Tag Archives: horror

Monstrous Myths: Rå

Posted by Simon on

Deep in the forests, mountains, and fjords of Norway, Sweden, and Denmark dwell a secret race of wardens, the rå. This myth is often conflated with the alfar or elves of German folklore, but they are markedly different. While the elvish appear to be aloof and supernaturally beautiful (at least, as far as the Medieval writer was concerned), unencumbered by the minutia of human life, and just as likely to smite as to assist, rå have an almost paternal awareness of mankind.

Pardon a short digression — a moment to explain why I will not be comparing my race to the elves.

I do not believe they exist. They are simply what happens to the hidden when the imagination of man takes over. Perhaps there are some particularly handsome members of my species, and perhaps they truly are ambivalent to people, but honestly, I do not think this is true. More than likely, pockets of humanity (towns and villages used to be quite isolated, especially during the colder months) met one or two of my species and learned that the only way to coexist was to pay homage, engage with care and deference. Given enough time and veneration, anything can me made godlike. Look at Gnesha, the elephant-headed many-limbed god of luck of Hinduism. He is not terribly attractive, but he has devotees the world over.

So for you fans of Tolkein, I am sorry. There will be no elves, just as there will be no vampires. Now please allow me to return to the myth at hand.

Rå come in many forms: huldrå of the forests, the sjörå of the lakes, havsrå of the sea, bergsrå of the caves. Their duty, as perceived by man, is to protect and care for the particular natural element they inhabited. When you look closely at their descriptions, however, I think you will find that they are one species, a kind of nexus of all the previous myths we have addressed. One race, living on the outskirts of the remotest regions, fending for themselves, camouflaged or clothed, crossing paths with man to varying consequences.

You say, “But they have tails, don’t they, Simon?”

Not necessarily. Some tales have tails. Others do not. And the fact is, someone could merely have misinterpreted a dead animal hanging from a belt as a tail. When you live away from humanity, and have a tenuous grip on sentience, spinning wheels are not so common. You get what you steal, and often that means you don’t get anything. Not to mention the fact that clothes often interfere with our movement. a belt is the only thing worth making really.

huldra_by_timswit

Hulderfolk, or ”hidden ones”, dwell in the woods, and while the “female” of the species are supposedly comely, the “male” are quite ugly, with rather prominent noses. I think it safe to point out that there probably are no gender distinctions to be made. The more attractive ones were merely much more approachable, and thusly, equated with femininity. So too is it possible, as one image from the 1800’s suggests, that the “females” were simply dressed as women. Keep in mind also, the standards of beauty for the region: pale skin, lustrous hair, strong muscle. Dark eyes and hair would have been exotic, perhaps even lovely. Thus, the myths of beautiful forrest-dwellers can probably be distilled down to an encounter in the twilight of the North with a thin, pallid, creature in a dress, who looked nothing like anything the poor sod had ever seen before. She smiled demurely, and he was smitten. So, let us take these distinctions with a grain of salt, for all the rå in all their masculine and feminine forms.

What is important to note, is that the humans who worked the kilns would often leave huldrå gifts of food, in exchange for their assistance in guarding their fires at night. In ancient Germanic folklore, the holda was a witch, her festival celebrated during the “dead time” of winter when corpses were thought to roam: “The Twelve”. You may know it as The Twelve Days of Christmas…

The havsrå are an analogue to the mermaid, in some respects. Like any myth that has persisted for a lengthy time, they have many descriptions and forms. The most common image is a lithe and naked woman, combing her unwieldy, seaweed-like hair atop a rock. They too will provide their services in exchange for provisions. Similarly, the freshwater variety appear to float up from the depths and stare at passers-by, eat fish at them, or capsize craft and rob the struggling swimmers. But they too have a kindly streak, often guiding drowning men to safety.

Bergsrå of the mountains are cave-dwellers, and while they usually spend most of their time driving miners mad by stealing their tools, eating their food, and scaring the holy breath out of them, they are also known to kidnap the odd wanderer, spend an evening acquainting themselves with him, and then setting him upon the path home.

Who can really say if any of these tales are factual? I find it more likely that men capsized their own boats while staring at the eerie, nude monster along the shore, who was doing nothing more nefarious than eating lunch. Perhaps the wayward travelers were understandably exhausted and woke to find their fires being tended by creatures they’d rather befriend than antagonize. I have done many things for humans, including tend kilns, and so long as payment was received, my teeth were never bared. Once home, these humans told wild tales, and forevermore, any passing bird that cawed at the sound of thunder was thought to be a transformed sea nymph, any woman who crossed paths with you in the forest was a witch, and any odd sound from an unstable mineshaft was probably a troll.

Who can say? What I do know is that there were many men who never returned home, and their stories are much darker. Better to meet a Rå than his hungry counterpart.

Image by timswit of Deviantart

Monstrous Myths: The Draugr (or Haugbui)

Posted by Simon on

You have perhaps been asking for some time why I persist in ignoring the “most obvious” comparison of myth to my species – the Vampire. Aside from the fact that I despise the modern imagery of the charismatic but hissing womanizer, my reasons are actually much less petty and infinitely more well-educated.

There is no one source-myth; the “vampire” does not exist. That is to say, every culture on earth has a tale of a walking corpse-figure that eats blood, or babies, or some appending piece of anatomy, and there are as many names as there are legends, all blending into linguistic obscurity. There are a host of ghouls, goblins, demons, skin-walkers, and mischievous forest dwellers that have, when all mashed together, given rise to the popular blood-drinker.

Thus, I will never compare my race to that infernally generalized caricature, and to ask me to do so, you are in fact being quite rude. I can compare it to the soul-maligning comment: “all [insert race despite vast cultural differences] look alike.”

To that end I have tried to give you more foundational myths – ancient stories that have, over time and following the migratory patterns of humans, been overtaken by the infamous vampire and swallowed whole.

So it is that today, we discuss the Draugr of Old Norse. This creature is of course, a flesh-eating zombie creature with magical powers, because of course, it’s far more likely that a human would be so pernicious in life that he, with the aid of sorcery or demons, would reanimate from death just to terrorize the living and guard his interred treasures.

Yes, that was sarcasm.

My point is, that when reading mythology, if one really is determined to ascribe it a place in the factual annuls of humanity, one really must look for the most likely explanation. Aukum’s razor.

Is it more likely that these poor gray-skinned, insatiably hungry, treasure-hoarding creatures are the walking dead? Is it more likely that because a cat jumped over them, or a body died sitting up, or they refused the help of the Church, they somehow transcended mortality? Or is it more likely that another species walks among you, making historical appearances from time to time, being exaggerated out of proportion by horrified human onlookers?

I will leave it to you to infer what my answer might be.

There are some notable traits of this lovable revenant that are of interest. They can supposedly increase their size. I attribute this to bleeding, defeated heroes who would rather say “I was overtaken by a giant, swollen beast!” rather than “It was about average height and size, but royally effed me up,” as the saying goes.

You may be asking why I included the haugbui in this narrative, and that really is very simple. He is the poor cousin of the Draugr, and as such, is the one I think most closely linked to fact. His title, you see, derives from the Old Norse word haugr, meaning “hole” or “hollow”. He is a cave-dweller, or a burial mound skulker and he is exceptionally territorial, often refusing to attack unless a person comes too close for comfort. Sometimes he is seen as a seaside monster, lurking near the water’s edge like the gorgon, blending in with the seaweed through some ridiculous transformative magic that I prefer to call a “hair-do”.

Norse mythology is some of the oldest of which humanity has record, and so of course, we are also there, lurking as usual, eating as usual. Not so bothered by the humans who continually try to exorcize, vanquish, or bottle us.

We are as pervasive in your tales as the wayward traveler, the chivalric hero, and the wizened old hag. Without us, you are not you.

Monstrous Myths: The Gorgon

Posted by Simon on

Among the multitude of questions received by this humble monster, are an assortment of hypotheses on the nature of my “monsterhood” — “personhood” not quite encompassing the meaning I intend. That is to say, they have embraced my argument, that my species are the root of every monstrous folktale the world over. Some point to North American and draw comparisons between myself and certain native ghouls. Some point to the Bible and say, “Now see here! You could easily be one of Satan’s demonic horde.”

Forgive me, they don’t actually use my particular parlance, but the gist is all that matters.

Because so many of you have taken to this idea, I have decided to run a small series. I will list a new monster every entry, give you its characteristics, and then explain to you how I believe it can all be tied to one of my cousins, no doubt doing something undignified, like swooping, or hissing, or flapping his arms…

I detest such displays and never indulge. It does little good to frighten a person away from your lair. I’d rather eat them so that they have no time to retreat to their village. Better that he never return and the others come to fear the forest itself.

Before you ask: yes, that has happened.

For my first monster: The Gorgon

o3kjW

You might know the tale of the Odyssey, and the frightful guise of Medusa, but she is actually merely one version of this fearsome creature. Historians cannot agree upon its origins in history, but it is quite old, and most renditions share similar traits. They are usually “female”, with wide, strange eyes, sometimes fangs, dwell in caves, and are crowned with a mass of writhing tentacles. Homer claims Medusa’s stare can turn a man to stone, and that she is the mortal in a sisterhood of three, but Homer’s depiction is quite recent in the dread mythology.

It can be traced back much farther, linked to other monsters of similar description, but that is not my goal. I am here to convince you that the Gorgon is my long lost cousin.

I have given you a description of my biology, and perhaps, now that I have sketched the Gorgon, you can see the comparison and say to yourself, “Well, that is quite trivial.” And so I will not belabor the twisting hair, bizarre eyes, gender ambiguity, or teeth. My comparison will go much deeper.

Their name, you see. I cannot come away from that, as I am a linguist in my soul. It derives from the Greek word for “terrifying”. So you see, the Gorgon was not a type of monster. It was merely something frightening, encountered in a cave. Some erudite experts of long dead languages link it back to the Sanskrit word for the growling sound an animal makes. And now we see how the fiction evolves.

A man, alone in a dark cave, hears a growl. What is more terrifying than that? The sound becomes the idea, and the idea takes a shape, looming out of the darkness to glare down at him. That is most definitely a Gorgon. No doubt about it.

This is all metaphor, of course. The man in the cave is a stand-in for all of humanity, but I think you take my point.

Homer saw fit to link their origins to Poseidon, the god of the sea, and I think this bears a striking resemblance to my own theory, that we originated in the water and have more in common with squids or sharks, than we do mammals. He could not know biology, per say, but it turns out that the observation that things with four hoofed legs might be related, has proven to largely be true. Observation is a type of data, and should not be discounted out of hand!

Ah, but the stone! you say, gentle reader, and you are right. There is the freezing stare of the Gorgon, but allow me to suggest that you are taking this much too literally. Petrification has been a theme in many of the most ancient tales. If you do not believe me, look to Lot’s wife. I believe in many ways, the idea of petrification was merely an explanation of fossils, of strange rock formations, and thus, a fitting consequence for bad behavior.

Instead, I will offer another hypothesis.

I believe my ancient relatives were experimenting with tarichos, an ancient form of salt pork. If you take a human body and allow it to desiccate in a vat of salt, or soil that is high in salinity, you will succeed in preserving it. It may ferment slightly, be colonized by some bacteria, but that will only make it more tender. It will smell earthy and delicious, but not of putrefaction.

A man, alone, walks into a great cave. The shadows breathe, the air becomes thick. He discovers several humans in a row, lined up like statues, or suspended like prosciutto, covered in waxy adipose or caked in white salt. He staggers backward, his torch flame guttering with his sudden, horrified movements. The monster growls from the depths…

And a myth is born.

A Monstrous FAQ, Part 3 – Culinary

Posted by Simon on

Here I will answer the most commonly received questions about your favorite topic, my diet. I eat people, you see. The proper term for this is “anthropophage”, but let’s just say “man-eating”. Humanity finds this terribly amusing. I can do nothing about that, but insist that you have descended into a collective mental illness.

Culinary

Does human taste like chicken?

I’m afraid I must sigh at this question — not because it has an obvious answer, but because it saddens me that this is even a question. You see, my strongest sense is olfactory. To me, nothing tastes like chicken. Except chicken, of course. There are similarities, I can admit, but chicken is the only chicken. So instead I will answer by comparing it. Human, similar to a four legged animal, has many pieces or “cuts” unique to it. I have named some of them, but that isn’t pertinent, since I am the only one who cares about the semantics. These cuts, however, range in texture and flavor. Some can be quite gamey, others less so. But if the spectrum must be quantified, I would say you have most in common with an elk. In terms of texture, it ranges from as soft as sashimi, to as stringy as stew meat.

Why don’t you eat the skin?

The answer is fairly simple. There’s really only one acceptable way to eat skin: frying. And I am not overly interested in fried foods. I do occasionally indulge, but by and large, I forego. I have tried all manner of preparation, from dehydrating, to baking, and simply do not care for the texture. Nor is it terribly caloric, which is, of course the currency of my biology.

What part of the human is the most delicious?

That has no automatic answer, I’m afraid. It always depends upon the person, their diet, their habits, their genetics. Some people have livers intense with flavor, others have diets so clean that their gaminess is enhanced. Some people have large fat content, and other very little. But if you pin me down (This is a turn of phrase. Please do not ever be so bold as to pin me down. That is a life-threatening engagement, I assure you.), I would have to say that the part I always look forward to, the morsel I seek out and inspect for perfection, is probably the heart. The close second would be the cut just proximal to the hip bones, distal to the bottom rib.

Do you prefer humans that are in shape?

It depends on the recipe. Some call for high fat content, some for less. Sedentary humans make excellent burgers, ground meats, things for which you might generally utilize more moist meats like pork. Healthy, trim individuals make lovely steaks, roasts, et cetera.

Is there a particular cooking method you prefer?

Modern science and the global culture have given me many new things to try, but I am afraid my soul always hearkens back to the fire pit and a piece of meat on a dog-wheel spit, turning endlessly. I do go in for basting and stewing, however.

What is your favorite kitchen appliance?

The meat grinder attachment to my Kitchenmaid standing mixer. I make my own sausage now, you see. I now have, thanks to modern refrigeration, the ability to keep odd bits and combine them, mashing people who might otherwise have despised one another into terribly tasty charcuterie. I find this both delicious and intellectually satisfying.

How long does human meat last in the fridge?

All natural rules and laws of thermodynamics apply. Human meat is no different than any other. I usually prepare all the meats in some way — from spice rubs to marinades, from salting to brining — before I freeze them. However, when I do freeze them, I like to wrap each piece in parchment paper, then foil, and finally, place it in a ziplock bag with the date. If you buy a ten pound batch of chicken breast, and you want it to remain frostbite-free, might I suggest you do the same?

Do you like eating fruits and vegetables?

Yes, or I would not do so; however, I do not require them. Strictly speaking, I believe we are carnivores that over time learned to incorporate variety (Please do keep in mind that I am exceedingly old, and thus our evolution is a much slower prospect, perhaps only totaling ten or so generations since the dawn of “farming”. Thusly, we are not as flexible as humanity. You are mayflies, here for a day, and your mutations are extraordinarily evident to someone with my historical knowledge). Such are my senses, that I delight in all the mingling smells and tastes. I find nothing more satisfying that to crunch my teeth through a carrot. Probably because it reminds me of bone, but why should that matter?

What is your favorite herb or spice?

Oh, my goodness. I am terribly sorry, but this is too complex a question for me to manage. Instead, let me give you the history of my interaction with same.

When I awoke, trade via the Silk Road had broken down, largely to the slow deterioration of the Islamic Mongol nations. Georgia was the last stop, and there were several terrible upheavals. Not to mention the devastation of the plague. I found myself in a precarious situation — fodder for another tale — and I lacked the sense to know about human food. However, I did manage to encounter a few of the spices from the east: cardamon, ginger, cinnamon, pepper, but again, my exposure was limited.

These days it is possible to find almost anything from any part of the world. For most of my life, no one even knew about the New World. Many herbs I now know and love are still fairly new to me, and because I have not traveled to the far east, many Asian foods impress me too. I am still experimenting, you see.

Let me reply by saying that there is a perfect spice or herb for every preparation of every dish, but I do tend to rely heavily upon old favorites: sage, rosemary, garlic, thyme, clove, chervil, basil, mace, bay, et cetera.

Is there anything you won’t eat?

Ever? Or more than once?

I will try anything once. And I do mean anything. But on a more habitual basis, when it comes to the human form, I do not consume the most calcified bone, skin, hair, digestive materials, though I have occasionally used these in preparation of other things. If this interests you, you may contact me directly. Most folk are too mild-stomached for that discussion.

I do not like certain vegetables, legumes, pungent herbs, cannot wrap my head around particular cheeses, and for the life of me, though I have made many attempts, cannot gain a taste for Thousand Year Old Egg. I am able to consume them. I simply do not like them. They bite back, as it were. Like zombies. And they are as fragrant.

I do, however, eat many things most people don’t even know are edible, from flowers, to weeds, to sour milk…yes. It’s only sour because bacteria have begun to colonize, but please allow me to point out that that is precisely what yogurt is, and because I have no experience with bacterial infection, I do not mind such things. To me, an old carton is merely the opportunity for liquid cheese.

If I send you a recipe, will you try it?

Oh, please do. I would be ecstatically happy to try it, modify it, repost it. I might even put it in a book, if you like. Please know that cooking is, quite literally, the most important thing to me.

You see, I must maintain my sanity, and that breaks down very quickly if I do not feed regularly. When the mind goes, I am a danger to everyone and everything about which I care. This is unacceptable to me. So you can see, that even should the hobby of food eventually prove boring…

Eating is what I do.

Candied Pork Chicharrones and Ice Cream, A Recipe

Posted by Simon on

Today is National Eat What You Want Day — when humans concerned about their waistlines must schedule a day to cheat on their diets. I would point out the humor in this prearranged lapse in discipline — since the entire point of discipline is to be disciplined — but I won’t. So eat what you want. I certainly do. Though, you are bound by the confines of law and order.

It is also the publication date of my journal, such as it is. I thought I would celebrate by doing something different.

If you have been following my work, or if you are a new reader, it will become clear that I never eat the skin. I am not entirely happy with the idea of eating a fried meat-sack, since that is really the best preparation of the integument. Neither do I much go in for sweets, but I will never be accused of being myopic. I have decided to branch out, to expand my horizons.

And so, I offer up this treat, a savory dessert.

Tools:

  • Baking pan with inset wire rack
  • Sharp knife
  • Dredging bowl
  • Mixing bowl
  • Two medium saucepans
  • Mixer (Hand held or standing, whisk or electric)
  • Frying pan
  • Ice cream making kit for a KitchenAid standing mixer (optional)

Ingredients:

  • 1-2 lbs pork back fat with skin (As may be obvious, I do not use pork. Instead I choose a specimen with a particularly high body fat index, and a fairly wide torso. I have adjusted the recipe to fit your tastes, however,  this ingredient may be difficult for you to find in a normal grocery store. If you go up to the butchery counter and ask them if they have any sitting around, you will probably be in luck. Asian grocers, specialty butchers, and even farm-to-table place may have it.)
  • Brown sugar
  • White sugar
  • Cinnamon (You may use pre-ground spices, for expediency, but fresh is best)
  • Cardamom
  • Sea salt
  • 1 pint heavy whipping cream
  • Chocolate ice cream (I will not include the instructions for making your own ice cream. If you have the standing mixer and the attachment, it comes with a recipe guide. Simply make up a batch of your favorite ice cream and freeze over night.)
  • 1 package raspberries
  • Chambord (Raspberry liqueur. Optional, but a very good option)

Instructions:

  1. Make your ice cream the night before. If not making your own, skip this step and purchase a dark chocolate, organic variety. We want to keep the savory-sweet profile, so less sugar is better.
  2. Preheat the oven to 200.
  3. Cut your pork into thin strips, about two inches wide, and carefully remove the subcutaneous fat. The best way is to lay the pork skin-side down, and resting the knife flat, slide it across the strip away from yourself, as if scraping or shaving. Remove as much fat as you can, as it will interfere with the crispiness of the skin. Set fat aside.
  4. Cut the skin strips into 2-3 inch segments. Lay these on top of the baking rack, and put into the oven. The low temperature will dry out the skin over the course of the next few hours. When the skin is completely dried out, Remove and set aside to cool completely.
  5. Take the fat you have set aside and render in your frying pan by cooking at a low temp for a couple hours, while your skin is drying out. (I mean the pork skin of course. If your skin is drying out, please indulge in a moment of moisturizing at this time.)
  6. In  medium saucepan, combine raspberries, 1 cup white sugar, and 1/2 cup Chambord (Or juice or water) and allow to cook down to a syrup. Strain the seeds from this when it is liquefied, and set aside.
  7. When the skin is close to being fully cooled, combine 2 cups brown sugar, cinnamon, and cardamon to taste in your dredging bowl, with just a pinch of sea salt.
  8. Heat your rendered fat or lard in your pan until it is perfect frying temperature, and spits a bit.
  9. Using tongs, drop the skin pieces into the oil and fry until they puff up and get crispy. Immediately remove, give a cautious shake, and then dredge in the sugar spice mixture. Set aside to cool.
  10. Whip your cream until it is perfect whipped cream texture, adding a sprinkle of sugar here and sea salt there. We want this whipped cream to be savory, not sweet, so only add the sugar to bring out the cream, not to mask it. It should taste something like salted butter.
  11. In a small saucepan, heat one cup of white sugar and 1 teaspoon of sea salt on medium heat, stirring constantly. The sugar should begin to melt and turn a light golden brown. When it is completely liquefied, it is finished. Remove immediately or it will harden.

To serve, scoop a small amount of the ice cream into a bowl or cup, add a generous stripe of raspberry sauce. Another scoop of ice cream. A dollop of your savory whipped topping. Drizzle all over with salted caramel. Stack the chicharrones atop like a cookie, or serve in a separate dish for dipping.

If you are so inclined, you may now find my published diary, entitled The Creature’s Cookbook, online, or via the Tapas Media app. I do hope you will enjoy.

A Monstrous FAQ, Part 1 – Biology

Posted by Simon on

Long ago, when I began recording my existence for all to see, I made a promise that I would answer your questions as they came to me. While I have done some justice within the body of my soon-to-be-published chronicle, there are a few issues that somehow never get raised in casual discourse. Therefore, allow me, gentle reader, to fulfill my vow.

I have grouped the questions into three distinct types: Biological, Historical, and Culinary. Each category will be answered in a separate post. If your personal question fits one of these three categories, feel free to scroll right to it. If your curiosity has gone unsatisfied, place your query in a comment…or wait and see if it eventually appears in the forthcoming texts pertaining to my humble life.

Biological

Can you describe your anatomy in depth?

This question, or some variation to this effect, has been asked a dozen times by all sorts — from scientists and doctors to cryptozoology hobbyists and armchair UFOlogists — and while I do touch upon it regularly, I shall answer it again as it is of such critical importance. It may be that you have just found this page, or scanned my work and come searching. Perhaps you know nothing of my species, and this I will amend. For your safety, of course.

I have made the argument that all myths of monster, ghost, and foul thing more than likely spring from encounters with our breed in the darkness, and I do firmly believe it. I have been the world over and never encountered anything worse than me — with my senses, I should have seen Bigfoot, if they do indeed exist. My species are naturally ugly, can seem to shape-shift, make odd sounds, exhibit malevolence, and depending upon what clothing we wear, I imagine it would be easy to paint us bird-creatures or swamp men.

Humans are not very good witnesses when encountering horrible or terrifying events, regardless.

We are average size, though you must remember, that the average has risen. In ancient times, we were considered somewhat tall. We are thin, wiry, with hard, lean muscle and little body fat. Our skin is rather pale, and sometimes grayish in hue. Our hands are ever so slightly odd — with long fingers snubbed at the ends, capped off with claws that retract if desired. The nail beds are not a healthy human pink, but plum-colored with dark edges. Our feet are equally bizarre, lower arches, more flexible toes, hooked with thick talons that make the climbing of trees a simple thing and the wearing of shoes a most distressing event involving a once-monthly session with a sanding tool. We have no hair, not a single follicle; however, atop our head is a glossy mass of filaments with a life of their own. My best guess, for I have never elected to dissever one and examine it, is that they are some sort of sensory organ. They move in reply to stimulus, and perhaps in some way, they are to blame for many of my seemingly supernatural talents.

I have a disaffinity for electronic devices. That is to say, while I love them and their utility, they despise me. I think that my nerves are not well-insulated, and so my natural field interferes with them. I cannot wear a watch without it dying. I can explode a lightbulb merely by proximity. I can sense devices, even wiring in walls, and sometimes can even perform tricks at will.

I can detect small sounds at great distance and sort through these noises to find but one single note. I can sense things, like pressure changes, the presence of my relatives, and most critically, when I am being watched. I can see in the dark and dilate my pupils quite large on demand.

We are perhaps several times stronger than an able-bodied man, faster than any human in small bursts, and due to the construction of our joints, quite flexible and lithe. We are acrobats, but our endurance is poor. We lack stamina. We expend calories more quickly, eating several times what you do in a day.

An addendum to this question is the notion of phylogeny: what family do we occupy? Without hair, umbilical attachments, or mammary glands, it is a certainty we are not mammals. I know that shallow cuts and injuries do not bleed, but deep gashes ooze a pinkish liquid. Otherwise, the skin knits closed with rapidity. I know that while I prefer warmth, the extremes of cold do little more than make me sluggish and I do not sweat. I can hold my breath for long periods of time, almost fifteen minutes, but must have oxygen eventually. My teeth fall out of my head and grow back easily, and so I am tempted to believe they are not like your teeth. I have yet to find any mind-altering substance that affects me. I do not recall ever having a fever, a cold, a flu, or any other illness. I have no allergies, no aversions, no weaknesses of any kind.

But we are intelligent, and that is dangerous.

I have learned recently certain other facts about our species, but that is best left to the book, if you’ll pardon my adherence to the rules of publishing.

Do you monsters go to the bathroom?/ Do you have sex?

I chose to make this a separate question because, while it has to do with our physical form, it requires its own tactful reply that does away with vulgarity.

I have spent a great deal of time…well, for lack of a more dignified phrase…dissecting humans. Your nether regions are quite complicated, and mating seems to be a strange horizontal dance that borders on two wriggling snakes attempting to thumb wrestle. My breed have no such complications. We have more in common with dolphins or neutered cats. We expel waste. That’s it.

You want to know how we mate. If not by behaving like two marbles attempting to connect at a specific point, while utterly failing each time, then how? I still have yet to do it, and so cannot give specifics. But really, would you want them if I could? Given what you know of how I eat…perhaps we should leave that to your imagination.

Do you get indigestion or food poisoning?

Certain botanicals cause me stomach issues, but never anything debilitating. Before you ask, we can vomit. Though it is something we do when we get food lodged somewhere it doesn’t belong. As for food poisoning, I really don’t know. I think, perhaps, like a dog, I am able to consume carrion. I have limits, in that I can smell when things are “off”. Why would I eat beyond that point?

So if you’ve been wondering why I cook at all, if I am immune to infection, that is your answer. My biology allows me to smell every nuance, taste every spice. I cannot help it. Cooking is my drug, my ecstacy, my passionate  love.

Have you ever lost a limb?

No. But if I fancied being one limb short, I would try that experiment, simply to see if, like a nematode, we could sprout a new one. Perhaps one day, I will cross paths with a member of my species I find odious enough to tie down. If that eventuality arises, I promise to execute an exhaustive study and report my findings.

Stay tuned for tomorrow’s post on my history.

Tapas and Sushi

Posted by Simon on

My literary agent  is a very energetic person. So much so, that I sometimes feel that she must be part cocoa bean. I have to fight the urge to siphon off a dram for recreational use. She bounces when she walks. Her face does not simply form expressions, it is possessed by them. She gushes about my work, such that I sometimes feel guilty for not reiterating how much gushing actually goes into my work.

Today she has enthusiastically arranged for me to make the acquaintance of my publisher, which I suppose is a good thing. You scoff, because to you that is obvious. Of course it is a good idea to get to know the tiny human female who will be responsible for dissembling your treatise to the world! But no — to me, it is not so obvious, gentle reader.

There is but one thing that unnerves me, and that is meeting new people. I can never be certain how they will see me, and this case is even less predictable. Because, you see, she has read my autobiography. I will encounter not just the woman, but her beliefs. Thus, I am conflicted as I ready myself for the encounter.

Do I dress to appear more or less human? Male or female? Do I leave off the false eyelashes and eyebrows and let the chips fall where they may? What sort of person is she, and how will she respond — fascination or horror?

My agent never seems to notice. She takes the facial discrepancies in stride and thinks this whole “persona” business is a clever marketing ploy. Bless her, she is a PR person.

I present myself promptly at the sushi restaurant, but find that I am already late. This is unfortunate. They will have strategized; Laurie will have warned our guest that I am — what is the phrase she uses? — eccentric. Now Ms. Horsley will have expectations, and every word from my mouth will be scrutinized.

I look at the row of men standing behind the bar, slicing fish paper thin with deft hands, and wish I could just put on an apron and busy myself with that mundane task.

Alas.

Laurie’s face transforms into her massive smile as she spots me lurking. She waves me over and before I can extrapolate the dynamics, I am shaking hands with the Vice President of Content for Tapas Media. She is polite, but focused, and her gaze lingers a bit longer on my face than is comfortable. No doubt she is looking for the adhesive that keeps my eyebrows in place.

“I ordered tea!” Laurie announces. I toast her tactfully, wondering if she really requires any additional spring in her step.

Adrienne slides a menu across to me. “I know you’re the food expert here. Do you want to just order for us, and we can share?”

She has a nefarious twinkle in her eye that tells me she is challenging me to remove my teeth. The joke is on her. Sushi is more than soft enough to accommodate my falsies.

“As you wish. Any dietary restrictions? Or shall I have free reign?”

Adrienne presses her lips down on a grin. Laurie performs a small wiggle in my periphery — her full-body indication that they are indeed in each other’s confidence.

“See? Consistent! He’s like Lestat, when he decided to become a rock star.”

The comparison squeezes a grunt from me. I despise the v-word. Any linkage between that ridiculous, overworked myth and my species is a dangerous and obnoxious piece of sentimentality in which humanity should never indulge. Real monsters are not former humans, they do not mourn the loss of the divine, they do not languish in darkness, they do not stop at drinking blood. They are most certainly not sexy.

How undignified.

“Laurie, please—”

“Right, sorry! No vampires.”

I return to my menu as she begins brain-typhooning, similar to brainstorming, but because she is involved, it will include stream-of-consciousness emails, pictures, status updates, and several sentences uttered so emphatically I lose myself in the upheaval.

My thoughts fuzz over as I let my nose meander to the sushi bar. I was going to order us some salmon, but it does not smell as fresh as the tuna. Perhaps some scallops? Something spicy, I think.

Sashimi truly is an art, as the fish must be caught in a certain way, so that the meat is not tainted by the fear. I have been asked if I have ever eaten human raw. Of course, I have. Cooking is merely the best way to preserve something against the elements, or imbue it with spices. The flavor profile of mankind, however, does not lend itself well to Japanese seafood preparation. And that has nothing to do with the killing method.

Fight or flight only appears to enhance…

“This Wednesday is National Eat What You Want Day, so we’re going to take advantage of it. We will launch the book as Dark Comedy.”

My attention snaps back to the woman across from me. “This Wednesday? How can this be accomplished so quickly?”

A small correction, gentle reader: more unnerving than meeting new people, is the idea of being presented as a main dish for all to see, a suckling pig for the carving, without time to take stock and prepare myself mentally. I haven’t liquidated any of my assets or scouted new territory if this publishing business goes awry.

“It’s perfect for Dark Comedy!” Laurie beams. “And the holiday! Oh my god! If we don’t launch then…”

Also bothersome is the idea that anyone might find me funny. I have said, upon many occasions, that if any individual on this earth is more entitled to gallows humor, I haven’t met them, but the body of the work is not meant to be comedic. It has a deep and meaningful purpose. A sagacious, but self-defeating one, it would seem.

“Right?”

“I’m afraid you’ll have to indulge my antiquity and clarify.” I blink at the women, all smiles. “It’s not going to be a physical volume?”

Laurie flaps. “Tapas is a website and an app. Tell him, Adrienne.”

“It’s all in the name! We distribute content in bite-sized portions, five minute reading sessions. People can try a free sample, and then decide to keep going, if they get a taste for the story! The Cookbook is perfect! It’s exactly the type of storytelling we’re trying to inspire!”

She shows me her phone; metaphysical covers scroll by.

The idea sinks in, finally. I lean back with a sense of déjà vu. That was how it all began, you see — publishing, I mean. But most people were illiterate and typesetting was a sticky thing. Because of this, the first publications were small: folios, pamphlets, monograms. Then education caught, and the inexpensive newspaper was born. Such is your thirst for knowledge that street vendors stopped selling water and began hocking news.

“From penny dreadfuls to Bitcoin offal.”

It is charming, this cycling of fashion, but troubling too. Genre fiction began in the periodicals of old: Dickens, Dumas, Melville, Burroughs. And here sits my humble, but very factual diary, about to be reworked into the fast food of literacy. It concerns me, because after all, I came out of hiding in an effort to cure your dependency upon the candy of artistic conceit.

The waitress approaches and helpfully points out the nigiri and special rolls. I order, but in the back of my mind, I am thinking about meals cut into morsels, plots disassembled. If absorbed in small pieces, at intervals, it could be beneficial, like a vaccine. After all, you would have time between entries to snap back to reality, to check your email, play Angry Birds, wonder if this weird story about a man-eating ghoul living in your neighborhood could be true. Perhaps you would even have an odd moment to contemplate a new home security system.

“People can read it as they travel to and from work, or binge it all at once,” she continues.

“Binging is unhealthy,” I mutter, too quietly, I fear. I wonder if they realize they are proving my hypothesis as they speak of fiction in gastronomical metaphor.

That would be too easy, I suppose. No rest for the wicked.

“Our hope is that eventually authors will embrace the format like you have, and just write for it.”

Dare I point out the premise of my work, yet again? I have tried with Laurie, but the intrepid entrepreneur sees only possibility.

“My life mirrors the format simply because it plays out in a series of events, linked by the central figures, but thoroughly lacking what could be construed as a cohesive plot.”

They chuckle, but Adrienne is still peering at my face, even as the first few rolls are brought to the table.

I cross my arms. “Forgive my stoic reception. I can see the utility of such an app in this technological age. I think my reservations stem from the fact that I collect antiquities — books, for example. The internet and its new language were sudden and confusing, and I am still adjusting. Trending, memes, friending, retweeting, LOLZ — it’s enough to make my head spin.”

“I see you on Twitter all the time! You’re great with social media,” Laurie persists, taking a piece from each roll.

“It has been very helpful. I can interact with people, learn from them, without having to explain myself. Everyone is anonymous there.”

“So you’re on board with the idea?”

“Yes. If anything, it will pull me further into the modern age. A monster does need to stay with the times, I think.”

She nods as if she always knew I’d see her brilliance. “We’re going to have to talk about how we want to market it. I’ll do a press release. Simon can put some entries up on his website, maybe some more recipes.”

“We’re working on banners and cover art.” Adrienne chews thoughtfully. “We really need a headshot of you.”

I blink. “No photography.”

Laurie clears her throat. “Simon doesn’t do pictures.”

“Why?”

I put a segment of spicy tuna in my mouth as an excuse to avoid the issue, but she is keen enough to wait until I have smashed the thing to a pulp with my tongue. “If you just told the world — and every alphabet agency in it — that you were an immortal, implicated in about two dozen deaths or disappearances per annum, and then gave out your recipes for same, would you want your face all over the internet?”

“Hmm. I see your point.”

She smirks. I sigh. She doesn’t believe it either. Like Laurie, she finds my precautions silly, if entertaining.

I’m telling you — one day you’re going to wake up and find that all frontal lobe activity has dwindled to a hum that reads rather like a celebrity Tumblr feed. I and mine will wander the earth like a scourge, gorging on the fattened calves and dimwitted offerings of your intellectual transgressions.

“Besides, it’d be pretty difficult to decide on which face to wear! I mean he’s a man now, but sometimes he’s a woman.” Laurie points at me with her chop sticks. “He has all these synthetic parts. Like that German guy on The Strain.”

The hiss is all I can manage.

Am I to always be plagued by Bram Stoker and his undead offspring? He should never have popularized the fiction of Romanian housewives. All that glitters is not vampires!

What is it they say these days?

Let me see: #thestruggleisreal.

She catches a look at my fixed expression and swallows her hamachi. “Sorry! Vampires. Right.”

“You won’t even take a selfie with me?”

My mouth falls open. “No!”

Adrienne’s blond head tilts as she grins. “But your face is fascinating.”

“I’m giving very serious thought to eating both of you.”

Laurie laughs. “Relax, Lector! If you eat us, we can’t do a sequel.”

I prop my elbow on the table and cradle my face in my hand. “How exactly does one sequel one’s life, Laurie?”

“Flashbacking?”

I return to my food — out of responsibility, I assure you. Discomfort and exasperation make me hungry. Bad things happen when I am hungry.

Tapas Media