Making a Monster Notes

Welcome to Making a Monster-(Book) A Fictional work in progress.

You’ve just stepped into the heart of an evolving story—a creative journey that explores the depths of transformation, humanity, and choice. Making a Monster is more than just a project; it’s a collaborative experience where your voice shapes the narrative. Learn more donate and become a subscriber

Verse 1

I have to tell you ’bout a day—

time was slipping far away.

Her skin, a velvet cushion warm,

I tried to calm my restless storm.

Ironed out the creases in my mind,

maybe I was stalling, lost in time.

Then Pharaoh’s voice came to me—

was it a battle, babe, for you and me?

Oh no, no, no, no…

Chorus 1

And this is what I said:

Time slips away in desert winds,

hard hearts echo ancient sins.

A soothing warmth that soon departs,

Pharaoh’s voice still haunts my hardened heart.

Oh no, no, no, no…

Verse 2

And this is what I should’ve done:

I reached out to smooth the intrusion,

wondering if we faced illusion.

Pretense peeled, we stood undone,

following footprints toward the sun.

Hardened hearts cast shadows deep—

was it a battle meant to keep?

Then Pharaoh’s call returned again,

whispering secrets of where we’ve been.

Oh no, no, no, no…

Chorus 2

And this is what I said:

Time slips away in desert winds,

cracks appear where truth begins.

No illusions left to guard,

Pharaoh’s echo hits me hard.

Did we have a choice?

Oh no, no, no, no…

Verse 3

Did we even have a choice?

If “Your will be done,” what’s my voice?

You’re the Maker, the Shaper—when I do these monstrous things,

am I still bound by holy strings?

These questions burn in desert night—

Pharaoh’s voice sparks my inner fight.

Chorus 3

And this is what I said ’til I am dead:

Time slips away in desert winds,

shadows stir and hush our sins.

I wrestle with a fractured heart—

Pharaoh’s cry never did depart.

Protected: Making a Monster Introduction Version 1-Written in First Person

Making a Monster Introduction Version 2 -Written in Third Person

Welcome to Making a Monster-(Book) A Fictional work in progress.

I sit down in this old theater, not entirely sure why I’m here. The air smells damp, thick with mold and dust. It’s the kind of place where the cracks in the foundation don’t just let in light—they let in time, a creeping, aching kind of time that scans the faded carpet and settles in the corners.

The usher barely acknowledged me. She pointed to my seat without a word, and I followed, brushing the velvet cushion with my hand before sitting down. I don’t know why I did that. Maybe I thought smoothing the fibers would make things feel…right. Or maybe I was just stalling.

And then I looked up.

They were staring at me.

The audience. Rows upon rows of faces. Watching. Not the stage, not the empty spotlight. Me.

I realize it all at once, like a cold shock to the spine: I’m not here to watch a show. I am the show.

The spotlight comes down, bright and unrelenting, and there’s no escape from it. I sit straighter, try to look composed, but inside I’m unraveling. What are they thinking? What do they see?

I know what some of you are already thinking. You’re the critics. The skeptics. The ones who’ve come here to pick me apart before I’ve even said a word. “What is this nonsense? Who does he think he is? What could he possibly have to say that matters to me?”

And you’re not wrong. Who am I, after all? Just another person under the light, fumbling with questions I can’t answer. Just another cracked foundation, another worn-out cushion, another ghost in a theater full of them.

But you’re here. And I’m here.

I stand up, my legs shaky beneath me. I reach for the microphone, the cold metal rod steady against my trembling grip. Swallowing hard, I take a nervous step forward, the heels of my shoes echoing faintly against the empty stage. I glance over the audience, a sea of faces blurred by the spotlight’s glare. Leaning into the microphone, I take a deep breath and announce,

“Let’s start with a prayer.”

I bow my head, close my eyes, and begin, my voice steadying with each word.

“Our Father in heaven,
Hallowed be your name,
Your kingdom come,
Your will be done,
On earth as it is in heaven.”
—Matthew 6:9-10

The prayer ends, and I lift my eyes to the audience. The silence in the room feels alive, as if the prayer itself is still hanging in the air. I take another breath and grip the microphone tighter.

“You know,” I say, my voice quieter now, almost confessional, “I just can’t get past ‘Your will be done.’”

I pause, scanning the room. “Tell me, what does that mean to you? Because here’s where I’m stuck: if God is the Creator, if He made me, gave me my parents, my surroundings, my experiences—every piece of the puzzle that makes me who I am—then when I act, even if it’s monstrous, am I not still doing His will?”

A murmur ripples through the audience, and I raise my hand, motioning for quiet. “Think about Pharaoh. God hardened his heart, didn’t He? So, did Pharaoh have a choice? Was his cruelty really his own? Or was he just fulfilling a role in a story already written?”

I take a step back from the microphone, letting the question settle. Then I lean in again, locking eyes with a few in the front row. “And what about Moses? He argued with God, resisted His commands, but in the end, he obeyed. Was that really his choice? Or was he just another player in the same divine script?”

I step away from the microphone and pace the stage, the weight of my words pressing down on me. “And then there’s me,” I say, turning back to the audience. “What about me? If I’ve been made into what I am—if I’m a monster, and I do monster things—am I not still doing His will?”

The room is silent now, the kind of silence that feels like it’s holding its breath.

“So,” I say, stepping back to the microphone, “what do you think? Is it all God’s will? Or do we have a say in who we are and what we do?”

I glance at the audience one more time, then lean into the microphone with a faint, almost defiant smile. “Let’s talk about it.”