Scream in Darxination: A Pinterestic Novel

Scream in Darxination: A Pinterestic Novel

This is how Carola’s scream surged…

The scream

Can anybody hear me? Do I hear myself? When Paul, Stef, neighbors, strangers speak to me, my eardrums tremble?

Trapped inside an obscure infinite, I scream. I shriek across the silence of dark spaces. Light glows from another star, but how does light travel through nothingness?

Against walls of light, I scream. Life inside my body’s mute cells is happening in continuous flow, and I howl and bellow. Cells burst open, unified in my primordial cataclysm. I hear galaxies gone mad—love is crazy.

Universes, in their stillness, simmer crazy.


Carola’s vision painted soundscapes.

A terrible explosion shatters worlds as a pristine blast spikes a baby’s lung and invades alveola. Earth’s light embraces the newborn in shines while earthians hurray the emergence, unaware of the terrible hurt.

The unspeakable scream, cataclysmic, at the crossways between light and dark.

The purity of hurt immemorial—how to explain it in words? How when the human brain, the alleviator supreme, engulfs the unspeakable and hides the inaugural hurt?

Carola chose painting to hush her inaugural scream and tell the unutterable. Images told unspeakable stories—archaic, mundane, occult—in a language innate in us.

Hey yes, visual arts had conquered the world because subconscious hearts, not pompous sagacity, accessed images. Not smart brains or literate glances. Not peering eyes, but blood cells fretting in veins, pulsing, shuddering, sweating hemoglobin to electrify guts.

Carola depicted the battle of arts and the conqueror’s aura. Blood stories made a promising start, yeah, since the magical transfer occurred inside.

Basic chemistry, nothing but God’s miraculous art, set favorable foundations. Then, from the blood highways’ hub, our praised sacred heart, supernatural intendants took over.

Simple, nothing for the intellect to struggle, since internal affairs did the job—the visual was a saleable art, accessible to the masses. Transmission, quick and reception hands-free, through an innate medium. Only the artists struggled, though, but less, with the flow of modern devices.


Whereas word-pixels came in explanatory sequences. Bumpy chains and deep ravines sublimated in lines. A Sisyphean plight that explains authors quitting it in favor of snapping photography.

Then, words took time to read. But who boasted lavish time in this tight actuality, when minutes lost weight and seconds shrank to futility? When midnight ran into midday.

And who on earth dealt with words in prehistory?

Carola’s thought etched a smile, but unaccomplished, it petrified—in the beginning was the Word. Her mind got stuck. What if Word stood for an arcane principle, or better, the initial life spark? The spark that set our universe in motion, God’s particle.

God’s particle struck music. In her head, gods played music. But actual music filled the room to ease Carola’s intricate comprehension. Music came before Word, when from a vibrational body of energy, stemmed universes.

What if Word sparked this universe amid a maddening multitude? Was Carola a sinner to dare hear celestial music beyond God’s universe?

Voiceless scream

“Carola, you act as though in a trance. I’m here, with you.”

Carola awakened to the sound of Paul’s voice. He was speaking to her.

“Speak to me,” he was saying.

Speak to me, this is—”

“The melody?”

“Well, this was the first song, devastatingly beautiful in its shortness and spiky realism. Right now, though, I fancy myself breathing empty spaces.”

“Darling, Empty Spaces is on The Wall.”

“I didn’t mean that, but literally empty spaces. Well, more metaphysically than literally. Empty spaces are magnetic to me.”

“Magnetic fields…”

“Oh, you’re killing me, Paul. Music is killing me. I remember how I loved Jarre’s Magnetic Fields. And you know what, although The Wall is not my favorite, your intuition has led you to the single piece on that album that shreds me to … pieces. Sorry, can’t find another word. I’m too much into music tonight.”

“My God, Carola, why didn’t you make music? What stopped you when I see you are music?”

“Me. Myself stopped me.”

“You ran away from yourself?”

“Something like that—from my deep, voiceless scream. Now you see why I forbade myself to listen to the music I love. I simply wanted to stay in one … piece.”

“And in peace, I understand, dear woman.”

“Your understanding makes me feel good. But you still haven’t pinpointed my favorite of favorites. And we’ve missed the music, so I’ll play it from the beginning again.”

. . .

Adapted from Chapter 10. Scream

Photo by simbiothy — Envatoelements

About the author

Solar Writer walking on the dark side to bring mind's secrets to light, in romances with a psychological edge. Next Woman blogger showing you how to use the power of SELF to stay young, confident and magnetic.