I’ve been crying all day, but now that the time has come, calm has settled over me. The world has been put on pause and time has come to a stand still. Silence has fallen over my thoughts for the moment. Blessed peace. I never feel peace, only pain. I know what I have to do.

My soul is shattered. My purity and virtue stripped away against my will. I feel the vile darkness slowly consuming me. I hate that I have become a miserable shell of empty hopes and dreams that will never come true. All I ever wanted was to be happy. To be liked. To be loved. But love is not mine to have. My entire life is nothing but pain.

I’ve tried to fit in, to overcome what has happened to me, to be normal – whatever normal is – I’m not even sure I know what it means to be normal anymore. All I know is that the world hates me. It doesn’t want me in it. I’m tainted, blackened, ruined forever. All I ever wanted was to be normal – NORMAL! That word again! What does it really mean?

It’s my fault. I wasn’t born a fighter. I’m broken, inside and out, not whole anymore. Nothing will ever make me whole again. Never pure. My world is such a lonely place. I wish someone would hug me. Just hold me. If only someone cared, but no one does. I can’t blame them. No one would want this corrupted body. I’m sure the thought of touching me would be sickening.

I’m a waste of space. I suffer in my own private hell everyday. I just want the pain to stop. I want to finally rest in peace, to sleep. I’m so tired. It’s time. I have to go away now.

Please tell my mom that I’m sorry and I love her. Please get her help.

-------------

Sarah signed the letter and laid the pen down on the vanity. She didn’t read what she’d written for fear that reading her own words would change her mind – it was too late for that. With one finger she absent-mindedly stirred a half empty cup that sat beside the letter, causing a straw to dance in the sloshing green liquid inside. Stunned by the wetness of the rogue finger, she slid it in her mouth, sucking it dry as she examined her reflection in the mirror.

Sad glazed green eyes accented with black eye shadow centered on a slim pale white face crowned by a halo of amber red hair peered back at her. The glaze grew more opaque with the passing of each methodical minute, making it increasingly difficult to focus. Tiny irritated veins in those eyes blazed red. On her thin black painted lips a stray speck of green liquid moistened the dryness. Using the corner of a tissue she dabbed away the blemish.

She stroked a stray lock of hair back from her cheek uncovering a delicate ear to which she gently pinned a silver butterfly-shaped earring – a gift from her father before her mother drove him away.

“My little cherry blossom,” he used to call her.

Her heart ached with the pain of how much she missed him and tears tried to break through her emotionless façade. With a deep breath, she sucked them back in – she would see him again soon. A thin smile flashed across the solemness of her face at the thought, but vanished just as quickly as she pinned a second butterfly to her other ear.

With a heavy sigh, she took another sip from the mug. The liquid zipped through the straw and doused the back of her mouth with its sweetness. Without hesitation she allowed the fluid to slide down her throat. She was beginning to feel light-headed, and her heart pounded in her chest, but she drew purposeful steady breaths and continued with the ritual at hand.

Around her neck she clipped a small silver necklace adorned by a modest crucifix – a gift from her father’s mom when Sarah was ten years old. The only other person to ever love her, granny had passed away from leukemia shortly after giving her the treasure. Her and her dad went to the funeral together, but her mom refused to accompany them claiming, ‘The old hag never liked me in the first place.’ That was the beginning of the end of Sarah’s parent’s marriage.

She let the crucifix fall into her trembling hand. Black polish painted bloodied fingertips that she’d chewed down to the quick. She held the symbol to her lips and whispered, “I love you,” before tucking the medallion safely away.

Her mother lay passed out on the bed down the hall sleeping off another heroine induced episode while the love of the month sat in the living room surrounded by empty beer and liquor bottles while he channel surfed. The house was silent other than the echo of rapidly changing voices spit out by the crackling television speakers.

“Tomorrow expect sunny skies with a high near ninety,” the local weatherman’s cheerful voice proclaimed before a hyperactive pitchman shouted about the greatness of a super towel that could absorb any mess. Too bad it couldn’t absorb the mess that was her life, she thought before the channel changed again.

What, no Southerners? Well, allow me to present some good ole’ Southern North Carolina colloquialisms.

1- Bless your heart / Ain’t you precious - The polite southern way of saying you try real hard, but you just aren’t the brightest bulb in the box. Or in some cases, you’re just dumb.

2- Britches - Pants

3- Clod-hoppers - Big, clunky, over-sized shoes

4- Colder than a witch’s titty in a brass bra in the middle of January - It’s hell-a cold outside.

5- Slower than mollasses running uphill on a cold day - If you got any slower we’d need to check your pulse to make sure you’re still alive.

6- Fell out of the ugly tree and hit every branch on the way down (aka - hit with an ugly stick) - You’re just not very attractive

7- lick - A measurement, as in “I was so tired that I didn’t get a lick of work done today”

Or as in an ass-whooping - “My dad gave me a good lickin when I got suspended from school.”

8- poop or get off the pot - Make a choice or get out of the way.

9- Skedaddle - Depart in a hurry.

10- To’ up from the flo’ up - Again, another off-hand way of saying you’re not so pretty. Seems the south has a lot of ways to tell you that you’re ugly.

11- Figure - An unexpected outcome... “He hadn’t figured he’d win the pig wrestling contest at the fair.”

12- Fixin - Getting ready to do something “I was fixin to get ready to go.” Translated literally to, “I was getting ready to get ready to go.”

13- Goober - Double meanings - meaning #1- A peanut. Meaning #2 - A peanut-head/pea-brained/lacking common sense - “I saw that goober tryin to fish in his swimming pool.”

14- Hankering - A strong desire to do or have something. “I got a hankering for a tomato and mayo sandwhich.”

15- Like to - No, it doesn’t mean you’d like to meet Kim Khardasian (bleah). Like to translates to, “I like to have crapped my pants when I saw that bear in the woods.”

16- Purdy - Pretty, as in “You sure do got a purdy mouth” (quote from the movie Deliverance)

17- The South (aka The Southern States) - The states of West Virginia, Virginia, Kentucky, North & South Carolina, Georgia, Alabama, Louisiana, Mississippi, and Tennessee. Sorry, Florida, no offense, but where I’m from Florida is a state that happens to be in the south where rich yanks go to retire.

18- Yanks - Anyone originally from north of Kentucky and West Virginia, to include parts west to Ohio and Michigan.

19- Reckon - To make an assumption. “Well, I reckon I’ve written enough of these now.”

20- Piddlin - To waste time. “Stop piddlin around reading this and go to work already.”

“Is this all you’re gonna do? Don’t you have the drive to do something more with your life, or are you gonna work in that stupid store for the rest of your life?”

Calista’s words stung, but Eric loved her. Or did he – sometimes he wasn’t sure.

He’d “won” her love several years ago by stealing her away from some narcissistic wanker she’d been dating at the time. Surely Eric had loved her then – maybe? A debate raged between his emotions and his logic about the topic. Did he want her back then because he loved her, or was it more like wanting something he didn’t have? And if it were the later, then did he love her now?

In fact, did he ever love her, or was she just some conquest over an imaginary enemy. In the end, she had chosen him, married him, and was with him now. Therefore, she must love him; else she wouldn’t be here, right?

“I love my job and the pay’s good. Besides, I’ve been applying to other places, but I haven’t heard back from any of them yet. What else am I supposed to do?”

He didn’t know what else to say. These arguments had become common place and the frustration of trying to satisfy her had driven him to the point of just wanting to be left alone. The entire ordeal was maddening.

He did love his job, though… for the most part. He managed an adult fetish store. It was a great job! Not a day went by that Eric didn’t have at least one interesting conversation with some kinky customer. He’d been working there so long now that nothing he heard shocked him. Oh, and don’t forget the cute strippers that came in every night looking for new outfits. They certainly were a yummy perk. Nothing in life is perfect though, and that included the part of his job that Eric hated.

A mandatory part of the job was to ‘pimp out prostitutes’ (as Eric referred to it), even though his boss called it the less offensive, ‘offering private dances from sexy girls to single men who came in the store.’

“Oh, so you love hanging out with those whores?” Calista blurted.

“Dammit, I’ve told you a hundred times. It’s part of my job. I have to deal with it. I don’t hang out with them. I’m there to work, not socialize.”

He yelled at her again, he didn’t like yelling at her.

He slammed his hand down on the arm of his favorite recliner – small puffs of dust plumed from the drab brown fabric. He pushed and rose out of the chair to stand toe-to-toe with her.

“And they’re not whores. They’re people doing what they gotta do to survive, that’s all. I don’t judge them. Damn, why ya gotta be such a bitch.”

There was the B-word again. That’d been happening a lot lately. He hated dropping the B-bomb, but he couldn’t stop himself.

She was a petite girl, standing barely eye-level to his shoulder. But he felt tiny and insignificant when he looked down into the scathing, hate-filled eyes that stared back at him. Oh, how he hated her. He wanted to love her, but he really hated her. And it was apparent in her eyes that she hated him back just as much.

“Fuck you! I’m not a bitch. Don’t you ever call me that again.” She said for hundredth time.

Eric clenched his jaw and his fist. Anger pumped adrenaline to his muscles causing them to ache for something to hit. He imagined his giant fist punching that pretty little face and knocking her out. The sudden thought of wrapping his fingers around her neck and squeezing the life out of her aroused him, and a comforting familiar darkness rose up around him like a storm surge before an approaching hurricane.

“Get away from me. Leave me alone. I hate you.” She screamed, pushed him back down into the recliner, and stormed into the bedroom, where she slammed and locked the door.

“Whatever.” Eric said to the closed door.

These arguments happened so often that he knew she’d be in there the rest of the night, with the door locked, but it didn’t matter. She was here now.

Not she – Calista. This was another she. This she had no name. She wasn’t someone. She was something dark and endless that dwelt in the ocean of Eric’s mind. She was the mermaid offering a safe haven along that endless black horizon, and she was inviting him to rejoin her now.

He reached down into a pouch under the arm of the chair, pulled out a pipe and a small crinkly bag, and proceeded to tap the contents of the bag into the pipe. He was fond of the bag – a glowing white skull on a black background with the name ‘Brain Freeze’ etched across the top in blue.

She was waiting. Eric grabbed his lighter. A flame flickered to life. He set fire to the tiny flakes that were packed into the pipe and puffed.

The first hit sent billows of smoke that tasted like dusty old dirt bellowing into his lungs, and choked the room with the smell of burning dusty old dirt (if it were possible for dusty old dirt to burn) mixed with a dash of smoldering rubber. Sometimes, he got lucky and it had a hint of burning hair. It tasted sickening and made him want to puke, but the nastier it tasted, the better it was.

He quickly followed up with a second hit and she welcomed him.

The fluid tentacles of her thoughts seeped into his brain and merged with his mind.

Her darkness washed over him, cleansed him of all that troubled his weary brain, and soothed his achy muscles.

He didn’t resist her; he wanted to be with her. He relaxed and let a river of rippling shadows carry him through the vast nothingness where she existed. Once deposited on the surface at her feet by the current, he let her pull him under, into her dark caressing depths.

The tide rose above his head, the hurricane had arrived, and he was in the eye of the storm. The shadowy world remained calm within her realm. All the stresses and strains of the outside world melted away. In the eye of the hurricane there was only her, and he belonged to her.

Although she only ever showed herself to him as the shadowy silhouette of a shapely woman with no features, he knew she was perfect. She was sex. And she made him feel like no one ever had before. She was the reason he raised the pipe to his lips once more, and she was the reason he took a third and forth hit. He let her drag him down deeper into her murky dark oblivion. He knew he loved her, and he never wanted to leave her again.

#Fiction

May 11, 2019, 1:35am

The light from the blank page on my monitor cast a pale bluish glow across the bare white walls of my office. My girlfriend fell asleep on the couch a few minutes ago watching another documentary on Netflix – she’s cute like that. And I have my favorite music blasting through my headphones to drown out all the other distractions of the outside world. Now, what I am going to write?

Hmmm, that’s an interesting idea. I think… Well, maybe not… On second thought, that idea sounds boring. But all my ideas sound boring to me. And if I find my ideas and writing dull, why would anyone else be interested in reading my stuff? Or would they?

Sometimes I think I’m a decent writer. At least I can put together sentences into paragraphs that progress from point A to point B with some cohesiveness. But who wants to read my stories. I find it hard to believe I’ve got any interesting tales to tell. Well, I suppose I’ll never know if I don’t try. So then, what do I write?

-----------------------

May 11, 2019, 2:41am

I just wrote almost a whole page about something that sounded like a good idea in my head. But then I read what I’d written and deleted it all. The writing sounded tedious, and the idea seemed lame after I finished reading it.

If only some people read my writing and told me they liked it and wanted to read more. It would be a kick-in-the-ass boost of self-confidence to have fans of my writing that followed my work. Fans who read everything I wrote because they liked me.

Yes, I can make that happen. I can do it. Let’s get started. Now, what do I write?

Wait…

What if people don’t like me? Well, I guess that would just confirm what I already believe – no one is interested in reading my stories. That might be a good thing to know though. Then I could quit spending so much time “writing” and do more productive things, like change the oil in the car.

Why is there a cat calendar from 2016 hanging on the wall in here? How have I not noticed it hanging there behind the door all this time? Curious…

Focus! What am I going to write?

Oh great, now I’m drawing a total blank.

I guess it’s just as well, all the ideas I’ve had so far weren’t very good. Never mind, this is a waste. No one wants to read what I write anyway. My ideas aren’t that interesting and my writing isn’t that good. Besides, I need to get up early in the morning and do something constructive, like mow the lawn.

#Fiction

#WeeklyChallenge

Father Bartholomew Kirkland – Bart for short – hung up the phone, rubbed his chubby hand through his thinning hair and adjusted the wire-rim glasses perched on his short fat nose. He’d just handed over his best hunter to the enemy. He didn’t think he wanted to, in fact, he was almost sure of it, but he had anyway. Why?

Because of her.

He didn’t know her name, though memories that flashed through his mind like a slideshow suggested he’d known her all his life – and loved her for even longer. He felt no emotional attachment to any of the fragmented images; it was like they belonged to someone else.

‘When had she first come to him here in his office?’ He pondered.

Reason told him today had been the first time he ever saw her, but a desire burned in him to encounter her flesh again like he’d done in the past.

‘If that’s the case, why can’t I remember anything about it?’ His heart asked his brain, not that it made any difference at this point – she instructed him, and he obeyed.

She sat across from his desk in a centuries-old, ornate, hand sculpted, red-leather bound chair and shook her head, “Are you going send them help?”

The words drifted from her delicate black-painted lips like a whisper along an autumn breeze, floated into his ears, and massaged the pleasure centers in his brain. Thick graying brows furrowed as his beady brown eyes followed the slow sway of the woman’s raven hair. It appeared to undulate along its length, to her ample cleavage, where the tips wiggled with a life of their own.

‘Had he noticed that before?’ He thought, ‘Did it really matter?’

“No…” Kirkland answered to himself and the woman with hesitation.

“You are correct, Father. You aren’t.”

With a bend at the waist to maximize the exposure of her breasts, she gripped the knobbed arm rests, and rose with grace. The black silkiness of her gown shimmered as it unfurled from the seat of the chair onto the floor. The dress fanned out around her legs in waves as though a breeze blew under the hem. Her stomach and breasts fit snug inside the fabric. The outfit ended in a curve half-way up her soft round bosoms where two delicate straps connected the top to separate wrist-length sleeves.

She ran her perfect wet black tongue across her lips. Eyes like dark discs shimmered in the middle of an ocean of white on her face. They stared, unblinking, from under thin black brows and feathered lashes. Her dark makeup contrasted against the chalk white skin that covered her smooth porcelain body.

Silence filled the Dragon’s Blood-scented chamber. Kirkland’s gaze locked onto her as she glided across the red Victorian rug and rounded the desk. The rest of the study, with all its replica religious artifacts, copies of ancient texts and scrolls, and lavish faux leather furniture vanished from sight. There was only her.

The woman allowed her long slender fingers to walk across Kirkland’s desk. Black fingernails tip-toed across a hand-carved humidor box full of Cuban cigars, hiked over a miniature wooden globe mounted on a brass pedestal, crawled through stacks of scattered paperwork and open books, and hopped the distance from the desk to the priest’s hand.

The dark fabric of her gown withdrew up her legs until only a knee-high black skirt remained. Where the garment had cinched her stomach and breast moments ago a black short sleeve button-down shirt hung open revealing a black bra beneath – her small soft milky midsection aroused him.

She inched her bottom onto the desk and sat spread-legged in front of him with her bare pale feet propped on the chair’s arm rests. Her skirt slid up into a pile at her waist, revealing… nothing – she had no gender, only a smooth ivory-colored mound where there should be a vagina.

Kirkland felt as though this ought to alarm him, but the seductress excited him too much. He’d only been with one woman before swearing an oath of abstinence when he became a member of The Will – that woman had not made him feel as this one did.

With a quick slap, this woman knocked his pudgy hand off one of her petite feet – he withdrew with a start.

“No, no, now. You know the rules. No touching. That would violate your oath wouldn’t it, Father?” She scolded with a stern whisper.

“Yes…” He said. The sound of her words again coiled around his brain.

“And why aren’t you going to send them help?” She asked and leaned in close enough for him to feel the cold chill of her soft voice.

“Because it’s what you want.” He said.

“Good boy, Bart.” She patted him soft on the cheek before cradling his chin in her hand. Embarrassment turned him several shades of red and pink as a bulge grew in his slacks.

“And do you always do what I want?” She asked.

“Yes…” He stuttered as she cupped either side of his face with her cold hands and brought him closer to her.

“And why is that?” She asked.

“Because you are my goddess.” He was compelled to say. He didn’t feel it was the wrong answer. He wasn’t sure why he’d said it – but he did believe it.

The seductress pulled his mouth close to hers, and whispered, “Yes, you are correct.”

The smell of Dragon’s Blood flooded his head as he inhaled her icy breath. Waves of pleasure quivered in his knees and his knuckles strained as he griped the chair arms tighter.

She tilted her head to kiss him.

“Yes…” He groaned and waited – mouth agape and eyes closed.

A black gelatinous tentacle slithered from between her parted lips, slipped across his tongue, and down his throat. His hands locked around his thick neck and clawed at the dark spindles that invaded his lungs – he struggled and choked.

The appendage leaked into every crevice of the Father’s body, filling him with her darkness. The vessels across the surface of his skin became engorged and black as the symbiotic invasion flowed outward from his heart to his fingertips and toes. A fist of darkness squeezed his heart harder with each slowing beat. Pools of black ooze filled his eye sockets and leaked down his cheeks like blackened tears; and the woman’s vile poison dripped from his nose.

The knot of darkness gripped his heart tighter while tiny tendrils tickled the sensitive sections of his brain. His body grew rigid and twitched with a sudden spasm that shook the chair – then he went limp.

The woman withdrew all of her from the priest, slid from the desk, and pushed his limp body back in the chair. His head drooped to one side and a teardrop of black ooze dribbled down from his eye. She scooped up the discharge with a single delicate finger and licked it clean with a grin.

“Hope you enjoyed that as much as I did, Father Bart.” She laughed and sauntered out of the study.

Her clothes streamed around her like thunder clouds around a tornado as they metamorphosed into a nun’s habit that was to her liking. The parting clouds revealed a skin-tight gelatinous tube dress that shimmered like wet latex under the fluorescent lights, eight-inch stiletto heels, and black gloves. Her face melted away into the darkness of a hood that rose from her shoulders and draped itself over her head.

She strode down a hall full of busy priests, nuns, and acolytes. They were unaware of her presence as they scurried to finish their nightly duties before bed. No one realized they took an unconscious, but deliberate side-step to avoid her as she approached, and none of them heard the click of her heels echo on the cobblestone-tiled floor as she passed.

A nun screamed somewhere behind her. There was a flurry of commotion in the building and people raced along the corridor towards Father Kirkland’s office. She smiled and stiff-armed the front door of the monastery.

Once outside, she strolled across the porch and down the concrete steps to the end of the walkway. At a tall wrought-iron gate that led to the street she stopped and stared up at the full moon – the bright white orb reflected in the deep black pools of her eyes. Her wardrobe came to life once more and spread forth from her body. A curtain of darkness hung around her pale naked body and curled in the air like a wave preparing to crash onto the beach. She closed her eyes and bowed her head. The wave crashed onto her and she exploded into a cloud of black dust that evaporated into the night sky.