Disclaimer: I do not own Growing up Creepie, or any of its characters or properties, however badly I want to. Unfortunately, it will simply never be. Oh well.

Ever hear of the rhyme poem of Solomon Grundy? No, not the DC comic's supervillan, who is actually named after the poem in question. If you have, you can tell where this story will be going. If you don't, I suggest you don't look it up. It'll ruin the entire story for you.

Solomon Grundy,

Born on a Monday

Beginnings are interesting things. Once one starts a story with a good beginning, they read or listen on intently until, without realizing it, they have already read/heard the first half of the story and find that they can hardly remember the beginning of the story. They are fascinating in this respect; it doesn't matter where the story starts, or what the beginning itself was about, because that's not what beginnings are for; they are merely there to start the story, to ease the reader/listener into the story so that they can get to the actual plot, which is itself the whole point of beginnings. Beyond that, beginnings seemingly have not other point, no other purpose to achieve. They are there to simply play their part and when this is done, they can be as easily forgotten as they are created. This is the way of things and things will always be this way. Beginnings will nearly always the lowest, least interesting part of the story and that is that. Beginnings are hardly ever, if that, remembered. It's the climaxes and the endings of stories that are remembered the most; even the best beginnings are only dust in the wind when compared to a decent ending. Why, even the most important beginning of all, the first Beginning, is only remembered as it truly happened by the few lot that were there when it occurred and these few do not speak of it to mortals and rarely among each other.

But don't think for a second that this means that beginnings are worthless; in fact, they are often the most important part of the story, just, if not more so, than the actual "moral" to the story, which is what stories are truly about. You see, stories are the lies that we tell to one another to comfort ourselves, to entertain or to educate, to learn about the light of the fire and the darkness of the cave and the outside world. In a sense, stories have been there ever since the dawning of man, to keep us warm in the night, as we naked simians clung to each other in a desperate attempt to keep warm and to comfort ourselves that perhaps we will indeed live to see the next sunrise. Stories are meant to reveal the truths of the universe and to keep us humans company when there is none other there to do so. And beginnings are often the most important truth of all. After all, the very fact that beginnings are the start of things means something so much more than any "moral" can tell you. Why, one may ask, are beginnings so important? The reason is simple enough. Beginnings, just like the very first Beginning, are a display of the greatest truth of all: that, while, yes, there will always be endings to things, endings to stories, endings to Life, and the End of the Story, which will be the last and True End, that until that time, there will be always more beginnings to things, from the beginning to a simple story about a girl raised by insects to the beginning of Life, the beginning of the Story. Beginnings are the hope for humans, and just like hope, beginnings will always spring eternal.

Now the story on hand's beginning is one of interesting intrigue. It has inside, not unlike most of stories past, romance and tragedy, love and loss, Life and Death. And not unlike other stories, it even starts with "Once upon a time…"

There was once was a pair of lovers. They were a young, happy couple who loved each other very, very much and who, like so many romantic lovers, were not exactly bound together by what humans like to think as "holy" matrimony for reasons far too complicated to get into at this time. Not that this made any difference to the couple; they loved each other as only lovers could and only as the early years of youthful hormones could provide.

They did everything together: they ate together, they walked together, and they exercised together. They even, as many old married couples don't do, fucked together. They were able to complete the other's sentences in an unusually creepy fashion. They practically breathed together, they were that in sync.

However, there came a time when the couple was sad. They had been secretly together for a few years and yet their union had not yet produced fruit. They worried briefly, as all couples do at one point or another, if it was some fault of theirs, if they somehow had "faulty equipment." They tried various "enhancers" and techniques that were said to supposedly increase the chances of fruition, which caused several exciting if awkward positioning of body parts and subsequent back and joint pains. So imagine their delight and relief when, one day, the couple discovered that they would soon be visited by a little bundle of joy within the next eight to nine months. This caused the expected effect of a mixture of the utter joy and abject terror of responsibility of first-time parenthood.

And when the day came when they finally could see their little girl in with their own eyes and hold her in their own arms, the sheer thrill of it all far outweighed their former fears. They then knew that they would take her home, raise their little girl as best as they could, their little Violet Hope Monday, and live together as a family until death parted them.

However, it was not meant to be. Shortly after fair Violet's birth, the mother, dear Miss Monday fell ill under circumstances far too common for pregnant mothers and before anyone could anything to stop it, Death visited the house of Mondays.

Few attended the funeral. As nice as a person as she had been, for the purposes of her work Miss Monday had been largely forbidden from making friends and so the world had not only been denied by death one of the most wonderful, the most beautiful persons to ever walk this planet but by life and its rules as well. Only her lover, Violet and her two closest friends attended; the rest were simply background material.

Now a widower, the young man understandably fell into a deep depression, into a place not of sound but mind, where the light came in through a deeply netted filter even when the sun hung highest in the sky, and the deep, dark overcast clouds of misery bore down on his mind. His sadness was only worsened by his ignorant daughter's notable resemblance to his lost lover.

Still, he loved his daughter and like it is every father's duty to, he did everything in his power to make her happy and healthy. And so it was with a heavy heart that he finally made up his mind and came to leave his darling baby on the doorstep of the Dweezwold Mansion.

He didn't want to do it; even under the worst circumstances, no father worth half his merits would ever wish to leave any child of his on anyone's doorstep. But, with the death of his lover and the predicted drop of income, he was finding it increasingly and increasingly difficult to care for himself, much less a delicate baby girl. And he certainty couldn't hand her over to a government-owned orphanage agency; it would raise unwanted attention, the last thing he needed right now. No, it was this or the two of them would wind up starving in the streets.

And it was so that Mr. Monday came to the gates of Dweezwold. Pushing open its rusted iron-black gates, he ventured up its crooked pathway unnoticed to its lacquer doors. For a second, a worried look of uncertainty crossed his face and looking down at the basket in his arms, he saw the face of his darling Violet. She was asleep, the little angel, and a countenance of the utmost innocence. Soon however, Violet's eyes began to flutter open and in one quick motion, with hardly disturbing his waking daughter, Mr. Monday planted Violet on the base of the door, note at the bottom of her basket, knocked at the door and was away quicker than any human should be able to flee.

He could only hope that, whoever lived inside this mansion, would not turn away his daughter Violet. He could only hope.

Mr. Monday hated endings; it implied that things could truly cease to be after the turn of the page and close of the book. This is not true; there is no true end to anything, even the end of a story or the end of life; there is merely the True End, the existence of which is itself doubtable. After all, even if the End of the Story was to come, then what? An infinite sea of Nothingness? Even that is something, if only because there is, somewhere, the memory that this ocean once was something. No, there is no such thing as an true end, only new beginnings.

So here is the end of a small part of a much greater story; here is the end of one Violet Hope Monday, who was born on a Monday and was a child of Monday. But with this end, there is the beginning of a new person, a new life. The "ended" life of Violet Monday may have had much potential; she may have done many amazing and great things, she would have scaled the highest peaks of economy, dived to the deepest depths of the oceans of emotion, soared through the skies of mind, but with its end, the life of another is born and given the same potential of success and failure. She might not reach the plateau, she may not be put on a pedestal and be admired but she will lead something new and be something different and create new beginnings for not just herself but others as well. This new person will be beginning itself, just as all human are. True, in time she will grow old and die but what of it? The ripples in life one creates often go past the simple end of Death. Endings are Death's realm; Beginnings are Life's. What more could anyone ask for?

Creepie Creecher

Born on a Monday…