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    Twisted
    Twisted
    Twisted
    Ebook129 pages1 hour

    Twisted

    By Vanessa Wright

    ()

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    About this ebook

    A collection of 22 short stories from the bizarre to the truly chilling as the author takes you along for a roller coaster ride, welcoming you to the darker side of humanity. She delves into the shadowy world of obsessions, addictions, death and the loss of innocence and imagination. She takes an honest, in depth look at things that happen all around us, yet we tend to ignore. Here we are forced to look at the pain of what it means to be human in all its various facets and to truly explore the face that looks back at us in the mirror. No one is truly good or truly evil; nothing is exclusively beautiful or ugly, we are a sublime mix of the two, walking the tightrope median between the two opposites. The author expects the reader to think about what he has just read and to question the so called normalcy of everyday life. She peels back the layers to reveal the hidden skeletons in the closet. Fear, doubt, depression, loneliness, bulimia are only some of the elements which are open for discussion. As a society we have shied away from the darker aspects that are certainly part and parcel of who we are. Surely the path to true wisdom and resolution of these issues lies in the enlightenment thereof, the dusting off of the cobwebs in the cupboard. From the age of mythology as in The other side of truth, the human race has given free rein to this dark element; whilst the lesson of being careful what you wish for is humorously explored in What the cat dragged in, a modern take on an age old fairy tale. Throughout life we lose innocence, childish imagination and the sheer joy at the creation of a new life. These elements are highlighted in the stories, Imagination as well as The Foetus. As a native of South Africa one of the stories has been set specifically in the Apartheid era, revealing the pain of having a different coloured skin than has been deemed normal- Outsider. Cyber Voyeur explores the obsession we have developed with social networking as a whole; whilst Spring cleaning and Grave tears explores the world of murderous intentions, both premeditated and involuntary. The stories truly run the gamut of the human experience and are richly and superbly portrayed.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherVanessa Wright
    Release dateSep 25, 2013
    ISBN9781301641390
    Twisted
    Author

    Vanessa Wright

    I am a 50 year old visual artist, author, mom and pug breeder. Two of my Afrikaans short stories have been published in My kort vir jou sop available on www.amazon.com as an e-book and soon to be released in soft cover. I have taken part in Nanowromo 2012 and reached the target on day 26. I have my own blog at http://iread1966.wordpress.com, appropriately named Humouring the dark, where I have a few followers. I am also active on Facebook and Twitter and am a member of a writing group. I lead my own book club as well- I am a true bookaholic. Writing has always been my passion, however the timing always seemed incorrect as daily life interrupted more frequently than not. Now, I have decided to go big or go home.

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      Book preview

      Twisted - Vanessa Wright

      Twisted

      Published by Vanessa Wright

      Copyright 2013 Vanessa Wright

      Smashwords edition

      Smashwords Edition, License Notes

      at the end of each line)

      This ebook is licensed for your personal

      enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to

      other people. If you would like to share this book with another

      person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If

      you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not

      purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com

      and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work

      of this author

      ISBN: 9781301641390

      Table of contents:

      About the writer

      The other side of truth

      . Bright Lines

      Fleeting Beauty and a mermaid’s tail

      Outsider

      The Foetus

      Dissatisfied hunger

      Ordinary fear

      Bacchanalian addiction

      Grave tears

      Skinny image

      Imagination

      Spring cleaning

      The artist

      Debilitating C

      Solitude

      Gifted Heart

      Gone Fishing

      Autopoiesis

      The forgotten story

      Cyber Voyeur

      What the cat dragged in

      Survival of the fittest

      Meet the author

      Where to find the author

      About the writer:

      The flood gates are open; she cried joyfully and allowed the intense pleasure to wash over her. The gentle waves lapped her soul and embalmed her with inner peace and self-acceptance. Once opened she couldn't stop the flow of words and the short stories were keeping her up in their haste to be born on the serene white page. This was exactly what she had been meant to do with her life.

      There were so many experiences she could draw on, so much living had been done in her 45 years on earth. Her mind virtually boiled over with ideas, plots and characterizations she could use in the years left to her. She would be able to change readers’ lives with a mere sentence, a wisp of seduction, a hint of illusion.

      She kept a notebook beside her bed in which she could write down the nightly magnificence of her thoughts or a simple dream. These things filled her and the need to eat and drink became a distant memory. She could now be happy in herself and did not need to rely on anyone to fill the void that had always been there inside her since she could remember.

      The psychologists had tried to fill that void with depression medication and anti-anxiety drugs. This, she felt, distanced her from the creativity that was her natural gift. She had no clear thoughts, no visual ideas and she dreaded taking the medication. Each tablet represented a void, a loss of emotion; a loss of being.

      Now that she was found; her face would no longer be pasted on milk cartons and people would not feel sympathy for her lost soul. Writing, the soaring medication of words, had found her hiding place and had teased her out for the world to see.

      The other side of truth:

      (Aesop-fable nr 530)

      The shadows on the walls of the dark room move in a rhythmic, macabre dance as the glow of the potter’s fire paints orange and red streaks on Prometheus’* face. Sweat pearls on his forehead and slowly drips down his high cheekbones and sharp chin to plop softly on the flagstones. The drops are tinted red in the fiery glow, reminding him of suffering and the creation of new life. The creative process is always associated with pain and blood. Life and blood are linked experiences.

      His strong hands have been kneading the cold, grey clay for hours; shaping and moulding it to resemble the dream image that has haunted his mind for months on end. The curves and planes need to be perfect as nothing else would suffice. He has had to start over three times before, because the end result would not suffer comparison with the ideal of the dream. Then he would angrily throw the clay against the opposite wall, watching as it slid down to become a formless heap.

      He wasn’t able to envision starting over again. His mood ebbed and flowed as mistakes and successes followed each other mindlessly. She had to be perfect. Not solely because of his inherent perfectionism, but also because that which she symbolized expected perfection. He knew that it would take all his talent as a master potter and that it would define the rest of his life.

      The process would be a long one and there would be no return once started. He must see it through or suffer the consequences.

      He stands up and wipes the sweat from his brow. His back muscles spasm and he has virtually no feeling left in his fingers, but the dream will not leave him alone

      He is caught up in the maelstrom of creativity and is driven to go and sit before the lump of clay yet again. A slight frown mars his features as he critically appraises his work, seeking a starting point, planning the next step

      His thoughts scatter like autumn leaves blown before a chilly wind and he has to close his eyes to refocus. He is tired…dead tired.

      Dolus watches Prometheus from a shadowy corner of the room. His eyes shine unearthly red in the glow of the fire. His luxurious black fringe falls untidily onto the wide forehead. The broad shoulders hang in the misshapen brown apprentice jacket. In his leather shoes his feet appear gigantic. His hands nervously tug on his jacket or angrily wipe the fringe out of his eyes.

      He has always seemed invisible in a crowd, blending into the shadows or part of the décor. His features are quite common, nothing special. He knows that he will never be known as a handsome man, not like his master. Jealousy brings a bitter taste to his mouth and he has to swallow hard against the bile rising in his throat.

      He has worked as an apprentice for Prometheus for eight months. In this time he has only been allowed to create the simplest vases and plates

      Furthermore, he has had to satisfy his master’s every whim.

      Eight months of drudgery in which he has been nothing more than a slave.

      Dolus cannot help but wonder when, if ever, he will be allowed to work on a statue. A statue like the one his master has been working on. Dolus can already see that it will be a masterpiece and that the gods will stand in awe of Prometheus’ talent. It is sure to create a stir in the kingdom.

      Green- eyed envy whispers to Dolus that his work will be as good, if not better than his master’s. He looks down at his hands, filled with a vision of the planes and curves that he would be able to create. In his mind’s eye his statue stands next to Prometheus’ before the gods and his creation is applauded thunderously.

      Prometheus’ loud voice shatters Dolus’ dream into tiny, prismatic pieces. By the look on his master’s face, Dolus is aware that he has been calling him for quite a while now.

      A visible dark cloud that not even the glow of the fire can relieve hangs above Prometheus’ forehead. Dolus hurries to his master’s side, wondering in how much trouble he can expect to be. Fortunately Prometheus is too tired to engage in an argument with Dolus and only vents his frustration with a weary sigh.

      You can cover it for the evening, Dolus. Remember to wet the cover. We don’t need dry pieces of clay that have to be redone or kneaded again by tomorrow morning. Dampen the fire. I am going to bed. It was a long day.

      Prometheus tiredly rises and works all the kinks out of his shoulders and back. He turns and walks slowly down the dark corridor to his sleeping quarters.

      Dolus works at a fast pace in order to accomplish the commands given by Prometheus. He cannot resist standing before the statue and allowing himself to daydream. She will be breathtaking, that’s for sure. Heavenly perfection! Crestfallen he covers her and wonders yet again when his time in the spotlight will come.

      In his room, Prometheus does not even bother to light a candle, just pulls his dirty overcoat over his head, kicks his sandals away and falls down on the bed. Within moments he is fast asleep and unaware of the rest of the

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