Podcasts by Fanny Blomme
The transcripts from the films are separated into parts on the blog. Think of the words in pictures if you can. The films are released weekly.
Click the numbered links to go to the relevant written epeisodes. ideal for people who like to read the story of Fanny Blomme
Fanny Blomme is a serialised book by
the Tale Teller especially written for
the Dominartist Project.
The Tale Teller updates new episodes weekly,
and the story develops into a tale of human
endeavour and enlightenment.
But Fanny Blomme is no ordinary mortal.
Morag was a young and simple girl of seventeen. A dark beehive balanced precariously atop her small frame and her pale Scottish skin was almost see-through under the heavy Mary Quant kohl. She traipsed the aisles of the supermarket holding her hard baby-filled belly. The sailor, who had married her nine months prior, was pleased with his work and Morag was, thus far, grateful for the escape route to better things.
Then the waters came; a torrent of bloody slime that rushed down Morag’s legs and drenched her pumps. A sharp pain caused a high pitched yelp from the young girl as she lifted her handmade smock in terror. Then, little Morag from the village began to growl like a beast. Echos of the menacing bass notes reverberated between the freezers.
Everyone in the supermarket turned to see what was happening. Morag dropped to the floor and watched the tins roll and the vegetables scatter in slow motion. The pain was unbearable. She thought she saw Jesus amongst the harvest as she lay next to the porridge box and stared at the oats in the field with the quaker man.
Someone who seemed to know what they were doing removed the Morag’s pants and screamed, ‘it's crowning, get water and towels.’
Fanny felt all the commotion and woke up. Something seemed to be squeezing her body tightly and, although it was not unpleasant, she was not pleased with being woken in this manner. She tried to speak.
‘Might I suggest that there is already enough water in the vicinity?’ But no one heard as she was not yet born and she had no voice. Besides, there was a lot of noise and mayhem going on. ‘What is that terrible growling?’ she wondered.
Marilyn Monroe was drunk on life and sang happy birthday to JFK, Walmart opened its first store in Arkansas, and the technological revolution waited at the gates of Morag's vagina to lead another of the Generation X children through the disaffected years.
Fanny Blomme had arrived.
Fanny Blomme had been waiting for her first Preceptor meeting for eight years. The Hebridian weather dampened her spirits, but not as much as her father whose anger knew no bounds. He was filled with self-loathing and took it out on those around him. There was a cane that took pride of place in his study. It had its own hook and was permanently bent from its use to inflict terror and pain upon its recipients. Father had named it Twinkle.
Photo Credit https://pixabay.com/users/akiragiulia-1597753/
Fanny had not yet figured out how to avoid Twinkle because Father was so unpredictable. Madmen do not use set formulas, she observed. They use spurious reasoning and fluid excuses for their actions. It seemed impossible to logically justify erratic behaviour. There was something about human cognition that Fanny was finding it hard to grasp. The mental processes involved in gaining knowledge and comprehension, these cognitive processes that humans clearly manifested, thoughts, knowing, memory data, making judgements, and problem-solving, were certainly higher-level functions of their brains. Humans were able to speak, to imagine, to understand happenings and to plan ahead. And yet her father, more than other humans, was led by some other force. He was a damaged human.
Fanny wondered if there were others, damaged humans beyond repair and yet functioning well within their social contexts; hidden, unremarkable, and yet wreaking havoc behind closed doors.
Fanny looked at the eggs on her plate. They were covered in a yellow goo that was now congealed with a hard skin, like cold custard. It made a noise when she tapped it. Father had decided to cook, a rare occurrence in the normal routine of life. Being a well-travelled sailor, he felt cosmopolitan and educated. He was perpetually self-congratulating. Like Christ from the rock, Father had risen from the gutter.
Fanny new violence was brewing. There was a cycle to it. The violence was not really anything to do with her behaviour. It was about how Father needed to release his tensions. The wound spring within him required release.
When Fanny tried to swallow the viscus gunge, her throat could not accept it and it made her gag several times. Father could hear the uncomfortable noises and they enraged him.
He circled Fanny and her young brother who was also unable to swallow the hard eggs and cold spicy sauce. He brought some of it up on his jumper and it stank.
‘You have two minutes to clear the plate’, Father hollered.
Father was gigantic, a looming figure of horror and doom. His black eyes were pools of rage and hatred. They stared down at his prey. He bellowed instructions and tapped the cane repeatedly on the side of his trousers. Fanny and her brother knew what was to come.
The swallowing was hard, harder than taking the strikes.
‘Bend over’, bellowed the gargantuan monster.
Fanny, who knew the routine, pulled up the tartan dress her mother had made and pulled down her pants.
This was part of the ritual humiliation that had become an oppressive force in her young life. It was the moment Father relished most, to watch a girl perform an active role in her own abuse. Father’s voice now triggered such fear in her that her bladder would always give out. Sometimes a lot, sometimes a trickle before she regained control of her body.
The urine trickled to her knee. Bent over and waiting for the inevitable, she watched the thin yellow fluid travel down to her white sock.
As she watched she saw her reflection in a bead of fear-induced piss……and finally she was there.
Fanny Blomme waited in the Mindzone for the Preceptor.
At last, after eight agonising years, she was at the portal.
Time would stand still and her human surroundings would become a static prop, like a painting, a backdrop of inevitables, mapped out futures, and referenced pasts marked by human actions and subjective memories. It was a relief to leave the passage of mortal timescapes.
‘Why have you left me here so long?’ asked Fanny. ‘It is an abandonment indeed. Are you not my carer, my guide, my tutor?’
The preceptor was a semi-static hologram. Colours moved around towards the centre of its form and sound pulsed into the atmosphere around a beating core.
Then the Preceptor was in front of Fanny stroking her face. It was a comfort. Fanny’s cheeks were still wet from the tears.
‘You are here to find the truth,’ said the Preceptor.
Deep down, Fanny had known that she had been sent on a voyage of discovery. If only she wasn’t in this child form, things could be quicker.
Fanny had so many questions, she didn’t know where to start.
The Preceptor smiled and comforted her, combing energy through her hair and pouring love over her frightened skin. The emotional ecstasy continued for as long as it took to remind Fanny to be strong. The solution, the discovery, was dependent upon her strength and resolve. She must not give up now. Her tribe were depending on her.
Then the Preceptor was gone.
The beating stick came with a great force and the pain was sharp. But it was over quickly and as usual, Fanny pleased to be alive and with permission, she put her exposed genitals away.
’Now go to your room, and tomorrow there will be no food,' bellowed the monster.
Tomorrow would be a long day.
to be continued © 2020 Tale Teller
Dear readers, my body and mind change daily and patriarchy pushes me to the edge. My breasts have begun to grow, fat squidgy spheres that draw attention wherever I go. There are white snail trail marks on my thighs and buttocks because my skin cannot contain the hormonal excesses of becoming a mature humanoid. On the one hand, this inevitability quite makes me hopeful, for maturity would finally bring to an end the imprisonment subjected by my father. But on the other, I am fearful for the betrayal of my flesh to my mind as I have begun to feel ardour between my legs on a regular basis. My vagina has become a gleaming red pulse and it fattens with my squidgy spheres. I am compelled to touch it often and I feel ardour for the males in the vicinity of a similar age. Thankfully there are few for Father keeps me mostly hidden.
Some time ago I returned from school with a bladder filled well in excess of its capabilities. I fair thought it may burst before my journey’s end. I held my nether regions firmly as I approached the front porch in case of leakage. I was reprimanded by Father who has explained to me that 'girls do not touch themselves in these places, it is considered most vulgar'.
I am extremely fearful to be caught in the act of any such touching.
Father has been reading from the Christian book regularly and is obsessed with Jesus and God’s wrath. Although I see the folly in the futility of praising idols, I fear Father is a man obsessed and that if he was to discover that I am pleasured with uncontrollable urges it would result in my demise.
And so I pray after each touching episode for forgiveness. I have started to make promises to their God that I will never touch myself for pleasure again. (Although I promise after the act, for before is beyond possible with the haze of desire so strong.)
Furthermore, if I need to pass a school test or have a larger helping of food, I make a deal with their God about the touching. I cannot know if the deals are helping because the desire fog makes me less objective in my study of the hypotheses.
I have developed at least a talent for music and am marched off to piano lessons with yet another tyrant. Madam Chopin, who I feel sure has appropriated her name, is a crow of woman who seems hell-bent on developing a protege. But she hits my hands with a ruler and the involuntary tears mean I am unable to see the notes on the music score. This vicious circle causes me much grief and as soon as I am able I will stop the torturous tuition sessions.
My anxieties are extreme these days. Madam Chopin has stated that I am to be entered into a competition because I passed a near-perfect piano exam. The thought of exposing myself on stage at the academy is too much for my nerves and I endeavour to perform badly at my next exam in order to avoid it. I have developed such a nervous condition that I become mute in certain instances. The world becomes quite silent and then all I hear is my inability to function which comes in dissonant chords from above like the devil himself. The world at these times is made up of angry humans in the shape of Father and my body and mind are unable to cope.
Today I am told that I have developed an eating disorder. I am permanently starving and have expressed this to my mother who says that I eat too much. My father has told me that I am getting fat as he observes the squidgy spheres on my chest with disapproval.
So my parents, this very day, sent me to a psychiatrist. But the visit was not for the appetite malfunction. It was to test my brain for its cleverness so that I can be sent away to a boarding school. Perhaps Father fears my developments. Whatever his reasoning, I am most happy about the prospect of freedom from his tyranny and tried my best to satisfy the psychiatrist. The questions seemed so simple and I truly wondered how any child could possibly fail.
My parents are smug and self-satisfied. Father has spent some effort preparing my mind with books. For some time now the books have been my training and I have developed some language skills in advance of my years. I see that I am beyond the intellect of my peers and my parents but the advancement is simply because I do not belong here. I am far beyond the mindset of human beings. If only I knew how my advancement will manifest, if only I could make sense of their world. Do these things go hand in hand?
I have started to daydream about Father’s death and wonder if the dreams are prophetic. Also, the death thoughts of Madam Chopin have become highly entertaining.
I hear the gong, I have been called to the study.