Hypnotism is widely employed, but completely misunderstood, which makes it the most dangerous methodology to employ … more
It’s seemingly popular to write speculative fiction that dives off into an abyss of darkness, with irrational characters making irrational decisions. But that cannot hold up universally in the world of literature. Fiction should not behave like a photon. Why?
Checkout all the great short stories by members of the Short Mystery Fiction Society.
For Short Story Month, here’s one I cooked up over a picture I saw on Twitter:
Matilda Boucheron—although she preferred the moniker Tilly to the full tilt version of her name—lowered her shapely bottom onto the edge of one of two crypts resting side-by-side in the private cemetery. She slipped off one of her black stilettos and held it by the long, slender heel. There were diamond studs in a line from the top down to the hard tip, flashing in the sunlight. Tipping the heel over, she casually let an annoying pebble to fall to the ground. After wiping her black, silk stockinged foot with her hand, she slid the dangerously pointed toed, designer pump back on her foot.
“I love this place,” she said in her Louisiana syrupy drawl. She drew herself up from the cold marble. “It’s so restful.” She giggled. “I’m sorry, darlin’, I shouldn’t be so disrespectful to the dead.” The word dead was drawn out into almost three syllables.
She was completely alone in the cemetery, although she never behaved as if she were alone anywhere, always acknowledging the presence of someone watching her, and listening to her every word. In this case, it was the dead who were watching and listening, and in her way of thinking, they were enraptured with her every word.
“I keep seein’ that damned snake, though,” she continued. “I kin smell it, too. I’ll be walkin’ to the kitchen, or in the garden, or doin’ my ablutions, and there’s that smell… a stinkin’ whiff of evil… The ol’ devil serpent.” She sighed in a dismissive way, waving her hand under her sculpted nose. “I miss y’all,” she said while spreading a big smile across her face. She shook her head. “Really, I do. I promise.”
Falling to her knees on the grass, her cool gray eyes were not fixed on anything. She ran her hands over the cold, smooth stone of the crypts, as if she were trying to comfort the occupant within. Then, she laid a white rose on the stone cross, rose from her knees, then strolled around the crypt toward the other. Gently, she laid a rose on the second crypt. Out of the corner of her eye she saw movement under a palm.
“There it is,” she said pointing. “I am sorry that spirit won’t leave y’all in peace, but I don’t think that varmint likes you. Someone must have put a gris gris on y’all.” She giggled. “Imagine that… a gris gris. Hale, you never believed in such things.”
Standing between the two crypts, she kissed her manicured fingers, then laid them on each one. The rusty face of the sun shown through the cypress trees, casting its light onto the prehistoric palms and the crypts beneath them. The diamond on her finger flashed, and she admired it, raising it up to let it sparkle.
“Oh, y’all wonderin’ about this,” she said, holding up her hand to show off her ring. “It’s just a dreegailles, a trinket. Just a little ol’ thing that I needed to help ease the pain of losing my husband and my sister at the same time.” She raised her black veil. “It goes with this.” She ran the back of her fingers under the diamond necklace. “And these.” She flicked an earring. “I do regret killin’ the snake. One of God’s creatures. But it had to be killed, even though it was only doin’ what snakes do, and that was defendin’ itself by bitin’ y’all. Why y’all wouldn’t have noticed a hurricane. Probably, cuz you were so distracted. I mean, y’all were havin’ sex in my bed. That would have been enough to distract me, too.” She leaned forward as if she were about to impart a secret. “He was very good at it, wasn’t he Kallie?” She turned to walk away, but paused, and faced both crypts. “C’est sa couillion, Hale,” she said. “Oh, I forgot.” She placed her fingers over her mouth. “Y’all never did understand Cajun, did ya? You were a fool to be with Kallie, ya cheatin’ bastard,” she said with deadly earnestness. “Y’all should never have slept with my sister. And Kallie,” she directed her eyes to the other crypt, “ya lyin’ bitch. Seducin’ my husband in my bed is a treachery that just can’t be forgiven. Y’all had to die.”
The sun disappeared behind a large fluffy cloud, easing the heat of the day. Tilly couldn’t get the image of the two of them in her bed out of her head, moaning in delight, their naked bodies locked in a climatic sexual embrace. Glancing down at her ring, she stretched a wide grin across her face, then turned to wave her fingers at the two crypts.
“The money does help ease the pain, though. See y’all in hell.”
She turned and strolled toward the gate, leaving the crypts behind.
It seems quite insane, but NOT READING among the Literati is becoming popular. YIKES!
“Folie à deux (/fɒˈli ə ˈduː/; French pronunciation: [fɔli a dø]; French for “a madness shared by two”), or shared psychosis. It is a psychiatric syndrome in which symptoms of a delusional belief are transmitted from one individual to another.  The same syndrome shared by more than two people may be called folie à trois, folie à quatre, folie en famille or even folie à plusieurs (“madness of many”). Recent psychiatric classifications refer to the syndrome as a shared psychotic disorder (DSM-IV) (297.3) and induced delusional disorder (F.24) in the ICD-10, although the research literature largely uses the original name (“Folie à deux”). The disorder was first conceptualized in 19th-century French psychiatry by Charles Lasègue and Jean-Pierre Falret and so also known as Lasègue-Falret Syndrome.”[The above quotation and definition was taken directly off the Internet and the DSM. It’s accurate.] more…
It had been years since I’d seen Tennessee Williams’ play, The Glass Menagerie when I saw it was about to air on Turner Classic Movies. I think when I was younger, I didn’t have the patience to watch the play for its subtleties, nor understand its remarkable beauty. I didn’t care for the turned-in and frail nature of the character, Laura Wingfield. I found her brother, Tom, to be wilful, too impatient and rude to his mother, Amanda Wingfield, to like him. I’m an old-fashioned Southern gal, and I deplore rudeness to parents, so, I did understand the mother’s motivations, her understanding of how necessary it was for Laura to be taken care of. I also understand how much hope she had for her own life when she first married, and the constant day-to-day reminder that her life was to be something other than what she was experiencing. When she married her wayward husband, that hope was fresh and raw, filled with visions of love, children, and growing old together. Tom, unfortunately, was just like his father, ready to bolt because he itched to be “long distance”, always somewhere else. Time and age has brought it back to me to see it with wiser eyes. What I have learned in the ensuing years is that everyone is breakable, fragile, and the concern that the mother had for both her children is well-founded. Kirk Douglas as Jim, and Jane Wyman as LauraFor those of you who don’t know the story, Laura is a cripple who collects glass animals, and cleans them daily, living her life with the shiny objects as an escape from herself, her predicament, her disability. She can’t handle living in the world, in fact she feigns illness in order to hide from people and situations she can’t emotionally handle. Her glass menagerie is her entire world, the only world where she is comfortable. Tom, her brother, is her opposite. He longs to escape out into the world, detesting his home life so much he leaves every night to go to the movies, or so he claims, and returns drunk and crashes into his bed on the sofa. The brittle and delicate nature of Laura’s cherished items is a microcosm of the family: each hardened into their ways, cold and indifferent to each other. Her favourite is a unicorn. The creature is at once unique, and yet one small fracture knocking the horn off makes him the same as the rest of the horses in her collection. So how unique is he, really? Television production of The Glass Menagerie starring Shirley Booth and Hal Holbrook.Perhaps we’re all unicorns, and to stand out with a difference is at once wonderful and painful. There isn’t a human alive who doesn’t want to be loved, to have friends, to be a part of a family and community. And to have a secure future. Even Laura dreams of love, hanging on to a silly nickname, “Blue Roses”, given to her by Jim, a young man in her High School class. She had been at home ill, with Pleurosis. The well-meaning Jim christened her “Blue Roses” — which she has never forgotten– only to let her know that it wasn’t as devastating as she believed. And yet, he promptly forgot her, not even recognizing her years later when her brother Tom brings him to her home for dinner.Jim is the detached conscience of the play. He’s the levelling force to counteract Laura’s melancho
Source: The Fragility of Being Human
Source: We’ll Always Have Paris
Source: Crushing the Spirit
I’ve become rather philosophical in my old age and I love this new site where I’ve posted a number of articles. You can subscribe to my posts on the Niume site. Here’s my latest on Finding Meaning:
If we were the inquisitive type back in the sixties and seventies, and even the eighties, when we asked the question, “Who am I?” or “Why am I here?” or “Why me?” or “What’s It all about?” or “Is there something more than this?”, we would actually seek to find those answers in the traditional and not so traditional places, until we found the answer. Today, not so much. We’re too busy, too preoccupied with our phones, the Internet, too… Well, checked out and disinterested in philosophy, religion, and the great question, “Why?” Yes, indifferent to things that oppose our comfortable view of ourselves and the world. We are more interested in changing our shirts or a pair of shoes or the latest song than in questioning why we exist at all. If anything doesn’t seem to work for us, we will not dig in and labour harder to make it work, or to learn if its valuable to us in the long term. We give up, move on, and that has become our philosophy of life. If it doesn’t work for me, cast it off. because I’m the arbiter of all things good or bad. This is not a healthy viewpoint. There are still those who do quest, and this is for you.
I shall take you back to the time when the first Star Wars Trilogy burst onto the scene with Episode IV: A New Hope in the late seventies… more
Purchase The Truth and Nothing but Lies
All of the social media work has begun to take over my life. Something has to go, and I’ve chosen my blog. It takes so much time to do it justice that it’s cut into my more creative work, which is writing short stories and my books. Therefore, I’m retiring this blog for several months while I get caught up with my books and short stories. Bless Y’all. I hope to meet y’all soon at a lecture, or on my FB page. For a unique blogging site, go to Niume.
With much love and affection, Chéri Vausé