jolie femme (a drabble)
Leaning into the Lotus, she grinned at the officer or gentleman.
"Nice Ride. What you lookin for, sweetie?" Her skirt, more of a suggestion than actual apparel, showed more than it didn't.
The ghost of a smile drifted across his thin lips. "Directions, mostly."
She made nervous small talk after he let her drive. "You know your foot's as long as your arm from elbow to wrist?"
At the hotel, she followed him to his suite.
He wasn't a gentleman.
When her body was discovered months later, the coroner had no idea how pretty of a woman she once was.
No Greater Love
The autopsy, if a physician had been present that morning to perform one, would have cataloged her death by schistosomal hepatitis and its complications, biliary coccidiosis, and fascioliasis, not the assumed congenital bronchiectasis and bilateral pheochromocytoma.
He couldn’t understand the words or their definitions. All he knew was his mate was dead.
Twelve years together they enjoyed. In that time, they ruled as no other pair did. Their children, now grown (are children really ever grown?) were not present at her death and he understood why.
It was no longer safe to be here.
Ashes to Ashes, Dust to Dust, balms the hearts of those who have the luxury of time to listen and mourn.
He did not.
She was unburied, uncared for, and unmoving. These were his facts of his new life without her. He did not enjoy the hand life dealt him, but he understood what was required of him. His mate would have the respect of a Queen, even in death.
And with that, he made up his mind to punish those who thought differently.
By sundown, they came.
First in pairs, then in packs.
What they wanted was unthinkable to fathom. The price they would pay was going to be high for even the thought.
They would fight, for it was their job to act so.
He would fight, for it was his duty to act so.
Spectators came, but kept their distance.
Death was in the air, looming near, and ready to fill long exhausted quotas.
What was to transpire required no external authorities to monitor or regulate.
What was to transpire only required a body count that the early dawn could authenticate.
He positioned himself between his Queen and the marauders.
His love for her demanded this of himself.
Only the felines with acute night vision witnessed the intensity of the largest male hippo on the plain defending his dead mate from a score of crocodiles throughout the night. Those downstream wallowed in the blood from the battle and knew not to stain themselves with the remnants.
The carcasses of 12 large crocs, each bitten in half by tusks 18 inches in length and 6 inches at the base, detailed the ferocity of the species.
The river belongs to the mammals. Dead or alive, it would remain that way.
Love dictated so. Death would accept no other option.
Kitty Cats
There’s a dead crow at your doorstep
Some disemboweled rats by the stairs
They’re gifts from the Undertaker
And signed by the Reaper
Cunning
Deceptive
Sadistic
I don’t think of gifts
I think of scales
Unbalanced
Unhinged
She gifts you with Death
And you always accept
She has unnatural motives
Alternate truths
Backwards curiosity
Delightful psychopathy
You still carry on
Continuing on
Under her spell
Caught in her claws
Mesmerized
Anaesthetized
Paralyzed and victimized
She cruelly seduced you
Conjuring tricks
You look like a fool
Addicted to lies
Disguised as her gifts
There’s blood in your mouth
It crimson and black
The Undertaker’s dream is your early death
Torturing you forever with Hate’s last breath
You’re nearing the End of Times
So if you don't want to die
You need to skin that cat alive
You’ll need to do it at least nine times
Struggles
It's inspiring to reflect on how far I've come in my journey. A few years ago, I found myself ensnared in a web of habits that were dragging down my well-being: pornography consumption, frequent masturbation, and smoking. These behaviors felt like towering barriers, monopolizing my thoughts, sapping my energy, and leaving me in a constant state of guilt and disconnection.
Recognizing that these habits would spoil my life I confided in a friend and joined recovery groups. Others' stories fueled my determination. Over time, healthier habits replaced the old, with mindfulness easing cravings. Breaking free seemed distant, but each small victory weakened their grip.
Challenges emerged, akin to learning math, but setbacks meant progress. Slowly, cravings faded, and healthier choices solidified into lasting habits, reshaping life.
Fast-forward to the present, and I'm confronted with a fresh challenge: making and saving money. This endeavour parallels the struggle of conquering perplexing academic subjects, necessitating strategic planning and unwavering commitment.
With the same tenacity that empowered me to overcome my former habits, I've delved into learning about budgeting, investing, and uncovering avenues for bolstering my income. Much like tackling a complex math equation, understanding the intricacies of financial stability demands patience and a hunger for knowledge.
Additionally, my daily practices underwent a transformation: incorporating fasting, meditation, physical activity, and reading. These rituals promote equilibrium and lucidity, fostering not only physical fitness and emotional health but also intellectual advancement.
Succeeding encompasses more than just giving up negative behaviors; it stands as evidence of one's internal resilience. Every victory emits optimism, extending beyond the initial challenges. Recognizing advancement and fostering personal growth portrays a lively and satisfying tomorrow.
Finally I believe that life is nothing without struggles and problems, this is what makes life amazing. cheers to the struggles of life and overcoming the challenges that life throws at us.
A fantastic person (but not me. yet.)
I was going to start this with "I like to run."
That wouldn't be entirely right.
Even someone who doesn't run knows.
It's hard.
I win races sometimes.
And to win races, I run races.
And to run races, I practice for races.
And to practice for races, I have to work.
It's hard.
It's difficult to describe the feeling.
It starts with dread, then a sort of languished dullness.
A quick moment to think about why I want to run,
But that's hard to tell, too.
I'm not sure why I keep running.
My feet bleed and my legs burn.
It's hard to describe.
Maybe it's even impossible to describe.
Maybe it's different for everyone.
In the end, it takes a while to get up, get ready, and go outside to run.
And even after that, I'm still not sure what pushes me over the edge.
I run up to ten miles a day.
I've run in rain, snow, blistering sun, harsh winds,
Depression, exhaustion, hunger, sickness, grief, rage, and injury.
I run across roads and streets,
Across trails and old wooden bridges,
Through forests and lonely fields.
Some days, I can't run ten miles, and that's that.
Some days, I don't want to run ten miles, and that's that.
When I'm lucky, I can run the full ten miles.
Then I go home and go about my day.
Nothing much changes on those days.
Most days, though, I don't want to run ten miles.
Again, most days, that's that.
But every once in a while, I just happen to be able to focus.
I'm not sure why or how, but I get a feeling.
It's like I stop saying "I."
No, it's more like I stop talking.
And I get distracted.
It's so easy to just think about how tired I am,
How wonderful it is to lie down and rest,
The comfort of home,
The calm of nothing.
I've found a way to distract myself, though.
I imagine.
I dream.
I like to think about a person,
Some fantastical, unrealistic person with an iron will.
They're tough as nails.
They never back down from a challenge.
All the things I face are nothing to them.
I like to imagine that person.
It ends.
It ends.
I've done my ten miles.
I'm not sure this mystery person exists.
At least from my experience, everyone breaks at some point.
But it's thinking about this person that distracts me.
I forget the uncomfortable heat,
Blisters on my toes,
The sweaty clothing.
I wish I could be like that iron-willed, tough-as-nails person.
Again, it's impossible, but with every run, I'm one step closer.
Some days, I can't run ten miles, and that's that.
Some days, I don't want to run ten miles, and that's that.
When I'm lucky, I can run my miles, go home, and continue with life.
Nothing changes.
But on those days where it feels like that and I imagine that person,
I get a little bit more willpower.
I get a little bit, however little, closer to being that wonderful person.
And, even if I know deep down inside that it's impossible,
I get even more committed to keep running.
Maybe it's different for everyone, but at least for me,
I'll get closer to that person, one hard run at a time.
Day One
I sit on this flimsy mat atop a sheet of metal and wonder what exactly I have gotten myself into. The cackling of inmates yelling fresh meat and making cat calls as I walked along the corridor. I had practiced sleeping in darkness and without a fan before I came here. Not knowing it was never dark and never quiet.
I looked at the steel toilet in the corner and realized I wouldn't even be able to take a shit in peace. I couldn't fart, cough, or cry without this lump of flesh that slept above me seeing, hearing,or smelling me. My shoes were too big, my elastic pants dug into my waist. The sheets they gave me were supposedly white at one time but were now littered with tiny balls and leftover hair. The dark streak in the middle led me to believe they'd never actually been washed. They were just passed from person to person and each one added to the ghost of an imprint left by the ones before.
I had a Bible and a roll of toilet paper. The toothbrush they gave me was not even as long as my first finger. I looked at how the lump of flesh had tried to decorate the place. A couple of pictures stuck to the wall. Radio,hot pot, and fan all just haphazardly placed where it saw fit.
A loud clang jolted me from my thoughts and the officer yelled "Count Time!' I had no idea what this meant and she yelled it again. The lump of flesh slid from the upper bunk,her feet came down on my mattress and she walked to the door and flashed her ID at the guard and rattled off some numbers. Then she stepped on my mattress and pulled her self back up above me.
"Show me your ID!"the officer yelled. "And tell me your number."
I went to the door and showed her the plastic id they had given me. I told her my social security number because I no longer had a phone and didn't figure she wanted that.
" No, the number on your ID."
I could feel her impatience but I figured there'd be some kind of orientation about how and what to do. But there was nothing. Just "here you go" and "Welcome to the zoo."
I knew nothing and I had a feeling I better learn something real quick. The lump of flesh would obviously be no help. Who knows what atrocities she had done to get here. I was on my own. I laid down to add my own imprint to the sheet.