Unearthing the Essence of Dark Storytelling: A Journey Through Memory and Myth

Homecoming

Welcome back, fellow seekers of the shadowed truth. In our last encounter, we stepped together into the dimly lit corridors of my world.  Tonight, let us begin a unique excavation, into the tomb of my past.

Follow me down this suburban road laid some sixty or seventy years prior. We see a mix of houses, some built in the late seventies in the style favored by the affluent of the time, others barely more than shacks. On the west side of the road, we see one such little shack; a yellow aluminum carapace holding a few rooms defined by disintegrating walls.  This was the first house I inhabited.

We are not deterred by the decades that have passed, for I have brought my ghoulish excavation crew. Not only do they know how to traverse the underground catacombs to find the corpses they eat, but they are also able to burrow through dreams and memories.  As they use spade and claw to dig into the past, we can see the arch of a forgotten tomb emerge from the dreaming in place of the house.  This is the tomb of my earliest childhood.

We may now break the seal and journey into a reconstructed chamber of my past, a living room within a tomb, akin to ancient Egyptian traditions, where each artifact tells a part of my story.

The Chamber of Forgotten Voices

Our first chamber is a living room, an eerie replica of the single room that was not completely cluttered by totems of dreams that would never come true. Here, the centerpiece is an old bulky wooden entertainment center, devoid of the flickering images of modern tales. Its lifeless screen is a blank canvas upon which the reflection of the horrendous living conditions once danced.  In the absence of a working television, radio shows became my sanctuary for the tumultuous of the other denizens whose festering hopes and dead aspirations turned gangrenous infecting them and driving them mad. The crackling voices and haunting narratives of shows like ‘The Shadow' were not just entertainment; they were my earliest teachers in the art of storytelling.

Sanctuary of Stories

As we venture deeper, the air grows dense with the heavy scent of kerosene. A heater, an archaic guardian of warmth in this cold tomb, belches its toxic fumes from its pit in the sunken floor. We must cover our faces, like intrepid archaeologists wary of ancient curses, to avoid the poisonous embrace that fills the room. This chamber, with its hazardous air, is a testament to the struggles and the resilience that fueled my early creative fires. I bear several scars from it from when I attempted to learn to walk by using it to hoist myself up. I never quite learned the lessons that pain was supposed to teach me.

As we leave the shadows of the living room behind, our expedition takes us to the next chamber; the library. Perhaps it once served as a tiny office or an inhumanly cramped bedroom or a closet, but now it stands as a sanctuary of knowledge and imagination.

This room is a bibliophile's haven, stacked from floor to ceiling with old books. Leather-bound volumes of ancient lore and vibrant pulp fiction create a kaleidoscope of forgotten worlds and untold adventures. The air is heavy with the scent of aged paper and leather, a perfume that speaks of countless hours lost in other worlds.

Beneath the weight of so many stories, the floors sag, groaning under the burden of untold tales and hidden truths. Each step we take is cautious, and respectful, as if the very ground beneath us is sacred, a testament to the power of words and imagination.

In this literary labyrinth, I recall a defining moment of my past. Once, as I was lost in the depths of these tales, a shelf, overwhelmed by its own burden, collapsed upon me. Buried under a mountain of stories, this was the first of my deaths. In that moment of darkness and isolation, trapped under a cascade of narratives, I found a profound connection with the characters and tales that had been my escape.

This experience was a rebirth, a resurrection of sorts. From the debris of that collapse, I emerged not just unscathed, but transformed. Each book that fell upon me was a seed, planting stories, ideas, and inspirations that would later bloom in the stories I would come to write.

Surrounded by the musty scent of leatherbound classics and the vibrant allure of pulp magazines, I found my companions. These books were more than just paper and ink; they were portals to worlds unseen and ideas unexplored. From the eerie tales of Lovecraft to the fantastical realms of Tolkien, from the tales of Assomov to the epics of Moorcock, and many others, each page turned a step deeper into my own imagination.

Now, I extend the invitation to you, fellow explorers: delve into the library of your own past. What books have shaped you, trapped you, transformed you? What stories have you emerged from, reborn, and renewed?

As we continue our exploration, more chambers await, each holding its own secrets and stories. The next part of our journey will uncover the heart of creativity and the crucible of imagination that has shaped my narrative voice.

Muraled Tunnel of a Past Life

Hidden behind a bookcase in this false library we find a tunnel leading to secret chambers unexplored. Murals painted on the wall all depict what?

The murals come alive with scenes of quiet solitude and pastoral duty. Here, I am depicted as a young shepherd, tending to goats and wandering among the grasses that struggle to hold against the wind amongst the rocky soil. The ground is more moss and lichen-covered stone than grass and dirt.

Here is an image of me standing on the edge of a sheer cliff surrounded by my goats, looking over a barren wasteland of stripped bedrock.

And this one depicts the playful chase, the constant vigilance as I scamper after the runaways, navigating slopes and valleys.  Here, you see me gripping the Billy by the horns, wrestling it down to bring the trip under control.

This section of the mural is alive with the stories told by the wind rustling through the grass, an ever-present voice narrating the tales of the earth and sky. Clouds above move in an eternal dance, forming characters and scenes, their silent plays performed across the vast canvas of the sky. Birds, perched or in flight, add their melodies to this symphony, each song a story in itself.

In these murals, the lessons of nature are evident. The solitude of the grasslands taught me the language of the earth and sky, the whispers of the wind, and the tales of the clouds. These experiences, imprinted on the walls of this passage, were the building blocks of my imagination, teaching me to see stories in the world around me.

I fondly remembered his time free of human contact except for brief hours in the evenings and mornings. Now, I invite you to reflect on your own connections with the natural world. What landscapes have spoken to you, and what tales have they whispered in your ear? How has the natural world shaped your understanding and your stories?

As we move forward, each mural, each chamber of this tomb, reveals more about the journey that has shaped me as a storyteller. Our next passage will lead us to the heart of transformation and creative awakening.

The Inner Tomb of Dark Stories

Even as a child, I felt an affinity with the darkness. It was in the quiet solitude of my thoughts that I first encountered the creatures and characters who would later populate my stories. This early dance with the macabre and the mysterious set the stage for the tales I would come to tell.

As peculiar as my interests were, so too were the ways I sought to understand the world. Each experience, from the mundane to the profound, was an examination of the human condition. I learned early that to tell a story was to lay bare the soul - both the writer's and the reader's.

The tunnel narrows, and the air grows still as we approach the heart of the tomb, the inner sanctum where the essence of my past resides. This final chamber, unlike the others, is not adorned with murals or relics of memory. Instead, it's a stark, almost forgotten space, cluttered with the detritus left by time and transient visitors.

Amidst the scattered boxes of refuse and the abandoned remnants of squatters, there lies the sarcophagus, a solemn and solitary monument to my childhood. It's a stark, unadorned vessel, contrasting with the clutter surrounding it as if emphasizing the purity and isolation of the memories it contains.

With a mixture of reverence and apprehension, we approach the sarcophagus. As we lift its heavy lid, we reveal not treasures of gold or jewels, but something far more precious and haunting – the final remains of my childhood. The rotted corpse inside is the innocence, dreams, and unfiltered perceptions of my youth.

This child died of violence and neglect. The humble trappings of the goat herding life and the collapsing structure of a house that should have been condemned years ago were still better than what became of this thing.

Perhaps a topic for another post, but most likely just dark inspiration for stories

This moment, standing before the remnants of my former self is a poignant reminder of the passage of time and the transformative journey of life. The decay speaks not of just of neglect but of evolution, a shedding of old skins to make way for new growth.

In this solemn space, I invite you to confront the sarcophagus of your own past. What parts of you have been left behind in the journey of growing and changing? How has shedding your former self allowed you to evolve and develop as a person and a storyteller?

Crafting Tales from Shadows

It was in these formative years that the foundation of who I am today was laid. The stories I tell now are not just fabrications of a darkened mind; they are reflections of a life lived at the edge of light and shadow, seeking beauty in the bleakest of moments.

If you've been observant, you may notice that there's no way out of this chamber. The door is sealed behind us, and now we sit in the darkness with our torch light slowly consuming the oxygen that our lungs will soon be desperate for.

An Invitation to Share Your Echoes

The journey through my past comes to an end, but the understanding and insights gained are just beginning. I do not fear another death, another recreation, another life with another name. These things are almost passe for me.

This exploration has been more than a mere walk through one of my tombs; it has been a voyage through the layers of my life, each chapter adding depth and meaning to the stories I tell.

How about you? Ignore the hyperventilation; it's not going to help.  Your vision continues to get blurry,  your breathing is shallow. Let the panic set it and then pass. Consider your prior lives; and the end of those lives.

Forgive me if my writing becomes a bit rambly here the effects of the suffocation prevents the mind from thinking clearly.

What are the echoes from your past that resonate in your present?

What stories stirred your soul when you were young, and how have they shaped the person you are today?

Think about these as consciousness slips away.

Thank you for sharing this deeply personal journey. Until we meet again, may you find peace in the memories of your past and inspiration in the stories yet to be told.

The Path Ahead

What will you be tomorrow?

As we continue this journey together, I will share more about the winding paths that led me to my dark storytelling; to this very moment of connection with you. The next post will delve into the pivotal moments of transformation and the embrace of a life less ordinary.

Thank you for walking this path with me. Until our next meeting, may your days be filled with curious thoughts and your nights with haunting dreams.