When I stabbed you did it hurt?  Did the cold steel slicing and twisting through you flesh startle you?  Were you surprised?  Were you stunned?  Did you feel the initial piercing?  Was it like ice or was it like the fire?  

When the blade slipped deeper... where you amazed that I had done it?  Were you stunned from that?  Had the endorphins kicked in yet and you felt no pain only shock and wonder at the fact that steel was driving deeply into your sickly white flesh and that it was going to kill you and that I, I who had loved you so much, was the hand curled around the hilt, the fingers clutched around the end, the malice pushing through into the point of the blade that was going and was doing you in?  

I know that I thrilled.  My heart raced with the sight of the tip of that cold steel blade digging into your hide.  Your skin dimpled.  It pushed in.  I made a new crater in your sorry self.  I felt the thin  thickness dent then break.  I felt that blade start sinking.  The resistance.  The hard pushing back.  The muscles, the fat, the YUCK that composes you.  I felt it.  I thrilled.  I was elated.  I thought I would die myself from the overwhelming joy of driving a piece of metal through you.  It made me smile; it made my senses reel.  

I wanted more.  Blood lust is good.  Blood lust is fulfilling.  When it is your blood I am unleashing, I feel my own rises to the fevered occasion!

Did you know what I had planned?  Did you even suspect that when you walked through that door I’d stab you?  I’d slice you?  Did you?  I bet you never even had a clue that I would do you in.  

You are far too vain.  Too excited.  Too into yourself to think of anyone in the mortal world despising you.  No.  I bet you thought I’d sit and take your crap forever.  You thought Id be a patient whore that you could come and diddle and then throw aside and then pick up and wring out and then start all over again.  Didn’t you?  You thought that you were so far above me.  So much into yourself and not worried or caring about us, we the mere pieces of ass you picked up along the way to get your rocks off and squirt into!  

No, not you!  No, you were so beautiful, debonaire, so gorgeous and well hung that you, you thought that would be enough to satisfy any lowly woman who came in your wake.  A good fuck.  A good lay. And then throw it away.   To hell with you!
 
Yes, to hell with you!  That brings an even bigger smile to my lips.  To know that I , a mere trifle, have sent your sorry, worthless ass to the fiery depths of hell.  I delight in that.  Can you imagine, can you guess how much I enjoy the torment you will endure, endure for eternity!  It excites me to no end!

You my love, my precious rouge, will burn.  Your lust will burn you alive and burn you dead.  Satan will have his imps use you!  You will be the piece of burning flesh passed around, used up, poked, pissed on.  You, my delightful lover, will be hell’s bitch.  And I will watch and dream of it in my mind’s eye.  Yes, I will see you in my dreams burning in the demon’s lust.  The furthest depths of hell are reserved for you.  And I have sent you there with glee!

I bet you never thought of that, did you?  Did you think that your sins would come back to haunt you and crispy your sorry flesh?  Did you suspect that I would be the one to usher you into your new estate?  Did you?  Did it ever cross your mind that one day I would see you dead!  Dead at the end of a knife point that was my own.  That you would be impaled on a blade of cold steel.  Did you ever suspect that I’d be the one to slice you, kill you, and love every moment of the torture you’d be subjected to afterwards?  I bet not.  I bet not.  

Now, You sit here bleeding.  And gasping.  I laugh at that picture.  Let my get one.  Oh, I’m so sorry did the flash hurt your failing eyes?  Did it blind you briefly?  Good!  Who cares of your misery?  You never cared about anyone else’s?  You shameless dog.  You have no rights no privileges.  You have no soul left to bargain with.  I took it and sent it to the devil himself in a plush velvet bag .  Soon the bag will be full and you will die and I will be all the more pleased at your demise.  

Demise.  Such a beautiful word.  Almost as beautiful as what I once thought that you, my desperate love, were.  You were a god.  A god in flesh.  You were the object of my idiolatry.  The one I loved, the one I walked through fire for, the one who could use me, hurt me, sex me and still I ‘d come back for more.  You were an angel.  You, you were so special to me.  I loved you more than I loved my own soul.  I sacrificed and humbled myself just to be used by you.  I had rather be in your presence than alone.  You, were my everything.  Everything I could possibly want or want to be with.  

How I doted on you, but you were like so many others.  There was really nothing special about you after all .  It was a fanciful farce.  A lie.  A white washed sepulcher with daisies and flowers painted on the sides.  You were nothing to love.  You were nothing to have and hold and cherish.  You were simply trash in a beautiful, god-like vessel.  Yet every deity has power and you abused yours.  

Did you really think that a true devotee would be so easily dismissed and rejected? No!  NO! NO!  No true worshiper is deterred from her quest for divinity and holiness.  Instead you, you scurrilous deceiver, were nothing special and no deity and no thing worth praise!!  And I have torn down your alter.  I have demolished your temple.  I have broken you.  

“Iconoclast!”  They shall all thank me for your fall from grace and worship!  
When you are finally dead, when your blood has pooled around your broken body, when the light starts to dim, when your ears start to fail, when everything you know slips away from you in death, remember my face.  Remember my words.  Remember that you killed yourself.  Remember that you will rot in hell for eternity, a vanquished whore!  

Did you feel the last twisted?  Did it cut you deep?  Are you in tears because I have had my revenge? Are you sad because you let your dick lead you astray?  
Thank me.  I have saved you from yourself.  Although you shall have no absolution.  The devil gives none.

She dashed and crashed through the kitchen. Plates clanked, mugs clacked, and cursed uttered. I hate this damn family. She thinks she is so wonderful that her precious baby boy can do no wrong. Well, to hell with her and her precious "boy!" It was ridiculous that a gown man was referred to as boy anyway. Jackass.

And there he sat living it up, lapping it up soaking it. His dear momma. Momma’s boy! Weak ass, jackass... two take and cram it up your...

She slammed the butcher block onto the cabinet, snatched open the fridge door, grabbed the geese. She felt murderous. She tied the two necks together.. For no purpose, not called for in the recipe , but it felt good to ring ‘em, string ‘em, and slam ‘em down. She looked at the fat blade. Silvery shine bounced off the edge. She traced the fine sharp blade through the breast.

"Now, deary don’t hack the thing to bits. That’s no way to prepare fresh geese. Can’t have you upsetting my boy’s delicate stomach." She cooed and croaked and stroked his fat head.

She threw the blade into the butcher block. It wobbled side to side with the force. She reached around her back, ripped out the bow, and threw the apron onto the stove.

"Well, if you are so worried about your boy perhaps you should take over the cooking, your royal highness." She stomped through the living room, swept up her purse, coat, and keys. 20 seconds later rubber screeched down the road.

"Don’t worry about her, my precious boy. Momma’s here to take care of you. " He smiled, covered up, and relaxed.

3 AM... "Who could that be at this time of night?" The decrepit fat dowager rolled out of bed. She slumped into a terry cloth bathroom and fuzzy house slippers. Again the buzzer jangled, "I’m comin’ keep your socks on. For heavens, sake."

"Momma what is it." His red hair was tasseled, his fat butt hanging out of his waffle cloth boxers. His shaggy red-orange beard lent him a sheepish grizzled bear look. His whiney voice and disheveled appearance spoke volumes. Momma’s boy!

"Go on back to bed boy, I’ll take care of everything. I’m coming!" She waddled her fat figure to the door. "Now who is out here making all this racket?"

When she opened the door, only a fat basket decorated for Christmas sat on the porch.

"My land."

"What is it momma?"

"I’ll see." She bent down to pick up the heavy bundle, her wide fat hips pushed back the screen door. Just as she stood, a large gooey mass struck her full in the face. It dripped and slid its way down like melting wax. She screamed, the impact knocking her head back and stretching her neck. The splatter against the front door outlined her corpulent head. Before she could recover another ballistic projectile exploded into her rotund mid section. A third glob shot straight into her overbearing pie whole.

"Momma! Momma!" Her dead head son wriggled to her rescue. "What the devil!"

"Merry Christmas your Royal Fat Ass." Another barrage slammed into her and her dead beat son. "And a happy New year!"

Tires squealed as they peeled down the street. A dark figure held up two middle fingers and it leaned out the passenger side window.

Stunned and peeved totally shocked out of character, she looked into the basket. She screamed and the package hit the floor with a sickening thud and squishy rolls. Rolling rolling tumbling like meatballs from spaghetti and just as soggy, Santa’s severed head bounced across the living room carpet. Fat momma passed out in the midst of guts and blood. Stapled to the ear, a little note... May this bring you great cheer. Signed Santa. A doggy paw print had left it’s red stamp on the white placard.

Dead Santa by JL Denman December 6^{, 2005}

Like an over-ripe beefsteak tomato rimmed with cottage cheese, the corpulent remains of Santa Claus lay dead on the hotel floor.

"I’m glad he’s dead."

"How could you say that, after all Santa has done for you?"

"For me? For me!"

"Yes, for you. Don’t you remember? All the good times. The times over the North pole, the time with the misfit toys?"

"What I remember dear, is years of torment and haranguing. Years when this fat tub came strolling through the yards and over looked me every single time! For me, what did he ever ever do for me?"

Now, I know things growing up were hard. But he was a jolly fellah."

"I supposed if you are hyped up on elf dust and magic cocktails sauces, you’d be jolly, too!"

"Ohh you are so ... so.. Difficult."

"Oh come off it Clarisse! That fat, dust sniffing, drunk right there is better off dead. Whoever killed him... I tip my antlers to him."

"Well, I never...."

"Never what, Clarisse, never got to fly in Santa’s chariot, never got to win back dear old dad’s love once you started hanging with me? What?"

"Well, if you must know, I never liked the old coot either. And I surely don’t appreciate that every time something BIG gets done around here, immediately a guy gets credit for it!"

"What are your rambling about?"

"Well if you must know.. The "he" is "she". Bumping off Santa was easy." She sniffed and turned to cop out of the hotel room.

"Rudolph smiled and his nose glowed bright crimson. He nudged his nose against Clarisse’s’. "I’m shocked and surprisingly turned on."

Clarisse’s battered her doe eyes. "Of course you are. I can tell by your nose."

"Why Clarisse. Why did you bump off ole Saint Nick?" He shivered with delight.

"Well, he wouldn’t let my try out for the team. You bucks aren’t the only flyers around here. The fat, jolly bastard laughed at me and told me to go make babies and make you, dear Rudolph a happy pappa!" Clarisse stomped her hoofs on dead Santa’s leg.

"You are delightfully surprising, sweet doe." He licked her blushing cheek. "But won’t Mrs. Clause be devastated to find her life long partner dead, splattered like an over ripe tomato?"

CLarisse giggled, "Of course not. He would have been dead within the next year anyway. She’d been feeding him ground glass in his sugar cookies." They both laughed as they backed up towards the hotel door, ran, and charged through the window. Flying high in the sky, two love sick, punch drunk, murderous reindeer.

"Up, up, up and a way! Ho ho ho. Merry Christmas" Rudolph mocked.

"Oh, you are so bad!"

Only the sound of laughter and a crimson glow lingered in the crisp night air.

Locked? How so? Who did it? Fear ran rough shod over her nerves. Who would do such a thing? It felt so close now. Dark. A hammer slugged her lungs every time she breathed, or attempted to. Sweat deluged her bra. Her breasts felt like clammy hams smooshed together by super sized wet naps. Down her back, rivulets let their soggy tracks.

Her hearing, acute, sent unrecognizable noise to her brain. Light creeping, everywhere, scratched at her mind. What? Where was she? Who did this? The crawling sounds inched close, crowding. Almost near her, she felt their groping feelers stretching toward her. Tendrils of inevitability cocooned in dark flesh, threatened her.

She struggled to rise. Pinned. Hemmed in. Closed space. Darkness, greedy for her sanity, strangled her.

Plunk. Scratch. Creep. Thud. Crank. Squeal. The closed space rumbled and lowered. Terror. Who did this? SCREAM!

Ashes to ashes. Dust to dust. Into your hands we commend.

If I had my whim you’d starve today

A soup would mock your hunger

A dog would laugh at your thirst

And birds would peck out your eyes.

If I had my druthers you’d beg today

A floor would scratch you knees

A hall would echo your voice

And a whip would mare your back.

If I had my way

every hour, minute, second

Every dollar, effort,

Every meal

Every thought

every single thing in relation to you would evaporate

turn to pounds of dust and

bury you

never to rise

If I had my way you’d die today.

A coffin would rock you to sleep

Worms would keep you company

And dirt would be your blanket.

"What do you want from me?"

"What would you rather keep?"

Fear crept int his voice. Which was odd. HE never felt fear. HE was far far to tough for that. Especially in the wake of some woman. HE made women weak. He made them swoon and groan. He knew how to take a woman and turn her inside out and back again without a misstep.

Remembering his conquests, his fear subsided and a wicked smile played at the edge of his full lips. Reaching up to his chin, his long fingers caressed the sexy stubble and closed his eyes. He knew he looked good. Deep blue eyes with thick long lashes set in a rugged, strong jawed face. He knew that combination of olive skin, black hair, and blue eyes drove some women mad with desire at a mere glance from him. He’d seen them fight each other off just to get a barstool closer. He’d convinced many a lady to leave her gal pals at the club while the two of them snuck off to some nearby hotel for a midnight frolic. He could not help but laugh at the many, many morning after "I love yous" and the "When can we see each other agains." What fools they must have been to think that a cheap, although excellent thrill would last longer than his last thrust and howl. But this time he had broken his cardinal rul

"What would you rather keep?"

His eye lids snapped open. His eyes cleared their ruminations. In a split second of confusion he furtively gazed around the her bedroom -decidedly not his taste with its Greek statuary and marbled tiling. He had forgotten that she was there. Lost in the good times of past sex and immediate dumps, he had forgotten she had spoken at all. Something about the way she said it bothered him. It sent fingers of frost along the back of his neck and down his otherwise masculine arms. He stared into her eyes.

She was gorgeous. A true bombshell of a woman. A man couldn’t call her a lady because nothing about her said such. She was bigger than life. More gorgeous than a magazine and certainly more high class than any video vixen or Playboy bunny. No, she wasn’t the type to call a "lady." Yet, tramp or any other demeaning adjective would be equally as horrible. No, she was a woman. He reached over to touch her auburn hair. Spread out on the pillow and over her arm as she propped it up. The silken hair floated form his fingers pack into the titillating array from which he lifted it. She was truly beautiful.

She on the other hand simply looked at him. All the passion and sexual energy drained out of her (he could still feel the stiffness from where she had bite his neck in the urgency of her passion), she merely looked at him, through him, but with intensely so. It was odd. He couldn’t shake the feeling that she could really care less about him now that they had released some steam, yet, at the same time she seemed throughly absorbed with some intangible aspect of himself that he did not understand. She had a pull on him that was different. Not love. Not a desire for monogamy. But something other worldly, disturbing yet intriguing. Something a real man like himself could appreciate as his equal.. Possibly his better? He shook that thought from his mind and rolled to his side, facing this boudoir goddess.

"What do you want from me?" He snugged himself further into the sheets. He tried for the usual light hearted flippancy. But, it rang hollow as it bounced from the stone and the women in the bed. Her gaze didn’t waver. There was no sign or sense that she even registered his answer. She simply continued to stare at, through him. It unnerved him. And the anxiety in his voice reverberated.

"I don’t know what you want, woman, but I can tell you that I’m not the marrying kind." He tried to take the edge off by chuckling and sliding his strong hand down the her exposed side.

"What would you rather keep?"

Without hesitation he rolled her to her back, spread her lithe thighs, and pinned her arms beside her head . He planted himself squarely between them and thrust onward. This always shut them up, he thought to himself. With a hard rhythm he ground himself into her.

"This is what I want to keep, woman." He crashed and rocked and thrust until sweat dropped down onto her chest and the bed frame pounded against the wall. She took the ride. He thought he saw a glint of heat flash across her face as he spent himself. Finished, he ripped himself from her body and flopped to his side of her bed.

"Is that what you long to keep?" The eerie quality of her voice crashed down on him life an avalanche.

"Yes."

Those three words sparked her. She seemed to grow within her own skin. Vitality and hungry returned and she passionately began to stroke him to renewed vigor. He felt himself stiffen. HE felt the blood rush to his rod, pumping him up for a 3 round. With each throb she revived and grew and changed. She was wild; like an uncaged thing she aroused him.

He wanted to take her again roughly like lions on the savannah. When he went to assert himself, he felt heavy. He couldn’t move. His legs seemed weighted down. Has she tied him in the frenzy? He laughed half heartedly, "Common’ now. No fair: I need you, woman."

You need no one. You said you wanted to keep this." He could no longer feel her once warm fingers. Her words began to hiss. He distinctly saw the tip of a forked tongue as she spoke.

"You wanted this. A rod, a piece so full and standing. I’ve made sure that you have it forever." Her laughter resounded from the stone. It echoed with the hisses and writhing. Her red hair wriggled with twisting bodies and flipping tongues. Her skin, once pale and luminous turned greed and scaley. Her eyes, riveting and alluring morphed into cat like slits with elongated pupils. "You long for the eternal power to be at attention, the eternal screw. Your wish has been granted."

Wicked laughter and hissing mocked him as the stiffness from his loins spread to his limbs. Horror over came him as his body slowly transformed to olive marble with blue and black veins. Before his eyes solidified he noticed the terror stricken looks on the faces of the other statues.

I HATE YOU

I hate you!

I want to see you dead! I want to see you shrivel and moan in pain. For every minute that I’ve wasted. For every time that I thought of you. For every gut-wrentching solitary time you crossed my mind, I want to see you suffer a thousand times!

I hate you!

I hate you!

I want to see you cringe in fear. I want to see your eyes bulge and your tears flow in agony! For every time I berated myself for every giving a damn about what you thought. For every time I thought something happened to you. For every creeping second I spent dreaming about a happy future with you, I want to see you spew tears of red hot blood!

I hate you!

I hate you!

I hate you!

I want you to feel pain like you have never known. I want you to know true terror. I want you to know the torture that I’ve endured. I want you to know disappointment so great you’ll never recover. I want you to know what it feels like to die inside over and over and over and over again. I want you to know how much I hate you, loathe you, detest you. I want you to know regret so terrible that NOTHING will ever lift you from the deepest levels of the despair that comes with it.

I hate you!

I hate you!

I hate you!

I hate you!

I H.A.T.E. you!

Go

FInd some other pasture

some heavy uttere to suck

Because here

in my pasture... you'll no such luck!

Go

Find some other field

some easy hole, stuck

Because here

in my field.. no painted rose to fuck.

Wearing that ring.... By JL Denman 5/4/05

 

"Wearing that ring don't make you special! It makes you stupid!"

I remember her saying that so clearly now. But I never listened. I don’t know why I thought it was somehow different that time. Maybe I thought she had lost her mind, gone old and senile, stupid herself. Maybe I thought it was jealousy just eating its way from her decrepit half-live corpse into the fresh tenderness of MY youth. It’s not like you can tell with old folks, crabby counter weights to the rash blush of youth.

"Wearing it shows what a piece you are. You can’t tell your head from your as sor your heart from your piss whole. Girly, you’re making a fool out yourself wearing that trinket."

"But, Gram it’s 5 karats. Look what else he got me."

"Girl, that ain’t nothing but a bright, gilded leash. He don’t mean you no good!"

"But, Gram, he asked me! What could he possibly want? He’s already got everything. And Gram, He’s not like what people say. Look, just yesterday he... Gram, he’s kind!"

"Girl, stop that school girl nonsense. HE is exactly what people say."

"Gram, you taught me not to listen to other folks’ gossip, not to believe it all!" Believe me < gram, I know him better than anyone."

"You don’t know squat. That man is nothing but a snake lying in wait. He’s cold blooded and just as deadly. And all he’s gonna do is wrap you up in that life and strangle life and goodness out you. Won’t be nothing left for him to but choke you back up and spit you out like a rotten, empty egg shell. He’s a thief low down, belly draggin’ thief. And wearing that ring makes you his next target. You wear it proud like you accomplished something great. Like some how it makes you special! Have you come up in the world, missy? Have you earned your stripes? Have you even figured out what it is your fine fancy gent does? No, miss Mighty britches. You saunter in here after I’ve worked hard to raise you! You saunter like God give you wings’ cause that no count leashed you. That ring, wearing that ring don’t make you special. Warning that ring proves I raised a senseless concubine! I’m ashamed of you"

"But, Gram..."

"NO! Wearing that ring... stupid, not special, baby, stupid."

I thought Gram was going to kill me. I’d never seen her eyes bulge or her neck veins flare so much. For sure she had gone apoplectic. Years dragged by in that few seconds. Gram stared at me. I just watched her wide old hip, turn and waddle out towards the kitchen. Somehow she seemed smaller, stooped like the ring somehow drained every once of strength that held Gram together.

What did it matter? Gram was just melodramatic and old. She never wanted me to have fun especially if SHE couldn’t have any.

16 years later Gram was right. The ring was gone, he was gone, and any shred of dignity I had was long since gone. Mistresses, murders, death threats.

I heard myself replay Gram’s defeated angry speech when Marissa swept through the door- 2 months pregnant by Jimmy the Blade Cristo. "Wearing that ring don’t make you special, it makes you stupid! Marissa! It makes you stupid!"

Fat Girls Don’t Cry

by JL Denman 4/22/05

Fat girls don’t cry

We bounce

Bounce back

too much to deal with to be trampled. Molested, pressed down like dough.

Fat girls don’t cry

We hug

Hug ourselves

too short to live in a blubbery cage weighted down by you disapproval.

Fat girls don’t cry

We float

Float up

too effervescent to be demoralized by your oppressive disdain.

Fat girls don’t cry

We shine

Shine brightly

too gorgeous to be confined to 6 or 9 stamped on a model behind.

Fat girls don’t cry

We know

Know much

too much too much about rejection by your skinny pale kind.

 

Still...

Fat girls don’t cry

Instead...

We

bounce

hug

float

shine

know

grow

show

flow

P.H.A.T. Fat girl

Don’t cry!

Late Night Phone Calls by JL Denman 4/92005

7:28 PM

Honey, wake up. Wake up. Get up, it’s me. Well, I guess you’re not home. Call me.

Midnight

Honey, Wake up. Where are you? I been callin’ all day. Wake up, Baby. Call me.

2 Am

It’s me. I miss you. What you been doing? It’s 2 AM, common, call me. I need to hear from you, Baby.

3:42 AM

You ain’t right. Why you have to have me worried like this. I don’t understand why you always have to be such a bitch! NO, I’m sorry, Baby. Call me back. I miss you. Damn, you make me sick with these games! Call me back!

 

12:49 PM

"OH, MY GOD!"

1:30 PM

"Play 'em. See what we got going on here."

"This is really a shame. Such a pretty one."

... Call me...

"Must have been a nut case, why call back?"

"Maybe his mind was on other things."

"Bag and tag her, boys."

3:00 PM

"You're under arrest."

"I get a phone call! I get a phone call!"

3:35PM from the police station...

"Honey, it's me! Help me! They got me locked up! Wake up! You make me sick, always playing games! Wake up, and call me. I need your help."

 

Taxi by JL Denman 3/19/2005

In the backseat of a taxi riding down the lane is no place to think. You start going all crazy. Maybe it’s watching the white and yellow lines whiz by, blur, and merge into some hypnotic string. Maybe it's listening to crappy music that some old geezer blairs as he charges you 5 bucks a block and a 10$ car charge. May its just because you are crazy in the first place.

I watched the ligths whiz by. The neon plugs about XXX Girls and all night slurpies burn my eyes. The green, yellow, red, red yes red, of the traffic lights reflect onto the pavement creating these gorgeous pools in the rain.

From the back seat of a taxi you can see the world whiz by full force, full intensity. Prostitutes hustle and slurp in alleyways. Murderers prowl the club scene looking for their next kill thrills. Drunks stumble through trash and vomit up tears and years into overflowing cardboard boxes. From the back seat you can see everything in glowing technocolor on double, tripple fastforward.

You go crazy sitting back there. It's enough to make you loose all sense of safety, health, well-being, and spiritual connection. It's like flashing through lives at the speed of flipped pages. No clear purusal just instant glimpses and subconscious overlaod. Crazy. Crazy, I tell you. The back of a taxi will kill you if you let it.

Tonight... I let it.

JL

He called for backup before he drew his gun and inched closer to the
building. He had no idea if the woman inside was alive or dead, or
how many weapons her capture had.

He slunk to the brownstone's front door, slipped in through its
crack. His gun glinted in the dim light. He could hear voices
coming from apartment 12.

"Don't you move!" He stopped short, breathing laboriously. Almost
immediately the cocking of a gun sounded through the weak wooden
door; a woman's muffled cries quickly following. "Shut, up!" Bang.
He jumped three feet out of his skin. Splintering wood and blasted
concrete exploded immediately in front of his head. Screams!

Collecting himself, he rushed forward, gun brandished. Shoulder
first, he rammed through the wrecked door with its two shot through.
His toes jammed against something hard yet pliable. Quickly
surveying the room before he fell forward over the obstacle. His
gun flew from his hands. Above him stood the woman. Her eyes
rimmed in thick running black mascara. Her carmine lipstick,
smeared and unattractive, bled. Obsidian black hair loosely flowed
around her face as her lacy black teddy and stockings, slightly
askew, caressed her body- tragic yet devastatingly beautiful.

"Maria, I am so glad you are safe. " As he tried to pull himself up
from the corpse, he reached to caress his wife's hands and hold her
in his strong arms. "Langston!" Maria rushed into her husbands
arms. She remembered how safe he felt, his cologne, his strength,
his tender kisses.

"Oh, Langston!" She remembered so many others... Trina, Kristi,
Alexis... "It's alright now, Maria. You're safe. You're
safe." ... Maria took one last breath as she smirked over his
shoulder. "I know." She backed away from him, leveled the gun at
his stomach and pulled the trigger. "But, you're not, Langston."

From writing prompt July 29, 2004 JL Denman