Flashback

I'm deleting some old photos tonight and I stumbled across some real gems. If you've been following you may remember the post on my unlucky August this year. There I described how I had moved house and the state my fridge was in when it got handed over to me by the previous tenant. I completely forgot at the time that I took some photos with my mobile phone as evidence before I cleaned it. Only enlarge these if you have a strong stomach. Anyway, you get the idea. It was vile.

Sandman

I've been listening to Rammstein a lot recently. Their song "Mein Herz brennt" got me thinking about the sandman and inspired me to this little tale. Enjoy.

Do you believe in the Sandman? No? Then why do you think there are little grains of dirt in the corner of your eyes every morning when you wake up? When you were young, who do you think made you sleepy when it was time for bed? Your dad's bedtime story? No. You wanted to hear another one. Your mum coming to kiss you goodnight? No. You said you still wanted some chocolate. It's the Sandman that pours sand over your eyes. Why do you think your eyelids became so heavy all of a sudden. He wants you to sleep. He needs you to sleep. To dream.
Each grain of sand is like a seed and like with all seeds some take root and some do not. Some grow a bit and die and some never open. But some, if watered properly, will grow into beautiful flowers or sturdy trees. Your long hours of sleep are like water for the dream seeds. They make them flourish and bloom. The Sandman looks after them patiently like a farmer does look after his crops. He is diligent and watches over them carefully for they only have until morning to grow. When the first sunlight caresses your skin, when the first rooster crows, when the smell of coffee begins to slowly rouse you from slumber they whither and die quickly.
From midnight until the hour before dawn the Sandman waits for the dream seeds to grow to maturity. All night he does his rounds. Ever so often he peeks through your closed eyelids into your sleeping mind to inspect them - like a farmer does his tomatoes or cabbages. You would not feel his weight as he leans onto your chest. He is tall but gaunt and weighs next to nothing. Those saplings he finds unworthy he gently plucks from your mind to leave fertile ground for new ones. It's good ones he waits for. The dreams about lost love, slaying dragons, becoming president - or about ghost, goblins, being eaten alive or hunted by a faceless stranger. Those are the ones he claims for himself. With his long, immaterial hand he reaches deep into your mind and gathers together all the different strands and fills them into one of his many bottles. Then he smoothes out the ripples in your head. You would never know he had been there. And he continues his rounds.
Only just before sunrise he retreats to his abode far, far away from light and warmth with bottles full of fresh dreams. He craves them. He needs them. One by one he uncorks the bottles and presses the content into his cold veins. You should see the broad smile it brings to his pallid features and the youth it revives in his desiccated body. The taut skin around his features becomes supple again, his wide eyes roll back and his head lolls in ecstasy. He quivers and groans as life seeps back into him. This is how he spends the fitful hours of daylight. Until darkness falls and he goes out to sow his next harvest.
And then there are still the unruly children. Those who refuse to sleep and stay up late. Those that want to wander around the house in the middle of the night in search of snacks or read under the blanket. These are the ones that vex the Sandman much. They deny him their dreams. They deny him his only pleasure, his ambrosia. He still comes to them, of course. But he does not bring sand. Have you ever wondered why the dark of the late night struck fear into your heart as a child? Did you believe in Witching Hour or the Bogey Man? Were you afraid of the dark shape of a man standing in the deepest shadow in the corner of your room? Of the nameless things that lurked under your bed? Or in the closet that was never fully closed? Or in the pitch black of the basement? Would you shiver at the feeling of wisps of darkness reaching out to you like tentacles? Were you convinced there were demons, ghosts or black fairies? They would crawl out from under your bed and out of the cellar. You would pull your blanket up over your face but they would still peek at you from underneath. You would switch on the light or even scream for mummy and daddy. But that would not make them go away, only go into hiding. Until the lights went out once more.
So, little children pay good heed. I am the voice from out of your pillow. I have brought you something tonight. Think carefully before you resist its lure. I shall be here until break of day, sitting on the edge of your bed. Watching you sleep.
Sweet dreams.
They only grow in little children.

Ten Paces

Another story of fiction after a long pause. It's been inspired by (among other things) the song "Roter Sand" by Rammstein, but also a piece I once wrote for French lessons. Hope you enjoy it.

One step.
The pistol weighed heavy in his hand. He could not help but think of the price he had paid for this piece of armament: the barrel long and straight, etched with floral designs. The hilt was carved out of dark nut wood and the flint lock's cock simply but elegantly curved. It had made an ever so faint click when he had pulled it back. The sharp edges of the flint gleamed mysteriously in the morning light. Holding it up as close to his face as he was, he imagined he could almost catch a whiff of the gunpowder in the barrel, there, forming a volatile cushion for the little, round lead bullet. His finger never brushed the trigger as if fearful of setting it off prematurely.
Two steps.
The little clearing was perfectly quiet on this chilly morning as if bird and beast were afraid of what they might find or witness here today. He had been here countless times before today. He knew every tree stump, every patch of moss, every rock and root. But those had been different times. He had not brought a pistol then but books of poetry or picnic baskets. The birds had been chirping from the trees and bees had buzzed busily around him, and a golden sun had warmed his back. Instead of the scent of gunpowder there had been the sweet perfume of flowers on the breeze. And it had carried with it another sound: that of an angel singing.
Three steps.
He had veritably believed he had chanced upon an angel. From between the dark tree trunks she seemed to glow in her white dress. It formed a stark contrast with the black of her hair that tumbled lushly down her back like a flood of cocoa. All the while her lips played out the undulating melody of a slow song the words of which he did not understand. It seemed to him that her voice filled the whole forest - and his mind - with its music. It reached out to him and beckoned like the song of the siren, yet soothed him like a mother's lullaby. He never realised that his mouth and eyes were agape. Nor did he notice how much time had passed. But a sharp crack brought everything to a sudden halt. A twig had snapped beneath his foot. She started and spun scattering an armful of flowers onto the high grass, nut-brown eyes wide in alarm. And he spun, too, and ran blindly through the undergrowth his heart pounding in his chest. He never dared to speak of it to anyone for a long time.
Four steps.
She was an excellent pupil. She could read without faltering, her French pronunciation was flawless and her fingers danced nimbly across the strings of her violin. As years went by she grew taller, her shape fuller. She dressed no more in simple white but in elaborate gowns. She knew all the blossoms and shrubs, birds and beasts by their Latin names and began to quote the works of Voltaire, Kant or Locke. Her eyes, though, were ever as bright and her smile as wide; "warm enough to ward off the winter", one of the maids had said once. It was true: like a fairy she seemed to have spring in her eyes. And a wicked wit, to boot. They would sit in the same classroom and he would cast many a glance over at her when her head was turned. But somehow she would come to him to talk and they would converse at length on poetry and prose, nature, which she loved very much, or simply their school masters and their ways. Men came to her bearing roses yet she just smiled and watched them leave disheartened. He would often remark on it and she would flash one of her radiant smiles and say it was not time for her yet. And every time she said that his heart skip a beat.
Five steps.
Was it fate that led them back to that clearing - the same that he had spied her on and listened to her sing that French chanson so many years ago? She loved flowers and often walked in the forest to find some. It was a beautiful summer day and the sun light produced intricate patterns as it filtered through the leaves above them. Lilies, she told him, only grew in a few special places around their home. She knew most of them. Lilies were her favourite. They reminded her of France. How had she found this place? As a little girl she had spent a lot of time wandering and had chanced upon it. The lilies she had found here had sparked her love for them. She showed him the lilies that even now grew on the clearing amid the high grass and it felt like a day long gone. Then, as if reading his thoughts, she looked him straight in the eye asking if he had also been looking for lilies that day, years ago. What had he been staring at and why had he been hiding? He thought of denying. He considered running away again. But there was nothing reproachful in her features. How had she known? She was silent a moment. Then she said he had looked at her differently after that day. Later, when she had thought about it, it had to have been him. They sat on the grass, she nursing the slender stem of one of her favourite flowers. And he told her how he had heard her singing in her white dress with her black hair. He told of how he had been enchanted then, in that moment he had never hence forgotten. She smiled, blushing. And then he kissed her briefly, fleetingly on her red, red lips. The blush turned a deeper colour and she bowed her head as if in embarrassment. But the smile never left her face. He lay back on the soft grass and watched her and she shyly looked back at him from under the flood of dark hair. Would she sing that song again, he asked. She laughed her clear, crisp laughter and gently stroked through his hair. But sing she did and it filled his senses and he was lost. Never had he been closer to God's Paradise than at that moment.
Six steps.
They continued to meet all through that summer, cautiously, in secret, never for too long, so as not to make her parents suspicious. All his day seemed to consist of longing until he reached that little clearing and he could be with her again. Sometimes they would talk quietly, or bring a picnic basket, sometimes they would just lie on the grass and gaze at the sky idly watching the clouds float past. Sometimes they would just stare into each other's eyes and kiss and kiss until they were breathless. Winter went by tortuously slow because they had no other place to meet so discreetly. So, for several months they could only cast each other longing glances across desks or across the hall. Then spring returned and they began to meet outdoors again. The air was still crisp and she would often shiver in his embrace. But the days turned warmer and the sun climbed higher into the sky and drove the chill out. And they would spend in that little clearing little pieces of eternity filled with tenderness. And they would wish for time to stand still and leave them to their happiness. But time, the thief, did not halt.
Seven steps.
One day in late summer she arrived at the clearing with tears streaming down her face. Choking and sobbing she recounted of the row she had had with her parents. It took a while for him to get the reason out of her. Finally, she screamed it at him in a shriek of despair. And for a moment he could say nothing at all, just stare at her incredulously. His heart sank. It could not last. She was going to be married. Slowly, amid an incessant flood tears the story spilled out of her: a young man from their college, with whom she was acquainted and on friendly terms, had visited her parents a few weeks ago while she had been out. He was well situated in a wealthy family, he was handsome and had been very charming and courteous to her parents. He had illustrated how he would go on to university and lead his family's business and had promised a bright, secure future for her. Then he had formally requested of her father her hand in holy matrimony. Her parents had taken a whole week to consider. They had not mentioned it so as not to get her excited. Then they had agreed. When they had told her earlier in the day preparations had already begun. The wedding was to be that very year. She had pleaded with them to give her more time, to let her find out who he was, to let her reach a judgement. Her father had brushed it aside. He and her mother had scrutinised that young man and had found him a respectable and promising husband-to-be. Furthermore, it was time for her to get married. Anyhow, the decision had been made and arrangements had commenced. There was no turning back. They had thought it would be a happy surprise for her. They sat in silence for long after that, him holding her, gently stroking her hair. Slowly her sobs subsided and she fell asleep leaving him feeling empty and alone as the sun slowly began its descent.
Eight steps.
They continued to meet throughout the next few weeks but their meetings had a different quality now. There was something awful and final about them. There was a new, bitter taste to their kisses. There would often be tears and long silences. There was a space between them now that had never been there before. Then as summer turned into autumn her parents decided it was not good for an engaged young lady to spend her afternoon out in the forest. Whether they suspected something or not he would never find out. These weeks became unbearable for him. In mid-autumn, less than a month before the wedding, she sent him a note asking him to come to their usual spot. The golden autumn sun seemed to light the crimson leaves on fire when he arrived. Several blankets had been spread out on the grass. And she was there. The smile on her face was not as wide and not as carefree as it used to be. But it was her nonetheless. His heart seemed to want to leap out of his chest and reach out to her. All the longing and sadness of the past days and weeks seemed irrelevant as long as she was there. Maybe the wedding had been called off? A wild, unreasonable hope rose within him. No, everything would proceed as planned. She would be wed. In time, her parents had said, she would learn to love her husband. "But", she said and tears welled up in her eyes again, "they are wrong. For I love you and only you. I want to shout it out to the world. I want to write it in the stars. He can put a ring on my finger but he can never put a chain around my heart. He can have my body but he can never have my soul. Those will always be yours. I want you to know that." He held her tight then and kissed her and for a long time did not let her go. "There is one more thing", she said softly and at length, looking deeply into his eyes. "There one thing I wish to give you. It's something I've always kept for the one I love. And that man is you. Will you accept my gift?" At first he did not understand - until she took his hand in her smaller hand and guided it gently, haltingly to her bosom. He kissed her again, more passionately this time, as her felt her small, round breast under his palm. He almost imagined he could feel her heart racing in her chest. His hand and mouth began to wander. She breathed something unintelligible into his ear. They sank onto the woollen blankets and soon became an entanglement of discarded clothing and heated flesh. The smell of her perfume and the taste of her skin flooded his senses. She winced with pain when he first carefully entered her but slowly her body gave in and her gasps and moans were ones of pleasure. They continued to lie between the blankets long after their bliss had subsided. Not a word was said. None were needed. They knew any further meeting would be impossible. "Don't forget me", she told him as he kissed her one last goodbye. He promised he would not.
Nine steps.
After that day he only saw her occasionally and from afar. She would not look at him anymore. The day of her wedding came. It felt like a bitter lump in his throat. They would make the vows. The priest would ask anyone present who had objections to speak up or forever hold their peace. Then he would allow the husband to kiss the bride. The bells rang. He could not bear it. He ran out into the forest and charged on and on until his sides felt like bursting. He knew what would be next: the wedding night. She would be his. Wholly his. He saw the hands of that stranger caressing her flesh, his lips on hers tasting her. His mind raced. He saw the man sweating against her between clean sheets, his skin against hers, him possessing her. It drove him mad. Nothing could drive the images out. His desperate screams echoed through the forest. The next evening someone hammered on the door of his family's house. It was her husband- with several other young men from the college. He was fuming with rage and hardly waited until they were out of the house. Probably only the fear of public embarrassment made him keep his voice down. "You! How dare you?! How dare you embarrass me like this?!" There was no denying. Her newly wed husband went straight on, his face contorted into a grimace of hate: "You ... and her! ... I've seen you together but I thought you knew the difference between friends and ... husband and wife." He spat the last word out like a curse. "I thought you knew what is proper and what is inappropriate - inexcusable behaviour. No, don't you dare deny it now, you coward! She has admitted it. She has confessed." Was she alright, he interrupted. What was this man capable of? "That's none of your concern anymore, you hear? You stay away from her! She my wife." He pointed furiously at the ring on his right hand. Then his tone changed: "Oh, I will forgive her. 'In good times and in bad' is what they say. After all, she is only a woman. Women are weak creatures and cannot be held accountable for their actions. But you - you led her on, you seduced her." His voice rose to a roar: "You stole from me what was rightfully mine! And for that I demand satisfaction. You are a good-for-nothing, a scoundrel. You are a failure and a disgrace to your family. I will at least give you the chance to die like a gentleman." And with that he slapped his glove into the young man's face. But how to fight if you have no weapon? Her husband looked at him disdainfully. "He hasn't even got a pistol." He searched in his jacket for his purse, took out a few coins and threw them on the ground in a gesture of disgust. "Here are a few shillings. Go and buy yourself a pistol - and one cartridge. You will not need any more than that. Pick your second and meet me tomorrow morning on your beloved clearing."
Ten steps.
He spun on the heel of his boot and faced the direction he had come from. The other man did the same like a mirror image. He still would not look her husband in the face. It was not the face he wanted to remember. He held on to his pistol keeping it pointed upward perfectly straight. He stared through his opponent into space, the trees, the last wisps of morning mist. He did not even feel afraid of what was to come.
Her husband's second held the handkerchief aloft, then dropped it.
He noticed it fluttering idly downward, slowly, as if time was drawn out. His arm straightened almost out of its own volition while his mind remained blank. And still his finger would not curl around the trigger. It seemed to take hours for the flimsy piece of cloth to touch the ground and noiselessly crumple into a heap. And for one moment it seemed like the world itself caught its breath.
The sharp crack of the powder discharge ripped through the breathless silence like a hammer fall and echoed among the trees.
A single shot.
The ornate pistol with the dark wooden grip and the floral etchings on the barrel tumbled onto the moist soil, its cock still pulled back.
He wavered. Her face was there again. Her nut-brown eyes turned up ever so slightly to meet his gaze and her head cocked and her lips pursed into that pout of hers that looked to be just about to break into a broad smile. Just as if she was going to say something.
I love you?
But then the world went dark and he saw no more.