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Authors: Kevin J. Anderson
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his dressing room and saw Dwight Frye just leaving through the large doors. He called out for the other actor to wait, remembering to use English again, though the foreign tongue seemed cumbersome to him.
“Mr. Frye, would you care to join me for a bit of dinner? I know it is late, but I would enjoy your company.”
Frye stopped, and his eyes widened to show how startled he was. For a moment he looked like the madman Renfield again, but when he chuckled the laugh carried delight, not feigned insanity.
“Yes, I’d sure like that, Mr. Lugosi. It’s good to see you’re not going to keep to yourself again. The rest of us don’t bite, you know. Nothing to be afraid of.”
Lugosi smiled sardonically and stepped toward him. The pain in his legs faded into the background. “You’re right, Mr. Frye. There is nothing to fear.”
The Sum of His Parts
Kevin J. Anderson
“ The Sum of His Parts” originally published in Apex Science Fiction & Horror Digest , vol 1, Issue 9, 2007.
When working with Dean Koontz on the novel Prodigal Son (the initial novel in his phenomenal Frankenstein series), I spent a lot of time pondering the origin of the Frankenstein monster, a being stitched together from parts of several different people. How did all the pieces fit together, as it were? The bodies had to come from somewhere, they were people with their own stories, their own troubles, and they had all died at approximately the same time (so the pieces were fresh for Victor’s laboratory). As I considered how those original “donors” might have known or interacted with one another, a nicely tangled story emerged.
* * *
Lightning turns the castle tower into a silver silhouette. Energy collects in metal rods, floods into crackling apparatus. Sparks fly from wires connected to a bandaged figure composed of cadaverous tissue assembled with thick sutures.
The doctor studies his creation, the mismatched parts, the thick sutures.
Spiderwebs of electricity flow like white-hot blood into the patchwork body, awakening the components like embers under an insistent puff of breath. The reattached hands twitch, the fingers flex. Transplanted lungs expel fetid air, unleashing a flood of memories.
#
He drew a deep breath of the open air. The snow-capped Alps framed the fragrant meadows where his sheep roamed. He preferred to be alone in the mountain vales, away from his brother Stefan and his flock; he didn’t like the sound of talking. In fact, he didn’t like sounds at all.
The wind spoke to him with breezes that whispered in his ears and taunted him like the hot breath of a wolf. The waving grasses hissed and rustled.
One afternoon during a thunderstorm, he huddled next to a rock, wrapping his hands around his ears, but the thunder made his head ring. The wind was all around, plucking at his clothes, gasping, wheezing, shrieking . He abandoned his flock, ran to his hut, and slammed the rickety door. The wind moaned through the cracks, slipping inside to get him. Plugging his ears with beeswax only amplified the sounds of his own breathing, the blood pounding inside his head. There was no escape. . . .
When it was time for the two brothers to join their flocks and take them to market in Ingolstadt, he and Stefan climbed a pass that separated their grazing fields from the valley. His brother was lonely, loquacious, and pestered him with constant conversation, to which he received no reply. As the two hiked up the steep slope, Stefan began panting, louder and louder , breathing so heavily that he could not even keep up his inane patter.
The shepherd squeezed his eyes shut, but couldn’t block out the sound of the awful heaving breaths. Each loud inhalation and exhalation was like the thunder, until he could stand it no more.
He spun and wrapped his hands around Stefan’s throat. His brother struggled frantically while he squeezed, but the shepherd focused only on stopping the noise, smothering it. When he let his brother’s
“Mr. Frye, would you care to join me for a bit of dinner? I know it is late, but I would enjoy your company.”
Frye stopped, and his eyes widened to show how startled he was. For a moment he looked like the madman Renfield again, but when he chuckled the laugh carried delight, not feigned insanity.
“Yes, I’d sure like that, Mr. Lugosi. It’s good to see you’re not going to keep to yourself again. The rest of us don’t bite, you know. Nothing to be afraid of.”
Lugosi smiled sardonically and stepped toward him. The pain in his legs faded into the background. “You’re right, Mr. Frye. There is nothing to fear.”
The Sum of His Parts
Kevin J. Anderson
“ The Sum of His Parts” originally published in Apex Science Fiction & Horror Digest , vol 1, Issue 9, 2007.
When working with Dean Koontz on the novel Prodigal Son (the initial novel in his phenomenal Frankenstein series), I spent a lot of time pondering the origin of the Frankenstein monster, a being stitched together from parts of several different people. How did all the pieces fit together, as it were? The bodies had to come from somewhere, they were people with their own stories, their own troubles, and they had all died at approximately the same time (so the pieces were fresh for Victor’s laboratory). As I considered how those original “donors” might have known or interacted with one another, a nicely tangled story emerged.
* * *
Lightning turns the castle tower into a silver silhouette. Energy collects in metal rods, floods into crackling apparatus. Sparks fly from wires connected to a bandaged figure composed of cadaverous tissue assembled with thick sutures.
The doctor studies his creation, the mismatched parts, the thick sutures.
Spiderwebs of electricity flow like white-hot blood into the patchwork body, awakening the components like embers under an insistent puff of breath. The reattached hands twitch, the fingers flex. Transplanted lungs expel fetid air, unleashing a flood of memories.
#
He drew a deep breath of the open air. The snow-capped Alps framed the fragrant meadows where his sheep roamed. He preferred to be alone in the mountain vales, away from his brother Stefan and his flock; he didn’t like the sound of talking. In fact, he didn’t like sounds at all.
The wind spoke to him with breezes that whispered in his ears and taunted him like the hot breath of a wolf. The waving grasses hissed and rustled.
One afternoon during a thunderstorm, he huddled next to a rock, wrapping his hands around his ears, but the thunder made his head ring. The wind was all around, plucking at his clothes, gasping, wheezing, shrieking . He abandoned his flock, ran to his hut, and slammed the rickety door. The wind moaned through the cracks, slipping inside to get him. Plugging his ears with beeswax only amplified the sounds of his own breathing, the blood pounding inside his head. There was no escape. . . .
When it was time for the two brothers to join their flocks and take them to market in Ingolstadt, he and Stefan climbed a pass that separated their grazing fields from the valley. His brother was lonely, loquacious, and pestered him with constant conversation, to which he received no reply. As the two hiked up the steep slope, Stefan began panting, louder and louder , breathing so heavily that he could not even keep up his inane patter.
The shepherd squeezed his eyes shut, but couldn’t block out the sound of the awful heaving breaths. Each loud inhalation and exhalation was like the thunder, until he could stand it no more.
He spun and wrapped his hands around Stefan’s throat. His brother struggled frantically while he squeezed, but the shepherd focused only on stopping the noise, smothering it. When he let his brother’s
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