The Genre Demon

[Lord Macabre]

I can't seem to figure out how to submit fiction, but here's a short that some of you may like.

Fog had rolled in off the harbor, shrouding Boston’s gleaming towers in grey. Some days, she resembled London, mock gaslights peering through the dark and murky night, pedestrians strolling through her version of Hyde Park, nimble nascent nocturne nomads on Newbury, suburban Trojans in SUV’s sailing down her narrow streets. Talons sunk deep, the demon sat perched on the Hancock admiring gothic churches laid out below it. The thing was seething, it’s ancient Europe left behind for this New England, this modern metropolis. Bat-like leathery wings, twenty feet wide, spread as it sailed unseen in the misty night. Hatred of colonial puritanical idiots with cellphones drove it down, to swoop up a yuppie on Boylston. The man screamed, but the demon stuffed his mouth and was high above before anyone took note. It perched atop the library, eyeing its quarry. Terror was deep in the bulging eyes of his victim, the demon’s green-yellow eyes looked inquisitively, almost pitying the man in the Brooks Brother suit. The demon opened its mouth, every tooth pointed to a fine edge, brown saliva dripping, it spoke.
“Where is Edgar?”
“D-d-d-don’t k-k-kill me.”
Anger, frustration, “Who is Edgar?”
“Ed-d-d-g-g-ar?”
“That is what I asked you, is it not?”
“Y-y-yes.”
“Well?”
“I-I-I d-d-don’t kn-n-now Ed-d-dgar.”
“Pity. ‘Prophet! Said I, thing of evil-prophet still, if bird or devil!-Whether Tempter sent, or tempest tossed thee here ashore, Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted-On this home by Horror haunted, tell me truly, I implore.” With this, the demon rendered his victim, as blood and gore ran down its chin, it looked to the sky, “Oh, woe, woe, where is Poe? Has he forever left the city of his birth?”
Wings flapping in the strong Autumn wind, the demon flew out over the Charles, dumping the remains of another in the thousands of souls it had harvested. Daylight would be coming, so it flew toward the crypt it had claimed as its own, below the cemetery in the Common, but not before picking up a copy of The Boston World. It did not need to sleep, but it did need to read, to devour information, and to feed on the flesh of the undaunting walking dead of modernity. Corpses with laptops and palm pilots with no sense of anything but greenbacks. Paradise Lost in a sea of boredom. Acid tears ran down the demon’s face as it read even more terrifying news from the NEA, literary reading was down and seemed doomed. No, no, no, would the genre die with it? Daylight passed like a millennium as the thing waited. Where had it gone wrong? For thousands of years it had held on, when the genre was at its height, he was exalted in the halls of Hell. Now, he suffered.
Pure absolute demonic rage gripped the demon as is left its roost. A fat man in square glasses, walking stick and period costume strolled by the old church. No time for questions, what was the point anyway? None of them had answers. The thing let out a piercing scream that stopped the fat man in his tracks as the demon landed before him. No time, a fraction of second, a claw as sharp as steel sliced open the man’s belly, spilling chewed up cheese steaks on the cobblestone. Old Ben might have appreciated the irony in the city he turned his back on but who still claimed him as one of their own. It flew away.
Tonight was clear, it could not hide as easily. Perched by gargoyles on gothic steeples, it spotted a young man walking with a book in hand, an old book, not ancient. Oh what was this? Could some hope be found? It could not resist. Talons gripped the man, pulling him aloft. He did not scream, just whimpered as the demon set him down on a nearby unused roof deck. The man was just a kid, maybe twenty or so, ordinary looking, hair a little long, clothing simple. It moved quickly, grabbed the book from the hands of it’s victim, Stoker, an early version of the classic. It smiled, remembering the era, of the strange tales that were woven and launched by its own influence. A time when vampirism held evil, not glamor or supposed nouveau underground chic.
“Where is Harry?” it spoke raspily.
“Uh, literally or figuratively?” the man-boy answered with little fear.
“Choose carefully, it does not matter.”
“In the mountains of madness.”
“Not with Chtuhulu?”
“Nope, with the old ones in ice cities.”
“Very well done.”
“Uh.”
“Yes?”
“You are the Literary Demon?”
Surprised, “You have heard of me?”
“No, but I have dreamed about you.”
“You speak the truth? Why?”
“Wishful thinking, I guess. It’s just that, well, the genre seems well, dead. I prayed for some instrument of the supernatural to save it. It’s, well, it’s that I think we need divine, er, maybe undivine intervention to salvage it.”
“Dead, no. Usurped, glamorized by wannabe Dracula’s with multiple piercings and some strange sense of urban fashion, by homogenized horror and other undaunting dolts doing a danse macabre that is more like a marionette.”
Laughing, “Yes, the only real hope is the music. Film still has potential, but the music is where I think we have the most hope.”
“Music? Film?” The demon confused.
Astonished of the monster’s ignorance, sorrow for the demon, “Would you like to know more?”
Intrigued, “Yes. Yes, I would.”
“Take me home, fly that way.” The man-boy pointed and with renewed energy, the demon gripped the his newfound aspirant in strong arms, and flew toward the bright lights of Brighton.

[Lord Macabre]

The second half.


The eager young man let the demon in through his window as hounding horn blowers sounded their blaring machines in timid time tracking trauma. He hated it, the man-boy, he liked it better when people yelled profanities and made obscene gestures. But, hey, here he was in a dream or a nightmare, with the literary demon of his dreams. The demon was viewing the artwork, books on the shelves, making a study of the young man. Rob, the man-boy, picked out a CD, but it in the player, a voice came out.
“And out of the darkness, the zombie did call. True pain and darkness he brought to them all. Away were the children to hide in their beds for fear that the devil would chop off their heads.” Heavy guitars, a sophisticated rythymn, then “Shriek the lips across ragged tongue....” The demon stepped back listening, enthralled.
“What is this?”
“My hope, my inspiration.”
“Impressive, how could I have missed this?”
“It is not literature, but modern music.”
“This has escaped me.”
“Without this, I would have given up.”
“Are there others?”
“Yes, Marilyn Manson, Slipknot, Korn, the Misfits, more, but this one is the best at catching and holding the essence of horror.”
“So there is hope?”
“Some, yes. For me, and most likely for others.”
“But I see you also have the trash on your shelves alongside the likes of Hawthorne, James, Shelley, Byron.”
“I do not confine myself to horror only.”
“It is good not to do so, but why the trash and the pasteurized works?”
“For keeping up with what is current, for trying to find some hope.”
“And the proliferation of vampire glamor?”
“Some good, some bad, most overdone.”
“Yes, there is something to the work.”
“They all just tried to fall in line behind each other. They have spawned a legion of undead living in fantasy worlds, people who think they are unique but all wear the same type clothing, have piercings, the same tattoos. They are lost, not much different than other trendies. No sense of self, just a part of the mix.”
“I am aware of this as I have eaten a few recently. I thought their might be hope in them because of their appearance, but I was disappointed in their knowledge and appreciation. They call themselves ‘Goths’, yet the last ten I did away with did not even know what or who a Visigoth was.”
Warily laughing, “I can only guess at your frustration.”
“You need not fear me, we are allies.”
“Allies?”
“Yes, you will help me kill the homogenizer.”
“Homogenizer? Sounds like one of Spidey’s foes.”
“It is not to be taken lightly. He whose name denotes royalty, who has usurped the literature, monopolized the genre and refuses to retire.”
“You mean..?”
“Do not speak his name, it brings too much pain.”
“How come you need my help? Why can’t you kill him yourself?”
“Limitations by my master. Geographic, physical appearance.”
“I don’t get it.”
“I am not allowed to appear before those I do not kill save those that pass my own requirements for knowledge. Nor, may I stray from the limits of the city.”
“Can’t you get him in his car?”
“Have you not seen the way people drive here? I am unable to pursue it in that manner any more than I can swoop in on a Sox game and carry him off in my claws. You will have to do it.”
“Murder?”
“He has neglected his promise to retire. It is required. A divine duty.”
“Divine? How is the work of Satan divine?”
“All things created and given power by the Lord are divine. Besides, Satan nor Lucifer, nor any of the underworld lords are my master.”
“Then who do you serve? How come it can’t be done another way?”
“Who I serve is not to be revealed. It must be done or else the genre will die...soon.”
“Oh, man, this is serious.”
“It is more than serious, without this action, a whole genre will sink.”
“Ok, I’ll do it, reluctantly, but I will do it.”
“Most pleasing news I have had in at least half a century. Speaking of which, music and film alarm me.”
“I don’t get it.”
“Does not the medium of the art get lost in modern technology?”
“Oh, man, you should fear computers even more.”
“Computers? I have heard the word but know not the threat.”
“They create whole little fantasy worlds that people can get lost in without ever using their own imagination but instead feeding off of someone else’s.”
“Ah, you have said it. These new mediums require little self-imagination, thus destroying the genre.”
“Oh, believe me, horror is not the only area that is in trouble.”
The demon hung is head low, “I know. I have read the news.”
“Fear not, nemesis, for we shall overcome.”
“Hallelujah.”


It was a fine spring day in the HUB, forty-five degrees and overcast. The Sox were losing to the Yankees, again. Nobody noticed the young new vendor as he poured a dark syrupy liquid into the soda and passed it to the usurper. Disgusted at the game, the usurper gulped down the carbonated concoction confidently. Gurgle, gurgle, belch, belch, bowels wrangling, he ran for the nearest commode. Churning, burning funk on his insides as he dropped his drawers on the filthy floor. Blaaat, gergg, foo, fllppp, hiss, ‘Holy Shit’ were the last sounds that came from the monarch of mediocre macabre.

Night in Brighton. Rob sat studying the grey skin of the demon’s face, lumps, grooves, hard lines, a pointed nose like Gene Simmons in make-up, lips pulled back over razor pointed teeth, sinews on his arms strong and taut, sexless with muscular thighs, hands and feet talon-like with six fingers. The demon’s wings lay folded like fine leather against his back as he stood reading crumpled paper.
“Why have you cast this work aside?” the demon asked.
“No point. Dying genre, dying interest in literature.” Rob.
“This is not altogether bad, in fact, the concept is not one I have seen before.”
“I guess I’ll take that as a compliment. I had to dumb it down more than I wanted to for the market.”
“Ah, yes, the invisible hand would slap you hard if you did not, I suppose.”
Rob, laughing, “Yea, for me it is like more like the ‘Wealth of Crustaceans’. Out here in the swamps, we is stoned, immaculate, with no hope of publication.”
“Yes, master this new technology and use it to spread the new art of our genre..”
And so the night rolled on and the mundane continued its rule. But, somewhere, lurking in the night, a demon watched and listened, the troll of the droll.

[Lord Macabre]

What, no comments?

[HumanePain]

Very entertaining, Lord Macabre! Well written too; the reader is kept in the dream flow seamlessly. First impressions:

a) The mixing of the murderous demon, with a contemporary and real issue as the dying of the genre, quickly disconnects the reader from an escapist context (which is why I love to read and write Gothic Romance, to escape reality).
This non-escape context may amuse some readers, but I think those who are looking "to get lost in a good book" may not find this kind of story appealing (although I found the concept fascinating).

b) Reminds me of a Poe satire. A hideous demon who is trying to "catch up" with technology.

c) You do have a strong descriptive talent for writing; personally I would love to read your writing in a more "classic" context, but then, I am sure this must chaff your creative desire for originality. For me, I would have loved to read about the demon slicing open more bellies and about cheese steak spilling out.

Please post more of your work, very inspiring!

[Lord Macabre]

Originally Posted by HumanePain

Very entertaining, Lord Macabre! Well written too; the reader is kept in the dream flow seamlessly. First impressions:

a) The mixing of the murderous demon, with a contemporary and real issue as the dying of the genre, quickly disconnects the reader from an escapist context (which is why I love to read and write Gothic Romance, to escape reality).
This non-escape context may amuse some readers, but I think those who are looking "to get lost in a good book" may not find this kind of story appealing (although I found the concept fascinating).

b) Reminds me of a Poe satire. A hideous demon who is trying to "catch up" with technology.

c) You do have a strong descriptive talent for writing; personally I would love to read your writing in a more "classic" context, but then, I am sure this must chaff your creative desire for originality. For me, I would have loved to read about the demon slicing open more bellies and about cheese steak spilling out.

Please post more of your work, very inspiring!

Humane Pain, thanks for the reply and critique. This piece is more of a tongue in cheek kind of story. You can actually read my entire first novel for free at http://www.myspace.com/lordmacabre and also check out some other shorts at http://www.lordmacabre.com . It is my first novel, so I know it is not a masterpiece and I hope to improve my craft as I go.