Monday, October 26, 2015

Monday Excerpt: Imps and Familiars and Witches

Now Playing: Dario Marianelli - Wandering Jane (Jane Eyre OST)

[Introduction].

I haven't featured Stephen King on here yet, which is odd but good, because it means I get to showcase something of his during the week of Halloween! He's been called the king of horror by countless people, and I admire just how prolific and dedicated he is. I think some of his harsher critics say he's better at ideas that he is at execution, but I disagree. I really love his prose; it works even if not all of his stories succeed.

On Writing is my favorite Stephen King book, but the first one I ever read was this one. I think it saddens me more than it scares me, but it's because I care about Carrie and am horrified at her situation that the more frightening moments are all the more powerful.

(art by Fernanda Castro -Matrioska- on behance.net)

She closed her eyes again and rocked. Physical functions began to revert to the norm; her respiration speeded until she was nearly panting. The rocker had a slight squeak. Wasn't annoying, though. Was soothing. Rock, rock. Clear your mind.

"Carrie?" Her mother's voice, slightly disturbed, floated up.

(she's getting interference like the radio when you turn on the blender good good)

"Have you said your prayers, Carrie?"

"I'm saying them," she called back.

Yes. She was saying them, all right.

She looked at her small studio bed.

Flex.

Tremendous weight. Huge. Unbearable.

The bed trembled and then the end came up perhaps three inches.

It dropped with a crash. She waited, a small smile playing about her lips, for Momma to call upstairs angrily. She didn't. So Carrie got up, went to her bed, and slid between the cool sheets. Her head ached and she felt giddy, as she always did after these exercise sessions. Her heart was pounding in a fierce, scary way.

She reached over, turned off the light, and lay back. No pillow. Momma didn't allow her a pillow.

She thought of imps and familiars and witches

(am i a witch momma the devil's whore)

riding through the night, souring milk, overturning butter churns, blighting crops while They huddled inside their houses with hex signs scrawled on Their doors.

She closed her eyes, slept, and dreamed of huge, living stones crashing through the night, seeking out Momma, seeking out Them. They were trying to run, trying to hide. But the rock would not hide them; the dead tree gave no shelter.
- Carrie by Stephen King

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