Chick With A Quill

Geese, Winter

2009-12-16T18:59:00.002-04:00

This morning
a late flock of geese
calligraphed
their timid V
on the cottony canvas
of heavens

I stood there
(with you on my mind
with you in my heart)
smiling foolishly
at such a wondrous sight
frowning in worry
at their lateness
will they still reach safely
that balmy south?

I had my feet in the grey snow
on the black ground
(and you in my heart
and you on my mind)
and some of my thoughts
up there
hoping for a trace
for an impression
of something that has been
or maybe will be
in another spring

Somewhere...

2009-12-07T01:06:00.003-04:00

My friends, I thought I should let you know about my whereabouts, just in case anybody started thinking I was dead. Well, I’m not dead but I’m not on this Earth either...

art from aerphis.deviantart.com

I’m on a spaceship, abducted – not by aliens – by an idea and a character. Bizarre things are happening there – and romantic...

So obsessed am I by this, so madly in love with my character, so deep in the entrails of this spaceship, that I can do little else. This trance is deeper than all the others...

I barely speak, I won’t read anything except for comic books, and I can only listen to certain music, much like the one written by Mark Snow for the X-Files.

So, I simply cannot descend long enough from this spaceship to get myself to write something for this blog – well, other than this post...

I don’t know where this trip will take me but I’m certainly enjoying the ride. I’ll try visiting you as much as possible and... I’ll be back sometime...

Tame

2009-11-17T01:34:00.003-04:00

“Come on, please. This is a good one.”

Couples fox-trot in a kaleidoscope of bright colours, of bare shoulders, of black or white dinner jackets, and sparkling jewellery.

“I don’t dance.”

His words fall like pieces of wet felt, a tiny, insignificant smack on the terracotta floor.

“Why?”

The music swirls in the supple waves of her hair, tickles her shoulders, goes down to her ankles, lionesses in the tall grasses, quivering with the anticipation of the rush. In her mind, she is away already. Only her soul struggles with the chill threatening to close again the fragile breach that the music opened in her prison’s walls.

“What’s the point?” he says.

How exasperating the act of pounding against opaque walls of inertia, of indolence, of plain ill will. A hopeless sea, crashing against an immutable shore, never destined to erode it.

“What’s the point of breathing?”

“Life, that’s the point of breathing.” Annoyed.

Oxygen taken to the cells by the blood. Carbon dioxide coming out. An exchange. Nothing poetic about it.

“Music is oxygen for your soul. Dance carries it.”

“Cut it out.” His voice is like a brick. “Not for me. I don’t have any use for such nonsense. Besides, we’ve discussed this before. I do not dance.”

Anger bubbles inside her.

“I can’t believe it. We didn’t even dance at our wedding.”

She notices him then, the way a mariner glimpses a lighthouse in the darkest of storms. Her heart stops, then flutters. A handsome young stranger, watching her. Surely willing to dance. She can see it in his serious eyes, in his rueful hint of a smile. How easy it could be. How impossible. Take his hand, lean into it, feel its warmth, its tender guidance. She dares another glance. He is right there, watching her quietly, the tiniest frown darkening his brow, the tiniest smile narrowing his eyes. What would she do if he came to her? Asked her to dance? Took her in his arms? She looks down at the sparkling silver, at the immaculate tablecloth.

“You’re crazy. Would you stop mentioning that stupid thing?”

The knot of regret and frustration is swelling up in her throat, menacing to reach the lakes of her eyes, to overflow them.

“But it’s true,” she says. “It ruined everything. I should’ve realised then…”

The stranger is still watching her, his gaze almost soothing. She desperately longs to be cradled in his arms.

“You’re overreacting, as always.”

“Why the hell are we even here?” Too pale a comfort found in a coarse word, when she would really like to scream.

“You wanted to come. Finish your food now. We should go. This noise gives me a headache.”

No, she cannot leave now. She needs to prolong the illusion if only for another moment. She can’t possibly discard there, like a dirty napkin, this dream of absolute happiness. She needs to float for a while longer in the cocoon of that stranger’s regard, to feel… She wants to…

“Hurry up! We paid the nanny till eleven.”

She stands up mechanically, her legs suddenly leaden, the swirl inside her nauseating. She knows it’ll swallow her soul. Again.

As they walk out, she doesn’t look at him, the handsome stranger, for she knows that if she does, and if he's still watching her, she might, she will do something desperate, and she’s afraid to shatter this perfect dream.

Not yet. One day. Next time. Next time.

Thank You, Fireblossom!

2009-11-12T12:28:00.005-04:00

I received this award from Fireblossom, a new friend in this remarkable blogosphere, whose personality and whose verse are as flamboyant as her name. Thank you, Fireblossom! I am deeply honoured.

The rules are: post seven bits of trivia about yourself. (That’s scary!) Then pass it on to seven people. (That I kinda like!)

So, in totally random order, I give you:

1. I keep a notebook – an old elegant notebook bound in red silk embroidered with arabesques of gold – in which I write the titles of all the books I read every year. It is a precious thing to me for it helps me recall moments in my life, and more than moments, feelings and nuances… I remember how I was when I was reading such and such book, what season it was, if I was content or sad… At the same time it brings me a feeling of anxiety or hopelessness when I see how little I can scratch of the vast surface of literature.

2. I’m in love with a certain vampire. ’Nough said. :-)

3. When I write, I fully immerse myself in my story. It’s so “bad” (or good!) that my pulse quickens, my vision blurs, my breathing becomes ragged, my head spins… I wonder what I looked like if anybody were to see me.

4. During my university years, I smoked. Not much, probably not more than ten cigarettes a day, mainly less. Strong ones though, mostly Camel. And then, a few years later I abandoned it. It was easy. One day I smoked, the next day I didn’t. I admit I was a bit disappointed. What? Can’t I even keep an addiction?

5. I love all life and believe that everything that’s alive has a right to live.
One day, as I was driving through a new development zone, where all natural life has been disturbed to make place to a bunch of overgrown houses, I saw a snake trying to cross the road. I can’t even think about it, let alone write about it. It was already halfway through the other half of the road when a car coming from the opposite direction just crushed it. My heart cringes even now, so many weeks later. I know that countless tragedies happen every minute all over this world, but it doesn’t mean that that snake’s is less important because of that.
Did I mention I’m a vegetarian?

6. Baroque music is among my favourites. Bach, Albinoni, Telemann, Marcello, to name just a few who take me from the peaks of joy to the abysses of despair, and back.

7. I like to drive and I like to drive very fast. I like the “high” that I get from this speed… Unfortunately, watching out for cops takes away some of the fun…

And now I get to pass the award on to other people. It wasn’t easy to decide upon only seven names. Some of you have it already, and if you don’t want to do the meme (again) that’s all right, but it’s just my way of showing how much I appreciate you. All of you are fantastic writers and amazing blog friends.

So,

Aniket
Kaye
Karen
L.A.
Marilyn
Miladysa
Rick

please pick up your award.

The Talisman - Part 2 of 2

2009-10-30T00:47:00.007-03:00

If you haven’t read Part 1, please do so first.

With only the round moon of nearly midnight as a witness, I lit a timid flame under the pile of deadwood I had gathered in the afternoon. The flame licked the twigs, started eating them, then crawled onto the thicker branches with maddening slowness. The wind toyed with it for a few seconds, spreading sparks, but the fire finally took. In the orange glow, new shadows rose to dance with the emaciated silhouettes of the trees, drawn by the cold moon.

I couldn’t believe I was there, behaving like a naïve teenager in my old age, instead of nesting in the quietness of my room. But I was doing it as a farewell to my aunt, and I used that thought to somehow warm my bones.

The instructions had been simple and I followed them dutifully, although emotion made my left hand even clumsier than usual. I spread the powder over the fire, hardly avoiding the sudden burst of flames. Then, in the foul smell that rose, I read aloud the text on the side of the box. I had glimpsed at it earlier, just to make sure I could decipher it, but still the guttural words of the dead language – in a voice that barely sounded as my own - brushed my heart with a strange foreboding.

It was an ancient Egyptian funeral incantation, written in hieratics, though not one that I had ever seen in the Spells of Going. A reversed, twisted utterance, meant to call forth the soul into another existence, not to ease its journey into the realm of the blessed dead. I have always laughed at superstition, but the thought that my aunt had in secret entertained such ideas was particularly disturbing.

When I finished, my mouth dry as if filled with sand, a grey smoke stirred in the flames. The wind played with it, allowing it to gain shape only to scatter it again shortly.

Almost deafened by my own heartbeat, I took the miniature coffer from my bag and managed to steady my fingers long enough to open it. For a stretched moment, I forgot to breathe.

Inside, on a white velvet cushion, there was a small hand, a child-sized hand, a gold ring with a tiny ruby on the index finger, the wrist bloodied as if freshly severed. Surely only a rubber moulding, the macabre prop of a prankster.

Under my rounded eyes, the hand twitched.

I almost dropped the chest.

Surely, only a trick of the flames.

Despite myself, I looked at my old stump, then at the child’s hand in the coffer, helpless before the tangled memory that rushed at me and threw me whole in the pit that had opened in my stomach. The county fair. The fortune teller Gipsy. The smiles and the money exchanged between her and Aunt Lilith. The ring the Gipsy offered the five-year old I was then. The car accident. My parents’ death. My crushed right hand that could not be recovered from the burnt wreckage. My tears for the lost ring. The recurring nightmare of my troubled sleep.

What strange, unwanted thoughts. I had no use of them.

I had a mind to throw the chest with its hideous content in the fire, when the hand twitched again. I gasped, intrigued, disgusted, scared. It couldn’t be. What was I doing there? Better to go home.

But in the moment I tried to snap the lid closed, the twitching hand jumped from the coffer. A shriek rose from the shadow in the fire, or maybe from my lips. I dropped the box and stumbled backwards, my eyes frantically searching for the hand on the ground, when I realized that it was on me, that it had somehow attached itself to my stump.

Oh, the terror when I shook my arm and couldn’t loose that child’s hand, that foreign hand! The numbing coldness of the iron tendrils piercing my wrist, holding it in a metal vice.

I pulled. I pushed. I scratched. I turned, seeking a tool to help me. A stick broke on it. In desperation, I started striking a boulder. Nothing. Nothing.

Nothing but the suffocation from the panicked struggle, from the thickening smoke.

Under my eyes, it started growing, a beautiful white hand, with silky skin, no longer a child’s hand but a young woman’s, the one I could’ve had, the ring, already too small, cutting deep into the index finger.

And then, a whisper whirred from the fire, from the wind “…dear girl…” the howling of a ghostly wolf over the moor “I’m returning your gift…” a fluttering of soft wings “we’ll always be together… I’ll be your talisman now…” a shuffling of leaves “… as you were mine…” the drumming of my blood “dear girl…” growing, twisting whispers “pull me out, dear girl… dear girl… pull me out…”

Against my battered will, I approached the fire, leaning closer, my right hand extended as if to caress the flames.

“dear girl… pull me out…”

The heat was painful on my eyes yet I didn’t lower my eyelids. There was something in the smoke, a distorted face, with miniature features. “pull me out…” Was it only my hallucination? Was it really the dark soul of my aunt balancing on the brink of hell, struggling to avoid an eternal damnation?

“pull me out…”

An arm of smoke extended from the fire, long, shaky fingers seeking the unnatural hand. One final usage of the talisman, to pull her out of Hell.

Her fortune to be passed onto me. Has she meant good fortune in addition to material one? A few more years, better years for me, luckier years for me, with Aunt Lilith always there… at an arm’s length… So tempting…

“dear girl…”

Why not?...

As I reached into the fire, I realized I could move the hand, that I could control the fingers that hadn’t been mine for sixty years. I made a fist and plunged it into the flames. The shadow-smoke contorted violently, perhaps from the pain I could not feel, perhaps from trying to grasp the hand that I would not open, and an inhuman shriek pierced the night, reverberating in my heart. I endured it, until there was nothing left but the charred bones, even beyond that, until the pain took my consciousness away.

No handshake, Aunt Lilith.

* * *

For some more Halloween fictional tricks and treats take a look at:

Bernard's Return of Demon

Charles Gramlich's Hunter's Moon

Fireblossom's Five Wolves

K.Lawson Gilbert's Once We Were Cats

Laughingwolf's H-5... 1, H-5... 2, H-5... 3, H-5... 4 and H-5... 5

And my older Little Halloween Triptych:

The Flying Dutchman

Hunger

A Mother's Gift

Happy Halloween!

The Talisman - Part 1

2009-10-26T18:22:00.003-03:00

Aunt Lilith was taking her last breath. If I were to add “finally”, I would be considered ungrateful, but I couldn’t help entertaining that adverb, somewhere at the blurry periphery of my thoughts.

The houseboy who came to fetch me was livid and panting, and seemed to have somehow lost the cheekiness with which he habitually addressed me. Was he perhaps acknowledging in me the new Mistress of the house? I threw a shawl over my achy shoulders and followed him as best I could, though didn’t force my injured leg overly.

When I reached her bedroom, her doctor came to meet me and I knew then, by his countenance, that I was too late. He resembled a grimy carrion bird, his complexion sallower than usual, his narrow shoulders stooped under the brown jacket.

The canopy bed, on the far wall, was lost in the mist of light filtered by the heavy curtains. I limped to it, passing covered mirrors (does the soul go into mirrors?) on ancient massive commodes, the sickly sweet odour of medicine and dried flowers almost overwhelming to me.

She lied on burgundy sheets, serene in her eternal sleep, still unbelievably beautiful and youthful looking. Even in death, she hugged tightly the small mahogany chest that never left her.

“She gave me this for you,” the doctor said, handing me an envelope.

I had no expectations now, more than I’ve ever had. Aunt Lilith has treated me fairly well, though barely above a housemaid. I have been tolerated, not loved. Provided for, not nurtured.

An old maid with one hand. An orphan who became a burden for her vivacious aunt.

At ninety-five, her organs failed her but she’d been lucky to have a lucid mind and physical independence up to the very last moment. Come to think of it, luck was something she’d had plenty her whole life, and with a capital L. I’d never really thought of it, but it had been present in all the circumstances of her life.

She’d lost her husband at thirty-five, in the car crash that had also cost my parents’ life and my right hand. But her husband had been a nuisance and, through his death, she avoided the divorce she’d been planning and inherited his whole fortune. She’s never remarried and has never had children of her own, but took many lovers, one richer and better looking than the other.

Throughout the years, she has miraculously escaped fires, car crashes, bankruptcies, epidemics that have thoroughly destroyed the other people touched by them.

I haven’t been that lucky. I lived, it’s true, when my parents died, but the price of my survival had been a life painted in shades of grey, a life of infirmity and renunciations.

What could she write to me? I opened the letter.

Dear girl,

Yes, despite all the perceptions and the adversities that we, or rather you, have misconstrued over the years, you were my dear girl, my dear deceased sister’s girl, the one I couldn’t have and raised as my own child.

So, dear girl, no time to waste now. Death presses me – I know - and there is one last thing I must ask of you, one of immense importance for both of us.

After you fulfill my last request, you will be a greatly rich woman, but I trust that the wisdom you acquired during all these years of modesty will continue to guide your steps.

I am grateful to you for what you have given me – if you are surprised by this, be patient a little longer and you will have your answer.

What I give you now – what dr. Abramian will give you when the time comes - are my precious chest and a pouch.

On the seventh night following my demise, you must take them and go to the crossroads at the abandoned mill. You must light a fire and, precisely at midnight, scatter the powder you’ll find in the pouch over the flames and pronounce the words carved on the side of the box.

You will have no difficulty with them, I am sure, for you are such an erudite girl. (She must have meant they were written in some dead language – these had no secrets for me for I have been “buried” for decades in the museum’s Antiquities department.)

After that, and only then, I cannot emphasize it more, you can, you must open the chest.

I conjure you to do this and give me the last peace that my soul longs for. It is a small thing to you, but something of utmost importance for my beliefs. After that, all my fortune will pass onto you.

There’s even a special gift in there for you, my dear girl, one that I know you will appreciate for the rest of your life.

After all, we have always enjoyed longevity in our family so you will have many more years to benefit from your great fortune.

Your loving aunt,

Lilith

to be continued...

October Chills

2009-10-21T19:48:00.002-03:00

under the round Moon
tears of the gone rain
glimmer
on dying leaves
like just as many diamonds
or eyes
of secret beasts
who read your soul
and wait
for
your heart
to falter
while
you hurry
your fears
home
under the round Moon

It's Coming

2007-10-27T11:42:00.001-03:00

You’re walking in the dark on a deserted street.

The street lamps are rare. Their cones of feeble brightness are only islands of illusory safety in an ever thickening fog.

Every now and then you stop and listen, holding your breath. Those footsteps you heard, were they yours? The feathery touch on the nape of your neck, is it the wind?

You want to run but you’re afraid. Where could you run?

An evil is creeping inside you through the cracks of your heart.

Halloween is coming… Look for more signs of it on October 29th…

Can you tell out of which movies were these pictures taken? Get the answer on November 1st.

Little Halloween Triptych, Part I

2007-10-29T01:00:00.002-03:00

The Flying Dutchman Redivivus?

Come…
Come…
Come…
What whisper summons me?
Is it the wind
in drying leaves?
Come to me…
Whispers of doom,
or hoot of owls
or howls of wolves?
Come…
I am coming, yes…
The whispers grow,
and whirl, and growl…
In their cold embrace,
I glide
on the dark shore,
in noctambulic walk.
The sea - a lake of tar -
sends rumbling surf,
torn veils
of phantom brides,
onto the sand.
Come to me…
From far, from near,
a song of death
and love
entwined.
I am here…
I see the ghostly ship,
its masts, and spars, and sails
bleak statues of decay,
no living soul on it
yet full of empty souls.
My home,
to make of thee?
A stir in me…
Run, I could
still run away!
Too late,
the boat slides
nearer.
My bride… Come…
Ghosts
ply the oars.
And at its bow
I see your eyes of fire
bear down on me
with sweet
infernal
love.
Like in a dream,
I step into the waves.
Come…
I’m coming…
My robes are heavy
chains held by Okeanos.
Unearthly arms of fog
extend to help me.
How proud you are,
tall at the prow,
your gaze of embers
lights your
handsome face -
a beacon
in my night.
Come quicker… Hurry…
But what is this?
I falter,
my eyes still
in your hypnotic grasp.
Shouts, vile barks,
thunder of guns
awaken me, while
torches light the sand.
The sea’s aflame.
The spectral boat
is fading,
multitudes close in.
A step
and then another,
The sea embraces me.
Come…
I almost touch your hand.
Strong voices call my name,
voices alive,
not undead…
My struggle’s vain
I’m dragged away
pulled from your ghostly grip
by warm live arms of men.
I know, my darling,
all is lost,
till next time…
And as I close my eyes
against the burning night,
carried afar,
your waning whisper echoes
on my face,
Next time…

Copyright © Vesper L. All rights reserved.

(The legend of the Flying Dutchman has several versions. In one of them, Vanderdecken, a Dutch shipmaster of the 17th century, while rounding the Cape of Good Hope in a gale, swore before God he would enter Table Bay or be damned. His blasphemy condemned him to sail those waters forever. In Wagner’s homonymous opera, the Captain is allowed ashore once every seven years, to seek the love of a woman and thus redeem himself.)

Can you tell out of which movie the above picture was taken? Get the answer on November 1st.

Little Halloween Triptych, Part II

2007-10-30T00:08:00.001-03:00

Hunger

Bizarre things started happening in our building after Mr. Glick moved in at 2C, a few month ago. He was a tiny balding man, in his fifties, with a furtive gaze and neat little restless hands. He barely exchanged a few words with the neighbours upon his arrival, then disappeared inside his apartment, never to be seen again.

No later than the next day, a parade of masons, carpenters, plumbers, interior decorators and other craftsmen started wearing out the marble steps and hallways of our building in a messy coming and going. Mr. Glick was fully remodelling his condo, we extracted from a chatty electrician.

For a week, we endured the continuous hammering, whirring, and clanking, which died out only late at night. Then, the noises ceased, but our building never regained the insulated silence it enjoyed before. At night especially, there were creaks, and clangs, and loud prolonged gurgling noises coming from the plumbing. It was as if the building was settling down again, after some major surgery that it had suffered.
Before long, people began complaining, with nosy Mrs. Dean, from 1B, as a focal point of their growing animosity towards him.

Mr. Glick never got out of the house, never answered the neighbours’ phone calls, or their knockings on his door.

“He’s a recluse,” I was arguing to an overly excited Mrs. Dean. “So what?”

No one could deny that foul smells had invaded the building, and there occurred many incidents of malfunctioning garbage compactors and ebbing toilets. Repairmen proved helpless confronted with ever occurring blocked drainages.

People’s complaints were met by the firm wall of Mr. Glick’s (or Mrs. Glick’s?) dismissals over the interphone. What arose my curiosity was that all men who had tried to contact him were talked out of their intention by a woman’s sultry voice, while the women spoke to a man, whose baritone didn’t resemble at all Mr. Glick’s. I heard it myself, under a poor excuse, and must admit it stirred something deep inside me – I wouldn’t have minded meeting that man, who could not have been the same Mr. Glick, under more romantic circumstances.

Mrs. Dean took upon her to give me updates every time she caught me passing in front of the door. She somehow invested me with a special statute, since I lived in 2B, and my condo shared one long living room wall with his.

That’s how I found out about Mr. Newman’s poodle that went missing inexplicably. And that Mr. Glick had food delivered to his door everyday. When questioned, a delivery boy, pissed off at the perpetual non-existence of a tip, admitted never having seen him.

And when one day there was a new face delivering pizza and whatnot, Mrs. Dean could’ve sworn she’d seen the predecessor entering the building but never leaving it again. She even called the police, and then swore that the policeman who had come to investigate also never left the building.

I couldn’t believe this. She’d probably missed him, because despite her qualities as a spy, Mrs. Dean was also a human being who occasionally had to use the toilet. She somehow bullied me into going to the police, where I was humiliated to find out that the said policeman had resigned the very day in question, leaving a quitting note on his desk.

Enough was enough. This was no longer a fun diversion. I started using earplugs, turned my music a little louder, bought some air fresheners, and tiptoed in front of Mrs. Dean’s apartment.

What finally did it for me was the following: One day, as I returned from work, I noticed a pale liquid coming out from under Mr. Glick’s door. It had extended to form a small pool, which was slowly crawling bigger, streaked with yellow and white bits of something I couldn’t recognise. It smelled terribly and, as I stepped nearer to get a better look, I realised it had the acrid reek of vomit. For a few moments I stood dumbfounded, my stomach convulsing, the urge to run away fighting inside me with the compulsion to get closer.

Then the door opened and I saw Mr. Glick, ankle deep in this liquid, manoeuvering a mop with not much efficiency. When he noticed me, he retreated quickly and I only got a glimpse of his entrance hall, which was draped in some glistening beige velour.
Shaking, with my heart high up in my throat, I stumbled to my door and managed to get inside after dropping my keys only twice. Only when I slammed the door behind me, I regained some sense of security, but it was a feeble one.

I had no one to turn to except my old friend Fox, Special Agent Fox Mulder with the FBI, and I called him immediately. To my relief, he was home.

“Sounds just like an X-file,” he said, in his soothing smooth voice, after listening to my story.

He didn’t need more than that. He drove from Virginia the same evening, and in three hours was at my doorsteps.

“Eek,” he said, making a funny grimace, after releasing me from his embrace.

“Shh,” I said, afraid our guffaws would stir Mrs. Dean. But she didn’t open her door as usual, which proved quite convenient and very odd.

The whole staircase reeked of vomit. We climbed the steps by twos and rushed inside my apartment.

Soon a long thundering reverberated through the building.

“So, have you had beans for lunch?”

He looked at me and smiled.

“Are you crazy?” I said in mock anger at his obvious hint.

He shrugged, miming innocence.

“Somebody just farted.”

We laughed, but somehow his remark seemed more reasonable than I would have liked to admit. It truly sounded like a giant’s flatulence.

We agreed to wait till the morning to do anything more.

It was midnight when a loud gurgling noise woke me up, a prolonged dance of air and water, somewhere deep in the pipes of the building. Mulder was sitting on the couch, in the living-room, awake in the speckled darkness.

“Did you hear it?” I whispered.

“Borborygmus,” Mulder said.

“What?”

“A growling stomach…”

“Mulder!”

He rose and walked to the infamous wall my apartment shared with Mr. Glick’s. He put an ear to it, but retreated immediately, wiping his face where it had touched the wall.

“It’s warm,” he said. “And moist. Turn on the lights, would you?”

I saw it then – the whole wall was covered in beads of moisture, as if the painting itself had perspired. Could I believe it was a monstrous sweat, as Mulder suggested, without going completely mad?

It was by chance that the next morning I caught a glimpse of Mr. Glick leaving the building. I couldn’t believe it.

“That’s our chance,” Mulder said.

I stood behind him as he worked on the lock, scared we were turning into common burglars. In a moment, the door opened smoothly into a large corridor.

“Ohhh!” Mulder groaned, swiftly taking a handkerchief to his nose. The stench was odious, and made me gag instantly; desperate I couldn’t find anything inside my jeans’ pockets, I just lifted my blouse and covered my nose with it.

The walls were glistening under Mulder’s flashlight, but I realised it wasn’t velvet at all that covered them. They had folds and crevices, and looked moist, covered in some sort of mucus. Mulder stepped inside and I followed, still holding onto the back of his jacket. The floor was sticky and the soles of our shoes made a popping sound every time we took another step.

It was unlike anything we’ve ever seen, and I imagined that’s how the inside of an organ would look under a laparoscope.

A sudden gush of fetid air, accompanying the same gurgling sound we’ve heard before, almost knocked us down.

“What the hell!”

At the same time a splash of liquid hit Mulder’s shoulder, and at the spot a burnt hole appeared, its edges fuming. The smell was telltale – chlorine.

“I bet it’s hydrochloric acid,” Mulder said. “Even better – gastric acid. Let’s get out of here.”

In front of a cup of coffee in my kitchen, his ruined jacket on a chair, Mulder said,

“We’ve got to get a better look. Looks like a giant stomach…”

I only was half outraged.

“What if it’ll chew us?”

“I don’t think it will. It relies on hydrochloric acid and enzymes. Watch for Mr. Glick. I’ll get us some supplies.”

He returned an hour later, carrying a big package and a canister. I hadn’t seen Mr. Glick coming back.

The package contained two rubber suits, complete with oxygen masks.

“Our own enteric coating,” Mulder said, his eyes gleaming, while he helped me put on mine.

“What’s in the canister?” I said.

“Our exit ticket, just in case something goes wrong - castor oil, a very nice laxative.”

We entered the apartment for the second time. Yes, he had to be right, despite the huge absurdity of this; I could see so much more now with a well-advised eye. It looked disgustingly organic, and even without the smell – blocked now by the mask – it was a nauseating sight.

“The oesophageal sphincter,” Mulder said, pointing the light at a muscular structure that surrounded the entrance to the hallway. Whatever its purpose was, it looked lax now, possibly sick.

We took several steps inside. The floor was soft and elastic, covered in the same material as the walls. It all formed a continuous lining, loosely following the contours of the room.

The “hallway” opened to a “room” which seemed to occupy now the whole apartment. Nothing had been kept of the original configuration – all interior dividing walls had disappeared to leave space for this… stomach, I reluctantly had to agree with Mulder. What else could it be?

We continued slowly, but it was becoming increasingly difficult to advance now, with the pits of what surely was an epithelium increasing in depth, and the mucus tugging at our feet, and what had proven to be gastric acid being secreted at an alarming rate.

“What’s that?”

I thought I saw something glinting but whatever it was, it slipped inside a fold. Mulder rummaged inside and brought out a pair of glasses. They were all gooey and the exposure to acid had pitted them badly, but I could instantly recognise them as Mrs. Dean’s.

“Mulder, it’s eaten her!”

“Yes, as it’s probably eaten the dog and all the others.”

A small continuous earthquake started just then, making it suddenly impossible for us to hold our footing.

“What’s happening?” I shouted.

My left leg slipped in a fold and I fell inelegantly, my arms flailing.

“Mulder!”

“I think it’s trying to churn its food. And we’re it! Come on! Let’s go!”

As he turned toward the door, Mulder tried to grab my hand but failed, almost falling over, unbalanced by the weight of the canister. My feet kept sliding between the moving folds, but my struggle to climb back only made it worse. The claws of panic had my heart in a cold embrace. The pressure was enormous – I was afraid it would soon break all my bones.

“Mulder, the oil!”

He managed to uncork the canister and clumsily tried emptying its contents. But it was impossible to stand straight, and the movement threw him instantly again on his back. He lost the canister, which rolled over, carried by the solid waves moving through this monstrous epithelium.

“Mulder!”

He dove after it, unsuccessfully, only to be caught again by the grinding flesh.

The entrance was unreachable, the exit nowhere in sight.

That’s it, I thought. What a pathetic way to die, inglorious, ridiculous even – broken down into nutrients by a gigantic stomach. My whole body was a hurting mass, and I was sure not one of my bones was still intact.

“At least we’re getting the massage of our lives,” Mulder roared in mad laughter.

He was still holding the flashlight and I saw him, covered in gunk just as I must’ve been, his face barely distinguishable under the slimy mask, and the absurdity of it hit me with its whole force of relief, and I too fell about laughing, still struggling, still swimming in this impossible solid sea.

Then something changed. A deep shudder passed through the muscular mass, the churning halted abruptly, and heavy convulsions replaced it. A growling sound gathered strength, rising from the deepest crevices.

“We just caused it a massive indigestion, I’m afraid,” Mulder shouted, to cover it.

I played along.

“What’s it gonna be? Vomit or diarrhoea?”

All delusion of control was lost for us as now we were being pushed, not just tossed around, in a precise direction. And it wasn’t the entrance door, that was certain. Its faint reassuring light disappeared quickly. Our forced voyage lasted probably a few seconds but had the feel of an eternity, lost in an uncontrollable whirlwind, then we were spurted out with tremendous force in a gush of liquid and debris.
A soft mattress took my fall, and for a few moments I didn’t even try moving, flabbergasted by the sudden stillness. Then I stood up awkwardly, and wiped my faceplate as well I could. Mulder was standing next to me, a stunned statue covered in yellow faeces, in a garbage and gunk filled courtyard I didn’t even know existed behind our building.

I sat quietly in the car while Mulder loaded my luggage in the trunk. To live for a while in his apartment, in Virginia, was suddenly a sweet perspective.

The headlines in the newspaper read “Man without stomach found dead in Washington Square – biological anomaly or organ theft?”

I read it to him, while Mulder drove. The cause of death was unknown, although the question was how anyone could live without a stomach. The victim had been identified as a certain Mr. Glick, from Manhattan. They had yet to make the proper connection with the giant “organ” found in his apartment.

“He’s not the only one,” Mulder said when I finished. “There are two such bodies reported in the X-files, but only now we have the answer.”

He was the lure, I thought, watching the endless string of lights on the highway. What becomes of life when one has to satisfy huge appetites, be them physical or of any other nature? Does it, at some significant point, drift away from pleasure to become a burden? In the end, it was too much for Mr. Glick; he chose to ran away from his cumbersome duty even it meant suicide.

Copyright © Vesper L. All rights reserved.

(Of course, this is not a real Halloween story. However, it involves something monstrous, so I thought I could give it a place here, more easily than someplace else.
The X-Files was/is my favourite TV series. This is a modest homage to Fox Mulder, a character who belongs to Fox and upon whom no copyright infringements are intended. But I loved him then, when I watched the series, and I love him now. For obvious reasons, Scully’s on vacation for this story.)

Can you tell out of which episode of The X-Files was this picture taken? Get the answer on November 1st.

Little Halloween Triptych, Part III

2007-10-31T00:11:00.001-03:00

A Mother’s Gift

A long dagger of lightning split the sky somewhere beyond the forest.

Christopher cringed and stopped; with eyes squeezed shut and tight fists, he counted aloud. … 15 …16 …17 … Then the thunder broke – a rolling sound of anger cast upon Earth from the unforgiving heavens. Still at a safe distance, he thought. Not for long.

He hurried along the road, laboriously, clutching the leather briefcase to his chest, cursing the weather and his own weakness. Again, he hasn’t had the courage to stand his ground in front of Mr. Heath, the notary, his employer. What document could have been so important for its dispatch to suffer no delay on a night as wretched as this one?

Old Lord Harrington, gouty and frail, with one foot in the grave, had visited Mr. Heath two days before. The rumour was he’d changed his last will and testament again, this time in favour of his nephew, the young Viscount, who was leading a life of debauchery in London. Christopher didn’t care. He’d been told to reach Lord Harrington’s castle that very night and he was doing it.

Another spear of lightning made him stop and count. The thunder roared, with painful intensity, as if up there God was rolling some monstrous barrels.

When the rumble subsided, from the darkness behind him, Christopher heard the tinkling of a bell and a muffled clacking of hooves. He threw a scared glance over his shoulder, was met only by the darkness, and walked faster, ready to dive for a useless shelter among the low bushes that lined the road. A coach, it sounded like a coach.

All the old superstitions about the phantom coaches, all the stories he’d listened by the fire and secretly dreaded in the long dreary nights of winter, surged to his mind like unleashed demons. Death-coaches, his grandmother was calling them, the black wagons pulled by six headless horses and driven by a headless coachman, whose purpose was to gather the souls of the dead. Has this one come for him?

The first drops of rain splattered against his face.

Behind him, in the thick moving shadows, Christopher glimpsed a light’s dance. The next lightning revealed a huge carriage, moving swiftly. He began running.

The coach passed him in a moment then halted. Was it waiting for him? Its door opened slowly.

At least the coachman had a head. He did not speak, did not stir, but his head was there on his shoulders – a poorly reassuring find for Christopher.

Despite his terror, Christopher peered inside. In the farthest corner, he thought he could distinguish a shape, darker than the night.

“Who are you?” Christopher said, his voice faltering miserably.

The shape lifted an arm and beckoned to him, as if inviting him to get in.

“Are you going to Harrington Manor?”

His voice’s strange echo inside the carriage was his only answer. Yet, he was already holding the handle, he already had a foot on the first step.

He felt he should protest, but could not disobey. He knew he had to run away, but his legs were leaden. If only he had some gold on him – he remembered his grandmother had told him that gold could repel the dullahans, though little good did the gold crucifix do to her when her time came.

Shaking, he climbed inside, let himself fall clumsily on the seat; the coach set going immediately.

He dared not speak another word, he barely dared to breathe. The interior of the coach was giving out a smell of dust and earth. He squeezed himself in a corner and waited.

Where was he taken? The coach outstripped the wind and Christopher wondered if they were still on Earth, for the ride was smooth as if on air and he could not feel the road in his bones anymore.

Before he knew it, the coach had stopped again. Was it collecting another soul? Were they in Hell already? He peered outside through the velvet curtains and saw lights of windows, many lovely lighted windows. An inn. Thank God, he had reached civilisation again, he was back among humans.

He descended on wobbling legs, incapable of running as he thought he should. The storm was still gathering strength, with lighting bolts dancing their cruel criss-cross above the forest, but the clouds had poor tears.

A man with a friendly figure, pot-bellied, carrying a lantern, came out to greet him with open arms.

“Hunter’s Inn” was the place’s name and its appearance was warmly inviting.

“I cannot stay,” Christopher said quickly, thinking of his empty pockets and of his urgent errand. “Pray you, is this the road to Harrington Manor?”

“Just come and rest for a while, my young sir,” the innkeeper said with a gentle smile, “and wait the storm away. It should be gone in an hour or two. You’re not far from the castle. You’ll be there in no time…”

“I have to get there tonight,” Christopher protested, but weaklier now, peeking at the enticing lights in the windows.

“And so you shall, my young sir, and so you shall…”

Against his resolve, his heart was lulled into acceptance by a strange torpor. Yes, he thought, just for a little while. Anything was better than the black coach and the storm.

Another lightning lighted the forest and the sky’s fury rumbled in thunder. As if at a signal, the deluge started.

“Just for a little while,” he mumbled. He turned to the coach – maybe to offer thanks – but it was gone and behind him stood only the forest with its dark shadows.

He ran inside, following the innkeeper.

The room was large but almost empty, and lighted only by a lively fire.

A lady was seated at a table next to the hearth and beyond her there was a woman, holding a baby on her lap. The baby was playing and cooing in the content carefree way that childhood only still retains.

The lady was young, yet her eyes had an air of melancholy and her gestures a mellowness that added much age to her fresh features. She smiled to Christopher as he came in, watching him with great benevolence. Her smile soothed and reassured him, like only his grandmother’s did when she was still alive.

“How you resemble my long lost son,” she said, the gentleness in her voice tinged with an overwhelming sadness. “Come, sit with me.”

He obeyed willingly, laying his briefcase on the table in between them.

“Where are you travelling on such a pitiless night?” the woman asked.

Christopher told her eagerly about his errand.

She went on questioning him about his early life, and Christopher obliged her gladly, feeling as if he’d known her for a long time. And every time he mentioned his grandmother, the lady’s eyes glistened with tears, and for every hardship he recalled for her, her face shadowed with a deep compassion.

He spoke with an ease of which he wouldn’t have imagined himself capable, after all these years when – except for his poor grandmother – he’d only encountered mean and petty people.

She ordered food for him and wine, and when they arrived and Christopher started eating without hiding his hunger, she said,

“This Lord Harrington – have you met him?”

“No, madam.”

She seemed to be immensely relieved.

“My darling boy,” she said. “Lord Harrington used to be an old friend of mine. Oh, don’t be surprised. Indeed, we have been lovers when I was very young. From this unlucky union two children were born, two twin boys. He wanted to know nothing of us and later he thought of us as a danger to his good name and fortune. Twenty-three years ago, when you were only eight month old…

Christopher’s eyes widened in disbelief. How could she know his age?

“No, my child,” the lady said, as if to soothe his unease, then smiled. Over the table she reached and took his hand (how cold her small hand was despite the fire) and said, “Do you have a ring, Christopher? A ring with a blue lapis lazuli stone, cut at an odd angle, as if something was missing from it?”

He gasped in surprise. Indeed, he had it – it was hanging on a tiny string at his neck – his dearest and most mysterious possession. How could this woman know about it? Without a word, he took it out of his shirt.

The lady nodded and showed him her hand. On the ring finger she wore the stone cut to match the one Christopher had, to form a perfect circle if brought together.

“Twenty-three years ago,” she continued, her voice so low that Christopher had to strain his hearing to distinguish her words, “Lord Harrington called upon us to join him at his manor, pretending his intentions were to repair his mistake and make me his wife. We were commanded to stop at this inn and wait for his instructions. Twenty-three years ago, on this very night, he came here in bad faith and with the worst of intentions.”

She paused, as if to draw her breath and strengthen herself for what was to follow.

“His behaviour was of an indescribable violence. He came alone, and he, alone, with his bare hands, murdered your brother.”

Christopher winced. He looked at the nurse and the happily cooing baby, wondering why he had assumed that it was the lady’s child.

“I could not do anything,” she continued, a deep sadness hardening her features. “Your grandmother escaped with you, and hid you from the guilty fear with which he must’ve looked for you for years to come.”

Her voice faded and for a long while she sat in a strange reverie. Christopher respected her silence despite the tumult his mind struggling to escape in innumerable questions.

“You must have this ring, my son,” she said finally. “It is yours now. Guard it well. You’ll have a use for it very soon. Now rest, my child, you can accomplish your errand tomorrow…”

His heart fluttered, almost painfully. What was he to understand of this? This young heartbroken woman, how could she be the mother he’d never known? His mind was spinning, he could hardly concentrate. He’d have to speak more to her. In the morning, yes. He took another sip of the strong wine. Yes, she was right, he didn’t have to get there that night; he could do it the next day. No one could blame him for a little delay on a night like that. How well he was there, how warm, his stomach quieted for once. He rested his head on the table, in the cradle of his forearms, and closed his eyes. A small hand came to stroke his hair, the fire crackled, the baby cooed. He abandoned himself to sleep.

A bird, cooing its morning song, awoke Christopher. He opened his eyes and looked around, his mind struggling to understand the discrepancy between what he remembered and what he saw. He was in an odd clearing, all darkened, and had slept on a tree trunk. No wonder he was so stiff. He rubbed his eyes. Where was the welcoming inn where he had spent the evening with the kind lady? He stood up, walked a few steps, went to touch with a shaking hand a darkened wall – a few charred beams were all that remained from the building that had stood there the night before. Dazed, he turned, his eyes wandering aimlessly. Had it all burned down in a night? Hit by the lightning, maybe? Could he have dreamt everything? He saw the hearth then, by which they had talked, its shell of soot covered stones still standing whole. Inside it, the remnants of the fire still flickered, and on the incandescent coals he noticed his burnt briefcase. With a cry, he jumped to its rescue but it was too late; little remained of it and nothing of Lord Harrington’s new will, only a charred paper that crumbled under his fingers. Surrendering to despair, he dropped to his knees in front of the hearth. What was he to do now?

After a moment’s hesitation, he started looking around him, searching for the littlest of signs to show him that he hadn’t gone completely mad. What was there to find among those desolate ruins? Yet, something caught his attention, a whiter shade amidst the soot. With blood pounding deafeningly in his ears, he started rummaging through fallen leaves, digging the soil with his nails. When he removed enough earth, he stopped and fell back, dazed. The criminal had left them there to burn. No fear came to grip his heart, only a devastating outrage and, when its waves died, an overwhelming peace.

Three skeletons lay there, one of which was a child’s. He reached out with a trembling hand and gently stroked their dried bones. One hand was coming out of the earth and on it, there was ring with a blue stone strikingly similar to the one hanging around his neck. He took the skeletal hand in his, very lightly, as to not shatter it to pieces, and waited, longing to feel it caressing his head one more time. Then he took the ring from his mother’s finger and put it on the string next to the other half.

Old “Hunter’s Inn” in the Norwood forest had burned down twenty-three years before the very night Christopher spent there as a guest. From it, only a few ruins remained, which nobody dared to touch, nor even come close, especially at night. Voices were heard from there and, sometimes, lights were seen, dancing in ghostly windows, but no peasants approached the place for fear of its ethereal inhabitants.

Lord Harrington died the same morning. For him, the hell wain has come after all. In his will – the one he had meant to destroy – tormented by guilt, he was admitting to his triple crime; he was recognising Christopher as his son and sole heir and was leaving to him – if he were still alive - all his fortune, but only under the condition that Christopher would produce his mother’s ring as a proof of his identity.

Copyright © Vesper L. All rights reserved.

About a Werewolf

2008-10-09T14:23:00.004-03:00

‘Tis the season to huddle close to the fire with a mug of hot red wine, with sugar and spices, and let our hearts sing with the lively crackle of the lugs, and quiver with the distant howling that could be the wind’s… And while we’re there we can spin a yarn or two, some fantastic tale stirred by a play of shadows under the ghostly moon, by a vague rustle of the leaves in the dead garden… We can indulge into a sweet fear that confers an eerie otherworldly quality to the cry of the owl or to that uncertain pattering on the window…

I often wish I could step, if only for a short while, into such a romantic moment. Descend into a time of permanent wonders and primitive fears, of magic and mystery. Would I do it if I didn’t know that I could return to a safe, “aseptic” world of technological comforts? Maybe… We have other fears, new ones, though sometimes surprisingly similar to the old ones… Human nature hasn’t changed…

The belief in shape-shifters, such as werewolves, goes back to the most remote times, probably even to the prehistoric hunters of Cro-Magnon. An early account is from the Greek mythology, where Lycaon, the mythical first king of Arcadia, was turned into a wolf by Zeus as punishment for having set before him a dish of human flesh (the king’s own son, or maybe Zeus’s). This is his metamorphosis as described by the Roman poet Ovid:

In vain he attempted to speak; from that very instant
His jaws were bespluttered with foam, and only he thirsted
For blood, as he raged among flocks and panted for slaughter.
His vesture was changed into hair, his limbs became crooked;
A wolf-he retains yet large trace of his ancient expression,
Hoary he is afore, his countenance rabid,
His eyes glitter savagely still, the picture of fury

The Bible recounts the story of the Babylonian king Nebuchadnezzar (605-562 BC) who imagined himself to be a werewolf for some years. And ancient Greek and Roman historians recorded many accounts of lycanthropy.

But I do not intend to repeat here what can be easily found even with a quick search on the net.

Instead, I have a true story of a werewolf. One my grandmother told me. She believed it was true, although she took it with a grain of salt, for my grandmother was a very smart woman. She told me this story when I was a child and I liked it so much I had her repeat it many times over the years.

It happened sometime at the end of the nineteenth century or the beginning of the twentieth. A woman and her husband, who lived in the same village as my grandmother, once set out to the fair in the nearby town. Because they had quite a long way to travel, they left home at night, in their carriage. The countryside was dark and quiet, the air chilly, and the road took them by a forest. Soon after they reached the forest, the man stopped the carriage, climbed down, and went among the trees to relieve himself. His wife waited for him. A few moments had passed, maybe, when a wolf came out of the forest and attacked the woman. She had no weapon to protect herself but a red wool blanket, which she had used to protect her legs against the chill of the night. With that blanket, she hit the wolf over its terrifying maw, over and over again, with a superhuman strength she could have drawn only from desperation, all the while calling to her husband to come to her rescue. He didn’t come and, as she fought for her life, she also feared that the wolf had killed him first. We don’t know by what miracle she escaped, or how long this terrible struggle lasted. Finally, the wolf gave up and ran back into the woods. A grey dawn broke. To the woman’s great surprise and immense relief, her husband appeared from the forest, unharmed. But when he opened his mouth to speak to her, she could see red strands of wool between his teeth…

On a Halloween Night

2008-10-31T00:21:00.006-03:00

Harley Lever's "Haunted Moon" with a "twirl" effect

This is not my hand holding yours,
my darling, my scared one,
these are fear’s fingers,
this is fog’s hand, maybe,
just maybe...

These cold lips touching your temple
they are not mine,
my sweetheart, my scared one,
they are the wind’s, maybe,
just maybe...

These deep whispers are not
my words of love,
my beloved, my scared one,
only murmurs of grass,
or owls fluttering, maybe,
just maybe...

These flickers, these embers,
they are not my loving eyes
watching over you,
my dearest, my scared one
they are Moon’s or the stars’ maybe,
just maybe...

Hurry home,
my lover, my scared one,
hurry home,
run,
before

this forest of darkness
will close upon you,
before

these leaves of night,
this touch of ices,
will freeze your living soul...

Hurry home,
only there
I can still be,
I still am...

In the dead window
of our dead house,
I await you...

That spectre of shadows,
that semblance of light,
those are my loving face,
my lost body...

Hurry home,
my darling, my scared one,
outrun the phantoms,
the ghosts,
the revenants,
come home,
only here I can try
to protect you,
to save you,
maybe,
just maybe...

Fortune

2008-10-28T07:55:00.001-03:00

“Come back, Tommy!”

from the seer’s house...

“Don’t go, Tommy!”

to the haunted mansion...

“Tooooommy, cooome baaack!”

she’ll suck your life...

“Tooooom-myyyy...”

come back...

That new voice, a crystal’s song, he carried in his dreams. When had she arrived? He longed to return as much as he longed to prove himself, now even more.

A bet was a bet. Onward he trudged, his robe suddenly too long, every step a cliff overcome.

He stopped to draw air in, to peek back over his shoulder. They seemed far behind already and awfully tiny as seen at the bottom of that narrow flight of stone steps, and Tom wasn’t even halfway through the stairway. He looked up in the foaming darkness at which bony branches slashed to the rhythm of the unseen wind. The house stood darker than the night, its stones like tar, only its high windows inflamed with dancing shadows, as if huge fires licked the glass. He looked down again at his friends, twelve-year olds Ghost, Elf, and Death, standing with their jack-o’-lanterns and their bags for candy on the orange-lit pavement as if they were on a far-off stage and he was watching them from the gallery, right under the theatre’s roof. A Witch had joined them and Tom could’ve told who she was even from that distance, even if he hadn’t heard her voice calling him – she had a witch’s hair, no need for wigs, copper curls flowing to her waist.

He pulled at his costume, a silver skeleton painted on black velvet. The wind flapped the robe against his legs, furiously. His white mask felt too tight. There was no going back, especially now.

He turned and climbed again. Soon their shouts were eaten by the wind’s, their silhouettes erased by swaying branches.

He almost bumped into a black oak door, his nose one inch away from an iron gargoyle, perched on an iron ring. For a second, the gargoyle seemed to twitch its tiny nose, winked at him with evil glaring eyes. Just a reflection of the Moon’s, finding its way through the battered trees. Nothing else. Tom swallowed hard, then grabbed the gargoyle and knocked.

The door opened.

As if someone had been waiting for him right behind the door. That someone stood in front of him, but he couldn’t tell if it was a real person or just a trick of the shadows. He blinked at the cold sweat coating now his mask.

Behind him, the winds barked, mewed, moaned.

“Trick or treat?” he managed in a shaky voice, not his own at all.

A pale face, featureless, floated in the doorway, in a hypnotic pattern of afterimages.

“This is something for you to decide...”

He strained to see if it was the woman who sat in the fortune-teller’s booth when the carnival came to town; the boys said it was her, that she only left her house for that, that she didn’t follow the carnival, but the carnival returned to her, but how could she be, how could she be. The soothsayer was an ancient midget, a dried Incan mummy, so tiny that it could fit inside the small glass booth bathed in an orange light, and never spoke, only somehow made a note to appear with the answer to your question.

“I’ll show you...”

He was compelled to follow the invitation in the cold voice. He took a step.

Behind him, the trees weaved an ever unravelling canvas.

In front of him, a corridor receded towards a pale radiance. He followed a rustling, a darkness, a crackling, to a stone room, to a table.

In the heights of the towering vault, giant flames danced an angry saraband. He found himself seated, staring at a globe in which milky forms undulated. On the other side of it, a white skull mask, much like his own, as if he was looking at himself in a mirror.

“Do you have a wish?” the mask spoke.

The forms in the globe stirred, darkened, took the shape of the Witch, with her red hair, with her floating cape.

Tom gasped.

“Nora...”

“Do you have a wish?” the skull spoke.

In the glass globe, the Witch swirled, waltzed, her eyes closed, her lips in a timid smile.

To see those cherub lips form the words, to hear her voice.

“Is it really going to happen?”

I love you, Tommy, I love you, Tommy

“Every wish fulfilled comes with a price. How much do you want it?”

He was sure now. He had never been so sure.

“I’d give anything to hear her say that,” he said boldly.
He closed his eyes, dreaming. When he opened them, he saw the street lights, he saw the Elf, the Ghost, Death, he roared with laughter as he felt them throwing mock punches at him, as he heard them laughing, shouting.

“You did it, man!”

“What did you see?”

“What happened there?”

He felt drunk with a tingling happiness. Nora watched him, smiled to him.

They went to all the doorsteps, the four of them, till their bags of candy and their feet grew too heavy. It was time to go home.

What happened to my wish, seer?

He didn’t see the telltale headlights of the car taking the tight corner, didn’t hear the virulent spitting of the mad engine. Only the Witch, the Ghost, the Elf, and Death waving frantically, shouting, screaming. Only the wind howling its howl of rabid wolf.

“Tommy, watch out!”

“Tommy! Tommy!”

“Watch out, Tommy!”

“Tooom-myyyyy!”

How beautiful the Witch was. How much he was in love with her. At what were they playing?

The hit threw him high in the air, made him tumble like an acrobat, like a bag of old clothes.

Harsh concrete came to meet him, offering a hard bed. He was tired. He had to rest. Somebody took off his mask. The wind kissed his face.

The sky had cleared, revealing a tapestry of stars.

In the general confusion, Nora held him, spoke to him. He longed to hear her, strained to hear her. At last he understood.

“I love you,” she was saying, rivulets of tears from her green eyes eroding her green make-up. “I love you, Tommy.”

Darling Witch... Yes, he would’ve given anything for that…

I love you Tommy I love you Tommy I love you Tommy I love you Tommy I love you Tommy I love you Tommy

Until he heard no more.

Infernal Stalking

2009-10-16T00:48:00.001-03:00

The night is wings of crows, flapping silently over my shoulders. A thousand whispers of leaves, or mice, scurrying at my heels.

Only three more streets and I’ll be home.

The wind is brother to hungry wolves. With iced fingers it seizes my eyes, tears my hair, dies quickly only to be reborn through another crevice between buildings.

An operatic voice rises behind me, too close, too loud. A tremendous bass-baritone from a tragic opera I vaguely seem to recognize. The voice is close, the instruments far, in a discarded dimension. Is it in Italian? Or German? Who listens to opera in these deep hours of the night?

I think I can hear my name. How can it call my name? The wind is meowing, mocking my ears. It must be.

Only two more streets and I’ll be home.

Again. My name. I hear it now with aching clarity. I chance a glimpse back, just as I force my march into a trot. The street is a valley of stone, with nothing animated but the white wings of abandoned newspapers, tumbleweeds blown on a prairie of asphalt. No car even sleeps by the curb. No window is alive, behind me, in front. Darkness has engulfed everything beyond the meagre streetlights. Is there a power outage?

Where does the music come from?

Only one more street and I’ll be home.

I pull my jacket tighter, unable to repel the chill in my heart. My name echoes wildly behind me, around me.

My trot morphs into a sprint, the soles of my sneakers slapping the sidewalk impossibly loud.

Finally. But my house is dark too. There’s nobody home. It takes an eternity to fumble with my keys. An eternity of operatic madness.

At last, the door shuts behind me, enclosing me in the cocoon of safety built by the familiar feels, and smells, and noises. The tic-tock of the grandfather clock, the clanging of a water pipe from the heating system, the sweet, humid smell of earth and plants. The absence of opera sounds.

The light switch is dead. I feel my way along the wall to the kitchen. A muffled humming permeates the door that leads to the lowest entrails of the house. What’s in the cellar?

Against all caution, against all hope, I open the door. A milky glow bathes the staircase. The opera music builds in a sombre crescendo from which the bass-baritone voice calls my name.

I have nowhere to go home.

I am home.

(photo from moviegoings.files.wordpress.com)

Beware of the Wolf Man!

2009-10-14T00:43:00.004-03:00

He’ll stalk you when the full moon is out!

In one of our entirely too numerous trips to the dollar store, which now has increased – if that is even possible - its fascination upon my daughters with its display of Halloween paraphernalia, I picked up the book that you can see below.

I just couldn’t pass the opportunity to buy a book with such a title for one Canadian dollar (well, 1.13 after you throw in the taxes…).

It’s a children’s book, previously sold by Toys’R’Us for 2.69, according to the label on the back. Published in 1992, is was adapted from the Universal film “The Wolf Man” by Justine Korman and illustrated by Art Ruiz.

Why am I giving these many details about it? Because it’s a surprisingly good book. It’s a small treasure.

You can read the blurb from the back cover.

I’m not suggesting you go out and seek it, however, I must say that I loved it. It is written in a relatively simple language, for the intended readers, but it is well written, suspenseful, even scary. They’re not lying in the blurb…

“The Wolf Man” is a 1941 film with Lon Chaney, Jr., a classic of the horror cinema. Imdb gives it a rating of 7.4/10, which is very good. I plan to find it and watch it. From what I read, a remake’s been filmed, with Benicio Del Torro in the main role, but hasn’t been released yet.

And in the meantime I can have fun with another “delicious” book for the season…

Ama(i)z(e)ing Apples

2009-10-06T00:39:00.009-03:00

There is something about walking through a maze of corn that brings to my mind thoughts of dark, weird stories. Maybe it’s the forest-like feeling I get, even on a splendid summer day (make that end of September, but it still feels like summer...) , even with the happy shouts of children in the background, when I look at the crossing swords of green. A forest is a repository of eternal mysteries.

I haven’t read King’s “Children of the Corn” nor have I seen the movie, although I heard of both. In fact, just before writing this, I read a bit about them in wikipedia. However, the “Village of the Damned” type of story is not the kind that comes to my mind.

You can get in, but what if you’re not allowed to get out?

There is something menacing when you look at the sky from this perspective…

Finally, in the apple orchard…

Crunchy apples…

I wonder what their beauty’s hiding…

Hmmm, Halloween is coming…

Myself and I

2009-10-08T19:14:00.003-03:00

photograph by Jo Whaley

I sometimes spend the better of my day
in silent conversation with myself
and any storms that happen on the way
I simply take and put them on a shelf
inside this lamentable closet of a brain
where weirdest things have long been stored:
romantic love, forgotten dreams, plenty of pain –
I might be sobbing, mad, but seldom bored.

They often surface on a whim
and sometimes, when they’re summoned, hide.
Nevertheless, they’re all inside
for I alone,
and for this paper, now and then.

Dreamscape

2009-09-30T08:05:00.002-03:00

art by George Grie at neosurrealismart.com

It’s been almost a year since, yet I remember everything as if it happened yesterday.

It was a fluke my first encounter with Bernard, one of the rare mistakes Eddie has ever made when sending my mind back in Time. However, just as he recognised his error and wanted to pull me back, I realised we happened upon an amazing opportunity. The brain I had reached had almost no consciousness. It was asleep. It was dreaming.

For the first time in my historical forays, I wasn't just observing the landscape but was part of it. It was strange, and wondrous, and scary.

I glided at first, shyly, nothing more than a slight electrical perturbation along the intricate network of that mind. Beneath me, there was a city of glass and stone, of colossal depths and shadows. I could see clearly only the nearby buildings and some domed rooftops, glittering like mad mirrors under incidental sunshine. The rest was mostly covered in fogs or clouds, as was the sky, a gray, heavy shadow with rare flecks of brilliant blue.

There was something going on down there, in the narrow streets, and I found myself gradually floating downwards, fear of heights forgotten under the impatience of curiosity. When I touched the cement sidewalk, I had already created a persona for me, an invented visual being that represented the internal image I had of myself, only just the slightest bit more flattering, with my hair at shoulder length instead of the ugly two-day stubble.

It felt unnerving to be suddenly at the bottom of the shadows, strangely solid ground under my feet, unknown noises filling my mind. Wobbling on my dream-legs, I took a few steps on the street. Everything seemed very real. I could see the cracks in the sidewalk, loose journal pages and caked dust in the gutter, the rough texture of the walls all around me.

At the corner, I stopped. The streets had names, written on metal plates high up on the traffic light poles. It was the 48th Street with Fifth Avenue. New York City, I thought. Midtown Manhattan.

The noise was becoming louder. Now I could attach a direction to it. Suddenly it sounded like voices. I turned left to follow them. Out of nowhere, the street became populated. A musician, on stilts, started playing a strange melancholy tune on his saxophone. I had never listened to anyone playing live an instrument of any kind, and the sounds almost brought tears to my eyes. I wanted to get closer to him and, tentatively, I took a few steps. I stopped to look behind me and was startled at the sight of the street suddenly filled with people, walking in all directions. I waited for a while, alert, tense, ready to run away at the first sign that someone had noticed me. No one did.

My audacity sparkling, I went to stand straight in front of the musician. He was at least four meters tall on his wooden legs and had to move continuously to maintain equilibrium. He graciously managed to transform this into a dance.

“My name is Bernard. Who are you?”

There was no aggression in the tone but the unexpectedness of that loud voice made my heart sink to my suddenly frozen stomach. At first, I thought it was Eddie, playing nasty jokes on me, and I opened my eyes for a split second to catch him with a big grin on his face. Eddie was dozing off in his booth, his chin almost touching his chest. I switched back to the dream. The musician's face was shining white with thick make-up.

“Hello!”

I suddenly realized it was a man who had spoken to me, standing maybe two meters to my left. For an endless moment I just stared at him, unable to utter a sound, not even sure I knew how, fighting the impulse to run away. I looked at the musician. He just went on with his music and his dance, oblivious to the rest of the world. I looked at the people on the street but they were barely more than colourful silhouettes.

The only real thing was the man beside me. He was in his late thirties, of medium height, and his blue eyes resembled the specks of light in the sky. He was amazingly handsome, in a way only darkened by his jet-black hair and his black coveralls. He smiled to me, kindly, with no impatience.

I abruptly realized it was his dream I had trespassed.

“I'm Zina,” I said tentatively, wondering if he could hear me.

“Zina,” he said slowly, maybe pondering the truthfulness of my response. My heart sank when he frowned and I was about to pull out but then he smiled again. “Where are you from, Zina?”

I was still so surprised that we could interact in his dream that I barely managed to mumble, “Oh, I'm from… Ma… Manhattan.”

“I haven't seen you around,” he said, “I would have certainly noticed you.”

“Oh, I'm from… Downtown,” I said, ignoring the compliment and the heat flushing my real cheeks. “I don't come here very often. What's going on?”

He smiled, looking around, and said, shrugging, “Not much… There is a concert in Central Park. Would you like to come?”

I surely did. The legend that was Central Park had disappeared from New York City in the early 24th century, more than four hundred years ago, engulfed by the ubiquitous power of steel and stone. That much we knew, and still, preoccupied by historical events, we had spent most of our time in conference rooms and on battlefields, ignoring monuments of nature or of the human spirit.

He took my hand and I followed him, as surprised to be walking on green grass as I was at the warmth and solidity of his hand. A lively music filled the air, pouring from all directions, without an obvious source. I had never listened to such beautiful music, serenely overwhelming my heart with joy.

We sat on the grass, next to a huge oak tree, and watched a distant concert stage and people flocking towards it. Bernard was watching me intensely, and yet I could not refrain from revelling, almost childishly, no questions asked, in the feel of the moist, crunchy grass and of the hard earth prodding at my bones. I lay there, supine, for what it seemed like a very long while. I could feel the sun warming my skin, and the strength of its light through my closed eyelids. And each time I opened my eyes I would see Bernard and would recognize the unconditional admiration in his eyes. It made me smile, and while I listened to his dream-voice, and while I watched the now cloudless sky, my heart went to him.

He spoke of himself and other things, many of which I did not understand. He had an important job, very highly positioned, in an important organization, and used the dreams both to help him solve problems of his work and to relax from the daily stress. He wanted to know about me, and I told him just some general facts, that I was a mathematician, and that I grew up in Manhattan (though I avoided mentioning which Manhattan) and a few other things like that. Even if they were just half-truths and I had to choose them carefully, words came to me easily and I didn’t remember having had such pleasure speaking to someone before. My heart sang with happiness.

I could have stayed in his dream forever but then I remembered that one period of REM-sleep didn’t last longer than twenty minutes. I had to leave before he woke up and realised my intrusion.

“You will come back, Zina, won’t you?” he said then, and I could sense a mild anxiety in his half-question half-command. It was as if he somehow knew that I was a stranger in his dream, that he could not summon me at will.

“I will come back,” I said and ran away.

extract from “Going Home”, a novella

Yummy Weekend

2009-09-25T23:41:00.003-03:00

I have no attempt at poetry or fiction for today, just something to tease your sweet tooth and maybe give you an idea for your Saturday or Sunday brunch.

We bought some of these on the street, in Brussels - one for 5 euros compared to 12 for the same thing in a restaurant - and we ate them standing, chocolate and whipped cream dripping on our chins and onto the sidewalk, just a few steps away from the famous Brussels landmark, the Mannekin Pis…

There is something for everybody here: strawberries, bananas, chocolate, whipped cream and combinations of these…

So, which one of these splendid Belgian waffles would you choose? I had the one in the upper right corner, with strawberries and whipped cream…

Have a wonderful weekend everyone!

Equinox

2009-09-22T18:23:00.005-03:00

sweet thoughts of summer
asleep on the silent pond -
welcome autumn

Of Swans on a Canal in Brugge

2009-09-16T19:04:00.004-03:00

It was in Brugge,
this Venice of the North
as some call it,
that we kissed,
thinking of that other Venice,
the real one.

We were leaning over the
little bridge
on Leeuwstraat,
imagining
how sweet life would be,
seen from a tiny garden.

Then,
hand in hand,
we watched the young swans
lazily go by,
and for a long while
we wondered
why two of them were
swimming with just one leg,
and what a coincidence
it would be
for both of them
to have lost their right leg.
(Little we knew
at the time
that swans often
do that.)

My hair brushed your face
while the dog smiled at us
from his window –
master of his perfect
Flemish landscape.

Summer was young as we,
no ripeness of age or autumn
in the air,
no thoughts of death
as we have now,
just a ripple
on the water
here and there,
just the crisp wind
from the North Sea,
the warmth of our hands,
and the young swans
on a canal, in Brugge.

Musings at the Troll’s Bridge

2009-09-09T20:19:00.003-03:00

What will jump at you
from beneath
this troll bridge?

One of your lovely fears,
to take its toll
from your shortening years?

Or is it just a grasshopper, shy,
as confused as you are,
hopping from leaf to leaf,

or a nervous young hare,
who makes your heart jump
and your eyes stare,
then sigh with relief,
then blink with relief.

But what if
it’s death herself
underneath that bridge?
What if?

Do you have
your answers ready?

Tell me, how will you
talk your way out
to the greener shore
without
paying too high
of a toll?

(And is it really greener?
And do you really have to cross it?)

The wind rustles a sweet song
and you say to yourself,
maybe it’s only a stroll in the park,
yes, that’s what it is,
no toll at all,
only a stroll.

Where I Am

2009-09-05T15:57:00.002-03:00

September is a weird place. We’re having now a taste of a summer that has never happened this year and it feels like something that you really should have done in your youth and you’re doing in your middle age as a sort of compensation. In the garden, the tomatoes are still green, the one-and-only green pepper that I had now lies on the ground, nibbled by squirrels, and the grass is covered with red and yellow maple leaves.

I’m still around. I haven’t disappeared (yet) in any personal black hole. I’m writing a little bit, and reading your blogs as much as I can, but I just haven’t had that drive to participate much in anything. Even to leave you a comment, beyond the “wow” that usually first comes to mind, seems often an impossible task. I’m very grateful to all those who still think of me, despite my absence…

Mellow – that’s a word that comes to mind. I often feel like a fly, numbed by the night’s coolness, waiting for the Sun to warm its wings again, just a few more times before the dread of winter.

I’m trying to finish a story and one moment I think it’s great and the next moment I think it’s worthless.

School has started and, since it’s a complete novelty for my youngest, it takes a heavier toll on her. Her worries don’t let her sleep well at night, she wants to be with me all the time, and she keeps asking if I’m home the next day. When I tell her that I have to go to work, she says, “Would you like to go to work one day and then stay home twenty days?” Yes, I would like that, very, very much.

So, I leave you for now with a face to these words. At least you’ll know who you’re talking to.

The picture has been taken while boating on the moat at the Chenonceau Castle, on the Loire Valley, in France. I lost there one of the gold earrings that you see in the photo – I was quite upset by this. In this castle, there was a very strange room, all decorated in black. It had belonged to Louise of Lorraine who lived there, in perpetual mourning, from 1589 when her husband, King Henry III of France, was assassinated by the monk Jacques Clement, until her own death, in 1601. Imagine living there, in that black room, with its black tapestries and its sombre furniture, while outside bloomed some of the most beautiful gardens…

Paris, Mon Amour

2009-07-22T18:13:00.013-03:00

Je cherche ton âme
ou peut-être la mienne
autour de ces pierres
parmi ces visages…

I am searching for your soul
or perhaps for mine

around these stones,
among these faces…

Ant and angel,
I cradle the weight
of History

in my heart,
and wonder
which Louis
has just stepped
onto this old new bridge,
not so long ago,
in that blink of an eye
that measures centuries.

Forever in awe
I stand,

at your light
and your darkness,

knowing that,

beyond the beauty
and the arrogance,

beyond the grandeur
and the misery,

the trees are the same,
the pigeons,
the people…

Je cherche ton âme
et la mienne…

We are old souls -
and new.