Sunday, January 15, 2012


Oh, I do not dare to compare my little piece of fiction with Mary Shelley’s masterpiece.
No, what I’m trying to convey here is what I’ve felt in the seven months it took me to bring to life my mongrel son. You see, it’s still covered in stitches and scars, wet bandages hang loose from its arms and legs, and … a convulse spasm keep twitching its limbs.
Writing ‘Feeding the Urge’ hasn’t been different from Dr. Frankenstein’s ghoulish labor.

It began with a dream, an idea on creating something new, something different from mainstay Horror literature, something which simply wasn’t there.
The dream became an obsession, and like that infamous 18th century scientist I began delving into forbidden knowledge and maddening stuff. Sometimes, even allowed me a grisly laugh, while researching on morgues, causes of death, and instruments of pain.

As Victor, I ventured into forlorn graveyards of human knowledge, unearthing the bodies of those who preceded me, studying their anatomy and complexities.
Next, came the meat and bones of the story. I spent whole nights penning down my manuscript, assembling and dissecting it again, always looking for perfection, yet achieving none.
Once, it looked too different from what I had in mind, a wretched creature which disgusted my very eyes. At another time, it distanced so much from whom I intended it to be, it almost became a true crime story. I could not allow it. So, I burked it with a pillow, and created a new head for it.
This head was Nemesis. Since I do not want to spoil my novel for you, I’m not going to reveal who – or what – this Nemesis is.

At last, exhausted by my long fatigues, I collapsed and left the unliving husk rotting on the lab’s trestle table. I had had enough with it. I was starting to hate the miserable creature, even being unable to let my weary eyes rest for a single instant on its hideous body.
Still, inside, I loved it.
I relaxed myself trying to pen another story, a simpler one, shorter in stature, but higher in spirit.
This had to be settled in late 1666 AD, in the Caribbean Sea, away from the trappings of modern age. I enjoyed the setting, rejoiced in its humor and carefree mood. 
However, it will not last, because from that shapeless mound of dead flesh came out a cry so chilling and so disturbing that I could not refrain to rush down my mind’s lab in succor of the poor beast.

It was alive. 
It breathed, yet it couldn’t move. Eyes still missing, it frantically tried to get out of that perpetual darkness I had sentenced it into. With renewed fervor I sat down, and started a new makeover. This time it would be perfect. And it did.

Feeding the Urge received its first spark of true life on the night of January 1st 2012.
It was even a stormy night here in Ao Nang.
Unlike its literary analogue it started to talk immediately and is even able to enjoy a good conversation.
Yet, beware, because inside that large skull lays still an abnormal brain.

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