What would a Halloween Flash! Friday be without... MONSTERS! Yes, in the spirit of the day, Rebekah chose as this week's novel prompt Mary Shelley's 1818 classic Frankenstein, the anguished tale of Victor Frankenstein, whose grotesque but now sentient and intelligent creature, after being rejected by his creator, sets out on a violent and desperate journey which ultimately dooms them both.
The story elements we were condemned to incorporate were:
* Conflict: man v self, man v society
* Character (choose at least one): a cowardly scientist; a man-made, sentient creature; a hapless fiancee, an oblivious optimist.
* Theme (choose one): forbidden science, danger of the pursuit of knowledge, fate v free will, secrecy
* Setting (choose one): Romantic-era Europe, a laboratory, a ship voyaging in the Arctic, ANYWHERE STEAMPUNK!
And, if we so chose, the picture to the left. I concocted the poignant "Frankenboy."
My story was not conceived by a cozy
fire in a Swiss villa. Instead, Fate scripted in blood my destiny
when she cobbled me together using diseased pieces pulled from a
human junk yard.
From my father, hands that naturally, reflexively formed fists. Though in a pinch, a belt, a switch, or a broken beer bottle would do.
From my mother, eyes that had trouble seeing through the tears. And through the swollen, blue lids.
From my grandfather, a mouth that saw nothing wrong with calling certain "other kinds" names you wouldn’t utter in church. And a brain that “reasoned” if they were lesser, then their lives weren’t worth as much.
From my grandmother, feet that could not outrun a crop of lecherous cousins. And certainly not a hell-bent lawman.
Nobody plots out his life hoping it will become a classic cautionary horror tale. So I welcomed the relief when I reached the final chapter and watched myself borne away by the waves of Pentothal forced through my veins, my hideous alchemy lost in the darkness and distance.
From my father, hands that naturally, reflexively formed fists. Though in a pinch, a belt, a switch, or a broken beer bottle would do.
From my mother, eyes that had trouble seeing through the tears. And through the swollen, blue lids.
From my grandfather, a mouth that saw nothing wrong with calling certain "other kinds" names you wouldn’t utter in church. And a brain that “reasoned” if they were lesser, then their lives weren’t worth as much.
From my grandmother, feet that could not outrun a crop of lecherous cousins. And certainly not a hell-bent lawman.
Nobody plots out his life hoping it will become a classic cautionary horror tale. So I welcomed the relief when I reached the final chapter and watched myself borne away by the waves of Pentothal forced through my veins, my hideous alchemy lost in the darkness and distance.
Tomorrow, a Janet Reid contest, entry already written. So please check back.
Oh, and Happy Halloween!
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