Spectral Shift

Saturn Calls

Blue Hexagon of Saturn

Saturn, the 6th planet, has a Hexagon on its North Pole.

Carbon atoms are made of:

6 Electrons

6 Protons

6 Neutrons

666 is the Divine building blocks of Hexagram nature.

I was born on the 6th of June (6th month) at 6 o'clock.

Recovering from another episode, been chilled, writing and reading. Walking the dog. Went on another writing retreat. Thanks to the generosity of some fantastic people, I been five times now. Peaceful environment, well looked after. Write as much as I want. So, I got a bit done there, as usual. 35K words down now on this project. Sounds slow, I know, and it probably is compared to other people. Various excuses, I ain’t functional at times, due to schizophrenic breakdown in cognitive function. Also, dyslexic. But I’ve actually written much more than this. I do the unthinkable and edit as I go. When I write the next scene, I go back and edit the last. It works for me. I know many say you can get stuck doing that, but I don’t. I still go back after and go over it several times. But I never really have a first draft. It’s unorthodox but many great writers did it. Muriel Spark edited as she went too. I rarely do anything as prescribed. Actually, I rarely do anything.

It’s been pointed out to me that most people won’t recognise a lot of the obscure symbols and references in this piece. They ain’t pop culture or widely understood ideas. Spectral, esoteric symbols from ancient times. But I was already aware of that. It’s a slim spectrum who’ll get it. For a start, only a few will like this book. To get on with the symbols, you need to like strange stories about altered perception, lack of reality, set in a downward spiral to oblivion. But you’d also need an understanding of ancient, esoteric ideas. You can enjoy it without that, but you might not comprehend the symbols. It don’t really matter though and won’t spoil the enjoyment if you’re into dark, strange descriptions of madness and mystic mesmer.

I don’t really write within a genre. My last published book was a crime/horror crossover, but nothing like any other crime or horror books. Reviewed as being like nothing else out there. This is both good and bad. It’s good that it stands out unusual, but it’s also a problem trying to get anything like that published. Publishers want to place it as a description of subject. They want ‘comps’ to relate it to. So they can market it as a product. You often see new books described as being like another well known book. Or, if it’s something original, described as a cross between two. If you write something that don’t fit nowhere, they can’t do that and have no idea if it’s even commercially viable. Which, at the end of the day, is their game and fair enough, they have to sell to keep it all floating. My books are more like poetic descriptions of psychic phenomena set into a downward spiral than hero journey and story arc.

The Shaman - Sascha Schneider

Well then. Here’s another couple of excerpts from WIP, Her Him and the Photographer (working title)

Sitting down by the window, looking out at the rain. Ghosts wander the empty street, apparitions in the mist of the deluge. She waits for nothing to happen. Watches a raindrop trickle down the pane. The day drags on. Time slows down, then jumps forward. Speeds up and disappears. Lost hours. What happened?

She can’t leave the house. She can go to work, or to the shops, but if She went anywhere for Her own pleasure without telling Him first. If He found out. It’s not worth it. This house is Her prison. The door, a portal to the forbidden world. No one will save Her. Dark corners, gloomy rooms. Endless loneliness. She walks to the kitchen, afraid of the shadows, the empty space. Feels like something is watching Her. Some entity. The house? Watching Her every move. Walks down the hallway. It stretches out long before Her. Kitchen at the other end. With every step, the hall seems to grow longer. The kitchen further away. Hallway haunted by an awful spectre. She hears Him laughing. That terrible laugh. The urge to run overwhelms, but She holds it down and walks slow, determined steps. Something moves through the door of the kitchen. Shadows mocking. That laugh again. Echoes.

A tap drips. The stairs creek behind Her. Drifts into dreams and back, seamless, without transition. Here, then somewhere else. Then back again. Which what is which? Which one is real? Is any of it? Realities muddled up. Confusion. A Trickster God shuffling realities and dealing them to Her random pick. What’s real? The photograph is her only reality. She touches the banister and it’s solid under Her palm. Even that is hard to believe.

I believe in nothing and no one.

Washing the dishes, She drops a glass. It shatters in the sink. Picking out the broken pieces, cuts Her hand. Blood runs away down the plughole. He will be angry if He finds it. A favourite glass. Time turns inside out. The morning reaches into the late afternoon.

There’s a knock at the door. She opens it. Nobody there. The street is empty, both directions. Rain falls on the wet road. Rainbow puddles in a grey scene. Across the road, a neighbour watches from a window. Cold, sour face of the phantom. Distant sound of traffic. A dog barking. Shuts the door and looks through the spyhole. A tall, skinny man standing on the path. Long, thin arms, lopsided features. Opens the door again. No one there. The rain falls on a lonely, wet road, hopeless, without love. Steps out onto the path and stares up into the grey above, and the rain is a cold bliss falling on Her hot face.

Turns on the telly, transmits insipid soap opera horror into Her mind. Poison. Plastic faces, empty and void. Mean, vicious. Shouting. Crying. A tear runs down Her cheek. Wicked faces peer out from the screen. A look in the eyes, barely contained madness. She realises the woman in the TV is a witch. Psychic ray controlling Her thoughts. A grim spell. Feeding on Her, like some kind of soul-sucking vampire. Stealing dreams. Fear rises in the throat. An instinct to run away. Keep running till She can’t run anymore. The Shadow chases Her over the horizon, into The Abyss. Oblivion. The Shadow grows large as it closes down on Her heel. Towers above Her. Looming. Switches off the television. The house is quiet. The silence, a shocking and strange disquiet. The shimmering ellipse there before Her, in the middle of the living room, hanging in the air, about a foot off the floor. Startled. Holds down the jump in Her gut. Ripples of light gleam and dance, the reflections of sunbeams on the surface of a swimming pool. She watches it glimmer there in the duppy umbra of a silly noon. A flash of light fills the room a moment and where the ellipse had been, is a Black Cube, hovering ominous. As She looks on, She sees the tilted cube is now a hexagon. Saturn calls. And then, the hexagon fades to nothing. Atmosphere of dread. Like something terrible is about to happen. Slow afternoon anxiety. The minutes like hours. A feeling of knowing something She can’t put into words. It’ll come. Soon. Soon. If only She had a pet to love. He hates animals. Says they make a house smell bad.

The Red Mask of Death by Leonor Fini

Once, I saw a girl I knew from school, closest thing I had to a friend, she said happy birthday to me, and I was startled. Had no idea what month it was. I never make plans. Don’t bother. Too busy trying to avoid each horror as it occurs. Always on the run, or on the backfoot, staggering. Reeling. The rug’s been pulled from under me. Dizzy. Most of my time is an attempt to see beyond my rattled astonishment, a sort of confusion. A dream like navigation of disoriented uncertainty. Third-eye wobble. Inner space overwhelms and the outside world fragments. Shatters. Broken images I’m trying to piece together to make a picture. Nothing makes sense. Everyone wants to filter the chaos, to understand it, some level of order, but it’s not really there. It’s all chaos. Infinite and endless chaos of no distance or time, no end, no beginning, no order. That’s what I saw as a little girl, staring at the sun. The stars in the night. This reality is a constant flux of plastic truths and flip-mode attitude. Once you see it, there’s no going back. Everyone else is afraid of it. Can’t cope with the idea their precious truth is meaningless. Don’t exist. It’s all bent. Press-a-button-change-my-face. Ready for the next attack. Maybe. That same girl, the one who said happy birthday, I remember when we first started talking. I remember her face when she cut her leg, and I asked her if I could lick the blood off her wound. We were about seven or eight years old. She looked astonished and then her face changed, curious and she watched me lick the blood off her leg, a barely concealed smile of oppressed glee on her lips. I looked up into her eyes as I licked it. A strange connection I didn’t usually have with the other girls. We weren’t friends before that, and we never spoke of it after. A brief moment of discovery we shared. I wonder if she remembers. Her blood was sweet but also metallic, the taste of keys or coins, like a mess you lick off your fingers in the vampire urge to taste your gore after rubbing off a menstrual diddling.