A Living Legend

I submitted this piece to The Molotov Cocktail magazine for their 2024 Flash Fiction Monster horror contest. It didn’t place, but it did earn a shout out on their “Close, but No Cigar,” list.

I’m publishing it here so others can enjoy this monster I made…

A pop from within the fireplace stirred Zane from a deep slumber. He was sitting in an elegant leather armchair. To his left, a roaring fire emanated heat and a small measure of light.

Across from him, a figure drenched in shadows sat quietly within an identical armchair. Zane could see his slender fingers, claw-like hands, and a tophat resting on his head.

“What’s going on? Where am I?” Zane asked.

“Zane Hargrave: a writing prodigy, an undisputed best-seller, the definition of a living legend. Did I get that right?” The figure asked.

“How did I get here?” Zane asked.

Images flashed in Zane’s mind. He recalled an interview request and his agent urging him to sit down with an avid collector of stories who respected his work and, more importantly, had very deep pockets.

Zane clutched his head. “Wait, sorry, I remember now. My apologies; I didn’t mean to fall asleep.”

“It’s quite alright, Mr. Hargrave. I want you to be comfortable here. After all, you won’t be leaving for quite some time.”

How long is this interview going to take?

“We should get started then. What do you want to know?” Zane asked.

“I have consumed all of your stories, Mr. Hargrave, and while I found them satisfying, they ultimately lacked a unique, shall we say, flavor.”

Why is he describing my books like they’re dishes on a menu?

“I’m not sure I follow,” Zane said.

“All stories written by humans follow the Hero’s Journey. They adhere to an archetype, a genre, a cage they are bound to occupy. My question for you, Mr. Hargrave, is this: do you possess the ability to write something new? Something truly unique?”

Zane saw an opportunity blossoming before him. “Of course, but I would need a lot of time and money.”

“You will have all that you need. I suggest you get started.”

A light turned on to Zane’s right. Against the far wall was an ornate wooden desk with a stack of papers and an antique typewriter.

“Oh, no, I need to work on this at home,” Zane said.

“You will stay here and write the story. As long as it takes.”

Zane stood up. “I’m sorry, but this isn’t a good fit. I’m leaving.”

Zane turned and walked to the door at the end of the room. He stepped through and immediately found himself sitting in the armchair again.

“What the fuck?”

Zane fled the room again and again. Each time, he found himself back where he had started.

“What the hell is going on he—”

The figure in the armchair snapped his fingers, and Zane disappeared in a flash of light.

In his place, a sheet of paper slowly descended towards the ground like an autumn leaf. The figure in the other armchair stood up, its body uncoiling and stretching to an inhuman height.

The light from the nearby fire revealed empty eye sockets and a smile filled with far too many yellowed teeth. It reached down and picked up the paper, holding it close to its shriveled nose.

“You humans sustain yourself on food, water, rest, and shelter, but I must devour stories to survive. My palette has become increasingly refined over the centuries, and now I must have something new. I will let you go when you deliver on your promise. Until then, you will join my menagerie of legends and myths.”

The creature’s jaw unhinged like a serpent. At the end of its tongue was a book bound in glistening flesh. The cover swung open, the pages fluttering. Cries of pain, ecstasy, joy, and sorrow, the full spectrum of human emotion, escaped from within.

It lowered the new page towards the book. Bindings shot out from within like tiny hands, eagerly adding the page to its collection before slamming shut and sliding back into the creature’s mouth.

It gingerly licked the tips of his fingers and sat back down, slinking into the shadows of the armchair.

“I look forward to your first draft.”