Ileana Carlota

Ileana Carlota

It starts with the story of a woman, who danced the bolero under the strings of young men’s guitars on the town square in the cool evenings. Her name is Ileana Carlota.

Her childhood is marked by a trauma that had grown repetitive with the span of years in which her father, Don Silvio had raised an abusive hand over Ileana and her mother Dona Magdalena. After so many nights with drying tears over aching bruises, Ileana had stood up to her dominating papa and shot him with his own pistol.

She took care of her mother, working in Huan’s café, serving chicha to military man and police officers from the next town’s station, taking serenades in the evening from the young cholo boys that had come to hear her hum to their music, or watch her dance the bolero with old Huan. She was beautiful, tin and dark, with glistening raven hair, and hazel eyes.

Many man wanted to make Ileana their bride, but she was just a girl full of childish dreams and simple wishes, blushing over their lustful remarks, never answering their yearnings. They craved after her innocence, stretching grabby hands to strip her naked and glare with hazy eyes at her purity, wanting to stain it, taking away her childhood.

Ileana shook her head even when her mother urged her for marriage, desperately trying to secure her daughter’s future, before her death, which came soon after Ileana turned 18.

Ileana then had to sell her father’s estate and move to a small hacienda next to Huan’s café which she bought with the money left. She worked and she danced, but always kept much to herself, walking along the paved roads alone, the wind stealing black glistening locks of hair.

It was the night of Dia de Muertos when she met a special boy who only wanted to take her hand and hold it. Mathias didn’t sing, nor played the guitar. He helped Padre Antonio in the church and taught the word of God to the children on Sunday’s. He read to Ileana from the Bible, page by page restoring her faith, passage after passage releasing her from the memory of her father and shielding her from the wants of wretched men. He loved her hazel eyes, curiously watching him, her lips curling in a playful smile.

Mathias was Ileana’s first true friend and her first love. Their youth was spend together, until Mathias took an oath and became a man of God, engaging on a mission of his own across Mexico. Ileana kissed his cheek and prayed for him, counting the days of his return, which turned into months, growing into years. She often imagined him walking back up the road in his black clothes, a tall stranger that she had met on the night of the dead.

When he returned five years later, heart trembling with anticipation, Mathias found Ileana dancing for money, exposing her body for the eyes of those who had the necessary amount. He cried at that sight. He wept for her soul, depraved and blackened by the misery her life had turned to in those years. “Five years are too long, Mathias for a young woman to wait for someone who could never take her as his wife. Love is not meant for everyone. You have the love of your God, and I have the lust of all those men.” Those where her words to him, and he carried them within him, like a rusty dagger struck between his ribs.

This is not Ileana’s story solemnly.

It continues with that of a boy, who fell in love with a beautiful, but sad girl, and even after countless attempts to save her soul and preserve her purity, the boy failed, and now the girl was a whore, who every military man has touched and kissed, who every man but him had had. And the boy, hurt and angered, retreats, stepping back inside the small church, becoming its new Padre.

Kneeling before the crucifix, the cross pressed hard against his lips, Mathias swears to his new mission, to rid the town off its demons, to cure the wicked and release Ileana from her fate.

But his faith evaporates day after day, seeing Ileana taking the hand of some local and pulling him seductively into the shadows behind the café. He sees the glimmer in the stranger’s eyes, his features twisting, deforming as he kisses her neck, wanting to devour her whole. Mathias would never do that. He would honor Ileana, keep her…safe. But as he hears the groans of that man, filling the night, slipping between the poignant guitar solos, Mathias feels a craving of his own. His flesh burns, aches for Ileana. His fingers seek her dark skin, touching her lips in his dreams, kissing the curve. Is it the whore in her awakening a beast in him? Does the boy still love the girl, or is the man running after the woman selling herself carelessly? The doors of the church close. There is no faith.

He wants to consume her, love her, own her. His mind is poisoned, and no silver cross pressed to his lips can release him from the torture her beauty puts him through.

“Let the Devil come and take you, wretched woman! Let him make you his whore, to suffer!” With his back to the crucifix, a bleeding Jesus, a silent watcher, Mathias digs the dirt on a crossroad throwing her fading picture in the hole. With trembling finger he buries the last piece of faith.

Now the story comes to its end. The girl and the boy, the woman and the man. And me.

Called upon the night when the dead are celebrated, welcomed by the reflection my own face, painted on those of mortals, I walk through the town square, seeking the whore who danced the bolero with old Huan. Here I take her hand in mine, beautiful Ileana Carlota and let her glare into the red pits of my ancient eyes. El Diablo’s whore.

Beauty is in the eye of the beholder.

Inside the small church sinful Mathias sits, blindly brushing the blood of his face, my words echoing in his head. No faith remains. No love remains.

 

Diamonds in their eyes

Diamonds in their eyes

“Is Danny going to be all right?”

She stopped on the sidewalk in front of the school. Her tired eyes studied the small boy before her; his features reminded her so much of Daniel. She wanted to reject him then and there for being so painfully similar, like a past version of Daniel, pink cheeks, lively eyes, and if it was not for the instinct she bared as a mother she would have walked away. She bit her lower lip hesitating what to answer her younger son. She was never good at lying.

“I don’t know.”

“Some kids at school say he’s a freak.”

In a flash she grabbed him by the shoulders and squeezed him, her face and inch away from his. She knew this action of hers frightened Charlie, and she knew that it wasn’t the pain of her fingers digging into his arms that caused him to release a wimpy cry, but the fear in her eyes, speaking the truth while her voice tried to lie.

“Your brother is not a freak.” She released him from her grip, pulling away, fighting the tears. “Don’t listen to those kids.”

It wasn’t enough, she knew, but she couldn’t stand being watched, being spoke of, hearing their whispers, their insults. Charlie followed her, walking beside with lowered head.

At home he ran into the living room and turned on the TV. She knew this wasn’t an option, but for now Charlie needed to be occupied, distracted away from… She poured a glass, than flunked it down the sink. She cried silently for a few then with shaking legs climbed the stairs.

Danny’s room just as she left it. Locked.

She entered the security code, the lock was released and she pushed the door slowly.

“Danny? It’s mom. I’m just checking on you.”

Her older boy was sitting by his desk, drawing as any other day. She feared to interrupt the scratching of the pencils and just watched his bent figure. He suddenly stopped and turned to look at her. She broke into tears again. Her boy, her beloved Danny blinked with his black eyes. His fluorescent blue skin shone under the light in the room. He stood up and jumped into her arms, his clawed fingers scratching at her back. She kissed his forehead, meeting the steely cold flesh. He purred and she smiled. She missed his voice, but the purr, she always though equaled him saying “I love you”. She gazed in his engulfing black eyes, unreadable pits that sometimes terrified her.  Amongst the infected, there were those who had murdered their families, those who had left their blue sigil on their faces, frozen in agony, as the alien crystals emerged from their mouths and clouded their eyes. She often dreamed of those crystals, diamonds in their eyes, that glistened. Those were nightmares in which Danny cries for her and she can’t reach him, only watch from afar as the crystal consumes his body, hiding his face under a tick layer of diamonds.  Her face darkened and she let go of him. “Mommy loves you Danny.” He stood there watching her close shut the door and lock it again.

She rushed into her bedroom and dug the vaccine container from her draw. She injected the serum and fought the side effect nausea that weakened her body and made her vomit. Another glance at the container told her there was one vaccine left. Applaying for more wasn’t an option. The government had released a restricted amount, and even if she was one of the scientists working on finding the cure for the 101 children infected, her monthly dose of the vaccine was also limited. She had to go back and steal more.

Even from here she could hear Danny drawing. She never saw what he drew. Maybe an answer, maybe a reason. But she dared not look.   She feared bodies with crystals growing on their faces.

The clock was ticking and she needed to find a cure. She needed to save Danny, before the Government decides the children are dangerous and not worth saving. Before they come knocking down her door with guns aiming.

We will meet again

We will meet again

As I lay, weary and weak, I ask you, Observer of thy fall, why you stretch your cold long fingers and dismiss yourself so fast, thus  abandoning us all? Do we not deserve to see the light of day as well? Have we not paid enough sleepless nights, battling on and on for our right? Why have you no pity for your fellow men, why have you no heart for our yet burning desire? You ignite the flame, then put it out before it could properly warm us! Can you not see our struggle now? Have you not recognized our determination, our courage to fight till last, till there stand no more but I and a few, barely keeping their weary bodies? If this is what we deserve I beckon you to speak your reason! Punish us, but do not be a coward, and speak! If there is nothing else for me to wish for, nothing for me to fight for, at least let me hear your voice echo, let me know your name. I shall not die with my tormentor nameless in my thoughts!

Aye, I hear you brothers and sisters, your dying voices slip away, as long days become nights, as nights prolong and we die, die, die like fireflies in the daylight. We perish as he watches, but fear not. In our dreams we shall attain our goal. In our dreams…in them I put my last hope. For I too have found this battle tiring, this madness overtaking. Here me Observer, you ruthless oppressor! This one you may have stolen from us, this one you may have kept only for yourself, but the next, and all that come after it shall be ours! We will meet again. I promise.

Goodnight all you brave souls, goodnight minds overheating. As I reach to stop this painful download, the percent still barely 30, the speed  merely 4 kB per second, I see one-two brave little peers, climbing up the first kilobytes. Adieu to you, and there’s another hope, a hope that the morrow will bring to you the 100.

Stop… Delete….And nothing more.

Of Sins and Sinners

 

Of Sins and Sinners

The Créole stared at the beast in chains. His lips muttered the old French proverb his mother once told him; his fingers grasped the wooden cross hanging around his neck. The beast bellowed, pulling on its restrains and the young Creole, startled pointed his rifle at the writhing creature.

McCoy touched the boy by the shoulder, beckoning him to lower his weapon. He shook his head.

“Is pointless now boy. Beast gonna die anyway. Best let it wriggle a bit.”

Sutherland, a rough man, with sandy blond hair and eyebrows, flamed the torch. He held it burning before him, locking his gaze upon that of the beast. In the midsummer’s eve, the air was still, the trees motionless, only fireflies flickering on the darkening sky. The torch illuminated – it burned for a sacrifice. It burned in his eyes and in those of the kneeling one. Sutherland took a step closer. He was given the privilege of cleansing, of holding this object that would eradicate all evil, here in the hot summer eve, under the clear sky. He knew…If he would to burn it, peace would restore back, the town’s folks would ease their quivering hearts. If he would to pull back now and refuse to perform this duty he would be hated and chased away, talked of as a coward, a man who ran away from his responsibilities. But to flame the dry branches and watch them spread, licking naked flesh, engulfing screams meant to mark his soul; to spare it meant to mark others, condemn them to fear. His hand was unsure. The eyes that met his were human. The “beast” spoke his tongue and lived not two houses away from his own. He had known him since the day he was born. Once more Sutherland asked himself questions that were bound to exist in unknown. What events had stolen  this boy and returned it two winters after, not quite the same? What fate had decided to take away three lives the very year of his return and blame their loss on his fragile creature? Who was to blame for this turn of the wheel? Who’s testimony had spread the vivid rumor of the boy’s  figure upon the lifeless corpses?  Alas, these people needn’t listen to complicated explanations, nor seeked the answers of these questions – they thought the murder of the murderer to be sufficient, and thus this man, this example for bravery and honesty in their humble society was put before the beaten body of a boy of seventeen with a torch in his hand and a verdict to perform.  No one cared for his personal opinion; he served the mass and the council.

The invading vision of the bodies lying in the dark behind the barn, eyes whitened, chests ripped open, and hearts missing made him sick again. The stink attracting flies came back filling his nostrils and Sutherland put great effort not to throw up. What doubt was there that the boy was indeed the perpetrator?  He needed to believe what others did; he needed to burn him to prove their hunt right, to prove their accusations solid. He had to burn him in order to free everyone else.

“Straighten him up. Tie him tauter.”

McCoy grabbed the boy by the collar of his thorn dress and slammed him hard against the stake. He wrapped the chain tighter around his chest, locked it then muffed his mouth. His eyes never met those of the boy.

“I hereby declare the mutual judgment resulting from the consultation with the town council and the vote of the citizens. For his crimes in witchery and for the brutal murders of one Elizabeth Mein, Jaqueline Harkness and Stephanie Hall, this boy, whose name shall not be called tonight, is sentenced to death by incineration. ” Sutherland walked to the stake. The boy tried to speak; he was trying to yell. “You shall burn on this trial as a demon, as an unholy creature. For you there is no prayer. There shall be no place for you in Heaven, only in Hell.” Then as he flung the torch he whispered “Forgive us” and the crackling of the wood took his words away burning them along with the body.

Sutherland looked at the witnesses of the process: their faces showed no emotions. As the black smoke spread most of the watchers averted and went home, refusing to breath in the remains of the boy. Only McCoy stood, his Creole apprentice nearby. Sutherland walked passed him.

“I hope your boy was worth your sins.”

Sutherland was far up the hill when he heard the cries of the father, cries which mingled with those of his dying son.

 

 

 

The Radical Suggestions Bureau

Good to be back. This time with something bit ridiculous, bit absurd.

 

The Radical Suggestions Bureau

a story of one extraordinary midtown mayhem

It was in the not so distant past when S. and H. got their revolutionary idea and decided to create the “Bureau for Radical Suggestions”. The two of them were keen on the idea of non- governmental organizations and wanted theirs to operate  in the best possible way in order to contribute to building a better and more structured society (nothing was wrong with the present one other than it neglected small time issues and bigger ones it dealt with in a lazy dull way. S. and H.’s line of work concentrated mainly on these small issues, which were quite big actually).  Also they thought their  “invention” to be innovative and thus profitable. They sat down and made a list of the things they thought will strike an asking, such as how to stop the town’s air pollution caused by the new model Zeppelins which now ran on diesel (What happened to introducing sun batteries?; A small mention here -not only the zeppelins polluted, they also often cloaked the sun, which was in no one’s favor, so they added that to the list too);  they thought the subject regarding the lack of working hand in general and the growing problem with work placement for the law abiding citizens without proper education, but otherwise absolutely capable of labor to be brought; they waited for someone to come and ask for a solution with the stray dogs which roamed the streets at night, madly barking and howling. They waited for students, they waited for bus drivers and taxi drivers; they waited for someone’s grandmother, for the small time businessman, for the rebel, the realist, the optimist, the believer. For all of those who had trouble and no clue as to how to fix it, S. and H. were full with radical, but not extreme suggestions, ready to offer them in exchange for a simple sign in the bottom of a certain yellow papered petition, and by the end of the week, if God had mercy, they’d have a dozen, at least, society regarding problems in progress to be solved within the month.

Well, none of the above happened, but instead in two months S. and H. experienced the headache of a lifetime.

Upon hearing the news of a new agency opening doors with the label “radical” and “suggestions”, the horses from Jefferson Bailey Horse Riding Club, came to complain about the low paychecks they’d been receiving from the local filming studio to which they were assigned. They were offended that their acting skills were taken lightly, stating that “It’s not bloody easy to pretend to be dead or imitate being shot at or stabbed with a spear!” They wanted a solution from S. and H. otherwise they’d quit. S. and H. were stunned by the turn of events, and they simply looked at each other, mute and dazzled, and didn’t offer anything to the hoofed team peering inside their small office. Later on, all the horses, which were a great deal of help to the movie industry in the entire region and were even often hired for small roles for Hollywood productions, quit the business and ran off into the plains to be free and live by the terms of the Great Stallion. They pissed on movie posters along the way.

Soon after them came the local squirrels, dragging whole families of raggedy, furry members to complain about the amount of trees being chopped in the parks recently. (That there was a troublesome matter, growing more viscious throughout the years, but coincidentally as S. and H. opened their bureau the bubble of patience finally burst). These were town squirrels, and town squirrels were hard to fool. They explained they had brought the question up to the humans, but apparently no connection was made. S. and H. thought that might be because of the dialect the squirrels used, but dared not say. The squirrels on the other hand demanded a solution otherwise they’d make a nut riot. S. and H. were left speechless and offered nothing. For a whole week the streets were a nightmare; rotten nuts fired every couple of seconds and rained upon the citizens, who were advised to wear helmets for safety.

When that tragedy was over, S. and H. sat again and burned their list with radical ideas, trying to come up with a new one, fitting the wanting’s of their new customers, but failed to create any. After some sleepless nights, lots of coffee and then lots of alcohol, new visitors arrived knocking on their door. These were clowns, and not very cheerful ones. S. & H. whimpered at their sight. Nonetheless the clowns made their statement and said they didn’t want to be happy any longer, but the contract they’ve signed with the circus was forcing them to act happy all the time. They wanted legal actions to take place immediately, because they were too tired from pretending. S. gave a loud cry and covered his face with both hands. It’s not really necessary to say that the two of them couldn’t come up with a suggestion for the clowns. Nor that the clowns went away and read Stephen King’s “It” and then terrorized the town for a month.

After two months of visits from near and far including a trumpet troupe of middle-aged midget’s in miniature magenta suits, an impersonator in decision between sexes, a veteran from WWII with a truck load of arsenal, stuttering teachers from the late 60’s and a dozen more caricatures of society and the underground lifestyle, S. and H. gave up and closed their “Bureau For Radical Suggestions” running away as quick as possible. They settled in a town no one knew much about, including its own citizens. There after a few years they invented Soft Language, and thought that to be in favor of the world, but well…that didn’t really go as planned you see.

The Supervisor

Something small for the time to keep the fire burning.

 

The Supervisor

There was a storm coming.

But there is always a storm coming isn’t that right?

Alas this one was different. Bigger.

It needed special supervision.

Jackson put the cigarette back on his lips.

He observed silently.

Blackness was descending from the sky, gulping small towns and large cities, shutting their lights off, inviting insecurity and fear to dine with their citizens.  It was time to go.

Jackson got in his Dodge. He fancied it more than his old mare.

He turned on the radio and drove towards the thundering concerto of the End under the rusty voice of J. Cash.

Alpha

This story carries 232 extra words. I apologize for exceeding the 1000 words limit. 

 

Alpha

Teeth and claws part 1

My chains were heavy and I struggled putting one leg in front of the other, though I think the thought of being hanged contributed to the heaviness. I was nine years old, a little bastard that smuggled food and on occasion’s small objects from the “kind” gentleman on the streets of London, but by the merciless law I was far from innocent and deserved the rope around my neck.  We all stood equal before God, young and old, beggars and wretched poors.

I couldn’t see the executioner from the man walking before me. The King’s Royal Guards were lined along the chained gang that we formed, urging us onwards as if impatient to see us drop and suffocate, but all they did was listen to the wooden trap door flung open; they lacked the gut to watch the bodies shake vigorously before becoming motionless.

I came upon the stage last, the mighty hand of the executioner grabbing me by the neck and dragging me to the marked spot. We were not granted with the black hood preventing us from seeing the faces of men and women no better than us standing at our feet cheering for grotesque amusement.

The rope scratched my naked flesh; it stank of mold and blood from the previous victims it had bitten into. With the death halo around my fragile neck I tried to remember a prayer or a story, something that would allow my pass into the outer world be guided by light and not clouded by my wrongs for the short period of my existence on Earth. I closed my eyes and listened to the drum, no prayers, no fairytales to murmur.

I’m afraid I remember only vague pictures of what happened next. Faces and words chaotically composed not forming much sense.

What I remember is the fear and helplessness I felt, and the screaming wish to not die. Then came the pain my transformation caused; the gut churning, skin pealing, bone crushing anguish which erased my  humanity and made way for a ravishing monster that tore its chains and threw its bounds, then made his escape by mutilating more than a dozen people. Later on I gathered vivid information overhearing a talk. I was repulsed by the facts given and realized I would be hunted if I let my fear overtake me and expose my secret again.

Upon my escape I ran through the city spreading havoc and I kept on until there were no screams following me. I don’t think my transformation was fully complete, because I had reason enough to run and hide and stay hidden until night falls. I shivered, naked and frightened. I lurked for a few hours until I found shelter and slept between the unloaded cargo of a ship coasting at the end of the docks. My night was restless and accompanied by the distant rumbles of Thames’s waters crushing into the arcs of London Bridge. In the morning I was in open sea.

The captain of “False Liberty” explained to me that no creature degraded as I should wander alone, not especially a youth he could use for scrubbing the deck and filling the bows. His eyes then glimmered yellow and his grin became sharp. I had mixed feelings about this voyage, but having the protection of my kind, as I later learned these men were, was greatly appreciated. I spent six years with captain Martell and his howling crew. From him I learned no honest man is born in the slums, and he as one was not to bend before the law and the crown to live as honest man do – starving and dying in misery. I watched them ravish trading ships, take the stock, burn the vessel and sent the passengers in one boat back to England. I fancied them, but still none could answer why we were like this. What curse made us hungry for raw flesh? They took it as a blessing, a gift granting them strength and superiority over their victims. I spent feverish nights wondering if some rich London folks hadn’t been my family, but on seeing my illuminating eyes hadn’t thrown me away.

I saw numerous places with my time on “False Liberty”, and decided that one day I will own a ship of my own with which I would travel and explore. But soon I learned that the young wolf doesn’t spend a lifelong with an old pack.  In 1842 I set foot on American soil and arrived in Houma, Louisiana not a year later. I became a fisherman there and built a home. I also learned to starve myself with small animals and developed what you may call a diet.

I lived in solitary. Life had been kind and no one knew me as neither the monster nor the thief. Until the day my face appeared on the message board in town with a price tag on my head.

“WANTED

Dead Or Alive

Charles Emmett

wanted for murder

$1000

REWARD”

  What ticked me first was the usage of my original name, not the one I went with in my new life - Benjamin Hayes. Someone from the past had come to gather his debts. I owed nothing but my life and it was to a crew of dangerous people, scavengers of the seas who were God knew where. I had walked alone and I had known no one. Who wanted my peril?

I tipped my hat low and walked through town back to my cottage. I prepared myself for an assault; I knew they’d come soon. The reward was juicy. Problem was I hadn’t killed anyone.

My transformations were as painful as always, but I confined myself within the outskirts of town, hunting animals and then burying them in the morning. I was sure of my innocence.

But a man hunted is a man vengeful. And so is a man seeking justice.

“I ask you Mr. Jacobson, having heard this much of my story, are you frightened?”

The man standing across the room shook his head.

“I gather your employer Mr. Pinkerton supplied you well with information regarding my history. I admit I am surprised though. Who would think a private detective agency actually acknowledges the supernatural world and deals with it.” Charles Emmett took a sip from his scotch.

“Mr. Pinkerton did directly approach me with this case, but it is his anonymous client who has delivered all the needed information. We truly never sleep Mr. Emmett; our eyes are watchful even of the unnatural events. That is why we are the best you can hire. We need to be on our way now; I am to deliver you in New York by tomorrow morning.”

“Ah, but you haven’t heard the rest of my story. I’m sure that the file you possess lacks the facts I owe as part of my untold tale. I have my suspicions as to who has ordered my death and made me an outlaw and who has summoned me in New York for an outcome not much different. But… I make you a deal – if by the end of this story I convince you of my innocence, you will tell me their names and whereabouts, and I will deal with them myself. If not…I will let you bound me and take me to my execution.”

Mr. Jacobson pulled a chair and sat.

 

 

 

Frankenstein: The conclusion: #NaNoReMo update

FRANKENSTEIN: THE CONCLUSION

“…In a fit of enthusiastic madness I created a rational creature and was bound towards him to assure, as far as was in my power, his happiness and well-being.”

Oh wretched man indeed you should have! I, the reader pity you and your sorrow affects my being as well, but my heart shudders for those who fall innocent struck by the monster you created and abandoned.

Frankly the narrative of this novel is a big misunderstanding. “If only”  – I don’t know how many times I thought that while reading. I suppose this is an indication of how gripping the story is, that I want to have power over the events and alter them with the knowledge of what’s what.

I admit the last chapter left me a bit broken. It is the measure of the previous misfortunes and the final crusade of Victor Frankenstein, at last standing before his damned child with the intention of revenge. I think that beyond the nobility and the kindness which Frankenstein bares throughout the novel, the final chapter uplifts his character, showing far greater determination to punish not only the perpetrator of the horrid crimes, but to also severely punish himself, pushing his being over every possible limit of body and mind. I dare say if he would to be immortal he would walk and walk and walk through ice and water, desert and forest always following his nightmarish shadow until they stand face to face in one last battle. But alas… he is human, and his outcome as his fellow men, is fatal.  He reaches the ultimate woe, his words powerful in his final confession, his frame weak and devastated.  From the death of Elizabeth (I open a gap here to say I was sadly right in my prognosis of the other characters being used as martyrs) an onwards the story becomes a storm and it surprises the reader as it becomes nothing like what preceded it.

It was a shocker ending for me, and I say shocker, because I did not quite sympathize with Frankenstein. I, God forbid, viewed him as weak many times during my read. But by the end, Shelley worked some magic and I wept inside for him. He is a character exploring madness, horror, grief, anger, weakness, fear, and at last bravery.  He recreates the misfortunes upon him, the unnecessary murders time and time again, until he kneels before the family tomb, a supernatural and eerie scene that calls upon the death as if to rise. I will carry the vision of that scene for a while.

But what of the monster? The last update I made was set just before his story began. I will highlight a bit of it here.

I don’t whether Shelley’s sympathy lies with Frankenstein’s creation at the end or if she tried to balance it between the two, I somehow was led to think that the Being had the final word, cementing his point and claiming his long lost right for a happy life, but he did not have the last laugh. His farewell to Frankenstein’s growing cold body and the ambitious voyager Walton, whose journal of the events in Frankenstein’s life, draw the frame of the story, is one that addresses his crimes with remorse, and his creator with both anger and sorrow. And even as his own peril is soon to follow (because death is all there left, and in death there goes the last hope, the last pray that peace and joy might be given even to the wretched monster), the Being reminiscence of days gone by when he first was acquainted to the beauty of the world before his illusory vision is destroyed by the gained knowledge of his deformity, his mask of horror. How easy is the soul depraved! I believe Frankenstein’s creation serves to follow that dreadful descend from innocence to a furious tempest darkened by misfortune events. If only… Though his asking was dubious indeed, a woman of his kind to company him in his isolation…

There’s an example and a lesson: once an outcast, forever an outcast. As to how the Being educated himself and for a brief time had affection towards the human race I will not speak. His dreams were naïve for the informed reader, his attempts bound to fail and terrify, but gaining the ability to see himself through the eyes of others and understand their terror and anger towards him was perhaps one of the moments in the novel which felt utterly real, plausible. There are many monsters amongst us and we cast them away for their faces and never seek the spark of light and crave for love they carry in their hearts. So one day, they become true monsters, shackled by the destiny bound to them by others.

I got distracted a bit…Or maybe I suffer the ability of persuasion the Being possesses.

There are three questions asking of why is the tale of Frankenstein this gripping:

“The  danger  of  scientific Promethianism – that   is,   daring  to  go  beyond   the  realm  of   man   and  in to  that   of   the  divine?  The pathos of being an outcast?  Fear of the dead coming to life and seeking revenge?  The monster’s character as a marauding embodiment of our unconscious rage?”

I want to answer these questions, but alas they pose a certain ponder to me. I’ll simply say all three. Stripping the novel layer by layer this is what you get, this is what you read in between. These combined are the true horror aspect in my opinion, shadowing even the murders. They do reflect the human existence don’t they, even partially metaphoric.

“The Modern Prometheus”,  the newborn Adam, or a Cain, Frankenstein’s monster is all that. He is a son cast away by his father, he is a superb creature denied the right of pleasure by his god, he is a being robbed of happiness, and thus in return he shall also rob and destroy, seeking decay and weeping beside it.

“You throw a torch into a pile of buildings, and when they are consumed, you sit among the ruins and lament the fall.”

From pitying the creator, to pitying the monster; from pitying the creator, to hating the monster; from hating the creator, to pitying the monster… and again and again this wheel turns, as the reader seeks to justify one and punish the other, because partially that’s Shelley’s expectation – to come out of this mad spin condemning one and innocent the other.  Do I blame the monster for not reasoning and running to hide forever in the Alps, accepting the granted eternal solitary? Do I blame the creator for seeking immortality in such a horrid and maniacal manner and abandon all reason? Or do I pity the foolish craves of a man and comfort his fears…or do I give my sympathy and utmost pity to his creation, alone in the unknown, without a name, without a place, without a memory but that of a terrified man running away? Shall I curse the being who had no voice, who had no reason or his master that was mad day and night chasing after some achievement which no one would see as marvelous but in fact as dreadful?

Yes, this is how I spent a good hour questioning both the main characters and I still can’t decide, if it is to be decided. I am equal to their misfortunes? Blimey hard task…

Overall “Frankenstein” is a wonderful novel, beautifully written and drawn with many colors that run from bright to gloomy, describing perfectly each emotion drawn by the landscape or the inner lament of the characters. It is extremely emotive, with well-read horror. I enjoyed every page of it and am recommending it to everyone without exceptions. It’s a classic you wouldn’t want to miss and I’m glad I picked it for the National Novel Reading Month.

Now it is concluded. I don’t think this will be my final word on the novel; I plan to extend my observations in an upcoming course work for university, but for now, as this closure is not big enough I would like to extend it with a discussion either here or on Twitter, so please feel welcomed to have a chat about the novel!

I leave you with the thought of this line.

“He is dead who called me into being; and when I shall be no more, the very remembrance of us both will speedily vanish.“

*Illustraions belong to Lynd Ward for the 1934 edition of “Frankenstein”

Artificial Prince

Artificial Prince

She found him in an antiquary shop, propped beside the storage door at the back, supporting a tall stack of old tomes.

She stood before his motionless stature, studying from up-close his pale face and chocolate brown eyes. His porcelain expression felt alive and she thought he might grimace to her for disturbing him just there. But he remained a silent gentleman with his silly top hat and almost invisible chuckle on the lip.

She touched his torn shirt, the material rough under her fingers, and underneath it she met steel, solid and cold, although covered with fabricated tissue. She smiled. Then she gasped fascinated by a discovery. There was a lock on his chest and a key, once silver now tarnished, penetrating it. She tried to turn it, but it was stuck, rusty from time.

“Pardon me, what is this machinery here?”

The antiquarian came by her side, putting his round glasses on.

“Ah, the automaton. My nephew brought it from America in hopes to fix it. But I’m afraid he has ticked his last hours. His system seems to be missing specific parts, and the key, in some unfortunate event has melted into its lock. It is a shame; this might have been the greatest invention of our century, if succeeded operating. You see, his inventor Thomas Gast thought of revolutionizing the manufacturing of automatons, making them more close to human, capable of engaging in more activities, even giving them emotions so they would serve as equal companions to man. Needless to say his attempts met failure and public humiliation.” The antiquarian fixed the hat of the automaton “My nephew Henry won his lifelong creation for 150 dollars in an auction in Texas. Sad ending for such high hopes.”

An idea overwhelmed her as she listened to the story, her eyes never leaving his chocolate brown.

“I can’t give you the full price, but I can pay you 50 dollars now, if you allow me to take him home, and I will pay the rest of the sum within a month.”

“Why would you want something broken?”

She felt a lump in her throat but suppressed the tears. Broken, yes, so truly broken.

“I want to fix him.”

The old man laughed.

“You heard the story yet you think there’s a chance for this old-timer to function again? Mended by your hand?”

“I do.” Her word was firm.

“Well then, I can’t argue with a wish so passionately spoken. Besides he’s taking space. Oh, I almost forgot, these go with him, but I do not know their purpose.” The antiquarian handed her a velvet bag with heavy coins.

***

She glowed with happiness as the enormous package was delivered to her small apartment.

At first he sat on the table, making her company as she ate, as she danced around the living room, his eyes following her every movement. She was not alone anymore.

But soon enough he was only a silent spectator and she longed for someone to converse with.

She sat before him, probing the silver, carefully trying to turn it, but disappointed she spoke to him:

“Why won’t you let me near your heart, you with a mysterious chuckle on cold lips, with lively eyes on a fragile face? I only want a friend, a lover maybe, to ask me of my day and kiss me for goodnight. Is it so much I ask for? Has love been denied to me even by you, manmade and abandoned as I am? At least you listen, but now I need an answer. Well, we’ll share our loneliness from dusk till dawn, until I sleep forever and you my sweet unreal boy remain this way.”

She wiped the tears from her face when something clicked. The key slipped from its hole, falling undamaged to the floor, and a little door swung open, revealing a part of the magnificent mechanism of the automata. Stunned by what she sees, she grabbed some tools and with little knowledge, but determination she began examining his system, searching for a way to switch him on. There in the middle of the clockwork system was the ratchet which twisted the mainspring, but next to it she spotted an odd slit, large enough to consume a coin. She rushed for the velvet bag and fed one coin to the slit. She closed the door and slid in the key turning it without difficulty. The noise that this action produced was satisfactory.

Then he blinked. And smiled.

***

She kissed his cheek and took his hand as they walked in the park. She sang to him and he clapped and they both laughed and smiled. She made him new clothes and combed his dark hair and dreamed of him at night. She triumphed. Day and night by his side, his presence filling her with utmost joy, never alone, never rejected – her own sweet friend, her gentle companion, loving her as she loved him. Not a toy of science, but worth twice as any human she’d met.

And he…He welcomed her home and kissed her cheek. He curled next to her at night, his heart ticking in the night. He laughed with her, made her dinner and shared her happiness. He was hers. Obedient and happy. Not alone.

***

In a week the coins were used but one. In her joyous mood, salvaged for the misery of her former solitude and broken heart, she had forgotten the purpose of the coins, as they were the magic that gave him life and made his chest “beat” with the rhythm of a human heart.

He sat on the bed, twisting the coin in his fingers. He opened his chest and inserted it, winding himself for a last tick. He looked at her, her expression calm, her body eased in her sleep and he smiled. With the tip of his fingers he caressed her face, then lay and closed his eyes, giving his remaining hours alive beside her.

 

 

Inspiration comes from this song

“Frankenstein” #NaNoReMo update

I am pleased with my change from “Les Miserables” to  Mary Shelley’s“Frankenstein” for the National Novel Reading Month. I have granted myself with exquisite language, with beautifully written melancholy, and complex characters that are driven either by madness or loneliness.

Though I am ahead in the book this update centers on some aspects from the first ten chapters as they tell the story of Victor Frankenstein and how he came to be a wretched man, haunted by shadows and confessing his crimes only to the mighty pinnacles of Mont Blanc.

I find it a bit difficult to “feel” for the other characters even though they play important parts in Frankenstein’s life. All of them experience a great level of horror, but in my eyes they are merely martyrs, figures to serve as catalysts for certain situations. I might be wrong here as I try to predict even further into the book. My sole attention is towards Victor Frankenstein. His tale is consuming and poised with anguish, yet an episode of hatred towards him appears and the reader dwells between the wanting to slap him across the face or take pity on him.

What I really like about his character is that he portrays an epic downfall both mentally and physically: from the first steps of curiosity, towards the pedestal of brilliance, to the hours turning into a madman driven by a force to achieve the impossible, all the way down to a very troubled, weak and cursed human being who cannot share his daemons with anyone but himself.  I seem to have a soft spot for such characters. But even as he refuses on several occasions to confront his creation, I as a reader don’t doubt his good intentions, or his remorse. Victor Frankenstein is by no means a bad man. The highlight here falls on man, and somehow I feel his idea to give life to this creature and then run away from it is explained by the weakness of man and the latter punishment for his earthly mistakes. It’s a common thing! Sort of…

And then there’s the fun game which Shelley’s characters, led by her play: this captain writes in his journal (plus letters to a third person) the story of a man who boards his ship, who later on tells the story of the “thing” he created the way he heard it from his monster… Blame it on the next guy! But it’s an interesting approach to tell this bizarre story and I enjoy it.

Thus far “Frankenstein” has proven to be a novel of mysteries, horrid actions, surprising and terrible counteractions and painful remorse begged to be forgiven in death. It is as I said beautifully written, and the vivid visuals of the Alps and Geneva emphasize on the feelings the narrator carries and on his melancholic walks in self questioning.

I leave you with one quote from Samuel Coleridge’s poem “The Rime of the Ancient Mariner” which haunted my mind for quite a while after I read it in the novel and will surely stick long after I’ve finished reading.

Like one who, on a lonely road,

Doth walk in fear and dread,

And, having once turned round, walks on,

And turns no more his head;

Because he knows a frightful fiend

Doth close behind him tread.