The Night Before Halloween

Writing Horror on Halloween

 

It was the night before Halloween on which I sat up late, editing a scene which I'd written many moons ago. 

It seemed to get dark earlier that night, and the only thing that was to be seen in the windows was the reflections of the candles I had burning within. 

 

 

Ironically, I wrote about the darkness too. In the scene in which I dwelt that night, there was no light to see by. But, if there is not sight to write about, the writer's pen takes up other senses. The touchless dark has no surfaces or scents. But sounds it has aplenty; sounds to make the imagination go wild, conceiving apparitions, fabricating frightful fancies. I forced them all onto the poor soul who had wandered into the pitch darkness of my scene. 

 

I paused. 

It's dangerous to live this way, I thought, to be so immersed in the page before you that you do not see what goes on around. Anything could happen when the writer is so engrossed in the fictional; anything at all. 

People might be peering into their windows; a cat might creep by through the flickering shadows; a raven may call on the tree just outside. 

Would the writer notice?

Probably not. 

 

Its dangerous to live this way, to take up one's laptop and sit in a chapter all night, neither seeing nor hearing what goes on behind you, or underneath your chair. 

Better not look, that's what I say. It'll only distract you. It'll only give you a fright. 

 

And what goes on in the night is better left up to the imagination. 

Papa Bear Goes for a Stroll

Papa Bear went for a stroll that night, thinking bearish thoughts about literature and life, and the poem he had read the night before by the fire after baby bear was snoring softly. 

 

It was such a nice night for a walk, he thought. 

 

He walked for quite some time, till his thoughts were less thoughtly, and more musings, till he barely noticed he was walking at all. He walked till long after dark, till the edge of the wood, the edge of the page even. 

 

And so it was that Papa Bear walked right out of the book of fairy tales where he lived with Mama Bear and Baby Bear and into the forest I happened to be painting.

 

 

 

 

Sometimes I see a work of art on the internet and I just want to paint someone into it. So it was with this one when I saw a painting of a cluster of trees and couldn't help but feel that they looked lonely and unappreciated. 

 

I once again started by staining my paper with tea. I find that staining it first (even if you cannot see it once I've added the foreground) makes it seem as if I am painting an illustration in an old storybook. 

 

 

So bit by bit the stained back ground was covered, as a forest appeared on the edge of my brush. As I worked on this one on and off for the following weeks, I thought a great deal about who would come walking through this painting. Eventually, Papa Bear appeared. 

The Perks of Living in Disarray

Being a sort of "Story" but also a Pro and Con List (of sorts)

 

Written on the theme of Anticipation in Fall 2018

The Germans have a word called vorfreude which basically means the joy that comes from anticipation. This joy is one shared by all those who lead ordinary lives, when they mark dates of anticipation in their calendars and count down the days till birthdays or anniversaries; days when loved ones come home or important events take place; moments of anticipation which come with grand roles of the drum, like dramatic climaxes or a grand crescendo. Anticipation is a part of life, and it is the closest to which ordinary folk ever come to pertaining any sense of foresight in their lives.

I say ordinary folk because I do not consider myself ordinary. You see, I have never experienced this thing which the Germans call "vorfreude". The closest I get to anticipation of any kind is a sneeze. This is because, for as long as I can remember, I have lived my life in disarray.

Most folk think that it comes with the regulation of calendars that all days are to be lived in their proper order. Wednesday follows Tuesday, and if September comes, one can always be sure that October will follow. But I myself have never been very organized, and personally I have always had a blatant disregard for rules.

For example, I consider Mondays to be optional. Birthdays is another thing which I immensely enjoy, but the act of growing up need not necessarily be done in an efficient manner. I only have one life, after all, and I like to live according to my mood. I choose days like some people choose what to wear in the morning. What’s the point of waiting for something when you can just enjoy it now? –That's what I always say.

 Of course, I still keep a calendar. But, while some folk cross off days all tidy and orderly, I cross off mine at random. Even living one’s life in a disarray needs to have some sort of order, you can only live each day once, after all. (I don't really feel like getting into what happens if you accidentally live the same day twice. The experience still gives me nightmares).

I particularly enjoy being eight. But there being only 365 days in which I get to be eight, I have to be sure not to out-live them all. I try to maintain some sort of balance in my chaotic lifestyle so as not to run out of good days before I die. Birthdays is another thing with which I take serious precautions. I don’t yet know when I die, but I know I only have a limited number of birthdays in my life, and I don’t plan on running out of those any time soon.

 Being seventeen has been another good year for me. That’s the year me and my best friend Max start a band. We have some good times together, but for some reason I’ve never run into Max anywhere beyond the age of twenty. I considered contacting him once, beyond the brink of my twentieth birthday, but I try and live as spoiler-free as I can. I find it’s the most care-free way of living. And so if I find myself living in the aftermath of some sort of disaster, I usually mark the days pertaining to that time with some sort of warning. So, while anticipation remains something which I have never experienced, I am a master of avoidance. Who knows, maybe mine and Max’s short-lived friendship was for the best. There are some things only my past self knows, and I like to keep it that way.

Though every once in a while, I inevitably stumble across a spoiler. I know that I get engaged to a girl named Anni around the time I’m twenty-five. I don’t know how I meet her yet, and so in an effort to avoid any unnecessary awkwardness, I stay away from any days past our estimated time of engagement.

 I also regret to admit that I still haven’t finished all my days of kindergarten. Those days to me are like a never-ending to-do list of slobbery children and alphabet songs. When it comes to years like those, 365 seems like a big number.

Of course, every once in a while, I come across a particularly bad day. Any day of being nine is bound to be awful. I know my dad walks out on us sometime that winter, and by springtime me and my mom have moved into a stuffy apartment in the city. I don’t like hearing my mom cry, so naturally, I try to avoid being nine as much as I can.

But no day will ever be as bad as the time I lived a day of twenty-one and found out my mom had died earlier that year.

I went back to being nine after that, not because I particularly wanted to, but because I had the sudden urge to hug my mom. Living in disarray has its ups and downs, but life has those anyway. There will always be bad days, only difference is, I get to choose when I want to live those. 

You’re probably wondering why I’m telling you about all this. I don’t usually take the time to write down my thoughts, because frankly, I’ve never had the patience to do so. But I recently learned about the German word of vorfreude, and it got me thinking.

It had never occurred to me before that anticipation could be a joy rather than a drag. My calendar with its shambles and unruliness used to be a catastrophe I reveled in. My life is like a chaotic jigsaw-puzzle with holes in the middle and pieces long since lost under the depths of a dusty couch. But I always thought I liked it that way. Now I somehow can't help but wonder what it might be like to live a life of vorfreude.

I thought I’d visit a particularly dreary day to give me time to think.

The day I chose was rather a muddle to me, I don’t remember much of it, but I do remember thinking that I rather liked fall, though I’d never realized it before. Aside from my mom having died, twenty-one has never been that bad a year for me, all things considered. Twenty-one-year-old me actually has a job, which I gotta say is both a nuisance and a convenience.

Halfway through the day I discovered some change in my pocket and decided to spend it on a drink. I sat at the counter for a while looking over my calendar at all the appointments I’ve never kept, the due-dates I’ve never met, all those times I avoided going to the dentist. I was trying to decide which day to live next, feeling a sense of hopelessness when this girl approached me. 

I had noticed her sitting across the room for a while, reading what appeared to be a leather-bound notebook. She didn’t say anything for a moment, just looked at me as if she wasn’t quite sure what she should say.

I don’t think I knew it then, but in that moment of silence, I think I felt a twinge of anticipation. I saw the thoughts flicker in her eyes, and then a spark came into them.

“Do you know what the date is?” she asked.

I didn’t. Heck, in that moment I don’t even think I knew how old I was. I glanced at my calendar. It was the 9th of October. Or was it November?

I’m not sure what I settled on in the end, but she laughed, so I’m sure I got it wrong.

We talked for a while after that. I’m not entirely sure about what exactly. Though I know we talked about music and about art, and at some point she ordered a vanilla sundae. She ate the entire thing but left the cherry in the plate.

It puzzled me for a while. Everyone knows you’re supposed to eat the cherry first, but there it was, sitting lopsided in her empty plate.

She must have noticed me staring at it, because she smiled, then picking it up she said, “I always save the best for last.”

She left not long after. She didn’t leave me with so much as a name, and I found myself feeling sad, and a little disappointed, though I wasn't entirely sure why. Yet somehow, I couldn’t shake the feeling that something important had just happened.

That’s when I noticed her notebook.

I didn’t want to touch it at first, though I briefly considered running after her and returning it, but then I caught a glimpse of the inside through the dog-eared curl of the cover.

It was a calendar.

I had never felt such a strong sense of climax in my un-climactic life than when I reached out and flipped the pages.

In many ways, it was just like mine. She had drawn it out herself in an untidy, disorganized way. The months were written on-top in funky lettering. There were scribbles and warning labels, messy doodles lined the edges and tally marks with which she counted down the days. The only difference was, her days were all crossed off.

Which brings me to today.

I have decided not to keep a calendar anymore. Living my life in disarray has been fun, but yesterday I experienced what I believe can only be vorfreude, and so I am leaving the chaos of my youth behind me. I’m still going to count down the days though, not because I’m waiting for something but simply for the joy of anticipation. As of right now though, I am merely looking forward to tomorrow. I’m not sure why yet, but I have never lived a tomorrow before, and who knows what it might bring.