Why I Like Frankenstein:
Because after two centuries folks still get his name wrong. Victor Frankenstein’s monster never had a name, though he is often ignorantly called by the name of the man who created him. He’s making his way through a post 9/11 world with no birth certificate or social security number, sticking it to the Department of Homeland Security.
Because he was a vegetarian without being preachy about it. Because he never lost his virginity. He drank tea instead of coffee.
Because he was a motivated self-starter, teaching himself to read, speak, and write. No psycho-babble excuses about ADHD, though you’d think a guy with hand-me-down eyeballs would have some attention deficits.
Because he had follow-through, making good on all of his promises. And threats.
Because he liked women. He liked kids. He liked folks with disabilities. He liked old people. He was an Affirmative Action kind of guy.
Because he ached for justice.
Because his friends dumped him.
Because he pined after love. He wanted a girlfriend. That’s it. Forget the Lexus and Kenneth Cole shoes and Beverly Hills mansion. In fact he’d kick the ass of any poser primping in his path; he was a shit, shower, and shave kind of guy. All he asked for was a lady companion. He would have lavished her with affection and remained loyal. But he didn’t get her. How sad is that?
Because he retired to the Arctic instead of Phoenix. Because he never had a mortgage or a charge card. He never changed a light bulb.
Because he met his Creator face to face. Had a nice chat over a cuppa and aired his gripes about his Creator’s fuckups. Made his case for some improvements. Who among us can say we shot the shit with our Creator and held him accountable? And who among us is called God, as Frankenstein has come to be called by his Creator’s name?
Because he sprang from the mind of an inexperienced teenaged girl. Because she cooked him up on a dare by famous men who thought they could do better than she; those famous blowhards came up with nothing, though they had been given the education denied her. Because she buried four babies but created an immortal creature. Because everyone failed her, too, but she persevered. She lived on.
Because you don’t have to have read the book to know who he is.
Because he never existed, but lives more strongly in our minds than real people who did.
Because our own anonymity pierces our stitched-together hearts.
The Strangler Fig: Stories by Jennifer D. Munro
Now on Kindle at Amazon.com
Six sensual, darkly fantastic tales that reimagine classics such as Dorian Gray, Helen of Troy, and The Yellow Wallpaper. The Erotica Writer’s Husband & Other Stories author turns to a darker eros with her new collection of haunting and magical tales, which have appeared in various fantasy, horror, and literary anthologies. About 100 pages.
From New Orleans to Mexico to ancient Hawaii: An obsessed paparazzo stalks his subject–a famous singer whose photos morph but face remains unchanged. An unborn triplet haunts and taunts its mother for the choice she made. An infertile woman seeks to learn the language of the dead baby she continues to carry.
Surreal, slipstream, supernatural stories, in which fertility and infertility take a stranglehold on possessed minds. Collected from the pages of Best of Crossed Genres [Year One]: Fantasy & Science Fiction with a Twist; Thou Shalt Not: Stories of Dark Crime and Horror; the South Dakota Review; Mammoth Book of Best New Erotica; and others.
Cover image courtesy of Rhonda “Shellbelle” Renee © 2009, ShellbellesTikiHut.com