Modern Monsters

Dracula's fingers tightened around The Wolfman's throat. His ancient nails dug into the skin just above the veins in The Wolfman's neck. Dracula could feel the blood in The Wolfman's veins pump faster as The Wolfman's heart began to speed up. Dracula wondered what it might be like to drink The Wolfman's blood, and for a moment he considered it.

"You know this is pointless," The Wolfman barked out through his razor sharp teeth and extended snout, "you can't choke me to death."

"Well," Dracula mused, "maybe not, but it would be fun to try."

Dracula loosened his grip on The Wolfman's throat, but continued, "And it's a big castle, Wolfy-baby, there's bound to be some priceless silver artifact or other that I wouldn't mind tarnishing in order to rid myself of you!"

Dracula chuckled as he let The Wolfman out of his grasp. As The Wolfman regained his composure, Dracula sauntered over to the bar, where Frankenstein was bent over a small pile of cocaine.

The Creature from the Black Lagoon stood there as well, wet and silent. He was obviously trying to squeeze out a fart.

Dracula patted the Creature on the shoulder and he heard the slimy, moist gas slither out of the Creature's insides. Dracula doubted that anyone else heard the fart, for the hounds of hell were being particularly rambunctious tonight.

"This is crazy," Frankenstein('s Monster) observed, as he stared down into his little hill of magic white dust, "the muscle memory, I mean. I mean, like, I've been alive for almost two hundred years in this state. You know, all patched together or whatever. But different parts of me still react differently to different substances, even though the one crazy brain is trying to drive this train."

Dracula raised his pointy eyebrows in curiosity.

"It's like this," The Monster continued, "I'm my own man, right? I make my own decisions based on my own experiences, which are pretty crazy, you know? But genetics play a big part in a person's predisposition to certain ailments, habits, addictions, whatever. And since every part of my body has already experienced a whole life already, I've got some pretty solid and mixed feelings about how to go about all of this, you know?! Like, I think my left leg was a morphine addict. And my arms, they don't work right. Like, I got the right arm of a left handed person and the left arm of a right handed person and the brain of someone who, for all his faults, was ambidextrous. And I'm pretty sure that my right arm belonged to a clergyman of some kind because it feels really wrong when I use it to..."

"Okay, we get it!" Dracula was really not in the mood to let the conversation go down that road.

"Right," Frankenstein looked at Dracula, "I'm just saying, when I do drugs, I really feel conflicted. I've got a lot of different pieces trying to give their input here."

"You're just high," The Wolfman had finally gotten to his feet, "that's how everyone feels."

The rest of the monsters turned to look at The Wolfman.

"Look, can we just calm down here, guys," The Wolfman held his paws out in front of him in a gesture of submission that looked odd coming from such a vicious beast, "Dracula, I'm sorry, okay?"

Dracula straightened up and stared at The Wolfman, waiting for him to continue.

"I didn't mean to delete Breaking Bad off the DVR. I thought we were all done with it. I should have checked with you first."

"Yeah," Dracula shrugged his shoulders and barred his fangs, "fat lot of good 'sorry' does me. Now how am I going to see the last 8 episodes? Netflix? Good luck! The wireless service in the Carpathian Mountains is abysmal!"

"Look Dracula," The Wolfman tried, but Dracula cut him off.

"No," Dracula said, and rolled his eyes, "it's fine. Whatever. I just, you know, I've got the immortality and everything, but I've got to suck blood in order to keep that going, you know? So both of those are huge saps on my good energy. So I try and do good things with all the money and stuff. Like letting you guys stay here..."

There was a general humble grumble from around the room.

"And the charity work and everything," Dracula sighed, "but, you know, sometimes I just want something for me. I just want to come home after a long century of fighting the fight and put my feet up and watch some Bryan Cranston."

Frankenstein looked up. One of his eyes was dilated, probably having never experienced cocaine before, the other seemed to be an old pro, "Hey, man," he quipped, "Why are you getting all pouty? You're f***ing Dracula!"

The Wolfman quickly took the cue, "Yeah, Dracula! Quit being a downer! If the big D can't even be happy, if you get your garlic in a bunch over a stupid show, then what are the rest of us supposed to do, you know? You're the king! If you ain't happy, then what chance do the rest of us have?"

"Yeah, I guess," Dracula still seemed mopey, "I just miss Mina, you know?"

"Dude," Frankenstein was now, indeed, high, "that was, like, a hundred years ago. You're still slouching around over that!?"

"Come on, Dracula!" Wolfman shouted, "let's get out of here and go raise hell like the old days. You know, the all or nothing days. The Monster Squad days! Let's go kill some people! Then on Monday I'll buy you the last 8 episodes, Frankenstein will go cold turkey, I'll get out and go running again. Come on, man. Monday. We'll do it on Monday. For now, let's be monsters."

"I just feel so old and I don't know what to do. How many ways can you kill a virgin, you know?" Dracula let The Wolfman usher him towards the window.

Just then, Nikola Tesla poked his head in the window, which gave everyone a jolt because Tesla is supposed to be dead.

"Hey, dudes," Tesla greeted them like a bolt of lightning, "I hope you're not thinking about going out and messing with the villagers, because that shit ain't cool anymore."

All of the monsters looked at the floor.

Tesla continued, "I know that it was kind of your thing, but you're just going to have to find something else to occupy your time. Do some yoga, read some non-fiction, eat a tomato. Any of you guys into science or positivity? Because that's what's in right now."

Dracula, still looking at the floor, mumbled, "Yeah, I'm just still kind of mad, you know?"

"Dude, I get it, I'm Tesla," everyone noticed that he did not say 'the ghost of Tesla'. "But no one thinks it's cool for you to go around freaking people out anymore. 'Kay?"

Dracula looked at The Wolfman and pointed at Tesla, "See?" he asked.

The Wolfman was at a loss.

"Geez," Tesla broke the silence, "it smells like Lagoon farts in here."

SB
5-30-14

Write a Story in Which You Are the Villain: Enjoy These Roses

Enjoy These Roses

The day that the rosebush fell in love with the mailbox across the road was warm and ordinary.

The wind came up with the sun and the petals of the newly opened roses moved slowly and silently as if to celebrate the bush's origin of feelings connected to a larger consciousness. The bush had never felt anything like this before. Up until now, it had only existed in a state of perpetual forward motion. The bush had always drawn life from the sky and the ground. It had always (for as long as it had existed) opened its flowers in the spring and shed the pedals by the end of the summer.

Other than that, the bush had not given much thought to its surroundings or the state of life (its own or otherwise) at all.

But now, quite suddenly and without any perceptible reason, the bush felt drawn with significant force to the mailbox across the road.

The feeling of love, as glorious as it is on its own, was even more mind-blowing (for, to feel love, we must possess a mind, if not a brain) to the rosebush. Almost immediately, the feeling of love also opened up several other new emotions and perceptions in the bush.

Because of the love that the rosebush now felt, it also began to feel longing, separation, and its very own sense of place in the world.

The bush could see that the mailbox was out of reach. There was a long, dusty road separating the two potential lovers. In fact, the rosebush quickly noticed that the mailbox was most likely not even on the same farm as the bush. The bush could tell that the country road was also a property division. It was an odd setting for very everyday occurrences.

There were two houses, almost directly across from each other, with farmland stretching out behind them. As far as the bush could tell from its position at the edge of the road and in front of the house on its side of the road, these were the only two structures built between the rosebush and the horizon.

The reality was that rosebush was on one plot of land, and the mailbox was fated to receive post for the residents on the other side of the road. This may not seem (to the mobile, conscious, free beings that we are) to be a considerable distance. But to the rosebush, stationary and inexperienced in the ways of love and travel, it seemed nothing short of insurmountable.

On the rosebush's side of the road (for the bush was now beginning to feel the sense of ownership that many times accompanies feelings of romantic love) there was a small ramshackle house, kept up to the best of the abilities of its resident. Beyond that, there was farmland that did not seem, to the rosebush's newfound sense of judgment, to be very fruitful. The land seemed good. The rosebush, who was fairly self-sufficient, had done just fine after all. There was some other trouble with the lack of productivity evident in the other crops of the rosebush's farm.

On the mailbox's side of the world, there was a similar house and farmland. The land and crops on the mailbox's side seemed greener, more lush, and ready for harvest, even at this early time in the spring.

The rosebush wondered what the mailbox was like. The bush wanted to know everything about this noble receptacle of American post! Where had it been made? Who had made it? How many different postmen had the mailbox known and what stories could it tell? Did it know the contents of the letters that it sheltered in the correspondence's travel from sender to receiver? This was indeed an exciting world...

Then there was a man.

The rosebush had certainly never noticed this man before the unexpected feeling of love had awakened it, but now that the bush saw (for love opens our eyes) the man, it understood why the farm on this side of the road had fallen into neglect.

This man was unconcerned with his own homestead. He carried a bottle in his worn and unwashed hands. He periodically lifted the bottle to his lips as he paced back and forth on his porch. He stared with longing, a longing that the bush was now becoming familiar with, at the house opposite his own.

The man was not unattractive or incapable, but the bush could feel his discontent. The man had allowed almost all in his life to fall into disrepair as he stared across the road.

Then the bush was even further distracted from its love as a young girl emerged from the other house, the house where the mailbox stood guard. The girl was young and pretty, full of life and energy that the rosebush had not witnessed before. She moved freely and glowed in an imperceptible way that made the rosebush experience another new emotion: envy.

The man perked up. He lowered his bottle and fixed his attention on the girl. The rosebush and the man watched intently as the girl trotted happily to the mailbox and yanked it open.

The rosebush's symbolic feeling of a heart leapt suddenly into its metaphorical throat to see such brutality inflicted on the object (for it was only an object) of the rosebush's affection.

The girl seemed excited at what she found in the mailbox and she returned to the shelter of her house even more quickly than she had come. As the rosebush turned its attention back to the man, it could feel an eruption bubbling to the surface of the man's ability of control.

Then, to the rosebush's horror, the man was striding forcefully in the rosebush's direction.

The man tossed his bottle to one side as he bent over the helpless bush and ripped it easily out of the soil. The bush felt pain as it had not in this lifetime, but more than that, the bush felt confusion. Why would this being destroy one of the last remaining pieces of evidence that proved that he was at all concerned with the world around him? Why was he willing to give up what he had (a beautiful rosebush that was thriving in soil that was his) for something else? For something intangible and very possibly unattainable? Where was this motivation coming from?

After the man yanked the bush from its home, he ripped it to shreds.

He tore several of the longest branches of the bush from its body, bloodying his hands has he did so. Then he tossed the tattered remains of the bush to one side and strode across the road as he arranged the flowers into a clumsy bouquet.

Then the bush (or, rather, the still conscious limbs of the bush) realized the end result of the man's misguided plan. The man intended to take what was his and (for all practical purposes) destroy it in the hopes of gaining affection from the object of his attention: the girl that dwelt across the road. And his means for doing this was, by some heavenly design, to bring together the rosebush and the object of its affection!

The man jerked the mailbox open and drunkenly stuffed the roses inside. He then shut the mailbox and the rosebush knew no more of him.

This was right. The rosebush now understood that this was supposed to have happened this way. For all the savagery, for all the confused feelings that had inspired this chain of events, for all of the violence that had been the means to this end, the end was correct. The man had no choice but to rip his world to shreds in order to deliver a thing of beauty to the world that existed outside of himself. He simply did not know any other way. True creation or change always means sacrifice, but what is that, in the end? What does it matter how the rosebush ends up in the mailbox, as long as it does?

Everything was as it should be for the tattered remains of the rosebush, contained blissfully inside the metal framework of the mailbox.

As for the fate of the man and the girl across the road, the rosebush cared not one bit.

SB
5/29/14

A Moment on the Beach

Sitting on the beach at midday. The water is too cold to swim and the buildings behind me tower above in a wall of intentionally overwhelming beauty.

The people that pass by don't say hello. They don't nod. They keep their minds on their own affairs, both for their own saftey and their ability to achieve whatever it is this day's activities demand of them.

If they were to wander too far into the landscape or the affairs of those around them,
it would be too much. All would be lost.

And here I sit, swyping every word, choosing carefully, trying to capture a moment that may otherwise be lost. Should I stay here and type? Should I concern myself with the task of recording a moment at the risk of missing one myself? Or should I put the phone away? Should I...

SB
5/27

The Breakup

Loretta led the way and I strolled silently behind her. In our years of marriage, the two of us had made this very same trip hundreds of times. She would walk confidently out in front, list in hand, the business of product acquisition firmly planted in her mind.

I would bring up the rear. My only real duty was not to bang the cart into her heals.

Occasionally, she would turn and ask me a question about what I preferred. She would raise her eyebrows while holding a loaf of bread or a certain kind of yogurt (which I would never have eaten on my own decision) and ask me my opinion.

My opinion was always the same. I didn’t care. I had long since made up my mind which type of bread I would not eat (very few) and which type of yogurt I would stomach to avoid conflict (all of them). More times than not I would shrug my shoulders and say something to the effect of, “Whatever you think is best, dear.”

This would usually satisfy her and she would put her choice, the choice she would have made anyway, into the cart. Then she would continue. Her concern for my opinion was, at this point, merely a formality.

If I had spoken up and suggested something that she didn’t approve of or some out-of-the-blue option (that maybe I actually wanted to try) it would have just ended poorly for me. I would have had to deal with an afternoon of bad vibrations and belittlement over other matters.

So I stayed quiet. I did my part. I pushed the cart and agreed with her and I did not bang the cart into her heels.

I would occupy myself with other things. Today I was actively looking at the items on the shelves. I was searching for sale prices that ended in 5 instead of 9. To my surprise, there were quite a few.

Loretta walked in front of me. She chose the groceries. She put them in the basket. She calculated the cost in order to stay within our meager budget.

I counted fives and tried not to let my arthritis get the best of me.

A girl wearing workout clothes trotted past me. She was walking the other direction, so I only had a moment to take her in. She was young and peppy and full of things I didn’t know about or have any way of finding out. Her blond hair was up in a playful ponytail and her basket contained soy milk and wine.

I nodded and kept my eyes forward.

We were in the kitchen supply aisle. This was a place that we rarely stopped unless Loretta was cooking something special or different.

“Do you mind,” she began tentatively, “if I get this knife?”

I looked up and saw her holding a kitchen knife that I would never need. The most I ever cut these days was the occasional block of cheese. I shrugged in my usual non-committal way.

“If you need it,” I said.

She tossed it into the cart. It was an extra eleven dollars that, in the end, would probably come out of my 'hard candy' budget.

It was okay. I could do without. Hard candy was a small price to pay for quiet.

At home, we put away the groceries and then I relaxed into my recliner. I let out a sigh of relief because I suspected that Loretta would now go into the bedroom and read from some romance novel or other. This would give me an hour or so to sit quietly and run down the clock.

But Loretta came briskly from the kitchen as I heard the last cabinet door slam closed.

I barely had time to turn my head before I felt an awful pain in the lower part of my ribcage.

I looked down and saw the kitchen knife that Loretta had just bought (no, had asked to buy) buried in my torso. I followed the trail of its path to Loretta’s pale hand, then up her arm to her stern face.

I realized in that moment that I had not looked directly at her in some time. She was still quite beautiful; even with her gray hair pulled back had her lips pursed.

I brought my hands to the knife in a feeble attempt to draw it from my body. I did not have the strength. So I looked at her again, this time for explanation.

She stood for a moment, somehow triumphant. Then she spoke.

“Edgar,” she began, as if she were going to scold me, “I’ve been planning this for weeks.”

I felt my eyes widen.

“My hope,” she actually looked a little sad, “was that you’d notice. I dropped hints. Things I said. Shows I was watching. Do you remember when I asked you how you hoped you would die?”

I didn’t remember. I had not been paying attention. I didn’t remember that at all.

“My hope was that you would have some plan in place to stop me,” she continued, “that I wouldn’t be able to do it and that we would just…”

She faltered for a moment and then found her strength again.

“My hope was that we would be able to continue with the life that has always seemed so acceptable to me. But you’re so distant. You’re not here and you don’t want to be. Now we both know it and you don’t have to.”

My wife stood over me and watched me bleed to death. In a very too-little-too-late moment, I wondered who would help her dispose of my selfish corpse.

The Writer and the Boxer

This was the best coupling I've seen on a shelf in quite a while. Look at them. Sitting there, as equals.

If Mark Twain and Mike Tyson got into a heated debate,
Twain would win.
If Mark Twain and Mike Tyson got into a fight,
Tyson would win.
And if Mark Twain and Mike Tyson teamed up...
The World would win.

Twain stood there on the bow of the steamer as if he had been standing there for his entire life. For all Mike knew, he had. As Tyson approached the author, Twain puffed on a cigar. The smoke from his exhale belted out and around his head, leaping and dispersing into the air, telling of the direction of the wind and the slow forward motion of the craft under their feet.

Tyson walked slowly, hoping not to draw any more attention than he already had. His ascension through the lower decks had been a bit more conspicuous than he had hoped for, but he supposed it was a foolish hope to begin with. What else had he expected? He was a well dressed, enormous, confident man of color and he was parading confidently through the dining hall and the gambling rooms of a steamer in the deep south.

Tyson had known the risk, but it couldn't be helped. He was looking for the only man in this time (that Mike could think of) who had the mental capacity to understand the stakes. He was not interested in these simple folks and their predjudices. His only thought was for humanity. He did not care that they stared or leaned over to their wives and whispered something disparaging. He did not care, any more than was necessary, what they thought of him, or what they would make of the tattoo.

Mike had heard that Twain wanted a bit of privacy and had cleared the top observation deck of the ship for his own personal use. Tyson also knew that this was likely his only opportunity to be alone with the writer, so he had acted quickly. He had bribed one man and sucker punched another and now he found himself alone with the greatest satirist of all time, and the only man that could help. Mike had to be quick.

"Hello Mistah Mahk Twain," Tyson began in his signature lisp, "I hope I'm not disturbing you, but I'd beg a moment of your time." Mike was trying to be as sophisticated as possible. Maybe it was the fact that he had never read The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn and did not want the conversation to veer in that direction, or maybe it was the itchy tightness of his tailored 1890s suit. Either way, he felt that a formal tone would be best.

Twain did not turn to look a him, but kept his gaze on the darkness beyond the railing. Somewhere out there was the answer, covered by the darkness and the low rumble of the river.

"Do you know, Mr. Tyson, how much trouble you are in?" Twain made no pleasantries. He was aware, probably even more than Iron Mike, how much danger there was to be had on this ship.

"I'm sawee," Mike said, taken aback. He put his hand on the railing to steady himself, "But I've wisked a gweat deal to find you. I need your help, sir."

"I am aware, Mr. Tyson, of your predicament. I did not become the man I am today by being unobservant of my surroundings. But you can hardly expect me to just be at the beck and call of the fates every time the fabric of space and time is on the verge of collapse."

"Mr. Twain, please," this is not what Mike had expected, "I've come here from..."

"I know why you're here and what we must do, Mr. Tyson," Twain spoke calmly, even though he could feel the vibrations of the thugs climbing the stairs underneath his feet. He took one more puff of his twenty dollar cigar and then chucked it overboard, "I was merely having a moment of self pity. I was wondering where the fates were while my publishing company failed? Where they were when my critics roared for my head? Where they were when my son fell ill, and where they will be when the very power that I posses to understand space and time the way that I do causes my daughter to convulse and not understand why?"

The writer turned to the boxer and continued, "But none of that matters now. I'll fight along side you just like I did with Joan when here need was dire. Just don't expect me to be pleased about it."

Mike Tyson grinned. The gap in his teeth caused the older man to smile as well.

"Thanks Mark," Mike had done his duty without speaking five sentences, "Mr. Bradley Cooper will be relieved."

"And that is what's really important, isn't it?"

The two men chuckled softly together as the door to the upper deck was kicked open.

"Now," Twain almost mused, "you take care of these ruffians and I'll prepare for the jump."

"Jump?" Mike didn't like the idea of leaping from anywhere.

"Yes, Mr. Tyson," Mark Twain turned back to the river as three large men spilled out onto the deck behind him, "Any great adventure must first begin with a risky leap."

Tyson moved quickly in the swaying lamplight on the deck. He gut punched the first man, leaving him unable to breath, broke the wrist of the second, and turned a knife that the third man pulled back upon its owner.

When the three men were lying helpless on the wooden ground, Tyson turned back to see Twain standing on the top bar of the guard railing. Mike lumbered up next to the old gentleman in the white suite and, as softly as he could manage with his giant, powerful hands, held on to Twain's shoulders.

Twain could sense the boxer's apprehension, "Don't worry, Mike, if it doesn't work, we've got at least a mark twain of water underneath us to cushion our fall."

This didn't seem to comfort Mike. In truth, he didn't really know what that meant. But he was brave and ready. The pair leapt from the railing together and as they fell, about ten feet from the water, a small rip in the night air opened up and swallowed them. There was no excessive light or sound, it looked mostly like the onset of the visual blur one gets when experiencing a migraine. Just a little eraser mark on the eye, but Twain and Tyson disappeared into it without a trace. They were off on their adventure, and the steam ship with its 42 passengers was scarcely aware that anything had happened at all.

A moment later, the wounded men on the deck flashed out of existence as well. Then, a beat after that, Twain reappeared where he had been standing before. He looked weary and hardened as if he had not slept or ate for quite some time.

Scott Bryan
5-15-2014