All posts tagged blog fiction

Project Overview

“According to this account the promise of the devil was fulfilled to the very letter, Adam and Eve did not die, and they did become as gods, knowing good and evil…”

~ Robert Green Ingersoll, 1897

“Chronicling the Moon” ~ The Blog Opera

Acts

About

“Chronicling the Moon” is a bedtime story, a fairy tale with illustrations and music.

The chronicle is written from the perspective of Aden Moss, an acclaimed psychotherapist whose services are preoccupied with a ‘coven of one‘ – a catatonic Jane Doe known as Patient 28, who awakens with the winter solstice.

Using hypnosis, Aden travels into Patient 28’s subconscious and discovers twelve noteworthy past lives waiting. He arrives in a place called Eden, where he learns a woman named Eve was murdered in her garden, and a despondent God, mourning the loss, left Earth to Adam.

Complimenting the fairy tale is “Soldier of Eve”, a non-fictional blog delving into politics, sexuality, religion, and art.

Like my fictional character, Aden, I am an Eve supporter. Given man’s track record over the millennia, I’m of the persuasion we should give the women a chance, start adopting more nurturing ideals and policies.

There are no more kingdoms to conquer, only boogeyman to incite us. Sacrifices have been bravely made, wars fought and won. Embrace your spouse. Become friends with a neighbor very different from you. Tend to this garden, before it’s gone.

Guy Penn

A Bedtime Story (Fiction)

“Surely, whoever speaks to me in the right voice, him or her I shall follow.” ~ Walt Whitman

January 1989 – Initial Contact

I assumed it was a prank caller or a bad connection at first. But before hanging up I heard someone breathing on the other end. I pressed the receiver closer to my ear and heard a woman clear her throat.

“A friend referred me, said you might help with my pain,” the woman whispered, her voice cracking in and out.

“What’s causing the discomfort,” I asked?

“It’s my throat,” she said. “I’m losing my voice, my livelihood. But doctors haven’t been able to help me. They can’t isolate a cause.”

“You know I’m not a throat doctor,” I clarified.

“I know who you are,” the woman shot back.

I opened my planner and scanned the upcoming month. “Are you available next Thursday at 3:00 PM, or the following Tuesday…”

“I’ll be at your office 8:00 AM tomorrow, before you open,” the woman insisted.

I tossed my planner on the desk, then asked, “Whose name should I pencil in?”

Before hanging up, the woman replied, “My name is Dita.”

1 month later – first hypnosis

“How will this work,” Dita asked nervously. “I’m trusting you, Sigmund.”

“My name is not Sigmund,” I reminded, yet again. “And you’re sounding much better, more playful than…”

“Don’t you want to know why I trust you,” Dita scolded? “Shouldn’t my trust mean something to you?”

“Of course, I want your trust.” I replied. “But for these sessions to work best, I need you to realize…”

“Then ask me,” Dita demanded. “Ask me why I trust you.”

I smiled at my inability to control my patient. I was learning, though, conversing with Dita was more fluid when I followed her lead and didn’t fight the current. Besides, I was curious. “Why do you trust me, Dita?”

“You have Spanish eyes,” she said. “I can tell a lot by a man’s gaze, yours tells me that you are safe to trust, that your heart is here with me.”

It was evident that I was putty in Dita’s hands, to be molded and played with at her pleasure. “Thank you,” I said, all but blushing and fiddling with my imaginary pearls.

“Doesn’t mean I won’t hire some goons to kick your ass, if I end up quacking like a duck on the set of my Pepsi commercial,” she warned. “So don’t get any ideas when I’m under, Sigmund the Spaniard.”

“Sigmund the Spaniard,” I repeated with a nod and a grin.

Dita stretched out on the couch and slowly exhaled, before facing me again. “I hate relinquishing control,” she confided.

“I understand,” I reassured. “Most of us do.”

“You never answered my question,” she reminded. “How will this work?”

I removed a pocket watch from my jacket and dangled it in front of Dita.

“I will ask you to focus on this watch while holding onto my voice,” I calmly explained. “Imagine that I’m telling you a bedtime story after a long and troubling day. As you listen to my sentences, understand that today is the last day that I’m using words. They’ve gone out, lost their meaning, don’t function anymore…”

Sigmund the Spaniard

The Coven of One (Fiction)

“I’ve had so many lives since I was a child, and I realize how many times I’ve died.”

I am an acclaimed psychotherapist, although few outside my field have heard of me. My services are exclusive, reserved for a coven of one, an influential witch named Dita.

In the mid 1980’s the woman who would become my only client began suffering from chronic soar throats that were affecting her voice, jeopardizing her livelihood. Doctors performed multiple tests, but results came back inconclusive or ideal for a healthy young woman in her twenties. Worst of all, despite the countless treatments, nothing soothed her pain… Dita’s symptoms appeared to be psychosomatic, her imagination.

By the time I began treating Dita in 1989, her life was unraveling. She was hounded relentlessly by paparazzi and fans alike, attempting to balance fame and a very public divorce. Amid the chaos, her throat was getting worse. Speaking, let alone singing, had become unbearable. She found it difficult to breath at times and began experiencing night terrors, where she’d wake up gasping for air and holding her throat.

Trauma can remain dormant in the subconscious for years yet manifest physically. From the onset of Dita’s treatment, I frequently used hypnosis. I’d hoped to isolate a forgotten memory or fear. Instead, I discovered what I initially thought were multiple personalities.

Over several sessions, I noticed that when hypnotized Dita’s accent was starting to change. She was sounding more Russian.

I questioned the change. When awake, Dita didn’t recall or understand why she’d spoken with a Russian accent. When hypnotized, she just ignored me all together.

But then one session, when the accent was thickest, instead of asking why Dita sounded Russian, I asked, “Who am I speaking to?”

Dita didn’t reply at first, but I noticed her smirk. A few seconds later, she revealed, “My name is Anastasia. I am twelve of thirteen.”

…

Over the two decades I treated her, twelve past lives surfaced in Dita, all members of an exclusive coven of one. Most were historically significant, famous women with polarizing reputations. All had secrets they wanted to tell, records they were eager to set straight.

The collective life span of the coven of one dates back to the origins of man… and witch.

Through Dita I discovered a place called Eden. I’d learn a woman named Eve was murdered in her garden, and a despondent God, mourning the loss, left Earth to Adam.

Sigmund the Spaniard