<center><table width=10 cellpadding=0 cellspacing=0 bgcolor=ffffff><tr><td><div align=center><font style="line-height: 12px; color: #2a0003; font-family: times; font-size: 12px;"><table width=500 cellpadding=30 cellspacing=0><tr><td><font style="line-height: 12px; color: black; font-family: times; font-size: 12px;"><div align=left><i> there is a dream in the space between the hammer and the nail <BR><font color=white>------</font> the dream of about-to-be-hit, which is a bad dream<BR><font color=white>------------</font> but the nail will take the hit if it gets to sleep inside the wood forever </i></div> <BR><BR><div align=justify>
A riddle: when is a monster not a monster?
He is no longer Rapt, but something <I>other</i>.
He elongates, limbs stretching like rubber, and it should hurt, but it doesn’t – his body shifts like it’s long been meant for this. His features melt, and distort, as if his bones have turned to wax, and he should frighten him, but it doesn’t. It excites him.
He has never been a monster – he is a boy who loves monsters.
His skin turns slick and rubbery, the hair melting away. A stretching in his head as horns grow, elongate, and he thinks again of that man, goat-horned and cloven-hooved, the only thing he’s ever loved. His tail elongates, grows barbed, and when it switches against his flank he feels his skin slice beneath it, the coppery scent of blood in the air. Wings extend from his shoulders, membranous and thin. He moves them experimentally, lifts a few inches off the ground.
Hadn’t he always wanted to be remade?
He certainly feels remade, now, made in the terrible image of beasts who serve old and insane gods – fitting. Somewhere, the fairy is laughing at her own cleverness. He opens his mouth to ask a question - <i>why me, why now, why, why, <b>why</i></b> - but all that comes out is a high-pitched, gibbering noise, something maddening and strange, a language that he has yet to comprehend. He is a monster.
When is a monster not a monster?
Let it be, then, this is his new shape and his new language, he embraces it, he walks with a confidence he had never possessed as a lowly boy. He walks with purpose, even if the purpose is to serve an old god on a mountain that doesn’t exist here; to suckle at the feverish breast of a another awful creature.
Fitting. Of course it’s fitting. If Pollock could see him now!
He lets out another cry – this one almost like a howl – and he celebrates in this new life. He had never envisioned himself a monster, but now, he cannot imagine anything else.
When is a monster not a monster?
<i>Oh, when you love it.</i>
<BR><BR><div align=right><i>rapt </i><br>
caius x else</div></div></font></tr></td></table></font></div><center><img src=http://media.tumblr.com/ca24088cbbf5ab07576b22c0c61539ba/tumblr_inline_miflndHrvr1qz4rgp.jpg></td></tr></table></center>
from the cthulhu mythos, a <a href=https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Nightgaunt>nightgaunt</a> is a thin, black, largely featureless thing with inward-facing horns, membranous wings, rubbery skin, and a barbed tail. they serve other, greater gods. weaknesses include dependence on stronger monsters and difficulty communicating.
word count: 359
A riddle: when is a monster not a monster?
He is no longer Rapt, but something <I>other</i>.
He elongates, limbs stretching like rubber, and it should hurt, but it doesn’t – his body shifts like it’s long been meant for this. His features melt, and distort, as if his bones have turned to wax, and he should frighten him, but it doesn’t. It excites him.
He has never been a monster – he is a boy who loves monsters.
His skin turns slick and rubbery, the hair melting away. A stretching in his head as horns grow, elongate, and he thinks again of that man, goat-horned and cloven-hooved, the only thing he’s ever loved. His tail elongates, grows barbed, and when it switches against his flank he feels his skin slice beneath it, the coppery scent of blood in the air. Wings extend from his shoulders, membranous and thin. He moves them experimentally, lifts a few inches off the ground.
Hadn’t he always wanted to be remade?
He certainly feels remade, now, made in the terrible image of beasts who serve old and insane gods – fitting. Somewhere, the fairy is laughing at her own cleverness. He opens his mouth to ask a question - <i>why me, why now, why, why, <b>why</i></b> - but all that comes out is a high-pitched, gibbering noise, something maddening and strange, a language that he has yet to comprehend. He is a monster.
When is a monster not a monster?
Let it be, then, this is his new shape and his new language, he embraces it, he walks with a confidence he had never possessed as a lowly boy. He walks with purpose, even if the purpose is to serve an old god on a mountain that doesn’t exist here; to suckle at the feverish breast of a another awful creature.
Fitting. Of course it’s fitting. If Pollock could see him now!
He lets out another cry – this one almost like a howl – and he celebrates in this new life. He had never envisioned himself a monster, but now, he cannot imagine anything else.
When is a monster not a monster?
<i>Oh, when you love it.</i>
<BR><BR><div align=right><i>rapt </i><br>
caius x else</div></div></font></tr></td></table></font></div><center><img src=http://media.tumblr.com/ca24088cbbf5ab07576b22c0c61539ba/tumblr_inline_miflndHrvr1qz4rgp.jpg></td></tr></table></center>
from the cthulhu mythos, a <a href=https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Nightgaunt>nightgaunt</a> is a thin, black, largely featureless thing with inward-facing horns, membranous wings, rubbery skin, and a barbed tail. they serve other, greater gods. weaknesses include dependence on stronger monsters and difficulty communicating.
word count: 359