Dancing With Death - Another creative short story with critical commentary for the Gothic module. PDF

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Another creative short story with critical commentary for the Gothic module. ...

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Dancing with Death

Roger Mullen strolls down the pathway lugging his big, black backpack on his shoulders, the sun behind the trees is beginning to set as he enters through the gates. His wife had hated the idea that their little bungalow backed onto such a large cemetery, a place that had existed before the town had even established its name. Roger, on the other hand, found the bungalow even more alluring, it added uncertainty, it kept Roger constantly churning his thoughts on the afterlife. Maybe the afterlife was his graveyard, where the people that were laid to rest would get up and dance in the midst of a fog on an autumn evening like this. Roger’s belief was becoming almost concrete after the sudden and unexpected death of his young and beautiful wife. The soggy grass beneath his feet become stuck to his thick, brown boots as he treks further into the graveyard. A few people are scattered in front of plaques, either bent down removing leaves and weeds that are piling on their loved ones’ names, some have their heads in their hands crying in despair. For the past six months, Roger has spent almost three hours a day walking through the cemetery, mourning the loss of his recently passed wife, laying fresh flowers on her grave; as well as his mothers, his older sister and young twin sister too. In his short twenty-six years of living, Roger has witnessed his fair share of death after death. His stern mother, Mrs. Mullen, had died begrudgingly, she had closed her eyes and tried to force them awake, dying with her eyes staring directly into Rogers. His older sister, Gina Mullen, had been devoured alive by a fatal disease. Then there was his twin sister, Alice Mullen, his exquisite and delicate younger sister who still make Roger’s insides quiver. Roger continues to walk down the path, underneath the large and shredding birch trees which hang over his head. The wind howls through Rogers coat which is two sizes too big, an item his wife had bought him when he had both weight and muscle on his side. Since she had passed it was not only his purpose which had disintegrated. “Mum… can we please get going?” a voice begs in the background. Roger, tucks his hands under his armpits and turns around searching for the soft voice. A girl, tugging on her mother’s sleeve, pleads to go home. The mother, as if unaware of the child, is sobbing with tears streaming down her red, blotched face making her seem unhuman. Roger turns, looking back in front of him, not surprised the little girl wants to go home, maybe she too can see her mother warping into utter despair and melancholia.

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Roger turns down a path inching closer to his wife’s rotting corpse. Walking past Mariel, Jonathan, Andrew and Judy, he wishes them a good rest in their slumber and then finally stumbles upon his wife’s gravestone. Compared to the others, his wife’s stone is pristine, not a weed nor sign of decay in sight. Roger shimmies off his backpack, lowering it to the floor and steps towards the stone, he licks his thumb and begins to polish her name. Roger spends a few moments picking up orange and red leaves which have fallen onto her and throws them behind him carelessly. After ensuring she is immaculate, Roger reaches for his bag pulling out a blanket, he spreads it out, resting it on top of his wife and bends his knees onto it. Glancing around, the sky has become dark and dull, he notices the graveyard has emptied, the young girl’s voice has sung into silence with the wind. The wrinkles around his eyes soften, as he lowers the front of his body onto the blanket, mounting his wife’s resting place.

The wind picks up speed, darkness surrounding Roger as he sits on top of his wife, repeating her name on the tip of his tongue. His coat has been stolen by the wind and flown far away from his reach, but his wife remains close- so close he could almost kiss her cold, dead lips again. Roger looks down, his hands running through the damp grass, knowing he could wake her up, but he daren’t, he daren’t ruin this moment for himself. “Go to sleep,” Roger murmurs, rain beginning to fall onto his cheeks which are becoming pale. “Go to sleep,” he continues singing, “go to sleep, my sweet angel.” A noise screeches in the distance, making his head turn. A twisted smile tangles on Rogers face, knowing his back garden is awakening. He continues to hum the tune, the earth beneath his body begins to stir. “No-no, not you my sweetheart.” he instructs, stroking her stone-cold name. “They will dance tonight, soon you will join them.” The noise echoes again, making Roger shake to his feet. Shadows wrap around him, tightening him into a hug that restricts movement in his arms. Roger has waltzed with them before, he had tangoed and dirty danced with the lovers in his back garden. Lowering his gaze, he continues to hum, feeling the presence of darkness embracing him. He raises on his tip-toes and begins to spin slowly, following the motions of those around him, he steps to the left, noticing Judy’s gravestone begin to quiver, he steps the right, watching Andrew emerge from his bed, cloaked and visibly unrecognisable, sprint into the distance. The dance, the slow and sensual dance, will make his heart race harder than it has ever done

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before. Night after night this bliss was becoming easier to retain, a high he refused to come down from. Roger goes to spin again, his heartbeat elevated, but in doing so his foot becomes entangled in the blanket beneath him and he falls to the ground. His skull collides with his wife’s stone as he plummets to the floor. The hug that had kept him safe has been broken and Roger is sprawled across his wife’s grave, his head beginning to pound as a deep cut opens on his temple.

Blinking, trying to make sense of where he is, Roger wobbles himself onto his knees, looking at his wife’s stone, blood trickles onto her name. Roger spits onto the stone and scrubs the molten liquid that is staining his wife’s good name, yet the blood is hard and crusty. A mixture of rain, sweat and blood pours down his cheeks as he tries to keep himself sturdy. The terrain beneath his knees shakes, blood beginning to pour upwards from the earth, defying gravity. “No-no…” Roger curses, “go to sleep my love, go to sleep!” Roger glances behind him and watches the cloaks dance. Judy is entwined with Andrew, their tongues embraced in a passion Roger had hoped to join tonight. Preparing himself to run, somewhere other than here, Roger reaches his fingers out ready to pull himself onto his feet. The trees begin to cackle and branches begin to mock, as Roger falls flat on his face in his failed attempts to leave. He had taken solace in the arms of death, he had made love and showed his commitment day in and day out, yet the ground beneath him is stirring, his wife condemning him. As Roger turns to look back at her gravestone, he notices the blood has become black mould which is spreading towards Roger, he thrashes but the mould travels up his legs, making his body heavy. He begins to scream, his voice blended into Judy’s cries as she climaxes in pleasure. “Please, stop, stop!” Roger moans, still trying to kick and clamber to his feet. Looking to his side he notices Jonathan, who is wrapped in an emerald cloak, perched on a gravestone blowing smoke from underneath his hood. The long and crooked fingers that belong to Jonathan hold onto a hookah pipe. “And who are you?” the hollow voice questions slowly, blowing smoke rings. Roger manages to pull himself up, finding his footing on the ground, he abandons his backpack and blanket, which is beginning to sink into a hole that has opened on his wife’s grave. In a daze, Roger sprints to the gates, trying to avoid gravestones and bushes that seem to be moving freely across the cemetery. Dashing past cloaked figures, Roger refuses

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to look into the eyes of death, knowing whatever it may be may force him to rest alongside them. “Come on, come on, come one.” Roger groans his lungs aching as his heavy legs stride across the grass. Roger reaches the gate, his hands wrapping around the freezing metal, his skin beginning to burn. He shakes the gate hard, trying to push and pull it open, he looks down noticing the thick, metal padlock that has been locked around it. “No!” Roger cries out, he turns around and sees a figure, twice as large as the others, floating through the air. Its cloak crimson red, its long arms dangling down almost brushing on the ground, Roger notices the amethyst ring on its left hand. “SOMEONE! LET ME OUT!” Roger cries looking back through the gate, his voice lost in the wind which is howling like a lone wolf. The only person who lives by this area is Roger, this is his cemetery, this is his garden.

Slowly turning his head, Roger looks behind him, noticing the red cloaked figure is no longer in his sight. All of the figures that had been passionately dancing have disappeared too, the cackling of the trees becomes only that of leaves blowing fiercely in the wind. “This is my garden.” Roger mutters under his breath, turning on his heels ready to jump the gate if need be. “Ser?” a soft voice cries. It makes Roger jump and look back into the cemetery, where a girl- no older than six – is peaking her head from behind a tree. “Ser, I’m so-so lost.” she whimpers, her hollowed black eyes stare mercilessly through Roger. “Please ser, help me go home.” Roger inches towards the tree, his eyes opening wide in the dark, trying to get a better look of the girl. She steps away from the trunk, wearing a pink frilly dress which is covered in mud and grass stains. “Show me your home.” Roger whispers, extending his hand out for hers. Her tiny palm touches his, sending a frozen current through his blood and into his heart. The girl begins to skip down the path, making Roger light on his toes as he tries to keep up. Roger, although confused in the dark, recognises his retraced footsteps. “Where is your home?” Roger asks looking around him, he notices the cloaked figures have returned and are dancing faster than they had done before.

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“Little girl!” Roger barks, looking at her hand. The hand which had been that of a six-year-old girl only moments ago, has stretched out, its fingernails gripping up Roger’s forearm now tugging him with a relentless force. The large amethyst ring glistens against the full moon which is shining through the clouds. “Wa-wa-wait!” Roger hollers, trying to dig his heels in the dirt. The cloaked figure, covered head to toe in what appears to be dripping blood, screeches. It’s voice thin and frail, yet so piercing and loud. It directs Roger past Mariel and Andrew who are now in a heap on top of each other and Jonathan, who is stilling smoking the hookah, blowing smoke rings. Roger notices the gravestone, blanket and backpack are missing and have been replaced with a six-foot hole. “Please don’t!” Roger shouts. The cloaked figure spins him around, teasing him with the dance and then stands directly in front of him, the hole only millimetres behind him. “I beg of you, my love, my sweet-sweet love.” Roger cries, his vision blurring with tears. The figure inches closer, the smell of decay lingers. “Don’t do this. Dance with me, dance-dance!” Roger repeats. “Go to sleep,” the figure sings, its hands reaching up towards Roger’s shoulders. “Go to sleep, my sweet angel.” the figure pounces, hurling Roger down the six-foot hole.

Roger twists and turns, his crusty eyes opening, noticing the blanket has wrapped itself around his face. Soaked head to toe from the rain, Roger glances up, his eyes softening and lips tightening into a smile, looking at the gravestone; Alice Mullen.

Critical Commentary:

When I started the Gothic module, I found it both new and fascinating. When I had the option to write a two-thousand-word Gothic prose, I couldn’t refuse as I knew it would be

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challenging but rewarding too. I wrote two pieces that could have been submitted for this assessment, however the first one I wrote had a concept that was too large to compress in two-thousand words. Due to this struggle and knowing a complete short-story is arguably a better accomplishment than an opening of a novel, I submitted Dancing with Death. I found a lot of my inspiration from the Father of American Gothic- Edgar Allan Poe. During my lectures and seminars on American Gothic, I found Poe’s writing captivating and enjoyed his short stories such as The Black Cat (1843). Lima claims ‘The dark and uncanny side of the human psyche, as well as the concepts of perversion, criminality, monstrosity, transgression, violence and destruction deeply explored in Poe's tales exert a deep influence on many contemporary artists and writers.’ (2010:22), and I believe this to be accurate, as I found myself wanting to mirror concepts of perversion and monstrosity in my prose.

In Dancing with Death, I wanted to explore madness with the perversion of necrophilia and incest entwined. Many of the short stories and novels I have read in the Gothic module demonstrated that themes could be presented as subtle and indirect, yet still connote large sinister plots and characters. This is demonstrated in The Shining (1977) where King’s characters discuss the historical Donner Party, although brief, it arguably predicts the downfall of the Torrance’s. I decided in my prose I wanted subtle gestures and vocabulary that would suggest darker and perverse motives. When Roger puts a blanket on his wife’s grave, instead of writing ‘he lies down’, I explicitly wrote ‘mounting his wife’s resting place.’ The word mount is heavily associated with horses and sexual acts, which depicts his animalistic tendencies and illustrates Rogers twisted relationship with his dead wife. I also wrote his ‘wife’s resting place’ instead of grave, as it demonstrates the turbulence Roger’s beastly desires are causing in a place which should be respected. Death in Gothic literature is vastly different to the ideology of death in day-to-day life; what is usually repulsion and fear, becomes an obsession and attraction for the characters in the plot. For instance, in the opening paragraph of my prose, Roger finds his house ‘more alluring’ due to the fact its garden is a cemetery. Whilst most of the readers would resent this being the case, Roger is infatuated with it, thus demonstrating his creepy human psyche, ‘…the constant presence of death, being both fascinated and terrified by "the conqueror worm”’ (Lima, 2010:26).

The first draft of Dancing with Death explored the death of Roger’s loved ones rather

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differently. I had initially written the death of his whole family as being exquisite and attractive, however after some feedback from my peers they suggested that the death of his mother and older sister should not be described that way. They recommended to only make Alice’s death fascinating, which would illustrate an eerie relationship with her compared to the other women in his life. I am glad I listened to this feedback because it supported the cliff-hanger at the end of my prose. After my peers had read my piece, they asked whether or not his sister was his wife and still now, I cannot answer that question. The exploration of this prose, was not just purely incestual, it was Roger’s sexual desires with death as a whole. I purposefully never stated the obvious, however as the dead began to dance in their cloaks, I blurred the lines between the living and the dead and blurred fear with desire, ‘Roger begins to scream, his voice blended into Judy’s cries as she climaxes in pleasure.’. When the cloaked figures began to emerge, I wanted my prose to be dreamlike, thus deciding to involve the Cradle Song (Brahms, 1868) and have the character Jonathan smoking a hookah, repeating similar dialogue from Alice in Wonderland (Carroll, 1865), I was blurring the line between what was reality and what was a dream, which is a common trope in Gothic fiction.

The Castle of Otranto (1764) also inspired my prose, including the cliff-hanger at the end. Despite the fact Walpole’s novel is now seen as satirical, the main character’s insistence on marrying his to-be daughter in law, crossed societal boundaries that are taboo, as TaylorMungai stated the novel ‘portrays transgressive romantic and sexual desires that are complicated and elaborate.’ (2018). My decision to have Rogers sexuality blend with death and incest mirrors a characteristic that has existed since the first Gothic novel, ‘Walpole constructs the novel to present a darker, more sinister form of sexuality which creates the well-known character tropes of the Gothic that are still recognised in contemporary Gothic literature.’(Taylor-Mungai, 2018). Undoubtedly Rogers sexuality explores a different kind of perversion to Walpole’s character, therefore my research had to go further than Poe and Walpole to understand the boundary and monstrosity of incest in literature. My tutor suggested that I read The Cement Garden (1978), which I believe is very similar to Flowers in the Attic (1979). I found that the characters in the book, although they may know what they are doing is morally and ethically wrong, they present their desires as normality. Books such as these, including the infamous Lolita (1955), have the perverse ability to trick the reader into believing what is happening isn’t as abstract or unlawful as it actually is.

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Point of view is imperative in achieving this, therefore I used a biased third person narrator that wouldn’t distinguish right-from-wrong, the narrator becomes lost in the dream-like-state thus encouraging the reader the same.

As a whole I am pleased with my prose, discovering a lot of inspiration in the Gothic module lectures and seminars. Any changes I made during the editing process, I feel, has pushed my writing in a positive direction. Although I feel as though the prose I had initially wrote presented the Gothic in a unique way, without using cliché environments such as a cemetery, I do believe Dancing with Death achieved what I aimed to do, which was to create a short story that invoked terror with the perverse desires the Gothic genre loves to explore.

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Bibliography

Andrews, V. (2014). Flowers in the Attic. Pocket Books.

Brahms, J. (1868). Cradle Song. [Orchestra] Available at: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pREtP6YRMR8 [Accessed 16 Jan. 2019].

Carroll, L. and Tenniel, J. (2015). Alice's adventures in Wonderland. Pan Macmillan, p.53.

Lima, Maria Antónia. “Poe and Gothic Creativity.” The Edgar Allan Poe Review, vol. 11, no. 1, 2010, pp. 22–30. JSTOR, JSTOR, www.jstor.org/stable/41506386.

McEwan, I. (2016). The Cement Garden. London: Vintage.

Nabokov, V. and Raine, C. (2000). Lolita. Penguin Classics.

Poe, E. (2004). The Black Cat. [Charleston, SC]: BookSurge, LLC.

Taylor-Mungai, E. (2018). Complicated desires in Horace Walpole’s The Castle of Otranto. [Blog] LL625 Gothic Blog 2018-19. Available at: http://blogs.brighton.ac.uk/ll625sampleblog/2018/12/11/complicated-desires-onhorace-walpoles-the-castle-of-otranto/ [Accessed 28 Dec. 2018].

Walpole, H. and Groom, N. (2014). The Castle of Otranto. Oxford: Oxford University Press.

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