***
When Mike’s eyes opened again, he was near the peak of a red plateau in the hot desert. The sun was huge and blazing down on him. Mike decided to climb some more, when he found a distinct feminine form at the tall, skinny plateau’s very top that glimmered brightly. Mike’s eyes widened at this form. He climbed the rocks with his hands to get a better view at the female who stared down at him. The higher he was, the more troubled her face seemed to look.
Mike sweated vigorously, hurrying up against the tall rocky scale until he finally reached the peak. The female form was blonde and beautiful, with a slender figure, but she was still distraught at something. Mike already knew who she was.
“Giselle...” he murmured.
“Mike, please,” Giselle said to him, “I can’t be with you. You’re so distant. I thought you’d soften up over time, but you never really talk to me. You’re always studying and fretting, and lately you’ve been yelling at me when I try to help you.”
“You can’t help me...”
“So you think! Y’know, I really thought you were sweet, but you keep letting your stress about your studies and your stupid fears get in the way. Why don’t you just get diagnosed before you fret over being a schizo.” She sighed. “God, it’s like you’re not yourself anymore. Y’know, the same guy who loves me.”
“I do love you...”
Giselle sighed, and responded, “Well, you’ve got a funny way of showing that.” She started to walk off. All Mike could do was whimper, “Come back!”
Giselle turned her head to him smugly and said, “Too late.”
Mike then had a primal urge to go after her. “No,” he growled, “not too late. Never too late.” He found himself following Giselle on all fours, with his blurring eyes focused on her standing at the edge of the plateau, ready to jump off. At that moment, Mike leaped at Giselle and pulled her back to him. Mike crouched in the center with Giselle in tow, but Giselle kept screaming and kicking him away. Finally, Mike had enough, and wrapped his paws around her neck, squeezing it to the point of crushing it. As the strangled Giselle struggled, a plethora of people staring at him rose up with disappointment. Mrs. Haversham and all his history professors hung their heads in shame. His father smirked at him. Mike let go of Giselle, knowing he had failed. He ran to the edge and jumped off the plateau yelling, not caring if he died. He had to abandon his now ruined life. He had to find a better life to live in. He had to sleep and be in bliss.
***
“Mike, Mike! Are you okay?” Mike faintly glimpsed at his mother in his bedroom. He was in the Nightmare World again, and the voice was telling him, “Go back to sleep! Go back to sleep!” The world where his insane father beat him for telling his mother that his father didn’t take his medication. The world where he had to keep studying or else fail and get chewed out. The world where he underwent reclusive and probably psychotic behavior, and lost his girlfriend for fear that he would harm her the way his father would harm him. That was why he had to avoid Giselle, because of what could happen, what he might do. Yes, he remembered everything now.
“Get out!” he barked. He was ready to scratch his mother’s face off.
The mother grabbed his hand. “Uh-uh, not this time!” his mother said, “I’m getting tired of this whole behavior.” Mike tilted his head at her while she continued: “This is really immature. You think you can get away from your problems like it were all some bad dream. Well, guess what? Life doesn’t work that way. So you made some bad choices. That’s tough. But you have your whole life ahead of you, and you can’t sleep on it or blame it on nightmares or the metal disorder you may or may not have. You have to take those failures and use them to better yourself without letting them depress you.” Mike tilted his head. These were words that he heard his mother say to him a lot lately, but the more she said these things, the more she sounded like...the female voice: “The damage you’ve done so far is repairable. You can go back to school, make up with Giselle, and get a proper diagnosis on your anxiety attacks. But you have to wake up first, and stay awake.”
The mother headed for the door. “I’m sorry,” she said, “it’s just that...trying to sleep off your troubles is something that your dad would do.”
Mike stepped out of his bed and looked in the mirror. He looked pale and sickly, with stubble and long hair. But he knew he couldn’t be his dad. Mike’s head was still groggy. He didn’t really know what the right decision was. He still lived in Cambridge. Harvard was close by. Could he go back to class? Giselle’s self-named “crapartment” was downtown. Could he go back there? He had the number from a psychologist that his mother knew. Could he call that psychologist? Whatever answers were there for him, he knew he couldn’t go to sleep. Each dream he had made him remember his troubles even more, rendering him helpless. He knew he couldn’t sleep for the rest of his life, or dwell on history. He had to face the world, even if it meant not flying.
Mike stared at his bedroom door and thought about walking out for the first time in a week for a shower, a shave, and a late dinner. The time was 12:00 in the morning. Midnight. A new day.
He slowly took one small step to the door.
Wednesday, June 18, 2014
Tuesday, June 17, 2014
Nightmare World Part 2
(Read the last post if you haven't already.)
Soon he heard a voice: "Michael! Wake up!"
Mike opened his eyes to find himself in a desk that was three sizes too small. It looked like he was back in his fifth grade history class at Davey Crockett Elementary. He was supposed to be eleven years old, but he still had a large grown-up body that wasn’t able to fit into the small desk. As Mike rubbed his eyes, the kids in the class snickered at him.
"Have a great nap?" Mrs. Haversham said. Mike stared on.
"Look,” explained Mrs. Haversham, “I'll say this again slowly so you can understand me: Are you ready to give your 3000-word oral essay on all the battles during the Revolutionary War?"
"Essay?"
"The essay I assigned a week ago? The essay that must be perfectly enunciated, perfectly worded, flawlessly edited, superbly typed, and completely researched with at least five book sources to get a passing grade? The essay that's almost 90% of your average?"
"I didn't know, Mrs. Haversham,” whined Mike.
"Come on, you!” she said, “Quit lying. You've had enough time already. You must have written something."
"But I…"
"Shut up and give your report,” snapped Mrs. Haversham, “You have ten minutes to give it, and they've already started. Failure to step up and start your reading in ten seconds will result in an automatic F for this whole class." Mike got out of his desk at the furthest end of the classroom, while his chair made a loud squeaking noise that made him jump.
Mike walked towards the chalkboard, but found himself walking in place. There was also a slight chill in the room.
"Three seconds!" A lump the size of a golf ball formed in his throat. His blood chilled all over, but he ran as fast as he could. Mike banged his face against the wall. While rubbing his now swollen nose, he sounded out that he was okay and then cleared his throat. He finally delivered his report, regardless of how underdone it was. But why was he so chilly?
Mike didn’t really remember anything about the Revolutionary War battles. He just knew about Benedict Arnold. So he started: "Uh…okay…so…Benedict Arnold was an important and vital part of the history of the American Revolutionary War." Mike’s classmates snickered at him. "He was born in America…the British colony Americas. He liked the British and decided he wouldn't hurt them or whatever. So…Who has questions about that?"
"Hey, Rhetton!" said Trevor Hawkes, the class clown, "Are you out of clean clothes or what?"
Mike stammered, "Um, what does that have to do with Benedict Arnold?"
"Just look at you," said Fran, who was trying not to throw a giggle fit.
Mike realized why he was feeling so chilly. He was completely naked. So he tried to hide behind something.
"Stop wasting time!" yelled Mrs. Haversham, "So you're buck naked. Big deal. Just finish your report before I flunk you."
Hearing this threat, Mike calmed down and continued while covering his nether regions with his two hands.
"So one day in the Revolutionary War, Benedict Arnold talked with King George. He said, 'Hey, kingy! I can help you crush the Continental Army!'"
As he finished this statement, the low pressure in Mike's intestines was finally at its breaking point. It flowed out of Mike's system as a fart that was louder than a thunderclap. Mrs. Haversham gritted her teeth. "Michael…did…you…just…break wind…in my class?”
Mike continued, “So King George said, ‘All right, Arnie! All ya have to do is be a spy and...’”
“I’ve heard enough, Michael,” said the teacher. “I was going to give you a D for your lack of a physical copy, misunderstanding of the subject, and a wardrobe, but your slovenly behavior and painful recitation of facts has just given you an F.” She glared at Mike. “Step outside with me.”
Mike said, “Uh, can’t I get another chance?”
“GO!” bellowed Mrs. Haversham.
The naked Mike walked outside the classroom and into the hallway. Mrs. Haversham followed and slammed the door behind them.
“Do you know your problem, Mike?” Mrs. Haversham said, “You have no ambition. You sleep in class, you barely do homework, and you don’t remember previous lectures. You think school is unnecessary.” As she said this, Mrs. Haversham grew taller. “But the truth is, the real world and its system are tough for you, and school toughens you up.” Scales started popping up on her face, she developed a snout and tail, and her arms shrunk. “So unless you straighten up and commit completely to your studies instead of farting around...” With that, Mrs. Haversham had completely transformed herself into a 20-foot tall Tyrannosaurus Rex and roared, “THE REAL WORLD WILL CHEW YOU UP! LIKE WHAT I’M GONNA DO TO YOU!”
When the Teachersaurus Rex lunged to take its first bite out of him, Mike quickly dodged her snout. Seeing the door to the boy’s room, he ran over to it. Since Mrs. Haversham was a girl, he’d be safe. The T-Rex Haversham roared, “NO RUNNING IN THE HALL!” as he darted in. Soon he was in his old house’s bathroom, and his father was by the toilet. He was pouring a canister of pills into the toilet. When he was finished, his father turned his head to Mike with burning eyes.
“Walkin’ in on me in the bathroom when you’re nude and frantic, huh?” his father said, “No wonder Giselle’s gonna dump you. You’re more like me than you think...Don’t tell Mom this time!” Mrs. Haversham’s giant head burst through the door and roared at Mike, while Mike shook in a fetal position.
***
Mike darted out of his bed in the Nightmare World, with more realistic memories of Mrs. Haversham’s class. When he was eleven, around the same time he learned his dad’s secret, Mrs. Haversham did flunk him. She took him to the hallway to chew him out about either applying himself or completely failing at life.
Mike also remembered that ever since that moment, he vowed to apply himself more to his studies. He studied history day and night and made straight A’s in harder courses, until he was accepted into Harvard with a major in history. Then he studied for top-level classes that focused on historic eras from Feudal Japan to McCarthy-era America for most of his free time. Mike remembered that the more he studied in these history courses, the higher people’s expectations for him were. So he had to keep his straight A’s, stressing day and night, trying to forget his dad and his bad experience with Mrs. Haversham while getting more tense.
Wait, my dad...thought the awakened Mike, What pills were those? Why did he dump them? Was that related to the secret I had to keep from Mom? Mike now remembered that his dad called the pills “garbage,” but why were they when he was the one in assisted living?
The female voice soon bellowed, “Stop thinking about Nightmare World events! You have to escape again!” He started remembering Mom explaining to him a month after he found his dad flushing down pills that his father wasn’t “all there.” He had schizophrenia. He remembered his father sitting on a table, talking to himself. He remembered his dad clipping panels out of newspapers, muttering about messages from other universes. He tried to remember going fishing with his dad or playing catch, like they did in the past, but all he remembered was his father strangling him, saying he’d kill him for telling Mom about the pills. Mike shuddered and heard his mother’s voice:
“The doctor said your dad...thought he was in an alternate universe. He kept saying that I wasn’t real, or our house wasn’t real. He had a unique form of schizophrenia. He was given medication to treat it, but he didn’t want it....You need to understand that schizophrenia is genetic. You might have it too.”
The final memory he had was the worst. It was the assisted living home where they had sent Mike’s dad after the nervous breakdown where he strangled Mike and lost his voice roaring like a wild animal. Apparently, he was still treatable and putting him in assisted living would do him better than sticking him in some “Cuckoo’s Nest” asylum. But Mike remembered his father slouching in an almost comatose state in a recliner, breathing heavily without saying a word. His baggy, glaring eyes burned into Mike’s subconscious like two suns when he first saw him like that at the age of twelve, making the somber figure look like a tiger balefully eyeing tourists at a zoo. His dad’s hands shook violently while he eyed his son, which made him more intimidating. Mike’s father was a vegetable in that room. Even now, when his son was twenty, his father still sat silently in the same room in the same assisted living home, still probably wanting to strangle his family and escape the horrible parallel universe deep down inside his thick, tortured skull.
Mike drew the line there. He had to continue finding his world where he could fly. So he slept some more.
Soon he heard a voice: "Michael! Wake up!"
Mike opened his eyes to find himself in a desk that was three sizes too small. It looked like he was back in his fifth grade history class at Davey Crockett Elementary. He was supposed to be eleven years old, but he still had a large grown-up body that wasn’t able to fit into the small desk. As Mike rubbed his eyes, the kids in the class snickered at him.
"Have a great nap?" Mrs. Haversham said. Mike stared on.
"Look,” explained Mrs. Haversham, “I'll say this again slowly so you can understand me: Are you ready to give your 3000-word oral essay on all the battles during the Revolutionary War?"
"Essay?"
"The essay I assigned a week ago? The essay that must be perfectly enunciated, perfectly worded, flawlessly edited, superbly typed, and completely researched with at least five book sources to get a passing grade? The essay that's almost 90% of your average?"
"I didn't know, Mrs. Haversham,” whined Mike.
"Come on, you!” she said, “Quit lying. You've had enough time already. You must have written something."
"But I…"
"Shut up and give your report,” snapped Mrs. Haversham, “You have ten minutes to give it, and they've already started. Failure to step up and start your reading in ten seconds will result in an automatic F for this whole class." Mike got out of his desk at the furthest end of the classroom, while his chair made a loud squeaking noise that made him jump.
Mike walked towards the chalkboard, but found himself walking in place. There was also a slight chill in the room.
"Three seconds!" A lump the size of a golf ball formed in his throat. His blood chilled all over, but he ran as fast as he could. Mike banged his face against the wall. While rubbing his now swollen nose, he sounded out that he was okay and then cleared his throat. He finally delivered his report, regardless of how underdone it was. But why was he so chilly?
Mike didn’t really remember anything about the Revolutionary War battles. He just knew about Benedict Arnold. So he started: "Uh…okay…so…Benedict Arnold was an important and vital part of the history of the American Revolutionary War." Mike’s classmates snickered at him. "He was born in America…the British colony Americas. He liked the British and decided he wouldn't hurt them or whatever. So…Who has questions about that?"
"Hey, Rhetton!" said Trevor Hawkes, the class clown, "Are you out of clean clothes or what?"
Mike stammered, "Um, what does that have to do with Benedict Arnold?"
"Just look at you," said Fran, who was trying not to throw a giggle fit.
Mike realized why he was feeling so chilly. He was completely naked. So he tried to hide behind something.
"Stop wasting time!" yelled Mrs. Haversham, "So you're buck naked. Big deal. Just finish your report before I flunk you."
Hearing this threat, Mike calmed down and continued while covering his nether regions with his two hands.
"So one day in the Revolutionary War, Benedict Arnold talked with King George. He said, 'Hey, kingy! I can help you crush the Continental Army!'"
As he finished this statement, the low pressure in Mike's intestines was finally at its breaking point. It flowed out of Mike's system as a fart that was louder than a thunderclap. Mrs. Haversham gritted her teeth. "Michael…did…you…just…break wind…in my class?”
Mike continued, “So King George said, ‘All right, Arnie! All ya have to do is be a spy and...’”
“I’ve heard enough, Michael,” said the teacher. “I was going to give you a D for your lack of a physical copy, misunderstanding of the subject, and a wardrobe, but your slovenly behavior and painful recitation of facts has just given you an F.” She glared at Mike. “Step outside with me.”
Mike said, “Uh, can’t I get another chance?”
“GO!” bellowed Mrs. Haversham.
The naked Mike walked outside the classroom and into the hallway. Mrs. Haversham followed and slammed the door behind them.
“Do you know your problem, Mike?” Mrs. Haversham said, “You have no ambition. You sleep in class, you barely do homework, and you don’t remember previous lectures. You think school is unnecessary.” As she said this, Mrs. Haversham grew taller. “But the truth is, the real world and its system are tough for you, and school toughens you up.” Scales started popping up on her face, she developed a snout and tail, and her arms shrunk. “So unless you straighten up and commit completely to your studies instead of farting around...” With that, Mrs. Haversham had completely transformed herself into a 20-foot tall Tyrannosaurus Rex and roared, “THE REAL WORLD WILL CHEW YOU UP! LIKE WHAT I’M GONNA DO TO YOU!”
When the Teachersaurus Rex lunged to take its first bite out of him, Mike quickly dodged her snout. Seeing the door to the boy’s room, he ran over to it. Since Mrs. Haversham was a girl, he’d be safe. The T-Rex Haversham roared, “NO RUNNING IN THE HALL!” as he darted in. Soon he was in his old house’s bathroom, and his father was by the toilet. He was pouring a canister of pills into the toilet. When he was finished, his father turned his head to Mike with burning eyes.
“Walkin’ in on me in the bathroom when you’re nude and frantic, huh?” his father said, “No wonder Giselle’s gonna dump you. You’re more like me than you think...Don’t tell Mom this time!” Mrs. Haversham’s giant head burst through the door and roared at Mike, while Mike shook in a fetal position.
***
Mike darted out of his bed in the Nightmare World, with more realistic memories of Mrs. Haversham’s class. When he was eleven, around the same time he learned his dad’s secret, Mrs. Haversham did flunk him. She took him to the hallway to chew him out about either applying himself or completely failing at life.
Mike also remembered that ever since that moment, he vowed to apply himself more to his studies. He studied history day and night and made straight A’s in harder courses, until he was accepted into Harvard with a major in history. Then he studied for top-level classes that focused on historic eras from Feudal Japan to McCarthy-era America for most of his free time. Mike remembered that the more he studied in these history courses, the higher people’s expectations for him were. So he had to keep his straight A’s, stressing day and night, trying to forget his dad and his bad experience with Mrs. Haversham while getting more tense.
Wait, my dad...thought the awakened Mike, What pills were those? Why did he dump them? Was that related to the secret I had to keep from Mom? Mike now remembered that his dad called the pills “garbage,” but why were they when he was the one in assisted living?
The female voice soon bellowed, “Stop thinking about Nightmare World events! You have to escape again!” He started remembering Mom explaining to him a month after he found his dad flushing down pills that his father wasn’t “all there.” He had schizophrenia. He remembered his father sitting on a table, talking to himself. He remembered his dad clipping panels out of newspapers, muttering about messages from other universes. He tried to remember going fishing with his dad or playing catch, like they did in the past, but all he remembered was his father strangling him, saying he’d kill him for telling Mom about the pills. Mike shuddered and heard his mother’s voice:
“The doctor said your dad...thought he was in an alternate universe. He kept saying that I wasn’t real, or our house wasn’t real. He had a unique form of schizophrenia. He was given medication to treat it, but he didn’t want it....You need to understand that schizophrenia is genetic. You might have it too.”
The final memory he had was the worst. It was the assisted living home where they had sent Mike’s dad after the nervous breakdown where he strangled Mike and lost his voice roaring like a wild animal. Apparently, he was still treatable and putting him in assisted living would do him better than sticking him in some “Cuckoo’s Nest” asylum. But Mike remembered his father slouching in an almost comatose state in a recliner, breathing heavily without saying a word. His baggy, glaring eyes burned into Mike’s subconscious like two suns when he first saw him like that at the age of twelve, making the somber figure look like a tiger balefully eyeing tourists at a zoo. His dad’s hands shook violently while he eyed his son, which made him more intimidating. Mike’s father was a vegetable in that room. Even now, when his son was twenty, his father still sat silently in the same room in the same assisted living home, still probably wanting to strangle his family and escape the horrible parallel universe deep down inside his thick, tortured skull.
Mike drew the line there. He had to continue finding his world where he could fly. So he slept some more.
Monday, June 16, 2014
An Original Story: "Nightmare World" Part 1 (Did you miss me?)
I try to write once in a while, but not as much as I want to. This is one of my earlier writings. I hope that it's at least presentable to the human eyes. Also, it's a little long, so I'll probably divide the story into three parts just to get some attention...I mean, to save space.
Mike Rhetton dreamed about the shadows again. He ran for his life in the bright hallway, evading the evil shadow creatures who were out to steal his soul. He ran so fast that the last gust of fresh air slowly escaped his pink and healthy lungs. He couldn’t turn around. The shadows were determined to get him. All he could see besides a small door with a flashing “EXIT” sign were the crystallized sweat beads fleeing from his forehead. The hallway seemed to look like the history building at Harvard. That is, if Mike didn’t know any better.
They were big shadows. Red and green. With glowing white globs for eyes. They called his name using his father’s voice: “Michael! Come over here!” Mike would not fall for the shadows’ pathetic ploy. He studied at Harvard and was therefore too smart for any shadow games.
The door at the end of the Harvard history hallway was still in his sights. Yet the further he ran, the further the door stretched. The shadows were catching up, seeming faster and faster. The situation was desperate, and Mike kept wishing that he could fly away from these creatures.
Then, Mike tripped over something and fell to the ground. He tried to get up, but his body was so exhausted that he couldn’t move. Mike’s body soon got dragged by the shadow creatures. When he tried to focus his swirling eyesight, Mike got a good look at the shadows who grabbed him. They were all copies of his father with glowing eyes and red and green hues. Mike felt a lump in his throat.
“Hello, Michael,” the father copies said in unison, “you thought you could spill our little secret to your mom without paying for it? Guess again.”
Mike whimpered, “I’m sorry, dad. Honest!”
“You’re gonna be sorry,” the father clones hissed. They grabbed Mike and marched him to what seemed to be a giant toilet.
“Where are you taking me?” Mike said.
“Where all the garbage and little shits like you go, kid...” the father creatures said with grins, “...Down the toilet!”
Mike’s helpless body splashed down into the bottom of the giant toilet, and he tried to swim up to safety. There was a flushing noise and he soon got sucked into the other side beyond the giant toilet. Into the abyss. He closed his eyes, hoping for a release from his dream.
***
When Mike opened his eyes again, his body was covered by the blankets of a small-sized bed. The area was not a dark hallway, but a small bedroom. A dark bedroom that was packed with old Harvard regalia and at least four shelves full of novels and textbooks relating to history. A bedroom that seemed neatly cleaned up without any pile of clothing, but it looked like the bedroom that was part of his childhood home in a Cambridge, MA suburb that was a few blocks from Harvard. He saw a clock next to him that flashed 7:45 PM. With a hazy head, Mike tried to remember what this place was, and how he got there from that hallway of shadow creatures. Under closer inspection, all he could gather was that he had an empty stomach and a huge knot in his back.
Mike finally used his dry mouth to speak. He bellowed in a low rasp to himself, “Where am I? What is this...place? It’s familiar, but I don’t want to trust it.”
He turned his head to a human-like form standing next to him. Mike’s only instinct was to cover his head with his pillow. While a female voice said his name, he responded with a hoarse “Go away!”
“Michael, it’s okay. It’s just me.”
Mike poked his head out and recognized the woman’s pale face with curly blonde hair and few wrinkles. She or it also had some tears on her face, like she was concerned about something. It was his mother, or at least it looked like his mother.
“Thank God,” his mother said with a big sigh, “I thought you were almost dead! I’ve never seen you sleep this long. I mean, three days were enough to worry me sick. Here, take this.” She handed Mike an Advil and a glass of water. Mike looked at the Advil and the glass of water, not knowing if this was a trick. But there was some aura of sincerity in the mother’s eyes, which Mike couldn’t spurn. He gulped down the water and Advil, and he felt his throat got better. The mother asked, “Do you feel okay now, hon?”
Mike wasn’t okay. With a good look at what looked like his bedroom and at what appeared to be his mother, he knew where he was. He jerked out of his covers in terror.
“No. Not here. Anywhere but here.”
“Anywhere but where?” asked his mother.
“The Nightmare World, damn you!” Mike snapped “The shadows flushed me back to this godforsaken Nightmare World!”
His mother trembled. “Mike, please don’t say things like that,” she muttered.
“You don’t believe me, Mom?” asked Mike, now unsure about trusting his mother. “I mean, if that is who you want me to believe you are.”
“Not really,” said the mother, “I haven’t believed your theory that is the Nightmare World a week ago when you stopped going to school and did this...this hibernation routine.”
“I quit school?”
“You didn’t quit school, you...You really don’t remember?” his mother asked him, “You wanted to quit school a week ago because you kept having huge anxiety attacks due to your being overwhelmed by your school work. It’s why you tried to avoid Giselle. By the way, she showed up this afternoon with some Oreos, and wanted to tell you that...” She then paused as if she caught herself saying something that Mike didn’t want to hear. “Forget it!” said the mother, “All that matters now is that you’re awake, so you at least ought to know I whipped up some chicken potpie for dinner. I saved half of it for you. Why don’t you get dressed, go to the kitchen, and eat? You’ll feel better if you eat something. Maybe you can call up on Dr. Goelz and see if you can’t set up an appointment...”
Mike jumped at these words. His mother, or maybe her nightmare counterpart, was subtlety trying to trick him into staying in the Nightmare World again. He had already spent 20 years in that world, and his time there was too miserable for him to ever go back. Yes, it was all a trick.
“No!” Mike roared, “I know your little game! You want me back in the Nightmare World to suffer! Well, tough!” He bit his mother’s arm and then rested his head again. “I’m going back to sleep, and I’m going to continue finding a better realm than this one.”
He didn’t see his mother respond, since his eyes were shut again, but he heard her shut the door crying something about his father. Good, he thought, she’s leaving. Now I can try to leave this world again.
His run-in with the shadow creatures who became his dad was the latest in a never-ending crusade to find a better life to live than the one he lived in the Nightmare World. A happy realm. A fun realm. A realm where he can just fly into the sky without any troubles at all. No angry dad with pills, he thought, No need to overachieve. No Giselle.
Mike’s eyelids shattered open at that moment. He had just breezed over those things without knowing what they meant, but he felt interested in the last one. “Giselle” sounded at first like something lovely, something cheerful. But the name “Giselle” soon developed a subtext that irritated him, like something that would never be in his grasp again. At the same time, he was reminded of an experience in the Nightmare World. He remembered a blonde-haired woman who didn’t go to Harvard, but worked as an intern for a hospital. She joked about how her parents named her Giselle after the classic ballet, joking that they hated her because they accurately predicted that she would really, really hate ballet. She preferred football, while Mike had no idea how the game worked. Mike thought of a scene where this Giselle was eating a cheeseburger and fries in her scrubs while he was studying for, what was it? His Ottoman Empire midterm. Giselle kept telling him to snap out of his studying. When she was ignored, Giselle...Mike tried to think. Walked out on him? Chewed him out? No...she...stuck french fries in her nose while singing “Time to Say Goodbye” in a nasally voice, making Mike laugh so hard that he accidentally spilt his chocolate milkshake on his textbook. Back then, he suddenly felt relaxed. The both of them were laughing, and their laughing rang like a dirge in Mike’s head.
A strange female voice entered Mike’s head at that moment, saying: “Mike, snap out of it! Thinking about staying in the Nightmare World will keep you from staying in paradise!” Mike shuddered and reminded himself to stay relaxed. The voice was right, he had to sleep. That was the only way to get out of this place and the painful thoughts that brewed the longer he was there. So he closed his eyes.
Nightmare World
They were big shadows. Red and green. With glowing white globs for eyes. They called his name using his father’s voice: “Michael! Come over here!” Mike would not fall for the shadows’ pathetic ploy. He studied at Harvard and was therefore too smart for any shadow games.
The door at the end of the Harvard history hallway was still in his sights. Yet the further he ran, the further the door stretched. The shadows were catching up, seeming faster and faster. The situation was desperate, and Mike kept wishing that he could fly away from these creatures.
Then, Mike tripped over something and fell to the ground. He tried to get up, but his body was so exhausted that he couldn’t move. Mike’s body soon got dragged by the shadow creatures. When he tried to focus his swirling eyesight, Mike got a good look at the shadows who grabbed him. They were all copies of his father with glowing eyes and red and green hues. Mike felt a lump in his throat.
“Hello, Michael,” the father copies said in unison, “you thought you could spill our little secret to your mom without paying for it? Guess again.”
Mike whimpered, “I’m sorry, dad. Honest!”
“You’re gonna be sorry,” the father clones hissed. They grabbed Mike and marched him to what seemed to be a giant toilet.
“Where are you taking me?” Mike said.
“Where all the garbage and little shits like you go, kid...” the father creatures said with grins, “...Down the toilet!”
Mike’s helpless body splashed down into the bottom of the giant toilet, and he tried to swim up to safety. There was a flushing noise and he soon got sucked into the other side beyond the giant toilet. Into the abyss. He closed his eyes, hoping for a release from his dream.
***
When Mike opened his eyes again, his body was covered by the blankets of a small-sized bed. The area was not a dark hallway, but a small bedroom. A dark bedroom that was packed with old Harvard regalia and at least four shelves full of novels and textbooks relating to history. A bedroom that seemed neatly cleaned up without any pile of clothing, but it looked like the bedroom that was part of his childhood home in a Cambridge, MA suburb that was a few blocks from Harvard. He saw a clock next to him that flashed 7:45 PM. With a hazy head, Mike tried to remember what this place was, and how he got there from that hallway of shadow creatures. Under closer inspection, all he could gather was that he had an empty stomach and a huge knot in his back.
Mike finally used his dry mouth to speak. He bellowed in a low rasp to himself, “Where am I? What is this...place? It’s familiar, but I don’t want to trust it.”
He turned his head to a human-like form standing next to him. Mike’s only instinct was to cover his head with his pillow. While a female voice said his name, he responded with a hoarse “Go away!”
“Michael, it’s okay. It’s just me.”
Mike poked his head out and recognized the woman’s pale face with curly blonde hair and few wrinkles. She or it also had some tears on her face, like she was concerned about something. It was his mother, or at least it looked like his mother.
“Thank God,” his mother said with a big sigh, “I thought you were almost dead! I’ve never seen you sleep this long. I mean, three days were enough to worry me sick. Here, take this.” She handed Mike an Advil and a glass of water. Mike looked at the Advil and the glass of water, not knowing if this was a trick. But there was some aura of sincerity in the mother’s eyes, which Mike couldn’t spurn. He gulped down the water and Advil, and he felt his throat got better. The mother asked, “Do you feel okay now, hon?”
Mike wasn’t okay. With a good look at what looked like his bedroom and at what appeared to be his mother, he knew where he was. He jerked out of his covers in terror.
“No. Not here. Anywhere but here.”
“Anywhere but where?” asked his mother.
“The Nightmare World, damn you!” Mike snapped “The shadows flushed me back to this godforsaken Nightmare World!”
His mother trembled. “Mike, please don’t say things like that,” she muttered.
“You don’t believe me, Mom?” asked Mike, now unsure about trusting his mother. “I mean, if that is who you want me to believe you are.”
“Not really,” said the mother, “I haven’t believed your theory that is the Nightmare World a week ago when you stopped going to school and did this...this hibernation routine.”
“I quit school?”
“You didn’t quit school, you...You really don’t remember?” his mother asked him, “You wanted to quit school a week ago because you kept having huge anxiety attacks due to your being overwhelmed by your school work. It’s why you tried to avoid Giselle. By the way, she showed up this afternoon with some Oreos, and wanted to tell you that...” She then paused as if she caught herself saying something that Mike didn’t want to hear. “Forget it!” said the mother, “All that matters now is that you’re awake, so you at least ought to know I whipped up some chicken potpie for dinner. I saved half of it for you. Why don’t you get dressed, go to the kitchen, and eat? You’ll feel better if you eat something. Maybe you can call up on Dr. Goelz and see if you can’t set up an appointment...”
Mike jumped at these words. His mother, or maybe her nightmare counterpart, was subtlety trying to trick him into staying in the Nightmare World again. He had already spent 20 years in that world, and his time there was too miserable for him to ever go back. Yes, it was all a trick.
“No!” Mike roared, “I know your little game! You want me back in the Nightmare World to suffer! Well, tough!” He bit his mother’s arm and then rested his head again. “I’m going back to sleep, and I’m going to continue finding a better realm than this one.”
He didn’t see his mother respond, since his eyes were shut again, but he heard her shut the door crying something about his father. Good, he thought, she’s leaving. Now I can try to leave this world again.
His run-in with the shadow creatures who became his dad was the latest in a never-ending crusade to find a better life to live than the one he lived in the Nightmare World. A happy realm. A fun realm. A realm where he can just fly into the sky without any troubles at all. No angry dad with pills, he thought, No need to overachieve. No Giselle.
Mike’s eyelids shattered open at that moment. He had just breezed over those things without knowing what they meant, but he felt interested in the last one. “Giselle” sounded at first like something lovely, something cheerful. But the name “Giselle” soon developed a subtext that irritated him, like something that would never be in his grasp again. At the same time, he was reminded of an experience in the Nightmare World. He remembered a blonde-haired woman who didn’t go to Harvard, but worked as an intern for a hospital. She joked about how her parents named her Giselle after the classic ballet, joking that they hated her because they accurately predicted that she would really, really hate ballet. She preferred football, while Mike had no idea how the game worked. Mike thought of a scene where this Giselle was eating a cheeseburger and fries in her scrubs while he was studying for, what was it? His Ottoman Empire midterm. Giselle kept telling him to snap out of his studying. When she was ignored, Giselle...Mike tried to think. Walked out on him? Chewed him out? No...she...stuck french fries in her nose while singing “Time to Say Goodbye” in a nasally voice, making Mike laugh so hard that he accidentally spilt his chocolate milkshake on his textbook. Back then, he suddenly felt relaxed. The both of them were laughing, and their laughing rang like a dirge in Mike’s head.
A strange female voice entered Mike’s head at that moment, saying: “Mike, snap out of it! Thinking about staying in the Nightmare World will keep you from staying in paradise!” Mike shuddered and reminded himself to stay relaxed. The voice was right, he had to sleep. That was the only way to get out of this place and the painful thoughts that brewed the longer he was there. So he closed his eyes.
TO BE CONTINUED TOMORROW...
Saturday, January 25, 2014
Creative Writing 101?
(This was created around March of 2013. But some things still remain the same.)
Sorry for the lag between updates. Schoolwork at the end of the semester is murder, no matter how interesting Chaucer's work can get...
So while I sort out a schedule on these blog posts, here's a fun editorial on creative writing:
You probably know that my English major has a focus on creative writing. I know what some people might think about creative writing classes, and no, it doesn't involve my being in classes where I get to just write whatever and get an instant A.
Quite the opposite. What I've learned about creative writing classes is that you initially learn that your work sucks, so that you'll have to give your work some thought and get out of your ivory tower. You have to think about whether or not you're properly showing the details in your novel. You have to think about how realistic your characters are, and examine each character's quirks and how a unique character will react to any given situation.
What I'm saying is you can't redo your kinky fanfiction with substituted or flat characters and expect it to get high reception from peers (I'm looking at you, E.L James). Because the truth is, the first few works we create are not perfect. We will make mistakes which can muddle whatever message we tried to "convey," which peers will use to dump on your work during seminars. And that's why I think we have creative writing courses: to adapt to criticism and to smooth out the rough patches of our writing process. But I'm just someone with an opinion.
Sorry for the lag between updates. Schoolwork at the end of the semester is murder, no matter how interesting Chaucer's work can get...
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| "The Miller's Tale" incorporated butt and fart jokes before it was cool. |
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| Illustration by Dave Donald. |
Quite the opposite. What I've learned about creative writing classes is that you initially learn that your work sucks, so that you'll have to give your work some thought and get out of your ivory tower. You have to think about whether or not you're properly showing the details in your novel. You have to think about how realistic your characters are, and examine each character's quirks and how a unique character will react to any given situation.
What I'm saying is you can't redo your kinky fanfiction with substituted or flat characters and expect it to get high reception from peers (I'm looking at you, E.L James). Because the truth is, the first few works we create are not perfect. We will make mistakes which can muddle whatever message we tried to "convey," which peers will use to dump on your work during seminars. And that's why I think we have creative writing courses: to adapt to criticism and to smooth out the rough patches of our writing process. But I'm just someone with an opinion.
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