Miss Cremation oven

I started writing my final high school essay. What language? We’ll talk about that later. It was supposed to be a happy end story. Weird, isn’t it? Four blank sheets with the stamp of the school in the corner and start writing. That was the key issue. I have made up my mind and decided to write a sort of a palimpsest. For that reason I got an old issue of a national or historical journal out of my bag. Taking it out of my bag, I made noise that attracted the attention of my writing colleagues and also of the supervisor at the desk. The comment from the person next to me trying to warn me that I was mistaken remained unnoticed. I opened the glossy magazine on the page writing about a crypt in B. It was on three pages. Page four was another paper about a cremation oven in O. Damn, how can there be a happy end if the story overlaps with the text about extermination of Jews during World War II. The unbeatable challenge was deferred when I started writing my story right below a heading of a peaceful paper on a large crypt in the underground of a cathedral in B. For centuries there had been a synagogue in the Moorish style next to the cathedral and their proximity reminded me of something.
The beginning of the story was overlapping the first lines of a tiny printed text with black and white photographs of an intricate crypt with many arms and a low ceiling that was clearly not fit as a stage for a show. Fortunately, when I turned the page, I could see a separated portion of the premises overarched with a vault ceiling and with numerous walled oblong holes along the wall sides. Super, that was it. Most likely I turned deaf because I could not hear any sounds of what was going on around me and I submerged in the scene where I have situated the following unfolding plot.
- Camera, clapper!
The lined up girls wearing swimsuits started smiling as they were elegantly walking down the staircase into the historical milieu and an invisible audience started clapping and sounded like an echo. All this certainly is deep in everyone’s sub conscience because, pushing ahead with determination and certainty, images follow and scenes continue appearing and the facilitator duo hover in the forefront and certainly happen to be in view of certain spectators, not letting them watch the chorus line of the divine bodies. Sure, this is not crucial. The facts are essential. I must write because the story has started escaping and with the deadline ever closer and the gap between me and the story to appear in the sheet of paper has grown immensely. The letters of the text below shimmer in my eyes and dance on the page unaware of the torture they are incurring to my eyes and nerves so tense that they could burst any second.
The show progresses in line with the director’s instructions and the girls make exactly the movements they are supposed to make, swinging back and forth, to the right and to the left, two steps here and two steps to the right, what the heck! One of them becomes the queen of the night and wins the tiara; then there is the second winner, and the third one, visibly disappointed and weeping. The directors stops that shot and the sequence has to be made one more time and with no tears. The very strange contest has not cooled off yet and the ranking changes. The third rank girl turns to take rank two and the one who had been rank two is out of the contest. Another girl steps out of the line and the tiara travels from head to head. All right, we have got this done. Now the whole sequence one more time, and.. and.. and.. many more times. Finally, the queen switched places with the rank three girl and we all laugh. A bit of laughter is always good for you. But the story got tangled and confusing and the happy end for each of the contestants just would not want to land on the sheet of paper. Things seem to take all too long and the essay has not been finished, it somewhere half-way done. I am writing into the paragraph printed on page three and I am getting tired of the never-ending overlapping of facts in front of my eyes and the ideas in my mind. What a stupid idea, to start writing over another text, what am I going to do now? There is no way back, just have to go ahead – say those who have never written a palimpsest in their lives.
The girl who cried was the only one who has stayed on the stage. She’s all alone, the rest have gone away and the darkness only shows an emergency exit light. Everything has turned quiet. The audience is silent, the oblongs along the walls and across the levels have turned mute and the cheering has stayed in one’s memory as a living memory of something perishable and unforgettable at the same time, just like a beauty parade.
She was wearing a beautiful gown and walking along the graves and her eyes were scanning the inscriptions and numbers. Her makeup was in smears on her face but that would not have existed if it had not been there. In a very natural way and with charm she wiped the right end of her lips and licked her teeth. Fine, it may be pronounced interesting so far. Now, it just calls for a quick end, the time is almost out and the test is drawing to its end.
-How about me? Am I just thin air, or what? Why was I not in the contest? a voice said in the crypt.
I turned the page and started writing over page four where a new article was starting. Cremation is an ingenious technology brought to perfection. A century of inventions, the 20th century, a century of world wars, half-time of cruel madness of people with a vision lacking and having no ... whatsoever. A class-free society for a certain group and a society without the first ones to a yet another group and without who to the next ones? Those who are hopelessly addicted to their selves, depend on a mirage of power over life and death. The Vice-Miss turned to see where the voice was coming from. She saw a beautiful woman, like an apparition in the twilight of the crypt. There is no chance to give a description of this woman. Everyone can imagine their ideal of beauty, their idol. Yes, that’s what it is.
She was standing therein awe like a statue. The other woman started coming closer, so close that she was almost touching her.
- I am Sarah, she said.
The Vice-Miss shook hands with her:
- Sarah, pleased to meet you.
They were looking into each other’s eyes. The apparition moved in an unnoticeable way and slid into the body of the Vice-Miss.
- Students, attention please. The time will be up in a minute! The announcement came like from another world.
I have just returned to the last but one paragraph to slightly modify the word order. Having been disturbed in the depth of my adventure, I forgot what was it I had wanted to change. The story fell apart like a chain of pearls and the sequence of images was lost forever. I was hoping to capture it back as I was still half-asleep. I opened my eyes and saw the morning brightness trying to get through the shut blinds.
What the heck about dreams and tests! So often I keep calculating, solving the assignments, writing my essays while the supervising professor keeps walking by for nights. I passed my final tests long ago, I graduated from my university long ago and i keep working like a slave to earn my living.
Looks like I have remembered quite a bit of my dream. I have shut my eyes and kept crawling back, step after step. This must be put on the paper; this cannot just disappear in the thin air. There was something to it and it did happen for certain purpose.
I sat down at my desk and started typing my last night’s story. I was typing in Latin alphabet. I had to stop right away. How come? I was not using Latin alphabet when I was writing at night. I was using Hebrew. But how could I have done that?
There are things between the heaven and earth. And those who know will never tell. Why?