#monstrousmaychallenge

[zoannearts]

Did a little sketch for monstrous mays prompt “the tentacle beast”, I had a very busy day today so I haven’t done anything too elaborate but I felt like doing something for it,

I may do another drawing for this prompt maybe something a bit more 🌶️ 🌶️

[emptymanuscript]

Monstrous May Challenge 1 & 2

Combining Day 1 and Day 2, “The Werewolf” and “The Monster’s Teeth” for the monstrous may challenge into one story because I missed yesterday. Nothing sexy toady.

Toothless she was and frail.

Ylona’s old gums pained her with the clenching of her jaw.

What a bitter thing it was to be old and powerless. They put her in a corner and gave her potatoes and a knife that was barely up to slicing that thinness of skin. And weren’t they kind, see how we take care of old granddam. We let her sleep by the fire instead of the convenient choice of by the door so we wouldn’t have to take care of old granddam next year.

She skinned the potatoes thinking of her son.

Pyvrek had been a bright eyed boy. Full of trouble that had made Ylona laugh and indulge him until he was too big for control. A great bear of a man like his father before him who took what he wanted and smiled with his bright eyes when he took it.

His bride had been the most beautiful girl. Because Pyvrek took what he wanted and a bright eyed boy full of trouble didn’t know the right things to want. She was a pitiable thing who didn’t realize her ‘power’ would fade and she would be set aside for another girl, someone prettier in the earlier bloom of her youth.

Perhaps Ylona should have loved her bastard grandchildren. Turn the other cheek. Even if it was the hind one in a barn. Like they were rutting ram and sheep, her son and a girl too young to know better. There had been three true born grandchildren. Each set tenderly in the dirt behind their home in a row that their mother ended. Each one had taken a little of her love with them. Until there was only an ember and one girl left.

Ylona still had a smile left for her youngest. A smile and a disinterested pat because it was better not to get attached.

The girl grew up like all children do. A pretty girl, her Halura. Too pretty. And the eyes of the other bear-like men and the counting men and the pretty men all turned to her.

Ylona warned Halura, do not go into the barn alone. Or off anywhere alone with a man. Halura had listened so she couldn’t be trapped.

But there was nothing Ylona could do about her son. Her son couldn’t be turned by a pretty face. He couldn’t be turned by threats. But the glittering wealth counted out for Halura’s skin… that could turn a man’s head. And as the favors piled up higher than the gifts, her son found his eyes ever brighter. So more was counted his way. And the chaff of youth fell before the wealth of ever older and more miserly men who leered ever more openly at what would soon be their property.

Halura at last came Ylona where she skinned and cried her heartache. It didn’t matter who she was eventually sold to. The truth was already there. She would be sold. Her master would be old and have no human feelings for her. She would be a treasure to be locked away and die in the vault by one means or another.

Ylona gave her a smile because what else could she do for her granddaughter? Her son would not listen to her. Her new daughter in a law was barely a stupid stripling girl herself, growing crueler on the indiference of her husband who hadn’t shown as clearly before hand that she was just another treasure to be used up and thrown away. How kind we are. We told her she was beautiful. We showed her love. What a shame she became so sharp and unkind. No appreciation.

Halura begged. “Granddam, help me.”

“I am toothless and frail.”

“I have no one else.”

“What can I do? No one will listen to me.”

“I will listen.”

Ylona had nothing. A place to sit. A knife that would barely cut. Potatoes. She was old. That was what she had. Years. Time and tales. That she could give to her granddaughter.

“You must get me a long, thick, strong rope. One that even your father with a knife would take a long time to cut. Without it, there is no hope for you.”

Ylona peeled her potatoes and waited while the young girl set to hope. In two days, Halura brought her a thick rope made for lifting heavy stones.

“You must get me a knife sharp enough to cut this rope like butter. Without it there is no hope for you.”

Ylona knotted the rope with care, turning it from a single length to a trap that would bind and lift by the weight of her potatoes.

Halura brought her a knife and when Ylona cut the excess from the woven rope, it did cut through it with ease even though her hands were weak and shaky.

“You must get me a fresh cut of meat, something delicious that even uncooked will make us drool for the want of it. Without it, there is no hope for you.”

Ylona filled the trap with potatoes until it was so heavy she couldn’t lift it.

Halura returned, the tangy smell of bloody meat making both their tongues seem to swell and sweat with the need to stuff it in their mouths.

“You must help me carry all this into the woods and set the trap. Without it, there is no hope for you.”

It was a long walk and her bones ached with the distance and the weight. And when they were in the forest, Ylona forced them onward until even her granddaughter shook with the effort and weakness. There they set the trap over a tree that stood by two crossing deer paths.

Halura spread leaves over it with care to hide it even from a demon’s eyes. And Halura set the meat in the trap so that all the songs of the forest stopped.

Ylona held the far end of the trap in her shaking arms so not even an inconvenient breeze could move and reveal the snare. And the scent of peeled potatoes rubbed onto her as she shook so she was like a root herself.

“You must run home now and never say where you have been. Never hint where I may be. If ever a man realizes what we have done, there is no hope for you.”

Halura ran as best she could.

Ylona stayed and trembled as the sun set and the moon rose and the forest stayed silent. Her body begged for rest but the last energy of the dying came to her and she held fast.

At last something dared the path. Eyes shining in the moonlight. A wolf came to the meat, sniffing cautiously.

It snatched the meat which triggered the trap, the extra weight finally overcoming Ylona and she toppled to the ground as the wolf rose into the air. She lay, panting a long time as the wolf thrashed and curled and snapped at the strong rope that held it over the ground. Only as it weakened did Ylona push herself up, conserving all her strength until she needed it.

From the thick woods beyond the path many eyes watched her, bright with the setting moon. Ylona did not flinch or stop but approached the snarling wolf with her sharp knife. Her witnesses howled only once, with her wolf, they chorused with his death howl and then one by one they turned away as she cut the corpse free.

She skinned the wolf. Laid the skin flat. And in the dark of the night she laid herself into the skin and waited for some evil to come to the crossroads.

They placed two sticks in a cross next to Halura’s mother on the far side of Halura’s sisters. And for a month, for propriety, they were allowed time to mourn.

Perhaps, if they had not been given a full month.

Perhaps, if Pyvrek had been a kinder man.

Perhaps, if Halura had not been so headstrong.

Perhaps, if the men had realized it was only the beginning.

What man can say what might have been? They can only say what did happen.

On the night of the next full moon, the first of the wolves came to Pyvrek’s door.

Fatal she was and so full of teeth.

[youdonothavetochoose]

still learning how to use these watercolor pens, so why not do another #monstrousmay? this is for the day 23 prompt, "the monster's treasure." Jasper brings a real ride-or-die energy to being a dad that i enjoy writing so much.

[recklessfiction]

The Alien

Monstrous May Challenge Day 12

I love the idea of aliens being seen as gods, like the cult in Pacific Rim. I especially would love if it went the other way; humans crashing on planets and aliens, not knowing what these strange things are, assumes they're gods or spirits. Whether they believe these "gods" have come for good or ill depends on the circumstances of the area in which the human has crashed.

The only one who knows, though they don't understand, is the seer; a great hulking creature shrouded so fully in robes that the human can't make out their appearance. And when an alien monarch declares the human a god and that they are to be worshipped, the seer only watches, suspicious and intrigued by the creature that is certainly not a god but is something...strange.

They assume the human came from beneath the water, for that is where they appeared, breaking through the waves and frightening the local fisherman as they tried to climb into their boats. Really, that's only where their escape pod had crashed and, understandably terrified, the human had panicked.

But the waters on this planet are red and red is what your wounds bleed so you must be the spirit or god of the waters. Some helpful knights, towering and contorted, try to throw you back in, like returning you to the water will free you. One tries to hold you under. You attack them. No one tries it again.

A temple is built for you on the waters edge and immediately you lock yourself inside, even as worshippers gather and beg you to let them enter, they have alms to give, they wish to give thanks, please give them your blessings. You do not speak, even as the doors are broken through and kings and queens, monarchs and dictators parade before you, demanding and pleading for your hand in marriage, for a ruler bound to a god, what could be more powerful?

There is no answer on your radio. Its silent up there among the stars. You fear that you will be stuck here forever. Until the seer enters your temple, silent as you've always known them to be from your time in the area. They pause at the altar which you sit atop.

"Perhaps," they say in a voice that ripples through your mind, "it is time we discussed your predicament."

[retrowooper]

Part of the #MonstrousMayChallenge.

Prompt: “Alien”.

[jteasers]

"Feeding Time" {👁️🐙} Going to be blinking in and out of the #MonstrousMayChallenge as time/attnspan allows. No one call me out for posting this here a few days late, lmaoooo [[cw //eye horror //body horror]]

[elijasaurus]

How To Talk To Your Monster

The Monstrous May Challenge:

Sunday 2nd May 2021 — How To Talk To Your Monster

How does your monster communicate?

Do they have a mouth, lips, a tongue, like humans do? Do they communicate verbally at all? Do they communicate via telepathy, via their tentacles, or their limbs? Do they speak, but at a pitch or volume or speed inaudible or incomprehensible to human ears? How is this gap bridged?

Does your monster understand humans but struggle to make itself understood? Does your monster want to be understood?

Alternate: How does your monster communicate with other, different monsters?

---

Misunderstood monsters was a through-line for my thesis work.  As someone who continues to feel monstrous and misunderstood, it’s a through-line for my life. But communicating with my monsters has been a good way for me to understand them, to integrate them. 

The way my thesis monster, Wat, “communicated” with the audience was two fold: directly, through the use of text that was part of or within his environment; and subconsciously, through his body language, facial expression, posture, etc. I specifically wanted a human inside the monster suit, so that all the unconscious things we pick up from other humans would be transposed.  The audience would automatically relate, or want to relate, to something that still registers as “other.”  (However, because Wat was designed only to be photographed, I didn’t have to come up with a vocal answer to this.)

I’ve struggled a lot with communication since the pandemic started.  And my feelings of being a misunderstood monster have surged.  This past year, I’ve mostly communicated to others through memes.  This form of communication is digital/tech based rather than analogue, and depends on a community of others to also be so equipped.  Most of the time when I think of monsters, I think of crytids and hybrid-animals; most of the monsters I draw have fur and/or feathers.  It might be because I’m a very tactile/texture loving person: I want to be able to hug my monsters (and make them out of faux fur & felt).  But maybe it’s time I thought more about cyborg monsters.  Monsters with tails and teeth and tech.  Monsters that can send memes.

[whitherwhence]

Monstrous May Challenge, Day 9: The Undead 

The Presence  

An herb-woman moves into a little house, and finds it might not be as vacant as it had seemed. What’s it like to live with someone who has neither a form you can see nor a voice you can hear? f/?. 1854 words.

cw: mild non-sexual dubious consent (specifically for chaste touching that can’t be anticipated)

“Will you stay?” she asked to the darkened room, “I mean, will you come to bed?” She was being courageous, she thought, and she couldn’t mess this up. Not this. She adjusted the pillows again and budged over, just enough to make it clear where they could go, if they wanted. If they wanted as much as she wanted.

It had been only about half a year now since Jane had moved into the empty little house and had set about making it comfortable for herself. She’d fixed the drafty front door and replaced the crumbling kitchen sink right away, and then slowly brightened the place with paint on the walls and polish on the floors and flowers in the window boxes. There was a loft built in, almost certainly to be used as a bedroom, but she was never completely comfortable up there at the top of the sturdy ladder. That was fine. It was a small house, but there was enough room for her bed to stay on the ground with her writing desk and tiny kitchen table and big cushioned chair by the wood-burning stove.

A week into making her home here, Jane was out behind the house, clearing out what looked to be an old, makeshift garden bed. It was hard to tell what it had been used for, as it was so overgrown with weeds, so she decided to build a separate one for her herbs. She was debating how many of the long weeds to dig up and how many to keep, because really the leaves and blossoms were quite pretty to look at, but she didn’t want them to creep too far and take over, as weeds are wont to do. She was just thinking she could put a few wildflowers in with the weeds, something the bees would like, when she felt it.

It felt like… curiosity? She knew very well the sensation of being watched. But it wasn’t coming from the path, or the trees, or down on the road below. Was it coming from the house? That couldn’t be right. Jane would know if a stranger was in her house, she’d made sure of that. But it was coming from the house, the feeling, the curious gaze.  

The first time she found something on the kitchen table, one of the pretty weed blossoms, she frowned. But she tried to quickly shake it off, because she had been ever so tired when she came in at dusk the evening before, so worn out from her duties in town — maybe she had picked it on her way in? But… why would she go all the way around to the back of the house before coming in, and how did she forget doing it? She looked around to the front door, to her spring coat hanging on the hook and her muddy boots neatly placed underneath, to her chest of vials and jars, to the dishes she had washed and set to dry last night, to the book resting on the arm of her chair, everything where she’d left it. No sign of an intruder. There was nothing for it, so she shrugged and put the weed in some water and put it back on the table. The only thing tall enough she had was a glass bottle, and it looked nice enough, but she still made a note to look for something nicer in town.

Three days later, it was a small stone. It was lovely, a dark rust color and all jagged edges — perhaps from the garden? — so she set it in a tiny dish, a charming thing she’d gotten from the town potter.

It was a flower the third time, one from the window boxes. It was too short for her new vase, but it looked nice in a teacup. As she carried it over to her desk, where she’d be writing letters for most of the day, she mused aloud, “I haven’t left anything out for them, but maybe some nice brownies have come to stay?” She had only been joking, but there was a loud thud from the loft, like one of her small storage trunks had been pushed over, and she thought better of it. So. Probably not brownies, then.

Every few days or so, she’d find on her kitchen table a weed blossom or stone or leaf or fern frond or flower, something from outside, something from in the back garden, but not beyond. After the fourth time, she started saying a quiet thank you to the… the room. After the sixth time, she started blushing. 

-

Sometime after the wildflowers started blooming in the old garden bed, and her herbs started thriving in the new one, she introduced herself to the air inside the house. “I don’t know if you know, if I’ve said, but I’m called Jane.” She felt a bit silly after she said it, but it seemed important.

She could feel the curious gaze on her from time to time, she could feel that she was being looked at by something or someone, and she felt it especially when she spoke aloud or hummed to herself as she worked. She didn’t know what to call it, but at some point she started thinking of it as the Presence, and thinking of the Presence as them.

Occasionally, a spoon would clatter in the drying rack, or the papers on her desk would shuffle just slightly, or a couple of glass vials would clink against each other, or a candle flame would gutter and blink and then grow tall and then gutter again. Once (but only once), an herb bundle she had hung to dry came untied, and the stems scattered on the floor. It was always something small, a slight push of something physical. She didn’t know what that was about, if they were testing the objects they could move, or if they were trying to get her attention. Either way, she gave it. “Good morning,” she’d say to what she hoped was their general direction, or, “I’m going to town tomorrow and won’t be back till late,” or, “Hmm, have you seen my shears? I put them right here,” and eventually, “Hello, dear.” She hoped it wasn’t too forward.

The soft touches came on so gradually that Jane wasn’t sure what she was feeling at first. More often than not, the touch was to one of her arms. The back of her hand or her shoulder would tingle with a soft warmth, an effervescent heat that would make her skin flush and her breath shudder. One time it was the top of her knee while she read in her chair, another time it was the side of her face while she pulled on her boots.

She wasn’t entirely sure what the Presence was, a poltergeist? a spirit? a ghost? She tried not to think too much about it. Instead, she said thank you for the gifts she found, and she grew her herbs and made her mixtures, and she kept the house and garden in good shape, and she sighed and blushed and tried not to want too much when she could feel them near her.

-

And now, six months on, a half a year since she made this little house into a home for herself, she gathered her courage. It had been a strange day.

This morning she had awoken to the wonderful tingling warmth on a spot on her temple and spanning across her ribs, like she was being embraced and chastely kissed. She’d choked out a sob, a little panicked and very unsure, and ran out of the house in only her boots and coat over her nightclothes. She’d fled around the house to the back path, and the whole time she could feel them at her elbow, then her hand, her jaw, her shoulder, and then not at all as she tripped through the back gate. She’d tried to say something through her tears, so they would understand that she wasn’t frightened of them, she was just surprised, that she needed a moment to get her head back on, but all that had come out of her mouth was something like, “I, I, oh please, I—” But it hadn’t felt like they were near her anymore, it felt like they were gone, and she wept wretchedly as she took the wooded path.

So she’d walked and cried and cried and walked. And she’d found herself at a place where she knew the main path forked off into a kind of loop, so she’d turned to go the long way home. Along the way, she’d found a few stones, some pretty fallen leaves, and some last bits of late summer color boldly showing off before the cold really set in. She had picked some and stuffed them in her pockets, careful to leave plenty besides.

She’d taken her time walking, and it was afternoon when she had trudged back through the gate, face dry and achy, pockets filled with small treasures.

It had felt silent and cold in the house, empty in a way it hadn’t been in so long. But Jane had talked aloud anyway, hoping they’d listen. “I brought you some things from the woods, things you can’t find around the house, see?” She’d placed all the stones in a row, and the leaves in a dish, and anything with a tall stem into the vase. She’d taken a deep breath, then braced herself. “I’m sorry about this morning. Would you please come back? I just get overwhelmed, and I feel… I’m not sure what you feel. But you’ve been very kind to me, I think, and I like when you bring things in for me, and when you touch me, and—”

There had been a creaky sound in the loft, like someone trying to be quiet but not quite able to pull it off, and Jane had let her mouth curl up with relief. “Will you come down?” she’d asked gently. “I promise we’re okay.”

And now, at the end of this day out in the woods, after she stoked the fire and made something hot to eat, after she bathed and bundled herself up in soft blankets, after she read a chapter or two, and had watched a flower in the vase turn and a leaf rustle in the dish, she got into bed.

Jane moved the pillows, shifted herself to one side, and valiantly asked the Presence if they would join her. It would be okay if they didn’t, it would really be fine. But she wanted them to, so much, because it felt significant if they would accept her clear invitation.

They didn’t. Or, at least, not right away.

But when Jane woke in the morning, she felt sparks of warmth all the way down her side, and all the way across her ribs. She smiled and hummed, and she stretched out her arms and legs. They both lay there for a minute in the drowsy half-light. Voice gravelly with sleep, Jane said, “Good morning, dear.”

~~~ 

—————

lol this is so late! It’s the first one I started working on when I began thinking about participating in Monstrous May a little over month ago, and it’s seen several drafts since then. I knew what I wanted to do, and I’m not certain I got all the way there, and I like it very much anyway, but good lord did it ever take TIME.

A note on the mild dub-con cw:  Even though the one being touched welcomes the touch, and imo the one doing the touching is as soft and benevolent as they know how to be, it’s that the consent is still not entirely informed. It’s very tricky, I think, because Jane really likes what’s happening, and she feels a bit like she’s being courted — the attention, the humble gifts, the odd attempts at communication, the touches unlike anything she’s felt before — and she does develop some kind of feelings for the Presence, but the fact remains that she’s missing SO MUCH information. Aaaaaanyway. I hope you enjoyed! Please do let me know what you think, if you are so inclined <3

[ramblingkat]

May 7. Adverse Weather Conditions

So, I just have to say, I love all of you who are liking and reblogging my stuff. Just wanted to say thank you, and I hope you continue to enjoy this.

Anyone know of a good challenge in June for next month? I just stumbled over this a few days before it started, and I’d love challenges like this. 

Fandom: Bleach

Pairing/Characters: Kurosaki Ichigo/Urahara Kisuke, Kuchiki Rukia as a force of nature

Note: Set in the same universe as Day 4: Iconic Settings

Curled up together on a couch, Ichigo used Kisuke as a handy pillow as they watched the weather storm outside. The cabin was sturdy, not even the howling wind outside making it shake. Which wasn’t a surprise, given why the cabin had been created. If it wasn’t sturdy, one of the sacrifices would have destroyed it by either accident or design before now. 

Right now, it was holding solid even as Rukia raged outside, causing a truly epic blizzard outside. 

As the head of the project, Kisuke had snagged his boyfriend and they had gone to relax upstairs. 

It really was a nice cabin, and all the monsters that worked this particular one enjoyed it. None of them were mindless beasts, even if they could act the part now and then. 

Outside, snow and wind screamed past the windows. Then the sky lit up with a brilliant bolt of white, almost instantly shaking the air with thunder. 

“Wow, Renji really pissed her off,” Ichigo said, enjoying the feel of Kisuke running his fingers through his hair. “This reminds me of the day we first met.”

“It’s alive,” Kisuke replied immediately, tone bored and dried. But Ichigo could see the man’s face, and saw the gleam of humor there. 

Ichigo smirked back. “Is this the part I should call you Daddy, or the part where I tease you about having to custom build your boyfriend?”

That got him a snort, and Kisuke pinched his side, getting a small flail from Ichigo. He opened his mouth to say something, only to have another thunderbolt drown him out. They both glanced out the window. 

“Think this is going to be a long and intense storm if she’s causing thunder snow already,” Kisuke said absently. “Do you want to talk to her or Renji later?”

Ichigo snorted. “I’ll take Renji,” he said instantly after. He had no desire to deal with Rukia when she was in this mood. That’s how people got kicked in the face. 

A hum from Kisuke. “Then I believe I will speak to Byakuya after this.” He smiled faintly at Ichigo’s annoyed expression. “A brother should be the one to talk to his younger sister about her issues. It’s what you do with Karin and Yuzu.”

Ichigo snorted. He had adopted the two younger monsters when they had been tiny, being a very protective big brother to them. Kisuke had found it cute, and liked to tease Ichigo and Byakuya about their brotherly instincts from time to time. 

The next blast of thunder made the cabin shake. 

That was highly impressive, and Kisuke made a note to check his sensors after this. “Think she’ll cause an avalanche?” he asked Ichigo. Kisuke knew Rukia’s powers, but Ichigo was definitely a much closer friend to her. 

Ichigo shook his head. “Oh, she’s pissed. Seriously pissed. But she knows how far she can push things. Just being mad won’t make her step past those lines. But it’s going to be a fun storm to watch.”

He shifted to snuggle closer to Kisuke, shamelessly digging an elbow into his creator’s thigh as he got comfortable. Because the man deserved it for dropping responsibility on Byakuya.

“Good thing we don’t have any sacrifices on the way,” Kisuke said easily, nosing at Ichigo’s hair as the other sprawled against him. This was nice. “Or else we’d have to calm her down now.”

“Let her rage,” Ichigo said, eyes closing as he let the sound of howling winds sooth his restless nature. “It’ll look good later, all those pretty layers of snow just begging people to ski or snowboard on them.”

Chuckling, Kisuke hummed as he looped an arm around Ichigo and held him close. “And you should totally call me Daddy,” he teased. 

The look on Ichigo’s face was worth the new elbow to his gut. He did adore his precious creation, and not just for the terror Ichigo could bring to the sacrifices. 

Later, he’d see about testing this couch for stability with Ichigo. Right now, it was time to enjoy the killer storm that Rukia was unleashing on the entire area. She’d be tired, but well fed, after it was all done. 

Nothing like making people fear freezing to death to feed a snow queen right.

[westiec]

Ballad of the Wonderbloom

Monstrous May Challenge, Day 19: Monstrous Flora

In the woods, there's a flower of arcane power that mortal eyes seldom have seen

Those few who have witnessed its wondrous existence sit quiet, as though lost in a dream

If you ask them to tell of its color or smell, they'll just sigh, with a gleam in their eye

And so if you would know, you must go where it grows — but be warned: not all will survive

Up the river, you'll paddle, and slip through deep shadows, at twilight on midsummer's eve

With a witchlight in hand, you'll pass into a land full of wonders you wouldn't believe

Where the fruits on the trees all sing out to the bees, and they moan, if you pluck them to eat

And the grass down below, when the evening breeze blows, seems to kiss and caress at your feet

There are vines overhead that seem almost to beg to be wrapped in a lover's embrace

And you'll know by the sound of the song all around, you're arriving, at last, to the place

For there in the clearing, the music you're hearing is made, not by mere mortal hands

But by green growing things, come alive just to sing, for it's there that the wonderbloom stands

Yes, you'll fall to your knees, 'neath melodious trees, when its beauty first pierces your sight

In the intimate bower of this monarch of flowers on a song-haunted midsummer's night

On the air seems to hover perfume of a lover you met long ago in a dream

All the colors and shades that its petals display defy names in our poor human scheme

And if you should dare to draw close and lay bare fingertips on its velvet-smooth bloom

You may find that your mind has begun to unwind and entwine with the wood's haunted tune

Yes, beware, if my story of phantasmagoria tempts you to search for the flower

That many who dare seek it out are ensnared by the thrill of its wonderous power

Some never find it and some lose their minds and still others are filled with regret

For the few who remember the wonderbloom's splendor all wish that they too had been kept.

[mxbbadperson]

May 1. What is a Monster? Bro/Karkat, Brokat

‘Can I come in?’ the person asked. Karkat looked up at them. The person was masculine with fair hair and bright eyes. Karkat set his mouth in a thin line, he was looking at them through a tiny crack of the door. He wasn’t really sure if they *were* a person. There was something about them that scared him. There was something about them that told him that he shouldn’t let him get close. He shouldn’t let them in, he didn’t know what they’d do. ‘No,’ Karkat said. The person tilted his head ever so slightly. Karkat closed the door and locked it. He stepped back.

[inkformyblood]

#2 How to talk to your monster?

In the olden days, it would have been a circle in the wood, only found after hours of desperate searching until he was soaked through the bone and the night had almost swallowed him whole. A shrine was also a popular option, but the toll was deceptively light. They would only take what you were willing to give each time, until you had nothing left and yet they would reach into you and find more for them to plunder. 

Ariel drummed his fingers against the comforting weight of his phone in his pocket, drew it out, only to shove it back with a few new droplets of rain littering the blank surface. 

Monsters or not, they had moved with the times.

He pulled his phone out of his pocket once more, drawing his nail over the slight chip in the side and navigated more by memory than by sight — keeping it tucked close to his chest as if that fragile sanctuary would protect the fickle thing when the sky above him opened — to one contact in particular. 

The ringing sounded like lithium burning, a low incessant crackle that wormed into his brain and set his teeth further on edge. The world seemed to vibrate around him, strange figures flickering at the edge of the vision.

“Hello love!” 

Ariel sighed, scrunching up his face as he tried to clear the cloying taste of iron that ran over his tongue. “Hi Cleo. Is now a good time?”

“For you?” Cleo’s laugh was a contradiction, a low rumble through the earth mixed with the frantic pealing of bells. “I always have time.”

Ariel paused next to a traffic light, pressing the phone into the crook of his shoulder as he reached out to press the button. There was oil gathering in a puddle, distorting the green light on the empty street, twisting it into a horde of purples. “Let me rephrase. When do you finish work, and can you come to mine after that?”

“So picky,” Cleo murmured, and Ariel could almost picture them rolling their eyes, large and doe-eyed, highlighted by meticulous eyeliner and colour but nothing distracted from the heavy slit-pupils they had. “I finish in half an hour. I will come by your house as soon as I can after that, sooner if you have wine.”

“I can probably convince Lark to share.” Ariel carefully ignored Cleo’s huff of disgust. “See you soon.”

[emptymanuscript]

Monstrous May Day 4 - The Cave

      Michael punched Isaac in the shoulder. “Go on, go in.”

      Isaac punched Michael back. “You go in, you coward.”

      They both stared at the cave, dark and moaning. The wind blew across the lip of the cave. That’s what made the moaning sound. It was just like a giant soda bottle. Michael had blown a note on a bottle plenty of times. “I’m not a coward. You’re a pussy. You go in.”

      “I’m not a pussy.” Isaac punched Michael’s shoulder again. “You’re a chicken. It’s lunchtime on a Tuesday. Nothing scary ever happened at lunchtime on a Tuesday.” Isaac  flapped his arms and clucked. “Bok. Bok. Bigok! Chickin. Bok. Bok-bok-bok. Chicken.”

      Michael took three steps up the sandy scree that lead to the dark of the cave. Then he turned around, his back to the darkness in the cave. “Pussy! Meow-mow. Pussy. You’re afraid, pussy.”

      Isaac snorted. “You don’t even know what a pussy is, chicken.”

      “Do too. It’s what you are. I’m closer to the cave. I’ve got my back turned. You’re more scared than me.”

      Isaac took four large steps toward the cave. He crossed his arms. “Now who’s closer?”

      Michael backed up until he was a step closer than Issac. “You’re still more scared. You heard about Lucy Nelson and you won’t ever go in.

      “Who’s Lucy Nelson?”

      “Lucy went in the cave and never came back out. The sheriff went in and he never found her except for her teeth.”

      “Her teeth?”

      “Uh huh.” Michael took another step back. “Each one pulled out in perfect condition like a dentist had done it.”

      Isaac rolled his eyes. “You made that up.”

      Michael took another step toward the cave. “Then why am I closer to the cave?”

      “Why don’t you go in if you think you’re so brave.”

      “Will you admit you’re a pussy if I go in the cave?”

      “Sure. Whatever. If you walk inside the cave backwards, I’ll say I’m a pussy.”

      Michael took another step backwards but stopped there, looking over his shoulder at the low moan that ruffled his hair. He expected the breeze to feel cold and dry, like there was nothing but sand and wind in the cave but the flicker of breeze was hot and moist like someone breathing on him. Like Isaac huffing out to clean his glasses. And there was a funny smell. Like spoiled eggs.

      “Well?” Isaac asked.

      “I didn’t,” Michael said.

      “I see that.”

      “No. I didn’t make it up. About Lucy Nelson.”

      Isaac was silent a moment before he asked, “Did you hear about Todd Rafferty?”

      “The guy whose shoes they found?”

      “And nails. All his fingernails and toenails and his clothes. And that’s it.”

      “I’m not scared. His little brother Scott went in to look for him and nothing happened to Scott at all.”

      Isaac took a step away from the cave. “Maybe we should come back after school. We'd need time to look around. And if we’re not back in class after lunch we’ll get in trouble.”

      “You are a pussy!” Michael skipped the final few steps into the cave. The cave was warm, damp. Pale slime dripped down the walls. Michael poked the slime and it was rock hard. Like old tree sap. It looked like a drip but wasn’t anymore.

      “Ok,” Isaac called. “I’m a pussy. But we’re going to be late. I don’t want to get in trouble.”

      Michael looked into the dark interior of the cave. Even inside, his face right in the shadows, he could only see a foot or two into the cave.

      “Michael.”

      Isaac’s call wafted through the darkness of the cave, skipping down the walls like a rock over water. It rebounded, Michael’s name whisper distorted beckoning from deep within. Which meant, Michael thought, that the cave had to be fairly uniform with an end not too far away. Michael shuffled forward into the darkness.

      Isaac called again, sounding more scared. And the echo whispered to Michael again, sounding louder, more sure, less like Isaac. It had a metallic twang, like someone had tried to scratch the right tone shift along an electrical pole guidewire. Michael had seen that. Someone running a metal rod down a metal wire to get an interesting sound for a movie.

      Michael shuffled deeper, both his hands outstretched to feel for any wall or stalagtite that might have dripped to face level. He could hear Isaac coming into the cave after him. The crunching of his tennis shoes getting louder and then clearer as he passed the entrance and the distorting wind.

      The sound felt like it came from the other way this time. That metallic tonal scratching, not quite a voice, crooned for him and skipped along the walls in a ripple, passing him, rebounding from the empty space of the entrance and picking up that tinge of Isaac’s fear. “Michael come back.”

      Michael called over his shoulder, “Don’t worry. I’m almost to the end.” But his voice came out different. There was no metallic whine, no ripple. His voice sounded flat. Reflectionless. Like he would expect his voice to fail bouncing off the cushion of his bed. He spread his arms to reach for the walls. His fingers slid through lukewarm slime over something that felt like warm squishy lumps. The wall dented, retreated like a soaked sponge. But the wall also glowed an orangey-red, filaments like long thin streamers spit hung with little globules of brightness, motes of light winking upward to be lost in the darkness. And deeper into the cave, like the little lights on the floors of airplanes that were supposed to lead you to an exit.

      The metallic tones, one rising high, one spilling down, thrummed out to him, more little red lights winking to life with the sound, pulsing, so they seemed to run from where he stood on to the end of the cave he still couldn’t see.

      Isaac shouted from far away, “Where are you?!”

      The metallic echo lit up, skipping to him along the winking glow, bright and fading, “Mi-chael.”

      Michael took a step in the direction of the lights, his fingers dragging through the jelly-ish slime across the strange quivering softness of the walls. “Who are you?”

      “Mi-chael.”

      Where he dragged his fingers the wall turned an angrier red, the lights pulsing in warning that he was coming as more of the glow filled the cavern, lighting it up in soft orangey-red streaked with bloody streamers where he touched and stepped.

      “Michael.”

      “That’s me but who are YOU?”

      A soft echo from far away might have been Isaac. But the metallic voice called louder, “I’m a friend, Michael. Come to me.” The lights pulsed in sequence like a guiding ring of light rushing into the darkness.

      Michael wasn’t sure why he ran. He could fall in a hole. Smash into a rock. There could be anything in the dark. But it wasn’t really dark anymore. The cave sent him another guiding ring of slimey light, paced just right for him to skirt along behind it.

      “That’s good, Michael. Come to me.”

      Michael looked behind him at an odd screech, like a far off scream. But he couldn’t see the entrance any more. Just the swelling lights and the bloody path he had traced, stretching back behind him until the glow faded into black.

      “Am I hurting you?”

      “No, Michael. I want you. Hurry.”

      Wait, had the scream been Isaac?

      Michael stumbled to a halt, turning to look back.

      “Don’t stop. Come to me. I want you.”

      The orangey-red glow faded as he watched, the darkness rushing toward him. Dimming into just the angry crimson path he had ripped as he passed.

      “Don’t stop,” the metallic voice growled, like an angry double strike of metal on metal. The voice rebounding from behind and before him, demanding and chasing.

      Michael ran from the darkness, chasing another soft ring of beckoning light, this one dodging ahead, while blackness ate the light behind, chasing him, wide and hungry.

      “I’m coming!” Michael yelled, trying to make it stop.

      “Faster,” the metallic voice commanded, the ring speeding up, the light evading him.

      Michael panted, running too fast to yell clearly again, his lungs and legs hurting. The light kept speeding up, demanding more from him, leaving him behind.

      He gasped. Pain lancing up his side. “Wait!” His lungs stuttered instead of producing the word ‘for.’ “Me!” and he stumbled.

      Michael crashed into the softness of the floor, his face feeling like it splashed through the surface tension of a first layer of congealed spit onto warm ooblek. Rubbery at first but softening as he laid still, gasping for breath.

      He tried to push himself up but the soft clinginess of the floor surrounded his hands, knees, and feet - sucked at his face and clothes - held him down.

      “Help me.”

      The light pulsed back to him, no longer a ring or long streamer, it was like an icon face pixelated onto the curve of the wall, looking at him. “Done so soon?” it accused. “I thought you could do better, Michael.”

      “Help,” Michael repeated.

      “Who do you want, Michael? Isaac? Or me?”

      “Please,” Michael begged.

      “You’d like that wouldn’t you? Isaac to come and pull you out? But I’ll tell you something, Mike, Isaac is already here. He is inside and happy with me. He is going to stay with me. He doesn’t want you either. Why would anyone want you?”

      The darkness pressed closer, the face congealing like the graphics were upgrading even as the image shrunk. She was leaning right over him, her blood red hair pulsing over her orange face, her pointed gray teeth reflecting the light as it bounced around the squeezing cave. Even if Michael got free of the sucking floor, he wouldn’t be able to stand in the cave any more, he would have to crawl on hands and knees.

      “Sorry,” Michael tried. “I can do better.”

      The woman squeezed down so the hot wash of her rotten egg breath made him gag. “You’re sorry. How are you going to make this up to me Michael? What are you going to give me to forgive you? Do you have flowers? Do you have diamonds? Do you have anything I want?”

      Michael swallowed hard, his throat and stomach feeling full of noxious lumps from his fear and her breath. “Fingernails,” he said. He would live without his fingernails.

      She laughed, mockingly. “Todd already offered to give me his fingernails. And his toe nails, too. You’re underbidding, Mike. Don’t you want me to be happy? Don’t you think I deserve it? I already have fingernails and toenails. And they haven’t made me happy.”

      Michael sputtered, trying to spit out the soft non-newtonian sludge that was trying to seep into his mouth. He was sinking. Drowning in muck. She was just toying with him, like a cat with a mouse. She wasn’t going to let him out. Not even if he offered her, “Teeth, too!”

      “Oh, Mike. You know Lucy already gave me her teeth. Poor embarassed girl. Needy little thing. Offered me her teeth for practically nothing. There was a girl who wanted to make me happy. She was happy to give it to me.”

      Michael spat a globule of glowing blood. “Get it out. Get it out of my mouth!”

      “Oh!” Her voice shimmied up the scale in delight. “Michael, how wonderful. No one has ever offered me that before. You must really love me. We’re going to be so happy together.”

      “Lemme-go!”

      “Shhh. Let’s just get rid of that bad part, the part you knew you could live without, then we’ll be happy together, like we should be, forever and ever.”

      Something hard and smooth touched Michael’s cheek. It brushed past as he squeezed his mouth and eyes shut against the quickening pull of the floor. But then there were fingers at his mouth, prying at it. His eyes snapped open, under the gelatinous floor of the cave, where she moved off the wall into three dimensions, her hair wafting in the buoyancy of the slime as she pulled him down by the shirt with one hand, into her domain, along with small clean skeletons all around him, all grinning emptily at him in the bioluminesence. One right next to him, so close the skull was nuzzling the side of his face.

            She forced her other hand past his lips and grabbed his tongue.

[youdonothavetochoose]

i forgot #monstrousmay was a thing but i will take any excuse to draw Quinn and Orion, so they're playing around with Orion's powers for the Hypnotised prompt.

[recklessfiction]

What is a Monster?

I adore monsters but I find that I have trouble articulating what it is that makes something a monster. Monsters are unfamiliar, bizarre, and frightening, whether in their physicality or their behavior. The best monsters are characters, so over the top in their strangeness that they become more than just big, scary creatures and take on a personality.

For me, that's what separates a monster from just a creature, when they become a character, with a personality to match their strangeness.

Claws and eyes and an insatiable bloodlust do not make a monster. A monster should be a challenge for a protagonist to confront, not just an animal that is easily killed or tamed. It offers a glimpse into a world or space beyond our own. The monster should be a bridge between us and things beyond our own understanding. The monster is more; in stories it has to mean more, whether it acts as a peek into the strangeness of another world, or a critique, a monster must have something that separates it from the regular old fauna of the world.

It's hard to pin down what makes a monster a monster, it can fluctuate depending on the needs of a piece of fiction, but always, to deserve the moniker of monster, there must be something that about it that affects the audience, something that frightens, interests, or entertains beyond the normal amount. A monster is meant to stay with you, and all the best monsters do.

[retrowooper]

This is Bundlup! They're the first monster I made for the #MonstrousMayChallenge and was originally based on the concept of constantly being cold. I kept its placeholder face as it feels sinister, especially how it looks directly towards you in the image.

Chances are when these are all done, I will be turning them all into Dex entries that can be played in Pokemon Tabletop United.