The Dream : A Short Story.

oldhauntedhouse
Art via parasci

“Why are you driving my car?” I asked her. She just looked away forlornly and ever so morose. Her hands slipped in and out of the steering wheel. White, pale hands. She still clutched her rosary. I shivered. It looked exactly like mine. Blue-black hematite beads with Jesus’arms outstretched and Mother Mary holding tightly to her precious baby.

“You’re going the wrong way,” I said. She twisted her mouth into a gigantic o-shape and for a moment I felt the universe stop. I looked away from her. Her mouth twitched and she was lost in conversations with people I couldn’t see. Why couldn’t I see them?

“You CAN see them too,” she said, as if the secrets of my mind were now in her possession. “It’s a gift.”

Something about the way she lingered on that word ‘gift’ made me doubt her. Perhaps it was also the unease I felt at the sight of tiny droplets of blood, that started to run down the side of her mouth. I couldn’t look her in the eyes but something about her mouth. I was drawn to it.

“Did you remember to pray today,” she asked me solemnly. “Prayer is the anchor…don’t forget that…but they’ll tell you your soul is black and that there’s no hope…don’t listen. Too many voices. Here and there. There and here. Voices. Eyes. Pray. You mustn’t get lost.”

She started to tremble. The car started to swerve. Her hands moved through the steering wheel.

“Does he remember?” she asked me. “He promised.”

I felt a stab in my heart. I wanted to hug her tightly. But she’d just fall right through.

“He remembers.”

She smiled.

“You’re my second chance, little raven.” Her voice seemed choked. Gurgled. Dead.

For a second I thought her eyes became concrete and sparkled.

And she was gone.

I was alone in my car. Alone. But I could hear the voices. Wanting to be seen. Wanting to be heard. Wanting. Wanting. Voices. Eyes. Pray she said.

There was blood on my mouth. Blood she left when she kissed me.

I wasn’t alone anymore. I could see them all.

When Women Speak: Peace Through Poetic Pieces.

Torment
Image source unknown.

 

I’m currently tutoring English 101 at my university, and as part of the introduction to poetic forms we are going to be using a series of poems that explore the poetic narrative from a purely aesthetic to a deeper socio-political stance.  The following poem is from The Poetry of Abuse Collection (selected poems by a domestic violence survivor),  written by a poet named Christine Hagion Rzepka who brings to the harsh light of public scrutiny all those horrid pains that women must swallow and replace with sweet smiles. The following poem is entitled Broken.

Broken…

your promises

to love, to honor, to cherish to not hurt to not hit

…again

to listen

Broken… my jaw, my knee, my arm, my eardrum, my lip

my heart

Broken…

my trust in you

in others

in myself

Broken…

my dreams

our love

our future

Broken…

my self

my being

my spirit

my will to live

Broken…

by you

To read more of her poignant words in their original format click here on  The Ripple Effect.

I Just Wanna Read Shelley with You & Stare at Your Eyeballs : Goth Lit Girl Problems.

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“It was the secrets of heaven and earth that I desired to learn; and whether it was the outward substance of things or the inner spirit of nature and the mysterious soul of man that occupied me, still my inquiries were directed to the metaphysical, or in its highest sense, the physical secrets of the world.” Frankenstein, Mary Shelley

Part of the problem with studying Gothic Literature at a graduate level, is that people often tend to meet your passionate thesis exclamations with mixed emotions. Well actually, no there’s just the fear.

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When I used to work at a bookstore, I’d get parents asking for the latest popular novel in the Young Adult or Children’s Fiction section. Naturally, with the influx of tantalizing morbidity, most of those books would be tales of vampires, wolves or other things that go bump in the night. My recommendations would be treated with a shunning away (maybe running away) and sometimes an imaginary signing of the crucifix (despite the fact that underneath all my black clothes and black eyeliner I’m a deeply spiritually aware person).

 

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Ok no serioso…I am quite spiritually inclined.

It occurred to me that Gothic Fiction (whether for kids or not) gets a bad rep. It’s seen as sinful, sexual, horrid and vulgar. All the hues of evil. Did everyone just completely miss the stories in The Pilgrim’s Progress? Shakespeare? The best way to reach awareness is to dig deep into the light and darkness. To be human is to co-exist with monsters within ourselves every day. To be a successful human is to look those monsters in the face and slay them. Pretending they’re not there should be your first sign that you’re in complete denial about what it means to live and grow, and be a better version of yourself. Most of the time, Gothic elements in literature are a means of emancipation: a reminder for the need of self-expression, freedom and rejection of the things in society that keep us chained to the numbed zombie version of ourselves, or the perceptions that one should be tame, controlled and perfect.

Then she saw that the house-door was shut and rushed up to the attic and sat there, the stupid woman, trembling all over. Then the young lady came after her and bit her too, poor fool! The next morning Cheptoun carried his wife, all bitten and wounded, down from the attic, and the next day she died. Such strange things happen in the world. One may wear fine clothes, but that does not matter; a witch is and remains a witch.” Viy, Nikolai Gogol

Anyway, I’m getting off topic here. So, I have a deep love of Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein, I find Sheridan Le Fanu’s Carmilla quite mesmerizing, Stoker’s Dracula ‘too cool for school’ and besides all the typically popular Gothic successes, I am rediscovering/ discovering the allure of Poe’s ‘macabre’, Hawthorne’s ‘Dark Romanticism’ and Gogol’s witty take on the supernatural. But try voicing this sultry and evocative interest to the world: I am aware of the hiss of ‘witch’ and ‘weirdo’ lulling about the shadows of the corridors…contrary to popular belief we Goth Lit students are just as cute and cuddly as the next freakball. So I thought I’d just go ahead and clear that up! 😉

Yes we are often melodramatic…

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and maybe sometimes we like to hang out on ledges contemplating what’s for dinner…

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but we’re seriously made of sugar

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and hugs.

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All that black shouldn’t fool the world from the fact that we’re one with the fun (unless of course you stand too close to us at a bar- it’s not my fault your face is bleeding from my punch dude)

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one with the love

faith

sometimes too much love

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and you can be sure that we’ll always have something inspiring to add to your day :

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That said, I’d like to leave you with some educational humor entitled A Brief History of Goth via Pitchfork on YouTube. Here’s hoping I cleared up any dire misconceptions regarding the plight of those of us who love sitting at campfires, eating marshmallows and scaring the crap out of you.

“…and to this hour the image of Carmilla returns to mind with ambiguous alterations–sometimes the playful, languid, beautiful girl; sometimes the writhing fiend I saw in the ruined church; and often from a reverie I have started, fancying I heard the light step of Carmilla at the drawing room door.”  Carmilla, J.Sheridan Le Fanu

 

 

Unicorn Poop Hot Chocolate:Making Study-Time Fun and Magical.

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Unicorn Poop Hot Chocolate by So Whipped coffee shop (Durban, SA).

Yes, this is a thing. And yes, you are going to feel sick afterwards…worth it! A delicate mix of white hot chocolate, marshmallows, strawberry ice-cream and lotsa sprinkles to keep you on a much needed sugar rush during times of stress. I think I almost did see unicorns prancing (not pooping) around me after one sip.

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Because let’s face it…study-time  should be fun-time. 😉

Insert lol and vomit.

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Ride. Just Ride.

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Art by Harumi Hironaka

” I was in the winter of my life, and the men I met along the road were my only summer.
At night I fell asleep with visions of myself, dancing and laughing and crying with them.
Three years down the line of being on an endless world tour, and my memories of them were the only things that sustained me, and my only real happy times.
I was a singer – not a very popular one, I once had dreams of becoming a beautiful poet, but upon an unfortunate series of events saw those dreams dashed and divided like a million stars in the night sky that I wished on over and over again, sparkling and broken.
But I didn’t really mind because I knew that it takes getting everything you ever wanted, and then losing it to know what true freedom is.
When the people I used to know found out what I had been doing, how I’d been living, they asked me why – but there’s no use in talking to people who have a home.
They have no idea what it’s like to seek safety in other people – for home to be wherever you lay your head.

ldr
Image via Pinterest.

I was always an unusual girl.
My mother told me I had a chameleon soul, no moral compass pointing due north, no fixed personality; just an inner indecisiveness that was as wide and as wavering as the ocean…
And if I said I didn’t plan for it to turn out this way I’d be lying…
Because I was born to be the other woman.
Who belonged to no one, who belonged to everyone.
Who had nothing, who wanted everything, with a fire for every experience and an obsession for freedom that terrified me to the point that I couldn’t even talk about it, and pushed me to a nomadic point of madness that both dazzled and dizzied me.

watergirl
Art by Free-man12 on deviantart.

Every night I used to pray that I’d find my people, and finally I did on the open road. We had nothing to lose, nothing to gain, nothing we desired anymore, except to make our lives into a work of art.
Live fast. Die young. Be wild. And have fun.
I believe in the country America used to be.
I believe in the person I want to become.
I believe in the freedom of the open road.
And my motto is the same as ever:
“I believe in the kindness of strangers. And when I’m at war with myself I ride, I just ride.”
Who are you?
Are you in touch with all of your darkest fantasies?
Have you created a life for yourself where you can experience them?
I have. I am fucking crazy.
But I am free. ”

lana3
Image via Pinterest.

Words by Lana Del Rey ‘Ride’.

Click on the video below to experience the beauty of Lana’s art.

Video via LanaDelReyVEVO on YouTube.

Do not go gentle into that good night.

deviantart2
Art by HeySpace .

Dylan Thomas 1914-1953

Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Read by Anthony Hopkins.