The Monster - Toby Litt
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the Monster by Toby Lit. The monster didn't know what it was, what kind of monster or even now and again, whether a monster at all. It had lived for what felt like a long time without mirrors, which didn't exist, or puddles, which it instinctively avoided. There were other monsters in creation, or the monster assumed they were other monsters. It did not philosophizes on the nature of monstrosity. All could be monsters without a norm from which to deviate. And had it asked them, these other monsters would probably have described it to itself, using the few words and concepts available to them. Monster creation, son Tree fruit, Mered. Good, bad Up and down. But the monster was for some reason, averse to this, just as it was averse to puddles and had only learned of the practice by overhearing one monster being described by another. The sentence it overheard was monster up, up, good fruit, down, down, Bad Mered. And so the monster had always found out most about itself. By touch, there were too soft, floppy growths upon each side of its head, and its long, curved back felt rough at the bottom, like the skin of a fruit. The monster couldn't see its own feet because its belly, which was huge, gotten in the way.