Fresh Steve, Fresh Start (Sort of)

MonsterCart must really think frozen spleens count as variety.

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Still popsicles, still pizza rolls,

still nothing that felt like dinner.

“Is there anything I actually want tonight?” Thora asked the tablet.

Dinner, when you lived off humans, always came down to parts—organs bagged, bones shrink-wrapped, blood bottled. Nothing looked like a real meal.

Thora steadied the tablet with her monstrous lower hands, swiping with the smaller upper pair. Four arms, and not one of them bringing her any closer to dinner.

An ad flashed across the screen:

Buy one, get one half off BBQ femurs.

With a sigh, she tapped “Add to Cart.”

Next, she added six boxes of donuts with the bone-marrow icing Kragga swore by. Then three cartons of blood popsicles—because empty calories were best ordered in bulk.

Her Monstagram feed chimed.

The photo showed Vorga with her new boyfriend, cutting across a hillside and driving a pack of hikers uphill like cattle. The caption screamed:

Cardio tonight. Fresh fuel. #EatCleanHuman.

Vorga—her long-time friend and a total health fiend—was always glowing with the life Thora thought she wanted, and sometimes wasn’t sure she did.

A text pinged:

Get off your tail and come join us.

Attached was another photo: Vorga’s green-streaked ponytail whipped behind her as she surged ahead of the pack, lunging for a hiker’s legs.

Thora thought she looked so fit—polished dark purple skin, a sleek tail, four strong arms and legs, and round golden eyes lit sharp as she devoured a human whole. Proof that clean-human eating and hiker-chase cardio really worked.

Frowning, Thora thumbed back her one-word standard reply: “Working,” punctuated with her usual mental pizza slice and eye-roll emoji .

Her code for: You do you, queen of raw human consumption, while I’m over here four-fisting freezer food.

MonsterCart still hummed in the background. The tablet’s screen caught more than just Vorga’s shine—it caught Thora’s own reflection.

Dingy purple skin patched with faded gray spots. Dirty reddish hair sagged in a bun, clipped with a chipped jawbone. Oversized glasses slipped lower every time she breathed. Wincing, she tried to convince herself it wasn’t that bad.

Tilting the screen, she sheepishly squinted, trying to catch a glimpse of her fat tail overstuffed into glitter-print FabLIMBS leggings patterned with tiny human skulls. Less flattering than functional, the fabric stretched and the skulls distorted across her hips. Her belly bulged slightly over the waistband, which bit deep into her skin.

Maybe I should work out?

scratching her tail, trying to remember if her 24-hour MonsterGym subscription was still active. The urge fizzled out as quickly as it came when the screen flickered and MonsterCart pinged another ad:

Try Fresh! Limited Time. 20% off orders $50 or more.

“Maybe I should try something fresh,” she muttered. Maybe it’s ready-cooked instead of frozen.

Her cart was already brimming with quick-human made meals and junk food—almost at fifty she thought and added candied eyeballs for good measure.

She was just considering a bag of SteamedFresh moss with snowpeas to round out her “fresh” order when a second message pinged in, Vorga right on cue:

Stop online ordering. Eat real people.

She snorted, half-annoyed, half-amused. “Damn, she always knows.”

Her thumb hovered, then dropped. Add Fresh Items to Cart.

***

Thora slumped back on the couch, scrolling Monstagram while the order timer blinked in the corner of her tablet: Delivery in 18–25 minutes. Just enough time to do nothing productive.

A text lit up her screen. It was from Kragga.

Midnight munch run before the graveyard grind?

Kragga was forever in snack mode.

Thora thumbed back: Na, just ordered from MonsterCart.

Did you get those donuts?

Thora’s tail twitched. If she said yes, Kragga would want her to bring them to work. She wasn’t in the mood to be anyone’s donut delivery monster. Besides, she’d only bought half a dozen boxes; Kragga would need at least twelve dozen to satisfy her sweet fangs.

No. Thinking about eating healthy, Thora typed, lying.

Some of the girls in the office are doing the thirty-day live humans challenge. We should do it together.

You’re so motivating.

If we’re getting something to eat, I want hand-cut finger fries.

Thora frowned at the screen, resisting the urge to snap back. When did I become the rock in this friendship?

Kragga was her co-worker and long-time friend—the total opposite of Vorga’s #EatCleanHuman. She was even worse than Thora when it came to food. Every month, Kragga got gung-ho about some fad diet, and two days in, she’d be crying for toe-covered pizza.

The last time Thora got dragged into one of these challenges, her fridge ended up full of plant moss, and she spent a week trying to choke down a deadman smoothie while Kragga was holed up at McMonster’s Fast Food.

I don’t know, maybe, she typed back, adding the broccoli and diet scale emoji as a half-hearted attempt at enthusiasm.

She was about to send another message when a heavy thunk rattled the front door, followed by the impatient buzz of the MonsterCart bell.

“Wow. That was fast.”

***

She hauled the bags inside, her many arms straining under the weight.

“Didn’t think I ordered this much,” she muttered, realizing she’d forgotten to add paper towels and marrow sticks to the order.

Frozen food and donuts spilled onto the counter. Thora unpacked on autopilot until she spotted a pouch of candied eyeballs. Her enthusiasm peaked—she ripped open the bag, popped one into her mouth, and shivered with delight. Sweet, chewy, vaguely grape. Exactly what she needed.

Something heavier waited at the bottom: a plastic-wrapped crate stamped in red—Fresh – Premium Item. Discount Applied.

Her brow lifted. “Oh hey, the Fresh thing actually went through. Nice.”

She peeled off the wrap and cracked the lid.

Inside sat a pudgy human, alive, trembling, pupils darting like he’d been stuffed into panic itself.

The receipt taped to the lid read:

Fresh Steve – Premium Human. Keep Refrigerated. Consume Within 7 Days.

Calories: 1,450. Protein: 83g. Mood: Nervous.

Thora blinked. “What am I supposed to do with this?”

She rubbed her temple.

“Seriously?

"I didn’t think Fresh meant live fresh. I don’t even know how to cook a Steve.”

She glanced at the crate, exasperated. “Bet I’ve got to cut him up, too. Damn.”

Steve whimpered.

Thora groaned. “Well, Steve, I can’t deal with you right now. Maybe you can marinate or something until I figure out how to eat you.”

She stuffed Steve in the pantry next to the bone-broth cartons and the donuts.

As she shut the door, she yelled back, “Don’t touch my donuts, Steve!” and threw the BBQ spleens in the microwave.

***

Sometime after wrangling Steve and microwaving dinner, Thora sprawled on the couch with an eyeball wrapper stuck to her hoodie, scrolling Monstagram.

She flicked past post after post—everyone else seemed to be living their best afterlives.

Vorga again—this time lounging under a sunrise. Fresh week, fresh me.

A coworker showed off her intestine-smoothie recipe—#livehumanchallenge.

Her ex popped up with a smug post about going vegan, bragging about his latest moss-based cleanse.

Someone else flexed bone-density numbers from the gym.

All these monsters with their goals and glow-ups, while she lounged in delivery debris, hoping the next scroll would be less inspiring and more internet drama.

“I’m only 567 years old. I’m happy. I have things going on,” she muttered to herself.

Then another photo scrolled into view—someone had tagged her at MonsterMart. Thora spotted herself, mid-bite, gnawing a leg bone in the freezer aisle.

The caption didn’t mention her, but she couldn’t unsee it: background monster, caught in the act, comfort food in hand.

She tossed the tablet aside, exasperated, heat rising in her cheeks. Perfect. Just what I needed—another reminder that I’m the background monster in everyone else’s story.

She strolled back into the kitchen for another snack.

***

For a moment, she leaned against the counter, listening to the hum of the microwave and the muffled shuffle of Steve in the pantry. Maybe she could do healthy.

Thora straightened, feeling a flicker of motivation and opened the pantry wider.

Steve blinked up at her, pale and wide-eyed, arms wrapped around his knees.

“Are you going to eat me now?”

“I have to cook you first. I think. I’ve never actually eaten a live human. Should I just… eat you like this?”

“I don’t know,” Steve whispered.

Determined, Thora propped the tablet on the counter. “Let’s see what MonsterSearch has for making the most of you.”

She scrolled through the top results:

50 Ways to Cook Fresh Humans.

Meal Prep for the Motivated Monster—freeze for a week.

Seven-Day Human Stew.

She tapped her claws against the counter. “Meal prep. That works. I can make you into ready meals—chop you into neat containers, and eat you Monday through Friday.”

She looked over at him. “Steve, you’re about to be meal prepped.”

Steve whimpered louder.

“Don’t take it personally. You’ll last longer this way.”

Thora frowned at the screen. “There’s a lot that goes into meal prepping.

I don’t even have containers.

Another MonsterCart order, I guess.”

Another five minutes and a dozen overly complicated recipes later, her motivation fizzled out as quickly as it came. The idea of chopping, portioning, and actually cooking felt exhausting.

“I can’t eat fresh or meal prep tonight. Maybe next week I can start fresh, Monday.”

She shoved Steve back in the pantry, already thinking about ordering a pizza.

Back on the couch, she sprawled among pizza boxes and delivery bags,

Monstagram glowing on the screen. Vorga, radiant. Kragga, greasy. Ex, choking on moss. Steve, in the pantry.

“Yeah, Fresh start,” she said around a mouthful of popsicle. “Next week for sure.”

Freezer food wasn’t inspiring, but at least it was dependable.

She called out toward the pantry, “Steve, don’t touch my donuts.”