Forbidden Voice by Nyx Bean

Another story of mine posted to LiterallyStories. Come and check out other writer’s work or even submit your own! A warm community with intriguing minds.

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Her name was Aika and Christian had been obsessed with her the moment she transferred to Willowbrook High. In the first week, he managed to hear every hint and rumour there was to know: her second name was Hisama, people were sure she’d moved straight from Japan, and she hadn’t spoken a word to anyone. In the beginning, students thought maybe Aika wasn’t great with English, but those looking to cheat in class saw she wrote fluently. In fact, she appeared to be some form of prodigy, always having the correct answers. During lunch hours Aika spent her time in the library with her head ducked down over a Japanese language novel, and she made a point of being in the classroom before anybody else. Her physical appearance only served to magnify these oddities; her skin was pale, and her long hair hung down to her waist. Kids took to…

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Writer’s Block and Depression: Battling My Brain

I am well aware that many people enjoy saying writer’s block “doesn’t exist” because it is “all in the mind”. You’re holding yourself back due to your fears, they will say. Surely that’s similar to telling me my depression is a point of view which I construct for myself. Just shrug off the negativity and I’ll be fine, right?

Unfortunately, mental health does not work so simply and there are plenty of individuals who do not find their illnesses to be a source of inspiration. I would give anything to be able to twist my darkness into art, to use it as a muse. The problem is that when it is on top of me, it sucks out my energy. I’m only now just getting back into being able to do chores around the house, never mind fighting inner demons.

Depression is one of several obstacles I have to find a way to cope with. It alters my ability to view myself as capable. It tells me I’m unoriginal. It tells me I’m an uneducated high school drop out. It tells me nobody will want to read what I write. It does come down to me to refute those claims in the end, but some sort of assistance would be fantastic.

There are therapy articles which talk about turning negative thinking into positive thinking and I have also collected posts aimed at struggling writers. I will have to delve into these stores to ferret out the ones I need. I’m typing up this post as a kind of “you can do this” message for myself. I hope other people might feel encouraged to do the same. I pulled myself out of a decade-long slump a few months back. It’s not impossible. If I can do this, even in short spurts throughout my life, you likely can too.

I wish somebody could open my eyes to what I want to write, what it is I want to say. Not all autistic individuals have alexithymia symptoms as I do but I think quite a few struggle with personal identity, at least when young. Is it difficult for me to know what my messages are because I don’t understand who I am? Perhaps.

So, I hope that in the coming weeks I will begin to manage a few words every day. Even just 50 about nothing in particular to kickstart the habit. I will tell myself that while writer’s block is real, I can’t let it–can’t let my mind–win. When I fall down, I have to pick myself up.

Good luck to anybody also struggling with mental health issues and/or artistic block.

“I Am David… I Think”

(Note to the reader: This is one of my experimental short stories which did not make it for publishing over on Literally Stories. I will be re-drafting something new for them soon but have decided to share this one here with you anyway. I’m not sure if this counts as flash fiction or short fiction.)

“I Am David… I Think”

Dear Diary,

Yes, I’m starting it like this. I’m old enough not to care about whether it makes me a ‘sissy’.

So! Dear bloody diary, I have no idea what to think any more. We’re back from the hospital finally and Sarah has left me alone. I’d be suspicious if it weren’t for my relief. What do I even see in that woman? She’s the one who dragged me to that idiot hypnotist’s show and, I swear, she was grinning like a psycho when she shoved me up to the stage.

Doctor Mumbo-Jumbo wanted somebody to put under. Get them to tell the most obscene joke they knew. It had to be an introvert apparently, somebody who doesn’t like to be the centre of attention, a person who’d rather fade into the background. Of course Sarah hops up and waves her arms around, shrieking that she has the perfect volunteer.

I didn’t know what to do. All the lights were on me, every pair of hands clapping, Sarah ushering me, that horrible perfume of hers pushing me on. I couldn’t escape.

That’s how I wound up on stage listening to whatever-his-name-was prattling to the audience about how they might find what I had to say shocking. When he turned to me I told him I’d be shocked if anything happened at all. He let out his performer’s laugh and then began to instruct me: breathe deeply, listen to my voice, count back with me…

I woke up in the ambulance. A paramedic loomed over me and Sarah was up against the wall, her body shaking with the vehicle’s movement. She wasn’t looking at me. When I asked what was going on, the paramedic said I’d had some sort of seizure. It hadn’t been ‘regular’. I didn’t know what that meant so I closed my eyes… and remembered.

The hypnotist commanded I take myself back to the sickest joke I’d heard and my mind instead decided to take me further. Diary, I used to write to you like a friend before they told me only girls do that. Please, listen to me again? I’m pretty sure—no, I’m certain this is real. And so you can’t let anybody know what I’m about to tell you…

I couldn’t have been more than a few months old. I was comfortable with where I was—I guess a nursery—and at the time I wouldn’t have been able to tell what made sense and what didn’t. Looking back with mature eyes… I can’t find the words. The sensation of being at once a baby in the past and an adult viewing this in the present is dizzying. It’s not simple to write this in a way which makes sense. I have to get this down though, I have to.

Underneath my body was a fabric softer than silk. It held me like expensive memory foam. Above, high up towards the stone ceiling, dozens of free-floating orbs bobbed around in an elegant waltz. These orbs gave off not just light but warmth. Seeing them filled me with joy. Even remembering them now causes me smile. I must look like an idiot.

My infant self turned to the side and grasped the bars of my crib. I’m willing to bet every last penny I have that the crib was made of pure gold. But that’s not the shocking part. The chubby baby arm was blue! Not a sickly blue, not patchy, but a fantastic indigo. Little me giggled and squirmed as one of the orbs dipped down as if to say hello. Everything was as it should be.

“Well, aren’t you precious, my child.”

I know the words that voice of honey spoke. They weren’t in English and I’m sure I was too young to understand, but I know them. A face came into view and my little heart beat happily. It was my mother. Except, no, how could it have been? This woman’s skin was the same shade of impossible blue and her eyes were pure white, no pupil or iris, a pair of diamonds. A few locks of red hair fell from the sides of the tiara she wore and her lips parted in amusement as my tiny hands grabbed out to her.

“Come on now, that’s no way to behave,” my mother—this strange woman—chuckled as she scooped me up. Nothing mattered to my young self at that point, nothing but the closeness of her and her scent. Flower, some kind of flower… I don’t know. I can’t compare it to anything I’ve encountered before.

I was being carried along corridors and the blue-skinned woman spoke constantly, as if to busy her mind. I missed much of this because I’d become fascinated by the twisting pendant she wore. There came a point at which I yanked a bit too hard on the silver fascination and was scolded for it, “Oh, this is an important day, stop trying to break mother’s chain!”

Her steps were slowed and she fell silent. My head shifted to the front. Two grand doors stood open and a shimmering light lay between them. Every colour I can imagine—more, in fact—twisting and turning and twining. Mild confusion entered my infant mind at the time and as I reminisce as an adult, I’m overcome with wonder.

I was broken from the spell when a drop of liquid splashed on my cheek. I saw tears in the diamond eyes when I glanced upwards. The tears were as clear as any other and they made her eyes shine even brighter.

“Traditions must be upheld, sweetling,” the woman’s voice quivered, just slightly, “And this way our dynasty grows strong.”

I’ve studied people in my quiet way, whether they realise it or not, and I can tell this was a regal creature calling on her dignity. It wasn’t what she wanted. But the baby’s mind could only tell that Mother had a different expression from usual, so didn’t think much of it.

Not allowing herself to hesitate further, the woman passed through the portal and into a room I can vaguely remember even without hypnosis. It was my actual nursery, the room which became my bedroom during my school years. Toy soldier designs stood to attention along the walls and an ordinary wooden crib was stationed in the centre. A mobile of miniature fighter planes turned above it in a lazy jiggle. A whole shelf of teddies was fastened near the window and the one grizzly I never did like stared at us. Familiar though the room is to me now, past-me began to murmur and would have began to cry if… if my mother hadn’t lifted me to her chest. Can this be real?

“No, no, no. Weep not, little one,” her voice, soothing, hiding pain, “You will be safe and this is where you will grow.”

She stepped over to the crib and lay me next to a plump dusky thing. It was another baby. It was me, it was David Griffin! Except it wasn’t, that wasn’t me. It’s in my bones, this certainty. I fight with this unbelievable truth.

My mother once again leaned over me, this time glancing with distaste at the frame of the cot before looking into my face. It was as though she meant burn its image into her mind. Her gaze remained fixed on my own as she picked up that other baby, picked up the David who isn’t me! My young self was overcome with a jolt of fear and those blue lips trembled. As she held the other youngster in a careless crook of one arm, my mother placed a finger on my nose. Relaxing waves rolled through my body.

“Listen to me: we were not able to find the right body for you.”

I was aware of my skin changing colour to that darker tone. I wasn’t distressed, however, Mother was speaking and I was drifting towards sleep, “Of course, we made sure the switch would be as gorgeous as is befitting royalty. It is merely a mistake that this is a boy and you are a girl.”

Before I lost consciousness a breath whispered in my ear, “You are the Princess Analla. You will remember when the time comes. And I will hold you once more.”

Dear diary, I’m a pretty little princess named Analla. Okay, no, this is complete bollocks. It can’t be real.

But I can’t shake her out of my head. I want to cry, a grown man feeling like he’s going to crumble over some freakish hallucination. I miss her. Maybe it was a near-death experience. They did say I stopped breathing for a while. It’s possible, surely? It’s not every day you get hypnotised by a quack and fly into a fit.

Wait, I hear Sarah coming up the stairs. Ah, Christ, I can’t deal with her right now. If I keep writing, she’ll go away. The stupid bimbo. Married for the sake of marriage. What an idiot. Me, not her… both. Don’t come in. Sod it. Oh come on, get out of the room.

Wait, am I spacing out again? Is this another seizure? What’s wrong with her eyes?

Reward For My Toes by Nyx Bean

Another story of mine posted to LiterallyStories. Come and check out other writer’s work or even submit your own! A warm community with intriguing minds.

As an aside, I ought to get back to reading and commenting on others’ work. Brain like soup recently. Not as tasty as it sounds.

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Hi, I’m Stacey by Nyx Bean

Another story of mine posted to LiterallyStories. Come and check out other writer’s work or even submit your own! A warm community with intriguing minds.

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“Hi, I’m Stacey!”

Oh wow, hiya! It’s been ages since I had somebody cool to talk to in person. You’re cool, right? Yeah, ‘course you are. New to the whole ‘undead’ gig, I take it? Just last month? Yeah, I’ve got a couple of years on you but it’s really not that much. I remember all the changes, it’s super crazy. I guess your master has you covered on the basics and the mouldy old traditions… uh huh, they totally leave out the important stuff! No worries, I’ll fill you in. Oh, and you can call me Stace for short. Anyway, where was I?

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THE SHINING, STEPHEN KING, AND AUTISM

Taken from my blogAdventures in Autism: A Late Diagnosis Story

DISCLAIMER: Before you become angry, read over what I have to say and please use the links–some contain spoilers–provided. It will be impossible to discuss this with you if we don’t understand each other. Thank you. (Also know that I am a huge Stephen King fan, just now getting back into his work.)

I am currently reading The Shiningby Stephen King. Wendy and Jack Torrance are talking to the doctor about Danny’s trances. The doctor, a man who makes it clear that he is not a psychiatrist, says “schizoid behaviour” isn’t that uncommon in kids yet if family life continued on the harsh road it had been, those behaviours would have got worsed.

“And become autistic?” Wendy asks.

The doctor says “Possibly but not necessarily”.

“The Shining” was published in 1977 and back then we knew a lot less about autism (Content Warning: link contains upsetting history of treatments). It’s one seemingly of King’s tropes though: The Magical Autistic. It’s not always outright said. Still, you see it in “Rose Red”, in Dream Catcher (at least the film–yet to finish the book), and other books/adaptations. Often a child will display strong characteristics only for it to be down to something supernatural.

However, I think the newest book of his I’ve read was published a decade ago. So perhaps there has been some change. I don’t see Stephen King as a bad man, or unintelligent, or uncaring. I also don’t always see the trope employed badly. He often has had the Magical Black Man trope too. This is usually in the form of a benign black gentleman who happens to be special like John Coffey, Dick Hallorann, or Mike Hanlon.

This is a nuanced conversation and I don’t think there is an ultimate right or wrong. If a character in a book says something, the writer does not necessarily agree. However, I would be interested to find out what Stephen King has had to say about autism. It or at least its traits are common in his earlier works–perhaps they still are, I need to catch up. I would love to know why and how he feels about the use of both tropes mentioned.

A trope is a cliché, more or less, but as we all should know “clichés are clichés for a reason”. It isn’t always incorrect to use them. However, when you employ them to the amount that King does with these two in particular, I think it’s fair to expect some questions. Later I’m going to look into this.

CONCLUSION: Research and understanding into autism appears to have propelled in recent years. Is it correct to admonish writers for what they could research decades ago? I don’t believe that to be so. Still, it is interesting to see this and other types of disabilities ending up either as actually magical OR as a sort of “superpower”. I’m sure Mr King has discussed this at some point and I’d love to be directed to such conversations.

Stephen King is a favourite author of mine, one who had me reading at a young age (naughty me), and a man who helped full my love for not only horror but also the supernatural, magic, and writing itself. And so, this is not an attack. It is a desire to know more, to see what the man thinks and says and does himself. It took a lot out of me typing this up because, frankly, I’m exhausted today and I want to get back to the book! So, through your info at me, friends.

Her by Nyx Bean

I really don’t know what to use this site yet so at the moment I’ll reblog anything I submit to other WordPress pages. Check out Literally Stories for lots of short tales!

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A flashing light signalled that the surgeons had finished their initial examination and it was time to go over their notes. Despite knowing it was useless, I pushed my mind forward and past the wall separating me from the laboratory. First there was merely the reverberation of the ship’s metal, its atomic structure refusing my meddling. I continued to nudge and prod until finally my consciousness slipped through. The professionals clustered around with their assistants, presumably debating their notes while the test subject was showered and clothed. I could only guess. As much as I struggled I still found it impossible to drag out any substantial information. Where I should have been able to link into the surface conversation like a normal individual, I was instead assaulted by jagged lines and heavy static. It did not take long for the sharp pain of exertion to set in. I gave up…

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