Into Torture Porn

IMG_3719

Photo taken in Little Yellow Mountain, Guangdong – 2015.10.

Sorry, I have been away for so long. Having finished the first draft of In Between, the Goddamned Book, my second English novel, was a triumph in March, a personal history.

Less Than Mystery, the Fucking Book hangs my life between something and nothing. But this Goddamned Book has confidently lifted me up to a state of fearlessness. I feel taller than I am. I feel time is a revolver pointing at my back. I can’t stop the torrents of overwhelming thoughts of writing my third English novel while editing the second. Because I feel the need and must record what has been happening over the year and what is happening now. Because I may die if I don’t.

The horror of being nothing and nothingness is of dismemberment, of decay. Yet the faith of the ultimate lifestyle is art and the world is getting better never fades but only grows stronger as I write more.

And the extremes of this horror and this faith have dramatically pushed me into torture porn.

It is a feeling, an overcome feeling. The first torture porn I’ve “conquered” is Hostel, a splatter film, which, personally, means to splatter your soul with blood. Using the word “conquer” is not an exaggeration. For it took me nine years to finish the movie. It was disturbing and frustrating that I had to turn away every time when facing a bloody scene, like I couldn’t even look at my own blood when having a blood test. Why? What exactly was I afraid of?

It was a fear of dying with the intense redness of blood, which slowly consumed me till 2016. In the end, I found that the only way to overcome this fear was a philosophy. People make great profits out of torture porn like Hostel, because it is commercially successful. The blood is unreal, the act of killing is in fact a “mockumentary”, and the death fake. Go and feel pools of blood. Feel the fat thickness of gore. Feel the devil’s insanity. Feel yourself. You may suffer from trauma, but it is temporary. You are real and alive. Your feelings are strong. But you are the master of yourself, not a slave.

Therefore, torture porn has become the hands of a surgeon and a temptation.

And excuse me, I have to retreat again now.

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The Fucking Book – Less Than Mystery – Part One – The Dwarf – Chapter Three(7)

The Only Books I’ve Read Before College! They were, by chance, brought from out of the village by my father. They were nicely bounded by blue cloths on inside-out math textbook covers,well-bended nails and strong threads, with patterns of holes that are made by insects. No idea how old they are. But they’re with me now.

 

Less Than Mystery

Heather Cai

Chapter 3


{Click here to read Chapter Three (6)}

I was touched deeply by its look and the way it behaved. The sound of its fluttering still echoed somewhere in my ears and the images rose before my eyes time and again. I smiled, so did my whole family. My aunt called it God’s wish. My parents called it a Spirit of my grandmother. By then, I was too amazed to give it a proper name.

Vividly, the images of her fresh fingerprints and the mysterious bound feet in gray shoes appeared in my mind when I thought of her now and then. Sometimes they blurred in my dreams, like an abstract photo or movie, replaying over and over again.

* * * * *

There, too many questions occupied my head. More and more question marks that I didn’t understand and couldn’t find the answers. If I asked my parents, they would just say, It’s your grandma, as they told my curious brother. No more talking, respect it and let your grandmother rest in heaven with your grandfather, they marked it by rapping with the chopsticks on their hands. So I buried all the questions deeply into my mind and believed one day, the books would tell me.

The books would tell everything as long as you study in the school, I muttered as I often did.

But the books just say, Don’t believe in any superstitions, don’t believe in any ghost. The books don’t explain, Why. The books just tell me Do this and do that, don’t do this and don’t do that. But the books seldom answered my questions.

After years of school life I found the textbooks were more useful for the countless examinations than what you need in reality. Apart from the textbooks and some other books good for the tests, no other books were allowed in the school before college. No library, no computer either. Oh, there was one room called a library in my high school, but all were rubbish propaganda with all forms of Maoism and Deng Xiaoping Theory. Such as “Long life Mao Zedong Thought” or “Capitalism is bound to perish, and Socialism will replace Capitalism” or “All reactionaries are paper tigers”.  No one ever bothered to borrow anything but some old, useless magazines. Until college, in the library there, finally I started reading some literary books which I found made me feel at home.

Since then, I would rather call the butterfly supernatural.

As through time passing, many complex feelings emerged in my mind and a simple light formed and reflected in my eyes. All told me, that a huge mountain was heavily falling and invisibly pressing down on me and my family.

And the only way that I could go out and see the other side of the mountain was, as I believed, Knowledge changes fate.

The End of The Extract!

PS:

If anyone who simply likes reading the words, the language, the story, or wants to know more about the character, the mysteries and my world, please feel free to like or comment. Any kind of remark will be highly appreciated.

If any agent or publisher, or anyone who has any connection with any agent or any publisher, would be interested in this Fucking Book, please contact this email:

FB.Heather@Outlook.com

Thank you so much!

Drawing#70: Cry

 

 

Cry

“I’m worth more dead than alive.

Don’t cry for me after I’m gone;

cry for me now.

–  Marlene Dietrich-

 


From now on, I’ll post my drawings weekly, or maybe twice a week. To share the below auto-biographic stories, I’ll keep being creative, transforming my thoughts into words and images.

I started school when I was ten. In primary school, there was no lessons other than Maths and Chinese. The rest were merely reading on your own and doing homework. So basically, I had to skip the rest of the classes to do housework or farmwork. And the teacher used charcoal to write on the wooden board. Not to mention that I never owned any proper paper. One evening after dinner, I invited my best playmate to visit my room. We sat up on the bed face to face, looking into each other. Then we came up with an idea to draw each other’s face. So we used the back page of my Chinese and Math books, which were blank and white. In the end, we looked again and again at the drawings, laughing with pride. Too bad, soon the pictures faded away naturally. Now the drawn face has become vague, but the memory of my very first drawing with a pencil is still vivid. Continue reading

The Fucking Book – Less Than Mystery – Part One – The Dwarf – Chapter Three(6)

The sight of a butterfly’s back!

(Photo taken in Kuala Lumpur of Malaysia, 2015.2)

Less Than Mystery

Heather Cai

Chapter 3


{Click here to read Chapter Three (5)}

After cooking some dishes, with the warmth and excitement melted with the scents of smell from the food, the heat from burning fire and the sticky wetness from the sweats, I couldn’t help stealing some home-made wine. Almost each dish I cooked, I would swallow a mouthful of wine before adding to the food in the pot. The more I drank, the more excited I felt and the stronger waves of warmth kept my feet tipping and tapping time and again. As though I was going to pee very soon.

Meanwhile, my aunt was busily cooking in her kitchen. When she finished some dishes, she would ask me, How many more left to cook? Is the butterfly still there? Strangely, no matter how delicious the smell sent forth from my aunt’s kitchen, the butterfly never flew there. But my aunt was not surprised, not depressed. It seemed as if she was afraid that the butterfly would just fly away and disappear unhappily. As long as the butterfly was happy, she would do as it pleased, she thought.

As each dish was finished, I put it on the table at the end of a spacious hall in the open air with bright sunshine. Before that, my father already put some tobacco leafs and a bamboo pipe on one side. When all the steaming hot dishes were placed on the table, I poured the old sweet sour red wine into eight small red plastic cups, two on each side of the table.  By the time I returned to the kitchen to take off the cooking cloth which was tied to my waist, it was too late to run for the toilet outside the house. I couldn’t move, not even stretch my body. For half a minute, I had to bend my back, press my hands on my thighs and squish my legs tightly, trying to hold it a bit longer. With the thin loose trousers without any belt, I could easily have taken them off and pee into the ditch about five steps behind me.

However, once I tried to relax and move, the uncontrollable waves turned into a different warmth, running down through my thighs and my hands. It felt so good that I just stayed still. I found myself pissing right in front of the burning stove, relieved. I then tied the cooking cloth back to my waist and quickly cleaned the floor. Silently I withdrew to my bedroom to change the clothes. As soon as I joined my family in another room, everyone was ready to watch secretly through the gap in the small window.

Astonishingly, the butterfly appeared and fluttered first around the roof with a small sound. In a moment, it flew closer and closer above the table in an up-and-down circle like ballet dancing. With a certain slow speed, it flew and slightly touched the food on each dish and sometimes the plastic cup of wine, like a dragonfly skimming on the surface of the water.

Later on, peacefully, the butterfly rested on the edge of one side of the table, looking as if it felt full, satisfied and contented for a little while. Then surprisingly, it flew and fluttered again around the roof in circles. Sometimes low, sometimes high. For a few seconds, it stopped over the roof with eyes staring at the food on the table. It seemed as if the butterfly was saying goodbye, sadly and happily. Suddenly, again it circled around for the last time, flew away to the wild and disappeared in the distance.

Since then, nobody ever caught a sight of the butterfly again.

{Click here to read Chapter Three (7)- the end of the extract}

To be continued…

PS:

If anyone who simply likes reading the words, the language, the story, or wants to know more about the character, the mysteries and my world, please feel free to like or comment. Any kind of remark will be highly appreciated.

If any agent or publisher, or anyone who has any connection with any agent or any publisher, would be interested in this Fucking Book, please contact this email:

FB.Heather@Outlook.com

Thank you so much!

Drawing#69: Hatred

 

Hatred

“Years of love have been forgot

In the hatred of a minute.

–  Edgar Allan Poe –

“IT IS BETTER TO BE HATED FOR WHAT YOU ARE THAN

TO BE LOVED FOR WHAT YOU ARE NOT.”

 


From now on, I’ll post my drawings weekly, or maybe twice a week. To share the below auto-biographic stories, I’ll keep being creative, transforming my thoughts into words and images.

I started school when I was ten. In primary school, there was no lessons other than Maths and Chinese. The rest were merely reading on your own and doing homework. So basically, I had to skip the rest of the classes to do housework or farmwork. And the teacher used charcoal to write on the wooden board. Not to mention that I never owned any proper paper. One evening after dinner, I invited my best playmate to visit my room. We sat up on the bed face to face, looking into each other. Then we came up with an idea to draw each other’s face. So we used the back page of my Chinese and Math books, which were blank and white. In the end, we looked again and again at the drawings, laughing with pride. Too bad, soon the pictures faded away naturally. Now the drawn face has become vague, but the memory of my very first drawing with a pencil is still vivid. Continue reading

The Fucking Book – Less Than Mystery – Part One – The Dwarf – Chapter Three(5)

The smokes rising from my home village!
(Picture taken on that early morning in December,2015)

 

Less Than Mystery

Heather Cai

Chapter 3


{Click here to read Chapter Three (4)}

As my grandfather was gone, my father spoke less than before. He looked shorter than usual as he stooped slightly. The words, the face, the eyes, the sighs, the horny hands, and the growing wrinkles on his forehead here and there, all showed that he was laden with heavy responsibilities.

He was a country man. He was not a hero, though. In one way or another, I respected him even though he kept crushing my little heart.

* * * * *

From the day of my grandfather’s death, all of my family had been praying for the special day to welcome the dead back home. It was the greatest feast of the year – the Ghost Day.

In the early afternoon of Ghost Day in July that year, my parents and siblings were watching dull TV shows on a black-and-white television in their bedroom upstairs. My father reckoned not to disturb the butterfly as he expected that it would appear like before. My mother was pleased by my interest in cooking this big dinner for the ancients. My siblings, except my old sister, who was absent, were all excited to watch what would happen during this dinner through the gap in a window. And I alone prepared lots of different food downstairs, as I wished, much more food than ever.

I enjoyed cooking by myself in the kitchen, maybe something to do with my very unusual youth playing with the wood-burning stove and the black charcoal. In the early afternoon, my mother already had offered all the materials and ingredients for the dinner and put them all over the small kitchen. Most of the food was dry home-planted vegetables like lettuce, potatoes, tomatoes, many kinds of beans and some wild plants, hand-made tofu to fry and white tofu to cook soup with the fish heads. Some meat like pork and fried pig skin, fresh fish from the farm lands, crisp fried small crabs and small shrimps caught from the river the day before, a chicken roasted by my mother in the early morning and other different kinds of home-made food which were typical for Ghost Day.  Looking at all these kinds of food with different colors, thinking of the beautiful butterfly, I felt so excited that a great wave of warmth was emerging between my legs. And that sort of warmth just made me feel even more excited.

I cut all into pieces and put them on each plate. I smashed, sliced, chopped and minced all the ingredients, then put them together on a big plate. I made sure that there was a full jar of home-made red wine, from which I used to steal some to drink while cooking. When everything was ready, I set the wood fire and started cooking. Soon after that, the butterfly flew over my head and circled around the kitchen under the roof looking as if it was happy coming home. Somehow, it calmed and comforted me.

{Click here to read Chapter Three (6)}

To be continued…

PS:

If anyone who simply likes reading the words, the language, the story, or wants to know more about the character, the mysteries and my world, please feel free to like or comment. Any kind of remark will be highly appreciated.

If any agent or publisher, or anyone who has any connection with any agent or any publisher, would be interested in this Fucking Book, please contact this email:

FB.Heather@Outlook.com

Thank you so much!

Drawing#68: Singer

 

“The best advice I can give a young aspiring singer is not to become an old aspiring singer.

– – Renata Scotto

“There are a lot of aspiring singers who are not to be paid attention to because they don’t look like a fashion model.

– – Linda Ronstadt

 


From now on, I’ll post my drawings weekly, or maybe twice a week. To share the below auto-biographic stories, I’ll keep being creative, transforming my thoughts into words and images.

I started school when I was ten. In primary school, there was no lessons other than Maths and Chinese. The rest were merely reading on your own and doing homework. So basically, I had to skip the rest of the classes to do housework or farmwork. And the teacher used charcoal to write on the wooden board. Not to mention that I never owned any proper paper. One evening after dinner, I invited my best playmate to visit my room. We sat up on the bed face to face, looking into each other. Then we came up with an idea to draw each other’s face. So we used the back page of my Chinese and Math books, which were blank and white. In the end, we looked again and again at the drawings, laughing with pride. Too bad, soon the pictures faded away naturally. Now the drawn face has become vague, but the memory of my very first drawing with a pencil is still vivid. Continue reading

The Fucking Book – Less Than Mystery – Part One – The Dwarf – Chapter Three(4)

 

 

The Dying, The Dead and The Rotten! (Picture taken in Fujian, 2015.12)

Less Than Mystery

Heather Cai

Chapter 3


{Click here to read Chapter Three (3)}

Maybe my father had immense fear of the tough life if my grandfather passed away. As he had been struggling to apply for a pension from the town government for my grandfather, the only source of income there was that needed no hard work or hands like the fucking farmwork.

Each autumn, after the harvest, my father would walk for mile after mile on the mountain path to the town government. But for years the government either gave poor excuses or simply ignored my father without any excuse or regard.

By my father’s sheer persistence, my grandfather got his first pension of thirty-eight yuan per month. Due to my father’s greater persistence in his efforts, the next year, the pension rose to more than one hundred. Thanks to my father’s continuous struggling efforts, two years later my grandfather got about three hundred as his final pension. And the local newspaper came to interview him, wrote and published an article as the headline of the week. Less than half a year after that, he died of the suffering diseases, peacefully.

At his funeral, it was my father who shed the most tears in despair among the whole family as though he had become an orphan who wanted love from parents the most. The others just took it ritually as if his death was only a part of nature. And the villagers were emotionless and silent as usual as though my grandfather never existed. Throughout the whole funeral I was too sad to cry. Moreover I was thinking of him and the old days when we were so close to each other. He never died in my heart. Never will, I thought.

It was a must to hold a big ceremony for the dead. However, any superstition activity would cost a big fortune at that time and when my grandmother died, no one in the family could really afford it. Now that my grandfather had died this ceremony could be performed for both. It lasted three nights and four days, hosted by a master. Throughout the whole of the activity all the daughters knelt down and cried out aloud till they lost their voices or just fainted onto the ground. And the sons, like my father and my uncle, one held a wooden board with the full name of my grandfather carved on it and the other held one for my grandmother. It was said that only with such a ceremony would the dead have their spirits joined to heaven. So every single family would help the dead to do so, no matter how much the cost.

* * * * *

No more grandfather, no more pension, no more extra living but all primarily relied on small farms with the terraces, no machines, but only by hand, and never ever entirely self-sufficient.

{Click here to read Chapter Three (5)}

To be continued…

PS:

If anyone who simply likes reading the words, the language, the story, or wants to know more about the character, the mysteries and my world, please feel free to like or comment. Any kind of remark will be highly appreciated.

If any agent or publisher, or anyone who has any connection with any agent or any publisher, would be interested in this Fucking Book, please contact this email:

FB.Heather@Outlook.com

Thank you so much!

Drawing#67: Butterfly

 

Butterfly

“The fluttering of a butterfly’s wings can effect climate changes on the other side of the planet.

– – Paul Erlich

“I would like to think that the singer is the butterfly, and the drummer was just the little grub in the ground, working to become a caterpillar.

– – Robert Wyatt

 


From now on, I’ll post my drawings weekly, or maybe twice a week. To share the below auto-biographic stories, I’ll keep being creative, transforming my thoughts into words and images.

I started school when I was ten. In primary school, there was no lessons other than Maths and Chinese. The rest were merely reading on your own and doing homework. So basically, I had to skip the rest of the classes to do housework or farmwork. And the teacher used charcoal to write on the wooden board. Not to mention that I never owned any proper paper. One evening after dinner, I invited my best playmate to visit my room. We sat up on the bed face to face, looking into each other. Then we came up with an idea to draw each other’s face. So we used the back page of my Chinese and Math books, which were blank and white. In the end, we looked again and again at the drawings, laughing with pride. Too bad, soon the pictures faded away naturally. Now the drawn face has become vague, but the memory of my very first drawing with a pencil is still vivid. Continue reading

The Fucking Book – Less Than Mystery – Part One – The Dwarf – Chapter Three(3)

Less Than Mystery

Heather Cai

Chapter 3


{Click here to read Chapter Three (2)}

Since then, there was a big beautiful butterfly flying in the open air above the kitchen when we cooked dinner at the usual time. Then when the cooking was finished, it would fly away as carelessly as it appeared. On the first day, I thought it was just a normal butterfly. But the following day at the same evening cooking time, the same butterfly appeared with its wings fluttering around, as if saying hello. In the same area, it happily circled around above the steaming heat of the cooking pot.  How amazing it was!

Then the next day, and the next, the next and next, the butterfly would appear and disappear at the same time, same place, naturally.  Though the butterfly never visited my grandfather, just like my grandmother never spoke to my grandfather. Not in my memory. Not even a look.

* * * * *

Unfortunately, when I thought I could talk to my grandfather about the butterfly, he was suffering from the terrible illness which made him blind, deafer and mentally crazy. Also the cough made it quite difficult for him to speak for long. Day by day, he looked older, thinner and weaker with sunken cheeks and hollow eyes. Gradually, he turned sad and depressed like a sickened crow in the graveyard, powerless and fruitless.

Is he waiting for something like death? I wondered.

Especially, when fetching his diary regarding his medals from an old wooden box under his bed, and reading quietly beside him, now and then, I sadly glanced at his colorless face and heard his heavy breath from his half blocked nose. Sometimes, I caught some teardrops stealing out of his eyes and falling to his ears across his face. And that too gave me tears in silence.

After my grandfather was unable to live as he had done before, one evening, my father beat him twice in my sight when feeling frustrated from heavy farm work, while my grandfather was groaning noisily and painfully. One time he punched him in the shoulder and the other he kicked his legs with great anger. In half a minute, my father shouted out in a tone like a sudden thunderstorm, Why not die?! Old sickened thing! Burden! Die! Better we all go to die!

The room was dead silent and the air was frozen like a burial chamber under the snows. All of a sudden, my father burst out with floods of tears and cried like a helpless baby in the wild rocky desert. 

{Click here to read Chapter Three (4)}

To be continued…

PS:

If anyone who simply likes reading the words, the language, the story, or wants to know more about the character, the mysteries and my world, please feel free to like or comment. Any kind of remark will be highly appreciated.

If any agent or publisher, or anyone who has any connection with any agent or any publisher, would be interested in this Fucking Book, please contact this email:

FB.Heather@Outlook.com

Thank you so much!