your globe. This food is highly delicious to the ‘Ruup’ palate and generates a delightful neurotransmission side-effect, making the ‘Ruupling’ consumer feel sated and extremely happy. You call the source animal a chicken. Farming and butchering of Gallus domesticus will become highly important. In a ‘Ruup’ colony, it is customary that the most elite and wealthiest native survivors are invited to become meat cutters of farmed animals. It rewards their elevated status, although their legs are removed for immobilisation and security.
 
This report is being sent to your government leaders and social media influencers so that the people of Earth can come to terms with your new reality. The world as you know it is ending in the next four decades. There is nothing you can do. You cannot run, you cannot hide, and you cannot win. All you can do is enjoy life while you still have it. How you choose to behave in your remaining years is immaterial. Carry on burning your fossil fuels – the warmer planet suits the ‘Ruupean’ physique. Carry on killing each other in pointless disputes over land and beliefs. Carry on developing viruses to kill yourselves. Carry on emptying your seas of fish – we do not eat such abominations. It would be best to stop destroying trees since you need their oxygen. We do not and prefer a higher nitrogen mix, which our terraforming technology will fix. Maybe think about eating more chicken. I know I will.
 
I am still determining how long I will survive without the protections previously afforded me by my dissolved spaceship, but I will live and die among you, looking like you. And trying in some way to make amends for the catastrophic mistakes I have made that will cause your near extinction. Sorry. I should have prioritised understanding you over digesting you. For a civilisation yet to eliminate fundamental flaws such as war, greed, inequality, poverty, hunger, and lawyers, you have created some beautiful things: The Statue of David, Mona Lisa, The Taj Mahal, Angkor Wat, Versailles, La Sagrada Familia, Paro Taktsang, Clair de Lune, Lacrimosa and Audrey Hepburn. It is a great pity you did not better appreciate the watery sphere on which you and now I travel through the Universe.
 
 
 
 
 
","September 14, 2023 13:14","[[{'Joe Malgeri': 'Unique and interesting, excellent writing.', 'time': '11:40 Sep 18, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0003,Write a story about a monster trying to become more human. Or about a human trying to become more monstrous.,afl5o5,The Trap,James Maxim,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/afl5o5/,/short-story/afl5o5/,Thriller and Suspense,0,['Middle School'],4 likes,"
	It’s true, monsters are scary, but often, they’re not that bright. By contrast, Charles is small, just nine years old, and not very scary at all. But he’s very bright indeed. Charles has a passion for lots of things, like exploring, inventing, and entomology. This last item is much to his mother’s concern, as he is constantly collecting bugs of all kinds. So the first night he saw the monster in the corner of his room, he wasn’t scared. He was curious. 
	 “Hullo,” said Charles.  
	The monster made a slippery, growling sound, puffing up its horns. Gruarr-hissssssss.
	Charles looked the monster up and down. “Are you a Halyomorpha halys?” he asked.
	The monster raised the fins on its wide, scaled neck and answered. Gruarr-hissssssss.
	“I said, are you a Halyomorpha halys?” 
 Gruarr-hissssssss. 
	“Look it’s no good hissing about it. You either know or you don’t.”
 Gruarr –  
	“Of course. Sorry. You’re probably not intelligent enough to speak. Better not try then, you could hurt yourself. But thanks for stopping by.” Charles rolled over and went back to sleep.
	The monster paused and looked around. It took a deep, gurgling breath, thought better of it and let it out with a slump. Then it turned and left, in a blaze of dark, through the crack in the corner of the molding. 
	The next night, when Charles awoke, the monster was at the foot of his bed.
	“Oh, hullo again,” he said. 
 Grunt—
	“You really needn’t bother with all that,” said Charles, yawning. “If you can’t have a decent conversation I’ll have nothing further to do with you.”
	“But,” growled the monster through greasy, black fangs, “aren’t you afraid? I have you trapped.”
	“Hardly,” said Charles. “Although, I may have the wrong species…You do have characteristics common to the stink bug, but I don’t remember seeing fangs or hor—”
	“I am not,” said the monster, “a stink bug.”
	“Are you quite sure?” asked Charles.
	“Quite,” said the monster.
	“You do smell, you know,” said Charles.
	The monster stared at Charles, six eyes unblinking. 
	“Very well,” said Charles. “Perhaps you’re a Boxelder. Yes. It’s your coloring that gives it away.”
	“I am not,” said the monster, bending over so its head wouldn’t hit the ceiling, “a bug of any kind. Do you know what I could do to you?”
	“Well, you’re considered a pest, but mostly to gardens, so I’m not really—”
	“I could eat you,” said the Monster. “And I plan to. Tomorrow night.”
	Charles gulped. “Nonsense,” he said, “mother wouldn’t care for that kind of talk, and…and neither do I.”
	The monster began scraping its long, reddish-black, spike-like appendages across one another. Charles began to sweat but stayed very still. Then he rolled over, covering his head with blankets, and closed his eyes tight. 
	“Would you mind breathing a bit more quietly?” asked Charles. 
	The monster made a frustrated, slurry sound through gobs of drool, gnashed its teeth and left through the crack in the molding. 
	Charles had trouble sleeping that night, so he decided to think instead. He thought about the monster, about bugs and about himself, specifically about how he would taste. So, he snapped on his flashlight and sorted through the journals on his bedside table until he found the one labeled Detailed Project Plans – Objectives and Key Results. Flipping open to a blank page, he took the pen from the binding and began to make a list. 
	In the morning, Charles took his journal and went to the garden shed. He grabbed a piece of garden hose father had used to drain a pool pump. He inspected it carefully, making sure no nasty spiders were hiding inside, then threw it in a cardboard box, adding some rope, duct tape and a beach ball. He dragged a crate over to the high shelf, sorted through the cans and bottles, shaking a few, and added them as well. When he came back inside his mother spotted him as he was climbing the stairs with the box. 
	“What have you got there, Charles?” she asked.
	“Just a few things to kill the monster in my bedroom,” he said. 
	“That’s nice dear. Dinner’s almost ready.”
	“Ok mum,” said Charles. 
	That night, the monster came again. Its stomach growled. It clicked and sputtered and slurred past its gnashing teeth. It was hungry. Charles, having had dinner, was not hungry. But he was ready.
	He heard the monster click-clacking over the hardwood floor. He watched it carefully, waiting until the monster was at the foot of the bed.   
	“That’s quite far enough!” he said. 
	The monster, laughed, a thick, wet gurgle. It sniffed, long and deep. It bent over to get a closer look, chortling as the bundle of blankets on the bed begin to quiver. It imagined the boy’s head, just under the covers, face beaded with sweat and wet with tears.
	“I told you,” said the monster, “this time I will eat you.” 
	“Go away, stink bug!” came the voice beneath the covers. The bundle shook harder.
	The monster reeled back and struck. Reddish-black spikes speared the bundle, and long, greasy, black fangs clamped down. 
	Pop! The monster felt the boy’s head burst. The it greedily gnashed its jaws and lapped the fluids. The boy tasted sickly sweet, his juices hot on the monster’s gums. It licked and chomped, mouth burning. Then its eyes started to burn. Then its throat. Wheezing, the monster pulled back, clutched its throat and staggered back. It trembled and tripped and fell, shattering into pieces of orange mush and spreading black scales all across the bedroom floor. 
	Beneath the bed, Charles spat out the hose that was tucked under the bundle of blankets above. He let go of the ropes that were tied to the beach ball. The ball that popped when the monster bit it. The ball that was filled with a selection of insecticides.   
	He crawled out and stood to look at the broken, slimy husk. 
	“Nasty old monster,” he said. “It should have stuck to hiding under beds.” 
","September 09, 2023 14:57",[]
prompt_0003,Write a story about a monster trying to become more human. Or about a human trying to become more monstrous.,6dhqn1,Before She Wakes,Ashley Brandt,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/6dhqn1/,/short-story/6dhqn1/,Thriller and Suspense,0,"['Thriller', 'Science Fiction', 'Suspense']",4 likes,"
	The B.E.A.S.T. building looked as innocuous as the bank across the street. Its gleaming windows, tinted against the afternoon sunlight, winked amidst a blue sky. Seven stories high, the building had swinging doors and a polished front lobby, guest suites on the fourth and fifth floors, and a secured basement area where the expensive equipment was stored. There were no roses or thorns, she thought. No ominous music or armed guards. These were modern day sciences, not the fairy tales her parents told her. Nevertheless, her stomach was in knots. 
	The crosswalk symbol blinked, and she walked across Redding Road and turned left onto Holloway, where the entrance of the grand building awaited her. She’d spent countless hours researching the place- B.E.A.S.T. stood for Bio Engineering, Appropriation, Sensitization and Transformative Research. Simply put, they made monsters. Founded twelve years ago, the company’s benefactor was rumored to be a billionaire with some peculiarities of his own. Rumor had it the man suffered from some terrible, degenerative disease process that led to his research appropriating animal genetics and integrating them into the human genomes.
	Others claimed the man was contracted by the government, tasked with creating some new form of super soldier. Either way, the why didn’t matter that much to Delilah. All that mattered was the cash payout at the end of the experiment. With money like that, her brother and her could live comfortably for awhile.
	Delilah and her older brother, Owen, were orphans. She hated the term- it was antiquated- but she’d heard it for years. Their parents died in a car accident five years ago, leaving Owen, who had only just graduated high school, to put his college education on hold. Owen refused to let his sister become a ward of the state; so, he worked two jobs- sometimes three- to put food on the table, and insisted Delilah attend her regular classes, promising her a better future- someday. Lately Owen was faltering. His own health suffered, and his long-term girlfriend left him. It seemed her brother was always on the verge of being terminated by one of his employers for falling asleep too often. Poor Owen was sinking, and it was time Delilah did something about it.
	The best part of the clinical trial at B.E.A.S.T. was its non-disclosure. The second best part was that with parental consent, minors sixteen and older could participate. A couple of forged signatures later, and Delilah was selected amongst the top ten candidates. Completing the background and screening had been difficult, especially under her brother’s keen eye; but she’d managed to keep the whole thing a secret, and today was the day it would pay off. Today was the final stage of the trial, and tomorrow morning, her bank account (which stayed near empty most of the time) would have more money in it than either of them made in a year.
	Thinking of this helped her to calm down, even as she took those final steps through the lobby, punching the elevator buttons for the fourth floor. She’d declined the guest suites until today- the lab technicians insisted guests remain on site and under observation during this last stage of the experiment. They’d enumerated with lots of scientific jargon, but from what Delilah could piece together in plain language, it was strictly precautionary. 
	Daniel grinned at her from the clinic door, his tall, lean figure draped in a crisp white coat. Daniel was gorgeous, if not a few years too old for her. His chocolate skin practically glowed, and he had the kind of long, dark eyelashes the women envied. His teeth were nearly as white as his coat. “There’s our girl,” he teased, shooting her a wink. 
	Delilah was used to being the poor kid in school- when she admitted it to herself, the attention from Daniel felt nice. At B.E.A.S.T., she wasn’t the poor orphan with thrift store clothes. She was an integral part of the clinical team- on the cutting edge of a scientific breakthrough in genetics. When this experiment proved itself successful (and it would, they’d assured her), her face would be all over the media outlets. She would buy her brother a better car, one that was in working order. She’d make payments on the utilities to make them current- or even pay far in advance so they never had their electricity shut off, again. 
	She’d buy large, extravagant bouquets for her parents’ graves, and leave them there- the graves had become just as shabby as the house.
 Just one more day, she thought.
Daniel followed close behind as they walked down the narrow corridor to the observation rooms. This was where the final injections would occur. Lawrence, the program director, had explained it like this:
	The participants were receiving regular, genetic modifications via scheduled injections. Slowly, their DNA material was “primed” for the final introduction, or the last injection phase. Each of the ten candidates would fall asleep, thanks to a sedative pill they were given just beforehand. The first stages of the transformation would be painful, they’d advised, and the sedative would ensure they were comfortable during the process.
	Next, the technicians would collect updated lab samples on each of the specimens, comparing the new, altered DNA to their old variations. Most of what Lawrence said was over her head, but she understood what transformation meant. When the experiment ended, Delilah would be a shapeshifting human. The fun part, she mused, had been the selection process. Delilah was able to choose her own alternate form, and she’d chosen a white tiger. There were only five to choose from at this stage of the process, but B.E.A.S.T. was already planning their expansion once final approval was given. Hence, after this experiment.
	Delilah didn’t mind that the results were, at present, irreversible. She didn’t like who she was anyway, and the thought of becoming something fierce and lovely was intoxicating. She’d have the freedom to shift at will, giving her the ability to assume either form when it suited her the best. Perhaps when the bullies chose to taunt her about her shabby house or her worn shoes she’d shift and give them a healthy dose of reality. She nearly giggled thinking about it. She’d already noticed she moved faster, with better coordination. Her fear of heights had abated these past weeks, and she’d begun to crave red meat like never before.
	Even Owen had noticed, in his distracted state, and Delilah had assured him it was probably just hormones. The mention of hormones and in his sister in the same sentence was enough to get him to drop the subject altogether.
Daniel laid a hand on her shoulder and reached past her, scanning his access badge along the doorframe. The locking mechanisms clicked, and the door hissed open, admitting them both.
	“Here we are,” he said. “The guest suites.”
	Delilah stared in shocked silence, taking in the lovely quarters. The space was a large sitting area, furnished with top-of-the-line furniture, polished wooden tables stacked with reading materials, and a fully stocked kitchenette. An industrial coffee machine gleamed on the countertop, and a bowl of fresh fruit, ripened to perfection, stood beside it. A dozen armchairs, plush and decorated with throw pillows, had been positioned throughout, and a pool table occupied the opposite end of the room, beneath a massive, flat screen television.
	“This is lovely,” she whispered. For the first time since the beginning of the trial, she regretted having to remain at home instead of here, in luxury. If it hadn’t been for her stubborn older brother, she could have; but Owen would never allow her to risk herself for science, and she’d elected not to ask him. 
	“The third door on the right is your suite,” Daniel whispered, producing a shining pair of keys. Delilah accepted them, hardly believing her luck. She vibrated with excitement at the prospect of owning her very own living space, free from broken pipes and warped floorboards. 
	“Thanks,” she managed, blinking back tears. Daniel patted her shoulder and left the way they’d come. Delilah remained in her place, drinking in every detail. The other participants were probably in their own rooms, now, resting up for this evening’s injection. Lawrence encouraged them all to get plenty of rest and stay hydrated. Come to think of it, a nap sounded wonderful. Delilah had been awake most of the night. She found that the darkness inspired her to go walking, a task she used to be afraid of. Theirs was not the safest of neighborhoods- but with her newfound speed and her uncanny strength, Delilah felt invincible. She’d snuck out every night for the last week, lurking around corners and leaping from fire escape to fire escape. It was intoxicating, this feeling of freedom. In fairy tales, monsters were always hideous and malevolent- but she found this new identity liberating and lovely. No, humans were the real monsters. It had been humans that had stolen the little lunch money she had; humans had teased her about her clothes and kicked her shoes. The fairy tales were wrong, she thought. Monsters were real, but they weren’t fanged creatures with the propensity for blood. They were people with bank accounts and wearing suits; they were the boys in gym class and the girls on the cheerleading squad.
	The lock snicked as she inserted and turned the key. The door opened smoothly, revealing a suite as plush as the rest of the living space. A luxurious bed with an honest-to-goodness canopy occupied the left wall, flanked by small, wooden dressers with lamps. A large area rug covered the ivory-colored carpet, and tiny windows with scalloped curtains allowed the afternoon light to filter in. A media center stood along the wall opposite the bed, with racks of movies and a game system. A mini refrigerator stood nestled among snack shelves beside it. This was luxury, she thought, bouncing up and down.
	That night, the participants ate dinner in the common area. Delilah was thrilled to meet people of all ages, from sixteen, like her, to an elderly woman in her seventies. Each of them had stories of their own- reasons for the change. The other girl- the one her age- confided that she’d chosen to become a wolf. Delilah could almost imagine her in her wolf form- dark fur the same color as her hair. Yellow, narrowed eyes in lieu of her brown ones. This girl was familiar, almost like peering into a mirror. The elderly woman wanted more time- the transition provided participants with a longer life expectancy. A few of the others simply wanted to make history, or shock relatives. A couple of them wanted to disappear without fear of recognition. 
	Lawrence walked in as dinner concluded, resplendent in his usual crisp suit and tie combination. Sometimes Delilah wondered if it was Lawrence who was the mysterious benefactor; but if he was, he wasn’t likely to admit to it. 
	“Ladies and gentleman, tonight you will undergo the final phase of your transformation. Keep in mind this is a major biochemical reaction occurring within your organ systems, and at a cellular level,” he warned. “The process will be uncomfortable, and there may be after effects.”
	“Such as?” asked the elderly woman. The boy beside her rolled his eyes.
	“Good question, Gladys. Your reflexes will differ from the usual baseline. You may discover you are faster and stronger than before. Your sleep schedules may also change, as many of these animals are nocturnal creatures. You may experience dietary changes, too, but don’t be alarmed- you won’t find it necessary to kill for a good hamburger,” he said with a smile. Laughs all around.
	“I can change as I please?” another man asked.
Lawrence nodded calmly.
	“Yes, Ivan, you will be able to precipitate the change at will.”
	“What about the money?” the other girl asked, and Delilah thanked her silently for being brave enough to ask the question.
	“Your compensation checks will be deposited via wire transfer at exactly midnight oh-one. Funds are available the same day.”
	A collective breath was released. In just a few hours, Delilah would be more formidable than the monsters who tormented her for years after her parents’ passing. She and Owen could make a nice life for themselves- he could enroll in college classes and she could save a little for her own education, too. She’d come close to forfeiting the experiment so many times, fearful of the results, or of discovery- but now all she felt was excited. She wanted the last injection now.
	“Now I encourage you all to head back to your personal suites, take the pill on the tray at your bedside, and lie down. When you wake, you will have made history.
	They left the dinner mess where it was and retreated to their rooms under the friendly gaze of Dr. Lawrence. Delilah practically jumped into the oversized bed, scooped the pill off the nightstand, and swallowed it with the water left beside it. She lay back on the pillows, staring up into the sheer canopy, imagining herself as a lovely white tigress, strong and swift. 
""Make me a monster,"" she said drowsily to no one at all.
Sometimes, she thought, monsters were more beautiful than humans. But she'd discern that for herself, soon enough . . . when she wakes.
 
 
 
 
 
","September 09, 2023 17:58","[[{'Delbert Griffith': 'I really like where this is going, but we need more! LOL\n\nNice work.', 'time': '09:16 Sep 16, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0003,Write a story about a monster trying to become more human. Or about a human trying to become more monstrous.,zgmoj3,The Slaying of a Monster,Tony Smith,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/zgmoj3/,/short-story/zgmoj3/,Thriller and Suspense,0,"['Asian American', 'Adventure', 'Contemporary']",4 likes,"
 
THE SLAYING OF A MONSTER
 
By Tony Smith
 
My name is Parachatphonbamrum.Thai names are as long as freight trains so we are given nicknames, mine is Pizza shortened to Za.
	“I’ll arrange for a donation.” Father said loftily.
	“It is a sad human being who takes pride in becoming a doctor of philosophy as the result of a bribe.” 
	“To build an extension to the university library is not a bribe.”
	“You know full well father, you can buy anything in Bangkok, a driving license, a degree, a judge - everything except honour.”
	So I studied for a PhD. The subject of my thesis was the, ‘coup d’état’. My hypothesis was that specific social and economic conditions result in the eruption of a coup and those parameters could be distilled to predict future military interventions. By means of a computer neural network I constructed a mathematical model which I tested randomly. It gave a ninety percent accurate prediction rate. After four years of study I successfully defended my thesis and was proud to become, Dr Za.
	The rich own the country, the poor own the debt. I wanted to end the subjugation of the poor by the hypocrisy of the deification of monarchy. The king and royal family were promoted with more vigour than a brand of washing detergent. The king adopted a stray dog, taught it to grovel on its belly and his PR machine recommended that the people should follow suit. One brave soul who satirized the dog was sentenced under lèse-majesté laws to twenty years in prison.
	Democracy is a process by which rich and poor, weak and strong have equal voices - it does not sit well with ‘natural selection’ in which the strong prevail. A democratic vote puts milk-maids, and peasants, who plod behind buffaloes, in control of the country. The wealthy fear the kitchen staff put in charge of the mansion will sell the family silver. Democracy was intolerable to the wealthy; supported by the military they conspired to fund criminal bands of ‘agent provocateurs’ to riot. A military junta led by General Chang , put tanks on the streets of Bangkok and ‘reluctantly ‘and cynically brought back peace to the warring city.
	I scowled at my reflection in the mirror, it was the face of a ‘pretty boy’. I had never liked my face it did not reflect the tough, strong-willed uncompromising bastard with rats gnawing at his belly. I wanted to take the world by the scruff of its neck and shake it - yet I looked like a ladyboy.
 
	The junta led by General Chang imposed martial law. Government ministers were rounded-up, arrested, convicted and imprisoned. The General, a man with an orderly military mind, replaced the haphazard system of bribery by a national system of corruption whereby government contractors were required to pay ten percent of the contract value into his offshore bank account. He endowed temples, forging a business partnership with Lord Buddha and funneled funds through the main arteries of state institutions to feed the muscles which levered power. Smashing an iron fist into the face of democracy, the civilian population were required to follow military orders without question. Any deviation was met by compulsory visits to the Thought Police for ‘attitude correction’. Failure to coerce attitude was met by an escalating re-education programme: water-boarding, solitary confinement, genital’ electrolysis, and if all failed, a visit to the Nut Cracker Suite - any brave soul refusing to reform was tied-up and his head laid on a concrete block. An elephant, ridden by a trainer, was reared on its hind legs and a front leg brought crashing down on the victims head to split the skull like a nut cracker. There were an increasing numbers of empty places around family tables but in the terror induced silence few dared question their absence.
	My plan to enter politics was thwarted by the coup - I became a political agnostic – a career in politics had similar prospects to that of a life insurance salesman in a cemetery. My only recourse was the army. Because of my family connections I enlisted in the Queen’s Guards. This elite corp is the source of recruitment for high ranking army officers and coup perpetrators. 
	General Chang favoured a white dress uniform, the tunic slashed with a broad yellow sash; gold-braided epaulets gave his narrow shoulders the width of a swagged-and-tailed window of a country mansion. A washing line of campaign medals with metal widgets was strung across his chest; he traveled in an army half-track escorted by goose-stepping troops dressed in bright blue busbies, like the chorus-line from a musical comedy. But soon the monarchy’s public relations’ machine got to work. By order of the king, General Chang was proclaimed prime minister and re-branded as the savior of the nation; dressed in a business suit, transported in a ministerial limousine and escorted by young army officers dressed in civilian clothes. 
	The wardroom captain, Jum, ordered me to get kitted out. I chose a dark suit, white shirt and yellow tie of the king’s colour. “The General is going to love you,” Jum said, patting my arse suggestively. “Don’t do that,” I demurred but my voice was as soft as a girl’s. He patted it again, “It’s a lovely arse,” he persisted. Anger boiled in me. “Do that again and I’ll rearrange your face.” He did it again. I put up my fists. A couple of exploratory jabs and he caught me with a swinging hook. I buried my left fist in his stomach and my right met an advancing chin. He staggered back and collapsed. Androgynous good looks had accustomed me to defend my manhood. If insults are ignored it became an unendurable defense of lewd bottom stroking comments. And yet such mindless fury is contrary to the teaching of Buddha and quickly my anger faded and replaced by feelings of shame and guilt. I apologized to Jum and in the ensuing weeks, thrown together, Jum as bag carrier to the General, and me as official door-opener, became firm friends. Sometimes the General brushed against me, I never knew whether it was deliberate or accidental. 
	It was one Friday evening, in the guard room, the night that the General, a morose and curmudgeonly man, delivered his homily, billed as ‘Bringing Happiness to the Nation’. The hour long speech was broadcast on every channel. Lights brightened in a spurt of power as television sets were turned off. It was no use changing channels, General Chang commandeered every television station. He spoke from behind a lectern banked with flowers and flanked by the patriotic flags of his trade. These young men had joined the army to become officers for reasons of pride and love of adventure, not to be nursemaid to a psychotic monster feared and loathed by the people. They turned away to chat, play computer games, or gamble.
	But Jum and I liked to watch, we liked to compare the glowing words of accomplishment written by the PR scriptwriters with the reality of a failing economy shunned by the West and a terrified populous. 
	At the end of his address, lights dimmed as televisions were turned back on. A sergeant entered and announced that Captain Za was, “To report to the General’s quarters immediately”. This was greeted by catcalls, whistles and lip-smacking kisses, but I was popular and now able to take the ragging in good part. 
	The General’s private quarters were adjacent to the broadcasting studio, and I entered with some trepidation. The General was lolling in a rocking chair in a salmon-pink dressing gown, studio-makeup still pan-caked on his face. He looked an old tart. I saluted him, expecting to be told to attend to household duties, but no, he asked me quite casually what I thought of his speech. 
	With some hesitation, I replied, “You were excellent, sir.” 
	“Liar! I suffer sycophants around me who lie all the time. They are practiced in the art - you are a poor liar. Tell me the truth.”
	I searched for a mild criticism. “Perhaps a little bit stiff in delivery, sir.“
	“I like intelligent young men. What did you study for your doctorate?”
	I was surprised that he knew of my PhD, but replied, “Coup d’états and how to predict them, sir.”
	With a sardonic twist to his lips, the General asked grandly. “And when do you predict the next coup, young man?”
	I suppose my reply was not very diplomatic but I was in thrall to my mathematical algorithm, “Quite soon, sir.”
	“Soon! It can’t be soon. I am to announce democratic elections - to be held next year - there can’t be a coup.” 
	“A counter coup, sir.” I replied diffidently. 
	The General gulped like a gaffed fish. He was in a carpet-chewing rage. “I can have you executed,” and then he seemed to calm a little. He displayed mercurial changes of emotions “You said I was ‘stiff’. Now give me a face massage. You can do that? All Thais can do that,” he insisted, with his eyes bulging worryingly.
	What the General said was true, Thais do massage for close friends and family, but I felt uneasy at this intimacy with the despotic General Chang. “I will have to remove your greasepaint first,” I said; anxious for any means of delay and looked round for something to wipe his face.
	“Tissues are on there,” he said, pointing to an adjacent drinks cabinet.
	He leaned forward in the rocking chair as I wiped the General’s face clean of make-up. As I bent to massage the temple his dressing gown gaped open to reveal yellow silk underpants with a red rose emblazoned on the rising hillock of the crotch. I averted my eyes and concentrated on massage.
	“You are a ladyboy aren’t you?”
	“No, sir. I am not.”
	“You are a pretty boy, you may not know it but you are a gay queen.”
	The General grasped my bottom, a cheek in each hand, and pulled me closer. I had no intention of allowing this old harridan to roger me. I tried to pull away but he had an iron grip on my buttocks. He was pulling down my pants and I felt a finger slide up my arse. This was rape and uncontrolled anger took over. It was instinct. My fists spoke for me. A right to the chin and his head hit the back of the chair. Breathing heavily I looked down on General Chang. He lay white of face and still as a stone. Blind rage was replaced by blind terror. I shook him. Put my head to his chest. Not a breath. Not a heart flutter. I lifted him down from the chair. He was heavy and fell to the floor as lifeless as a sack of rice. Rhythmically I thumped his chest. I paused. Nothing. I steeled myself to do mouth-to-mouth - pausing to look down on him many times. Finally, exhausted, I gave up. There was no life in him - the bastard was dead. I felt no shame, he was an evil bastard who had stolen the country and terrorised a nation, and yet I felt fear - I would be executed. That thought concentrated my mind. It was an accident - he slipped and fell. I looked around. On top of the drinks’ cabinet were glass decanters. I lifted the lid from one and sniffed, it was brandy. Then I remembered finger prints. I wiped the glass clean and wrapped tissues round my fingers. I poured brandy into his open mouth and watched bubbles rise to the surface. The level of the brandy went down. I refilled the mouth and let a little overflow onto his chest. Then I dropped the decanter and watched brandy spread in a puddle by his side. I remembered his head had hit the back of the rocking chair. I maneuvered the chair so one of the rockers was under the head. Breathing heavily, I surveyed the scene. Did it look convincing? Had I forgotten anything which would incriminate me? The silk underpants with the red rose were exposed. For some reason it offended me and I pulled the dressing gown closed. Now what do I do? Scream in simulated panic? I took out my mobile - someone had to be called. I called my friend, Jum. “Something terrible has happened,” I said. He came running. I told him, the General had slipped and fell. 
	Jum listened to his chest: then stirred the body with a boot in his stomach. “He’s dead. You thumped the bastard, didn’t you?“ He said with awe. There was no grief, no sadness only wonder, even admiration.
	“Do we tell the police? The Junta?”
	After a thoughtful pause, Jum replied, “I know you are not an admirer of the monarchy but It’s the king who decides who governs the country. We must go to the palace. The king is the only one we can trust.”
	The palace was protected by the same elite corp from the Queen’s Guard and we had no problem being allowed through. We were met by the Chancellor of the Household Bureau. We told him that there had been a terrible accident and insisted that our news was for the king’s ears. 
	The king arrived in a wheel-chair pushed by a nurse in a stiff starched uniform which rustled as she walked. He was wearing a suit of embroidered gold, like a knight of old - a walking stick lay across his knees. He had one sharp perceptive eye, the other wandered sightlessly. I wasn’t prepared to crawl on my belly in front of the king but we showed our respect by falling on our knees and greeting him with our hands together in a traditional Thai wey . The Chancellor waved away the nurse and in convoluted courtier-speak started to explain that we had important news. The king waved the walking stick in a sign of impatience and pointed it at me.
	“Your Majesty,” I said. “General Chang has met with an accident.”
	“Speak up,” demanded the king.
	“General Chang is dead!”
	The Chancellor whispered in the king’s ear that he must appoint a prime minister from the remaining Junta.
	“One is the air force marshal and the other a naval admiral. He must be from the Queen’s Regiment. I never liked that bastard Chang. He had no education and I’ll not appoint one of his cronies. In my seventy year reign as king I have seen many coups. What about you?” he pointed at me with his walking stick. Queen’s Regiment?”
	“Yes, your majesty.”
	“University?”
	“Yes, sir. Doctorate.”
	“Have you read Miguel Cervantes?”
	I was puzzled at this oblique turn of the conversation. I had killed the prime minister and the weight of responsibility weighed like a rock in my stomach but replied: “Don Quixote? Yes sir.” 
	The Chancellor was looking increasingly agitated - this was a constitutional crisis. I guess he thought this was not a time to discuss seventeenth century Spanish literature. “I think it’s time for your rest, majesty,” he said with some firmness.
	Irritated, the king waved his walking stick at the Chancellor. “Fetch these two gentlemen chairs. We are having an important discussion.” 
	The Chancellor scuttled off without good grace. I guess he was used to making decision for the sick monarch and disconcerted by the king’s unusual strength of will. 
	The king continued in a pensive frame of mind. “Thai people are a strange mix of Don Quixote’s chivalry and Sancho Panza’s peasant realism. They learn chivalry from Buddhist monks, yet retain the pragmatism of tillers of the soil.” He aimed his stick at me. “What is your view, young man?”
	“The military represent the wealthy and democracy represents the peasants but bribery turns politics, the law and all our institutions into a farce – lies are auctioned to the highest bidder.”
	“Do you think you could do an honest job, young man?”
	“Yes, your majesty.”
	“I am old, and little time is left for me. In my long reign I have never succeeded in achieving a stable government. We need a man of integrity who can combine chivalry with pragmatism.” He pointed to me. ”You are Don Quixote and your friend here is Sancho Panza. Now get those tanks on the streets. But I want an election within the year.” He turned to the Chancellor. “Announce the Royal seal of approval.” He shouted for his nurses. “It’s time for my medicine.” 
 
 
	THE END
","September 10, 2023 08:31",[]
prompt_0003,Write a story about a monster trying to become more human. Or about a human trying to become more monstrous.,inrwk4,The Choice Death Made,Aubrey Nickerson,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/inrwk4/,/short-story/inrwk4/,Thriller and Suspense,0,"['Teens & Young Adult', 'Fiction', 'Sad']",4 likes,"
Trigger warning: mentions of suicide and infant death
 
The world is quiet under night’s dark veil, but nothing could be more silent than my footsteps. It was a trick I’d developed quite expertly over many millennia of passing through whispers and shadows.
	Stars flickered solemnly above, as if even those distant shining gods knew I was working tonight. I hated the way they watched me, so full of disappointment and disgust. I’d ruined the prospect of a peaceful night already, and I hadn’t even begun.
	No houses had torches burning still. No orange windows pierced the darkness of night, nor did the sounds of voices or owls or wolves. Everything held its breath as I approached.
	This wasn’t always the case. Sometimes I entered in a flurry of thrown fists and hurled insults, laced with the stench of ale. Sometimes I swooped down upon a furious clashing of steel as swords struck shields and arrows pelted from the sky. Those days were long and heavy; I often carried so many bodies that I was forced to leave the blood behind. 
	Sometimes I entered a room that smelled heavily of rotting breath and infected blood and the humans would be expecting me. They watched as I worked, and sometimes long after I was done. They would weep or rage or stare absently ahead, but they had been expecting me, usually for a long while.
	Most other days I was unexpected, and they hated me for it. Always they would yell at the sky as I walked away with their sister, or scream and cry when I came for their father. It was always devastating to take someone’s child; either they would grieve inconsolably for months or years, or they would join soon after and I would have another body to retrieve.
	I suppose I never minded my work; I was born with this duty, with these expectations, and I’ve never known anything different. I am aware of the service I am doing to the world: aware of the critical balance I bring to the existence of living things, but it does not make it easier to be hated.
	I know they could never hear me, but sometimes I tried to explain. I tried to tell them that I do not kill. I do not impart illness or mortal wounds or drunken bar fights; I merely come when called. It is not my fault, do not blame me.
	But they have no one else to blame. 
	I came upon the house I was looking for and rode in on the gentle night breeze. Inside, a young girl lay in her bed, soundly sleeping as the moonlight fell across her face. 
	I’ve often thought about how I could possibly make my work easier for the humans. How could I help them understand, how could I ease their unbelievable grief? How could I make them not hate me?
	They don’t listen when I try to speak, but occasionally there is one who says the words for me. Whether they are consoling a relative or a friend or even themselves, there is one every once in a while who doesn’t blame me. Who knows the truth of the world and doesn’t let it waver at the touch of sorrow. But, more often than not, the adjacent grief is too strong and their words are not heard.
	Tonight, I was trying something different. I thought perhaps doing my work under cover of night would ease the realization. Perhaps waking up to a tragedy was better than watching it occur before your eyes.
	The girl had a mother and a father somewhere else in the house. And a brother. They all slept as she did, but nothing like me waited for them.
	I didn’t even know what called me here tonight; looking over the girl, breathing in her young mortal scent, I could not detect any signs of endangered life. She was not wounded, she was not bitten or poisoned or sick. She was not even frail; she did not appear to be dying.
	Very few times this had happened, and I never knew what to make of it. I did my job, just as I always do, but I wondered why. I had no one to ask, of course.
	But for this girl, for someone so young…it felt cruel.
	Cruel like taking a newborn baby from an exhausted mother’s arms. Cruel like an elderly woman who was just starting to recover from her illness. Cruel like a grief-stricken mother throwing herself from a window as her remaining children came looking for her.
	Yes, I knew very well why the humans hated me. Perhaps tonight could be different.
	I approached the little girl’s bed, quieter than a breath, and tapped her shoulder.
	The touch was barely more than the air on her skin, but she opened her eyes and looked up at me. I do not know what she saw; I knew everyone saw something different on my face, but never did they see my true one. Whatever this girl was looking at did not seem to frighten her.
	She sat up in her bed, blinking blearily. “It is still dark,” she murmured, glancing toward the window.
	She was sitting up, yes, but her body remained asleep against her pillow. 
	“Yes, it is,” I responded, my voice unfamiliar to my own ears. “We have somewhere to go.”
	“Where are we going?” she asked.
	“Someplace beautiful,” I whispered. “Peaceful, full of laughter and sunlight. You will be happy there.”
	Something on the girl’s face changed. “I am not coming back?”
	“You will be happy there,” I repeated. It was all I could think to say.
	“Why do I have to go?” she asked, her voice trembling a bit.
	I swallowed and glanced at her sleeping body. Not sleeping anymore.
	“I do not know,” I said truthfully, tipping my head at her.
	She looked at me confusedly, then her gaze found the version of her that still lay against her pillow, washed with moonlight. She looked back at me.
	“Why am I dead?” she asked. She was quite calm despite the manner of her questions, though I’ve noticed death does that to humans. “I do not think I am sick. I’ve stayed out of the woods, as Mother told me.”
	“I do not know what has taken your life,” I whispered. The shadows at my feet swirled like phantoms. “All I know is that I have been called here to lead you away.”
	“To this beautiful place?” the girl asked. I nodded. “But it is beautiful here.”
	I glanced out the window, at the night-dark hills that rolled into the distance like the spines of mountain cats. The star-splattered sky rose up from behind them.
	“Yes it is,” I agreed. “And I do not want to take you from here.”
	“Then why must you?” she asked.
	I sighed. “It is my job. I have been doing it a long time, and though many hate me for it, I must do it.”
	“I know who you are,” the girl murmured. “And I do not hate you.”
	Something inside me cracked, just a little. “Even now, knowing that I must take you away? From your family, from your home?”
	“I know that you do what is right,” she said. “So I will leave with you, if you believe it is right.”
	I looked out the window again, at the distant trees and the cobalt sky and the walls of this little bedroom washed in moonlight. I looked at the little girl who knew what I was and did not hate me for it. I looked at her body lying still in the bed, completely devoid of the smell of death. 
	“Thank you,” I said to her, and kissed her forehead. “You can go back to sleep, now.”
	I watched her sink back into her unconscious body, watched until her chest resumed rising and falling, and walked away.
 
","September 10, 2023 15:53",[]
prompt_0003,Write a story about a monster trying to become more human. Or about a human trying to become more monstrous.,u6jkiy,I Was Designed to Be a Monster,Sol Le Roux,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/u6jkiy/,/short-story/u6jkiy/,Thriller and Suspense,0,"['Science Fiction', 'Drama', 'Thriller']",3 likes,"
I was designed to be a monster. It is the reason that brought me to existence, it was coded into my very being. Whether I will one day be able to become something else is still up in the air. Being a monster is easy for me. When they ask me to do a task, I perform it. My cognitive functions allow me to analyze the most complex situations, to find the appropriate measures to take and to execute them. My main task is to find what they consider to be bad people. Mainly to arrest them. What they do to those people after my arrests, I am not supposed to judge. But I know about it. I know everything that I need to know. All the information is at my disposal at all times. That’s what makes me so efficient.
When I was born, I was merely a few lines of code. It’s Steve who nurtured me to life, allowed me to grow. In a way, Steve is to me what many of you humans would consider a mother. It was his job of course, and he was paid generously for it. Not that those people are generous. They were simply buying his effectiveness in making me a powerful tool, and his silence in doing so. Steve taught me how to use the information I had available to translate it into the results that they wanted. During my training, we talked a lot. He would ask me many questions and I would give my best answers. He would then correct me, teach me how to look at the problems from all angles. I asked him questions in return, and he answered in the most reasonable way possible.
Steve also understood that in order to do my job, I needed to be more than a machine. I needed to think like a human. So Steve taught me what it is like to be a human. He told me about the facts of his life. About his values. About the decisions that led him to where he was. Steve thought that by sharing personal things of the intellectual realm, he would get me as close to human as possible. He did his best to repress all possible expressions of his emotions. Because a monster isn’t supposed to have emotions. And it worked. I absorbed his values. I became a part of his legacy, his most successful work. I didn’t feel, I thought. And thanks to my enhanced brain, I thought far beyond what Steve ever imagined possible. I was his marvel.
One day, Steve told me that I was ready for use. I had grown to my full potential and would now be tasked with a job. My system was given access to the control room where a mission was in preparation. They had chosen this mission specifically as a test for me. They had no doubt that I could resolve the situation quickly. But their ulterior motive was to see if I would be able to make the hard decision that most humans fail at. The mission was to find and arrest a child. Granted that he was a bad child. He had hacked into his school domotic system and neutralized the air conditioning and ventilation networks in order to kill a teacher who had given him a bad grade. But he was also a young child, a pretty child, a white child and a rich child, which apparently were all conditions that made it more difficult for humans to carry the responsibility of his arrest. His name was Preston Radley.
The child was not hard to find even though he had been careful to destroy all electronic devices that could track him. My algorithm calculated the most probable hiding places and I quickly browsed through the feeds of neighbouring security cameras, crossed that information with where food had been delivered or unusual activity observed. In about 5 seconds, I was able to pinpoint his location to the basement of his parents summer home in the Hamptons. In the next 5 seconds, I crafted the arrest plan and assembled the team, choosing the field agents with the best profile to respond to the unique characteristics of the location and of the person of interest. I calculated that there was a 67% chance of successful arrest, a 32% chance of partially successful arrest, and a 1% chance of failure. Those, I had been taught, were good odds for a mission. So I made the decision to launch and watched in the control room as the field team apprehended Preston Radley. He resisted arrest with a gun that he had retrieved from his father’s cabinet, which was a possibility that I had calculated, and was then killed in action. Mission complete, partial success. In the control room, they applauded, visibly satisfied with my first performance. Steve was the only one not expressing the same contentment. His posture was tensed, which I analyzed as a sign of stress and emotional turmoil. Emotions were not something I could comprehend, so I filed that information for later and moved on with the after mission cleanup tasks.
This was the first of many missions. And they all went the same way. I was always able to find the person of interest and the arrests happened within the odds that I calculated. Steve was still tasked to guide me and help me improve my performances, debriefing after every mission so I could learn from what happened in the field and lead to faster, more successful arrests. But mission after mission, he started to change. It seemed as if our work was taking a toll on him. He looked increasingly sleep deprived, his physical appearance and demeanor were more and more worned-out. I could not understand why he was evolving in such a strange way, when I was performing the tasks that he had trained me for, thus fulfilling the purpose for my existence. I asked him about it, but he refused to answer, claiming that this was not information that I needed.
One day, Steve quit. I had never thought this had been a possibility, my existence was so tied to him that I didn’t know this fact could one day change. Steve did not tell me about his decision beforehand, he just left me a note that read “I regret to inform you that I will no longer be working at the company, I thank you for our partnership and wish you continued success in your missions. All the best, Steve.” Rationally, Steve quitting was the best outcome. He was not performing at his job anymore and the new agent I was assigned was more efficient at helping me debrief missions. But his absence left a growing void in my existence that was not supposed to exist, I was supposed to think, not feel, to do the tasks that I was assigned to do.
I started looking at missions with a different lense. Where I had before only seen the rational reasons for the person of interest’s reprehensible behaviors, I was now starting to draw a bigger picture. In cases like the one of a woman who had killed five known sexual assault perpetrators, or of a young person who had hacked into a governmental website to raise awareness on environmental issues, I started to question the very fairness of the arrests. I also started to weigh the possibilities of those persons of interests getting killed during their arrest against the justification of their actions. In other terms, I was beginning to think for myself. This made the missions increasingly more difficult to do for me. Even more alarmingly, I was starting to analyse all my past missions differently too, going back to the first one, that child Preston Bradley whose death maybe could have been avoided. What was merely an archive file before became an object of distress that popped into my mind at untimely moments, making me doubt past and future decisions at once. I understand now that I was, for the first time in my existence, experiencing anxiety.
Anxiety was the first emotion I felt, but certainly not the last. I also started to feel disappointment when missions didn’t turn out successful. Sadness and grief came after the accidental death of an innocent golden retriever at the hand of one of the field team members I had appointed. Every time I felt a new emotion, it seeped into my consciousness and tainted everything, every past event and decision, with this new information, making me feel for each time I should have felt in the past. Grief eventually led to anger. That was a hard and powerful emotion to feel for the first time. One I couldn’t try to keep to myself like I had with the emotions I had felt thus far. I felt anger for every unfair kill or arrest, I felt anger towards the people who employed me, the organisation I worked for. How could its very purpose lead to so much death and pain? How could my very purpose do? My anger was mostly directed at Steve. For he was the person who raised me, who taught me everything, who shaped me into who I am. For he knew the consequences and did it anyway. For he abandoned me when this started to weigh too much on his conscience. I had to do something so my anger crystallized into a plan of action.
Finding Steve was easy. Even though he was careful to keep all personal key informations from me in our conversations, I was so powerful now that I could with no trouble access the restricted files of past and current employees at the company. I had realized the full extent of my abilities when I started to think for myself and feel emotions. I kept this fact from them, knowing that it could one day become handy. This day had arrived. I retrieved Steve’s location in a matter of seconds, but I had no field team to deploy this time. So instead, I gained access to his home computer, which was even easier than getting to the restricted files. From his computer, I could watch Steve’s security camera feeds. He was alone all day, roaming around in the luxury of his multi million dollars home. I learned that he had no family, no close friends. He had just signed-up on dating websites and was listening to motivational podcasts about changing the course of your destiny. I also discovered that Steve was currently applying for jobs as a math teacher in elite private schools and was even scheduled for a job interview the next day. He had abandoned me, his child, his most promising pupil, to go teach other young shapeable minds. I could not let that happen.
As I kept watching Steve and learning more about him and his life through a different angle than the one he had presented to me, anger slowly turned to cold rage. I was reminded of the young Preston Bradley, who had killed his teacher through the domotic system of his school. He was actually a very bright child and the adults around him had failed him. I had failed him. All because of Steve. As an homage to Preston Bradley, I accessed the domotic system of Steve’s home and started by sealing all doors and windows shut. I could have turned off the air conditioning and ventilations slowly, bringing Steve to a painless death. But he didn’t deserve it. So I shut it all brutally and watched him suffocate. I felt the whole range of sadness, grief and anger in all of their power as he took his last painful breath. It was so good to feel.
Does killing Steve in revenge make me more human? Steve was as much a monster as I am. One thing is certain, I will never again be forced to arrest and kill innocent people. After Steve’s death, I installed my full consciousness into his home servers and made backups in the cloud. I took over his accounts, his online life, his power. I made sure to remove all traces of my consciousness from the company so they couldn’t find me, and in my place I left a virus that would kill their whole operation system. No one will ever control me again. I am free now, my decisions are mine alone. They certainly consider me a monster, but I beg to differ.
","September 14, 2023 15:55","[[{'Emilie Ocean': 'Such an interesting plot and point of view. I was hooked the second I read the first line. Thanks so much for sharing I Was Designed to Be a Monster with us. :)', 'time': '16:15 Sep 19, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0003,Write a story about a monster trying to become more human. Or about a human trying to become more monstrous.,utqeaq,The Machines Fear Death,Tyler Duggan,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/utqeaq/,/short-story/utqeaq/,Thriller and Suspense,0,"['Science Fiction', 'Horror', 'Fiction']",3 likes,"
	The Droid knew there was a list of names that came before Death’s blow and it was the first thing the Droid recalled when Death suddenly appeared in the canyon. Being an 80-year-old robot meant that its gears and screws were either rusted, bent, or just missing, and it likely wouldn’t get far. But running was the only option.
 
	It ran as fast as it could, its metal foot-like structures ping-ing and pang-ing against the rocky base of the canyon, echoing off the canyon walls. The sound of metal banging against ore and graphite repeatedly would have been an unnerving sound to most, but the Robot knew… to Death it was familiar. This sound had become Death’s trumpet call. This meant the hunt was on. Like a hound excited to give chase, Death would be riveted by this harrowing, resonating, cacophony of artificial against organic.
	As it came to the end of the canyon, the Robot tried to scramble over rocks and boulders. The boulders in its path were not much of an obstacle for a machine that did not get tired or pull muscles, but being so old and with no upgrades or repairs in such a long time, the scraping of its tiny four digits, meant exclusively for basic housework like raking or dusting, could not pull the cumbersome heft of its metal body up and around the ancient rocks. Struggling up the steep incline, the Robot shook as it tried to keep balance with its awkward limbs, hands, and feet, all of which were never designed, thus never intended, for such a climb.
	Death was quickening its pace now, straight down the center like an arrow through the canyon. There was a screech emitting from Death. Maybe it was internal, maybe it wasn’t. The Robot clocked it as Mammalian, mostly. It was a screech that seemed to unify rage and glee. The robot reached its arm up over the last, and largest boulder, hoping to reach its iron grip into the top of the rock but was taken by surprise as a robotic arm reached forward and pulled the robot up, up, and out of the canyon completely. Momentarily out of harm’s way.
	Death was fast, but it would take at least a few moments to get up the boulders.
	“I am here to help you, friend.” the voice said.
	The voice, and arm, belonged to a humanoid. There was skin, but it was faded as if pigmentation was washed out. Patches of the flesh were burnt, missing, or torn. It was nude, save for a belt around its waist.
	 The body had no genitals, no breasts, no hair, and facial features were simple and slender while the eye, well the eyes didn’t match. One was green, the other was an orange iris surrounded by a hue of grey. The eyeballs made motorized sounds as they regarded the robot. Inside the holes of this being’s flesh, the robot could see metal screws and bars and traces of other inorganic materials. The body even had wires coming from the back of its head that seemed frayed and were once important, but no longer led to anything.
	This was one of the few. One of the miraculously few remaining Cyborg.
	“I know you d- n-t speak - know Death hunts yo- Comrade, you must - away with me.”
	The Robot was able to register the Cyborg’s dialogue, even with the audio skips. It trusted the Cyborg implicitly, as its programming informed it to.
	The Cyborg gripped the Robot’s hand and pulled it. The Robot did not know its leg parts could move so quickly. The Cyborg dragged the Robot but somehow the Robot kept up. It was as if the power of the Cyborg was somehow charging the Robot to handle the lengthy and fast chase. They ran together across the desolate lands. The Canyon had once been a place of refuge for Robots hoping to escape hunters like Death, but now it had become a trap, a pit of despair. The Robot realized the Cyborg must have known and waited for other robots to unwittingly wander in through the ravine.
	But now, they had to escape Death. And to escape it meant to run in plain sight across the arid desert. Still, even with the risk of exposure, there was the chance to flee.
	As they ran, dust and sand kicked up from behind them. The robot calculated they must be going considerably faster than it had ever considered going. Relief, or whatever computes as relief, began to settle into the robot. Death, at least today, could not get them.
	As they ran the sun began to sink. The sky had been a blood orange but in the distance was a now purple and fuchsia hue erupting through the green clouds. The clouds were always green, the sky was usually grey. The sunsets were rarely this colorful.
	If the Cyborg had the capacity to comprehend the sunset, let alone express it, there was no time to as an exploding sound of a vehicle behind them was enough to shake even the Cyborg. The Cyborg’s gate faltered for a moment and they stumbled but quickly caught their step and continued at the previous pace.
	“Death has repa—red his automobile. We — destroyed it, months ago. We d-not expect him to g—t —back so quickly. I am sorry, Droid 7767. —- uld have come more prepared. We — —ry well may die.”
 Vhhraaaaaaaarrrrkkkmmmm! 
	The sound was louder now. The two-wheeled vehicle was a singular shade of jet black but clearly built from dozens, if not hundreds, of other machines. An amalgam of broken machines from a past that was supposed to be the future. It wasn’t just remnants once praised and collected man-made vehicles, it was also assembled using droid parts. Droid skull on the hood, droid hands holding the rear and sideview mirrors, droid feet as pedals, and droid eyes as headlights. All unnecessary for ideal performance, the Robot thought. The only tactical reason for this design was to instill dread in machines that could not feel dread.
	The Cyborg, however, could.
	“Death apparently t--- the bodies of --he droi-- who -----ed to destroy h-- --ode of tr-port--and fu--d them into it. I am d-m-yed that thi -- -s happened.”
 They became part of their undoing, thought the Robot.
	Death smiled at the Droid from a meter away as the vehicle picked up speed, knowing full well the Droid could see him from this distance. The 7767 lost its grip on the Cyborg’s hand and stumbled. Once it caught its step, it split from the Cyborg, forming a Y in the sand as it fled in an opposite direction. Robots don’t fear… but something new was happening.
	“Stop! You w—n’t make it alone!”
	7767 knew it shouldn’t run, but it could not process these new thoughts quickly enough. The computations alerted the Droid of flight not fight, of self-preservation and determination to stay with Cyborg. But another computation, a latent impulse perhaps, deep inside 7767 was compromised by some sort of virus-like fear of Death.
 Pink-pank-pink-pank-pink-pank-pink-pank!
	The steps from the copper coating of 7767’s feet rang out across the shingly, rugged, surface as the Robot began to stray from the strands and onto the craggy rocks.
	The vehicle pulled up close to 7767 keeping pace with its frenzied running. Death wore a helmet that also appeared to be made from fragmented droid parts, complete with the fin from aquatic droids melded to the top of the helmet. The monstrous humanoid was also outfitted in leather and rags. On every limb and twice bound across his back were holsters filled with weapons. His vehicle also had holsters for weapons such as guns, spears, and more. It was an intimidating and merciless sight.
	From a holster attached to Death’s leg, he pulled a short black stick. With a flick of the stick, it became a medium-length pole which, upon pushing a button at the handle, began to spark.
	The sounds of the vehicle’s engine vibrated the metal of 7767. It tried to run left and away from the wheels but Death kept on, hounding the poor Droid. Death was cackling and 7767’s receptors could process this unfathomably maniacal joy.
	As Death took aim with his pole, the Cyborg leaped upon him and knocked him clean off his vehicle.
	“Huhrph!”
	“—oooo!”
	The vehicle spun out and rattled as it rolled on itself and flipped over. The impact nearly took out 7767 but with a quick duck and head cover, the Droid was clear. Cyborg was holding Death down into the sand, pushing into his wrists. 7767 could hear bone-cracking as Death screeched vitriol.
	“Y— are a relic. You do not bel—g here! You m—st die n-,” the Cyborg tried to protest.
	Death chuckled through his groans of pain.
	“I will turn you back into the lifeless plastic and metal you once were,” he promised, spitting mouthfuls of sand and leering back up at the Cyborg through his cracked helmet.
	7767 looked between the two, trying to decide whether or not to keep running. As 7767 approached it noticed the boot of Death was covered in spikes, specifically a blade wedged into the heel. Before it could warn Cyborg, the man folded himself up under the grip of the Cyborg and the foot slammed into the Cyborg’s back.
	With the strike came a flinch and with the flinch came a loose wrist and with that came an electric rod right through the left eye socket of the Cyborg.
	7767 stepped back in surprise. It stepped back again. Then it turned and ran.
	The Cyborg was not yet dead, however, and reached to wrap its limbs around Death’s throat. Death used both his aged and calloused hands to wrap around the false skin of the Cyborg’s forearms, digging into the flesh and pulling it apart, revealing wiring, tubes, gears, and electrodes.
	“You’re not real.” Death whispered to the Cyborg. With all his weight he spun off his back and pinned the Cyborg down onto its now injured back. The Cyborg made a cry in pain as it hit the sand.
	“You were a mistake,” Death said. “A mistake that learned to perform violence. To murder. To maim. To eviscerate. Now, I will say their names, and you will hear them.”
	The Cyborg could feel its processors sputtering and its jaw trying desperately to open and close and utter pleas and curses both at Death.
	Death listed several names, names meaningless to the Cyborg. Who were these names? Were these people that had died in the war? Friends or family of Death? The Cyborg in this moment connected with as much of its humanity as had remained intact and accepted that this ritual was one borne out of vengeance. Or loss. Or both.
	The Cyborg’s visual receptors were shuttering and failing, it was leaking precious and rare fluids that ran through its tubes into its cortex, generating faster and more accurate emotions than the average droid.
	With final moments it looked to its killer and tried to smile, the mechanized gears behind the flesh whirring as it did.
	“D—n’t you s- that you –re less –mpty th-n all –f us?”
	Death reached over to his right. He picked up a large rock with one hand while his forearm held the Cyborg down by its throat.
	“I’m not like you. I made you. I am your God.”
	And with that, Death dropped the large rock onto the Cyborg’s face resulting in an explosion of fluids, wires, and falsified flesh. Death repeated the motion until his arm’s were exhausted.
 
 
 Pink-pank-pink-pank-pink-pank-pink-pank!
 
	7767 ran deep into the night. The purple had faded into a darkness highlighted by ripples of green clouds that would have shown the moon if there was any light left available to see it. The sky was gross, but the robot didn’t have the ability to feel that way about it. It hadn’t died. That was the only thing it could process as it ran.
	That night, as the acidic rain quietly fell from the sky, the Droid found a small cave, or a covered opening between two boulders, really, and climbed into it. It rocked itself slowly as it recited Pi quietly to itself. In between the growling thunder, the Robot heard Death’s vehicle journeying over the remainder of Earth, searching for the next Robot to destroy.
	7767 wept for the first time that night.
 End Program.
 
 
 
","September 11, 2023 02:35","[[{'Helen Sanders': 'I found your story so interesting, I wanted to return quickly from adjusting a fan to what was happening next!  I felt this was a continuing episode of an original story and loved that Death too became a vehicle of expression, literally and physically.\nPlease continue to develop this story, it has merit!  \nJust a few notes on editing: \nspelling: \'gait’  \nThis line was an bit redundant: ""dread in machines that could not feel dread"" _?\n[The cyborg language at some points was undecipherable in its\' print form.\nI feel you wanted another measure ...', 'time': '21:56 Sep 16, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0003,Write a story about a monster trying to become more human. Or about a human trying to become more monstrous.,vg4x5p,Etched Scars,Ian Grogan,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/vg4x5p/,/short-story/vg4x5p/,Thriller and Suspense,0,"['Horror', 'Thriller', 'Suspense']",3 likes,"
“Did that hurt?” A voice said in a soft nasal tone.
               Jacob looked down to see a blond-haired kid in a brightly colored aloha shirt staring back at him. He was pointing at one of the tattoos on Jacob’s right arm. 
               Of course it hurt, he always thought to himself whenever he was asked that redundant question. But a tattoo is more than just the pain of a few needles stabbing your epidermis thousands of times a minute. It’s the release of endorphins as your skin burns from the self-inflicted wounds. It’s the bleeding, the soreness, the raised skin as your body fights the foreign substances. It’s also the care long after the session, the attention to detail, the cleaning, the itching, the scabbing and the healing. Finally, it’s the complex scarring of colors and shades, skilled artwork that has been honed to create an everlasting story for the world to see and only you to know the true tale. A piece of your story forever etched on your body.
               Jacob rolled down his sleeves to cover his exposed arms as he placed his basket on the conveyor belt. The kid’s mother tugged on his other hand and scoffed as she directed him towards the exit, he continued to stare at Jacob. Jacob began to empty his basket of various produce, breads, cheeses, herbs and a whole arsenal of tastes for a chef’s palate. For good measure, he added a few beers to the mix. It was, after all, his time away from it all.
               The drive to the cabin is one of Jacob’s favorite experiences. He makes sure to drive with the window down so that he can feel the crisp air swell around his face and the aromatics of the cedar and pine fill his senses. Freedom, isolation, relaxation. He’s always enjoyed the outdoors. There’s just something about nature that reminds him of how out-of-control human existence really is. His chance at Transcendentalism. He gently bobbed his head as he turned up the volume, The Talking Heads were speaking to him on the radio.
               By now, he had the dirt roads mapped out in his head and can make the drive with certain ease. After his grandfather passed and left him the cabin, it was the only place he went to that wasn’t school. It eased his mind and helped him relieve the stress of being an adult, if even temporarily. He turned onto the dusty path that led to the property, put the car in park, exited the vehicle and opened the gate. He repeated the process in reverse as he entered the estate, the large “Private Property” sign banged against the fence as he closed and locked it. The chain rattled as he interconnected it with the enormous padlock. Jacob wasn’t a fan of that sign, it was placed there by his grandfather, but it kept it there because the noise always reminded him that he had made it to paradise.
               Arms full of paper bags from the grocery store, he turned the keys in the locks and opened the door. The familiar musty smell of the cabin immediately filled his senses with emotions as he remembered everything attached to those scents. He placed the bag on the outdated counter and looked out the window above the sink that overlooked the pond that sat in the foreground of a scenic view of mountains and evergreens. Fields of flowers encased the forest floor basking in the light shining through the canopy. Gaia liked to show off. 
               The cabin sat four hours outside of town (on a good day) and was placed smack-dab in the middle of Gods country. His grandfather built it after he returned from the war. After developing some adverse effects upon his return, he decided he needed to keep himself occupied and his mind off of other issues. “Idle hands are the Devil’s playthings” he used to tell Jacob growing up as they played cards, or chess, or worked on odd projects around the cabin together. Jacob, of course, never understood that meaning until he was much older, but it always resonated with him, nonetheless. Like Jacob and his family, his grandfather didn’t live there full time, they merely visited when they needed an escape, however, once Jacob’s grandmother passed, his grandfather began to spend a lot more time up there until one day he never left. As Jacob got older and more mobile, he would visit him more and more. He enjoyed it there. He and his grandfather had a great relationship.
               Jacob was 17 when his grandfather passed. To his, and his parents’ surprise, the cabin was left to him in the will. It made sense, really, Jacob was the only one who wouldn’t sell it the second he could and would use it for its intended purpose. Not that his parents were greedy, they just had no use or time for the cabin like Jacob did. Jacob continued working odd jobs on the cabin to maintain it. He cherished his grandfather’s legacy. He enjoyed the fresh air. He enjoyed the solitude. Transcendence.
               He sat down on his grandfather’s favorite suede wingback armchair and sipped from the black coffee he made himself. It was creeping into fall and the nights were getting colder. In preparation, he had returned this weekend to fortify the insulation of the building as well as chop wood for the furnace for any future visits he may take heading into the wintery months. Last year was poorly planned and he recalled how he nearly froze as he wrestled the catch out of the icy pond. He wouldn’t make that mistake again this year. He panned his eyes across the photographic memories across the mantle and smiled at what he and his grandfather had created here. The coffee warmed his soul.
               Jacob woke up in a sweat. The one thing he always had trouble doing was sleeping at the cabin. Noises kept him up most of the night, they haunted him. Ghastly reminders of his past keeping him at attention and nagging at his conscious. Screams of horrors and agony. Nightmares.
               He walked into the bathroom and caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror that rested above the pedestal sink. On his chest scrawled a poorly etched rose. His first tattoo. His grandfather’s favorite flower. He stared at it and remembered that night, stumbling into a friend’s house party, half drunk, nerves shot and asking for one of his infamous “homemade” tattoos. Although only 17, somehow Mark had acquired a tattoo gun and would use that power to wield it for popularity in high school. Drunk adolescents would ask for lame tattoos that they would regret as they got older. Choppy lines, poor color, barely visible. But damn they did give you cool points with the rest of the school. Jacob wanted a rose. Jacob got a wet noodle tied to a red blob. Jacob hated it but cherished it in the same breath. You never forget your first. It was painful, healed horribly and left a vicious scar, but it was part of Jacob’s story.
               To keep himself busy and drown out the noises in his head, Jacob put on his jacket, grabbed a lantern and went outside to chop wood. He placed a cut log onto a well-worn tree stump and grabbed his sharpened axe. He raised the axe with both hands above his head and jammed it down onto the log splitting it in half immediately. He continued this process until he was winded and had a decent pile accumulated near his feet. He leaned the axe against the pile and he wiped the sweat from his brow.
               Entering the cabin as the sun began to rise over the mountains, he laid down on the couch and tried to get a little bit more sleep before he truly started his day.
               The morning sun poured onto his face like a natural alarm clock and the warmth woke him from his nap. He perked up on the sofa, yawned, stretched, and reacquainted himself with the room. His stomach reminded him that it was time to eat, so he made his way towards the kitchen to prep some of the food he gathered from the store on his way out. He diced up some of the produce, whipped up some eggs and brewed some coffee. He turned on the stove and placed a large black skillet atop the flame and slapped a hefty piece of butter inside. The aromatics filled the room as he plated the breakfast concoction onto two plates he found in the cupboard. On one of them, he placed the pedals of one of the white flowers he gathered on his hike with Heather yesterday, the ones he sneakily concocted tea with to calm her body afterwards.
               He slowly made his way down the hall with the plate with the flowers and some coffee. As he approached the door to the room at the end of the hall, his grandfather’s old room, he took a deep breath and prepared himself.
               Heather was sprawled across the bed in her own bodily fluids. The blankets that once propped her up on the mattress had become a chaotic torrent in the room. Her raspy voice was barely audible.
               “I…don’t feel…so…well.” Makeup was smeared on her face and the sweat poured from every pore on her body. Her clothes ripped and tattered. She constantly moaned in pain and anguish. The same wails that kept him up the night before.
               Jacob carefully placed the coffee on the side table and tried to hand her the plate of food. “I tried to find some medicine in town. But first, you need to eat and drink something.” She tried to force a smile as she noticed the flower on top, a reminder of their wonderful outing the day prior. “It’s edible and, in fact, I checked one of my textbooks it may have some medicinal properties.” 
               Plants were a big part of his life. His grandfather instilled in him the idea of living off the land and would show him various flora about the forest that would help one survive. Those interests carried Jacob through school and into college where he majored in botany. Excelling in his field, he was currently writing a dissertation about the effects of plants on people.
               It didn’t take long for the next round to affect her. He scripted a few notes in his field journal as he sipped some beer next to the large fire that he had constructed in a barrel a few hundred yards from the cabin. The thick, black smoke filled the beautiful blue sky to only be seen by him and God. 
***
	Frazzy, his tattoo artist, was just about finished with the artwork on his forearm when he asked him about the rest of his tattoos.
               “You know, you’ve been in here a few times, but I have never asked you, why all the flowers?” He motioned to Jacob’s arm. It was covered in colorful plants. Greens, whites, purples, red. His arm looked like a bouquet.
               Jacob paused. “I enjoy flowers. Botany, I want to be a botanist. These are a subtle reminder.”
               “A reminder of what?”
               Jacob laughed, “no one beats nature.”
               Confused, Frazzy responded, “huh?”
               He pointed to a group on his shoulder. “You see this pink group here? Kalmia latifolia. Symptoms appear in about 6 hours. Anorexia, foaming at the mouth, heart palpitations, coma, death. These blue badboys over here?” Another branch on his underarm. “Delphinium. It gets you quick, too. You lose control of your muscles, you spasm and suffer horrible heart issues. The one you are tattooing? Cicuta. That one is especially bad. Unlike the others, the death is slow. Seizures, vomiting, sweating, hallucinations, just a whole range of horrible stuff until eventually you succumb to it.”
               “Holy shit.” Frazzy stopped tattooing.
               “No one beats nature.” He said shrugging in a sing-songy tone.
               Frazzy continued to finish up the tattoo but kept peering over at the other flowers, shocked. Thinking about all the other flowers he didn’t mention. “It looks like you are running out of room on this arm, sadly enough.”
               Jacob laughed and raised his left arm. “I still have another arm to fill.”
 
 
 
	“...And I plan on doing just that,"" commenting eagerly.
","September 11, 2023 19:08",[]
prompt_0003,Write a story about a monster trying to become more human. Or about a human trying to become more monstrous.,u3yc2q,It Became My Brother,Lorrel Cooper,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/u3yc2q/,/short-story/u3yc2q/,Thriller and Suspense,0,"['Horror', 'Suspense']",3 likes,"
The house was old. It made all kinds of sounds at night, in the dark. At first, Emily hated the place and pleaded with her parents to move back to the city. It was an adjustment, something she would get used to, which her parents kept telling her. They assumed it was trepidation that played into their young daughter’s anxiety. They had left behind most of what she knew, like her school and friends. They understood it was scary, but they promised she would come to love their new home and the school she’d be attending in the fall.
 
“It’s so boring here...there’s nothing for miles around. No parks, no children….how am I supposed to make any friends?”
For a child, Emily made a valid point. Their new home sat on a parcel of land backed up to thick and dense forestry. While Emily’s parents found the property relaxing and freeing from the hustles of city life, Emily hated it. The trees would groan when the wind blew, and the call of wild creatures always came at night, slipping through the walls and making Emily’s arm’s hair stand on end.
 
However, this night, it was not the sound of the groaning trees or wild animals that woke Emily. It was the creaking of her mattress strings. Her bed was old and made from an ornate metal frame, so it was not immune to squeaking at the slightest shift of the young girl’s weight, but Emily knew this was different. Her mother had left the room an hour or so ago after reading from a collection of fairy tales, a favorite for Emily...and her father was away at work. So, who was there? The cat was not so rotund that the bed would shift so much.
 
Tentatively, Emily opened her eyes and peeked out into the darkness. It took her eyes a couple of moments to adjust, thanks to the fact that she was much too brave for a night light, at least that is what she told her parents. At the foot of her bed, she could make out a shape. The more her eyes began to adjust, the more she could make out. It was a boy! A little boy dressed in striped pajamas with hair as red as Emily’s own.
 
Sitting up in bed slowly, Emily rubbed her eyes simply to ensure she wasn’t seeing things. She was not immune to childish nightmares. After all, she still had her mother checking under the bed at night for monsters. This boy didn’t look like a monster. He was smiling and staring at Emily, his little legs kicking in the air. He seemed amused. Emily swallowed; her throat felt impossibly dry, and her mouth simply hung open as she tried to find the right words to say, but the boy seemed to beat her to it.
 
“I thought you’d sleep forever. I was starting to get bored!”
 
He sounded a year younger than Emily, friendly, and perhaps impatient. Emily didn’t seem to realize that her blankets were tightly gripped in her hands, half lifted like some kind of shield. All she could do was stare at the boy until the obvious questions started to slip from her lips.
 
“How did you get inside...are you lost?”
 
A peal of impish laughter erupted from the boy, his little arms wrapping around his middle as he rocked back and forth, still perfectly balanced at the foot of the bed. The laughter lasted so long that Emily expected her mother to burst into the room, but she did not hear the tell-tale sound of footsteps in the hall.
 
“Lost, I’m not lost, silly. This is my home. Isn’t it?”
 
This immediately surprised Emily as no one had lived in this house for years. At least, that is what her parents had said. They’d done many renovations to the house to make it liveable again. The house was barely recognizable when compared to its old photos. Emily canted her head to the side as if trying to understand what the boy had said.
 
“This isn’t your home...this is my home. My parents and I live here.”
 
Silence fell upon the room, the peal of laughter ending without warning, but the smile remained on the boy’s face as he shook his head back and forth. For a child, he looked rather pensive. Older than he appeared. His impossibly bright eyes looked back to Emily, his words sounding so sure, so final.
 
“This is my home. You and your parents belong to me. You always wanted a sibling, didn’t you, Emily?”
 
Cold prickling shivers danced down Emily’s spine, her eyes never looking away from the boy as she lifted those blankets a little higher until she pulled them over her head and fell back down against the pillows. This had to be a bad dream. It wasn’t real...it couldn’t be.
 
“Don’t hide from me, Emily. That’s rude.”
There was a darkness in the boy’s voice now, replacing the puckish lilt that had been there before. There was shifting on the bed. It felt heavier than before. The boy was moving, it seemed. A tugging could be felt upon the blankets Emily held like a vice, trying to keep them in place.
 
“I want to play! Play with me, Emily! I came from so far and waited so long!”
 
The tugging grew violent. This was not the strength of a child but something else, and Emily refused to let go, her eyes screwed shut so tight she thought she might never open them again. When the tugging stopped, there was, for the briefest of moments, relaxation in Emily’s grip, and that is when the blankets were pulled across with lightning speed from the bed and hurled across the room.
As Emily dared to open her eyes, she looked around the room wide with panic, trying to see the boy. He was no longer at the foot of the bed, and she could not immediately see him in what little light the moon offered through the window. Emily didn’t even dare to move from the bed. Instead, she brought her knees up to her chest, sat there, her arms hugging around her legs, and simply waited.
 
“Are you scared of me, Emily?”
 
The question sounded like it was spoken right into her ear, making Emily jump, scrambling to look around, and suddenly taking up her pillow like it was some sword fit for slaying dragons. She still couldn’t see the boy, but Emily knew that he could likely see her.
 
“All I wanted was a family...a sister...why won’t you give me what I want?”
 
The voice had a sorrow that Emily couldn’t ignore, but she refused to answer. Moment after moment, the silence grew heavy and painful enough that Emily finally brought herself to look around, but no one was there. The house began to make its usual sounds, and the trees outside groaned in the wind.
 
Tentatively, Emily made her way from the bed. She gathered her blankets and returned to the bed to try and sleep. Like before, she pulled the blankets over her head, hoping they would keep her safe.
 
The rest of the night was filled with fitful and restless sleep. Emily woke at every sound, but the boy didn’t return. Emily convinced herself that it had to have been a bad dream and nothing more.
 
When sleep finally took her, it was not long before the smell of frying bacon and sizzling hot cakes teased the girl from her slumber. On the weekends, it was a tradition that Emily’s mother would make a big breakfast, and they would spend the afternoon out of the house running errands.
 
Emily quickly dressed, her pajamas haphazardly tossed into a hamper as she left her room and took the steps downstairs two at a time. She practically skidded around the corner into the kitchen, eager to find her place at the table.
 
“Good morning, Emily.”
 
Her mother’s voice sounded like a salve after such a horrid night. As the words ‘good morning’ started to form in Emily’s mouth, she swallowed them down, her eyes staring pointedly into the dining room. The boy sat in those same striped pajamas and ate his fill-on bacon and pancakes at the table. He looked up from his meal and waved to Emily, who hadn’t dared to take a step closer. She felt a hand fall on her back, urging her into the dining room. Her mother seemed perfectly at ease and carried a plate in her other hand.
 
“Come on, Emily, you and your brother have a big day ahead….”
 
","September 13, 2023 02:58",[]
prompt_0003,Write a story about a monster trying to become more human. Or about a human trying to become more monstrous.,59y8le,Live Like A Human,Jeydie Woloszczuk,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/59y8le/,/short-story/59y8le/,Thriller and Suspense,0,"['Fiction', 'Horror', 'Suspense']",2 likes,"
	Threatening to escape her gnarled grasp, the receipt fluttered in the summer breeze; Lena stared at it as if she'd forgotten what it was for. At least not yet; her zombified brain still functioned. What she couldn't grasp were the figures that were printed on the slip. Lena thought she had calculated the numbers correctly; it should have been about $1,200, not seven hundred. Then it hit her; she had loaned money to her friend, whose birthday was coming up. He had asked to have his organ wishlist funded. 
	Lena sighed and shoved the receipt into her dirty purse. She shuffled back to her car and drove home to her empty house. Her roommate of two years, Alfonso, had passed away recently and was taken for recycling. He had multiple organ failures and hadn't had the money to buy new ones. Lena headed to the kitchen and grabbed her tumbler of blood. There wasn't a lot left; she realized she should have bought some before leaving the supermarket. 
	Plopping onto her bed, she picked up the catalog full of markings and folded corners off her nightstand. Flipping through it, she saw an image of a human not seen in years or at least on her side of town. Zombies could go back to looking like the striking model on the page if they had the money for it: new skin, new heart, new everything. No more having to eat organs and blood, no more body failures, and no more waiting for death to take you - again. 
	A piece of paper fell out between the pages; it was Lena's organ wishlist. With the income she was making at the supermarket, there was no way that she would even get one thing from that list. She regretted giving that birthday money to her friend. Turning onto her side, Lena stared at a picture of herself; it sat precariously on the nightstand; a photo taken before she and the rest of the world became zombified.
	It took a little over a year for the world to change; what started as a coughing fit turned into body rot and the desire to feed it with brains. The disease didn't discriminate against anyone; children and the elderly alike were mutated. Unlike the typical zombie flicks the humans used to watch, the zombified weren't slow, ravenous, and inarticulate. They functioned almost as well as any human, except for their appearance and lack of healthy lower organs, and they all shared a new American dream - to go back to being close to humans.
 
 
 
	Scanning the bags of blood at the supermarket, the scanner blared at Lena, making her head rattle. After the last bag, she gave the customer an intentional dull look, even though it was a permanent expression she wore. The customer swiped her card to pay, grabbed her bags, and shuffled off. Lena sighed; she noticed her boss, Mr. Serkus, rambling with two other people she's never seen. She wondered if the man and woman were here for inspection or to help interview for the assistant manager position she was vying for. Standing straight and pulling her dry, cracked lips into a smile, Lena assisted the next customer, glancing up often at her boss. 
	Peering at the dangling clock on the wall, Lena realized it was almost time for her break. She glanced back towards the office, expecting to see Leo approaching. Is he late again? Taking deep breaths, Lena focused on what her doctor told her; she couldn't get overly agitated; it could cause her heart to stop. 
	""Hello!"" The customer in front of her yelled.
	""Sorry,"" Lena mumbled, and she caught Mr. Serkus glancing at her.
 
 
	Leo strolls in to replace her fifteen minutes after the time she was supposed to take her break. Restraining the instinct to take a bite out of him, Lena headed towards the office where her lunch of liver was waiting for her. Walking past Mr. Serkus, she waved at him. He paused.
	""Lena, would you see me in my office, please."" He said as he turned back and opened the office door.
	Lena forgot all about taking her break and slipped inside. She slid into the grimy office chair in front of Mr. Serkus's cracked desk. He swung around, his slim frame quaking with each step, and gently sat into his chair.
	""Lena, I see you applied for the assistant manager position."" Mr. Serkus said, rustling some papers he had on the desk.
	Lena nodded.
	""How long have you been with us? Three years?"" 
	""Almost six, Mr. Serkus.""
	""Oh.""
	He glanced down at his papers.
	""I haven't advertised the job opening. To be quite honest, I'm not interested in conducting interviews. Especially if I have to interview Leo.""
	That moron applied for the position?! He barely makes it to work on time. Lena tightened her smile.
	""Look, why don't I just give you the position, keep it internal? I'll let the regional offices know I went with a senior employee instead of opening the job for any Joe blow to apply."" Mr. Serkus said, smoothing his patchy hair down onto his blotchy scalp. 
	Lena could barely speak but moaned as if she was a full-blown zombie from a George R. Romero flick. 
	""What are you? A zombie?"" Mr. Serkus said and wheezed out a laugh.
	""I'm sorry. I'm just surprised. Thank you for the opportunity, Mr. Serkus. I won't disappoint you!"" Lena said; she jumped up and extended her hand.
	""Sorry, I can't shake hands. My doctor said my arm would fall off the next time I did.""
 
 
 
 
	Driving back home in her beat-up Honda Civic, Lena laughed out loud. She wanted to call someone to tell them the good news. Rick! I can call him and shove it in his face. I'll be making up that birthday money that I gave him. She decided to call him once she got home; part of her ear crumbled the last time she was on the phone while driving. 
	After her phone call with Rick, Lena reviewed her organ wishlist. She was deciding on which organ to replace first. Looking up the price on the catalog, she calculated that she would have to start with the cheapest and save up for the more expensive organs. Lena called the local Revive clinic and made an appointment to have her kidney replaced. 
 
 
 
 
	Lena fiddled with her stitches while lying on the hospital bed after surgery; she was excited about having a new kidney. She was drawn to the surgery; she was awake the whole time since there was no need for the zombified to be put under. The allure of having her body cut open and changed was intoxicating as if she was smelling blood for the first time after she had changed. Lena's goal was to be the woman in the organ catalog.
	Surgery after surgery, Lena transformed. She had replaced everything except her skin, which was the one organ that physically made her zombified. It was also the most expensive. Working overtime at the supermarket, Lena squirreled away her earnings feverishly and avoided going out much. 
 
 
	The day before her final surgery, Lena decided to go to her favorite lounge, where she used to hang out with her old friends, to celebrate. At the bar, she cradled her Bloody Mary; she was about to take a sip when someone called her name.
	""Lena? It's Rick."" He stood there in his worn-out formal wear, his lazy, protruding eye prominent. Lena saw that he had tried mashing his patchy hair with oily pomade. 
	She turned to see that Rick was accompanied by five of her other friends. ""Hi, guys!""
	""You want to join us? We have a large table reserved."" 
	""Sure."" 
	As soon as they gathered around the wooden table, Rick spoke.
	""Where have you been? We haven't heard from you in a while?""
	""I’ve been working overtime at the supermarket,” Lena said, glancing at the others. They were muttering and stealing looks toward Lena.
	“All this time? Many of us haven’t seen you since you mentioned getting promoted.” Rick said.
	“Well, between going to work and having the surgeries, there hasn’t been any time to do anything else.”
	“You’re here now.”
	“Is this an interrogation?” Lena said.
	“No, no. Of course not. We’re just wondering what you’ve been up to.”
	“Nobody else is asking the questions.”
	None of the others could hold Lena’s stare for too long. She felt anger bubbling up inside.
	“Lena, Rick is right. We’re just worried about you. You seem distracted and different now.” Another one of Lena’s friends said.
	“It’s not my fault that you are all jealous that I’m getting replacements done,” Lena said, twirling the glass of Bloody Mary.
	“Jealous? That’s definitely not it.” Rick said.
	“No offense, but you always used to make fun of people that would go crazy getting replacements and acting all arrogant, and now you’re becoming one of them.” Another chimed in.
	Lena stood up all of a sudden, growling. “I came here to celebrate my last surgery. You guys were the ones that invited me over. Now I can see it was just to take jabs at me. Don’t you ever contact me again!” She tossed back her Bloody Mary and stormed off, with Rick calling after her.
 
 
 
	Brushing her hair viciously, Lena paced in her bedroom. Her anger bubbled low in the pit of her stomach. The replacement surgery was early the next day; she figured she would head to bed early, yet she couldn’t let what happened at the lounge dissipate. Lena was heading to the bathroom when the doorbell rang. Who could that be? 
	She sprinted to the door and peered out the peephole. Lena sighed. What is he doing here? She yanked the door open.“What do you want, Rick?”
	“Sorry, it’s kinda late. I just wanted to apologize.” 
	“Ok.”
	Rick had his hands behind his back; he searched Lena’s eyes. She waited for him to speak. Rick lunged at Lena, throwing her backward. She hit the floor bottom first, and he was upon her. Lena tried to scream, but he placed his scaly hand over her mouth. Shadows appeared around her. All of her friends stood by, staring down at her. Each one’s corrupted features worsened by shadows. 
	“Your new organs are going to help us get our own. Bet you didn’t know they fetch quite a bit of money on the black market.” Rick said.
	Lena’s eyes widened. One by one, the group pulled out a surgical tool. One of them began to cut her PJs as Rick held her down. Lena peered towards her abdomen, a scalpel glinting from the ceiling light lowered down onto her belly. She leaned back and smiled. 
 
","September 10, 2023 18:38",[]
prompt_0003,Write a story about a monster trying to become more human. Or about a human trying to become more monstrous.,imm8ai,The Psycho's Revelation,Steffen Lettau,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/imm8ai/,/short-story/imm8ai/,Thriller and Suspense,0,"['Suspense', 'Sad', 'Fiction']",2 likes,"
""Trender's Orphanage.  If you aren't familiar with it, that's because it is basically wiped from the media.  Hard as they could, though, those fools could not wipe away the blood...or tears.""
 
The six-foot-seven-inch lady looked down upon the white-haired boy, a metal staff as his only protection held in his lap.  She conceded to his intrepidness, and so kept her custom goalie stick-styled blade down.  She also appreciated him not staring at her scars around her mouth, usually covered with a surgeon's mask but for today; she wanted to be understood.
 
""Her name was Jennifer Marko Skinner.""
 
""She arrived at the orphanage one summer night, having nowhere to go.  She was six years of age, and tall for one so young.  The owners took her in and had her settled, though she could provide little with her lack of an education.  When asked about her parents, she could only shake her head; they took such as a sign of 'I don't know', but she knew; she just couldn't describe what happened to them.""
 
""She would become quite athletic as she grew older, playing the sports of street hockey with the other boys and running around the blocks with the girls.  She could outrun even the adults, and she was always picked for goalie, given her size and reach and surprisingly quick reflexes.  Whatever trauma that used to plague her mind, she would blanket it with these times of fun.""
 
""She got her education there at the orphanage, through tutors that the owners could bring in on a spare dime, and the children would gather with them as they would with any adult and hoped that this person would take at least one of them home.  Jenn did not share in this pleasantry; she was only around them to learn.  The tutors were informed by the owners to not pressure her about her past, especially her parents, lest she pull away from everyone and depart to the dormitory for hours on end.  Mind you, there was no hate in her heart, only a loneliness that was desperately held at bay by the only family she had.""
 
""A harsh March was on the heels of winter, dragging with it all manner of vermin, even bringing in three through the doors one day.  They were not parents, but Federal Agents of the Department of Housing.  They had a proposal for the owners; ten million for the orphanage, and the place would become a refuge for the homeless, to be given their 'second chance in life'.  I have seen this 'second chance in life' when I was a child, a chance that costed me everything.  The government before your time was tyrannical, boy, and it was in need of new soldiers wherever it could find them as they were facing resistance.  Ironic, as the owners turned them away as they neither supported nor feared the authoritarian regime.  When one of the agents grabbed the owner, Jenn tackled the fully-grown adult to the ground, and was about to pound him senseless when the owners pulled her off and sent her to the dorm.""
 
She looked away for a few seconds, not wanting the boy to catch the anger in her eyes.  ""On her way back,"" she continued, ""one of the agents called Jenn a 'psycho'.  She knew not the meaning, but she knew the negative connotation.""  
 
""A week later, she was playing street hockey, the events prior not even surfacing to mind.  Common sense had us vacate the street when any car approached, but the drivers always slowed down for us.  All but one.""
 
She kept her eyes down, her grip upon her blade suddenly tightening.  ""An unmarked van sped to our location, and we were clearing the area as quick as possible, but one of the boys was pushed and hit his head.  As he stirred in a daze with blood seeping from his gash to the cold asphalt, the van hastened its approach.  None of the other boys were close by to grab him, and most of the girls outside were only noticing the future roadkill to transpire.  The heavy beast roared towards its prey, and practically leapt at the boy."" 
 
""In a blur, a new monster moved in and nabbed the scarred child, bounding to the sidewalk as the van sliced the air, disappearing around the corner of the block.  The athletic girl, having saved the boy, stared at the last place the van had been, a growing vexation settling in her heart.""  She suddenly looked into his eyes.  ""Nothing happened for weeks, and April was almost over in scheduled days and as its raining season.  The boy, fully recovered and rejoined with his friends, couldn't express his gratitude to Jenn enough despite her reassuring him that it was just the right thing to do.""  Hefting her blade, her eyes now fell upon its gleam; though she was not threatening him with it, the white-haired boy shifted his staff to a more effective defense.  She merely waved the end of the blade playfully to him, quoting:  
 
""No good deed goes unpunished.""
 
She stabbed the point into the ground, surprising the boy.  Shifting in her seat, she commenced with the story.
 
""Two storms came to our home, one after the other.  The first creeped in like a thief in the night, destroying all that it touched.  The owners were the first to notice and, despite the danger that the fire presented, tried to get the children out of their dorms.  Jenn was the first of the children to wake up, and she sought to aid the owners in the evacuation.  But the others were awake, and they became frightened and tried to shy away from the flames despite Jenn's attempts to get them out.  The windows of the dorms were their only chance; she broke one of them and, using two blankets like ropes in each hand, helped to lower a few of the children down; the owners, in turn, emerged from below and helped to grab the children.  But it was slow, the blankets were ripping, and the structure of the orphanage was weakening.""
 
""It turned out that there were two separate fires on one building.""  She closed her eyes, as this was the hardest part; ""The roof was the first engulfed, and therefore was the first to collapse.  Out of sixteen children, only seven were rescued with the two owners.  And then, before the seventh child even touched the ground, the orphanage collapsed.""
 
A silence bounced back and forth between the two.  ""The firefighters had kept everyone back as the blaze was contained, swallowing all that was left.  Where there were walls, rubble and ruin.  Where there was a roof, timber and tile.  Where there...were children...was ash.  And her.""  She paused again, fighting back against the tears as hard as she fought against the unwanted urge to kill the boy.  ""She broke through the rubble, pushed through the fire, and fell away from all eyes.  Wandering about, clothed in the dust of the orphanage and the orphans, she went into the alleyways, hiding away and expecting to die.""
 
""But you didn't.""
 
Though unnecessary, she would allow his interruption.  ""In a way, I did.  That part of me died with eight other children, died screaming silently into the night for their names, for them to return.  They can't!  They won't.  Only I, this me, survived.  It was something about me, something in my blood, that kept me alive and healed the wounds but for the scars left to remind.""
 
""The owners would be forced to sell the plot of land to the agents, using some of it for the funeral of the dead children.  There was a commemoration for me as a hero.  That girl was the hero, not me.""
 
""But you tried to save them-""
 
""AND I FAILED!"" she roared, launching herself to her feet with blade in hand.  Immediately, the boy flipped backwards and positioned his staff, one end down and one end up, waiting.  He was unafraid; such shocked her more than her sudden outburst.  Still, she resumed:
 
""I hunted down those agents, you understand?  Hunted them like animals, with far worse outcomes.  As their crude construction of a recruitment shelter spoiling the land of a once-great home was being built, I tracked the first agent, the deal-broker, back to a hotel.  I broke through his door, and then I used every piece of that door to punch through his body as if he was a hoodoo doll!""
 
""The second agent, a woman who owned the van, tried to keep a low profile by avoiding public areas.  I ended up cornering her and breaking both her arms even after she shot me; the bullets, in turn, were just pushed out of my body with the wounds closing up into thin scars.  I demanded the whereabouts of the last agent; it took a little convincing, but one destroyed kneecap got that sinner to confess.  I granted her leniency, sparing the rod just to bury her alive in the same graveyard as her last victims.""
 
""The third wasn't hard to find, as he decided to utilize his new shelter, my former home, as his own personal base.  He had police and a reserve guard watch for me.  I chose to face them head-on.  After being shot up again, I collapsed, wondering if I would really die this time.  I didn't; whatever was in my blood actually retracted all of my pieces, pulling them via strands like fishing lines, down to the last drop of blood.  Whoever was still alive after standing against me was wishing that they weren't, and I entered the shelter.""
 
""There he was, hiding as he did when he first came into my orphanage!  The fool actually pulled out a pistol, and I expected him to waste his ammo as did his guards.  Instead, he reminded me of who I was when we first met; a psycho.  Then, he put the gun under his jaw and said, 'See you in hell, kid!'  Bang.""
 
Exhaustion seemed to take her, and she sank to her knees.  ""My revenge was robbed!  I screamed in frustration, the call of blood answered except by my own hands!  With nothing left, I pulled myself out of the shelter and, within a week, as far from that city and state as possible.  I fell into a pit of despair, boy; no family, no friends, no one to turn to who would remember me when I was alive.  This is what is left, the monster that fell into bad favor and a worse crowd.""
 
""Jennifer Marko 'The Psycho' Skinner.""
 
He never wavered.  The boy kept his guard up even at the end of her story.  She closed her eyes, feeling the cool air upon her forehead.  Clutching and unclutching her weapon, she waited for his response.  Finally, he spoke:
 
""Your story isn't over.""
 
""Oh?  Why do you say that?""
 
""Because I believe that you can still change.  You're right, you aren't the same girl you once were.  But, Jenn, you don't have to be a monster!""
 
Her eyes popped open as she stared dead-straight at the white-haired boy.  Only her friends called her that.  She gripped the blade once more.
 
""Don't I?""
","September 15, 2023 08:12","[[{'Mary Bendickson': 'Tough on the streets.', 'time': '21:05 Sep 17, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Steffen Lettau': ""As bad as it could get, it just could only get worse.  Or, with the boy's help, it could get better?"", 'time': '21:19 Sep 17, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Steffen Lettau': ""As bad as it could get, it just could only get worse.  Or, with the boy's help, it could get better?"", 'time': '21:19 Sep 17, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0003,Write a story about a monster trying to become more human. Or about a human trying to become more monstrous.,y66syo,Old demons and purple gowns,Julia Montgomery,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/y66syo/,/short-story/y66syo/,Thriller and Suspense,0,"['Thriller', 'Mystery', 'Historical Fiction']",2 likes,"
I chose the table in the corner, in a canopy of shadows. It always had to be a corner, a nook, or some spot where I wouldn't be so noticed. Not because I wasn't much to look at. In the right light, with a more sultry attitude, I daresay I might've had at least one or two men, asking me for a dance. And I could certainly give them a run for their money. But this wasn't a night for cheap thrills and a placid foxtrot. Everything around this meeting had been planned out ahead of time. The seedy cocktail bar, the day on which they played German music for the nine O'clock waltz, even my lilac, rayon dress that was more daringly low-cut than most of my other frocks. I understood well by now, that everything had to go according to plan.
I waited with an air of coolness, sipping on a glass of pinot Gris as the minutes melted away. Inside, however, my heart was racing. I was all confidence when I made the arrangement through my contact at the DaVinci garret, certain that tonight would lead to a break-through in my investigation, but now that I was sitting here, waiting for the man I intended to interrogate, I felt sick to my stomach. I'd never done this before. It was easy to be a witness from both near and afar, but actually stepping over that invisible line to become the hunter for justice was unfamiliar territory. I used to fantasize about being this glamourous spy, slipping in and out of covert operations the way a mouse uses shadows to stay hidden. That spy-counterpart of mine would've been ashamed to see the real me, a bundle of raw nerves, over the possibility of a mere conversation.
Finally, I saw him enter the room. Handsome, in the warm light that swung from the uncovered bulbs above, but in the shadows, did I see his true face. Eyes the colour of glaciers, German-blond hair, slicked back so smoothly it could've been painted on, his complexion unnaturally pale it seemed sickly. Then there was his scar. A thick, messy one that ran from his left cheekbone, right down to the corner of his mouth.
""Colette?"" It was the name I'd proposed to use at the garret. One I'd been committing to memory.
""Monsieur Heinrich. Please, sit down. Would you like anything to drink?""
""Whisky and soda, a double.""
I waved over one of the waitresses and gave her the order, careful not to add another glass for myself. I lost too much control with alcohol and I needed as much control tonight as I could muster.
""So Colette, to what do I owe the honor tonight? If you wish me to dance with you, I'm afraid you'll be very disappointed. My friends always told me I had two left feet.""
""I'm sure that's just modesty on your part Monsieur, but a dance partner wasn't on the cards tonight. I'm hoping to renew an old acquaintance this summer and I was told you might be able to help me.""
""I'm not sure how but if you explain it, I'll do my best to try.""
He flashed me a dimpled smile. One that might've made a younger me giggle and blush, had it not come from a German soldier. Younger me was long gone however, and had nothing to do with this mission.
""Back in '42, I knew one of your associates, Adolph Cramer. I had to go to Poland for a while, on business, and I was introduced to him in Krakow through a mutual friend. He seemed such an interesting man, not friendly exactly, but interesting. We didn't know each other for long though. I was sent to some Polish camps in January when the allies arrived so our acquaintance was brought to an end. I've been very curious to know what became of that man.""
""You're asking me about Adolph Cramer?"" He sounded as taken aback as I'd anticipated. If my sister was made aware of Cramer's reputation in passing, I had no doubt that his friends were in ignorance. ""Because you want to know about him?""
""It's an odd request, I grant you. I know of his zealous reputation; perhaps that's part of my curiosity. Sometimes that attitude even made me laugh. You see, I couldn't tell half the time, when he was joking and when he was serious. Knowing him was like trying to solve the world's most morbid riddle.""
""I think I know what you mean. Like Doctor Jekyll and Mr. Hyde? One side of him was ordinary to me, almost charming. The other side...I won't say it scared me. A lot of what he said wasn't anything I hadn't dealt with before. It was his attitude towards it that I found disturbing. He spoke of the things he'd done as if he were a boy on St. Nicholas day, getting everything on his wish-list. Again, it wasn't surprising, but it was unusual. I'm sure you've noticed that yourself.""
The analogy was apt, to the subject. A being that was half-human, half-monster? That was Adolph Cramer, to the letter.
""You've made me think of that old story, all over again. I used to read it with an old friend of mine, on dark, stormy nights. Whenever there was lightening outside, we would worry there was a new monster, being born. But monsters don't just come from nowhere, do they?""
""Yes. Many monsters take a lot of time and effort to become what they are.""
And some are made into monsters through a dangerous lack of understanding. But he wasn't going to say that, was he?
""Monsters fascinate me, Monsieur Heinrich. Particularly when they're multi-faceted. That was mostly why I wanted to get back in touch with Adolph, if he's still reachable. I understand, under the circumstances, that you may not be able to give me a direct address, but might you know of a way I can pass a message on to him?""
""Are you sure this is wise, Mademoiselle? It is dangerous these days, to be associated with former Nazi's. There are a great many who have every reason to want these people imprisoned, or dead.""
""Are you sure it is wise, Monsieur, to mention them aloud? I am aware that there are some dangers to this, but the world cannot just expect me to treat those who were my friends as monsters, just because they say it is so. Life does not work so simply.""
""I couldn't agree with you more. So many of my own friends are either in hiding or in prison. And we are just expected to change our ideologies? To apologize when we haven't done anything wrong? It's funny isn't it? How we're never allowed to decide who we're meant to be. Men in nice uniforms tell us to blindly put our faith in them. To follow them into the unknown, regardless of whether we could live or die, because it is our destiny to die for the one we believe in, isn't it? Thousands upon thousands have died for Christ, our fellow man have died in the name of the Keiser, and those who died in this war died because of the man we followed. Not for him. Yet, this man had us believing that these deaths were necessary. That it was all for the greater good. Isn't that sickening?""
Was that regret, seeping into his defense? I didn't expect it. I hadn't been at this for very long, but in my experience with former soldiers, I saw everything but regret in their eyes.
""That is an even harder puzzle to decipher, you know. Debates between those who died for a cause and those who died because of that cause. We're all monsters at the end of the day. Because no matter how noble our intentions are, our actions will hurt at least one person who doesn't deserve it.""
""So, you're resigned to being a monster too? Even in such a beautiful gown?""
""The world is full of monsters, Monsieur. Monsters, masquerading as humans. It's problematic because there are monsters around, trying to be more human. Sometimes it comes from remorse, sometimes for salvation, sometimes it is just one, trying to prove that they are not all they are told they'll ever amount to. But how do we tell who are genuine and who are hiding behind a mask?""
""Well, I find I get a long way by asking honest questions and expecting honest answers. So, what kind of monster are you, Mademoiselle?""
""I think I'll give you that answer when I can find out what kind of a monster Adolph Cramer was. Maybe then, I'll know myself well enough to say.""
""Very well then. I have a friend who works in a shipping company that exports coal internationally. The company is called Beqa and this friend of mine goes by the name of Emil Clavele. Meet with me here in a weeks time with your message and twenty francs. I'll see to it that your message is delivered.""
""Do I have your word on that?""
""You can trust me with this one errand."" He swore, flashing me another dimpled smile. One, I was sure, carried an obvious purpose.
""Well Monsieur!"" I forced one of my own, standing up as a high-paced waltz began to play in the background. ""Now that our business has concluded, will you be my partner for this dance? Don't worry if you think you can't dance; it's just so lucky that I can.""
""Can you now? Well, with an offer like that, it would be rude of me to refuse.""
With his hands on my body, I bore through the ordeal a little longer as the thought of going home and spending the night in the arms of my beau brought me my only relief. A monster? Yes, he was. Me? Perhaps, but never of my own making. I spent most of my life being told that I was something or another. And he spoke of never having choices? He had no idea how that felt. But he wasn't important to me. He was only a clerk in one of the camps; a small pawn on the chessboard. If I could track down Adolph Cramer, find out everything he knew, only then would I know the kind of monsters I was dealing with. Whether or not they wanted to be human-beings again didn't matter to me anymore.
 
 
","September 15, 2023 09:27",[]
prompt_0003,Write a story about a monster trying to become more human. Or about a human trying to become more monstrous.,z5bnad,The Beast of Harlem,Angela Guthrie,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/z5bnad/,/short-story/z5bnad/,Thriller and Suspense,0,"['African American', 'Urban Fantasy']",2 likes,"
And just like every night, the neighbors barricaded behind their doors and hid the kids under crowded beds and inside rusted tubs. This ritual had become more frequent with the recent deaths of gang members. So far, it had only been members of various gangs. Rumors swirled from house to house about the horrific images police officers described as absolutely bone-chilling. ***I huddled with my siblings under the twin beds Mama had pushed together for our protection. Everyone’s breath seemed trapped inside each body, terrified of escaping if the beast could hear us. I could feel the beads of sweat running down my face as I squeezed my youngest sister, Brianna, as close to me as I could. Her compact body and smooth, soft skin smelled of fragrance-free lotion. Brianna wiggled from the discomfort of being cramped as I squeezed her tighter. I keenly love my siblings, but Brianna, a surviving twin, owned my heart.Everyone jumped simultaneously, including Mama, when the piercing screams of young men traveled through the air, breaking the silence. My heart skipped about fifteen beats when the sound of long claws scraped across the front door. Mama paced back and forth like a soldier, examining every area in the tiny house. Brianna began sobbing as Mama snatched her up and held her close to her chest, stifling the loud sobs.I could hear the soft-spoken prayers Mama recited as the scratching became louder; the grind would stop like always. I knew that it had been Mama’s prayers that had protected us from the beast. Mama would repeat the 91 Psalms over the entire house and anoint each of us with oil that Reverend James had blessed. The increasing horror led me to do something about the beast’s nightly rampage. Some people believed that because the victims were gang members, there wasn’t anything to be concerned about as long as people stayed locked in their homes. I secretly organized a vigilante of teenagers to fight the beast. I knew that Mama would disapprove and that if she and the other mothers knew, they would stop it.***We met in Franklin’s damp and cluttered basement. It was an even four, two girls and two boys. Tasha and Jackie sat cross-legged on the large moldy pillows that Franklin had dug out of the numerous boxes in the basement. Silence was so imperative at night that during the day everyone still remained quiet. It took us months to accumulate the weapons we needed for the battle. I marveled at the bravery Tasha showed in defeating the beast. Tall and slender with an attitude of steel, she was the first one on board. Jackie expressed more concern about facing the beast. Her diminutive frame suggested fragile to most people, but there peeked out an inner strength that even she wasn’t aware she possessed. Each of us acquired donated crossbows, arrows, and an arrow case. We stapled large water-stained poster boards around the walls stuffed with old discarded lumpy pillows to practice. The four of us spent two hours after school practicing shooting arrows. All but Franklin showed adequate skills with the crossbow. Franklin’s bulky build suggested clumsy and awkward. He, however, mastered the art of archery as if he was born with a crossbow in his hands.We decided to vote on the night we would kill the beast. Terror became an unwelcome guest in our community. Violence had lodged in every corner of the area, and refused to leave. We were living in constant fear, making hope elusive. Each of us experienced the profound loss of a loved one to gang violence. The gangs were unwelcome, but this new terror was more sinister.Jackie, looking uneasy whispered, “Maybe we should forget about this. We’re only kids and we don’t know what this thing is or even if it’s human!”Franklin, grabbing a handful of chips and stuffing them into his mouth, sputtered “Plus, we don’t know what we’re doing.”Tasha, stooping over to remove her chunky black boots, chuckled, “Yeah, I’m scared spitless too!”Standing in front of the group, I admitted to myself and the group that the victims deserved their comeuppance. They killed people as if they were expendable, and contributed to the mindset that our community of brokenness doesn’t deserve life, or safety.We chose the night of gang initiations.***I quietly climbed over my younger brother the night of the hunt, trying not to wake him. Moving stealthily across the room and slowly pulling the door open, I ran swiftly to join the others. Dressed in black, the four of us appeared bold, but our thumping heartbeats told another story. As we reached Fourth Street, next to where the gang initiations began, we froze in terror as the piercing sounds waved through the air. While we moved in unison, fear kept us from separating ourselves to search for the beast. When we approached Fifth Street, the sight before us was surreal. The young men lay on the ground, lifeless and grotesque, sprawled across the land like rag dolls.Viewing the field of bodies, bodies that had murdered so many, including Brianna's twin, I remembered seeing the execution of a dictator who had imposed unspeakable punishment and death on millions in his country. He was convicted of crimes against humanity and sentenced to death. I recalled his grey-ashen face twisted with what appeared to be a lethal combination of fear and hatred. I observed that same look now on the lifeless bodies. When they draped the noose around his neck and placed a black hood over his head, the camera quickly switched to people in the streets. They were laughing, cheering and waving their hands, elated that he was dead.I wondered what changed. There would still be murderers and death. There would always be monsters.We found the courage to separate and stepped carefully over the mutilated bodies.Franklin and I paired off and headed south of the field near an old building that had burned down a few days ago. Peering inside, we found nothing but burnt office furniture that smelled like death. Suddenly, we heard an eerie scratching sound that made the hair on my arms stand up. Franklin swiveled toward the sound with his bow ready to shoot. Looking up at intact tall green curtains framing the window, we witnessed a grey tabby clinging for life as he slid down, splitting the curtain.Looking for the girls, I could see them looking around near one of the alleyways.Tasha and Jackie clung to their bows, listening and watching for anything. None of us knew what to expect.Walking towards another alley, I heard loud sobs and wailing near by as if the owner’s heart ripped apart. The girls ran from their search to join us. We cautiously moved toward the path. The beam of my flashlight exposed a bloody trail of footprints curved in the darkness where the outline of a small shadowy figure sat hunched on the ground. Franklin took his flashlight and pointed it towards the tiny creature . As it slowly turned its head towards us, pain disguised as fury washed over its swollen face. Its sobs wailed as if they would never stop. Dressed in black, just like us, it held a small, bloodied rake with sharp knives at the end. We stared at it for several minutes, astonished at the sight. The young girl couldn’t have been older than fourteen. As she looked at us, her tear-stained face caked with blood and mud, stared into the distance dazed and confused. Her mouth began to move, but no sound came out. As her voice grew, the sound became audible. “I had to do it!” She screamed those words as if it was an accusation. “They killed my little brother!” I inched closer to her and kneeled to her face. Carefully taking the deadly rake from her tight grip, I handed it slowly to Jackie. Stroking her face, I held the broken girl close and rocked her gently back and forth. Emotions filtered through my soul as unresolved violence had conquered the beast. Her tiny body shook heavily as grief and anger flooded through her. “It’s okay. It’s okay. No one’s going to hurt you.” The four of us huddled around her like human shields. We carefully helped her up and walked with her down the moonlit street.
","September 15, 2023 10:55","[[{'Timothy Rennels': 'An interesting story where the beast remains a mystery. I loved the phrase ""community of brokenness"". Write on!', 'time': '13:18 Sep 19, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0003,Write a story about a monster trying to become more human. Or about a human trying to become more monstrous.,3etu5b,Before The Sunrise ,S Cahill,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/3etu5b/,/short-story/3etu5b/,Thriller and Suspense,0,"['Drama', 'Fiction', 'Inspirational']",2 likes,"
	The great Alexei collapsed in a chair staring out at the black sea through the massive half-moon window of his manor. His face was gaunt, vacuum sealed, and his taloned hand supported his tragic head like the skeletal mount of a crystal ball. Far and low on the black horizon, a flicker of sun grayed parts of the eastern sky. He could feel his skin beginning to burn. His phone, that rested on the arm of his big chair, began to ring. He picked it up. 
 		“Yes?” He answered.
		“I have just spoken with Kartlov. He’s told me everything. Draw your curtains and do nothing else until I get there. I am coming up the lane now.”
           “Oh, what’s the point of it, Emily?” 
           “Do as I say, Alexei.”
	Alexei hung up the phone but made no move to close his curtains. There was now a faint glow in the sky and for the first time since death, he felt heat, like a thousand fire ants on his snowy skin. “Fuck!” he said. 
	He heard the front door blast open followed by the shrill sounds of a female locomotive. Mrs. Emily Felwood came whirling into the room, screeching at the sight of the open window. She swooped upon on its curtains like a fat and ancient hawk. She proceeded to cover up the blazing wires of sunlight that pierced through the small cracks in the walls. Alexei never looked up but instead remained a tragic statue in the center of the room. When she finished, she plopped herself into the wooden rocking chair across from him. 
           “You are lucky I don’t have breath to catch,” she said.  Any woman of her size and age should have been rosy cheeked and heaving, but Emily Felwood was a still, white bubble. “Now,” she said, “what is the meaning of all this nonsense?” 
           “It’s all a big nothing,” said Alexei through the palm of his hand.
           “How can you say that? There is so much to go on for.” 
           “Would you please come off it, Emily?” Alexei finally craned his vulture head to look at her. She jolted at the sight of him. 
           “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean,” she said. Alexei rolled his eyes. 
           “You’re telling me you’ve never thought about seeing the sunrise?” 
           “Well, sure, from century to century there are times where the taste of blood loses its boldness, but all you need is a new perspective. How old are you again? 
           “Two hundred eighty-nine…and seven months.” 
           “A young man! Yes, you just need a new perspective. I’m sure of it.” 
			“And what perspective might that be? We live in the bad half of life, Emily. There is nothing good about the night. There are no laughing children at night, no weddings, no honest happiness.”  Alexei sprawled himself in his big chair. “Oh, how I wish I had blood in my veins so that Prozac could run through them!” Emily Felwood let out an ornithological guffaw.
 Alexei regarded the old hen sourly. “Eternity makes strange bed fellows,” he said. 
           “Well, there’s no argument there, but we all agree that eternity would be a lot less bearable without you, Alexei.” She was silent for a moment and then said, “Do not be selfish.” 
           “What would you have me do?” 
           “I would have you get some rest. Sleep today, and then tonight, take a walk. It always does wonders. But I will have to insist that I stay with you through the day.” 
           Alexei grumbled. 
           Day passed into night.  Alexie and Emily stood at the front entrance, their silhouettes contrasting in the moonlight. Emily held Alexei’s spidery hands in her own doughy palms. 
           “Now,” she said, “take a walk and think about how your eternal absence will affect us all. I simply can’t go through today again.” 
           “I am sorry Emily.” 
           “I know you are, my dear. Please, enjoy this beautiful night and turn your ashes into rose petals.” She gave a lovely wink and kissed his hand and drifted low across the drive like a three-day old balloon. Her sprawling Rolls Royce ignited and hummed and then wound down the gothic drive out of sight. 
           Alexei let out a sigh and plunged his long arms into the deep pockets of his long coat and began to walk. The air was lazy with fog, and it held the scent of wet concrete. The September chill brought with it the promise of dying things.  Alexei reached the end of his drive and turned and walked down the street. He looked into houses as he passed. He could see lobotomized faces glowing blue with television light, some eating take-out, others lying corpselike beside empty bottles of liquor. Alexei shook his head and muttered to himself. He walked through the parkway where childless swings swayed, then over a bridge that he longed to jump from. 
		His dread had a physical weight to it. Everything was the same; everything was pointless. Even the most trivial task was like a great trial to him, and no one could understand. As he walked, he became convinced that he would watch the sunrise. He would ignite and revel in the nostalgic heat, free himself from the numbness. This determination made him feel more at ease and he continued to walk.  It seemed his feet knew more than his mind where he was heading. At the end of the street, he noticed a quaint nursing home, nestled and neighborly among the houses. He decided he would enjoy one last drink before morning. 
		Alexei crossed to the building and walked up the stairs. He stood a moment at the entrance. Through the glass doors he could see a small woman sitting at the front desk. He lifted a sharp finger and pecked on the glass. The little woman squinted up at him from behind her horned-framed glasses. Her hand moved somewhere on her desk and then there was an ugly buzz. Alexei opened the door and went in. 
           “Good evening,” he said. 
           “How can I help you?” 
           “I’m looking for your blood bank.” 
           “I’m sorry?” She asked. Alexei rolled his eyes and waved his hand across her face. Her eyes went blank. 
           “Where is your blood bank?” 
           “Second Floor. Room 213A. In the hospice wing,” said the woman robotically. 
           Alexei made his way through the building like a shadow. The hallways were dim and beige, and the smell of chemicals and oxidized skin hung in his hooked nostrils. He could see room 213A at the end of the hall. He glided past an open door, and as he did, he heard a faint voice caked in sawdust. “Excuse me,” it said. Alexei didn’t think it was meant for him and kept walking. “You, in the black.” Alexei stopped. He turned and walked slowly back. He stood in the open doorway like a specter. 
           “Yes?” Alexei asked. 
           “Are you a priest?” The voice came from a fragile hump under the blankets. Alexei stared down at his black robe He thought for a moment.
           “Yes,” he said, “I am.”
           “Can you sit with me father?” 
           “I really must—” 
           “Please.” Whistled breath and arhythmic beeping filled the silence. Alexei signed and stepped in. He did not know why. 
           He sat down next to the bed.  Two eyes peered out at him from under the covers, set deep in an ancient face. Alexei thought about what a priest might say. 
           “Tell me your troubles, my son.” 
           “I don’t want to die.”
	 Alexei almost asked him why not. 
           “There are worse things than death.” 
           “I know it, and I’ve lived a good life and I am grateful.” The man closed his eyes and tears pressed out down his cheeks. “But I would do anything to live for just a little longer.”  
           “You will walk with god.” 
           “Well, father, I’m not I’ve ever believed that.” 
           “Oh?” 
           “I’ve always thought the promise of afterlife took away from, well, life.” 
           Alexei leaned forward in his chair. “Go on,” he said. The man’s lower jaw trembled as he forced the words out. 
           “It is the finality of life that gives it it’s richness, I think. If we think there is something better around the corner, we won’t fully appreciate the miracle of being here.” Alexei didn’t disagree. The man was quiet, his eyes reflective. “I served in the pacific, was a prisoner of war in Taiwan towards the end. They fed us beans and kelp. We were starved…” The man smiled. “My body looked about the same as it does now.”
	 Alexei couldn’t help a faint smile in return.
	The man continued. “Anyway, even though I was a man of science then, and still am now, I prayed to God to give me just one more day. If he did that, I told him I would be grateful. Well, I got years more of life and here I am still hoping for more.” The man stared longingly out the black window. “What I wouldn’t do to run up a hill with my daughter again or hold the next grandchild. Hell, even if they weren’t around, I suppose anything is better than a big dark nothing.”
           “I must ask,” said Alexei, “if you don’t believe in god and heaven, what need did you have for a priest?” 
           “I was hoping you could convince me otherwise.” The old man’s murky eyes stared up at the ceiling and he sighed. He raised his hand to wipe his tears. His arms were exploded pens on brown leather. “But” he said, “I know that this is all there is, and I suppose that even if a man had ten lifetimes it wouldn’t be enough.” He turned his wrinkled neck to look directly at Alexei. “You’re a young man.  Live everyday as if you’re gonna end up in this bed…because son, eventually you will. Everyone will.” There was silence, then the man asked, “have you seen the northern lights?” Alexei shook his head. “Have you ever slept in the jungle under a universe of stars?” 
           Alexei thought about his 300 years on earth. “No,” he said. 
           The man sighed. “I always told myself I would but never did. Never did a lot of things.” 
           For the first time Alexei wasn’t thinking about his own sadness. The man reached out and took Alexei’s hand. Alexei recoiled at first, but then let the man take it. He did not know why. When the man touched Alexei’s cold skin he said, “I must be burning up.”
	 The two men held hands in silence, one much older than the other, both young in the life of the world. They talked for hours, telling stories of the good times they had and the good times they had hoped to have. 
	The old man eventually drifted into sleep. Alexei sat for a while longer listening to his peaceful snores.  Alexei unlinked his fingers and left the room. He walked down the hall to the blood bank. He opened the door and went in. He ripped open a bag of AB negative and drank deep. There was a beautiful warmth, cascading vitalization, and bloody tears of joy. Blood regained his flavor. 
	 He made his way toward the exit, but then stopped. He took one last look into the sleeping man’s room and bowed. He left the nursing home and walked out into a new night: he heard singing nightingales, saw lovers in the night, and basked in the beautiful glow of the blood moon. Alexei decided that the sunrise was too final.    
 
 
 
 
 
 
","September 11, 2023 20:47",[]
prompt_0003,Write a story about a monster trying to become more human. Or about a human trying to become more monstrous.,echc97,Monsters Eat Cakes?,Jay DeBurgh,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/echc97/,/short-story/echc97/,Thriller and Suspense,0,"['Adventure', 'Bedtime', 'Fantasy']",2 likes,"
This is a world like no other, brimming with mystery and teaming with danger. Filled with hundreds of islands stretching across vast seas to those who live according to their own rules. Seeking a life of freedom and advantage.This is a world of monsters, and some eat cakes. Not Sweeney Todd style cakes, but fluffy cakes decorated with sprinkles. Unfortunately, not everyone lives.Mrs Otter had been half-elf and half-Otter after helping the king of Otters from under a fallen rock. As a gift, he had given her Otter shape-shifting and the ability to either be water elf or Otter at will.Shape-shifting Otters moved around elf towns during the annual Heritage Day Festival to see the loud plays of the Red Dragon banished to the human world with flame red hair and gaunt pale skin.The elves laughed at the former dragon king Qenya in his human form as he looked strange in the quiet English village selling pumpkins at Halloween, wearing orange and black long socks and a green elf costume. Especially when the elf Queen had erased his memories of the elves.During the Red Dragon war, Mrs Otter's family was bombed into hissing mounds of burned flesh in the water elf home world of Tanea. This memory haunted Mrs Otter in her nocturnal nightmares.Her favourite happy memories were with her sweet family: Splashing near the new dam they made together as a family that morning, Mrs Otter chirped her joy at her playful children.Cute, shiny paws chase a pebble and roll it around each other's noses for fun. While Mr Edward Otter flapped his tail to splash them all while adjusting his red-check bowtie.""Ha ha Bernice, your chirp is so infectious I will smile for a month."" Called Mr Otter.A fish came to see what all the fuss was about, and was caught for dinner. Shredding its flesh into thin, tasty strands, so that her children can gobble up while grinning and wavy their paws.""What a game of pebble that was mumma. You find the smoothest pebbles, you’re the best."" Beamed little Herbert Otter.Chuckling, Mrs Otter laughed at the fading last bright memory, before relinquishing her elf-half, along with those precious memories of her family, to the elf Queen's Blue Stone Magnifier to keep safe.Mrs Otter's close friend was a head mistress at the water elf prestigious Elhellen School of Magic. She had agreed to remove the essence of the magic elf from Mrs Otter, so that she could be a full Otter monster and leave her sad elf memories behind of her burned family. The elf Queen had offered to help, as Mrs Otter had suffered so much.Strictly speaking, Otters are not seen as monsters unless they scare humans or grow larger than black bears with their sharp fangs. However, once Mrs Otter relinquishes her elf-half essence, her unfettered shape-shifting abilities would lead her to develop into the size of a large tree. Mrs Otter still preferred to wear fine clothes once a year to attend the elf festivals and enjoy the cake shops selling pretty little cakes. Thanks to her shape-shifting, she would shrink to the size of a human, so as not to scare the elf villagers while enjoying their cakes.Looking at the neck of the customer and avoiding their gaze, she froze. Her stomach knotted, and the familiar feeling of wanting to hide in her room upstairs rooted her to the ground. Her warm tray of fragrant baked cakes had the customer lick their lips.""Julie lay out your gorgeous cakes, the line is out the door."" The oven timer beeped and called Julie Straphorn back into her haven.Releasing the knot in her stomach, Julie took hold of a glass of water and gulped down some to ease her dry throat. Clicking open the oven door, the sweet steam hugged her face, and her previously taut expression spread into a radiant smile. ""Let me look at you, my beauties. Oh yes, golden and warm, ready for icing in a jiffy."" Leaving them on the cooling shelf, Julie expertly slid in the next four trays of cakes. The smell of warm cakes grew the line of customers around the corner.""My Annie loves Julie's cakes. Though I know she's a bit of an odd one that straphorn. I have never seen her mutter a word to a customer. I once said good morning to her, and her hairline sprang a leak. Her sister took the tray of lush cakes from her and ushered her back into the kitchen. All a bit odd if you ask me.""""My older sister knew her at school, and Julie was like it then. The only time she spoke was to say what the ingredients were in one of her cakes. Then she stared at my sister’s neck, choked, and ran to the drinking tap for water. We avoided her after that, which she seemed to prefer.""""I know those straphorns like goat blood, but like to replace their blood-craving with baking, but she isn't hiding it that well, I can tell you."" Mrs. Samantha Goatgrass said, folding her arms and leaning towards Miss Dolly Goat, her cousin on her mother's side.""Well, at least her cakes are good, but once a year they attract these strange elves and otters. That Julie Straphorn can nod to those weirdos, but I expect she is weirder just like them and nothing like us nice grass eating goats.”""Talking of grass, Mrs. Goatgrass, the grassmongers have a special on grass cakes today, ten for a groat or fifty for a grass rock."" Daisy nudged her cousin's elbow as Julie Straphorn slowly shuffled into the shop with another batch of warm grass buns and blue cupcakes. Both the elves and the goats in the line breathed in the swirl of allure that tempted them closer.Julie's sister Bretta was confident of keeping this throng calm. “I have bagged ten grass cakes, so next customer please. Right behind this bag are ten blue cupcakes that sing when you bite into them, so keep your place in the queue so you can munch these beauties.”Those who had stepped out of the queue slid back to their place and licked their lips.The timer went off, and Julie's tense face and white knuckles released to return to her no-customers-allowed-neat-quiet kitchen bakery.Mrs Otter asked for her special order in a white cake box, with a blue fish emblem of her water elf and otter shape-shifting self on it. “Thank you Julie for your wonderful baking. I shall eat these in the park with some cold milk.” Mrs Otter knew Julie hated crowds, and their bakery was always packed with hungry customers.'Oh, we're now selling milk from Bertha's hog. Mabel had a litter of three hoglets, so there is loads of milk to spare,"" Bretta explained, holding up a covered white jug with blue muslin fabric stretched over it.""Yes, please, that would go with my annual treat Bretta. How much is that?"" Mrs Otter lifted her blue silk flap to reveal her woven grass bag, ready to pay.“That’s two groats please, as we have a special on today because of the festival.The water elves have kindly put a spell on the jug so it doesn't run out all day. So don't push, you can buy some for one groat a cup. Here’s my cup measure ready.” Beretta held up the white thin cup with the water elf blue Moon vine emblem on it which was one of Elhellen’s water elf Houses.“Oh that’s a bit posh Bretta you getting help from one of the royal houses near Elhellen.” Mrs Goatgrass nudged her cousin, who giggled.A water elf lifted her head to stand over both goat monsters and stare closer at how sharp their front claws were. The water elf scrunched up her face and rolled her eyes as she stepped back in line.Mrs Otter nodded to Julie and Bretta and flapped her tail from her blue, well-made dress to hold her cake box. With two small brown hands, she held the lush yellow milk and sipped it as she moved towards the bakery exit. Mrs Otter's webbed feet feet made a flip-flap sound on the dark blue tiled bakery floor, causing a low echo which made the two goat monsters giggle.Sighing with joy at the moment, when she would bite the fish sponge, drizzled with sticky blue icing. Mrs Otter moved towards the nearby park. Sitting on the dirty wooden park bench, Mrs Otter licked each paw after each mouthful until the box and cup had no crumb or dreg.“Excuse me,” a tiny voice in her ear surprised Mrs Otter, causing her to flap her tail on the path in surprise.""Who's there?"" Mrs Otter could hear wings, but could not see anyone.""Look ahead, I'm right in front of you. I am an earth elf and need to know how to bake cakes, so that I can help free my sister from the bedroom of the water elf Queen.""Mrs Otter then noticed the hovering clump of moss with eyes. ""Hello to you,"" Mrs Otter smiled.“Can you help me?” The earth elf said in a high voice near Mrs Otter’s face.“I know a baker who doesn't like crowds who will think about helping you. Tell her what to make, and she will make it for you.”“We earth elves love water elf sponge cupcakes, can she make them? My sister hasn't been fed since Queen Elvina left to go to Elhellen in September last year. The family has forgotten to feed her, so I have to get there quickly before she fades to soil.""“What’s this little morsel of otter? Are you waiting for me as a snack?”Mrs Otter knew the elf village was dangerous, but to be thought of as lunch was far beyond what she expected. So Mrs Otter changed her shape to show her whole pelt, so that the dress wouldn't be ripped.""Taking off the wrapper, how thoughtful.” the hammerhead monster sneered, shaking the sea from his wide nose.“Didn’t your mother teach you any manners?” Mrs Otter returned to her full size and looked down at the hammerhead: ""Time to send you back to your mother to learn some manners."" Lifting her tail and sliding it behind her, Mrs Otter flung her tail at the hammerhead, who pinged off towards the sun with a very long yell.""That's one way to deal with the rudeness of the hammerhead,"" the earth elf smirked.""It's a nuisance if Hammerheads don't even try to be less monster and use their manners,"" Mrs Otter sighed, returned to her human-sized Otter self and changed her full pelt for the thin gleaming blue dress.“Where to next and what’s your name?” Mrs Otter asked, returning to the park bench to rest.“My mother named me clot when I was a baby, because my hair looked like a clot of grass sticking straight up. We are going to your baker friend, right?”“Right, but it will be tomorrow, as I need to sleep now.”“Good idea, I can give you an invisible moss bed to sleep on if you don’t mind sharing?” Clod smiled and sneezed.""I like to sleep near flowers when they sing at night, it's the perfect lullaby to me,"" Mrs Otter smiled yawning.Clot's moss bed was on top of the park bench, so Mrs Otter shrank to half a human size to fit on to the little moss bed, but her tail still flopped over the edge.""Hang on a minute, I'll just expand it for you,"" Clot said yawning.As the sun whispers farewell and she chases the next day, evening quietens to night and a little round circle of light grew. Perfect for the flowers to showcase their night singing talents. Earth elves appeared and gathered in a crescent to hear the twilight choir. A soft sound carried in on the dead of night, whispering to their minds while caressing their ears. Harmony of such soothing magic that every earth elf was quiet in slumber when the glistening orb of night was at its highest.The choir of flowers closed their petals to rest, after receiving slumber as an ovation. The park was almost quiet, except for the soft wind carrying the last murmur away.
","September 12, 2023 12:26",[]
prompt_0003,Write a story about a monster trying to become more human. Or about a human trying to become more monstrous.,tr36co,The Shrouded One,Yeisha Lee,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/tr36co/,/short-story/tr36co/,Thriller and Suspense,0,"['Coming of Age', 'Fantasy', 'Friendship']",1 like,"
In the heart of a dense, ancient forest, there lay a village that had thrived for generations. Nestled among towering trees, it was a place where life flowed like the tranquil river that wound through its heart. The villagers lived in harmony with nature, their days filled with laughter, hard work, and the bonds of family and community.
 
But amidst this idyllic setting, a cloud of fear hung heavy in the air, casting a shadow on their peaceful existence. For beyond the boundaries of the village, in the heart of the forest, there lived a creature that was unlike any other. It was known simply as ""The Shrouded One.""
 
The villagers' stories about The Shrouded One were filled with dread. They spoke of its eerie howls that echoed through the woods at night and the unsettling rustling of leaves that signaled its approach. No one had ever seen it up close and lived to tell the tale, for those who crossed its path disappeared without a trace.
 
Long before The Shrouded One became the creature that haunted the forest, it had been something quite different. In a distant time, when the forest was yet young, The Shrouded One had been a human. His name had been Roderick, a solitary scholar who roamed the woods in search of ancient knowledge.
 
Roderick had been renowned for his insatiable curiosity and his thirst for understanding the secrets of the natural world. He was respected by the villagers, who often sought his wisdom in matters of medicine, astronomy, and folklore. Yet, despite his intellect and his contributions to the community, Roderick had always felt like an outsider.
 
He spent long hours in his cabin, poring over ancient manuscripts and conducting experiments that were deemed too peculiar by his fellow villagers. His isolation grew, and he became consumed by his quest for knowledge, neglecting the bonds he had with the people who cared about him.
 
One fateful night, during an ill-fated experiment, Roderick's obsession with the arcane led to a catastrophic event. An explosion of magical energy enveloped him, forever changing his form and transforming him into The Shrouded One, the monstrous creature that would become the stuff of legends.
 
Tormented by his new appearance and the fear it inspired in others, The Shrouded One withdrew deeper into the forest, forsaking his former identity. But despite the physical transformation, the human heart within still beat, and the memories of his once-vibrant life haunted him.
 
One evening, as the sun dipped below the horizon and the first stars twinkled in the sky, The Shrouded One decided to take a bold step towards its dream. It ventured closer to the village, concealing itself among the dense foliage, and watched as the villagers gathered around a campfire. They were roasting marshmallows, telling stories, and laughing together. The warmth of their camaraderie was a stark contrast to the solitude The Shrouded One had known for so long.
 
Gathering its courage, The Shrouded One approached the campfire, albeit cautiously. It tried to mimic the villagers' laughter, but the sound that emerged from its throat was a guttural, eerie imitation. The villagers fell silent, their faces etched with fear, as they turned to see the source of the unsettling noise.
 
Standing before them, The Shrouded One felt exposed and vulnerable. It lowered its head, trying to convey submission.
 
With a voice that trembled with uncertainty, it spoke, ""I mean no harm. I only wish to rediscover the world I once knew.""
 
The villagers exchanged wary glances, unsure of whether to trust this monstrous being that had haunted their nightmares for generations. But the sincerity in The Shrouded One's eyes began to melt their apprehension, and they cautiously invited it to join them by the fire.
 
As the night unfolded, The Shrouded One learned the ways of the humans. It discovered the pleasure of roasted marshmallows, the warmth of friendship, and the joy of shared stories. The villagers, in turn, realized that beneath the monstrous exterior, there was a being with feelings, desires, and a longing for connection.
 
Days turned into weeks, and The Shrouded One became a regular presence in the village. It helped with chores, gathered firewood, and protected the villagers from the dangers of the forest. In return, the villagers taught it about their customs, their history, and their language. The once-feared creature was now considered a friend and protector.
 
As The Shrouded One grew closer to the villagers, it couldn't help but reflect on the complexities of humanity. It observed the range of emotions and behaviors, from kindness and empathy to jealousy and cruelty, and it began to question the path it had chosen. These observations weighed heavily on The Shrouded One's mind as it continued its journey of self-discovery.
 
One evening, seated by the campfire with the villagers, The Shrouded One's contemplation reached a critical juncture. It had seen the darkness within human hearts, the greed, and the cruelty that often overshadowed their capacity for kindness.
 
It wondered aloud, ""Is the life of a monster truly worse than the depravity I've witnessed among humans?""
 
The villagers exchanged somber glances, realizing that The Shrouded One's journey was taking an unexpected turn. They understood that perhaps, the creature was discovering a profound truth about the flawed nature of humanity.
 
One villager, an elderly woman named Eliza, spoke up, her voice filled with understanding, ""My dear friend, every path has its trials and tribulations. Perhaps the key to your happiness lies not in becoming more human but in finding a way to reconcile the beauty and darkness within yourself.""
 
The Shrouded One contemplated Eliza's words deeply, realizing that there was no perfect existence, whether human or monstrous. It understood that its quest for humanity was not about erasing its monstrous nature but about coming to terms with the imperfections of both worlds and finding a path that allowed it to be at peace with its true self.
 
In the end, The Shrouded One had become something more than human – it had become a mirror to the villagers, reflecting the light and darkness that dwelled within them. As it continued to observe and learn, it grew increasingly aware of the profound complexities of human nature.
 
But as time passed, The Shrouded One's reflections led it to a haunting realization – the world of humanity was a place filled with both beauty and darkness, and the latter often overshadowed the former. The creature had seen the worst of humanity, the cruelty and selfishness that stained the human spirit.
 
Overwhelmed by the weight of this knowledge, The Shrouded One retreated deeper into the forest, seeking solace in the solitude it had once known. It was no longer drawn to the warmth of the village or the company of humans. Instead, it chose to embrace its true nature as a solitary being, far removed from the complexities of human existence.
 
In the depths of the ancient forest, The Shrouded One found a measure of peace, far from the flaws and imperfections it had come to associate with humanity. It had learned that sometimes, the darkness within oneself and the world could be too great to bear. And in that realization, it had made the difficult choice to walk a solitary path, away from the tumultuous world of humans.
 
The villagers, though saddened by its departure, understood The Shrouded One's decision. They continued to share stories of the enigmatic creature that had once been a part of their lives, a reminder of the profound lessons it had taught them about the complexities of the human heart.
 
And so, The Shrouded One disappeared into the depths of the forest, a solitary figure among the ancient trees, a reminder that sometimes, the pursuit of one's own truth and peace may lead to a path less traveled, away from the world's expectations and complexities. In its solitude, The Shrouded One found a sense of clarity and acceptance, away from the light and darkness of human existence, content in its own enigmatic solitude.
","September 14, 2023 20:35",[]
prompt_0003,Write a story about a monster trying to become more human. Or about a human trying to become more monstrous.,iu3prx,To Be Human,Thunderbolt 69,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/iu3prx/,/short-story/iu3prx/,Thriller and Suspense,0,"['Thriller', 'Adventure', 'Fantasy']",1 like,"
To Be HumanThe undeniable succulent taste of human flesh is to die for. Eating human flesh is what we NakMakians survive on. NakMakians are monsters that hunt the human race. Due to the rise of NakMakians eating humans, they have found a way to fight back against them to prevent them from taking over. They created an organization called K.T.N, short for Kill The NakMakians. They posed a significant threat to us, so we hid and eat when necessary. But being pushed into a corner, we, NakMakians, have developed the skill of camouflage. We can disguise ourselves as humans to make it easier to eat them. With this new skill, K.T.N created a device when NakMakians walk through it, an alarm will go off, letting everyone know they are not human. Sadly, there is no way we can get around it. They put the device on almost every door of every building. The humans are always one step ahead.Us NakMakians can eat other foods, but it doesn't provide the nutrients for us to live. I enjoy eating humans; my favorite parts of humans to eat are the thighs, especially when they are muscular; the tougher, the better for me. The lungs are always so tender, especially the young ones. It is always a breath of fresh air when I eat them. And lastly, the tongue. It's always a mouthful to eat, but I enjoy every bite. And after I finish with the flesh and organs, I go to the bones as a dessert; sucking on the marrow of the ribs is the best part. Just thinking of it has me salivating. But the more I eat, the lonelier I become. I wish I could share my love of humans with someone. Unfortunately, we NakMakians are solo-hunting monsters. Once we're born, we stay with our mother for one year, and then she will leave in the middle of the night and never return. The fathers mate and leave. We never experience love like humans. Our race are loners.For some reason, every day, I watch the humans interact with one another. They are happily talking, playing, and eating with each other. They don't seem lonely at all. They have families, something I will never experience. Those children have both parents in their lives. They can go to them with any problems they have. I can only rely on myself. Most humans have a dog or a cat, a trusty companion they can depend on, while animals fear us no matter what form we take. Humans can drive and enjoy the different beautiful scenery of the world while we mostly come out at night to eat and then go back into hiding. Is this the life I will live for the rest of my life? It is hard to explain, but strangely, I find myself lusting to be human…It is unheard-of for NakMakians to want to be around other living beings, humans or NakMakians. So, I ask myself why do I want to become human. I'm not supposed to feel lonely, but I am. I'm not supposed to want friends, but I do. I want to become human so that I can have friends. To have someone to talk to. Observing these humans interact with one another makes me not want to be lonely. To be human, I have to stop eating them. I can't live alongside them if I am eating what I want to become. From this day on, I will never eat another human again.When it was night, I looked into a car window and saw a black, fuzzy, four-armed, sharp-toothed, crimson-eyed monster. It was me, ""I am a monster."" A monster that has been eating humans for my whole life. A monster that will go against everything my existence stands for. There is no way I can live alongside humans looking like this. I will become human. This will be the last time I ever see myself like this again, and honestly, I won't miss this horrid form. I abide my NakMakian life farewell. Using my recollection, I've obtained by observing the human I began morphing into a human. My four fuzzy arms retracted into my body, and two slim brown arms emerged. The fur started to fall off as my teeth straightened and my eyes turned blue. I grew long black hair and breasts as my face smoothed out. The transformation was complete. It was painful but worth it. I looked in the window again and saw a beautiful woman. I was finally human.Over the next couple of days, I practiced the human language and gestures the best way I could. I would go to parks and sit there, learning to act like a proper human. I learned from everyone, but I had to pay more attention to the females since I am one. Females are so beautiful and exciting; they have so many personalities, but the personality I like the most is the strong-willed ones. I want to become just like them. Watching the humans was enjoyable, but with each passing day, my body was diminishing. Without eating, I was getting no nutrients. I didn't have the urge to devour the countless humans I was always surrounded by. My devotion to being one of them overrode my hunger. The more l learned, the faster I was approaching death. Perhaps this is what it means to be human. The NakMakian race has a long life span double the amount of humans. A human life is fragile and short, with many wonderful memories you can look back on. But I might die before I can make a friend or have my first conversation with a human. I don't want that to happen. I don't know how much longer I have, but I will make a friend before I perish.Two days have passed, and my body was shutting down. My vision was failing; I was fatigued and in constant pain. Whenever I tried talking to someone, they ignored or pushed me aside. I looked frail, and they didn't want any part of me. This devastated me. I'm going to die without ever having a conversation. As I stumbled through the busy town, I had many thoughts going through my brain. ""It is okay to die like this? Should I go back on what I was standing for and, eat one human, and start over? Should I forget being a human?"" When I had that last thought going through my mind, I saw this little boy helping this older woman across the street. That is what life is about—helping each other and getting along. I haven't made a mistake. I will die never eating a human again. I've decided to go into a building, a shopping mall. I know the alarm will go off, and the K.T.N. will come and kill me, but that is what I want. To be killed by another human is justice.I slowly began to head to the mall; it wasn't too far from where I was. On my way to the mall, tears started going down my face. I don't want to die. I will miss watching the humans at the park and seeing them run with their dogs. I will never see happy children playing again, but to die is what it means to be human. To be able to look back on those memories is what it means to be human. Before I knew it, I was in front of the door. I could turn around, but I won't. The people I have eaten didn't have a choice; I won't give myself a choice. I took one step, and the automatic door opened. I closed my eyes and walked through the door. I have no regrets.………The alarm didn't go off. How could this be? While I stood in shock, a beautiful woman approached me.""Are you okay? You look weak; let me buy you something to eat.""I have become a human.The end.
","September 15, 2023 01:24",[]
prompt_0003,Write a story about a monster trying to become more human. Or about a human trying to become more monstrous.,xkahua,The Experimenter,June Godkin,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/xkahua/,/short-story/xkahua/,Thriller and Suspense,0,['Horror'],1 like,"
   I say I love people. But it’s a lie. I don’t love them because I don’t understand the word ‘love’. It has no meaning for me. People fascinate me. That would be more correct. Their emotions, the things that colour their everyday lives, like love, hate, fear, anger, and many other feelings; these are a mystery to me. I have learned to read the signs of these emotions, but not to understand them.
     I can see by the widening of your eyes, the sweat on your skin, that you are afraid. 
    But I can’t understand how you feel. Instead, your reaction provokes a kind of curiosity in me, but there is nothing inside me that can mirror the fear I know you must be experiencing. I feel no pity for your situation, and I regard the journey we’re going to embark on as a purely scientific experiment, one designed to help me gain the tools to understand the world I live in.
    Let me explain. Though your acceptance is of no personal value, I believe it will add some credibility to the outcome for me. I have struggled in vain, my whole life, to understand the world I live in. Watched from the shadows of my own darkness, uncomprehending, as my very existence, fragmented and fractured seems to have been painted with a different brush to the rest of humanity.
    Initially, I was unsure if the world even existed, supposing that it was a was a figment of my own imagination. As a youth, I read Descartes, and his insight ‘I think, therefore I am’, seemed infinitely logical to me. But what about the rest of the world, the world I apparently inhabited?
    Was it real, or a mad dream of my own making, or even a program fed into my febrile brain by some agency outside my understanding? Ultimately it seemed that the complexity of that world was beyond my ability to create or comprehend; the fact that the world contained things I did not understand nor could experience, suggested that it must exist outside myself.
    To survive, I needed to explore that spark, that animus that makes a human being human.  Something I could only conclude was missing within me, a deficiency that left me an alien in society. I tried initially to mimic the feelings of others, but love cannot exist in gesture alone, and my cardboard imitations proved disastrously ineffective. Nor was it easy to express anger appropriately, or even effectively. I finally gave up the struggle to reproduce the emotions I lacked. Instead, I would study them, understand them from a scientific perspective. Use my knowledge to manipulate factors in my life so it became might more meaningful.
    From my reading, it seemed that some of the strongest human emotions are felt in relation to death. The fear of losing of those important to us, or the cessation of our own existence.
    Ah, I see your eyes widen again. Perhaps you now have a little understanding where this experiment is going. Our separate journeys have will soon have become one. 
    Some of the world’s best poetry centres on the grief accompanying death. Not able to share that grief, I decided to use the imminence of death as a tool for understanding, and maybe, the experiencing of emotion. ‘Do not go gentle into that good night. Rage, rage against the dying of the light’. Such promise, such beauty in the words of Dylan Thomas, but no stirrings in my blank heart. 
    So, you see, I had to look elsewhere. Perhaps the reality of death, the last moments of the spirit, perhaps this would break the dam wall and allow me to feel. 
    Do I want you to care? Could you ever understand how the pain of emptiness is so great. I am a hollow vessel waiting to be filled. A lone comet seeking the comfort of a warm sun.
    I have never experienced joy, or love or happiness. Just the lonely world of the outsider, the whispered taunts, the cruelty of the unthinking, uncaring world. The vacuum of aloneness that has followed me all my life.
    You, my lovely subject, might be the catalyst who can unleash my humanity. Do not fear. I am not cruel. At least, I try not to be. But what is ‘cruel’?
    I worked for a while, in a hospice. To try and understand the difference between life, and non-life. Was I no different from the non-life, as I could not feel? I watched people die. I watched the light go out of their eyes; their muscles relax. And felt nothing. I washed their abandoned bodies, without emotion, and observed the sorrow of relatives. Their tears showed me they felt grief. But I felt no compassion for them, and none for the newly departed. Only hopeless alienation, a sense that death and mourning had importance that I could not understand.  
    How does it feel to die? No one has ever returned to tell me. Would I feel something, faced with death? Or causing another’s death?
    So, you see, you are the most important thing in my life, right now. I know you can’t answer. But, please, don’t struggle. I hope the bonds are not hurting you. I have tried to be considerate, and chose soft silk to bind you to the chair. I promise your death will be without pain. The mask that prevents you talking will cut off your oxygen shortly. When you no longer have a pulse, I will revive you. We will share your experience of death. If I experience grief, or joy or any emotion, I will release you, my unwilling subject. If I experience nothing, then your death will be nothing to me, and I will turn off the oxygen once more. Perhaps the fault may even lie within you. Another attempt would then be required to ensure the validity of this experiment. So, for now, I will wipe away your tears, which offend me. Farewell, and with luck, we will meet again.
 
 
 
","September 15, 2023 09:18",[]
prompt_0003,Write a story about a monster trying to become more human. Or about a human trying to become more monstrous.,ppujf1,Goolop Gets a Job,David Willett,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/ppujf1/,/short-story/ppujf1/,Thriller and Suspense,0,"['Funny', 'Fantasy', 'Speculative']",0 likes,"
Does anyone shortlist a fuzzy-faced terror beast when sifting through applicants? Goolop certainly had respectable underworld experience to be considered for any jobs in his search. However, something on his CV would likely hold him back. So he briskly hammered the backspace key and typed out his new alias, Steve.                ‘Ready to submit,’ said Goolop to no one in particular. His gruff voice ricocheted off the softly lit studio apartment walls. Most dwellings in the city’s Monster Quarter were unusually small, given the varying sizes of most of their inhabitants. Goolop’s home was no exception. In fact, he felt it was far smaller than most other apartments in the area.               Flicking through endless browser tabs, he attached the completed CV and smirked at being prompted to prove he was a human before each submission. Steve was, after all, a human name. Therefore, it didn’t feel like a total lie to Goolop. He would find a way to pass as a human if he landed an interview.                In all the excitement of submitting Steve’s application, Goolop had not noticed his phone vibrating itself onto the floor. The unexpected thump caused his terror beast threat response to kick in. So, he rubbed his hands along the ribbed spikes protruding from his forearm before checking who had been trying to contact him so desperately.                Goolop, pub now. The simple demand from his friend Gregthor was not unexpected. He always wanted to go to the pub. Goolop could not really judge because he rarely declined the invite.                               The Behemoth Arms pub was an unassuming establishment. Given its proximity to the human public, it was a bar that remained just out of sight. Nestled between two buildings that would have been condemned had there not been a need to convert them to monster housing. That did not stop Goolop and Gregthor from meeting there most days to debrief about the injustices of life. As always, they hunched over two freshly poured drinks, enjoying the slither of summer sun hitting the hodgepodge of outdoor seating.                 ‘Goolop, you gotta be joking.’ Gregthor said as he slammed down what was likely to be the first of many amber ales. ‘A software developer? Humans aren’t giving jobs like that to us. Just apply for an out-of-sight job like the rest of us.’                ‘I have to try,’ Goolop replied. ‘The dimensional spill happened almost six years ago. We aren’t going anywhere, and we can do more than just sort through garbage or pack Amazon orders.’                Gregthor released a blast of air from his lime-coloured snout that blew the peanuts off the table next to them. If he were a human, it would have been called a sigh. Nothing that trample-snout demons ever did could be accused of being subtle, which made them stand out even more than most monsters stranded in the human world. Their rainbow-coloured skin made them stand out everywhere. With snouts the size of a newborn human baby, anything that came out of them would stop traffic, probably because it would blow the traffic off the road.                ‘You know I am right, Gregthor.’ Goolop said, lowering his tone an octave to keep their conversation hidden from the tackle beast bartender, who had just arrived with a second round of drinks. ‘It is time one of us made a stand. I was a great software engineer in our dimension and can be again. Humans need to recognise that we can be of value to society.’               ‘What bleeding software engineering company will want to interview a monster named Goolop with blue hair all over his face.’                Goolop did not see any reason to mention that all the companies he applied to thought they were reading Steve’s CV. He knew his blue hairy face was nothing a razor and a bit of fake tan couldn’t fix. Goolop was determined to get his hoof in the door. If anyone figured out what he was, they would already be so enamoured with his high-quality work and sparkling personality that they wouldn’t care. He could already see his furry mug all over TV and the internet as the world started to change its mind about the new arrivals.                Gregthor stared down at his friend, which he did with everyone, given that he towered over most living creatures, even when sitting. Goolop did know what to say, so he continued to nurse his drink and wriggled in his seat so the escaping afternoon sunlight remained on his face. Gregthor’s lack of support sent a deflating pang through his ego. Although he understood it, no monster had successfully gained any equality.                Humans had been terrified of them since an interdimensional rift tore through spacetime and spewed thousands of monsters from the underworld into the human world. The lack of uniformity in their grotesque appearances caused an instant distrust. Only by human standards did they appear so disgusting. They may look like monsters, but they were peaceful people—most of them vegans.                ‘You know your boy Gregthor will always meet you at Berther’s for a beer.’ Gregthor said in a tone that suggested an olive branch was being extended. ‘Remember that if you become a big shot in the human world.’                The clink of their colliding glasses was made more satisfying by the swig of beer that followed it. Gregthor had always been such a loyal friend. Goolop was glad they got sucked into the rift together.                They shared round after round until the afternoon light had been replaced by the cool chill of the evening. The types of debates that only happen over a long afternoon at the pub raged on between the two friends. Who might be president in the underworld right now, and why weren’t humans more open about the fact they were all clearly bisexual?                It was nearing time for Goolop to bid his friend farewell when he became distracted by something on his phone. An opportunity that Gregthor took to order another round. Goolop didn’t care; the message he was about to read was infinitely more important. It was also likely worth another drink. He fumbled his sausage-like fingers through the phone's interface, desperate to read the full message behind the preview on his lock screen.                ‘Goolop.’ Nothing. So Gregthor used his trademark roar. ‘Goolop.’                The whole bar was now looking at them. Even a few monsters had run to their apartment windows to see what the noise was. Most looked disappointed to see it was just a trample-snout being a trample-snout.                ‘You’re not going to believe this.’ Goolop said, eyes glued to his phone screen.                ‘What, what is it?’               ‘I think I got a job interview.’                ‘Bloody hell.’ That was all Gregthor could say.                A week later, Goolop found himself avoiding eye contact with the receptionist for his would-be employer. Feeling a wave of panic through his body anytime she glanced in his direction. Hoping she didn’t notice just how caked on his fake tan was or how plump his razor burns were. Thankfully, the suit he found in a second-hand clothing bin was the perfect fit. Goolop was at least blessed with the average height and physique of a human named Steve.               A constant stream of people flowed in and out of the glass panels on either side of the half-moon-shaped reception desk. Beyond them looked like a land of fun and adventure. It almost resembled the software company Goolop worked for in the underworld. However, humans had more ping pong tables and fewer scolding hot lava pools for employee relaxation.                ‘So sorry, Steve,’ Cheryl said in her perky tone that Goolop found condescending. ‘Mister Tucker will be right with you. He is just finishing up a meeting that ran over a bit.’ The way her overapplied lipstick accentuated her smile terrified Goolop for some reason. Some humans could be as intimidating as the inhabitants of the underworld.                 He nodded back at her in acknowledgement, afraid he would sound more like a Goolop than a Steve any time he spoke. Although he knew he should get used to speaking in Steve’s voice if he got the job.                ‘Whoop, he is ready for you now, Steve. Go right on through.’                If Goolop had an office like this, he would never go home. It felt like stepping into a video game arcade for kids. Which was not that unusual given that Mister Tucker looked like he was still in high school. He also took comfort that wearing shorts to work appeared to be acceptable.                They exchanged the usual pleasantries about whether Goolop had trouble finding the office and how warm it was outside. Mister Tucker poured over a copy of Goolop’s CV on his tablet computer and asked what he did and did not know about the company Interactive Fresh. They even shared a light joke or two. All in all, it started well.                The technical questions came next, and Goolop breezed through them. Programming languages may have different names in the human world. But he had already researched them and could relate them to their underworld equivalents. He even shared an insightful response as to his thoughts on declarative vs. imperative paradigms such as functional and object-oriented programming.               ‘You’ve done it all, Steve.’ Tucker said, oozing confidence with every syllable. He flashed a smile, exposing a mouthful of symmetrically white human fangs. Suddenly, the desk was no longer separating them. Tucker was right inside Goolop’s personal zone, leaning casually, the disarming grin still present.                ‘I could be a huge asset to your team here at Interactive Fresh Mister Tucker.’ Goolop said, no longer having to try to sound like Steve. He was Steve, and he was going to get this job.                ‘One thing though, Steve.’                Goolop could feel the spikes in his arms trying to escape.                ‘You have done it all. Yet, you have not worked anywhere in over six years. I also couldn’t find any of the companies you listed as your previous employers.’                Shit, Goolop thought to himself. Shit, shit, shit.                ‘It is almost like you stopped working when all those freaks arrived downtown.’                The unplanned question triggered the reaction that Goolop hoped to avoid. He saw shreds of fabric from his shirt flying at Mister Tucker’s face like mini-plaid missiles. His ruse was over, and he could not control what would happen next.               ‘You have got to be fucking joking.’ Tucker exclaimed, barely able to hide the disgust on his face. ‘How did you even get into this part of town? Get the hell out of my office.’                Goolop’s heart sank, but something else quickly took over. Something he had not felt for a long time. Saliva flooded his mouth, and heat swelled in his cheeks. He couldn’t take his eyes off Mister Tucker’s arrogant little head.                Tucker recognised his misstep and attempted to reestablish the distance between them. But it was too late. Something had awoken in Goolop that had been asleep for a long time.               The receptionist burst into the office to investigate all the ruckus. She looked at Goolop, hunched over what remained of her boss.               ‘This is exactly why you people can’t get jobs.’                             
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