daughter-oftherainandsnow-blog

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Goldilock’s Paradox

Our childhood was filled with swing sets and broken bannisters, memories made of cement and sidewalk seams. Broken bones in sepia tones conversed with bruises and scrapes to match the tear-stained faces in weathered glass windows.

The free spirit facade of childhood hides the conventionality of the women we’d become, just years down the line. Social obligations and forced conversations replaced chalk drawn hands and linen closet hide-and-seek.

The savory sweet taste of gratitude felt palpable, like strawberry frosted donuts on a Saturday morning. Tea candles and home cooked meals mean something different than they did, twenty one years ago.

What if we could set the clocks back, an hour, or two, to remind ourselves why we do this and who we do this for? We stumble through life like secondary characters in a Jane Austen novel, while the Waldorf’s of the world buy their way to autocracy.

Remember that time when sunlight streamed through tangled blonde curls and perfectly wrinkled sundresses? It was a moment in life where trust was assumed, but now trust is a luxury only the deities deserve.

Our childhood was too focused, too lax, our lives as adults are too fragile and built on baby booming mentality. A time too insignificant and a time too complex. When would we solve the equation, where equilibrium finds home on the curve?

The principle of life tells us that there is a moment, between a childhood too pure and an adulthood too sanguine, when an infantile euphoria erupts into perfect harmony of fixed revelation; a moment that is just right.

It is a lie.

#writing #poetry #mine #Goldilock's Paradox #2/3/17 #more poems to come

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Meliorism in the Making

Our nation is far from perfect. Diversity dissipates and corruption corrodes  the steal framework of America with each  punctuated official named to office.

Salacious men and grizzly women line the wings of the ostentatious peacock who runs our country, spreading his tacky feathers with unpresidented pride.

While former leaders packed away their breakables in a mahogany case, gleaming in the Oval Office, Russia’s puppet contemptuously displays a dilapidated china cabinet brimming with paper plates.

Like bees, women are facing extinction, desperately clawing their way up from the grave that has already been exhumed. The gravediggers in wanton suits pause, shovels in grimy palms, to bury the pastoral hive.

Down the road, a carnal man waits. A chisel in hand, and a tombstone before, the monumental mason gouges each word with a sneer: “Here lies America, who died along with the bees.”

Noxious men will try to slip their tendrils between the thighs of the homogametic sex as the patriarchal scales tip heavily to the Right. Inaugural injustice escapes admonition, and 140 characters become the backbone of American dignity.

Our pestilential president cannot predict what is brewing beneath his precarious limbs. It is a tightrope act, casting him high above the standards of society, with one false step to cast him tumbling through the frayed safety net below.

A tremor in the line is all it takes. The helotry of women halts as millions don fuchsia knit symbols in protest. A sea of vulvatic regalia march in rhythm with the disparate fog that blankets the streets. Meliorism is marching.

#poetry #writing #mine #1/23/17 #meliorism #women's march #election #Meliorism in the Making

[daughter-oftherainandsnow-blog]

Pulse

**Work in Progress**

There is a crack in the foundation of humanity.

The fissure deepens,

The cavern spreads.

The tectonic plates beneath us  

Move gravel and dirt, until blood seeps through

The crevice.

My feet are stained red from standing atop

The bodies of those who could not

Feel the vibrations. Who could not

Sense the shift in Earth.

Terracotta soldiers march over shattered

Souls, demanding more armor for their

Army of misguided objectives as they bear their arms

And shake their fists.

Another shift.

Another pulsation.

Another sacrifice.

Pangea separates the continents,

And we are on the wrong side.

#Pulse #writing #mine #poetry #WIP #Orlando #No more hate

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Clinging to the Glass

Enter the domain of faceless living. 5:00am barrels through the existence of the insignificant, the insect on the wall, crawling towards his humanity in a swollen scuttle. Dip tongs of fire into the flesh of egregious men who polish the brass buttons of bureaucracy. The fruits of labor pelt abdomens, an apple in the side of Adam – An existentialist in plain sight. Amid dust and sour milk, the creature seeks nourishment in the ephemeral caress of a violin. Leave the door cracked and watch the cocoon shatter. Take inventory from beneath the layers of Capitalism until the morning rays shrivel skin. The metamorphosis of the dead.  

#poetry #poem #Clinging to the Glass #The Metamorphosis #writing #mine #3/17/16

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Ghosts of the Gallows

Tread lightly o'er these church steps, go gently through God’s threshold. There be no blush about my name. I am shackled to sin, the chains become a noose for my execution. The ghosts of the hanged see my deceit. A yellow bird stalks me across dreams, where echos of envy ring clear, effervescently, until I see his face. Sanguine blood courses through these Puritan veins, and the Devil’s claw pierces through the belly of a harlot. A blistering flame melts down all concealment, the porous liquid drowns all liars, and a stony heart sinks with the rising sun in Salem. A boisterous drum signals the end. Nail your spirit to faith and watch the town burn. Cross paths with Lucifer in the jail cells of the accused. Crucify your crimes to prove naivety or bite thy tongue at the gibbet. The frailties of humans become the downfall of men. Confess.

#poetry #poem #Ghosts of the Gallows #3/17/16 #The Crucible #mine #writing

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Suicide of a Saint

Before you do, Siren, kiss your children goodnight. Tape up your guilt next to the cracks Of deception and insecurities.

Pry open the mouth of the metal Reaper And let it breathe bulbous indigestion into Your lungs.

Turn the knob, The only electroshock therapy to comfort You, the Rabbit Catcher.

Kneel before the beast, Ask for his forgiveness in your detrimental Posthumous life

Take the Edge of the knife, Hold it close to your wrists, You are the ringmaster in a Circus of Three rings.

Young mother take solace in the Hibernation of insomnia And the milk-white talons of depression.

Paint your life blonde, The locks of a venerated student Caught in a noose, Like a Hawk in the Rain.

Before you go, Siren, tell the world goodnight.

#poetry #writing #mine #Suicide of a Saint #Sylvia Plath #11/3/15

[daughter-oftherainandsnow-blog]

Of Shakespeare’s Quill

Define me, my feathered friend. Dilute thy thoughts, fraught with Effervescent knowledge, kept still by a beating heart Feigning madness before the hour. A serpent stung the ear of a king, The melancholic nerve.

Ectoplasmic tears mist the Unconscious, A Trojan heiress consumed by revenge Sought a ghost in the night. If Electra were to be born of different sex, She would pursue the frailty of death.

Oh, poor Hamlet, he who Suffers from the deceptive court, From incestuous intentions; Ceremony hides corruption. Plato’s allegory sheds no light on the Shadows that encompass a Denmark heart.

Laertes, you play the tragic fool, well. And Ophelia, a watchful eye now placed Upon your scene does no longer Yield a genuine response. This tainted view has poisoned his eyes, Scorned his mind.

Embody the Other by pen to paper, Playwright, There is no human definition here. Immerse thyself in the translations of the psychic. A juniper smile erupts from within, artificial and noxious, A murder most foul.

#Of Shakespeare's Quill #poetry #writing #mine #10/29/15 #Hamlet #Shakespeare

[daughter-oftherainandsnow-blog]

Something About a Jar

Sometimes I wonder about

placing your body in a glass terrarium,

leering out through Mason rimmed spectacles

at the ecology of the kitchen counter.

  Choleric bones and homunculus limbs

climb the crystal walls in search of surface.

Placid footing slips

as metallic echoes sting the air.

  Light splices through like rays of sun through clouds.

Two. Four. Six.

My face becomes visible through

corrugated punctures in the sky.

  I fill your tank with branches of laundered

threads, spare dimes and a coat from a lithe tabby.

I grin at you through the window,

a Windex smile.

  Polished blush and gold lacquered shells

tap a melody against the glossed skin.

Entomologists could never be so thorough

about the specimen in the jar.

#writing #poetry #mine #Something About a Jar #10/6/15

[daughter-oftherainandsnow-blog]

Humanity Has Hands

*WIP*

 Humanity has hands.

Hunting hounds house hope in your heart.

Hyde hovers next to hysteria.

Impartial irregularities.

Immaterial ideas roam isolation.

Jekyll hesitates to emerge.

Jester’s jokes.

Justice is not justified.

 Two years, ten months,

I am obligated to oblige your ostentatious

Inanity.

The fetus inside her changed your mind,

And yet you played,

Rook to G5,

With my sister’s limbs.

An excellent game of Wizard’s chess.

 The bark peeled away,

Birch veins bled candor.

Your vampyric vapor exuded virtue

Until that infantile strand of DNA

Doused your depravity with deceit.

She threw sex in your face.

I threw venom.

#writing #mine #poetry #work in progress #4/16/15

[daughter-oftherainandsnow-blog]

Watercolors

“Color me impressed,” she said.

So I did.

I painted her in the vibrancy of life,

in the swirling emotions of precious memories.

I dyed her in laughter,

recounting grins and giggles of toothy children.

I sketched her in the simple act of being,

in all its inhibitions and promises.

 But she seemed dissatisfied.

 “I cannot see the world; show me,” she said.

So I did.

I led her through fields of blooming azaleas,

our ankles deep in crimson waters.

In the spring, I took her past flowering dogwoods,

and it began to snow.

I brought her to sandy shores of Huron,

And watched cerulean walls fade to sapphire.

I pointed out the burning dots spattering the night,

each one like a music note played in staccato.

 She looked to the sky, and frowned.

“But where is the moon?” She asked.

“Someone has borrowed it,” I told her.

“But they will return it tomorrow,

after drinking in its power, and starting it anew.”

The moon has a beauty of its own,

I had explained,

where it is both new and ancient all at once.

 But she seemed dissatisfied.

 “I cannot feel pain; help me,” she said.

So I did.

I brought her to the brink, and pushed her.

She tumbled through thistles and thorns of remorse,

consumed by hatred,

and eviscerated by regret.

Her entrails were left tangled in branches,

where crows lapped them up for supper.

A guillotine of guilt

sliced her mind from her body,

and the remains burned away to ash.

 But she seemed dissatisfied.

 “Love me,” she said.

So I did.

��=a��

#writing #poetry #mine #watercolors #life #love

[daughter-oftherainandsnow-blog]

Insomnia

1:52

The walls whisper

soliloquies

of their life before me,

shaking

and

shuddering

from decades old

aches and pains.

 2:34

My lover whistles

a jovial tune

in my ear.

The blankets encase me

in a discomforting warmth,

swaddling me

to the edge of sleep,

but

forbidding me to leap.

 4:57

The floodgates open,

and my mind becomes

a reservoir of unsettled worries.

Lincoln, Franklin, and Johnson

chatter through my thoughts,

arguing about

stability and security.

 6:02

My lover whistles another tune,

but this time

matching rhythm

with my avian friends at the window.

A symphony is held in my honor,

but I do not care for the music.

 7:15

My alarm echoes

against the vaulted ceiling.

#writing #mine #poetry #3/9/15

[daughter-oftherainandsnow-blog]

Humanity's Paradox

She was chased into chaos by impossible rhymes, and not even the metronome of her beating heart could keep in time with the affluent notes attempting to make melodies in her head. Everything was still, yet nothing was static. Life had ensued into a chasm of incongruous being, but to live was to cease being altogether. It was a limbo of existence, caught between the deconstruction of thought and the reconstruction of human capacity. Stifled by the intensity of the outside world, she closed the cage to her heart, only to be smothered by the desire for freedom. 

It was the cruelest of ironies.

#writing #mine #fiction #flash fiction #wow I wrote again!

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How to Commit Suicide in 11 Days

                Day 1:

                This life is boring. The monotony of the routines I go through every day is exhausting and so idiotically dull. I don’t know how I’ve survived for this long. I’ve always felt as though my life was exceedingly plain, and that I was missing some form of excitement or deviation from my standard routine, but never have I acknowledged this until today. Bryce is always so enthusiastic; it’s annoying. He’s like a hyperactive puppy. How I will stay married to this man without murdering him or myself is beyond me. Why my parents set us up is also a mystery I will not fathom to solve. Maybe I should just off myself – it will save the scrupulously annoying future with Bryce and his tail-wagging parents. Nobody would even suspect it! I could kill myself and not one of my family members or friends would understand why. It’s perfect! I’ll start planning my suicide today; let’s see how heartbroken these people will be once I leave.

Annabelle paced through the dairy section, her cart squealing as she went, the front right wheel uselessly spinning around. She placed a gallon of 2% milk in her cart, as well as coffee cream, sour cream, and low-fat cream cheese. She found a block of mozzarella and added that to her collection. She moved on to the fresh fruits and vegetables section of the store, picking out all sorts of perishable items-tomatoes, bananas, apples, lettuce, pears. As Anna continued to peruse the aisles, her cart began to fill with only items of set expiration dates.

She wheeled her cart past the “twelve items or fewer” electronic cash out and to the aisle that actually held a human being ringing through the food. Anna always felt as though human interaction was better than the automatic cashier service; it gave people jobs and it was a chance to interact with these pathetic teenagers and retired teachers who needed to pay for their mortgage or schooling.

“Are you one of those health freaks or something?” A young blonde with drawn on eyebrows, raised in a judgmental fashion, inquired as she rang up Anna’s many food choices.

 “Not exactly,” Anna responded, cheerfully, staring at the twenty-something girl as she furrowed her brow, apparently confused at her answer.

Anna watched her expressions and bit her lip to keep from laughing out loud. Oh, if only this poor, ignorant teenage broad knew exactly what she was going to do. With a Cheshire cat-like grin, she handed her debit card over the conveyer belt and waited as the bimbo swiped the card. What a dumbass, Anna thought. She flashed another charismatic smile at the cashier before she loaded her bags into her cart and pushed it out into the parking lot.

When Anna arrived back at her apartment with an armload of grocery bags, she made for the refrigerator. She unloaded her haul onto the nearly empty shelves, turned around, picked up the phone, and dialed the number for the pizza joint down the street.

A medium bacon and green olive pizza and six episodes of CSI Las Vegas later, Anna decided it was time for bed. As she sauntered out of the living room, pressing the off switch on the remote to the plasma screen television blaring The Who’s “Who Are You”, Anna stopped by the kitchen to cross off another day on her calendar.

Day 2:

Shannon texted me last night about seeing that new 50 Shades of Grey movie that just came out. I politely told her to stuff it and that I’d rather pour molten liquid gold over my head in front of a tribe of warriors than see that garbage. I pretended I was kidding; she wouldn’t have gotten the Game of Thrones reference anyway. I actually told her I was busy with wedding plans and that we’d have to see another movie some other time. Thank the lords. I love using my wedding as an excuse to getting out of most situations. That’s the one good thing that came from my engagement, at least. I’m going to spend today burning my clothes. If when I die, those idiots decide to donate the luxurious clothes I spent so much of Bryce’s money on, I will sell my soul to Satan to come back as an entity to haunt their asses. No, these clothes don’t deserve to be worn by anyone else but me. I may need more lighter fluid though…

Day 3:

Fucking Bryce.

Day 4:

I’ve gotten the necessary elements for tipping off the neighbors – the people in this building aren’t the sharpest tool in the shed; in fact, they aren’t even the dullest either. They’re just uncharacteristically stupid and inattentive. I only hope they are wise enough to notice an unusual smell radiating from my apartment after the job is done. If they don’t, well, my parents or Bryce will phone the police and file a missing person’s report eventually. The bigger question is how I will stage this little one man production. Poison is too innocuous and too predictable. Besides, it’s always been a woman’s “weapon of choice” for suicide or murder, so I can’t fall into the stereotypes of my gender. I’m above all of that. Hanging is the next most common, but it won’t be most common for me. I’ve told Bryce how much I’d hate being buried alive, suffocated with nowhere to go, so perhaps he’ll let those investigators believe I would never kill myself in that way.

Anna had a spring in her step as she sauntered down the street to the tackle shop just a few blocks away from her work. She had an epiphany earlier, about how she would hang herself without letting the police track her methods: fishing line. It was durable enough to relinquish the air from her lungs but uncommon for a person to use. Anna already told all of her coworkers at Tiffany’s that she was heading out fishing with Bryce next weekend; that much was true. She hated fishing, but pretended to like it for Bryce – he was like an old man when it came to hobbies. Golf, fishing, Euchre, whittling, bird watching, you name it, Bryce loved it.

She entered “Bob’s Boats and Bait” and perused the tackle aisle, looking for a durable fishing line. She settled on an average priced wire and made for the checkout counter, falling in line behind an elderly man who was debating with the cashier about which bait would hook a Northern Pike. She rolled her eyes as she stood, balancing from one leg to the other. She was bored.

Finally the old coot moved out of her way and Anna could purchase her measly fishing wire.

As he rang up the wire, the middle aged man smiled brightly at Anna, asking about her purchase.

“Are you a fisher or just your boyfriend?”

“Both,” she responded, almost dryly, but stopped herself and plastered on a fake smile. “How’d you guess I had a boyfriend, though?”

“Well, a pretty young thing such as yourself must have someone waiting for you back home, right?” He chuckled lightly and Anna clenched her hand into a fist. She was tired of the same old “you’re so pretty!” or “your boyfriend must be lucky” responses she always got from strangers who did not know her.

“I do, yes. He’s my fiancé and we’re to be married next year.” She tried to keep her voice even, although she was fuming internally.

            “Oh how nice!” The man handed Anna her change and held out the small plastic bag. “Have fun with your fishing expedition. Good luck to you!”

Fucking people. Anna was sick of the attention. She was pretty, she got it. Everyone told her that; her parents always assumed that she would never be boyfriend-less, her friends whined about how they wished they looked half as good as she did, Bryce always told her how lucky he was to have such a gorgeous wife-to-be, strangers would stop her and comment on her looks. It was never ending and she was done with it. A few more days and those empty compliments would vanish.

Day 5:

My mom called today to ask about lunch next Sunday. I agreed, even though I know I should be dead by then. Less of an “ah-ha” moment for her if I didn’t accept her lunch date, especially once she hears about my suicide and puts two and two together. My mom isn’t the smartest woman; that’s why she married my dad. He’s a construction worker and just barely graduated high school. She was smitten from the moment she met him at Duke’s Dinner thirty years ago, even though she was way out of his league. She gave up all of her money just to be with him. I had to suffer from a poor family all because my parents believed in “true love.” Not saying that they loved me any less, they just could have had so much more money in their lives.

Day 6:

I need some inspiration. I woke up feeling almost regretful of what I planned to do, but I managed to push those thoughts aside and tell myself it was for the greater good. It would be better if I went this way; I need to give the Atlanta Police Department something to do. All of those murders that have gone unsolved, those hit and runs that have been brushed under the rug, the drug deals that go unnoticed, all are tossed aside so that the APD can help a pitiable rich, white girl find a missing cat. What the actual fuck? This case should spice up their careers; give them something fun to do since they aren’t doing their jobs.

            I think a few episodes of CSI should help with my lack of motivation, I hope. There was that one with the two ladies who were twins and died, all because the killer didn’t know which twin was which. One of them was even hung. Or the “Who Shot Sherlock” episode where “Sherlock” was assumed to commit suicide but his partner, “Watson,” was actually the murderer and staged the whole thing just so he could become the new Sherlock Holmes. Pathetic.

            Grissom piped up and added in one of his signature puns before “Who Are You” echoed through the title screen and flashes of forensic montages appeared. Anna must have seen every single episode of CSI: Las Vegas (Miami and New York were awful spin offs) and knew how each one ended without having to watch all the way through before remembering. She had briefly considered becoming a forensic scientist before tossing that idea aside for fashion consultation; these two careers were so dichotomous that everyone teased Anna for being so multifaceted.

            Greg Sanders was still completing his field test when he added in the age old cliché line of “Elementary, my dear Watson” as he assessed the crime scene of “Sherlock’s” dead body sprawled out in an antique arm chair. Anna was tired of the cliché. CSI tended to portray and exude every cliché in the book, and maybe that was why, three episodes later, she had sparked a drive to continue her plan for suicide.

            She decided to call Bryce in the morning, just to assure him that everything was okay on her end, and to leave him unsuspecting of what she was about to do. It would only add to the confusion he would have once he received the call from the police about her discovered body. This plan needed to be flawless, foolproof, and more thought out than a Marvel superhero’s background.

              Day 7:

            I called Bryce this morning, and he answered on the first ring. What, was he waiting by the phone, staring at it until I called him? God, he seems to drop everything he’s doing just to talk to me. Why can’t be a normal guy for once and actually be busy?! I had to listen to him drone on about which frosting we should have on the cake – buttercream might upset his mom’s stomach because of her lactose, but cream cheese would be too heavy for most people, and this is this, and blah blah fucking blah. Ugh! I am literally about to rip my hair out every time he talks about our wedding. It’s seven months away! He can be such a girl sometimes I wonder if I’m actually a lesbian.

            Anna spent most of her day sending off halfhearted “mmhmm’s” and “uh huh’s” into the phone glued to her ear. Bryce would barely give her a minute to speak before barreling off into another ridiculously mind-numbing story about his day at the courthouse. Bryce made a generous amount of money working as a lawyer, but he lived up to the reputation of a boring attorney who’s high point of the day was reading a hundred page case file at the downtown firm on his lunch break. Whoopee. At least she could spend his money and he wouldn’t give a damn about how often she drained his checking account.

            Day 8:

            I don’t feel much like doing anything today. I looked out my window and it was sleeting rain like money at a strip club; I know, I’ve been to one. I’m going back to bed.

            Day 9:

            I should figure out a place to leave my body. Today I can do that; work called me off because of a scheduling error and now my entire day is free to review my surroundings.

Anna needed somewhere close to home, if not right there in her apartment complex. She decided against her own room; too easy, too dull. She needed to present more of a challenge. The roof was a possibility, but the weather channel predicted more rain in the next few days and the swarm of bugs finding home inside her body would be a dead giveaway. Some place dark, secluded, and a path less trodden on: the basement. Jack, the custodial service man, used the basement for storage and the occasional cigarette break, but otherwise it was always empty.

Anna had asked the landlord of her complex about keeping a few items in the basement for storage and whether they would be safe; she hinted at Jack pawing through her items and scrunched her nose at the thought of it, pretending to be worried. The landlord fervently assured her that everything would be safe, but that Jack would be taking a week’s vacation just the next day. She batted her mascara coated eyelashes at the man and he nearly swooned. It was so easy to manipulate men.

Anna took the flight of stairs down four floors and found herself in a dusty, partially damp and partially malodorous cellar of the apartment complex. Air vents crossed the ceiling like aluminum mazes and a few doors were placed sporadically around the room. Otherwise, nothing special, nothing out of the ordinary. It was perfect.

She went along the wall, opening a door here and there, mentally crossing off those with too much clutter. Decade old Christmas decorations crowded one, dusty and out of date holiday greetings, such as “A Gay and Joyful Christmas” were splayed across banners; a dismembered Santa hung from the rafters and the floor was littered with broken glass from the strand of lights bundled in the corner.

In another, the furnace stood behind it, rattling off steam from rusted pipes. Finally, Anna found a storage closet that only held a mop - wooden handled and oddly shaped fabric - from what looked like a 1950s home cleaning catalog and a dented metal pail. The ceiling housed a steel bar for a few rusted coat hangers.

The bar was about half a foot out of her reach, so Anna pulled the pail towards her and flipped it upside down. Standing on the pail, she was able to easily reach the bar without wobbling or worrying about crashing to the floor from breaking the pliable metal container.

The next part was figuring out where to hide her journal. She very well couldn’t leave it upstairs in her room. That was too conspicuous, too staged. She didn’t want it on her, however, because by the time the police investigated the basement, the journal could be damaged from putrefaction. No, she needed the journal hidden, but close by the body. She searched the room, wondering where a book could easily fit without being overly obvious. Her eyes landed on the air vents above.

“I wonder….” Anna thought aloud.

If the bar in the closet was tall, these vents were twice that height. Anna couldn’t even touch the ceiling if she jumped, let alone climb into one and stash the journal.

She tapped her finger against her lip and pondered. If only she had a ladder. Making another round with the doors, she found a wooden ladder stowed behind the pile of decorations in the first closet. Anna placed the ladder beneath the vent with the removable opening, most likely for maintenance, and climbed to the top rungs. Now she could reach. This would work.

Anna placed the ladder against the wall to use again when it was time for the grand finale. To leave the ladder out in sight would be a perfect clue for the officers of her investigation. Maybe she could even leave the vent cover partially undone, just in case they weren’t smart enough to conclude about the ladder placement.

Another check mark to her list and another day crossed off. It wouldn’t be long now.

Day 10:

I think tomorrow will be the day. To quote Imagine Dragons, “I feel it in my bones” and I have everything in place. All that’s left is the most important part: me. I left the fishing wire out so I would remember to take it with me and tomorrow I’ll make sure to call Bryce and my parents, sounding my “usual” chipper self – what a façade I put on. I should get an award or something for my brilliant acting. Please, hold your applause for the final act.

Day 11:

This is it, today’s the day and I’m ready for it to end. Surprisingly Bryce did not pick up when I called, so I left a soppy, lovey-dovey message about how much I miss him and that I would just love it if he found time to call me back. Yuck. My parents were out on the lake today so they wouldn’t be answering any phone calls – they were so primitive they didn’t even have cell phones. A shower, make up, and my new coral and white Valentino dress with dark blue Louis Vuitton pumps. Ever heard of going out with style?

Annabelle smirked as she placed the newly titled journal into the air vent above - “How to Commit Suicide in 11 Days: A Guide by Annabelle Reese.” Those pinhead police officers, when they finally get around to opening the closet door and finding her partially putrefied body, they would have the how. The people who hear this story on the news, her parents, her friends, her fiancé Bryce, they all would have the how, but they’ll never have the why. It will baffle the police and the detectives and the CSIs. They’ll all reach an inconclusive answer and remain puzzled for life. It was the perfect ending to her little stage production.

In most cases, those who decided to go through with suicide leave a note. There was no note -she wouldn’t write one - but in her aptly named journal, Anna explained of a note left for her loved ones to find. The invisible suicide note would only further frustrate the incompetent law enforcers and Anna almost wished she could return to this life as a ghost so that she could watch those jarheads scramble over one another to solve the puzzle she’s laid out so carefully. She laughed, gleefully, alone in the room, at the thought that she held the remaining jigsaw pieces and that those would never be extracted from her.

It was sweltering, even for a mid-July summer day in Atlanta. The basement only cooled the air by about 3 degrees and Anna tugged at her dress, forcing what little air was wafting around the dank room to cool her chest. This was good, the heat. Anna had unplugged the refrigerator and turned off the A/C in her apartment, hoping to speed up the process of spoiling the perishables and, eventually, tipping off the neighbors. If she was lucky, the food would rot first, rather than her corpse. She knew, from her marathons of CSI, how overpowering the smell of decaying flesh could be, especially in blistering heat, which is why she had already taken the liberty in taping up the crack in the doorway to the supply closet a few days earlier. The less air that stole through, the fewer odors would penetrate the building.

The clanking of a large industrial fan, which sat near the middle of the room, silenced the street noise of the city. Anna moved to lean against the fan, the blades generating a vivacious air current in front of her and blowing back strands of her hair. The breeze cooled her face and she closed her eyes, relishing the refreshing moment. The front protector of the cage was propped up against the wall on the far side of the room, probably for Jack to repair the fan but never getting around to it.

When she crossed the room, she noticed that the cover was actually in front of the supply closet she prepared for her suicide. Anna heaved the cover up and half tossed, half slid it back towards the raucous and practically superfluous fan.

Anna took one last look around the basement, moving to stand in line of the immense breeze of the fan. She wasn’t exactly savoring her last few moments alive, really, just acknowledging them. It’s quite funny, actually, Anna thought, how much clearer and sharper the world seems when you know it’ll be your last chance to take it all in.

Closing her eyes, she took one last deep inhale, filling her lungs to the brim and then letting them deflate.

She was calm, at peace. Thoughts raced through her mind about how perfect her plan was, how every detail was so meticulously sketched out. She pulled the fishing line out of her pocket and stared down at the shiny, taut wire in her hands. It was time for her to die, but she couldn’t move.

Why couldn’t she move? Anna began to tremble beneath the weight of her sinking despair, as the realization set it. Maybe I don’t want this. Maybe I just wanted some fun, just to see how far I could go.

Anna didn’t want to die anymore. The fun was in the planning, and now that it was over, dying sounded like the least opportune thing to do. How would she be able to watch the investigators stumble over the evidence if she was dead?! Anna felt so stupid, so unbelievably stupid that she truly believed this was the best option.

She placed her hands over her eyes, shaking her head at the thought. She tramped backwards, loosely catching one foot over the other, tangling them together in a fit of momentary clumsiness. Visions of her body flashed through her head and she couldn’t stop them. She staggered faster, trying to escape the inevitable thoughts piercing her cerebral cortex. Her foot caught on the cage protector of the fan and she stumbled backwards into the whirring blades. 

#short story #fiction #creative writing #mine #How to Commit Suicide in 11 Days #writing

[daughter-oftherainandsnow-blog]

Erebos

Punitive gasps escape

My convoluted lungs

And encompass my throat,

Relinquishing sentience.

A seeping despair looms overhead,

Drowning me in liquefied desolation.

The clouds roll in,

Nimbostratus pillows of isolation,

Thundering against my ribs and

Sleeting through my veins.

I am alone.

But the lifesaver floats to me,

Tossed from the ship,

By your hands,

To save me from sinking.

I break the surface, at last,

And all at once,

I can breathe again.

#Erebos #poetry #writing #mine

[daughter-oftherainandsnow-blog]

Euphemism (Erotic Poetry)

My catcher’s mitt is ready,

Waiting for that strike.

My sticky bun out

For all to see,

Hoping some lucky girl

Will take a little bite.

My snake charmer,

My gravy boat,

Drips like a leaky faucet.

My butter boat,

My cabbage field,

Oh, and my cock socket.

My pink canoe,

My meat muffin,

My wound-that-never-heals.

All are words bound to her,

But none

Endorse the same appeal.

Whisper her name as you tongue my nipple,

And reach inside of her,

All wet and deliciously supple.

She’s there in all her grandeur

For you to enjoy,

But please don’t call her an impetuous crotch truffle.

She is alight with passion, now,

Antedating your next play,

But remember, my twat waffle,

My cum dumpster,

My penis valet;

How do I put this lightly-

My pussy is not some pet to name,

Nor a treasure hunt.

She is mine

And I am not ashamed of her,

My lustrous, lovely cunt.

#Euphemism #erotic poetry #nsfw #writing #mine

[daughter-oftherainandsnow-blog]

Lady Jane (Erotic Poetry)

There she is,

All tangled up

In the sheets

Waiting for me to continue.

I can sense her hunger,

Taste it on her lips as mine embrace hers,

Wanting,

Lusting

Craving.

Those tantalizing eyes,

Those smoldering, hazel inlets,

Those creamy lochs pooled with sensual desire.

She needs me,

Just as I need her.

I can’t help but trail my fingers down her

Exquisite body;

Her beauty radiates incandescently,

And sometimes,

I am left stunned,

Blinded, staring into a force

More powerful

And brighter than a thousand suns.

All I am left to do,

Is watch

As her face contorts into a beauty unimaginable,

As I am filled with a yearning

For her iridescent,

Wet,

Cunt,

And she quivers,

Anticipating my tongue.

Her legs open wide,

Like a curtain drawn at a play,

And I am the audience,

In full view of the cast,

Craning to get a better look. 

#Lady Jane #erotic poetry #writing #mine #nsfw

[daughter-oftherainandsnow-blog]

Erato and Bishoujo

In twelve months of knowing you,

It only took

A fleeting moment,

An ephemeral act of

Inanity,

On that very first night

For me to yearn for your touch again.

What was missing in my life,

That unexplainable lack of purpose,

Portrayed itself in the reflection of you

And suddenly tenacity restored itself.

The Moirai spun a thread of destiny around us

And not even Hades himself

Could keep us apart.

I am,

You are,

We are,

A perfect imperfection.

#Erato and Bishoujo #poetry #writing #mine #love