Daymares

I don’t think I’ve ever tried writing a poem, or a piece resembling one in style or rhyme, but here goes a try. No matter how you view this I hope you enjoy it!

Skrik – Edvard Munch

Daymares 

 

 -  Oh, pretentious beast within, thou thirst is never settled!

By day I abhor that which in night I have loved

A faceless courtesan stealing my soul

In sand filled vastness, my voice merely whisper

For apathetic time, I condemn myself to die quicker

Misshapen and foul

From inferior birth I crawled in this life

Two-faced Janus

Twice death, not once life.

Days of spring,

Distant charmers – I call upon you now!

Days of autumn,

Fiery morrows – I long search for you, come!

To light me up and wake me from my sorrow,

To rid me of that haunting hollow,

Harbored deep inside my core

But if my soul demands some light

It be burning through my eyes

Asking me to cloak myself forever

Never grasp another light of day, not ever

Abandoned in the midst of stormy weather,

I cry for shores distant and unknown

A voice now slowly fading

For a life just barely known

While Passionless time never halts

Inside this epic desert

Which I abhor.

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”

The Jaxinail

Spooky Halloween in advance everyone! This is my little (awfully late) offering and attempt to scare you!

When the wind chimes ring for no reason and a little girl believes too much…

 

The Jaxinail

“You frightened her.”

Patty’s eyes wetted and she hugged her brown teddy bear tight, keeping it close to her chest.

“Oh, it’s just a story! It’s not like real you know.” Hana made a face, then turned on the lights in the living room and dowsed the candle’s flame with her fingers.

James offered his hand and Patty grabbed it, locking her little fingers into his. He looked at her, big hazel eyes staring back at him with droplets of tears barely hanging on the corners. He caressed her curly auburn hair and smiled, reassuring her safety.

“It’s all okay Patty. There isn’t anything to be afraid of.”

Perhaps for a second or two Patty hesitated, as any child would. The scary story that Hana had just told was still powerful and quite real inside her head, and the vision of the Jaxinail and his horrific transformations, was fresh and vivid, as only a child could keep it and continue, in her own manner, to illustrate the described happening after meeting the monster. Because it would, as Hana had said, come for no reason really, as monsters rarely have one, other than hunger and joy from the sound of clacking bones, but it would surely come when all the lights go off and all the people are asleep, and it will devour the tiny body of the sleeping child, slowly swalloing  it while no one hears or sees it, since the monster is usually invisible to everyone else, but the victim.

Patty pulled James’s hand.

“But, what if the Jaxinail comes after you go to sleep? And what if he…eats me? I don’t want to be eaten James!” Her mouth trembled and she sobbed, squeezing his hand again. There was genuine fear in her voice and a begging sparkle in her eyes for James to not send her to bed, at least not alone. He turned his gaze to Hana and frowned. She murmured a “sorry” and turned the TV on. He had agreed for them to tell stories while their parents are away, but was not expecting this new character to appear, none the less have such effect on his little sister. The old fright- to- behave stories were okay with Patty and she even laughed at them, but the Jaxinail, whoever that was, had crawled under her skin taking her captive in his false horror world. He couldn’t believe Hana had come up with such a disgusting story.

“Tell you what. I’ll stay by your bed all night long and make sure no Jaxi fellow comes.”

“You promise?”

“On my pride as a brother! I am your faithful protector little princess! You know nothing takes me by surprise and nothing scares me right?”

Patty smiled.

Hand in hand James and Patty walked across the hall and up the stairs.

The door to Patty’s room swung open and James clicked the light switch. He tucked in the blanket and placed Mr. Bear in Patty’s hands. Then he pulled a wooden chest full of toys and sat on it.

“Go to sleep. I’m right here.”

Before closing her eyes Patty spotted something different in her room. It was in the blink of an eye, but when she heard the whistle of the wind, Patty fixated her terrified eyes on the window. There was no wind outside and the night was quiet.

Patty searched for the eerie noise again. Oddly it seemed to come from her painting, hung on the opposite wall.

There was light, maybe the moon or a street lamp, reflecting in the glass surface of the frame. Patty saw beyond her crayons.

It was windy in there, leaves rushing in the air in a mad spin, the branches of the big tree croaking with age and snapping like whips in the starless night. A shadow appeared in the distance and it came closer, then closer and closer, but it was many shadows now, many shapes all put into one. A hand, or was it a hand? reached and knocked on the inside of the painting. Thump, thump, thump the sound went.

Patty cried, her fear escalating quickly.

“What’s the matter Patty?” James was on his feet.

“He’s here! The Jaxinail is here!” She hid under the blanket.

“Nonsense Patty. Hana made him. He isn’t real.”

“Yes he is, yes he is, YES HE IS!”

And then, the link finally became real. The boundaries fell, dissolving into mist and the coyote laugh of the Jaxinail rang through the house. With it came the wind blowing through the rooms and the halls and the holes of the house, opening every door. Then the lights died, leaving them both in darkness, in cold and await. James found himself listening to the wind chime outside on the porch.

Patty’s scream grew weaker and weaker until it was lost and all there left was the wind chime and the realization.

Thump, thump, thump the sound went before the door slowly opened, and James thought “Here he comes”

The Jaxinail.

The forgotten wallet at the birthday party

I was at a birthday party and it went something like this (sort of)

The forgotten wallet at the birthday party,

to which too many people came

It was going to be a birthday party in a tight friendly circle. That was until random people started showing up. They had supposedly learned about our gathering by a drunken text message from the birthday girl. So a bunch of unknown to me people came on over and they on their behalf had invited friends of theirs to also come and have a drink at some girls place. They were oblivious she had a birthday that night.

Still their presence was welcomed since it brought a considered amount of laughter and cheered up the atmosphere. That and the fact they brought more alcohol. I didn’t mind.

In a blur of loud music and unheard names the party moved on after midnight. That was when the chairs turned out to be not enough, the room felt smaller and smaller and the cigarette smoke was a smell I had gotten used to.

At around 3 the room emptied. Some barely standing on their feet guys left, driven home by their sober girlfriends.

I walked around the room taking photos, sipping my red wine, grateful for the rich taste. That was when I noticed someone’s wallet on the shelf. It seemed unattended.

“To whom does it belong?”

All the present shrugged shoulders.

I opened the wallet and searched for an ID. On the picture was the guy who had just left, too drunk to even speak.

“Anyone knows him?” I asked again.

Another shrug.

I didn’t remember being introduced to him either.

His name was Andre, 20 years old.

I put back in the ID.

I asked around just to be sure.

One girl happened to have the number of Andre’s friend.

I tried calling. The phone was off.  After the fifth time I gave up and wrote a text, telling Andre to call me and come get his wallet.

I felt it was my responsibility to take the wallet with me since I had found it.

At 4 AM the party members had narrowed to seven people, five of which me and my friends.

At around 5 I remember closing my eyes.  Then I recall a few wake ups and that Gangnam style song playing on TV.

When the morning came and passed, and the night was less than an hour away Andre hadn’t called yet.

I paced around my room.

I figured he might be still sleeping after the hard party last night.

Since I had his ID I knew the address.  A somewhat wild but appealing idea formed in my head and I succumbed to it immediately.

I took a cab to his place.

On the street one or two dogs barked at me insanely and I shushed them multiple times. It was late and I didn’t mean to disturb any neighbors on a Saturday.

He lived in a house and though it was dark and seemed no one was in I figured I should at least check before I leave. The front porch was unlocked and I pushed the door. It swung with a squeaking noise.  I closed my eyes for a brief moment and proceeded to the door.

I rang the bell. Then knocked with my fist.

No one showed.

I went to the window and tried to lift myself to take a look. I felt more like a stalker then a thief, with my pity attempts to jump and have a glance.

I circled around the house looking for something to stand on. I listened for sounds, voices and was in alert for movement inside.

But the place was so quiet I only really heard the sound of my own footsteps.

As I went to the back of the house, a fragile yellow glimmer, somewhere low to the ground caught my attention. It was the basement. I knelt, trying to see through the small dusty opening. The window was dim, only letting me see a small portion of the narrow room below. With his back to me was Andre. I was sure it was him for he was wearing the same shirt as the night before. I thought to thump on the glass and call him out but then I saw something that made me reconsider. The light was coming from two candelabrums each to his side, both burning with five candles.  That struck me as odd.  I shifted slowly to the right for a better view.  Andre took off his shirt. I didn’t know whether to look away or keep watching. His skin was very pale, more than I remembered from the birthday. He took off his pants too, and in a second stood there naked. I may have blushed but was too curious of his actions to notice.

The little flames flickered, as if a sudden wind had threatened to blow their fragile lives away; the hesitant light became an eerie illumination which turned him into a creature half in light half in darkness.  In that moment of something magical and yet frightening Andre took his skin off.

I watched paralyzed, too shocked to move, think or breathe. It looked simple and nonchalant like he was removing a cloth; he took a hard grip on his black hair and pulled it down like a hood, with the rest of his face; I saw his hollow eyes, his mangled nose and mouth coming upside down, grimacing at me with their false humanity. The pale skin then slid off his shoulders and he pushed it down to his waist and hips until it was at his ankles. He stepped out of the human skin and I saw his reality, his true identity.

His entire body was covered with lizard-like scales that smoothly blended from golden to crimson red which glistened when caught in the light.

I had never seen anything like him. His ears as far as I could see were little longer than humans and pointy, and his fingers ended with long black nails. His body was slender, but muscular underneath the scaled exterior.

I traced his spine only to find it extending in the form of a tail, thick at the beginning but ending thin as a whip.

I was truly astonished, and though Andre’s being was out of my world and even far out of my imagination I found him beautiful and enchanting.

I had completely forgotten about my purpose of visiting and hoped to stay a little longer and observe him.

That was until he rapidly turned towards me and his yellow eyes caught mine in a moment of pure horror in which I panicked and fell back.

I heard his scream, his anger from the fact he was selfishly and rudely watched by an unknown face. I might be wrong, but now I think his scream sounded more like the roar of something ancient, something you get to meet only in movies and books.

I wanted to run, but at first my legs denied me the ability to stand right away and gallop from Andre’s back yard. When I heard the door of the basement open and then slam I stood up and ran.

On my way out I tossed the wallet on the front door rug and shouted “I brought your wallet” hoping he would hear it and accept it as the explanation of my presence on his territory.

He didn’t come after me.

I didn’t think he would expose himself that night, risking someone to see him.  At home I sat on tugged my blanket over my head.

Maybe he would come in his human skin one day and say thank you for the wallet. Maybe he would come and threaten to kill me if I ever reveal his secret. Now I think about it, he may have thought I want to steal his skin, leaving him to face the monster every day.

But I never told anyone. I made it my secret too.  Perhaps I shared his burden.

As days pass sometimes I remember my secret friend with skin of gold and rubies and I smile, not frightened. I find his burning yellow eyes warmer than any humans. And of that I feel sad.

Vicarious

Something someone said during the drive on the first day of my weekend trip. This is what it resulted in.

Vicarious

“There’s no secret to dying”

We drove past the abandoned construction sites in the old industrial region. It never got be one, never was urbanized or highly populated. Something about ground property they said. Local fishermen still swam the river in their creaky old boats, but the expensive buildings were only concrete skeletons erecting above the river bank. It was a dead zone, lonely and attracting the homeless and the abandoned dogs.

Though it was a cold month, the sky wearing a pale mascara of grey and white and the scenery being colorless, left without a single shade of life, a stench emerged from the waters sliding itself through the gap in the window. I rode it up separating the smell of the interior with that from outside. The scent of cheap cigarettes nested itself again, continuing to soak into the leather seats and my clothes.

The river curved and with it the road. My eyesight caught the rapid movement of dozen crows, circling around one spot of the river bank; somewhere down below where my eyes couldn’t travel and observe. I watched them, those vultures of death, the predecessors of illness. Even from the moving car I thought I could see their glass-like eyes glisten with hunger and desire to rip large pieces of meat and swallow them down their shaggy, skinny necks.

Why where they so many? A little tornado of black wings and piercing gazes.

Even with the loudness of the engine their cries penetrated the safety of the car; shouts from Hell escalating and resonating with my thoughts, confusing my senses and provoking some sort of sudden self- preservation. I yield before it for a mere moment, than I frowned, shaking away the grasp of fear. “Why are their godless pleas for wrong so easily heard; that ugly sound of laughter that chills the heart, but what is good and kind and asks for nothing more than kindness in return remains unheard, unnoticed?”

I averted my eyes.

Still the curiosity aroused by their numbers left me restless.

“Why do you think they are so many?”

My father responded with an extended “Hmm” which meant he hadn’t heard my asking.

“The crows” I enlightened.

His gaze skipped to the window on his right then quickly returned to the empty road.

“There must be something dead down there. Seems their fighting over it.”

He said nothing more. Nor did I.

My mind drifted from the daily, and the abstract, the horror took place.

What was dead down there? A man? A woman? A child? Someone who would no longer love, laugh, cry…feel? Someone to be missed, to be spoken of… or was it someone forgotten? Someone thrown back by family, by strangers, by society, left to sleep in puddles of city mud and dirty sewer leaks?

What poor creature was left lying there, to decay, dissolve till a dog comes and snatches a bone? What soul was offered to the descending black devils to eat from its flesh and tear its insides until their primal needs are satisfied?

Who was now no more, no longer, never again?

Or was it going to be like it had never been at all? Existence never happened… No tears were shed upon its demise, no memories were brought upon its release, no mothers had felt their hearts destroyed at that very moment when the waters of the river had spat out its lifeless body?

What fate had that mysterious carcass face? Whose image of hate had it met before the end? Whose cold palm had caressed it with anger?

Was it Mother Nature? Was it my own kind?

I wept inside for it. A little helpless thing, a poor and fragile soul, there alone and dined on. Ruthless world!

And I contributing to it from my warm and comfortable seat; a spectator like anyone else, watching from a safe distance. Was I any different from those who had guided it undoubtedly long before to that grave beside the muddy green waters?

Further down the road I entered a quiet state of mind. Not long after the crows were left behind.

But I still wondered, I still craved to know despite all…what was dead down at the river bank? What?

As a single crow glided over the car, its cry mocking

I wondered…

Night shift (Part Three)

I’ve chopped the flash, so it meets the requirements. Nothing new here, just shorter form of chapter two, which now extends into a third one. Forth one to come

 Part Two 

Night shift 

Part 3

John found he couldn’t sleep. He twisted in his bed, but daymares kept appearing in his mind. He needed to find Sanctum St. He needed to know.

Midday struck and John started the engine of his car, driving down to 3^rd Ave.

Arriving on spot he looked for signs, numbers, graffiti, anything indicating that a street named “Sanctum” existed there. Nothing.

He asked around. No one had heard of it.

He was starting to get impatient, stomping in one place, chasing ghosts.

John was about to give up when he saw a homeless man walking out of an alley, pushing a broken shopping cart. He suddenly got an idea.

“Hey you, wait.  Was there ever a Sanctum street here? Or have they renamed some street like that recently?”

The man stayed quite until John gave him 20 dollars.

“Nope sir. Never was, never heard of a rename. I’ve lived here all my life!”

“What about an ambulance? Have you seen one going into these alleys?”

The old man then quivered and shook his head, stepping back, saying “No”.

That was good enough for John.

The hospital was into doing some illegal stuff around here. Sanctum might be a code name, a meeting spot. Or a person.

“Sanctum needs more”

More what? Drugs, money? Organs?

John grew more curious.

He went back to the hospital. Day shift teams were still there. He walked over to a group of chatting paramedics.

“Excuse me. I’m John, from the night shift. I work with Sam. I was wondering has either of you received a call for an emergency on 3^rd Ave. and Sanctum St? We got one few days back, but it seemed to have disappeared and no one recalls giving it to us. Any clues?”

They stared at John like he had just grown a second head. One man however spoke to him.

“There’s no such street there. You seem to have heard wrong. Why don’t you go and have some sleep before your shift? You look…tired”

John nodded and walked off.

They were hiding something. The tone with which that guy spoke was cold. Threatening.

John went straight up to Doctor Brown’s cabinet.

“John right? How can I help you?”

John showed him the snapshot from last night.

“I want to know what does this mean. I want to know what kind of games you are playing at this hospital. Is everyone involved? Why is Doctor Lewis not calling me back? Did he suspect you? He found out and you had him removed is that it? But he sent me, before that because he knew I would figure it out and expose you. Am I right so far Doctor Brown?”

John breathed heavily, satisfied with his deduction. Of course this whole thing explained the absence of Lewis.

“John, you are so, so terribly confused. If I had known night shifts will have such effect on your health I would never ask for your transfer here. I begged Lewis to send me a capable man. Oh, it’s my fault. You need help John. There is no conspiracy for you here”

“Bullshit!”

Before John could say more, the security came in, twisting his wrists behind his back, dragging him out of Doctor Brown’s cabinet.

“Sedate him and tie him up in room 4. He’s dangerous like this.”

John knew he had to break loose. He bit one of the guards on the hand until blood tickled his tongue.

That was enough for him to tear off the guard’s grip and to dash down the hall and into the parking lot where his car waited.

He dialed Sam.

“Come on pick up!”

“Uhm..Sam speaking” his partner sounded still sleepy.

“Sam, it’s me John. I need your help. Something seriously wrong is going on in the hospital. Brown just tried to sedate me. The day shift teams are in it too. All leads to this Sanctum St. Meet me at 3^rd Ave. in twenty minutes.”

John tossed the phone on the passenger seat.

What the hell was happening?!

The answers were somewhere there, in the invisible cross-path of 3^rd Ave. and Sanctum.

John drove faster.

“I have to trust Sam on this” He thought, gripping onto the steering wheel.

He then heard a loud honk and everything went into a pitch black silence.

 To be continued…

Hitchhiker

Second day, second story!

This one meets two people I’ve come across in another story, some months ago. You can read (if you want to) about their misfortunes in the future in a piece called Dogs bark when diggers dig , but I advice you to check this one first. The two stories are not connected, they don’t follow-up each other. I just like the characters

Hitchhiker

Interstate 25 in Colorado follows the north-south corridor of the state, passing through Colorado Springs and Denver.

To the driver and his passengers a beautiful landscape is offered.

It is so especially in the early hours of the morning.

Take for example Trinidad Lake State Park. The road swerves only near its east side, but that’s enough for the passing to take a glimpse at the water.

Early sunrays coming from behind the small hill glide over the water, tricking the eye to see sparkling diamonds swimming on top of a silver surface.  We can imagine a gentle wind blowing through the grass making it tremble and slowly nod.

If we’re lucky enough we might see a flock of American avocets descending to that part of the lake, dipping their thin grey legs, splashing their wings, narrowing their cinnamon colored heads with long bills to thirstily gulp the water.

It’s quite beautiful, really.

Further on the road stands tall the Cheyenne Mountain. Well, the Cheyenne Mountain nuclear bunker, but let’s not spoil the scenery. We can pretend it’s just a magnificent mountain on the left side of the road and nothing more. That way the travel is more pleasant.

There’s the former Ski Broadmoor on the right of Cheyenne, but the traces are not entirely visible this time of the year. Moving along.

Now we must put all that aside and concentrate on a particular junction of I-25 which by the sign seems to start with the number “1” and the city it leads in and out of with the letter “W”, although that is of no interest to us. Besides it’s night. No one looks at the signs; people just keep driving without direction, without a thought.

From that junction and up on I-25 with 45 m/h drives an 82’ brown Plymouth Gran Fury. We’re following it.

It keeps a steady speed, other cars flying past it on the fast lane. Their lights turn into hungrily seeking eyes, burning yellow in the darkness. One beast after another. Crying and screaming engines.

Our Gran Fury fellow doesn’t pay much attention to the surrounding. He’s about to in a minute, but for now he’s just tapping the sides of his steering wheel with thumbs, listening to “The Doors”

“If you give this man a ride

Sweet memory will die

Killer on the road”

He’s wondering if it’s going to rain. Seems so; clouds are gathering up ahead, white lines of lightning are piercing through the tick black mass which covers the sky.

He winds – up the window. The air smells like storm.

Another mile or two and it will pour upon him.

Oh, here it goes…large, heavy raindrops slam on the front windshield and our friend is urged to turn on the wipers, trying to push the water away. He slows down, the visibility before him turned into a blur. Jim Morrison’s voice can no longer be heard over the sound of the drumming on top of his car rain.

Strong wind appears. It takes hold of the rain and for a mere moment it takes away the curtain of raindrops, making the road visible again and the other cars reappear like ghosts from the side.

That’s when our friend sees something up ahead that at first strikes him as a chopped down tree. Then the “tree” shifts and stands up. The silhouette of a man swims before him, the rain hitting him all sides. He stands on the shoulder of the lane, a sign above his head this time readable -“Pueblo”

As the Plymouth nears him, the stranger stretches his hand and waves it energetic.

The brown Plymouth stops.

“Where are you headed?” asks the man from the car.

“Colorado Springs”. The stranger seems about 25 years old. He has no backpack with him.

“Get in. I’m headed to Aurora. Will drop you on the way”

The door shuts and the car takes off again.

Now let’s see what’s happening inside, where the rain can’t reach.

“Ryan Wayne” the soaking wet man offers his hand.

“Joel Rathbone.  Pleased to meet you” our now named friend takes the hand and gives it a firm shake.

“So, Ryan what’s the emergency?”

“Heart attack. My dad. “

“Sorry to hear. Hope he turns out well”

“Thanks. I was visiting my aunty down at Ridge when I got the call. Unfortunately my car broke down earlier. Mechanics said wouldn’t be done until morning. With this bastard weather can’t find any transportation. Not at this hour too. So I thought hitchhiking is the option. Thank you for stopping”

“Hey no worries, always happy to help a fellow in trouble.”

Joel smiles. He’s older then Ryan. He’s sideburns are starting to turn grey. But he looks younger than he is. He smiles a lot.

Ryan takes his hand through his wet hair. Joel thinks he might have been wrong about the man next to him. He is older. The wrinkles on his forehead and those beneath his eyes give him a tired, lazy look. His hands are big. There are scars on the knuckles.

“Hope you don’t mind if I ask what you do for a living” Ryan’s voice takes him away from his thoughts.

“I travel a lot, sell things town-to-town.”

“What do you sell?”

“Garden tools, cleaning products, cheap vacuum cleaners”

“Does anyone buy them?”

“Nope”

They both laughed.

“This Joel guy seems decent”, thinks Ryan, whose name is really Sage Munroe.

“He is actually very cool. He smiles a lot. Look, he’s listening to “The Doors” and on a cassette for that matter! How great is that? How great? He’s car is so tidy, smelling of all those cleaning products in the trunk, smelling of bleach, of freshly cleaned floors, and it’s ugly as hell, but he loves it and for that I love it too.”

Sage “Ryan” Munroe puts on a smile too. He likes Joel. In fact he likes him so much he wants to drag a knife through his throat and feel that hot, red blood of cheerful Joel run through his fingers. He thinks he might not be able to wait until they reach Colorado Springs. He wants to cloth his hand inside Joel’s stomach; feel him tremble at the touch, before he rips out his intestines.

“How unaware you are Mr. Town-To-Town Salesman, how oblivious of the fact you are giving a ride to a killer. I listen to you talk about yesterday’s attempts to sell one of those cheap vacuum cleaners you have in store somewhere in Aurora and can’t get rid of for months. The echo of your words resonates within me until it melts, and I no longer hear your voice. It disappears into the night, leaving only the rumble of the rain, and Jim Morrison mumbling in the background about a fire. Ah, wait till you see the fire burning in me Mr. Rathbone! There it is again, that cheerful, heartwarming grin of yours. Are you telling a joke? Perhaps. Maybe it’s wonderful to be you, a simple salesman with his ugly brown Plymouth. But it’s pointless. I admire you for starving for so long in this world that doesn’t give two shits about you and your junk. You are dead, meat, worm food, ash to ash, dust to dust and done! Gone. You are a fake Joel Rathbone. You will be mine before the dawn.”

“And that’s how I got almost arrested. Insane, I know. Say, Ryan what do you do for work? Got any family of your own?”

Joel’s voice came back loud and clear and Sage had to lick his lips to wet them. They were dry from thirst for blood.

“I am in between jobs. But I’m good… working with people. And no, no wife, no kids. Can’t see myself in that role yet”

The car coughed and shook like a wild animal.

“Darn it! I’ll have to pull over. Keeps doing that these past few days.”

The Plymouth slowed down and took right to stop at the rear of the lane. It was somehow slightly darker there; the grass had stepped onto the road, high and long like tentacles of some monster hiding deeper in the field. Joel had stopped almost in it. It felt remote from the world. Sage got out of the car and as he stood he wasn’t visible to the passing cars.

Sage Munroe couldn’t help but smile even wider then. He grabbed the handle of the knife hidden underneath his jacket.

Joel was bent over, checking under the hood.

“Need a hand there Joel?”

The rain was calmer now. Only a gentle kiss on the cheek.

“Nope, all done.”

Joel closed the hood and found himself face to face with Sage, whose expression at that moment resembled pretty much the triumphal look on the Joker when he walks in the back room of that decaying bar in Crime Alley to attend Batman’s funeral*.

And at that same moment, as if some silent spectator clicked his fingers, it changed dramatically. Imagine maybe Dorian Grey seeing his face in the portrait suddenly different, wicked, cruel. He would be frightened wouldn’t he?

Joel was holding a small hatchet. He had placed it right between Sage’s legs. Sage could feel just how sharp it was, pressed against the fabric of his jeans.

On the other hand Sage had his hunting knife pointed at Joel’s belly.

“Well, well, whatever are we going to do?” Joel (who to admit at last had chosen the name Rover Jenkins for himself, and was going with it for some good fifteen years) whispered to Sage, his smile a sharp vicious grin that was almost starting to drip saliva from excitement. Raindrops ran down his face in narrow trails.

“Awkward” growled Sage.

“It is, isn’t it? But also so fun!” Rover released a cackling laugh.

“So you’re not a dull, old salesman?” hissed with a giggle Sage. The blade of the hatchet rose a bit higher, too close to his precious belongings.

Rover shook his head.

“Not quite. I take it your old man doesn’t even breathe today, never mind having a heart attack.”

“Killed him when I was twelve” Sage moved the knife an inch closer.

Rover barked with amusement.

“Look at us, two psychopaths on the road in Colorado, met by accident. What can that lead to I wonder?” The older man’s eyes sparkled with curiosity. “Fascinating” he thought.

Sage licked his lips again. “If this isn’t lucky…”

“What do you say…talk it over some coffee in Colorado Springs? I hear they make nice mocha there”

Rover smirked.

 

 

*”Batman: Whatever Happened to the Caped Crusader?” is a comic book written by Neil Gaiman for DC Comics, 2009. The overall plot concerns the wake of Batman, taking place in the back of a small Gotham bar. During the wake, a number of prominent figures from Batman’s life each tell a tale of Batman and how he eventually died, giving multiple, unique histories of Batman, his life, and death.

The winds of change

Decided to post one story everyday till the end of the week. So here’s the first piece.

Something wicked is on the way!

The winds of change

Kathy rode her old blue bike on the way home from aunt Gemma’s. It was a hot, hot year and a hot, hot month, maybe the hottest Kathy ever remembered and she thought the home-made jams aunt Gemma had given her might boil in their jars with red caps.

The pedals were a bit rusty from the last time Kathy had used her bike, but since Jonah, her brother, was away with the car the fastest way to get from one point to another around here was this.

And Kathy didn’t mind the exercise or the dusty roads, the whispering crops and the moos! of the cows. Her soul felt light and her mind was clear.

Soon she would be home for some cold lemonade, a good book, probably Jane Eyre since she always wanted to read it, and the rest of the day spent outside on the porch, sitting on the swing with comfy apple green cushions.

Then suddenly her plans were interrupted by a rapid change in the weather.

As Kathy neared her home and could see the window of her room, a strong blow of wind chased after her, whistling and swooshing and could that be laughter? The trees shook and quivered in a compilation of wild bows and their still green leafs were torn with violence and scattered in sky and earth. Kathy suddenly felt small and vulnerable in the presence of this wind. She rode faster, caring less about the clinking pots of jam in her bag hung on the right handlebar.

She reached the house safely, left the bike outside and before going in took a look behind her back. There was something coming fast and furious. Kathy rushed inside.

“Mama? Mama?” Kathy called out

Her mother came down the stairs.

“What’s the matter?”

“Mama, did you hear the wind?”

“Yes. What about it?” Kathy’s mother raised an eyebrow.

“It’s…different somehow. I know it may sound weird, but I thought I heard it laugh!”

“Don’t be ridiculous child! That’s only your imagination. It’s just a wind like any other.”

“But” insisted Kathy “ it doesn’t feel right! This one is somehow old” Kathy’s expression changed. Her gaze floated, starring somewhere beyond her house, somewhere beyond herself. She continued.

“It has traveled long and gathered up other winds on its way. They all are coming here for some reason. They will want something from here.”  Kathy looked back at her mother “I’m afraid mama, I’m afraid something bad is about to happen.” Kathy hugged herself and gazed at the floor.

Her mother smiled and caressed her daughter’s cheek.

“Kathy, listen to me. There is nothing to worry about. It’s just a normal wind, which though might bring some rain and I’ve just washed the sunflower rug. Why don’t you go bring it in? In the meantime I’ll put those jams where they belong and have we can some lemonade after. Okay?”

Kathy shrugged and nodded. Her mother didn’t believe her. But then again Kathy wasn’t making much sense. She couldn’t properly express this growing fear in her. It was difficult to describe since she had never felt anything like it. Something was indeed about to begin.

She went outside, cautiously looking around, prepared for the worst but found only her mama’s rug gone and the old wind not alone but accompanied by now many others, all here, all whispering and roaring, banging on the windows, slamming the doors. Kathy listened to their voices, from far and near, low or loud, but all saying one. Her eyes widened and her heart pounded in her chest.

She shivered and went back inside, locking the door, running up the wooden stairs to her room, her private sanctuary.

She sat on the bed and rocked back and forth thinking that winds shouldn’t gather up like this. She bit her lower lip and felt like crying for not knowing how to handle what was happening, how to deal with it.

“Winds are not supposed to speak such horrid stories!” she whimpered. Nor were they supposed ask her…ask her….

Kathy gulped, jumped off the bed and closed the curtains, ignoring the winds and their foul language. She hoped they will just go away after not receiving what they want. Kathy was sure not going there again!

Kathy stood there, confused, not sure what to do. The winds were circling her house, singing songs which chilled her bones.

She shook her head.

Then she took “Jane Eyre” from the book shelf and sat down on her bed.

She had always wanted to read it anyways.

Monsters (Part two)

A bit late with this entry, my apologies. I hope I deliver with this conclusion.

Part one

Monsters

Part 2

 

“As a breath on glass, -
As witch-fires that burn,
The gods and monsters pass,
Are dust, and return.
(“The Face of the Skies”)”

―George Sterling,

The Thirst of Satan:Poems of Fantasy and Terror 

 

 

“I think I brought memory to life. Did I Neil? Could I?…”

As I stood before my door Tom’s words came back to me and I asked myself what he meant.

“Did you Tom do something horrible in the past that came back to haunt you today? Could you have done something bad?”

I cursed me for doubting my friend.

My hand hesitated on the door lock. I turned to watch the lights of the departing cab with a tinge of disappointed. I wished I had stayed in it. Maybe tell the driver to keep on driving around town until the dawn comes and saves me from the questions solitude and darkness tend to evoke in one’s mind.

I didn’t feel like being home tonight. Not alone.

I sighed and opened the door.

The lights, as I switched them on, welcomed me with a vague, nonchalant gleam.

I prepared myself a quick dinner – macaroni and cheese with tomatoes – and watched the news, only for the voices to keep me company and distract me from the ones in my own head.

A young blond reporter spoke of a chain accident on the interstate. Five people were dead and a dozen injured. She looked frightened as if her life was the one depending on good Faith.

I turned the TV off and stared at my face in the black screen. Was that fear written on me as well? Fear of what I saw back at Tom’s apartment?

Once more my thoughts were taken back to the filthy living room turned into a studio and the paintings aligned staring at me.

I wondered what imagination dreams of such horrid creatures? What sort of agony makes the artist reach so deep in his soul, in that part which is unknown and foreign to him?

“Why, Tom?”

I had to know.

“How can I help you Tom when you told me I couldn’t understand. Why is that? For what am I so blind?”

I rubbed my eyes and poured myself a large glass of golden liquid. Even after a few drinks no answers showed to solve my mystery and cease my worries.

I decided sleep may be my remedy.

I went asleep as soon as my head touched the pillow and no longer after that a dream came to me, one that left me moaning and twisting in the bed; a poor mess of sweat and sheets.

I didn’t see myself present in it, but it felt as if I was the host, my body, soul and mind combined to offer a field for the events developing. I felt utterly exposed to some invisible invasion from outside, a fearful breeze of rotten nightmares.

The scenery was bleak and confusing but it reminded me of the cover of a book I used to own as a child. But the golden crops, the morning sky were different– they painted themselves in dark rusty-brown, before the sky cracked and only blackness was left, so vast and loathing it raised my curiosity of what lies beyond.

I remembered there were children painted too, playing and laughing but instead of them something else was celebrating under distant sounds of drums and horns.

A creature of scales and claws, multiple eyes, tongues and limbs descended from the blackness, towering above all and with an echoing roar of its billion mouths it shattered grotesquely and collapsed into monsters that scattered and possessed each piece of the dying ground; the spawns danced with rhythmic moves, but all I could see was a savage ritual of grunts and roars; the nameless ones caught in a symbolic moment of fierce copulation; a collision of bodies furry, wet and muscular. Some, I observed from my nowhere position, carried human parts and with disgust I had to watch as their sharp tongues lick thirstily the dripping blood and their mouths bite, tore and swallow down large pieces of red flesh.

This was a feast upon humanity. A celebration of prevail and conquer. It smelled like defeat, like losing all hope and I felt even greater fear emerging from each direction, cloaking the dream, the inhabitants, the revelations.

My childhood nightmares were there before me, but somehow altered, changed. More vulgar and shameless, more brutal and willing to kill my vision and memory of how monsters were supposed to look. Those were…

“No, monsters aren’t real. This is just a dream” spoke Tom’s voice but I knew it was I who thought so.

But these spoken in the subconscious words disappeared with the increasing throbbing of the drums. The melody so ancient and ethnic called me to come forward; an invitation of the sort you don’t simply turn down even if your whole being is trembling with fear. I felt myself do as told, and I tried to suppress the urge to touch skins, horns, furs and prove them real, proclaim them living and breathing and here. I hesitate…do I want to?

They are not real. I know that. They can’t be.

I push myself away; a far and rapid withdraw from this degeneration of the soul.

I woke up weak and destroyed from the dream. My head pounded with pain.

I didn’t enjoy this demented reflection of yesterday’s events, mostly because there were shadows which I didn’t see but felt. The art in Tom’s paintings had crawled into my sleep and hid underneath my pillow to invade my dreams and observe just as me.

Observe what? Me?

I reminded myself again it was simply a nightmare. Fiction of the mind.

Then what was that feeling of doubt nesting low in my belly making me uncomfortable?

Had I gone mad even for a second to believe monsters are real? To believe that those portraying Tom’s sickness are stalking me in my dreams and insist I participate from aside in a spectacle of horror?

God, I sounded like I do.

“Remember you believe in something once you’ve seen it and touched it” told me Tom’s whispering voice.

-   Hold on Tom, I’m coming.

I dressed and called a cab.

With a few begs my Arabic guide of city streets and ugly alleys drove faster and kept silent.

I decided on any cost to get Tom out of his place and buy us a plane ticket to Mexico or somewhere further.

Up ahead there was a construction site and the street was closed by large orange signs. My impatience overpowered me; I paid and jumped out of the car to run the last two blocks.

I dashed between faces and grimaces without my eyes registering any gender, age or race.

All I could think of were those monsters closing their rope of insanity around Tom’s neck.

When I got there a large crowd had gathered outside the entrance of the building. I spotted an ambulance and two police cars.

The officers were just starting to close the perimeter circling it with the “Cautious” yellow tape.

I maneuvered myself deeper into the whispering and gasping audience.

I needed to get to Tom’s apartment.

-  Excuse me? I need to get to apartment 8, Tomas Byrnes lives there, he is a friend of mine. I was supposed to meet him today. Could you let me pass?

The officer which I had just spoken to opened and closed his mouth, seemingly experiencing difficulty to offer me an answer.

-   I’m sorry sir. I’m afraid that will be impossible.

-   It’s very important officer. Can’t we arrange something?

-    I don’t think you understood me sir. Mr. Byrnes was found dead in his apartment an hour ago. My condolences on your loss.

-   Oh… – was all I could say, and then I mumbled – thank you.

Perhaps I had heard him the first time but was too shocked to realize.

I turned and walked away without feeling my feet touch the ground.

The monsters had won. They had found out I wanted to save Tom and had taken him away from me. They mocked me in my dream and showed me what future awaits those who deny belief in something so obviously real. I didn’t acknowledge them and they punished me by provoking my friend to implant their vision in me and make me question their authenticity.

“Oh Tom, please forgive me for running away. I was so scared and foolish.”

I stopped.

The people walking past me game me curious looks at my motionless figure. I looked in their eyes to seek some recognition, some response or understanding.

But they didn’t know of the storm in my soul and the guilt in my heart. They didn’t understand the fear in my mind and couldn’t explain the tears running down my cheeks.

But I knew what I’ve done.

“I can feel it. I have let the monsters in”

Monsters (Part one)

Monsters

Part 1

 “Yes, my dear child, he would undoubtedly tell a terrified toddler tremulously seeking succor, monsters are real. I happen to have one hanging in my basement.” 

                                                                                            ― Rick Yancey, 

The Monstrumologist

 

 Prologue

I used to have nightmares as a kid. My father used to come into my room, sit on the edge of my bed and gesture me to come closer. Then he whispered “Tommy my boy, there are no monsters in this world. They don’t exist. And as long as I’m here, they never will.” I believed my dad, but a part of me still reached out to that part of my mind that believed in the monsters as well. The monsters stayed hidden at first, only under my bed or in my closet but after a while they got used to the surrounding, made my home their home and began creeping outside my door, and I saw their faces. Oh, God their faces! They lurked in every dark corner of every room.

Then, they were real.

 

* * *

9/8/2011 Chicago, Illinois.

Beep…beep…beep…beep…click!

You reached the voicemail of Tomas Byrnes. Please leave your message after the tone: BEEP!

“Hey Tom, its Neil. This is probably the tenth message I’m leaving. Where are you man? I’m worried.

Call me back when you get this. Hope you get this.”

-   No answer?

Ann stood on the doorway, dressed and ready to leave for a weekend at her sister’s place.

I shook my head.

-   He’ll call. He’s probably working on a painting and doesn’t want to be bothered.

I agreed with her with a fake smile.

I knew Tom for long enough to know that there is something wrong with this absence of his.

-  I have to go. I wish you could come with me Neil. You need some rest. And some fun.

-   I know. That’s why I’m staying home to finish the project. After that I’m all yours.

She placed a warm kiss on my lips.

-   I’ll be back before you know it.

* * *

As soon as Ann left I called a cab and gave the driver Tom’s address.

I rested my forehead on the cold window and listened to the roar of the engine trying to shut off the fears in my mind. My eyesight traced the curves of the scenery. The weather was changing fast. Summer was preparing to leave for another 10-11 months and in her place autumn was starting to manifest with colors gloomy and dead.

I wondered what had happened to my dear friend Tom.

Had he faded just as summer, turning into a pile of rotten leafs blown by the rainy wind?

I shivered.

Minutes later my yellow carrousel from urban Chicago left me outside a four storey building of gray concrete and narrow balconies staring at a “Fletch and Skim” bookstore, a second hand clothes shop and a closed Chinese restaurant. I always wondered why he chose to live in this neighborhood.

I paid the cab driver and proceeded.

Tom lived on the second floor.

I took the stairs in one breath.

The bell was dead so I pounded my fists on the wood and raised my voice to call his name.

He opened the door; the ghost of someone who looked like my friend but who wasn’t. He was paler, wearing a stained white t-shirt and a worn out bathrobe covered in spatters of dried paint.

-   Neil? Hey. I didn’t expect you. – His voice was no more than a whisper.

-    What happened to you Tommy? Are you sick? I tried to call you a dozen times.

He tried to put on a smile.

-    Really? My phone must be off. No I’m fine. I just have a lot of work to do. Painting you know. It’s a bit of a mess inside but come in.

He disappeared in the darkness and without a hesitation I followed.

The windows were tanned; only fragile bits of daylight entered to shine across the room but it was enough for me to observe. Dishes with leftovers of food were lying on the floor next to scattered clothes.

The air smelled like paint and dust, and it stuck in my nose and tongue, the smell pushing its way down my throat.

The sofa was occupied by a canvas still unfinished but familiar to me, and aligned on the wall facing me were a few paintings I had never seen before. I stepped closer shocked by the nature of the forms, the dance of the brush, the colors most of all. I was terrified and confused.

-   Do you like them?

I averted my eyes.

-    What is this Tom?

-    My new Art. I just woke up and knew I had to paint them. I probably never told you this but when I was a kid I had nightmares. My dad used to calm me down and tell me monsters don’t exist. You’d say he was right. I thought so too. But they are real. Always were. Like you and me. Listen. I…I had a revelation. – His eyes glimmered with an ill sparkle – I needed to paint my monsters to prove myself they are fake but then they became real. I think I brought memory to life. Did I Neil? Could I? Look at them. You believe in something when you can see and touch it right? Right? … But you are afraid.  – He had tears running down though I couldn’t tell if sadness or joy had provoked them. He spoke so fast and his mood changed with every word. His voice raised and then faded again   –   God Neil… if only you could see them as I do! They are beautiful. – He stopped – I need to finish another one…You must go.

-  Tom you need rest. Come with me. Let’s go away for a few days. You can paint later.

The look in his eyes then crushed me with its coldness.

-   If you understood. But you can’t Neil can you? Go now. I’ll be fine.

As I descended from his apartment I thought about the monsters on the paintings, and their faces starring at me as I went away; in the cab on the way home I thought about Tom not being Tom anymore.

What had happened?

To be continued….