The Words of a Dying Soul

Had I the words to speak,

I would never stop telling you.

Had I the words that breathe,

I would never stop enlivening you.

.

If my words were fire,

I would set your heart ablaze.

If these words were heroin,

I would shoot you up and you’d be happy for days.

.

If these words weren’t empty,

I would have them fill you.

If these words had a direction,

Then they would be true.

The Words of a Dying Soul

The Victorian Gothic

LitLangisLife

So, in honour of Charlotte Bronte’s unbirthday (shut up, they’re totally a thing and it’s not just an excuse to better understand Jane Eyre), we’re having a look at the conventions of the Victorian Gothic this week. But before we can look specifically at the Victorian Gothic genre, let’s get some things straight about the Gothic genre in general (we’ll look at this in greater detail in a later article, but for now this is what you need to know) :

The goths love death, decay, and madness. Especially when it happens to rich people. Who doesn’t love seeing a wealthy aristocrat gradually lose everything they own, including their mind? Not to mention, a common trope is the belief and the fear that ancestral sins will come back to bite their descendants- let’s face it, the farther back and higher up you go, the bigger bastards the people are. (*cough*…

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The Victorian Gothic

The Worst Day Ever, Part I

The easy days try to outweigh the hard days. But some days they just can’t.

These are the days when you want to drop everything and walk home early, thinking deeply about whatever is troubling you and perhaps for some solution, or to wallow in a lack of solutions.

These are the days when all you need to fix it would be a nice warm coffee, but the moment it touches your lips you receive a high degree of burn damage, dropping the coffee all over yourself in shock and staining your favourite white work blouse with ungainly streaks of brown. Oh, and that burning all over your torso. That is also quite inconvenient.

You have to drive yourself to the hospital because you live alone and no-one loves you (sorry) and wait in the waiting room for several hours rubbing toothpaste into your belly to soothe the pain. When the doctor does finally call you in you are told that your case is not covered by your medical insurance, and so she turns you away, still indignantly rubbing toothpaste over yourself and desperately wishing you still had feeling in your tongue.

By the time you get home your headache has intensified and you delicately test what is left of the coffee you had hastily abandoned. It’s gone cold and bitter because you find yourself simultaneously out of milk and sugar.

Briefly wondering how this day could possibly get any worse, you walk in to the kitchen and see that your cat has had a nasty case of diarrhea, as well as profuse vomiting over your grandmother’s favourite pillowcase, knitted by your great-great grandmother during the great war that your grand-uncle died in. Grimacing, you look around for the poop-scoop but to no avail. Gagging in distaste, you use a dangerously small piece of plastic clingfilm to throw the pillow into the washing machine, and the cat shit into the bin, which is mostly full. You try not to notice how horrifically warm all of these things are, and fail miserably.

Sighing, you plop yourself in front of the television- yes, the new episode of Sherlock shall cheer you up, if nothing else can!

They announce an emergency haitus, this one lasting for up to 12 years. About ten minutes later, you despondently switch to the news- a big mistake. Benedict Cumberbatch has been involved in a terrible accident, and has not only been horrifically disfigured, but has woken up in the hospital not realising what  on earth he is- he believes himself to be an owl, but one cannot believe a word he hoots.

You cry out in anguish as it is reported that Martin Freeman was in the same car, and he thinks he is a duck now. The scene changes to an exchange between the two avian actors- Benedict hooting indignantly as Martin Quacks a question at an interviewer.

When an advert for a couple in up-town Liverpool who have found themselves in negative equity comes on, you switch off the television and fall asleep. After all, today couldn’t possibly get much worse by sleeping, could it?

The Worst Day Ever, Part I

I Fell in Hell.

I fell in love last night.

With? An idea- a spark.

The blaze is hot-gold

And the idea smiled and inspired;

Happy to be noticed.

.

I fell in love last night.

It was with the sublime, the delicate, divine.

The idea lit me as I smoked

And melded to me,

Fitting as easily as cogs of time’s great game.

.

I fell in flame last night.

It burned me and consumed me

And now I can never be the same.

.

I fell to ashes last night;

But, like the phoenix knows,

Better things will come

From these vile and reviled flames.

I Fell in Hell.

How Santa Does it All in One Night

LitLangisLife

(Recently won a little story contest with this… Merry Christmas, everyone!)

‘Twas the night before Christmas, the fireworks of excitement exploding in the dreams of every creature on Earth… There was no way of telling that this was no ordinary Christmas. Unless, of course, you know a Kringle or a Claus.

Santa- that is, St Nicholas- was sipping cocoa and tapping his foot at the head of the conference table. The others should be here by now, surely?

As if summoned, there was a chill and the fire suddenly blew out- a thump could be heard and slowly a figure emerged from the fireplace. He had great long horns protruding from his head, and his hooves clunked across the floor as he scraped his way to his seat. He paused, sneezed, and sat down.

‘Ho ho ho, Krampus. Cocoa?’

‘Ho ho, Nick. Please.’  The half-goat blew his nose. ‘I hate…

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How Santa Does it All in One Night