DAILY MONSTER 58
Good morning! I hope you’re enjoying your weekend. Thank you for visiting. The monster writers are a brilliant, dedicated bunch and did not rest on Saturday. No! Once again, they’ve spun tales of mystery and intrigue. We have our first exquisite corpse, and another one of the regular kind. You’ve got to read it to believe it:
Now… what’s the secret kept by Monster 58? What’s he looking at? What caught his many eyes? What caused his odd head shape? Is 58 taking the day off? Or is he working on something? Pursuing a personal goal? Or just doing the dishes? Why do you think its hand evolved that way? I hope you’ll let me know. I can’t wait to see what’s going through your head. Please…
Thank you for dropping in on the monsters. Enjoy the rest of your Sunday and join us again tomorrow for a whole new week of monsters. Until then, you can rest easy in the warm knowledge that 344 LOVES YOU
Nigel began his life as a deep ocean dweller. His streamlined body and multiple eyes were a perfect match for his environment. That is, until he developed the most unfortunate of Yog-soloc maladies… he became both nearsighted and farsighted, in alternating eyes.
Lacking sea-going ophthalmologists in his region, Nigel was forced to have himself grafted onto a spare sailor’s body he had lying around the house.
But once he got on land he…
This one strangely resembles E.T. Maybe this is Steven Spielberg’s secret alien correspondent! Yes – every day, old Steve asks this alien, named S.O.E.T. (Sort Of Extra Terrestrial), how he could make another good alien movie.
“Well,” SOET says. “You could make one about this alien that comes and then wants to go home. And he says, ‘E.T. phone home.'”
“Brilliant!” says Spielberg.
“Or,” continues SOET, “You could make one where there’s this song with a tuba and a flute. You could call it ‘Close Encounters of the Third Kind.'”
“Yes!!!!” Spielberg squeals.
“Or,” SOET says, “You could make one about these people who get chased around by dinosaurs and get blown off electric fences and eaten by vicious raptors.”
Apparently, the director wasn’t the only one who should’ve won those academy awards…
She is alone in the lab. In the basement. She is in charge of slicing the rat brains for study. Rat brains for study. She was hand-selected for her visual acuities. It was a fancy school. Rat brains.
She quit after six months.
She is in a field of men, struggling to conform. She sits at home on Friday nights. She is alone in her room. She watches movies and watches TV and watches the time and she sits at home.
She walks to the bar on Saturdays. The bartender tends to her because he knows how she feels. She is the cliché he feeds on. He slices limes for her drinks. Lemons for her shots. He slices, she sips, she talks, he listens. This is the story of her life. The cliché that defines her. She is trying to conform. She’s a woman with too many eyes. She talks and he listens and they are friends on Saturdays.
She lays in her lab coat, thinking of the rats. She remembers their tiny eyes looking to her. She is alone in her room, in her apartment, in her city. She remembers their eyes searching her face, trying to seer her. Trying to remind her of the monster she’s become.
Patrick’s career began in television for a now-defunct grapefruit farm commercial. He garnered many a laugh and much profit for “GrapeFruit – not a Grape!” farms every time he sliced into a ripe ruby and was squirted in the eyes.
Now he’s the poster child for Veyezine, as well as Bausch and Loam soft contact lenses. Not as much fun, but twice as lucrative.
Katy I laughed out loud – near-and-farsighted…wahhhh!
Scholockading, as usual, primo gusto – and Brooke again with your atmosphericness….givin’ me gooshflesh.
Thanks for another great monster, Stefan!
I love your site! What a great idea.
I’ll definitely be writing about your project on my blog. Keep up the good work.
“Dude, what’s your problem?”
This is Harvey Finkle’s all-time favorite thing to say. Coming in at a close second is, “No WAY.”
When he says either one of these things, he thrusts his head forward and bugs out his eyes slightly. “Dude,” he says with a jut of his head, “what’s your damage?” To cap it off, he rolls his eyes.
He has rolled his eyes so much, they rolled farther back into his head, which then forced another pair to sprout in their place. This has happened not once or twice but six times, giving him a total of twelve eyeballs. To accommodate his extra eyes, his head of course has had to extend itself as well, too.
The problem is (dude) that now his head is so large and overbalanced, it juts forward all the time. And his twelve eyes are difficult for him to control properly. So he might as well be saying it literally all the time, “Dude, what’s your problem?” with his bulging, rolling eyes.
[ach, the drawing is better than the story, by far]
I’ve seen a lot of things in my life. A lot. More than anyone should see. But… I’m addicted. I can’t help it. I have to see everything. And – and this condition… it’s a nightmare, actually. A horrible nightmare. I shouldn’t have this. I don’t want it. But I need it. I can’t live without it. Like like a drug that I can’t stop taking. I have to see more. Those I meet… I’ve seen what they’ve seen. I get their visual memories. Sometimes, I feel like I get their personalities and a little of their knowledge as well. I’ve been making entries every day now. Putting down what I’ve seen. It builds up… too much… too much I’ve seen. It hurts. And – and so many others have been lost to my need. I hope this to be my last one. The last visual flood. Please let me stop. I’ve lived so many lives through these eyes. So many others’ lives…
The screen fades to a soft blue as Ulricht saves the file and quits the journaling program. His deformed hand — from an incident involving his first visual memory flood, in which he felt forced to smash it with a blunt object to destroy what he didn’t understand — was gloved and gently rubbing a soft, wet orb with a fine material. He had six eyes on the left side of his head and five on the right. A space at the back was cleanly shaved, as though ready for an operation of some kind. He raised the orb to his right side and the patch of scalp began to bubble with small strands of flesh stretching to reach it. The first strand made contact and Ulricht closed his many eyes as he started experiencing the first wave. As he released it, the strands of pulsating, bubbling flesh oozed and swarmed around it, seemingly spinning it around until the pupil faced outward. Ulricht sat back into his chair as the memory flood took over his mind. He sat there for several hours, only making movements as though dreaming.
When coming to, he breathed heavy and looked down at his workbench. A small, bloody box lie open before him. He closed it carefully while quietly saying, “My my. What an interesting life you led, Mr. Otonsen. Thank you.”
Blepharitis, conjunctivitis and hordeolum, oh my! Belva Standish practically lives in the optometrist waiting room. Life is certainly different when you have twelve eyes to tend to, and vision insurance is a bitch. I mean, how do you explain that having more than two eyes does not constitute a pre-existing condition?
Did you have those eyes the last time you bought an insurance policy? Of course, how silly of you to ask. It’s the story of her life.
Eye trouble be damned though, it’s her neck that provides her with most of the difficulty. Can you imagine what kind of musculature is needed to keep that noggin off the ground? It’s like an orange on a toothpick. Belva! Paper! Now!
But once he got on land he…
had a harder time manoeuvring the borrowed body. The knees buckled. The arms flapped. The tiny neck bent all four ways. What to do?
Nigel loped from the pier to a quiet alley and leaned against an old green dumpster to think. Fish guts, McBacon sandwich wrappers, coat hangers, shredded tax returns and an old xmas tree waited for Tuesday pickup while Nigel waited for an idea. When it came, ten eyes gleamed with excitement, two with pride.
He emerged from the alley, stiff limbed and head held high as approached a lady eating her lunch on a bench.
“Excuse me,…” but he never got to ask his question for she started screaming quite loudly in his face.
It was then he looked down to discover the bits of wire and tree limb sticking out of the flesh where he had poked them through to secure the joints.
He made a mental note to trim them at his next stop which was…
“The Doppler Effect’s got nuttin’ on me,” thought Frankie, smugly.
Evan kept an eye on each of the monitors as he put his phone to his ear to tell Rhanda about the fabulous episode he was watching on his oPid.
Nummer 58 “Frau Zuberbühlers Gefährte” steht dummerweise bei 57.