Keep It Unreal

0

I read something upsetting and then I get upset. I don’t know when I became so goddamn sensitive. And why. I try to keep a positive mindset but it’s becoming harder and harder to do because I’m surrounded with so much negativity, mainly brought about via social media. Sometimes I consider the option of suspending my Facebook account for a little while so that I can avoid the barrage of negative feed I’m crushed by every day. Maybe I should do that…

Fuck the “if it bleeds, it leads” journalistic standard. I wish it would stop bleeding so much. I wanna read something positive for a change. Something that doesn’t make me want to shut off the world. I wanna read children’s books. Not the ones about a grandmother being devoured by a wolf, and not about a couple of kids shoving a witch into a furnace. Maybe about a baby throwing her toys and playing guitar. Or about a cat befriending a mouse.

Also, I’ve noticed that confusing books do not jive so well with me anymore. I recently got the book Kissing Dead Girls, which I’ve read a few years ago and remembered it being amazing and inspiring. In fact, after the first time I read the book, I was so inspired that I wrote two short poem-style stories using the same style and confusing sentence structure as Daphne Gottlieb uses in her book.

So I finally bought the book and have spent the past two weeks trying to read it. Some of the stories are just as wonderful as I remembered them. But most are just plain confusing. Fragmented sentences, beginning and ending nowhere, the lack of capital letters where they should be, a tone and voice which sound like the ramblings of senility itself, incoherence galore, boring nonsensical bullshit, all served to make me tired and restless at once and eventually I either skipped to the next chapter or just put the book down. Every time I think about resuming reading it, I get tired. Just thinking about it, I get bored out of my fucking mind.

I came up with a theory. The reason I enjoyed this book so much all these years ago was probably because it reflected the confusion I lived on a daily basis. Back then, my life was a mess. Nothing made sense. My life was as fragmented as the sentences in that book, and somehow those fragments seemed to complete me. The fragments fell right into the places where my essence was lacking. But now, my life is complete. I feel so right and organized. Even if my sleep is fragmented, because being the mother of a toddler, it kinda comes with the territory, that is part of my predictable routine. Everything has its rightful place. I’m married to a super awesome guy, I have a brilliant kid, I have a sweet dog, I have a decent job, I have a decent house, I have peace of mind, and I simply don’t want any bloody news piece or any fucking confusing book ruining it for me.

Another theory I came up with was that the first time I read Kissing Dead Girls was before I became exposed to Stephen King. Yes, eventually it all comes down to that. Once I read Duma Key, my whole view of literature drastically changed. I have immense trouble reading books that are not written by King. I think it’s also because I love fiction more than anything because as bloody as it gets, I know it’s not real. Even if Stephen King is such a master storyteller that it seems as if his fiction IS in fact reality, deep down I still know it isn’t. So for me, keeping a positive mindset is totally possible with fiction books.

clarity

And so, being bored to tears and utterly frustrated by Kissing Dead Girls, I ordered another fiction book, The Clarity by Keith Thomas. I just got a text message from the post office notifying me that this book I ordered from Germany just arrived. I’m excited by the prospect of escaping into fiction, and even more excited that come May 22, I will score me a brand new Stephen King novel, The Outsider.

You know what? I’ll just go ahead and reclaim “If it bleeds it leads” but add “in fiction” at the end, because in reality it just serves to fuck me up.

Peace, love and fiction forever

Advertisements

DIY Month – Day 7: Fiction Story

2

Still at my parents’ house, it was Friday night and I was tired as hell. My day started at 10:00 a.m. My boyfriend and I went to the mall (a drag in itself) and bought a shitload of food because we plan to have my parents over for dinner tomorrow. I will be the one to cook and try out a new recipe (yes, as part of my DIY month) of a sweet potato pie. More on that in two days.

After shopping, we had lunch, took a shower, packed and headed for Be’er Sheva. We didn’t get any decent sleep, so when I finally sat down to write the story, it was around 10:00 p.m. and I was tempted every once in a while to just put my notebook down and hit the hay. But I forced myself to complete it and was pretty satisfied with the final product.

No pictures available this time because that was the one thing I was too tired for. Hehe!

The story is called 613.

_______________________________________________________________

Sheni awoke with a start, sitting bolt upright with her abs contracted, ready for a scream. But only a gasp was made.

Sheni could have sworn that this time, it was real. This time, the man in white was really there, standing over her with a syringe.

She looked at her clock. It was 6:13 a.m. It was always 6:13 a.m. It has always been, and also never was. Because any time she awoke from her dream, the same dream, the same gasp, it was always the same time.

Outside her window, the faint distant glow of the impending sunrise painted the horizon in a macabre shade of purple.

It was silent. It was always dark and silent. The only sounds she could hear at 6:13 a.m. was the man in white flicking his syringe, and her subsequent gasp as she awoke in her bed.

But silence comforted her. Silence always sounds better than a gasp. And sometimes, dark is better than white. At least, better than the man in white…

She felt a moisture on her face. Sweat. Most likely sweat. Was it hot? It was winter. The sun rises at 6:13 a.m. But wasn’t it summer just yesterday. She couldn’t be sure. She wasn’t even sure what yesterday was. It if ever was. It has always been 6:13.

She raised her hand to wipe her forehead and froze with horror. Her hand was different. It had mutated further. There was a fifth bump on it next to the other four which now seemed to have elongated. She could see through her skin and saw more tissue, veins, ligaments, unnameable things.

She lied back down in her bed and waited for Her return. The Woman in White. The One who came to her after every time Sheni awoke from her dream. She came to her with the first light of dawn and taught her everything about what She referred to as Life. She told her what Life is, what is the purpose of Life, what is the key to true happiness.

And there She was now.

“How did you sleep?” She asked with Her soft voice.

“The man in white. He–” Sheni started.

“Is not real,” the Woman in White said. “Not for now. And not ever if you choose wisely.”

“I don’t–” Sheni said.

“This bed is your world for now. Your dreams are from another dimension,” the Woman in White began Her sermon. The point of Life, the meaning of Life, how one should live Life…

“Can I go to Life now?” Sheni asked as she always did.

“Not yet. You are not ready,” the Woman in White’s answer was unchanging. “You must stay in your bed.”

“What about my dreams?” she asked.

“A different dimension,” the Woman in White started fading.

“Who is the man in white?” Sheni asked with desperation, but the Woman in White disappeared.

Sheni kicked her bedsheets in frustration. The room was dark again. Silent. Purple sunrise was suspended in eternal dawn. The time was 6:13 a.m.

***

She dreamt about the man in white and spoke to the Woman in White over and over again. Always hearing about Life, never living it. Always dreaming about the man in white, never seeing him, and content with never seeing him.

She kept noticing more and more changes in her every day. Her limbs became longer, her features became finer, her translucent skin became darker, thicker. Her feet had grown a similar set of bumps as her hands. Though the ones on her hands were now longer.

“Fingers,” the Woman in White said with a compassionate smile. “You need them on the other side.”

Sheni had acquired a taste for one of her fingers and put it in her mouth when she slept.

“That’s perfectly fine,” the Woman in White said. “Others do it, too.”

“Others?” Sheni’s eyes grew bigger. “You mean, there are others… like me? Where?”

“Out there,” the Woman pointed at the purple light.

“I wanna see them!” Sheni said with mounting excitement. “Oh, please, Woman in White, can I?”

The Woman in White waved Her hand, “Maybe in time.”

“When?” Sheni asked as the Woman in White started fading again. “Answer me!”

“But maybe not, if you choose wisely,” the Woman said and vanished. Sheni’s room grew dark once more. She thrashed around her bed and kicked furiously and her foot struck the bedpost. Sheni stopped with a sudden realization that her bed had grown smaller. The time was 6:13 a.m.

***

The man in white flicked his syringe. That awful sound of his nails against the plastic made Sheni cringe and she awoke again with a gasp. She sat bolt upright and saw that her legs were now hanging off the edge of her bed.

The Woman in White appeared before her once again. She told her of Life, the beauty of Life, the sacredness of Life.

“Why is it always 6:13?” Sheni asked.

“There are 613 grains in a pomegranate,” the Woman in White said. “There were 26 pomegranates in the tree of Life.”

None of this made any sense to Sheni, so she asked the question that persisted. “Who is the man in white?”

“He is a product of the tree of Knowledge. The one with the poisoned pomegranates. He didn’t choose wisely,” the Woman in White said as She was disappearing.

“What does that mean?” Sheni screamed and kicked. “Tell me! I wanna know!” And the room grew dark and silent again. It was 6:13 a.m.

***

Sheni refused to fall asleep. Her bed had become unbearably small. She thrashed around furiously and her bed suddenly cracked and broke. She heard a muffled scream coming from the purple light.

“Mommy!” Sheni suddenly said, not knowing what it meant.

The Woman in White appeared again, this time looking distraught. “It is time,” She said.

“The time is 6:13,” Sheni answered. “And I beat the man in white. This time, he didn’t appear.”

“That’s because the man in white is here,” the Woman in White said with a grotesque grin. “Isn’t that what you want? To know? To know him? To know others?” The Woman in White spoke faster now. Her white gown was getting stained with black lights. “Isn’t that what you want? To know everything? Like the man in white? To be poisoned with knowledge?”

“No! That’s not what I want! I want Life! I want–”

“But don’t you see?” the Woman in White’s face grew more and more sinister. “You said ‘I wanna know.’ You chose wrong. Because you can’t live and know Life. The only life you’ll know is there,” She pointed at the purple light which has grown lighter and bigger. “But the true Life, the one I taught you about, is here with the Almighty 26. She who gave you the 613. Me, and only Me. Your Woman in White. Your Mother Goddess.”

“To hell with 6:13!” Sheni grabbed her clock and threw it at her window, shattering it. White light started pouring in.

“But now it’s over,” continued the Woman in White, who had gone completely black. “You chose the tree of Knowledge. And for that, you shall forget everything I taught you. If you’re lucky, the knowledge they’ll give you on the other side will not be poisoned with lies. And maybe you’ll find your way back to 26.”

More and more white light was pouring in from the broken window. The walls of the room started closing in on Sheni, pushing her out the window.

“No! No!” Sheni screamed and struggled. “I don’t want poisoned knowledge!” Sheni scrambled towards what remained of her bed and pulled at the cord that has kept her there all along. The cord that was attached to her belly. She pulled at it with all her might and it detached from her broken bedpost with a snap.

“It’s too late,” the Woman in Black whispered now and held up Her index finger. “With this final touch you shall forget the point of Life, the purpose of Life, the meaning of Life, the key to happiness, the beauty of Life, the sacredness of Life, the Holy 26, the 613 and the Woman in White.” She put Her finger to Sheni’s lips, lightly hitting the middle of her upper lip, right below the septum, creating a crevice.

Sheni slipped out the window and into the cold purple light which had turned into blinding white. The man in white appeared before her, his empty epidural syringe lying beside him.

Sheni screamed and screamed and screamed, all the screams she has been unable to voice all those times she awoke from her dreams. But now she forgot all about it, because her dream was now a reality. She had forgotten all about the Woman in White and began life with the woman she called Mommy.

She screamed and screamed and screamed.

Time of birth – 6:13 a.m.

_____________________________________________________________

Peace, love and The End.

Tombstone Teeth

1

It has been on my shelf for some time. I decided I wasn’t gonna read It until I got some shit done. Now that I managed to control myself when it comes to Stephen King and got some shit done – mainly art related stuff like sewing a patches vest, making a zine, playing some guit, and drawing – I decided to go ahead and read It.

Now, I don’t know if it’s because I’ve gotten soft on horror (unlikely), or because I’ve let my boyfriend’s ramble about how much the movie sucks get to my head (hardly), or because Stephen King is just a freaking genius horror writer (bingo), but this must be the absolute scariest book I’ve read to date. Even the fear I felt as a kid reading the Goosebumps series doesn’t come close.

And it’s not because it’s gory, because I’ve read Stephen King’s ultimate gore (Cat from Hell) and it’s given me nightmares, but not like this. It is a book that goes beyond gory into something that scares you to the core with descriptions and imagery so clear and tangible that it distorts your vision of reality.

As I was reading a chapter of the book this past Thursday, I had to put the book down and go to sleep because it was too damn scary even for me. I was sure that at any moment, something dead and creepy was gonna grab my ankle from under the couch I was sitting on.

And on Friday at my parents’ house, after having read a few good chapters, I went to sleep, and just as I started drifting off, I had a nightmare. I woke up from it with my flesh crawling and my blood frozen in my veins, and I was so terrified I didn’t want to fall back asleep. For the first time since I was a baby, I wanted to leave my room and go sleep with my parents. I almost woke up my mom to ask her to come sleep with me because I had a nightmare.

Stephen King made me regress perfectly to the age of three.

The next morning, I told my boyfriend about the dream, and even the fear in his eyes was palpable.

“It was about two girls I never even met,” I said. “Maybe 15 or 16 years old. I saw them like a movie. They sat on the floor, next to a coffee table in their living room, playing some board game and giggling hysterically. The hallway leading from the living room to the rest of the house was dark and a dog was standing in front of it. As he looked off into the darkness of the hallway, he started growling. The girls grew quiet and tried to understand what the dog was growling at. Just then, a lightning threw a brief but powerful light into the dark hallway, and a reddish figure was standing at the end. Another lightning struck and the figure was suddenly right in front of my face, and I woke up with a gasp.”

My boyfriend’s eyes grew wide. “Whoa…” he whispered.

I’m not even a quarter way through the book, and I’m probably gonna have several more episodes of regression, and of putting the book away because the fear will consume me, and of looking over my shoulder expecting to see a decomposed clown offering me a balloon, and of course nightmares. Many of them. But godDAMN, if Stephen King is not the most amazing horror novelist in the world.

Dude’s gonna be the death of me.

Peace, love and “They all float!”