Lycanthropy as body horror
Lycanthropy as body horror
I was thinking, couldn't Lycanthropy be portrayed as body horror? I mean, body horror revolves around a sense of wrongness with the body, and, if foisted upon an individual whom has no idea what the hell is going on, it seems like the two genres of story coudl cross over very nicely. Plus, remember how RedEye and several others mentioning partial mini-shifts before the first shift? Think about how goddamn terrifying that would be, with the horror spread over weels rather than bursting out all on one day. I actually have some elements of that in my story, and actually plan to emphasize them even more when I revise it (I've actually started back up workign on it, but I noticed that what I've got does need quite a bit of revision).
Also, on a final note, remember that body horror and werewolf movies are both known for gory, grotesque transformations.
So, whaddaya say? Are the genres compatible or no?
Also, on a final note, remember that body horror and werewolf movies are both known for gory, grotesque transformations.
So, whaddaya say? Are the genres compatible or no?
XIV
Re: Lycanthropy as body horror
Maybe, partially. The only thing is that in body horror, the end result for the subject is something incredibly disgusting and perverse (The Fly, The Thing, etc.) Which a werewolf could be, I guess, but it would be weird.
- Terastas
- Legendary
- Posts: 5193
- Joined: Thu Nov 25, 2004 4:03 pm
- Custom Title: Spare Pelican
- Gender: Male
- Location: Las Vegas
- Contact:
Re: Lycanthropy as body horror
I'm kind of on the same page as Berserker. It's possible, but the body horror approach would only work leading up to the first shift. I figure no matter what a werewolf actually looks like, anyone should be able to look at one and figure out for themselves that it's a werewolf, so the "what's wrong with me" element should go away as soon as the shift finalizes and they look in the mirror.
Not being able to recognize a werewolf when they see one was one of the many cliches we poked fun of in this thread, so once the shift is finalized, that should answer their questions.
So yes, a werewolf movie could be a body horror movie. I just don't the B.H. genre would sustain for very long.
Not being able to recognize a werewolf when they see one was one of the many cliches we poked fun of in this thread, so once the shift is finalized, that should answer their questions.
So yes, a werewolf movie could be a body horror movie. I just don't the B.H. genre would sustain for very long.
-
- Legendary
- Posts: 1257
- Joined: Thu Nov 17, 2005 6:36 pm
- Custom Title: HERO OF NIGHTMARES
- Gender: Male
- Additional Details: I just don't care.
- Mood: Indifferent
- Location: Ausfailia
- Contact:
Re: Lycanthropy as body horror
Then there's the issue of not-body-horror-enough.
- Scott Gardener
- Legendary
- Posts: 4731
- Joined: Wed Dec 15, 2004 11:36 pm
- Gender: Male
- Mood: Excited
- Location: Rockwall, Texas (and beyond infinity)
- Contact:
Re: Lycanthropy as body horror
Absolutely; it's almost a given. If someone does not know what's going on, or if someone knows he or she is becoming a werewolf but does not know what that entails, the natural reaction would almost certainly be one of terror. That werewolves in our minds are beautiful wouldn't necessarily lessen the horror element. Some might argue that it would strengthen it, because now you're fighting against something that is both terrifying and yet strangely compelling.
Here's a few excerpts from my own manuscript. Ah, those were the days:
-----
The Psychology department was housed in the Liberal Arts College, a strange hodge-podge of several different fields of study lumped together in two buildings connected by an overhead walkway. Inside the building, he passed several occupied and empty classrooms and turned by a corner, stopping to listen for a moment. In one room he could hear the professor orating on Sigmund Freud’s contributions, commenting on how his technical inaccuracies are too frequently overemphasized, and how Freud’s courage to come forward and break ground by addressing such uncomfortable topics as sexuality had yet to be adequately acknowledged. Across the closed door in the same classroom, Scott could hear the sounds of students rustling their notebooks on their desks and their restless legs against the wire book-holding baskets below the chairs in front of them; one person chewed gum with dulled awareness, while another whispered about his exam results to a neighbor. As Scott listened further, he could hear the other classrooms, lectures about conditioned extinction of response through repeated stimulus, and about how to differentiate a grand mal seizure from a petit mal. Scott could hear the birds outside the building, through the thickness of the walls. His sense of smell then flared, inundating him with the scents of numerous shampoos, deodorants, body odors, and foods. He could smell the now overwhelming odor of nicotine on a younger student walking near him. Scott ducked into a restroom, fighting off the strong, burning stench of urine ammonia and chloride cleaning solutions emanating around him. He washed his face and cooled his forehead with a wet paper towel, before inspecting his reflection again.
His complexion had darkened over the past few hours, and the dark, web-like blood vessels had spread onto his face. He unbuttoned his shirt to look at his wounds, but they were gone. In the span of less than two days, his deep wounds had left barely any scar tissue, only traces of dried, peeling scabs. His chest appeared tanned, and the strange, dark blood vessel markings now spread across his chest, back, and arms. His chest hair had become a thick, smooth mat of fur, wider across his upper torso and tapering in a triangular manner over his abdomen. He looked up again at his reflection, seeing in his features feral, bestial qualities. Scott’s eyes were no longer bluish gray, but had instead become a bright brown, almost yellow.
-----
Scott wandered through the garden archways and walked over to the stream between the garden and semi-wild woods, finding there tranquility amidst the chaos of his metamorphosis. His senses were again filled with tastes, smells, and noises, but in this setting, he could find the moments of peace needed to make sense of his affliction.
Three days had now passed since he woke up in the woods, and he had hopes of returning to his routine life. The mysterious markings that once spread across his body had faded. Though his body hair had remained thickened, the skin beneath had regained its normal color. His senses remained heightened, but the fever had subsided.
He sat by the artificial stream, the sound of running water absorbing the surrounding excess of sensory information, allowing him to revert to his preferred state of introversion. Scott contemplated his altering features, his heightened senses, and his strange appetite. But, he found himself instead watching the surroundings, absorbed in the serenity of the scene. He gazed closely as bees and small moths darted in and out of various multicolored flowers. He could sense the presence of more than a dozen people who had passed by over the past few days, and he could smell even more strongly the territorial markings of three different dogs. He guessed that one was a larger breed, while the other two were smaller and shaggy. He found himself leaning over the ground, tracking these scents, somehow able to discern the subtle differences among them, revealing not only three different animals but also each one’s direction.
He should not feel at home here. By all rights, he should still be terrified of the woods on the other side of the stream. He looked around, awaiting his sense of dread, but it failed to manifest itself. It was just as well; he had been on edge enough. Then, Scott realized as he looked at the grass that it was a yellowish brown. He stood up, looking at the trees and shrubbery. They were all discolored, their green faded. The foliage appeared full of vitality and life, just devoid of color. He felt his heart racing as he reached behind his glasses and rubbed his eyes, realizing that he was now red-green color blind. The light of the sun and light blue sky became brighter, but the missing colors would not return. He looked across the river, towards the yellow and brown woods, accented now with a psychedelic mixture of violet and gray accents where there were once red and bright orange flowers. He ran out of the garden and into the parking lot, faltering towards his aging Plymouth, squinting his eyes against the bright daylight glaring down at him.
He found his car, but before getting inside, he looked at his eyes in the side mirror. He was not sure if their vivid yellow color were real or not this time, but his unnaturally large pupils and irises staring back at him caused him to feel light-headed and nauseous. He knelt down, crawling into his vehicle, covering his eyes and avoiding looking at the distorted purple seat upholstery. He sat, curling up and removing his spectacles, holding pressure over his eyes as he struggled to keep from passing out.
-----
Scott stood up and wandered around the room, but he resisted the urge to step outside. He refused to give in to the strange and unwanted desire to wander into the woods beyond. As he looked at his naked skin and its soft coating of fur, he picked up his shirt, holding it. He wanted to put it back on, but his skin itched and burned, and as he held the cloth, a scent emanated from it, unsettling him. He sniffed it closely, realizing that the scent was his own human body odor, intermingled with a wild animal smell. He dropped it, backing away, taking several deep breaths. The room became less dark as his eyes throbbed. He assumed they were shifting again.
He was more thirsty than hungry now. Having emptied his refrigerator of all of his soft drinks and bottled water over the past few days, and having exhausted his ice trays, he was down to drinking lukewarm tap water. He caught himself leaning over his sink, drinking from the faucet stream. He wanted to think he did so out of barren thirst alone, but he knew he was behaving more like an animal. He leaned back over to drink again, and then, reflexively stuck out his tongue, curling it back and drawing in a small pool of water. He threw himself from the sink, backing against the refrigerator. He shuddered, slowly pulling his tongue out of his mouth with his roughened fingertips as he breathed heavily onto his hands. His tongue was long, flat, and broad, almost dog-like.
Scott looked at his right arm, at the dense fur replacing what was once a fine coating of thin filaments over light skin. With anger and resolve, he strutted into his bathroom, turning on the light before taking a razor blade from the second drawer. His reflection in the bathroom mirror was even less human now, the same black fur having invaded his chest, neck, and face. The stabbing headache ripping his temples was from the migration of the base of his ears upwards, towards the top of his head.
With the razor blade, he tore at the fur erupting from his forearm, ripping off clumps of fur, ignoring the pain and bleeding as the alien filaments broke from his skin. He grinded vigorously as the blade met with increasing resistance. The blade had soon become dull. Scott tossed the used instrument into a receptacle under his sink and took out a second one, repeating the process, freeing his arm from the mysterious soft material encapsulating it. But as his razor blades each gave out, he failed to gain significant progress. He tried to stretch out each blade’s usefulness as long as he could, but after having barely exposed the skin of his right arm, they had all become useless. Scott took a tiny pair of scissors and continued his fight against the metastatic fur, but even as he cut at it, he could feel his arm tingling as the material grew back.
He threw the metal instrument across the bathroom floor and growled angrily. He looked up again, seeing his pointed teeth bared and bright yellow eyes glaring back, only to see those expressions shift to shock and revulsion. Scott threw the light switch. But even as he tried to hide from himself, dim light from outside reflected in his eyes, creating a ghostly blue glow. He winced and turned away, his inflected whimper that of a frightened wild animal. He caught himself lapping water from the bathroom faucet stream. As tears began to well up in his swollen eyes, he felt a series of pain surges bolting through him. It had started.
Here's a few excerpts from my own manuscript. Ah, those were the days:
-----
The Psychology department was housed in the Liberal Arts College, a strange hodge-podge of several different fields of study lumped together in two buildings connected by an overhead walkway. Inside the building, he passed several occupied and empty classrooms and turned by a corner, stopping to listen for a moment. In one room he could hear the professor orating on Sigmund Freud’s contributions, commenting on how his technical inaccuracies are too frequently overemphasized, and how Freud’s courage to come forward and break ground by addressing such uncomfortable topics as sexuality had yet to be adequately acknowledged. Across the closed door in the same classroom, Scott could hear the sounds of students rustling their notebooks on their desks and their restless legs against the wire book-holding baskets below the chairs in front of them; one person chewed gum with dulled awareness, while another whispered about his exam results to a neighbor. As Scott listened further, he could hear the other classrooms, lectures about conditioned extinction of response through repeated stimulus, and about how to differentiate a grand mal seizure from a petit mal. Scott could hear the birds outside the building, through the thickness of the walls. His sense of smell then flared, inundating him with the scents of numerous shampoos, deodorants, body odors, and foods. He could smell the now overwhelming odor of nicotine on a younger student walking near him. Scott ducked into a restroom, fighting off the strong, burning stench of urine ammonia and chloride cleaning solutions emanating around him. He washed his face and cooled his forehead with a wet paper towel, before inspecting his reflection again.
His complexion had darkened over the past few hours, and the dark, web-like blood vessels had spread onto his face. He unbuttoned his shirt to look at his wounds, but they were gone. In the span of less than two days, his deep wounds had left barely any scar tissue, only traces of dried, peeling scabs. His chest appeared tanned, and the strange, dark blood vessel markings now spread across his chest, back, and arms. His chest hair had become a thick, smooth mat of fur, wider across his upper torso and tapering in a triangular manner over his abdomen. He looked up again at his reflection, seeing in his features feral, bestial qualities. Scott’s eyes were no longer bluish gray, but had instead become a bright brown, almost yellow.
-----
Scott wandered through the garden archways and walked over to the stream between the garden and semi-wild woods, finding there tranquility amidst the chaos of his metamorphosis. His senses were again filled with tastes, smells, and noises, but in this setting, he could find the moments of peace needed to make sense of his affliction.
Three days had now passed since he woke up in the woods, and he had hopes of returning to his routine life. The mysterious markings that once spread across his body had faded. Though his body hair had remained thickened, the skin beneath had regained its normal color. His senses remained heightened, but the fever had subsided.
He sat by the artificial stream, the sound of running water absorbing the surrounding excess of sensory information, allowing him to revert to his preferred state of introversion. Scott contemplated his altering features, his heightened senses, and his strange appetite. But, he found himself instead watching the surroundings, absorbed in the serenity of the scene. He gazed closely as bees and small moths darted in and out of various multicolored flowers. He could sense the presence of more than a dozen people who had passed by over the past few days, and he could smell even more strongly the territorial markings of three different dogs. He guessed that one was a larger breed, while the other two were smaller and shaggy. He found himself leaning over the ground, tracking these scents, somehow able to discern the subtle differences among them, revealing not only three different animals but also each one’s direction.
He should not feel at home here. By all rights, he should still be terrified of the woods on the other side of the stream. He looked around, awaiting his sense of dread, but it failed to manifest itself. It was just as well; he had been on edge enough. Then, Scott realized as he looked at the grass that it was a yellowish brown. He stood up, looking at the trees and shrubbery. They were all discolored, their green faded. The foliage appeared full of vitality and life, just devoid of color. He felt his heart racing as he reached behind his glasses and rubbed his eyes, realizing that he was now red-green color blind. The light of the sun and light blue sky became brighter, but the missing colors would not return. He looked across the river, towards the yellow and brown woods, accented now with a psychedelic mixture of violet and gray accents where there were once red and bright orange flowers. He ran out of the garden and into the parking lot, faltering towards his aging Plymouth, squinting his eyes against the bright daylight glaring down at him.
He found his car, but before getting inside, he looked at his eyes in the side mirror. He was not sure if their vivid yellow color were real or not this time, but his unnaturally large pupils and irises staring back at him caused him to feel light-headed and nauseous. He knelt down, crawling into his vehicle, covering his eyes and avoiding looking at the distorted purple seat upholstery. He sat, curling up and removing his spectacles, holding pressure over his eyes as he struggled to keep from passing out.
-----
Scott stood up and wandered around the room, but he resisted the urge to step outside. He refused to give in to the strange and unwanted desire to wander into the woods beyond. As he looked at his naked skin and its soft coating of fur, he picked up his shirt, holding it. He wanted to put it back on, but his skin itched and burned, and as he held the cloth, a scent emanated from it, unsettling him. He sniffed it closely, realizing that the scent was his own human body odor, intermingled with a wild animal smell. He dropped it, backing away, taking several deep breaths. The room became less dark as his eyes throbbed. He assumed they were shifting again.
He was more thirsty than hungry now. Having emptied his refrigerator of all of his soft drinks and bottled water over the past few days, and having exhausted his ice trays, he was down to drinking lukewarm tap water. He caught himself leaning over his sink, drinking from the faucet stream. He wanted to think he did so out of barren thirst alone, but he knew he was behaving more like an animal. He leaned back over to drink again, and then, reflexively stuck out his tongue, curling it back and drawing in a small pool of water. He threw himself from the sink, backing against the refrigerator. He shuddered, slowly pulling his tongue out of his mouth with his roughened fingertips as he breathed heavily onto his hands. His tongue was long, flat, and broad, almost dog-like.
Scott looked at his right arm, at the dense fur replacing what was once a fine coating of thin filaments over light skin. With anger and resolve, he strutted into his bathroom, turning on the light before taking a razor blade from the second drawer. His reflection in the bathroom mirror was even less human now, the same black fur having invaded his chest, neck, and face. The stabbing headache ripping his temples was from the migration of the base of his ears upwards, towards the top of his head.
With the razor blade, he tore at the fur erupting from his forearm, ripping off clumps of fur, ignoring the pain and bleeding as the alien filaments broke from his skin. He grinded vigorously as the blade met with increasing resistance. The blade had soon become dull. Scott tossed the used instrument into a receptacle under his sink and took out a second one, repeating the process, freeing his arm from the mysterious soft material encapsulating it. But as his razor blades each gave out, he failed to gain significant progress. He tried to stretch out each blade’s usefulness as long as he could, but after having barely exposed the skin of his right arm, they had all become useless. Scott took a tiny pair of scissors and continued his fight against the metastatic fur, but even as he cut at it, he could feel his arm tingling as the material grew back.
He threw the metal instrument across the bathroom floor and growled angrily. He looked up again, seeing his pointed teeth bared and bright yellow eyes glaring back, only to see those expressions shift to shock and revulsion. Scott threw the light switch. But even as he tried to hide from himself, dim light from outside reflected in his eyes, creating a ghostly blue glow. He winced and turned away, his inflected whimper that of a frightened wild animal. He caught himself lapping water from the bathroom faucet stream. As tears began to well up in his swollen eyes, he felt a series of pain surges bolting through him. It had started.
Taking a Gestalt approach, since it's the "in" thing...
- RedEye
- Moderator
- Posts: 3400
- Joined: Sun Jun 25, 2006 11:45 pm
- Custom Title: Master of Meh
- Gender: Male
- Mood: Meh...
- Location: Somewhere between here and Wolf Bend, Montana.
Re: Lycanthropy as body horror
Becoming a Werewolf as Body Horror?
Sure!
You just paid $5,000 for a thorough electrolysis treatment to get rid of all that gross body hair.
Then this wierd looking dog bites you.
Then, it's a full moon...
Sure!
You just paid $5,000 for a thorough electrolysis treatment to get rid of all that gross body hair.
Then this wierd looking dog bites you.
Then, it's a full moon...
RedEye: The Wulf and writer who might really be a Kitsune...
- Celestialwolf
- Legendary
- Posts: 369
- Joined: Fri Jul 29, 2005 5:41 am
- Custom Title: Werewolf at Heart
- Gender: Male
- Additional Details: Used to be Lazywolf
Re: Lycanthropy as body horror
I like the imagery of that story-I need to read that...
In my thoughts, there may be an initial body horror after being recently bitten and during the first change, but afterwards:
Some people also like to picture the shifting process as painful; but I'd have it be a pleasant experience in spite of being overwhelming for the first time or two.
In my thoughts, there may be an initial body horror after being recently bitten and during the first change, but afterwards:
Granted, there may be some people who-when forced into lycanthropy against their will-might resent their new body due to the circumstances in which it was received, but with time and repeated shifts the "awesomeness" of it all should change their minds.When the transformation to wolf or werewolf form is complete, a sense of euphoria and power is felt as a whole world of highly increased senses, strength, and agility burst into existence.
-My Werewolf Definition
Some people also like to picture the shifting process as painful; but I'd have it be a pleasant experience in spite of being overwhelming for the first time or two.
- Uniform Two Six
- Legendary
- Posts: 1142
- Joined: Wed Sep 06, 2006 8:56 pm
- Location: Hayward, CA
Re: Lycanthropy as body horror
Ah, good ol' Lycanthrope. I wish there was someplace to find that in HTML. My computer can't handle the .rtf protocols for some reason. Man, I'd love to read that again.
The dark UN conspiracy codenamed "Blue Sentinel" was great. That may be one of my favorite werewolf stories ever.
The dark UN conspiracy codenamed "Blue Sentinel" was great. That may be one of my favorite werewolf stories ever.
- Scott Gardener
- Legendary
- Posts: 4731
- Joined: Wed Dec 15, 2004 11:36 pm
- Gender: Male
- Mood: Excited
- Location: Rockwall, Texas (and beyond infinity)
- Contact:
Re: Lycanthropy as body horror
I can email it to you. Drop me a PM and an address. If it's been more than a year and a half, then it's been revised, re-edited, and expanded. It's now Lycanthrope Awakening, by the way, to avoid confusion with two movies, a story by someone else in the UK, and probably dozens of other stories out there.
Taking a Gestalt approach, since it's the "in" thing...