Plagiarism

April 02, 2025

Donna regretted the decisions she made.

She regretted meeting Max. She regretted all she had to do to want to marry Max.

Most of all, Donna regretted becoming Bonnie.

The Golden Pelican diner was one of those out-of-the-way dives in which the periphery of beautiful women wait to be discovered in the periphery of talent pools such as Hollywood. In its booths rested the bleach blondes, the high school dropouts, and the potential gold diggers waiting for the blue-plate-special the diner never served.

Today was Donna’s turn to wait. Today was Max’s turn to wander in. Their eyes met. His wallet cleared the confusion of his intent. Donna was not ignorant of her wants and how far she would go to get them. Max was counting on this. He made his proposition to Donna, paid the bill, and the two of them headed toward the coast. Not exactly his home, but far better than anything the west side of Yuma had to offer.

The next month went well for Donna and Max. He set her up in a nice town home, paid all of her bills, and kept her as a kept woman would be kept. In return, Max had only three prerequisites for Donna. She had to act like Max’s wife, Bonnie. This included using her name and beginning to look like her. Next, Donna could not divulge any personal information about either Max or her to anyone. She could not call friends or family. She could not have neighbors over for lunch. Donna wanted to be an actress and this was the first step of her new life. Finally, Donna could not ask questions. She was to go along with whatever Max wanted, when he wanted it, and how he wanted it. At first, Donna had reservations that Max could be a sex fiend or a serial killer. However, she remembered what Yuma was like and how close she was to Hollywood.

Donna, now Bonnie, the wife of Max, rolled the dice and found her situation to be to her liking.

Bonnie, the real Bonnie, continued sunbathing on her deck in Malibu. This used to be her parent’s home. It was now hers, as a wedding present, when she said “I do” to Max two years ago. She loved this house. She was not going to move. Max wanted to pack up and return to Manhattan. He could buy back into his partnership on Madison Avenue. He would thrive in New York.

She would die in New York.

For this reason, she had her lawyers lock down all of their marital assets. She took out a new two million dollar life insurance policy out on Max. She placed on retainer a good divorce attorney. Max would learn about his impending demise when he returned. He would lose half of everything he had. He did not have as much as she had, but the sting would be painful and wonderful to watch.

Speaking of watches, it was almost time for her private yoga class.

It was time for her private yoga class. Donna, now answering exclusively to Bonnie, inserted the VHS tape into the machine. Max told her his wife had a dancer’s body. He even gave her a picture of Bonnie posing seductively on her back adorned in a black bodysuit. A few more weeks of pampering she could endure, alone in this condo. She kept her end of the bargain. Her purse had more than 20000 dollars in it, thus Max kept his word.

She could get used to this forever. With the money she made, she placed an order with a local boutique. They carried what she wanted. She knew she promised not to disclose herself to anyone, but she just had to. By the end of the day, the delivery was made, she tipped the driver (he would remember that tip and her smile), and her purse was nearly $300 lighter. Donna died that night. The new Bonnie took her place. In her mind, not just for today, but forever.

Max finished his day work at the biggest bank this town offered. He purchased a new life insurance policy on his wife for nearly three million dollars. He included all of Bonnie’s personal information. They asked for a picture. He gave them one. In it, she was sultry. She exposed more than she should. The picture took the viewer right to the edge of morality and decorum. The underwriters filed the photo in the file knowing it would never remain. Max knew of their intentions. He was counting on such behavior.

By week’s end, Bonnie decided to take her Mercedes-Maybach for a ride to visit her parents before Max returned later that day. He would be tired, then mad, and finally, vulnerable. She would push him emotionally to his breaking point, hoping he would do something criminal. Her friend told her to wire the house for video and audio, broadcasting in real time to the internet. She held all of the cards, and soon, all of the money. Before she departed, Bonnie used the bathroom because she felt somewhat queasy. Her vomiting was the harbinger of an unfortunate complication in her plan. When she informed her friend, her friend informed her of where to purchase a testing kit. Exactly as advertised, she had her results in fifteen minutes. Bonnie told her friend it was a false alarm even while holding the test strip with the positive indication in her hand. She had plans for this information.

On Wednesday, Max said goodbye to new Bonnie. One month would elapse before he would return. In that time, all new Bonnie had to do was perfect her being old Bonnie. Max told her the exchange would be seamless. Max told her she would live the life she should be living. Max told her everything she wanted to hear except, “I love you.” The hormones coursing through her body (as indicated by her hidden test strip) could be assuaged by those three little words. She would make him see the light. Together, they would be the family Donna never had; the family Donna never had a chance of having.

Bonnie arrived and gathered her parents for a brunch special at a new bistro that was all of the rage. Her intention was to inform them of the deterioration of her marriage and her motherly attitude caused by pregnancy.

That was Bonnie’s intention.

The Mercedes-Maybach she drove scheduled a different narrative that day. Brake failure, so common in the S-Class sedans of her model year, arrived unexpectedly for all of its three (now four) occupants to react to. The red light on this boulevard intersected another four lane parkway of similar congestion for this time of day.

The collision involved, as per the police report, one Mercedes, one truck carrying granite slabs (most likely for kitchen countertops), and an asphalt truck with a faulty discharge seal. Witnesses described the terror of watching the simultaneous impact of all three. Fixed traffic cameras recorded for posterity the unsecured pieces of granite impaling the occupants just seconds prior to the discharge of hot asphalt.

Their screams never really subsided either in real time or in the memory of those in close proximity.

For new Bonnie, newly pregnant Bonnie, waiting patiently in the townhouse, never watching her television, it was time to act. It had been too long since she had seen Max. She wanted to tell him of her condition. He was not answering his phone. She was not used to being ignored. There was only one thing for her to do. She had to find Max.

She was packed and departed within the hour. Her place was at his side in Malibu.

“Don’t tell me that this new dame actually thought she should show up at this Max’s house.” Sgt Miller rarely held anything back when speaking to Detective Adams.

“When I read this, even I could not believe this. Nobody is this naive.” The Detective nodded for the Sergeant to continue reading the document.

New Bonnie arrived in Malibu six hours later via three buses and one taxi. The police arrived five hours earlier. The life insurance agent arrived soon after the police. The press arrived instantly and had no intention of leaving anytime soon.

“Did this guy even try to collect on the insurance?”

“Yes he did.” It was all Detective Adams would offer to Sgt. Miller.

“How much longer will the jury deliberate?”, the Sgt. relied.

“I figure they should be returning soon.”

Donna made it back to the Golden Pelican, barely, before her shift started. Little Max, Maxwell junior, took his time getting ready for school, making his mother late. Seems both father and son have this penchant for trying her patience whether during conjugal visits or morning preschool.

She would incur the wrath of the owner, again, never caring enough to find a new job. There was no other place for her to go. Ironically, there was no other person to work the counter than Donna.

In the settlement, Donna walked away uncharged but also as broke as she arrived.

Except for her purse, no longer stuffed with hundred dollar bills, but mutual fund receipts and quarterly statements. And a legal agreement for a Californian town home easily rented to married men with pretty mistresses needing ”discretion”, always paying with cash.

It wasn’t Hollywood, but it was as close as she would get.

House of bones

Tendons to strengthen corners

Blood sprinkles the yard on foggy mornings

Wind chimes that play Low notes fashioned from ribs can be heard from those who step within the fence line consisting of Leather skinned off the enemies of the family and the spinal chords of any animals that dared to soil the property's grounds with their bodily waste

It was in the same family for Generations

Once they all died and decomposed in their rooms

Those rooms were closed off and so was the house as of the last breath it's final inhabitant coughed out

No one has bothered trying to sell it,boe claim it, but a few did try to tear it down before they became sustenance to the many famished gears that grind day in and day out with no maintenance required, mostly

Besides

Can't just sell something that is Alive

Sentients isn't something that seemed feasible but

multiple people have entered on different Halloweens and Friday the 13ths thinking it was myth/folklore and of them only one returned to the world outside the walls;

the first man to ever had died there Over 100 years ago, it's only ever "owner" to date

Confused, battered and not feeling like himself, he went back into the home soon after leaving and it's believed he may have become one with the House of Bones long before and this time his very soul is operating the many intricacies that are helping it to grow stronger, weather storms, and tempt more bags of blood & bone with those pesky souls that, once seperated, nourish the hungry house at the end of Last street

whilst his body blindly protects it from the inside where those brave enough to go in

can try all they want to put up a fight where soon they realize even if they get a lucky punch or lucky leg break

A near unlimited resupply of everything the Originator's meat suit needs is all around, and if it isn't.. those "brave* bodies that came in certainly will be able to spare them

When the 'ping' of the alarm sounded Sgt. Gronkowski didn't immediately react; he was supposedly watching the radar monitor for evidence of Soviet ICBMs or other unusual events but he was contemplating a hamburger which had just arrived and was deciding exactly where to take the first bite. Such decisions are not to be hurried. A poor choice and his hand or worse,his pants, would be covered in ketchup. the captain wouldn’t be pleased and he could end up on report. Why, he wondered, hadn't someone devised a doughnut shaped burger so that the sauce could be confined to the centre. Come to that, why hadn't they devised a burger that didn't need the dislocating jaw of an anaconda to take a bite? Why hadn't they devised the beef sandwich?

Having made his decision and taken a bite and the alarm having become more insistent he turned his attention to the screen before him, chewing slowly (Sgt. Gronkowski was a multi-tasker which was why he’d been promoted). What he saw was a 'trace' showing the path of an object detected by the long range radar. Sgt.Gronkowski stopped chewing and stabbed a key on his keyboard. The screen changed to show an extension of the actual trace both backward and forward in time thus showing the estimated origin of the object and its predicted destination. A further keypress produced the statement that the object originated from outside the Earth's atmosphere and could be either a meteorite or a missile launched into Earth orbit. The direction of travel suggested no likely source on the Earth's surface so the probability was that the object was extraterrestrial in origin. For confirmation Gronkowski pressed yet another key to restore the trace. This showed the object rapidly losing altitude with an estimated 'landfall' in mid-Pacific. Gronkowski re-commenced chewing and returned his attention

momentarily to his burger to plan his next assault. When next he glanced at the screen the trace had disappeared and a keypunch showed the object to have landed as predicted. Gronkowski entered a note on the sighting 'Meteorite' and turned to the more urgent problem of his hunger.

In Mexico the same alarm went totally unremarked. It was Siesta!

So it was that the craft escaped notice and drifted across Central America to the Caribbean before turning north towards Europe. Keeping to mid-Atlantic the craft attracted little attention since it thereby avoided territorial airspace. When it began to approach British airspace it was challenged to identify itself. It failed to respond to several such challenges and so an interceptor aircraft was scrambled to investigate. The pilot eventually reported sighting the strange craft but could obtain no response; 'buzzing' had no effect, the craft maintaining a steady course and speed. He requested permission to destroy the craft. The consternation produced by this request resulted in such a delay that when authority was finally granted the craft was touching down at Heathrow airport. In fact, having no undercarriage it ‘came to earth’ rather than ‘touched down’, then skidded along the tarmac in a shower of sparks and finally came to rest close to the perimeter fence.

For the last part of its journey it was pursued by two fire tenders which immediately swamped the craft in a blanket of foam. There being no sign of movement from the craft and lacking signs of fire or explosion the firemen eventually cleared the foam with water hoses.

At this point Security (in an armoured personnel carrier) screeched to a stop alongside the craft and a number of heavily armed men in flak jackets surrounded the craft falling to the ground. assuming menacing attitudes and pointing their weapons toward the craft. Nothing happened!; the men relaxed, lit cigarettes and began to chat amongst themselves. So it was that they didn't notice the appearance of a fine crack in the skin of the craft which presently could be identified as a door. When the door crashed onto the tarmac it caused considerable surprise and alarm but nothing more happened other than the sudden appearance of a small figure dressed in ill-fitting top hat and tails. He held nothing more menacing than a silver-topped cane. The clothes appeared to have been made for a much larger person.

Nevertheless the security men immediately adopted defensive positions - prone on the ground with weapons pointed in the general direction of the door.

'Oh please don't stand on ceremony', said the small figure, 'All this fuss is quite unnecessary. I merely wish to speak to the Prime Minister, I'm afraid I don't have an appointment. Could you organize that for me, please?'

Abashed,the security men scrambled to their feet and one of their number hastily spoke into a two-way radio. Shortly thereafter an immigration official arrived.

'Can I see your passport please? What's the purpose of your visit, business or pleasure, do you have a valid visa?'

When he didn’t receive an acceptable response the official placed the ‘visitor’ under arrest and took him to the terminal building where he was closely confined as an illegal immigrant. No-one thought to ask whence he came, how he

came or how he spoke English, even if with rather antiquated intonation.

The sole information they could extract was that he wished to see the Prime Minister as quickly as possible. Thus it was that the reason for the visit was given and his demand met.

He explained to the PM that his forefather had been assigned the task of investigating the activity of a German naval vessel which had appeared in the North Sea and was suspected of carrying out trials of a submersible. Disguised as a weather ship tasked with meteorological data gathering. they appeared close to the German craft.

The German captain was seated conspicuously in the stern, smoking a meerschaum pipe and apparently fishing. Meanwhile a crewmember lurked about the deck nonchalantly watching what the new arrival was doing and occasionally disappearing from view but using a hand-held periscope keeping them under investigation from behind deck fittings.

To appear to be innocently engaged they released a weather balloon which to their astonishment immediately disappeared! They of course suspected the Germans as being responsible and promptly released a second balloon whilst keeping a close eye on the Germans. This balloon disappeared in like manner and when a third also disappeared they decided they had better report this strange occurrence without delay and so made off at speed for London.

On arrival a hasty conference concluded that they had stumbled upon a hole in the atmosphere and the presence of a German vessel in the area made it imperative that some action should be taken without delay.

Accordingly it was decided to kit out a manned balloon to confirm the presence of this ‘hole’, and so it was that in the greatest secrecy, at the dead of night, a balloon was equipped with a thermos flask of tea, a packet of Rich Tea biscuits and a wheel of Cheddar cheese in case of emergencies. So equipped Sir Peter Skott and his man ,Basil ventured forth. Jettisoning all ballast the balloon rose and rose - and rose, ever accelerating and finally popped through the hole in the atmosphere like a champagne cork escaping its bottle.

Having escaped Earth’s gravitational pull they began to fall and Mars, being at this time below Earth they were eventually captured by Mars's gravitation and so eventually arrived there.

Mars having rather weak gravity they landed with a gentle bump and without damage to the balloon’s wicker basket. Clambering out and gazing around Sir Peter saw a desolate landscape scattered with what seemed to be toy windmills endlessly twirling in the breeze. Unconcerned, Sir Peter reached into the wicker basket of the balloon, extracted a Union Jack flag and pushed it into the ground and proclaimed this territory as being now part of the British Empire!

At this point a nearby rock face hissed aside revealing a small hairy figure dressed in a small pill-box hat and a uniform. Sir Peter was so surprised that he lost his grip on his monocle which floated gently down to his waist.

Ever polite, Sir Peter addressed the ‘dwarf’: “Good evening, my man!”

The dwarf responded:” Going down! Are you coming? It gets chilly up here at this time of day. ” Waving them to join him Sir Peter and Basil did as requested.

Sir Peter said “ I say, my man, could you take me to see your leader?”

“Going down!” responded the dwarf. “Dash it!”, exclaimed Sir Peter, “These Americans seem to get everywhere!”

“I shouldn’t worry, sir” murmured Basil “They’re probably tourists!

To be continued……

James was out before dawn again. Martin watched from behind his curtains—the scratch of metal on concrete, the rhythmic shoveling, the small mountains of snow piling higher at the edges of each driveway. Their street, clean and passable while others remained buried.

Martin's coffee went cold. He hadn't slept right in weeks.

"He did the Hendersons' walk too," Lisa said, appearing beside him. "Even salted their steps." Her voice carried something—admiration laced with accusation. The unspoken comparison hung between them like frost.

Last night: "James built a skating rink for the neighborhood kids."

Last week: "James helped Mrs. Peterson with her groceries."

Last month: "James fixed the Wilsons' porch light."

Each good deed a small cut.

Martin watched James finish the Rodriguez driveway and move toward theirs. He stepped back from the window, shame burning his face.

That evening, Lisa slid a bowl in front of him. "James dropped off some of his famous chili. Says it'll warm us right up."

Martin pushed it away, mumbling about not being hungry.

In bed, he stared at the ceiling, calculating weeks until thaw. Beside him, Lisa breathed evenly, dreaming perhaps of better men. Outside, snow began falling again, covering everything in perfect, accusing white.

It wasn't until he was upgraded to beta version of the AI implant that Jimmy could muster enough courage to talk about it. He sent a message to his friend, straight from his brain to the popular chat app.

“Hey Hugo, see you at the local tonight?”

A few minutes later, a faint buzz in his cranium told him Hugo had replied. 7 pm.

***

“What's up, Jimbo?” Hugo asked after they'd settled with a Schooner each, AC/DC making them yell.

“Not sure how to say this, mate.” Jimmy hesitated, “I have to share it with someone and I thought I could trust you.”

“Of course,” Hugo leaned in, “girl trouble again?”

Jimmy laughed. “Nah, not really!”

“Spill it, then!”

“Earlier this month, I signed up for a cutting-edge treatment–”

“For your introversion?”

“Yeah, but I wasn't sure how to tell anyone because–”

“You're an introvert.” Hugo finished his sentence, then asked. “So, how’s the implant going?”

Jimmy stared at Hugo. “How do you know?”

Hugo didn’t answer. Instead he pointed at the empty tumblers and asked. “Another beer?”

“Sure.”

Jimmy was intrigued. He knew Hugo’s obsession with technology and the barrage of links he sent on a regular basis. Jimmy never acknowledged but read them all. When Hugo came back with the drinks, he persisted.

“Hueg, your articles inspired me to get the implant and I do feel like a new man. I thought I would surprise you–”

“I am… surprised and happy.”

“But how did you already know about it?”

Hugo took a slow, deliberate sip of the beer and said. “I’m the designer of the implant. You’re my first test subject.”

“What?”

“Sorry, the test had to be blind. I was worried if you knew it was me, you wouldn't accept it. But I’m glad you’re alright!”

Mark

Mark, a somewhat withdrawn and reserved teenager, was upset when his father disappeared(?)died. They had never been what you would say was close but he had always been a reassuring presence. His mother, after some time, found a new partner. But Mark couldn’t forgive what he saw as his mother’s betrayal of his father. So, the household was not a happy one, they were forever finding fault with Mark, there was constant bickering as Mark’s mother tried feebly to defend him.Mark’s resentment grew. The situation was becoming impossible for everyone. So it was not long before the adults decided it would be better for Mark to move along. “He was of an age when he should be getting out in the world, making a life for himself”, they declared, somewhat defensively.

Mark worked in an office as a junior clerk and walked to work. If he went by bus he might meet someone he had no wish to speak to! Every day he took the same route, resolutely ignoring or even avoiding all those he encountered. One day, upset by a row at home, he turned aside from his normal route, walked down an unfamiliar street and saw an old man erecting a sign which said "Room to Let - No Pets or Children".

Intrigued, Mark approached and spoke to the old man who seemed to like the look of the young man. He assured Mark that the rent would be very reasonable and explained that since his wife had died remaining there was difficult for him - it stirred memories he preferred to forget. He had to make a clean break and get on with his life. The rent was more to cover costs than anything else. “The Council wanted proof of death! Can you imagine that. The cheek! Rates! - they’re blood suckers, that's what they are!”, exclaimed the old man. “Anyway, you don’t want to know my troubles”, he continued, “You can move in as soon as you like”. Mark suggested that Monday, the following week, would be convenient. That would be April 1st!

And so it was agreed.

Mark was overjoyed at the prospect of escaping the oppressive atmosphere at home, so much so that even his workmates noticed the change in the normally taciturn Mark they were familiar with. So the great day dawned and Mark put his scant belongings in a suitcase and crept out of the house for the last time. He made his way directly to his new room and was greeted by the old man who admitted him.”There’s not much to show you”, he said, “There’s a kitchen unit in the corner behind that curtain, a bit of a worktop and a gas ring - you’ll have to pay for the gas, mind! The lavatory is on the landing but you’ll be the only one in the house, so it's as good as ‘en suite’!” he added. Well you’ll soon find your way around!”, he added ironically. “Well,if there’s nothing else, I’ve got places to go, things to see, so to speak, so I’ll leave you to it”, excused himself, and then left him to settle in.

‘Settling in’ didn't take long for in reality the room was no more than that. A corner was curtained off which contained a kitchen unit complete with a sink, and a work surface holding a gas ring as the old man had said. Surprisingly there was also a note saying "Enjoy your breakfast". Beside it was a strange looking egg, an eggcup and a teaspoon.

Thinking no more about it, Mark popped the egg into a saucepan, added water, placed the pan on the gas ring and lit the gas. It was then he discovered that there were no other provisions in the cupboard. Forgetting to turn-off the gas he hurried to the cornershop at the end of the street where he bought sliced bread and butter to eat with his egg. Dashing back he was dismayed to find that the saucepan had boiled dry. So much for a boiled egg to start the day! Thinking to throw the egg away he glanced into the pan and was astonished to find that the egg was cracked and showed what he could only think was the end of a beak. Moreover there was movement! All thoughts of breakfast immediately disappeared. He watched with concern as the egg ‘hatched’ before his amazed gaze.

The tiny creature which emerged somewhat bedraggled, roused Mark’s sympathy but what should he do? He tried to feed it crumbs but it showed no interest and, surely, a new-born whatever it was, could hardly be fed solid food! Reluctantly, he abandoned it and returned to the corner shop to buy other things he might try.

His first thought was milk, but birds don't drink milk! Yoghurt or cottage cheese might do! When he returned to his room the creature, for he could no longer see it as a bird, had tidied itself up, and regarded him with a sharp, wary eye. He tried it with cheese which it poked at but rejected. Perplexed, but somehow desperate, - after all the poor thing must eat something!, he tried it with a snippet of bacon which he'd actually bought for himself. But birds eating uncooked bacon, who’d ever heard of such a thing? To his considerable surprise it closed its eye and paused, seeming to savour it before tipping back its ‘head’ and engulfing it. Swallowing didn’t really describe the action - one minute , it was there , the next, it was gone. Whatever else it was, it was clearly not a vegetarian!

"I wonder", he thought and returned to the shop and bought some minced meat. Returning once more, he offered a little on the end of his spoon. The reaction was immediate, it stabbed at the spoon then forthwith greedily gobbled the rest, closely examining the spoon in case it had missed a scrap. It very quickly consumed all the meat he had brought.

Having taken the week off 'to get settled' Mark thought of nothing more than how to cope with this strange, uninvited guest. Did it qualify as a pet? Would he have trouble with his landlord? Should he, perhaps, take it to the RSPA clinic? Surely they would know how to care for it. Should he just put it out of the window and leave it to its own devices?

He had no idea what it was, he couldn't even describe it, for it was unlike anything he had ever seen. He was very aware that, from its loud protests, it was desperately hungry and he somehow felt compelled to cater to its needs. No,he decided, I can’t abandon it, I must do the best that I can. Feeling somewhat noble at having made this decision and having finished the minced meat he’d bought, he decided to visit the butcher to see if he could buy any scraps of meat - surely they would be to its taste!

So equipped, so to speak, he returned to his room. Half of the scraps he spread on the worktop. They were 'disappeared' by the creature which was now growing at an astonishing rate - almost right before Mark's eyes. All throughout, it maintained a fixed, unblinking eye on Mark as though fearful that he might try to steal some of its food. Nevertheless, it managed, somehow, to consume what was there without the need to watch what it was doing.

Fascinated, Mark began to offer scraps of meat held in his fingers. These were taken carefully. even gently. at first but more and more quickly and greedily with time. Unintentionally(?) in the wild scramble for food the creature nipped Mark’s finger, drawing blood. At this moment it stopped, blinked its eye, and then peered sharply at Mark, seemingly examining him……

When Mark didn't return to work it didn't cause any alarm. there were countless reasons to explain why, though no-one could think of one, or even bothered! He had never seemed to do anything but occupy a desk, so his non-presence wasn’t important. It could even be seen as an advantage - there was more space!

Eventually, however, people did begin to wonder and enquiries were started. Finally, a 'delegation' paid a visit to his last, known address. The old man, Mark’s landlord, was there, but all he would say was that Mark had moved away without leaving a forwarding address.”It’s nothing out of the ordinary”, he volunteered, “Young people come and go all the time, Footloose I’d call them!” He would say no more.

As they left they did notice a "To Let" sign prominently displayed in the window.

I thought I willed myself enough to tell you this, but I didn’t. I did send you the messages but deleted them. I say that it’s because I have said enough through our friendship, but deep down, I know it’s more than that. I am scared. Scared that I would have just opened my heart to you without you grasping the weight. Without you changing, like I begged you to before. Unfortunately, I've always been dramatic. Like I'm always writing my last letter to someone when I tell them my emotions. If these words did reach you that day, I would be scared that you wouldn’t read it all, or you would feel like you didn’t do anything wrong. But that’s not true. We both did something wrong. And I want to address it because I have never been the type to leave without a goodbye. Even if it never reached you, _ _ _ _ _. I found myself in a constant state of yearning. And it's utterly selfish. Because I knew you didn't reciprocate. And I'm over here, wanting more when you didn’t even know. It's like _ _ _ _ _ all over again. And my biggest fear was that we would end like how you both did. In a sense we did, but I was the one who left. I remember when you two were still talking, I sat through it all giving my advice that you agreed with, while I was just like him… In a way. I felt disgustingly greedy. So I am putting an end to it by saying what's on my mind. I am utterly drawn to you. Who you are. I wanted to know more. And I know we've talked about this, how it takes a while to feel something even remotely close to 'love'. I wouldn't say that’s how I feel for you yet, or if you would have ever allowed me too, (I decided I wouldn’t allow myself), but I want you in ways I didn't even know I wanted someone. Not like romantically per se, but in a sense I want to share a connection with you where I just have you confidently. I want to know every little detail with you... It's hard to put into words. When I was on call and we're just talking, it felt so natural. It was so alluring. It just felt so right. The way you’d express yourself so eloquently, so clearly, while I took 20 minutes just to reiterate and get my point across, or the way we’d literally just talk to each other so easy and have the same things in mind, or the way you laughed, because, God it was so lovely, the way we’d joke with each other because it genuinely made me feel warm, or the way we’d share our thoughts without judgement, the spotify jams, the hours we would spend talking without realizing, the way we understood each other, the way you stuck in my mind so pleasantly, the way I knew in my heart that I wanted you, how you became the type of person I try to look for in strangers… I could keep going. But why try to revive what died? Our relationship, I mean. But even now, I still harbor the same feelings. They’re just hurting. But I can’t keep going, because this one-sided attraction isn’t right. It's greedy and selfish. I was greedy and selfish. I am greedy and selfish. For you. But I found myself wanting more. And that's the thing, because it destroyed me. I compared every one of our interactions with how you interacted with others, just praying that something will be different. That something would stick out, implying that you may even possibly feel the same. But my heart hurts when I see that it's just me. And now you were dry with me and wouldn’t even tell me what's going on. It hurt.

You reminded me of warmth.

You remind me of warmth.

But I was too scared to ask for it to stop while it was burning me.

My feelings were bad not only because it was one-sided, but also because it was 'too early' according to your standards. And I could sit on call with you as you explained your thoughts on talking stages or romance, how long it takes, and say I agree with you, but deep down, I knew I was just a hypocrite. And you know what, maybe I did agree with you at first. Not wanting to disrespect people's souls and everything. But if anything, my feelings for you taught me a new perspective. Intimacy doesn't have a schedule. It doesn't have a time limit, or rather a time expectation. It can come and go as easily as the wind. But this wasn’t just the wind for me. It was like the sun, like the warmth I get from it. And I am so cold. And It just felt wrong. Feeling that way when you didn’t. But now that I had time to come to reality, end the delusion, and assess your previous actions with me and others, I realize it wasn’t just me. I feel like you're scared of getting too close to people. Once they show signs of wanting you, you leave. But then when they call you out, you give them all these pretty words with promises that are never followed through. In my mind I feel like you still care for them, but something inside of you is telling you to not get too close. It's not my place, but you were hurt when intimate with someone. And I couldn't see how you wouldn't suffer long-term effects from it. But this is something you should tend to. Because people aren't evil. I knew I wasn’t. I know I am not. That isn’t me trying to convince you, I just want you to see that I am not. But, _ _ _ _ _, it's like it was a never-ending cycle with you. Even with your actions with others. With _ _ _ _ _, he communicated more than once his emotions, and strangely, despite you not liking your friendship, you told him you would be better. People confronted you and you’d just tell them half truth and half what they wanted to hear. And my biggest fear was that you would do that to me. (you did). Because we had talks where I would explain my fear of you being dry, and you would reply with such beautiful words that made me think it would all be okay again. Then you would draw back. It was horrible. It made me feel horrible. Like I was betting on someone who would just leave again, while knowing they would. Because something inside of me was counting on you to change with no proof that you ever would. And I knew, I knew all too well that we hadn't even known each other for two months, but we talked a lot. I told you a lot. Even if you didn’t tell me a lot. So I can't keep using your ideals, the ones where connection takes time, to unjustify my feelings. Because they were very real. And very painful. I crave something I couldn’t have and felt disgusting for even wanting it.

But that was the thing, it was normal. Things happened, and it's not that I didn’t want to get to know you more, it's just that I was already so... well, I don't know the right word, so I will just say this lightly: In love / captivated by what you've shown me, I wanted to know more. And it wouldn't have changed anything. All In all, I desired you. And you fluctuated without a word or proper communication, and with me having been too scared to overstep because it would reveal too much... I can't do it anymore. I couldn’t do it anymore.

Intimacy shouldn't be timed. I felt like you were just scared to be hurt. And that is not because I wanted you, so don't think that. Don't you dare think that. So this brings me to the end of my embarrassing feelings. I needed honesty. I don't know what on, but I was hoping that if you had read the message in time, you wouldn't tell me what you thought I wanted to hear, or what you thought you felt, or should have felt. I just wanted you to tell me the truth. Because I didn't know if I could just be 'friends' with you. I can't be your friend and want you in a way, a way that I don't even know what to label- a way that friends don’t want each other in.

Before I deleted the message, I was hoping you would just block me. It would have made me feel less shitty. But I think now, I would have felt shitty any way it went. Excluding the impossible chance of you feeling the same way. But… let me pretend for a second that you did feel the same and perhaps something started between us. I think… you wouldn’t have changed. You would still put me through this and I would be too scared to tell you. We would both mess up.

Maybe, _ _ _ _ _, we could have lasted in another time period. But life just had to introduce you to me now. And that's what I regret most. Something I cannot fix.

I have reached the point where I can sit down. After spending the last four hours working in the back yard and garden, there’s nothing left to complete. The brick walkway is once again weed-free. After amending the soil, the potatoes and onions are planted. Netting is put up. Seeds for beets, broccoli, carrots, cauliflower, peas, peppers, radishes and spinach are nestled in their respective beds or pots. The windchime, rain gauge, garden flags and cast-iron pig (“This little piggie went to the garden.”) have been returned to their rightful spots. The bird feeders and water bowl/birdbath are full. Everything has been crossed off Spring’s To Do List. Quite a productive afternoon. But this wasn’t always the case.

Taking inventory of the work completed, I reflect on the original condition of the fenced-in yard when I bought my foreclosed home nine years ago. The exterior was in rough shape but still better off than the interior of the 106-year-old house. The fence needed repairs. There was no electricity to the deteriorating shed. Railroad ties appeared to be solid but were rotted out underneath. Bamboo had gained a firm foothold among the tree stumps and knee-high weeds. Large rocks were strewn about. At varying intervals, bricks peaked from beneath the overgrown sod. And the enclosed patio was not structurally sound.

Each of the first eight years, when the weather in Virginia warmed, I’d postpone my inside repairs and tackle the most pressing landscaping issues. I’d focus on a major job while utilizing any area not needing attention for planting vegetables. Underbrush, weeds, stumps, railroad ties and seemingly endless bamboo roots were cleared. Now I have more sun exposure. The entirety of a brick walkway was exposed and realigned while the rocks were organized. Now the garden feels more inviting. New roof, siding and electrical wiring for the shed. Now I have a functional workshop. The patio was demolished and replaced with proper steps flanked by permanent storage compartments. Now I have convenient access to the yard. Blueberry and raspberry bushes were planted. Two raised beds for strawberries were set up. Compost bins were started. Rain barrels were added. Now the garden is self-sustaining. These tasks dominated my summers. I looked forward to the day when all the work needed would be finished.

And that day is now. I can prep my garden in just a few hours, leaving the rest of the season to focus on planting and harvesting. The birds, squirrels and lone chipmunk get fresh water and food on a regular basis. Within six to eight weeks, I’ll have a steady supply of vegetables and berries well into September. So, sitting on the backsteps, surveying my private slice of Heaven, I know all the hard work completed the previous years has made everything right in the world now. This is a perfect day.

This is probably the longest I’ve gone without an orgasm since a year ago February. I know it’s a self-induced penance for my stubbornness combined with my mouth getting me into trouble and pissing him off as I seldom had. However, as I pull myself out of the bath and go lie down on the bed to cool down, I want nothing more than to come. I clench my fists, willing them to stay at my side. I can’t help it. I gently let my fingertips glide over my flesh, flushed from the bath. What am I doing? Sure, he hasn’t said that I may not come, I have made that decision myself. Until he feels he wants to touch me again, I will not let myself come. I lie back and close my eyes. I try to will my desire away. I focus on my breathing. Slowly in, slowly out. I need to shut down my brain because all it’s doing is shouting at me now! now! NOW! I try again. Slow my breathing, slowly my heart rate, focus on his displeasure with you. The desire drains away. I lie there, spread eagle, on offering for whenever he chooses to accept it.

A sound wakes me. I open my eyes, but I see nothing. I panic for a brief moment until I hit on the realisation that there is something covering my eyes rather than my eyesight failing me. A small sound to my left and the light smell of sulphur. I strain my ears to pick up any clues, any ideas as to what is happening around me. Then I hear it, ever so slight, the step of a foot, followed by another step. Approaching. Definitely approaching. I go as if to turn towards the sound and it is only then, as I take full stock of my body, that I realise I am now actually tied, spread eagle to the bed. I am helpless to whatever may come.

I wait. Senses on edge Waiting. Not sure where this is going. Then it hits my flesh and I suck in my breath as the unmistakable light burn of hot wax lands just above my navel. I still and wait. Will it be just that one, and then he will leave me here, or is there more to come. I wait in limbo, listening for any sound, any clue as to what might happen next when the next drip lands, just above the other, and another above that one. Part of me wants to jerk away from the drops, but a bigger part of me wants to arch my back to get closer to the heat, to feel that burn that is both pleasure and pain in one little minuscule drop.

Then it begins, in a steady pace, drip, drip, drip, making a trail of hot wax that leads from my navel to the valley between my breasts. As he reaches the apex, I wonder what will come next. I bite my bottom lip, hungry with anticipation, and then I feel it. Not a single drip, but a steady stream of hot wax, tracing in a circle just above the base of my left breast. No. That wasn’t it. Not a circle, a spiral, winding its way around my breast and then going around again. I thrash, and moan and my breathing comes fast and heavy. ‘Yes, yes,’ I beg, I whimper, but not for him to stop, I want more. I want to take whatever he wishes to dish out to me. As the spiral winds upwards, I have no doubt what will be coming soon and just as my mind makes the connection, the stream stops. Then, I wait. ‘Please, sir, please.’ I wish he could see my eyes, see the apology written there as well as my need. Not just for the sweet little kisses of pain, but for him to want me. Drip. I moan louder. Drip. A quick exhale from between my lips, each drop working together to completely cover my very hard, very excited nipple. Then, nothing. I listen. I wait.

Footsteps. He’s moving. Is he leaving? Leaving me here? Tied down? In need? As my mind urges me to call out, to scream at him not to leave me, I know it’s not the right thing to do. That’s not he wants of me. He wants my obedience. I bite my lower lip harder. I can feel the water in my eyes starting to pool. It’s fear of him deciding he doesn’t want me, buried deep in my heart, that fear. The fear that it isn’t me. That I’m not enough.

As my fear starts to spiral in the darkness, the next drop hits. My body is torn between an exhale of relief and an inhale of pain. A strangled sort of hiccup sound comes out of my mouth. With the next drop, my fears clear, everything tunnels in my mind into the one thought. Taking this pleasure, accepting this pain. Each drip seems to fall precisely between the previous drips, creating another trail from navel to the cleft between my breasts, but this time, when the steady stream of hot wax comes, it spirals up and around my right breast, culminating in the single small drops that eventually covers my right nipple. For the first time that night, I hear his voice. ‘Blow.’ I purse my lips and blow as if there is a birthday cake in front of me. As I hear the flame flicker, a drop of hot wax lands on my chin. Either he has taken the candle away or else I was successful in managing to blow out the candle. I lie there, trying to figure out what will come next, but what I cannot deny is the arousal that was already on a slow simmer before I awoke is now rising in temperature with each and every drop.

Again, that strange sound and the smell of sulphur. I place it now. The striking of a match and then, I guess, the lighting of yet another candle. I furrow my brow, confused, uncertain. What now? What next? I’m utterly perplexed when the next drip lands on the top of my foot, I can’t help it, a small yelp escapes before I can smother it. Never before had we put hot wax on my feet. It was unexpected, painful, but good, still good. I brace myself for the next drop and when it comes, just up from the last, the pain seems even worse, and I manage to piece together a coherent thought. When you tense, it’s worse. I coach my body, begging it to relax. He’s going much slower now, methodical. Each drip lands almost on top of the previous one. My body starts thrashing, I’m moaning, but I can’t make out what I’m saying. Begging for mercy or begging for more, I just don’t know, but there’s a steady stream of pleading flowing out of my mouth while at the same time my hips were thrusting upward, hungry, needy, desperate to be filled, used, satiated.

The wax continues its patient, little march up my foot, then my leg, up my thighs and then the drips bend turning in towards - No! Oh good Lord no! Not! Not! Oh fuck no! Please sir, please, no. I can’t get the whine out of my voice, the cracking that comes along with it as each and every drop gets closer and closer. I thrash, knowing how stupid that is but at this point the pleasure from the pain is too much. I can’t stay still. One wrong twist, though, and I’ll be the one to pay.

Then, it stops. My mind is flailing. My body, jerks and arches up. I pull with all my strength against the bonds that hold me. I must touch myself. I must come or else I’m going to explode. Still, nothing happens. Nothing comes next. I tell my mind to calm. As I feel my frenzy start to settle, I feel it. Drip. Onto my right foot. Drip. Just above that one. The endless march up my leg begins on the other side. By the time the wax hits my knee, I’m no longer coherent, I can hold no thought in my head. I kick and pull and thrash and thrust, I writhe on the bed but I’m not trying to get away, I’m trying to get closer. I want the drips to come faster to assuage this desire that is burning through me and on me. As the trail bends in towards my cunt again. I am swearing and begging and promising anything and everything I can think of just please let me come. Again, it stops. It doesn’t matter, I’m too desperate now, too inflamed. I only feel the need, the want, the desperation.

Two fingers slam into my cunt without any warning. I scream as I try to clamp down and hold those fingers there. For the second time that night, I hear his voice. ‘Wet’. My clenching is to no avail. His fingers slide out of me. I feel the emptiness inside me. I scream in frustration. I am in no fit state as I thrash and grind and grunt in need. I feel his hand again, pulling my cunt lips apart, the cool air brushing against my exposed clit. At the same time, he pushes downward with that hand, pinning me to the mattress, far stronger than me. My head flies back and forth against the pillow. As that single solitary drip of searing hot wax lands on my clit, I scream as my orgasm rushing over me, throwing my body skyward as my shoulders dug into the mattress beneath me. Another drip and a whole new wave washes over me. With the next drip, my scream returns, louder, stronger but it’s pure pleasure this time as I come again and again. I lose track of my mind and I fly.

Son

Walks in with herpes sores genuinely taking over his lips to the point it seems like an Alien has won the battle with his immune system

From her knees and hands Mom looked up at him for an answer

"You think this is bad Ma you should see the other fella!"

Ma "Did you?!"

Son look up in thought and this action opened up a sore that had enough puss to have the mom propel back from the vomits recoil

Father "Reminds me of my time in the service" flashes back to being a Navy Corpsmen and asking what the hell happened to a crawling Marine with only body from his ass cheeks upward (with boots somehow being dragged)

"Oh this? You should see the other guy." His laughter powered him through, laughs of a puddle manmade, with only a Kevlar to give a hint of what once was the pink chunky puddle steaming beneath it

Marine: "I passed him and for the last time I decided to crop dust him and since my situation down there is less than ideal I fully shit out a gurgle that I swear caused that puddle to laugh up a little and I think that was Johnson finally admitting he may he owed a purple heart."

Corpsmen: "Yeah that's some real friendly fire you must've caused based on how much is still dusting right now."

Marine "those boots are full of Johnson by the way doc, he said you better have a better remedy this time than to just change his socks."

Corpsmen "Full of johnson you say? I'll put one of those on ice for you so you're not fully G.I. joe back home"

Marine "Guess I could use that shrink ray device they tested on base and once you're my 1 semen you just gotta hope I change my socks that next lights out."