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Imi was born and raised in Europe, Hungary. After finishing his school years, he moved to Canada to search for a better life. He lived in Toronto for 13 years and currently resides in Vancouver. He is a romantic at heart with a strong desire to always do the right thing. He would like to give hope to the Chinese and Asian ladies with his story and send a message that love eventually finds everybody.
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Autumn in Guilin 桂林 * 秋日 Part 2 - The Nightmare 一个噩梦    

By Imi
2700 Views | 11 Comments | 3/27/2016 3:15:48 PM

In my dream, I had been an air paramedic. . .



As the helicopter touched down, not far from a small shed, I opened the door and jumped out onto the freshly manicured lawn. The smell of the grass immediately lavished me with childhood memories. Unfortunately, not for long. From one moment to the other, my nose was corked with the distinct smell of blood, and my memories went sour like a bottle of wine spoiled by oxygen.



There was blood on the ground, trailing from the shed all the way up and around the main house. It looked as if someone had painted a red, three-foot-wide question mark with a huge brush on the perfectly cut green grass. I followed the bloody trail around the house, but before it led me around the corner to the backyard, I stopped and tried to collect myself. Seeing that much blood, I expected to find no one alive if I turned the corner, so I wasn't in a hurry. Dry-mouthed and dripping with nervous sweat under the early morning sun, I leaned against the house and tried to bring my nerves under control. I pulled out a flask from my back pocket and re-moistened my mouth with a sip of my favorite drink—a Bloody Mary.



As soon as my tongue tasted the lukewarm sip, my stomach jerked into a knot and, like a pebble from a slingshot, catapulted into my throat. While coughing and retching as the Bloody Mary and phlegm ejected from my mouth and squirted the grass—not leaving my shoes out of the spray, either—in front of me, my brain flashed images of the terrible accidents and homicides that I had encountered throughout my career.



I had never been squeamish at the sight of blood. I could handle the sight of steaming entrails scattered over white snow or torn-off limbs and even decapitated heads. But on the day when I was dispatched to the cottage of one of my favorite writers in the mountains, I would have rather restricted my admiration of a butcher's workmanship, strictly in his shop, when I found myself craving a nicely cut filet mignon. My stomach—and I don't blame it for the retching in any way—wasn't ready to take the view of Mr. King lying in a bloody mess on the green grass of his own backyard.



Eventually, after my stomach retreated from my mouth and my flask found its way back into my back pocket, I was ready to do my job.



I took one more deep breath and turned the corner.



Had the backyard been a painting, it would have impressed me with its surrealistic nature. However, the things at which I was looking weren't a painting, and I certainly wasn't in Teatro Museo Dali in Figueres, Spain, admiring Salvador Dali's finest works. The gardener had done an outstanding job, though, recreating, out of the grass and bushes, some of the most recognizable figures and objects of the stunning, unique Spanish painter. Besides the 10-foot-high hedgerows that were cut and shaped into elephants standing on stork legs and the trunks of the trees resembling men's faces with their bark twisted into frozen grotesque smiles, there were chopped-off body parts scattered around, oozing and smearing the green grass with blood.



At the edge of the backyard, a yellow helicopter with white blades sat on a helipad stand. The white blades, less than a few inches from touching the ground, looked like the remaining petals of a wilting daisy that a little girl sentenced to disperse in the morning breeze by chanting, “Love me, love me not.” Right next to the helicopter, a chubby, elderly woman wearing a white apron over a floral housecoat had thrown an upper torso of a man into the belly of the helicopter just as I yelled, “Hey, what are you doing?”



She looked up at me, picked up another bloody chunk off the ground, and, indifferently, as if she were to clean off the backyard of the things that the long winter had left behind, threw a foot after the torso.



During the entire procedure, she'd never taken her eyes off me. I looked at those eyes and saw nothing in them that I would call human emotions. The doors to her soul were chained and padlocked by lunacy, and peering at her eyes, trying to catch a tiny glimpse of sanity made as much sense as watching a lawnmower start itself and head in my direction.



As the lawnmower approached me, the woman climbed into the cabin of the helicopter, grabbed the cyclic between her legs with a jerk as firm as a bear rends a tree for insects, and inadvertently pulled her housecoat all the way up to the middle of her thighs. At that point, I wasn't sure what made me more terrified— her monkey-like hairy limbs or the self-driven lawnmower that started to chop to pieces the dismembered body parts on the grass.



As if this scene weren't enough to make my legs root to the ground with panic, the woman turned the engine on, and the rotors began to fusillade me with small bits of human flesh and fragments of bone from the grass. Then, just as I was watching a freak show, the torso from the back seat propped itself up against the window. It, apparently, did it for two reasons: It didn't want to miss his big entrance in my nightmare, and it meant to give me a minor heart attack.



As the helicopter lifted off the ground, I caught a perfect view of the deep gash on the nape of its neck. When I was about to wonder how the head was still attached to the neck, the head turned 180 degrees, like an owl when it hears a mouse rummaging in the grass, looked down at me, seemingly trying to say something. I, however, couldn't hear a word of what he was saying. The noise coming from the lawnmower and the whirring of the helicopter was just too deafening and made my eardrums undulate like a freshly washed bedsheet on a line on a windy day. He kept on talking, though, ostensibly repeating the same thing over and over again. In a last desperate attempt, before the chopper got too high in the air, I tried to lip-read what the poor fellow was trying to say: “. . . EYES. . . CLOSE. . . YOUR. . . EYES. . . CLOSE. . . YOUR. . .” Such were the words that I could make out from the toothless, bloody void that had been his mouth perhaps twenty minutes earlier. Regardless of the great effort that he put into talking to me, what he said didn't help me in any way. There was no freaking way I would have closed my eyes when a bloody, flesh-eating lawnmower was getting dangerously close to me. My feet still felt as if they were rooted to the ground. I couldn't move them, but I felt every fiber in them scream in terror.



The lawnmower was ten feet away. . .



Then, five feet. . .



“Where the hell are the police?” I bellowed at the yellow helicopter as it hovered over me. . .



Two feet. . .



“Or a lumberjack to chop off my legs so I could crawl?” I shouted at the final moment, and my feet bellowed with me in agony.



我梦到自己是个飞行医务人员. . .



直升机降落到一个小棚屋附近的空地上,我立马开门跳下来。扑鼻而来的是新鲜的青草的气味,脚下是一块草坪,很显然是用割草机刚刚修过。这新剪过的青草的味道让我有种回到儿时的感觉。可惜,还没等我开始享受这美美的旧时的味道,顿时又有股血腥味朝我的鼻腔涌来,那清新甜美的记忆一下变酸了,好似一瓶红酒被空气浸入而变味了。



我看到地上血迹斑斑,沿着小棚屋一直到上面的主房,就像有人用一支大刷子在修剪整齐的草地上画了一个三英尺宽的红色大问号。我顺着血迹一直走到房子向后院的拐角处,我停下来想了想,地上那么多血,估计这里已经没有幸存的人了。我让自己稍稍放松下来,才意识到尽管还是早上,太阳已经火热了,我汗如雨下,而且嘴巴干得在冒火。我倚在墙边,从口袋里掏出一只小酒瓶,这里面的玩意是我的最爱——血玛丽,我喝了一小口当是润润嘴巴。



舌头刚触到那暖暖的一小口,我的肚子突然扭成一个结,里面好像有只弹弓朝我的嗓子眼射了一颗石子,我连咳嗽再吐,血玛丽夹着痰液溅在草坪上,当然还有我的鞋子上。这时,我脑子里浮现出很多自我干这行以来血腥的场面。



我不怕血。冒着热气的散落在雪地上的肠肚子,四零八落的胳膊腿手指头脚后跟,以及滚在一边的脑袋瓜子,这种种场面我又不是没收拾过。可当我被派到山里的这个小棚屋时,我宁愿到一个屠夫的作坊去欣赏他如何给我漂亮地宰一块菲列牛排。因为这个小棚屋里住着我最崇拜的一位作家。我的肚子在翻江倒海,这不能怪它,因为此刻看到金先生在自家院子倒在血泊中的这一幕,就像是毫无防备下有人对着我的肚子给了一拳。



终于,我的五脏六腑从我的嘴巴里回归原位,我的小酒瓶也回到了我的口袋,这时,我开始干活。



我深吸一口气,拐角向后院。



如果这院子是一副画,我倒可以欣赏它的超现实主义风格。可我眼前的这些并不是画,我也不可能是站在西班牙达利戏剧博物馆里欣赏萨尔瓦多达利的名作。不过,这里的园丁手下的活倒是很漂亮,我认出来他把草和树丛修剪成的一个个肖像,有一些是西班牙有名的艺术家。那片大约10英尺高的树篱墙被修剪成有着粗壮大腿的几只大象,树桩被雕成人脸的模样,粗皱的树皮好似在人脸上凝固的怪异的微笑。这周围是散落满地的支零破碎的身体部件,草地被血浸泡 的污迹斑斑。



一架机身为黄色的直升机停在后院外侧的一小片停机坪上。白色的旋翼离地面只有几英尺,看过去就像是一朵雏菊上仅剩的几瓣花瓣,其它的大概又是被哪个小女孩一瓣一瓣拔掉了,每拔一瓣说一句“他爱我”,下一瓣说“他不爱我”。直升机旁是个穿花外套白围裙的胖胖的女人,她正搬着一截男人上体往机舱里扔。我见状朝她喊道,“嘿~,你在干吗?”



她看向我,面无表情,同时弯身搬另一截血肉模糊的躯体,好像是正在打扫冬天过后满院子的干枝败叶。这时,她捡起一只脚扔进去。



这期间她一直看着我。跟她对视时,从她的眼睛里我看不到任何可以称为人的情感的神情,通向她灵魂的那道门已经被“疯狂”这个东西串上链子锁上了。即使我凝视她的双眼,也无法捕捉到一丝正常,就像我无法理解对面的一台割草机怎么会突然发动引擎并朝我的方向开过来。



这个女人上了直升机,她随手把花外套往上撩到大腿根,把驾驶杆用力往双腿间一拉,就像是一只熊哗嚓一下把一棵树撕开去吃树里的虫子。这时我说不清是她那猴子一样毛茸茸的四肢还是那台割草机边朝我开来边粉碎沿途的残肢断臂更让我惊恐。



由于惊恐我已经被钉在地上似的拔不动双脚,这还不算,那个女人发动直升机后,被旋翼的风卷起来的血和肉夹着碎骨头朝我飞射过来,这时飞机后座上的那截人的躯干突然立起来贴在窗户上也加入了这场畸形怪诞秀。我猜有两种原因它这么贴窗立起: 一是它不想错过参与这场秀的机会,二是非要把我吓出心肌梗塞。



直升机离开地面时我看到它后脖颈上的那道很深的裂缝。我正在疑惑它的脑袋为何还能粘着没掉时,它像一只猫头鹰听到草地里老鼠悉悉索索的声音一样突然把脑袋转了180度朝我看下来而且似乎跟我说了什么。我一个字也听不见,割草机和直升机在震天响着,我的耳膜就如大风天搭在绳子上的床单似的噼里啪啦抖着。它还在对我说话,而且很明显看出它在重复什么。就在直升机越升越高我在最后能看到这半截家伙的一刻我大概从口型猜出它在说: “. . . 眼睛. . . 闭上. . . 你的. . . 眼睛. . . 闭上. . . 你的. . .” 这就是我从它那已经没有一颗牙的二十分钟前大概还被叫做嘴巴的血洞里猜出的几个词。不过它费老大劲说出的,我费老大劲猜出的这些个词对我根本一点用处派不上。当这台喝人血吃人肉的面目狰狞的割草机离我越来越近时,我的眼睛根本他妈的没法闭上。我的脚仍然钉在地上似的挪不动,我听到自己每一根神经都在极度恐惧中尖叫。



割草机离我只有10英尺。. .



五英尺。 . .



黄色直升机在我头顶上盘旋,“他妈的警察在哪儿?”我开始咆哮。. .



两英尺。 .



“来个伐木的吧,把我的腿锯掉我好爬着逃命啊啊啊啊~!”我最后开始呼喊,双脚也在跟我一起挣扎。


Copyright owned jointly by Author and CyberCupid Co., Ltd. Breach of copyright will be prosecuted.
Comments
(Showing 1 to 10 of 11) 1 2 More...
#2016-03-27 15:14:24 by JohnAbbot @JohnAbbot

Wow Imi! That is not the way I remember Guilin!

You must have been a really joyful travel companion at the time, what with just coming out of such peaceful and serene dreams in time to go view the scenery.

I am going to hold off further comments for now because I want to rush off and spend the next few hours trying to sleep with Imi's nightmare running through my head.

But for those of you interested in seeing a different part of Guilin I highly recommend viewing this video, full screen and on the biggest screen possible. It really is pretty stunning. https://player.vimeo.com/video/107995891

Thanks for the sleepless night, Imi. (swear) (rofl)

#2016-03-28 11:04:52 by Macchap @Macchap

I have never been to Guilin and in the event I do go, I'd like to know where this grueling scene has taken place and if you're around... Like John, I still have to go to sleep.

While I was reading your story I couldn't help but say "Wtf is this all about?" and then this cliffhanger... Geez Imi, what's next?

#2016-03-28 16:19:31 by anonymous14673 @anonymous14673

Your writing draws most of its strength from your honesty. You are honest with your own emotions and with others. However, in this piece of writing, I cannot feel the power of your honesty. I hope this piece of writing has not been influenced by another CLM member describing your writing as "fluffy".

I know you are supposed to be describing a dream that you had, but this writing seems pointless and does not make the grade for me. Stick to honesty. Honesty is very powerful and certainly not fluffy. You do honest emotions better than any other writer on CLM. I learn much more from honesty and I certainly rate it much more highly than "entertaining" fiction or second-grade attempts at satire.

#2016-03-29 05:28:16 by Imi5922 @Imi5922

John
@Macchap

I've been expecting some confusion after this second part of the story, so your comments are no surprise to me. I'd like to ask both of you to bear with me a little longer, and the story itself will give you my answers.

Truthfully, I wavered between posting this somewhat odd part and leaving it entirely out of the story. Eventually, what made me post it as it is was the fact that, it was the part that initially triggered an idea in me to write "Autumn in Guilin." Leaving it out could have been like growing a tree without roots.

John, I'm getting the feeling that you're expecting this story to be an advertisement for the wonders of Guilin. I hope you won't be disappointed when I tell you that it's not a story about tourism. Believe it or not, the story will develop into a full-fledged love story. I know it's hard to believe it after reading part - 2, but in my humble opinion, if I can say that as the person who wrote the story, "Autumn in Guilin" is a better love story than "My Love for Lily" has ever been. I'm aware of the fact that the second try on something of the same ilk is never going to surpass its predecessor, and it is well proved by the views and comments that "Autumn in Guilin" has received so far. But again, and I'm repeating myself here, this story is far better than the Lily story. At least, to me, it is. I very much enjoyed writing it.

I understand, it's not just the beginning of the story but the title, "Autumn in Guilin" as well, can be confusing. I need to apologize for that. Unfortunately, I couldn't come up with a better title. My nightmare in Guilin? Falling in love in Guilin? These titles did nothing for me. I had happened to be in Guilin during Mid-Autumn Festival so, the title simply came to be "Autumn in Guilin." The story, however, happens, not just in Guilin but Yangchun, Yangjiang, and Shenzhen. There will be funny parts, romantic parts, steamy parts. You will read about how my feelings grow for an incredible Chinese woman in the shadows of my previous relationships (Lily and Jasmine). And also, there will be parts where I described my first meeting with a typhoon.

Macchap, the original version of the story, contained seven parts only. To fit the story (almost 30,000 words), as a blog series, on CLM, I needed to cut it up into 19 parts. The flow of the story slightly lessened during the process. Therefore, I understand your confusion. Please continue reading it and you might have some fun.

@anonymous14673.

I hope my comments to John and Macchap, if you read it, may have given you some insight why I included this part in the story. I wrote this part after waking up from my nightmare. It actually was necessary to explain my passive behavior toward Janessa. Can you still recall part - 1? I was dead tired, and it wasn't just because of jetlag. If you could read the whole situation in its original version, you would be able to understand what I'm talking about. Unfortunately, I can't post 4,500 words at one time on CLM. In part - 3, you'll read about the reason I had this nightmare. It was a rather funny situation.

Regarding honesty, this story is true. Of course, I needed to make the story more colorful by describing circumstances and feelings in a more detailed fashion with similes, metaphors, and analogies, for the sake of the flow, readability, and comprehensibility. If I were only allowed to write about sheer facts, the story could have turned out to be boring and dull in my opinion. If I really wanted to, I could have told this story in three sentences, concisely, like this, "I went to Guilin. I fell in love with Janessa. I can't stop thinking about her."

I like to create pictures in people's minds with words. If that is dishonest, then I'm guilty. Now, I am well aware of that, for you guys who were born in English-speaking countries, my stories have rather a childish language, but to me, this is the best I could come up with to date. I'm trying, it's hard, but I love it.

If someone tells me my articles are "fluffy," it doesn't make me come up with a story based on fake things. I love to write. But you need to keep in mind that this is not a blog article where I raise a topic at the beginning of an article and put a summing-up at the end after writing only 1500 words. This is a story that contains 19 parts. The end will come months from now. You just need to trust me when I tell you this, I'm going somewhere with part - 2. What I can say right now is that, from part - 4, it will be "fluffing" all the way to the end.

By the way, thank you for your honest criticism!

#2016-03-29 10:46:29 by Barry1 @Barry1

@Imi5922
@anonymous14673

"in this piece of writing, I cannot feel the power of your honesty."

I must say that I agree with anon14673. Let me elaborate.

This latest article of yours was interesting in a descriptive way. In one way, I enjoyed reading the colourful depictions such as

"I could handle the sight of steaming entrails scattered over white snow or torn-off limbs and even decapitated heads" or

"There was no freaking way I would have closed my eyes when a bloody, flesh-eating lawnmower was getting dangerously close to me"

But yet the article was under the heading of "Autumn in Guilin". I wonder what this lengthy and rather gory description of your awful dream got to do with Guilin? Perhaps it could've been more appropriately written under a heading such as "My Nightmare"?

Anon14673 also said,

"You do honest emotions better than any other writer on CLM."

I agree with him as far as writing about pure, personal thoughts and feelings are concerned. Not everyone may particularly like the honesty and integrity of your writing in this way, but no one can deny its authenticity or passion.

My humble view is that talking about severed limbs, blood on the ground and gashes in the nape of a neck isn't really you. It's garish story telling for the sake of story telling, with no direct reference to what you're a genuine expert in, that is, honest, in-your-face sentiment and emotion.

To conclude, as a pure imaginative story, I enjoyed reading the article.

But as a sensitive and relevant piece of prose that normally you do so well, questions remain in my head about it.

#2016-03-29 10:52:57 by Macchap @Macchap

@anonymous14673: Hear, hear. Couldn't agree with you more. Well spoken!

#2016-03-29 11:05:00 by Barry1 @Barry1

@anonymous14673

" I learn much more from honesty and I certainly rate it much more highly than "entertaining" fiction or second-grade attempts at satire."

Whilst I agree with the bulk of your comment here Anon14673, I must take issue with your gratuitous appraisal of some of the writing on this site.

Every blogger here is doing his or her best. Some articles are better than others, whilst some aren't quite as fluent or professionally written as others.

None of us however are professional writers. None of us are being paid. We do it because we enjoy it and hopefully we may be able to share some thoughts or experiences that may be of interest to others.

So for someone like you to point out deficiencies in writing skills of certain bloggers here by alluding to "second grade attempts" is in my view, bad manners. Coincidentally, the editor of these blogs has only very recently written that he wished there were more good manners on this site.

Maybe you could write a few articles yourself, rather than sniping anonymously from the sidelines? Is your writing first grade or "second grade"?

Cheap shots are just that - cheap and easily done by those who don't bother to put in an effort themselves.

For your consideration.

#2016-03-29 14:55:10 by JohnAbbot @JohnAbbot

@Imi5922 - I really was not expecting a touristy type of effort from you Imi, nor was that what I was hoping for. After all, we are not in the business of tourism here on CLM, we are in the business of romance. I have grown accustomed to your blogs being largely focused on relationships and romance, and that is what I was expecting to develop here, even after reading your bloodcurdling, hair raising Nightmare on Elm Street style description in Part 2. So bring on the romance Imi, I could ask for nothing better.

I don't think anyone who has read "My Love for Lily" will be able to judge whether this is can be matched or outdone by "Autumn in Guilin" until you are well into it. I will be surprised if it gets quite the reaction as "Lily" did, but that is partly because Lily ended "tragically" whereas it sounds like "Autumn" will end happily. Add to that that you were the new kid in town doing Lily and had half the ladies on the site dreaming of you then. Now you are both familiar and apparently taken, so there will be considerably less heated swooning going on.

You have provided Chinese translation of your own, and I am advised it is damned good translation, so I plan to bring the series to the attention of the Chinese ladies, but I am now thinking to hold off doing that until we have a post that won't scare them half to death as Part 2 might do.

The last thing I have to say is that you really need to stop apologizing for your writing. I haven't noticed any "Childish language" in your writing ever. And as of today your command of English is superior, in my opinion, to that of about 95% of all college graduates in America. You truly have no need to be concerned about that issue whatsoever.

I'm looking forward to Part 3 and finding what the hell that nightmare was doing in my dreams, nevermind yours.

#2016-03-31 14:01:50 by paulfox1 @paulfox1

@Barry1
Don't drag yourself down to gutter level to meet @anonymous14673 - I am sure he has enough friends there already
Like you, I'll stand criticism from anyone providing they are not hiding behind anonymity
People post here anonymously all the time and I guess many have good reason to remain anonymous
However, posting anonymously AND criticising is a scum-bag tactic and one that should be ignored - as for the poster, they should be ashamed of themselves

#2016-04-09 16:24:47 by sharonshi @sharonshi

@Imi5922

Lots of fun.

Your writing seems to be flowing with stream of consciousness. of Ulysses pattern. (f)

A wonderful show.

Thank you for all hard work! Amazing translation!

Good luck!

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