Young Writers Society

Something about Monsters

In the shadowy spots of our souls, those with fangs, claws, and bloodthirst grow

Basic Premise: Monsters, the beings we mortals do not and cannot understand, are among us. They have been forever. And even as we hurtle towards the future, they'll waste no chance to consume us.

Something about Monsters is a short story collection that features violence, explicit depictions of abuse, murder, and horror-centric things typically associated with monsters. You have been warned.

Something about Monsters (better title pending) deals with multiple myths worldwide. Each chapter will focus on one myth and will be split into two parts.

Part One: The Enclyopedia
Each story will begin with a short encyclopedia entry about the monster. It will list how it's created or born, what it does, and, maybe, how it dies. These encyclopedia entries will be written in poems from the same country as the described monster. Hopefully, I'll learn some new poetic forms for this!

Part Two: The Story
The second part of the chapter will be a prose poem that tells the monster's story. Sometimes the POV will be from a victim, and other times it will be from a monster hunter. There may or may not be a poem from a monster's perspective. :)

Week One: Death Part One
1017 Words

Let’s start at the end, shall we? The end of life, the beginning of rebirth, the continuation of existence. Let’s start with my friend Death.
Before there were humans, before there were plants and animals, before there was Earth, there was Death. He She They Death was born alongside the universe, for the start of existence already foreshadows its end, and the cosmos came to be in Death’s hands. You are a galaxy born of supernovas and genocides. Without Death, you would have no air to breathe, no ground to walk on, no planet to call home. And yet Death is in this book because you have the gall to call Death a monster.
No matter, I shall set the record straight for my friend. For you, simple mortals, for you bound by Death’s loving hands.
Today, Death visited a woman named Christine. She was mortal, like you reading this. She lived in a house she didn’t own, with a husband she didn’t love, and with children she didn’t want—an average woman in every respect, right down to her bitter, overwhelming fear of dying.
I mean, what is wrong with you mortals? You live your entire life knowing you will one day perish. Flowers wilt and decay in their vases, strewing your dinner table with their corpse. Grey hairs sprout from your scalp. Your skin peels in the aftermath of the sun’s wrath. You die every day a million times as your cells break down and are consumed by the next generation. Some of you eat dead animals. You wear dead plants. The promise that one day everything around you will die sustains you, and you have learned to use Death to your benefit. What happens to your cries of “you only live once” when your time comes? Why should Death be so kind to those who scorn Death so viciously that they’ve spun tales of never-ending as if escaping Death would prevent you from ending?
But I am not telling my story correctly. This story isn’t about your fear and eventual death but Christine’s. It is about Death.
Christine didn’t want to die, but Death came anyways, where Death was unwanted, early in the morning. Death never cared how they had died. What mattered was they were corpses where they stood, or sat, or sobbed, and it was Death’s job to separate the soul from the husk, leave the body to rot as the Earth declared, and take the soul somewhere out of the universe’s grasp. A dance as old as stardust, a story older than light.
Death never appeared to mortals as Death. You have spun stories of Death with a pearl skeleton and ancient robes, a heavy scythe in one hand, and a pale lantern in the other. But Death is immune to your stories and appears as Death wants, as something comforting, familiar, almost friendly. For Christine, Death appeared as her mother, still young and lively like she had been months before her death. Death had blonde hair now, a simple smile, a well-loved sweater. Absolutely nothing like Death is said to be, but Christine knew. She knew in the quiet way that we know that someone is lying to us despite what they say. A knowledge that went against what she had been taught, but she believed nonetheless.
“You are Death.” It was not a question, not a moment of pondering. Instead, it was a cold fact that left a bitter taste in her mouth. She wanted a glass of water to rinse it out.
Death didn’t speak, for the day Death utters a single word is the day the universe collapses back into nothing but absence and negatives, and sat beside her, holding out a single hand.
“I don’t want to die.”
Death was kind enough not to throw her across the room and drag her spirit, kicking and screaming. Death had always been better than me.
Christine stood up, sending her chair skittering across her scratched hardwood floors. “Did you hear me? I don’t want to die! You can’t make me!”
Death lowered the hand, making the edges of Christine’s mother’s smile kinder.
“Are you going to say anything?”
Death shook Christine’s mother’s head.
Christine's rage bubbled like a pot coming to a boil just beneath her skin. How dare Death come into her house wearing her mother’s skin like it was a simple overcoat? Did her mother agree to this? Was her mother okay, or did she have to be destroyed for this?
I was not there to defend Death’s honour, but I’ll do so here. Death was not wearing Christine’s mother. Honestly, the places your mortal thoughts go sometimes say more about you than any of us. The nerve. Christine’s mother was dead, which is the finest you mortals can be in a world like Earth. And Death could never destroy a spirit. Whether that was because Death was too kind or it was impossible, I still don’t know.
But Christine didn’t have me to yell at her, so she went on believing that Death was some sort of monster as most of you mortals do. And Death went on not minding a bit. I sometimes wonder if Death misses a time before mortals. Stars didn’t cry when they died. Meteors didn’t scream and yell as the atmosphere burned them to a crisp. Death didn’t seem to miss simpler times, and Death couldn’t operate with that same level of patience if there wasn’t some sort of love or appreciation behind those false eyes. So maybe not. Maybe Death cared for you mortals despite your scorn. Maybe remember that next time you curse Death’s name.
Christine slammed her hands on the table. “Get out of my house! I don’t want you here.”
Death didn’t flinch. Death didn’t even move.
“I have children! Do you want them to be without a mother?”
Death frowned at that. It happened more often than you would think. Millenia of putting beautiful things to rest didn’t ease the ache Death sometimes felt when mortals did nothing but point out how they would be missed.

Week One: Death Part Two
1011 Words

“My boys. What will my boys do without me?”
Christine sobbed, laying her head on the wooden table. She never wanted to be a mother, but that didn’t stop her sons from wanting to be her children.
“People depend on me, Death. You should know that.”
Death laid Christine's mother's hand beside Christine’s head.
“How could you do this to me, Death? What will it take for you to realize you’re wrong? I’m not even dead. Look at me.”
Death was looking at her, but Death didn’t waver.
“Hello! Feel my pulse.” Christine lifted her head, shoving her wrist in her mother’s face. “Feel it.”
Death shook Christine’s mother’s head, gently pushing Christine’s wrist away.
Christine only sobbed harder. “Please. You made a mistake. You made a mistake.”
Oh, foolish Christine. Does she not know that mistakes are a mortal’s disease? That Death was born perfect? What would your existence look like if something as undeniable as Death made mistakes?
Thank your lucky stars Death can’t make mistakes, mortals. Otherwise, that word, that little title, wouldn’t be a guarantee. And if you think your world is breaking now, only imagine the stress fractures caused by your lot being immortal. Nothing is made to last forever. Especially not something made of flesh and brittle bones.
“I’m not dead!” Christine pulled her hair so tightly that you could hear it tear. “I’m here! I’m alive! I can prove it to you.”
Death sat back in an invitation, opening Christine’s mother’s arms.
Christine nodded and stood up. “Okay. Watch me.”
She picked up her chair, shaking it in midair. “See? Can a dead person do this?” She set it down again and walked past Death, shoving Death’s chair so that Death couldn’t look away from her. “Can a dead person do that, Death?”
Death folded Christine’s mother’s hands, face completely blank.
Christine laughed. “See? You have to agree with me!” She walked to her dining room wall and flicked the lights off, throwing both her and Death in complete darkness. “Can a dead person do this?” She flicked the lights back on. “Or this?” She kept flicking the lights back and forth so quickly that it was impossible to keep track. “Or any of this?”
Death tapped Christine’s mother’s fingers against the table in a clear sign of impatience. At least, it would be impatience for me. If Christine wasn’t actually dead by this point, I’d change that myself. Some humans were so grating that I was happy their lives were painfully short. The menaces.
Christine walked into her kitchen and grabbed a stack of glass plates from her oak cupboards. She had bought them from a company everybody knew, but she was convinced glass plates made her better than those who could only afford paper ones. Something about the environment and everyone having an equal chance to decent money in life.
She slammed the cupboard shut, disappointed that the wood didn’t splinter on impact, before marching back into her dining room. “Can a dead person carry dishes like this? Can a dead person carry anything?”
Death froze, watching the plates carefully. Death may be an amalgamation of every bit of rearranged matter since the beginning of all, but that didn’t stop Death from being nervous when annoying humans threatened Death with distasteful glassware made by slave labor.
Christine picked up a plate and threw it against the wall. It shattered on impact, each piece of glass falling to the floor like bloodthirsty rain. Death stood up, Christine’s mother’s hands splayed across the dining room table. Christine picked up the next plate and threw that one straight at the ground, sending its shattered corpse skittering across the scratched hardwood floors. A couple of chunks brushed against Death’s shoes. Death brushed them aside.
Christine looked up at Death, her entire being trembling. “Is this not enough for you? Do you need more from me?”
Death met her gaze head-on, completely unwavering.
Christine screamed, grabbing another plate. This time, she aimed right for Death’s face. Her mother was dead, after all. It couldn’t be her mother’s face. She wanted to see it shatter against Death’s face. Maybe she could be known as the one who killed Death. She would save every human from Death’s wicked grasp for all eternity.
The plate was an inch from Death’s face when it stopped. Death hadn’t even moved. It just hovered there in mid-air. Slowly, the plate gently floated down, swaying side to side like a leaf in the wind, right back to the table.
Christine’s chest heaved as she stared in horror. But Death didn’t clench Christine’s mother’s fist. Death didn’t yell or fight back or even scowl. All Death did was lift Christine’s Mother’s hands and wave them through the air before tugging on Christine’s reality, peeling it back like a damp sticker until Christine could see through the cracks.
It was nighttime in the crack, but the dark was interrupted by the constant light of sirens. A child was screaming for his mother, but there was no response.
Christine stepped closer, peering through the opening. Her body was on the ground, bleeding out onto the dark pavement. Paramedics surrounded her, poking at this mirror Christine to no avail. Her eyes were already glassy, her heart slumbering in its ribcage cradle.
“Death, that’s me.” Christine, the real Christine, the Christine who had existed for this entire story, stumbled back. “But I’m right here. I’m right here, Death.”
Death walked silently, putting a hand on Christine’s shoulder as they both stared through the crack. The paramedics lifted mirror Christine’s body into a body bag, zipping it closed.
Christine turned to look at Death. “Which one is real? That Christine or me?”
Death shrugged, putting Christine’s mother’s smile back on. I could imagine the verbal response if Death ever spoke. Why does only one have to be real? Why can’t you be here with me and down there, leaving the world behind?
Death lifted Christine’s mother’s hands and smoothed the crack closed, putting that dimension out of sight once more.

Week Three Part One: Death Part Three
353 Words

Christine sunk to the floor, burying her face in her knees. “Oh, Death. What happened? How could this happen? My sons. My boys. What will they do?”
Death sat beside her and gently traced a finger across Christine’s thigh, spelling out a single English word. L. I. V. E.
Christine lifted her head, her face covered in tears. “But aren’t you against that? Isn’t that your very opposite?”
Death shook Christine’s mother’s head.
Christine let out a sob. “Do you think they’ll be okay?”
Death nodded, smile never wavering.
Christine leaned her head on Death’s shoulder. “Just give me one more minute. Please.”
Death leaned Christine's mother’s head against Christine’s head in response.
You mortals never really have a good sense of time, so it was only about forty-five seconds by the time Christine sighed. “I’m ready, Death. And I’m sorry.”
Death merely patted Christine on the shoulder before standing. Death offered a hand again, bending slightly to keep smiling at Christine.
She accepted it this time, gripping Death’s warm hand. The warmth only grew, increasing until Christine could feel it in every atom that made up her being. She finally smiled at Death, the tears evaporating off of her newly glowing face.
Death guided Christine to the front door of her home, each step completely silent as Christine’s made the hardwood floors creak. Once they arrived, Death opened the door, blocking the entryway so only Death and Christine could see through. Christine’s eyes widened and slowly, in reverence and awe, she walked through.
I cannot tell you what she saw and why come would run through laughing, and others had to be dragged in screaming. Death has never let me look through the door, but I know I will one day. We all will one day when the universe implodes, and everything’s crushed back down to a howling void, and the only thing that remains is Death and Death’s door and whatever lays beyond its threshold.
Death turned around one last time, smiling into the empty bones of Christine’s house. Death waved farewell before stepping through, closing it with one final thud.

Week Three Part Two: Yara-ma-yha-who Part One
650 Words

Okay, let’s continue with our story. Before we officially begin, I’d like to… apologize, if you will. I have spent about one hundred years with you mortals, give or take a few millennia. Sue me for not having the exact number. But, in all of your years of existence, from going to hunter-gatherers that spoke in cave drawings and hand gestures to splitting the atom and ripping a town into dust, you have always been a complicated species. Some of you have done some truly fascinating things. Discovering penicillin by accident? Truly ironic. Building technology that can connect people thousands of miles apart? Absolutely incredible. What a shame some of you use it for less than… stellar purposes. So, forgive me if sometimes I lose my figurative head when one of you decides to play at the less-than-stellar side of the fence. Especially when you target the only being in existence that has known you for as long as I have.
But, this story isn’t me begging you to forgive me. Hate me if you wish; I will still outlast you and all of your great-great-great-grandchildren. If you last that long, of course. Things aren't looking too well for you on that end. Regardless, this story isn’t of one monster (or commonly thought of as a monster in Death’s case because Death isn’t, you all just have no manners or decency. Sometimes. Most of the time, you’re okay, I guess), but of a mortal, like you. His name was Richard, and he wasn’t dead. He was alive and well and walking home from his summer job work one hot afternoon, daydreaming about swimming with the girl Jennifer that moved in just a block down his street.
Nothing was out of the ordinary. Until, of course, something was. And something came in the form of a little red, froggish man. It wore a business suit over its froggish body and a very precarious toupe on its head.
Richard was an average boy who had never seen such a thing before, so he responded very maturely with a sharp, “What the hell are you?”
The froggish man was very offended by that as it gasped and hopped back in offense. “Pardon you, sir! I am a very wise creature, here to impart you with the ultimate wisdom.”
Richard frowned. “You don’t look very wise.”
The froggish man ribbited. “What do you want me to do? Tattoo the words ‘very smart right beneath my hair?”
“That’s a toupe.”
“No, it isn’t.”
“It’s slipping off.”
The toupe slipped off the froggish man’s head and clattered to the floor. “No, it isn’t.”
Richard took a step back. “Yeah, you don’t seem very wise to me.”
The froggish man sighed. “Look, I am so wise that I will tell you the name of my kind. And I’ll pronounce it correctly!”
“Okay.” Richard looked past the froggish man to see if he could walk around it.
“I am a yara-ma-yha-who!”
Richard blinked in confusion. “You just made that up.”
The froggish man shook its head. “No, I didn’t. Now, who’s unwise?”
Richard sighed. “Look, man. I just want to get home. I got algebra homework, and it’s going to take me forever.”
The yara-ma-yha-who jumped in excitement. “I can help with that! If you were super wise like me, it would be so easy!”
Richard narrowed his eyes. “I don’t know. I don’t even know your name.”
The yara-ma-yha-who groaned. “Who cares? All you need to know is that I am very wise and absolutely trustworthy. Don’t worry about anything else.”
Richard shook his head. “No. I think I’m good, actually.”
The yara-ma-yha-who hopped even closer to Richard. “Come on! At least one little taste of my wisdom. You can say no after you try it.”
Richard, being incredibly smart, took another step back. “No thanks, buddy.”
The tara-ma-yha-who frowned. “Fine. I guess I won’t ask again.”

Week Four: Yara-ma-yha-who Part Two
1008 Words

“What do you mean-”
Before Richard could finish his sentence, the yara-ma-yha-who quite literally lept into action. Richard felt himself flying into the air, and suddenly the world went dark.
The yara-ma-yha-who had eaten him. I knew that because I know everything, thank you very much, and Richard could guess because everything was soft, slimy, and smelt utterly awful, like moldy battery acid. Not that battery acid can mold, but Richard wasn’t exactly worried about scientific accuracy. It’s tough to worry about many things when a strange froggish man has eaten you.
“Hey! What the hell, man?” Richard wanted to punch the inside of its stomach, but he was worried he might throw up if any of the slimy got onto any other part of him. Besides, didn’t stomachs digest things? Why wasn’t he in excruciating pain from being slowly consumed?
He looked down at his hands. There was a spot of the slime on his left hand, but it was only turning the akin red. Was that a sign of irritation? Is that the first stage of digestion? Richard didn’t know much about biology, so he had little idea what to expect. Quite unfortunate, really. He might have had a better idea of what was happening if he did.
He brought his left hand closer to his face. The slime looked very inconspicuous. It was slimy, as slimes tend to be. I mean, very astute observation, Richard. That hasn’t been said in this story twice before that. But I digress. The slimy slime was a translucent gray, which Richard dubbed see-through gray because I doubt he knew what translucent meant. He smeared it across the back of his hand until it was a thin layer. His skin looked like it was developing a minor rash, but strangely, it didn’t itch. It just sort of tingled like he had held his hand very still, and all of the nerves took a power nap. He flexed his hand, and the feeling didn’t go away. That’s not what digestion felt like, right? Food didn’t tingle.
Before thinking about it and bursting a blood vessel in his brain from the effort, his whole world flipped. Soon, he was sprawled against the concrete, the yara-ma-yha-who with an open mouth filled with slime. Richard shook some of the slime that clung to him.
“Yo, dude! Did you just eat me?”
The yara-ma-yha-who closed its mouth, swallowing. “No.”
Richard scoffed. “Then how do you explain why I was just inside of your stomach?”
“You weren’t.”
Richard stood up, realizing for the first time that his legs were tingling badly. Like, way worse than his hands. This was because Richard’s legs were practically stewing in the contents of the yara-ma-yha-who’s stomach, but he didn’t connect the dots.
“Then where was I?”
The yara-ma-yha-who narrowed its eyes. “You see, really funny story.”
“I’m not laughing. You just ate me.”
“No, I didn’t. I’ll prove it to you.”
Richard put his hands on his very slimy hips. “Oh, yeah? Just like you proved you weren’t wearing a toupe?”
“I wasn’t wearing a toupe!” The yara-ma-yha-who ribbited in annoyance. “Look, kid. I am a very wise yara-ma-yha-who, and now, I have given you some of the yara-ma-yha-who wisdom. The yara-ma-yha-whoisdom, if you may.”
“That sounds awful.”
“No it doesn’t.” The yara-ma-yha-who cleared its throat. “Look, try and guess any state capital.”
Richard groaned. “Look, I’m awful at geography.”
“Not anymore! Now you’re super cool and wise.”
Richard rolled his eyes. “Will you leave me alone if I play along?”
“You won’t want me to!”
Richard sighed. “Okay, fine. The capital of California is Los Angeles, right?”
The yara-ma-yha-who jumped in excitement. “Correct!”
Richard blinked. “Wait, really?”
“Yes, absolutely!”
Richard pulled out his phone. “I’m looking it up just to make sure.”
Instead of running away screaming like a reasonable person, he opened Google on his phone. He felt less cautious now. The yara-ma-yha-who, while stupid, was harmless. Who needed to run away?
“Yeah. It says right here. The capital of California is Sacramento, not Los Angeles.”
The yara-ma-yha-who frowned, ribbiting in acute displeasure. “That’s wrong.”
Richard blinked, wildly gesturing to his phone. “Bro, it’s Google! Are you going to fight Google right now?”
The yara-ma-yha-who hummed. “One question for you, Richard. Did the inventors of Google have Google while making Google?”
“Are you just saying Google a bunch of times to be confusing?”
“No, I am asking a very important question that you must ponder immediately. The inventors of Google didn’t have Google to Google things when making Google, so the inventors of Google could make Google Google however they wanted. Google.”
Richard blinked. “I’m sorry, what?”
The yara-ma-yha-who hummed. “Why, this is quite a problem. You clearly haven’t gained enough wisdom to truly comprehend my question.”
“I don’t even know if you know what you’re asking, dude.”
The yara-ma-yha-who sighed. “Oh well, I will just have to give you more wisdom. That way you can keep up.”
Richard sighed. “Look. You said I would have enough wisdom to know all of the state capitals, and you were wrong. You don’t even know your state capitals. Leave me alone. Now I have to wash all of this gunk off. My mom’s going to kill me.”
“Your mom won’t even notice.”
Richard groaned. “Do you even realize how ridiculous you sound? Nothing you’re saying makes any sense!”
Richard decided to just be done with it. He could walk around the yara-ma-yha-who, after all. Then he could get home safely and pretend a strange froggish man in a business suit never approached him.
But, as soon as Richard took a single step forward, the world went dark again. The yara-ma-yha-who had eaten him. Again. Richard groaned. “Stop doing this! Not cool!”
He leaned against one of the walls of the yara-ma-yha-who’s stomach and crossed his arms. If the yara-ma-yha-who let him out last time, maybe it will again. Richard’s hands seemed to be slightly redder this time, less like a rash and more like spilled fruit punch on his hands.

Week Five: The Yara-ma-yha-who Part Three
1035 Words

That was weird, right? That wasn’t normal. Spoiler alert, in case you don’t know, absolutely none of this is normal. Please go home, Richard. Honestly, these stories would be half a page short if I had any say. All it would say was that I marched down to whatever moral or creature needed to stop and made them stop. Then everyone went home, and I got to worry about literally anything else. Wouldn’t that be nice?
Unfortunately, that was not my job. My job is to suffer whenever someone decides to ruin something. Which was only about, let me think, every second. Every day. Since the beginning of all.
Which isn’t annoying at all, thanks for asking. I’m not upset.
But I digress.
Richard waited for the yara-ma-yha-who to spit him out again. His head was feeling a little fuzzy. Why was he mad about being swallowed again?
Soon enough, he was sprawled on the sidewalk again in a very thick pile of slime. “Yo, dude. Why do you keep doing that?”
The yara-ma-yha-who hopped in place. “Do what?”
Richard blinked. “I don’t know. What were we talking about?”
“State capitals.” The yara-ma-yha-who smiled. “And how the capital of California is Los Angeles.”
Richard blinked. “Dude. No, it’s not. We just established that it was Sacramento.”
The yara-ma-yha-who shook its froggish head. “No, we didn’t.”
Richard blinked. Thinking felt like shoving potatoes through a pasta drainer. “We didn’t?”
“We didn’t. Yara-ma-yha-who’s honor.”
Richard groaned. “Let me Google it. Just in case.”
“No! We just established that Google lies to you.”
Richard froze. “We did?”
The yara-ma-yha-who nodded. “You threw your phone to the ground in rage and everything.”
Richard rubbed his eyes. “I don’t remember that.”
“Well, I do.” The yara-ma-yha-who smiled, which looked a little weird because frogs weren’t supposed to have teeth. Or maybe they were. Richard couldn’t quite keep track.
“Man. I’m just going to… lay down. My legs feel funny.” Richard bent down to look at his legs. All he could see was his jeans, absolutely covered in slime. They seemed baggy and loose as if his legs shrunk. But that didn’t make sense.
He sat on the sidewalk, right in the pile of slime. His arms were as red as the yara-ma-yha-who. Maybe he was sunburnt. How long had he been outside? His mom was going to be worried.
The yara-ma-yha-who hopped closer, looking down at him. “You should probably take a nap.”
Richard blinked again. “Nap?”
The yara-ma-yha-who nodded. “Studies show that the best naps are taken on the sidewalk. Concrete is excellent for back support.”
Richard rubbed his eyes. He couldn’t think of a way to disagree. Maybe the yara-ma-yha-who was right. He should just sleep. That made sense.
Richard didn’t have time to close his eyes before everything changed again. He was back in the yara-ma-yha-who’s stomach. Except it couldn’t be. The yara-ma-yha-who said it wasn’t eating Richard. So where was he? Maybe it was a dream. Sidewalks were perfect for really realistic dreams.
Richard felt really small. And slimy. He didn’t like it very much. So maybe it was a nightmare. Where Richard’s skin turned lipstick red. And he shrunk until he was what? Three feet tall now? Richard felt dizzy. He didn’t know which was up or down, East or North. He wanted to go home, but he couldn’t even remember what his house looked like.
When his world flipped, he just stayed on the ground, looking up towards the sky. The sky was always blue.
The yara-ma-yha-who leaned over Richard. “What are you doing?”
“Looking at the sky.”
The yara-ma-yha-who nodded. “The sky’s my favorite shade of green.”
Richard shook his head. “The sky is blue.”
The yara-ma-yha-who laughed. “No, it isn’t. It’s green.”
Richard blinked. So it was. The sky was green. The sky has always been green.
Richard felt sick.
“You look a little confused there.” The yara-ma-yha-who sat beside him.
“That’s because I am.” Richard wiped a thick glob of slime off of his forehead. His skin seemed to stay moist anyways.
“Well, it’s a good thing that I am a yara-ma-yha-who with infinite wisdom!”
Richard nodded, closing his eyes. “I could use some wisdom.”
“Then you just have to promise one thing.”
Richard opened his eyes again. “Huh?”
The yara-ma-yha-who nodded gravely. “You have to spread your wisdom to everyone else forever. Promise? Until everyone is as wise as you. Got it?”
Richard tried to think about it, but words kept clunking uselessly around his head instead of forming coherent sentences (aren’t you glad I’m narrating instead of this guy?). So, he nodded. “I promise.”
The yara-ma-yha-who grinned. “Beautiful.” It bent down and swallowed Richard whole.
Richard didn’t even mind. If the yara-ma-yha-who swallowed him, it had a good reason. He scooped up some of the slime and wiped it all over his face, down his neck and arms. He spread it all over himself until he couldn’t feel anything anymore. By the time the yara-ma-yha-who spat him back out, he was basically one large ball of slime.
The yara-ma-yha-who smiled down at him. “Do you feel wise yet?”
Richard shook off some of the excess slime. He went to wipe off his face only to discover he had no hands.
He hopped in surprise.
Wait. No hands? Hopping?
Richard looked down at himself. He was a little red froggish man wearing a baggy hoodie and ill-fitting pants.
He was a yara-ma-yha-who.
“How did…?”
The yara-ma-yha-who, the first yara-ma-yha-who, ribbited. “I gave you my wisdom. The wisdom of the yara-ma-yha-who. Now you know all of the things.”
Richard nodded. “So you did. I certainly feel much wiser.”
Never before did Richard know that the ocean was filled with salt-flavored soda. Or that the moon was a movie projector for aliens. Or that vaccines turned your blood into saltwater taffy. Why didn’t they teach those things in school? Everyone should know that!
Richard shook his head. “I have so much wisdom that I need to share it with everyone!”
The first yara-ma-yha-who nodded. “You do! Everyone in the city, the country, the sun!”
Richard nodded. Even the secret race of robot lizard potato people living in the sun needed his wisdom.

Week Six: The Yara-ma-yha-who Part Four
145 Words

“Where do I start, wise yara-ma-yha-who?”
The yara-ma-yha-who grinned. “Well, let me show you how it’s done first. Then we can worry about that.”
Richard hopped in excitement. “Okay! Let’s go, then.”
“Hold on. Let me grab my toupée.” The yara-ma-yha-who picked up the toupée off of the sidewalk with his tongue. Try not to gag too hard.
Richard frowned. “I thought you didn’t have a toupée.”
The yara-ma-yha-who laughed. “What are you talking about? Of course, I do. It’s right here.” He put the toupée on top of his head with his tongue. “See?”
Richard nodded. Of course. The toupée was painfully obvious. “Right, sorry.”
The yara-ma-yha-who turned around. “First destination, your friend Jennifer’s house!”
Richard grinned again. “Okay!”
The two yara-ma-yha-whos hopped down the sidewalk, deadset on spreading their “wisdom” to the world, their feet leaving thick trails of slime in their wake.

Week SIx Part Two: The Pontianak Part One
863 Words

I am perfectly aware that Richard’s story may be a little distressing. I don’t apologize for sharing it, for you mortals are very motivated by what you find distressing, but I do express my sympathy for your anxiety. But, I hope that any anxiety or stress you felt will lead you to run away from any strange red frog men that try to tell you the capital of California is Los Angeles because the yara-ma-yha-who is kind enough to give you a warning.
Some monsters, however, aren’t. Not all monsters are born of contradictions and trickery. Some are born in the moments when humanity just snaps, and all that’s left is jagged edges and pain.
Such is the story of Lucille Ebony. She was young, a mere twenty years old when she married for the first time. His name was Jackson Ebony, and he was tall, handsome, and had a sweet smile. He thanked the waitress for the meal and called his mother every weekend. Lucille had every reason to believe that he was a prince charming, a perfect angel.
But she forgot that Lucifer was God’s favorite angel, as the story goes. She forgot that perfect is nearly always hiding something twisted and awful.
They had been married for three months the first time he hit her. His fist landed right on her cheek like a kiss is meant to. A bruised bloomed overnight like a blush. It was a corrupted copy of love, but Jackson promised never to do it again. And Lucille believed him.
And she believed him the second time.
And the third time.
The forty-first.
The three hundred sixteenth.
Eventually, it became obvious that she just wanted to believe him. She just needed the words to be true, despite the fact that he made sure they never would be. It’s such a sad thing, really. You mortals depend on your hope to survive, but sometimes it’s the very thing that kills you.
Lucille found out she was pregnant when she was twenty-one, barely old enough to drink alcohol in her state of Louisiana. Jackson was excited to be a father, and Lucille daydreamed of holding an infant in her arms. Of having a child running through the hallways. Of having a teenager ignore her and call her names, only to hug her at the end of the day. She dreamed of hosting life in her home. Lucille dreamed of being a mother.
What a shame, really. That she’s here instead of in that dream, she’s in this book instead of in a child’s life.
Because while Jackson was excited to be a father, he never acted fit to be one. And one day, during an attack he promised a thousand times would never happen, he hit Lucille’s head just right that it smashed into the wall. Her blood splatted across the paint. Her body crumpled to the floor. Jackson tried to catch her, but his violent hands had already stained Lucille too much. Her heart pittered to a stop. Mother and child died in one final breath. And Jackson was left with the wreckage.
And that could’ve been the end. Jackson could have gone to prison for being human, but a wretched one and Lucille would be ushered by Death. Maybe she could raise a child in Death’s domain.
But this was a snap moment. And the only things that truly died that day were Lucille’s child and her humanity. When Death came to collect Lucille’s soul, there was nothing there.
Lucille had shed her death. She became a Pontianak.
Gone was the hope for something better, for Jackson to finally keep his promise of never again. Never again meant nothing when Lucille would never breathe again, when Lucille would never feel whole again, when Lucille would never dream again.
So, she wandered Earth aimlessly for some time. All she knew was that she felt torn to pieces. She didn’t have a place to go. The Earth wasn’t built for the dead. A Pontianak has no place in the world.
That was until she heard a story on the wind. A story of a man named Jackson Ebony who was convicted of manslaughter and took a plea bargain. A story about how he served three years in prison and was released on good behavior. And it’s stories like that that give a Pontianak their purpose.
It took exactly three days for Lucille to find Jackson’s new apartment. And that is where our story officially begins. With Jackson sitting on his thrift store couch and Lucille slipping through his wall in the dead of night.
You see, Jackson had picked up alcohol as a hobby since his in prison. So, his counters, his three-and-a-half-legged coffee table, and large chunks of his floors were covered in bottles and cans. Some would say it was the grief going to his head; he had lost his wife, after all. Some would say it was the guilt; he had killed her, after all. I say that it was because Jackson Ebony had always been an absolute bullet train wreck of a human, and he didn’t know he was if he wasn’t falling apart.

Week Seven: The Pontianak Part Two
1001 Words

When Lucille drifted into his apartment, the first thing she stumbled into was a crooked line of beer bottles on the floor. They were all empty, and each one played its part in making the stench of the room unbearable that Lucille’s long-dead senses flared to life in offense. She looked around, spotting the signs of a morally decayed man, and set her jaw. Tonight, he couldn’t hurt her.
Jackson was stone cold on the couch, drooling all over the cushion. He was still in his wrinkled day clothes and they were plastered to his skin in a wretched combination of old beer and sweat. Lucille drifted to him, staring down at the man she used to love. Down at the man that was supposed to father her children.
Down at the evil creature who killed her and her child.
She leaned over Jackson’s face, her misty grey form flickering, and whispered a single phrase. “Wake up.”
Jackson startled awake as if he had just had the worst nightmare of his life. He snorted, sitting up in a flash. “Huh? Who’s there?”
Lucille floated away slightly, her feet hovering an inch above his soiled carpet. Jackson turned to her, suddenly turning ghostly pale. “Lucy! Lucy, baby. Oh my god.”
Lucille shook her head. “No.” Her voice echoed, flowing from her lips before repeating back to itself like a ripple.
Jackson blinked. “No?”
“You have lost the right to that pet name. You have lost the right to my name.” Lucille’s eyes started to glow. “For you have decided to kill what you should have protected, and I have lost my heart and soul.”
“Lucy, you’re scaring me.”
Lucille growled and raised her hand, lifting Jackson along with it. Jackson choked on nothing at all, suspended by nothing but Lucille’s anger.
“Forget that name, Mr. Ebony. That name belonged to a human that died a long time ago.”
Jackson’s breath was barely a wheeze by the time Lucille dropped him. “What…?” He coughed, his voice dry and raspy. “What do I call you then?”
“Call me what you left behind when you stole everything else.” Lucille only glowed brighter. “Pontianak.”
Jackson blinked. “Pontianak? I don’t understand. You’re just a ghost.”
Lucille shook her head. “Ghosts aren’t real, Mr. Ebony. But some furies cannot be tempered by Death’s grip. And some mistakes follow you, even after you bury them.”
Jackson’s unfocused eyes softened. “You were never a mistake, L-”
Lucille started to raise her hand again.
“Pontianak! Pontianak. You were never a mistake.”
Lucille lowered her hand again. “Lucy was not the mistake, no.” She pointed at Jackson. “You always were.”
Jackson spluttered. “What?”
Lucille swayed slightly in the air. “You heard me.”
Jackson looked around his apartment as if his walls would start spelling reassurances that she was wrong. If anything, I’d say his apartment only held evidence that Lucille was right, but he didn’t seem to notice. “I am not a mistake.”
Lucille hummed. “Humans are what they put into the world. You are human, aren’t you?”
Jackson nodded.
“And what have you done other than making one mistake after the other?”
Jackson scoffed. “Marrying you!”
Lucille shook her head. “You can’t marry a Pontianak, only the person it was torn out of.”
Jackson groaned. “Marrying Lucille, then!”
Lucille shrugged. “Still a bad argument. Marrying a woman you despised so much that you killed her and every dream she ever had for her life was your biggest mistake.”
Jackson blanched. “I loved you. I mean, I loved Lucille. She was the greatest part of me.”
“Does a dying man terminate his healthy arm or his festering leg, Mr. Ebony?”
Jackson shook his head. “What does that even mean?”
“Do you remove the parts of you that sustain you or kill you?” Lucille hovered closer to Jackson, making him press himself into his filthy couch. “Why else would you kill Lucille except for the fact that her being so much better than you was slowly unraveling everything you made yourself to be? You lashed out because she demanded that you learn to be better, and you took that as a death sentence. You don’t know who you are if not selfish and unkind and the worst a man could possibly be.”
Jackson trembled beneath Lucille’s mighty gaze. “You… you are not the woman I married.”
Lucille nodded. “Correct. I am what is left of her after you stole the one thing she thought she’d always have.”
“What?” Jackson scoffed. “A life? We’re all doomed to die.”
Lucille shook her head. “A family. Someone to miss her when she did die.”
Jackson frowned. “I… I was her family.”
Lucille paused before she laughed. And laughed. And kept laughing. Soon, her laughter rang through the entire apartment, bouncing off every wall and echoing through every corner. It seemed to drown out every sound that ever was, ever will be.
Jackson covered his ears, but he could still hear it loud and clear. His heart beat in tandem with it, and it made him sick.
Finally, after what seemed like years, Lucille fell silent all at once. “No, Mr. Ebony. You were her prison. Her captor. Her killer. You wouldn’t know what a family was if it smashed your skull in just like you did with Lucille.”
Jackson whimpered pathetically. Then again, everything he did was pathetic, so it checked out. “No! No, that isn’t true.”
Lucille nodded. “I do not lie, Mr. Ebony. I only rage and hate, and those two feelings demand the truth.”
Jackson shook his head. “Stop. Get away from me. Lucille loved me. Lucille loved me!”
“She loved the idea of you, maybe. She loved the promises you made to her.” Lucille hummed. “But do not confuse it with loving you. For you kept no promises, so you kept none of the love for them.”
Jackson stood up, his drunken legs still shaky. “No. Shut up. You don’t know what you’re talking about. You already said you’re not my wife.”

Week Eight: The Pontianak Part Three
1007 Words
I posted a warning earlier, but I shall post one here once more. This part deals with extreme violence and gore. Please be safe while reading.

“So, you finally listen to me when the truth is convenient for you?” Lucille shook her head. “Some people really never change.”
Jackson chuckled nervously. “What do you mean?”
“I mean that you hated facts until you could twist them in your favor when Lucille was alive, and you feel the same way long after she’s dead. Grief didn’t change you. Alleged guilt didn’t change you. Prison didn’t change you.” Lucille hovered closer to Jackson again, thrumming with dark energy, the kind that can only be described as steam rising from blood-boiling anger. “But I can.”
Jackson fell back onto the couch, cowering before Lucille the Pontianak. “I don’t need to be changed.” His voice didn’t sound very confident. In fact, he sounded rather terrified, if I do say so myself like a toddler mistaking a pair of socks for the face of a monster. But Jackson was much more stupid than a toddler, and Lucille much more threatening than even the itchiest pair of mystery socks. Even Jackson comprehended the latter.
Lucille sighed. “They all say that. Lucille heard that lie a million times from you. ‘Oh, I will change, Lucy.’ to ‘Oh, I don’t need to change, Lucy.’ That’s the kind of thing that fractures humanity.”
Jackson whimpered like a sick child. “Why… why are you here, demon?”
Lucille sighed. “Oh, Mr. Ebony. You have proven yourself to be incapable of understanding any sort of why. Give me one good reason why I should waste my time.”
“I deserve an explanation!” Jackson’s voice was shrill now, seeming more like a tea kettle blowing into a whistle than an authoritative demand. “You burst into my house and accused me of awful things! And now you’re over here saying that you’re going to change me?”
Lucille scowled. “Do. Not. Talk to me. About what is deserved.” Lucille lifted her hands again, Jackson choking on her anger, on the Pontianak’s essence. He clawed at his throat uselessly as if any amount of flailing could break the grip of his sins. “If you got what you deserved, you would’ve died in prison. Not because of a life sentence, no, just because your fellow inmates would’ve stolen guns to shoot you so many times, the only sign you died there would be a red haze!”
Jackson wheezed, his face blood red. His hands fell limp by his side.
Lucille growled. “I have run out of patience. Your end is now, Mr. Ebony. The wretched, foul stain of your existence will be washed away by your blood and tears. Your cries for mercy will be the sweetest music! Death will be your Hell, and Hell will be something no word or scream could ever describe.”
Lucille dropped Jackson onto the couch. He wheezed, holding on to his throat again. He stared up at her, too tired to tremble.
Lucille pushed him flat on his back on the couch. “In the name of retribution, I seal Jackson Benjamin Ebony’s life to his heart. Until the last valve is eaten, he shall not die. Even in fire and brimstone, blizzard and ice.” She laid her hand flat on his chest, pushing through his skin and gripping his heart. “He is unbound by mortal laws and now becomes the property of his crimes.”
Jackson whimpered around his bruising throat. “Wha…?”
Lucille, no. The Pontianak, now fully emerged, tugged at his heart until it gave, ripping out of his chest with a sharp rip. She held Jackson’s heart in her hands. It kept beating as if nothing had changed, and hearts were supposed to sit in the palm of someone’s hand.
Jackson looked at his heart and screamed.
The Pontianak didn’t move until Jackson fell silent again, his heart beating erratically in her palms. Once his voice gave out, she set his heart gently on the table. “Shall we begin?”
Jackson shook his head. Of course, he didn’t want to. Who would? He didn’t even know exactly what “Lucille” was being or what a “valve” was, but he could guess them getting eaten was bad. And making it impossible to die until a bad thing happened? Now that had to be worse.
For those of you reading this who are in danger of finding yourself in Jackson’s position, yes, it was bad. The Pontianak had cast a spell on Jackson, making him immortal until she ate his heart. Which might not seem like a terrible deal to some of you, but wait. It gets worse.
The Pontianak sat down on Jackson’s legs, pinning him to his couch. “Oh. Well, Lucille was never ready to get hit. She was never ready to cover up her bruises. She was never ready to die.” She stretched out her hand. The tips of fingers started growing, elongating into cones with deadly sharp tips. “So, I don’t care if you are. I’m starving.”
Jackson let out a sob. “L-Lucy, baby. I know you’re in there. Listen to me, please.”
The Pontianak paused, her fleshy claws freezing in place.
“I know I wasn’t right to you. You deserved so much better than that.”
The Pontianak nodded. “Yes.”
“I was selfish and evil, and nothing I did was ever your fault.”
“Go on.”
Jackson swallowed. “I should’ve left you. I should’ve packed my bags and left a long time ago.”
“Yes, you should have.”
Jackson shrugged. “But I just loved you too much. For that-”
“Stop.”
Jackson blinked. He was apologizing. Wasn’t that enough for the Lucy trapped in the demon’s skin?
“You didn’t love Lucille.”
Jackson shook his head. “Yes. Yes, I did. I know I wasn’t the best husband-”
“I said stop!” The Pontianak drove her claws into Jackson’s stomach.
This time, her hand did not phase through. The claws pierced the skin, stabbing into his flesh. He screamed in agony, each entry point burning like nothing ever had before. Lucille tore her hand away, dragging the flesh of Jackson’s stomach away with it. Jackson felt air brushing against his small intestine, blood pooling onto the couch like a waterfall.

Week Nine: The Pontianak Part Four
1006 Words
Same warning as last week applies. Except it is a lot worse.

Tears bubbled in the corner of his eyes. “Stop…” His voice was hoarse and fading. He already wanted to die. Who knew pain could burn like this? Consume a person whole until nothing but trembling agony remained?
Lucille had known that when she was alive, not that Jackson could fathom that. He had hurt Lucille in that way, breaking down everything that she was. Hadn’t the Pontianak told him a thousand times already? Why was Jackson so shallow and stupid to realize? Was his brain so watered-down and useless that it couldn’t be seen with a microscope? Mortals like him sicken me. The natural ups and downs of life already hurt humans so much, so often. Why do you have to join the fray of pain? Wasn’t death painful enough when it was natural? Wasn’t grief vitriol enough when it was unavoidable?
I will never understand you, humans.
The Pontianak growled in response, brushing her fingers along Jackson’s open wound. He whimpered, turning his head to the side. She stuck her hand in the wound, brushing the underside of his ribs. Jackson gagged at the feeling.
She grasped his liver and ripped it out from the wound, dripping blood all down her forearms. The muscle glistened in the poor apartment lighting as the Pontianak took a greedy bite out of it. Ascites from his liver disease dribbled down her face as she just kept eating.
Jackson reached up weakly to cover his ears. The sounds… those moist, squelching sounds of tearing flesh rattled to his core. He could smell the blood and the sour smell of stomach acid. He didn’t know smells could be so disgusting, so violating. What had he done to deserve this? No one deserved a fate like this.
The Pontianak seemed to disagree. As soon as she finished the last bite of the liver, she stuck her hand in again. This time, she grabbed his spleen. She folded it and stuck the entire thing in her mouth, closing her eyes in bliss as she chewed. Jackson let out a sob. “How am I not dead?”
The Pontianak swallowed. “Because you don’t deserve to be.” She reached in again. His stomach was her next victim, sloshing with the amount of beer he had consumed. This time, she punctured a small hole in the top. “Remember the time you put out your cigarette on Lucille?”
Jackson blinked up at her. Truthfully, he remembered doing that several times. But that didn’t seem to be the right response, so he stayed quiet.
The Pontianak shook her head. “This will help make up for that.” She turned his stomach upside down, splashing the acid across his face. He screamed again, writhing in pain as the acid burned. What had the Pontianak done to his stomach to make the contents hurt so much?
I rolled my eyes at that thought. I really hope I don’t have to explain here.
Smirking, the Pontianak flipped his stomach and widened the opening. She then brought it to her lips and threw her head back, chugging the contents. Jackson gagged uselessly. He wanted to throw up at the sight, but there was no stomach to throw up anything with. All he felt was open air rush up his esophagus.
After the Pontianak drained his stomach, she ate it, too, showing no signs of slowing down. How was she still hungry? Her own stomach shouldn’t be capable of holding that much flesh.
Well, humans, that’s now how a Pontianak’s hunger worked. There was no stomach to fill, only a deep void where their humanity had been stolen. A black hole of anger. A vacuum of grief. You can’t satisfy something like that. And each bite of flesh, each sip of blood, only disintegrated under the weight of the Pontianak’s desire. Only Jackson’s painful death would last.
So, the feast only continued. Each organ was the same. She would tug it out and devour it as if she had never eaten something so sweet before. Jackson’s cries and screams faded as his throat turned raw. His voice was lost to the Pontianak’s relentlessness, and soon, his abdomen was devoid of anything except his bones. The Pontianak’s mouth was covered in blood, her teeth dripping every time she opened her mouth, and it coated her arms up to her elbows. It dripped everywhere, covering Jackson’s pants and his couch, dribbling onto the already sticky floor. It smelled of death, but Death had yet to come to collect Jackson’s soul. He impossibly survived. He had no lungs with which to breathe, but he wasn’t even dizzy. His heart remained on his coffee table, still beating so rapidly it rocked back and forth.
The Pontianak gently picked it up, stroking its surface with clawed hands. A jolt of phantom pain shot up Jackson’s spine with each touch. He spasmed, letting out a sharp wheeze against his damaged throat. How that was possible without lungs, he could not say. I say that Pontianak magic spits in the face of rules.
The Pontianak sighed. “I’m afraid our time is coming to an end, Mr. Ebony. Just your heart remains.”
Jackson could’ve sobbed with relief. It was ending. This torturous Hell was ending. He would die, and Death would balk at how unfairly he was treated, so he could have a good afterlife. He would forget the bite of this pain. This demon would one day be punished.
The Pontianak tore apart Jackson’s heart, tearing along the lines between openings until she had four parts. Each rip was like being shot point-blank in the thigh. Jackson still didn’t die.
The Pontianak set the smallest piece aside on her leg and put the other three on the table. “I hope you’re ready for the grand finale.” She put the smallest piece in her mouth and bit down.
If Jackson thought the pain of each organ was bad, this was worse. It hurt in a way that made thoughts stop. Even if he would scream, the words would die in his throat.