The Bedtime Storyteller

So i was in Stara Zagora - a provincial town in Bulgaria- for two days doing nothing but waiting. sometimes its all you need to clear your head and sit down and have a nice conversation with your overcrowded thoughts, which as you can tell...did happen. I also felt a little poetic ( hey you cant blame me...Stara Zagora is known for its poets) and realized how alot of people forget about alot of things that were integral back in the day but now just...i dont know, Blahze maybe?

How many people do you know were told bedtime stories as children? did it make them better children in comparison to the people you know who werent told bedtime stories? what kind of stories were they told? ones that stimulate their imagination? something to wrap them in a blanket of fantasy just before they let loose with all their crazy and movie worthy dreams? or were they merely repeated legends passed down from generation to generation to create tradition and cultural heritage? or were they simply anecdotes that teach you a few primitive lessons about life...( i mean they have to be primitive...you cant really tell kids bedtime stories about money, drugs and political interests as a child...i guess if you want to you would have to settle for a 90's version of the emperor's new clothes)

Nevertheless, Bedtime Storytelling is becoming close to extinct in our ever speed shifting excuse of a life...my cousin has 2 kids...but never the time nor energy to tell them stories of flying boys in green who refuse to grow up...or little blonde girls in blue and white who take too many pills and end up talking to doorknobs and have tea with fluffy animals and crazy card players...

so instead...he brings them limited edition DVDs of Alice in Wonderland, and Peter Pan for them to play on their LCD screen on a mantle...where probably previous generations either had a family portrait or bookshelf.

I have nothing against my cousin...he is not a bad parent, i have nothing against the choice of upbringing he has for his children...i have everything against the world that compells him to make such a choice.

My parents stopped telling me bedtime stories when i was old enough to read..they didnt want me to be dependent. fair enough, but frankly im sure i missed out on alot...cause i look at my sister...who had me to tell her all the bedtime stories she wanted to hear, and i look at myself. Her imagination is even wilder than mine..(some might think that is impossible but trust me shes got the better half of that) okay, okay, ill give myself the credit for a change and admit that i'd come up with most of the stories on the spot right there. She'd always predict a great storytelling future for me, be it in the form of a writer, actor, journalist, director...or maybe even stand up comedian ( but i tried that back in 2004 and ended up making a fool of myself infront of a crowd of 400+ and some nomads) even a lawyer is a form of storytelling ( very convincing storytelling might i add)

So anyways back to Stara Zagora...i was bored out of my head and decided to take a walk. it is quite a small city...but rather sunny for a European city especially since this is November people...we are talking close to sub zero temperatures...( guess this is just practice for the time ill spend in Siberia). So im walking around town and theres this little pavement cafe to next to what could be called the town centre...i notice this old man, very prissy ...in a nice off-white/ beige suit...hat matching scarf and everything, covering it up with a nice navy blue coat..he was drinking tea i guess, and was totally into the book he was reading..minding his own business, i mean even if a Ferrari zoomed by and crashed into a Hummer...in the middle of this nowhere town which probably is not home to niether car...add to that its not one of those passing through towns either, he wouldnt budge...not even flinch...

thats how much he was into whatever he was reading.

I pass him...and without lifting his eyes out of the book in a typical eastern european accent says:

"Sit down, i will be with you in a minute"

to my exclamation i was finally glad to meet someone who doesnt talk Bulgarian...but who the hell is this person and what does he want with me.

My curiousity getting the best of me told me to sit down, which i did.

"do you have good bedtime stories" he asked

"no but give me one and i will tell it quite nicely" i found myself answering back.

"Whatever happened to your imagination Roger?"

"My name isn't Roger...im afraid you have the wrong person sir.."

"if you were the wrong person, i wouldnt have you sitting down on the same table i am seated on and wouldnt be asking about the deterioration of your skill to conjure up fiction for sheer entertainment"

I decide to play along,

"Okay, you have me there...i am Roger, i was only playing"

"well, remember your sister Roger? the one you used to tell stories?...Mischa?"

"yes i do"

"where is she now Roger? where is she?"

"erm...last time i checked she was eaten by a trio of Lithuanian mercenaries, and very properly digested..i recall examining their shit a few days later..to find my sisters teeth in it...just like chunks of corn only white..and shiny"

"oh now that is truly dreadful roger...well ill get to the point..."

"please do..."

"i have a daughter...she's dying, the only thing that would make her better is if you can tell her a bedtime story. come to the castle on the hill tomorrow...tell her a Bedtime Story and be on your way.."

As night falls...i trod up the hill to reach the isolated Castle on the outskirts of town. I wonder to myself why is it that most Castles i have visited, if inhabited are always visited at night? the only conclusion i came to is -Castle or no Castle- most of your visits to anyone are at night...

Nobody listens to Bedtime Stories in the morning, even if before an afternoon nap...everyone is too entrenched and engulfed in the lies they live in the morning only to show their true colors at night? or is it the other way round? well its relative, and i think that is me trying to be a tad bit too philosophical...i should stick to what im good at....

Bedtime Stories.

I reach the Castle's entrance...not your scary looming structure that freaks the hell out of you when a flash of lightning lights up the sky in a sudden and unexpected burst...its just a nice Big and grand stone structure...with a little ivy growing in the cracks..the driveway is paved a dark and opaque marble...there are two cars parked next to one another as if they are on a date...the first which seemed quite out of place was a Yellow 69 mustang...i didnt even know 69 mustangs came in yellow. could be a paintjob...but a good one...for Bulgarian Standards at least. the second was an old ( as in 40s) white Citroen something more of what the old man from the cafe would be driving...so i automatically assumed the Citroen belongs to prissy old man...and the mustang belongs to dying little girl...daughter of prissy old man. i walk into the short entrance and find myself in a cobbled landing...there is a rather robust old woman on the side...with a huge mess of foam and detergent around her...seated in a crouch position in front of a large round wooden tub...you can tell from the smell of the detergent that she is washing she has a colored scarf wrapped around her head..with few strands of hair ecaped the clutches of the sweaty scarf. she sees me and smiles...donning her blackened gums and what few teeth remain attached...

Teeth....

I saw Mischa's...Teeth in their droppings. they ate her...to survive yes...but they ate her...they ate one of their kind...consumed her like we consume cows everyday...eat them, digest them and then make them become an eternal part of us...what we dont like we let out of us...as waste...Just like Mischa's Teeth...

She had beautiful Teeth...
Which made her have a beautiful smile...gone...eaten, devoured.

Prissy old man waved from a window...and jestured me to come up....when we finally reached his Daughter Alexa's room...all i can think of was Mischa...and how she'd listen to my stories.

Alexa was a good listener...she gives you feedback with her facial expressions...intrigue, excitement, anticipation, boredom, all appeared clearly through a series of systematic nods...wide eyed stares and raised eyebrows....and a couple of pouts. She seemed quite jovial for someone awaiting their death. From what i understood it was quite a terminal illness that nothing can be done about. She really is accepting her fate i guess.

Alexa smelt like someone about to die...you know that smell...musty and sick, with all the bacteria and worms and maggots waiting to eat you..once you have no immunity..disgusting creatures...scavengers...

well at least they dont kill for feeding...they feed on what already is dead...

Whats bothering you most ? the fact they killed her cause they were hungry? or the fact that she was eaten?

Don't know..its just an awful thing to do...

Fuck you Issei Sagawa, Fuck you Jeoffery Dahmer,

they're cowards...they can't scavenge...its ego...not gastronomic hunger...

i will kill you

i will fuck you

i will eat you

you will be part of me..forever...

thats their chain of thought..they want to glorify the victim immortalize them as long as they themselves exist, not out of love of the victim...but out of envy...they see something in the victim they might lack, and covet it, they destroy you...and take it for themselves...they are threatened...by yor very existence..they erase you..and in a way become you..no, you become them..a living part of them, that regenerates, grows with them...

Sick

Sick

Sick

I want my Mischa back...i want to tell her Bedtime Stories, stories of men in a land who arent afraid of being eaten, of women who dont fuck for power, who dont perceive life as an eternal battle between genders and a test to prove superiority, in a world where man doesnt kill man or reign supreme over his fellow man to satisfy his ego, preserve his blood or juice up his bank account. a world where i need not look over my shoulder, where i can just love people and never worry about them seeing harm, strife or suffering, a place where Injustice cannot flourish, a place where Apathy can't breathe, a place i can share with my kind

A Secret place

My Secret Place

My Bedtime Stories...