Donald Trump Should Come With A Trigger Warning

I am astounded in this day and age that a person who allegedly is groping women and assaulting them against their will is a front runner for President of one of the most powerful nations in the world. To hear him say he is a "magnet to beautiful women" and he "doesn't even wait" he just starts kissing and groping disgusts me.

Then there is the entire Bill Cosby mess, the Jian Ghomeshi assaults, Roman Polanski, Woody #$&)^ Allen, the list grows.

What is it about certain males that think women are objects just meant to be there for the taking? Walking, talking animated Stepford-Dolls just waiting to be groped and assaulted on a whim. Really? 

I blame the justice system, excuse me, the legal system that gives rapists light sentences because having this on their record will hurt their future careers. Really? What about the victim. Her life is ruined. Not just her career. Every day for the rest of her existence it will be in her head that she was violated without the ability to stop it.

I blame society for raising boys to be the 'man' of the house when daddy is gone. Ugh. That phrases sickens me. A six year old is not a 'man' to be lording around his sisters and mother. When was the last time someone said, 'okay you're the woman of the house until mommy comes home'? The implications are that boys are these omnipotent creatures while girls just are.

I blame religion for teaching the Father, the Son and the Holy Ghost. Where the heck is the Mother, The Daughter and the Holy Intuition? And it is not just Catholicism or Christianity. It is Islam, and the Jewish religion and all forms of  patriarchal religions that say hey, if you have this genitalia, you can do this and if you have that genitalia, you cannot. 

I blame the parents that raise their boys to be entitled to take whatever they want. Rich or middle income families that feel 20 minutes of action shouldn't be a death blow to Junior's career.

I blame Hollywood for thinking that a 40 YO actor is washed up if she is a female, but a 75 YO male actor can be the love interest of a 26 YO female actor.

I blame corporations that promote sexism and mysogynistic behaviour, while ignoring the disrespect that goes on, and then wonders why morale is low.

I blame advertising that markets to a generalization of sexual assaults against women to sell clothing, perfume, cars, and even a Big Mac. 

I blame universities where, on orientation women are told not to use the tunnels at the University of Manitoba because they may be assaulted, and instead they should walk outside at -40. 

I blame loser, white trash men that have to go to an organization like Pick Up Artists to learn how to become predators and that they are entitled to jump on any female they desire. And that they are taught how to mislead, lie and drug women for sex.

I blame town councils that, after having an alarming increase in the percentage of sexual assaults, tells women that they have a curfew, instead of locking up the perverts.

I blame rank that instills power in a person that allows them to assault others and then to snicker about it afterwards because rank has its privilege.  

I blame women for perpetuating this myth by blaming the victim. I blame Christian women that buy into the pathos of, if you are married, you should be having sex whenever he demands it.

I think I just figured out why women are still marginalized.

Evolvement and Devolvement

Back to the transition from a hard driven Type A personality into a Hippy (See the very first blog), I started Yoga teacher training a couple of months back. I have learned so much valuable and enjoyable information and I have been transformed, internally and externally. This kind of reminds me of a diamond, putting so much pressure on an item, body, or mind that it changes the molecular structure into something completely different.

I have been forever changed. My body feels different, moves more with grace, and my mind has been expanded into different thought forms, spiritual planes of existence, and is calm.

Things that were opaque have become clear; movements that were impossible have become natural, and I have learned serenity. Yoga changed my mind and my life, I cannot name all the differences. All I can say, there was a life lived differently before and after Yoga.

I am so exited to teach and to open this learning to others, and I can only hope that what I have experienced others can as well.

If you have been following this blog, you know I am a physical and emotional mess because of the Compound Complex PTSD, Anxiety, the brain thing....sigh and ADD. Yoga has helped with most of these issues. Obviously not the brain thing. But the others, definitely.

Yoga is more than a program, a pose, a spiritual journey or exercise. It can be all of these things or a combination of any of them. Yoga connects me to the greater spiritual purpose that includes the inclusivity of humanism.

But the events of last and this week have saddened me to the core of my being. A USA Olympic bound swimmer raped and brutalized an unconscious female. The judge, mom and dad, and the legal team thought he suffered enough from having a lifetime ban from the US swimming team that feeds into the Olympics and the judge did not want undo pressure placed on this predator that this man effectively will serve a three month sentence surrounded by protective guards, lest he receives the same life sentence he forced upon a defenceless woman, or, as dad put it, his "20 minutes of action."

I cannot fathom the thought process that turns the brutalization of an unconscious female, against her will, without consent, as 20 minutes of action.

Then there is the killing of 50 people and the wounding of 53 others due to a belief system that is radically devolved. Someone who thought we should turn the years back to the middle ages. And someone who will probably be labeled as mentally ill rather than a sociopath.

In both these last instances, people thought they were entitled to take what someone else had, against their will, someone who stood in judgement of another human life and decreed they were not worthy.

What a sad state we are in when are controlled by bullies.

The only way to right these wrongs is to be the change you want to see in the world. One person at a time. One small act at a time. Reach out to someone who is hurting and just listen. See the overworked mom and ask her if she wants a coffee. Introduce yourself to your neighbour.

One by one, we can make a difference. Start small. One simple act of kindness. It can make a huge difference.

As My Friend Calls It: Random Musings

Another week, another massive bombing killing innocent people and causing pain, fear and misery in the beautiful country of Belgium. I do not understand and I am not going to pretend I do.

If your faith teaches you to kill others, to treat women and children like trash and to distort and twist the truth, to me that is a mental illness. I don't care if you are Jewish, (although I do not recall any fanatical Jewish uprisings), Christian, Muslim, Pagan, Catholic, Buddhist or Monk. Fanatical belief that teaches to harm others because of an us or them mentality is so far from being human, it should be wiped out for the rabid dog it is.

How many more people have to die before we name this for what it is: the annihilation of a way of thinking because someone decreed it was wrong.

I do not know what the answer is and I am not going to pretend I do. But being politically correct does nothing to solve this and lets the bully stomp all over the flowers in the garden because they cannot see the beauty for what it is, and Heaven forbid that someone else should live different from you.

I hate the fact that my birth home may be next. I hate that the rape rate in Sweden has increased by 1400%. I hate that girls are being told to change the way they dress or take a different route to school so as to not upset the men in the camps. I hate that we could be next.

Nothing makes sense to me anymore in a world where swim team USA Olympic hopefuls can brutally rape a girl and get less than three months in prison. When a 280 pound 19 year old can charge a police officer with a weapon and then be considered the victim when the officer kills him. When a man can brutally kill and eat a young man in front of others and be walking the streets, a free man in 7 years.

People are yearning for change and growth and optimism, but in these trying times, that is a difficult thing to do.

Peace.....

Post Paris and Mali

It's been a week of strangeness; Paris was attacked and a week later, Mali was in the grips of terrorism. The focus between the two events could not have been more polarized. When Paris was hit, Facebook screamed in defiance and raised its collective fist in the air with shouts of stop terrorism. When Mali was attacked 7 days later there were crickets...nothing. Nothing at least on my feed and I have a fair amount of friends that post everyday.

I found that odd. I admit, I have been deleting hate, racism, propaganda and victim bashing-victim propagating memes, posts and news reports because Facebook is my happy place. I have enough damn reality in my life. I don't need it when I come home from work. And last year I was in the seventh circle of Hell for most of it from illness, dealing with children, and a high stress job.

I seldom socialize. I work, come home, sometimes eat, but more often than not, climb into bed to get ready for another day. Such is the life of someone with multiple autoimmune deficiencies; so to be bombarded with hate and fear just is not what I want in my life on Facebook. But I could not be more astounded by the deafening silence on the Mali attacks. Granted, fewer lives were lost, but why the contrast? Even the typical #blacklivesmatter crowd was silent. If anything, I thought they would be protesting this vile act of psychopathic cowardice, because some of the victims were black, in a predominately black country, but no.

Does that mean only #blacklivesmatter in North America? I really hope not because that is an ugly thought to contemplate. If #blacklivesmatter, then they should matter regardless of geography. If terrorism is ugly, then it should be ugly everywhere, not just in a predominately white culture. Then I wonder if racism is a luxury of a culture that lives in the comparative affluence of North America and Europe instead of a country where the life expectancy is only 53.

And I am still trying to wrap my head around the thinking and the hatred that perpetuates these crimes, and I am at a loss. Young, able bodied men attack and kill indiscriminately in the vein of psychopathy disguised in a nebulous veil as religion. But that is an excuse to kill people. Not religion. I do believe, regardless of faith, these people would kill others, even those of the same faith because the glory is in the kill. Not the faith, not the religion, not in spreading the truth. It is about ruling the world through the genitals of a man. A weak, misguided, uneducated and unethical, simple man. We all know that women in this culture have value less than an animal and less than children. Women are repeatedly murdered, raped and stoned to death, on a whim. Children suffer the same fate. Daily. Mutilation of women and children is a side effect of thinking that genitals dictate how well you live your life and the freedom you have.

The latest reports from Washington show that these young adults take something called fenethylline, a drug that keeps them awake, angry, and ready to tear people apart with their bare hands. Exactly what these rebels need; a drug akin to PCP, massive bombs, explosives and the angry young man attitude. Another side effect of the drug is the ability to mask pain. Effectively, fenethylline turns a person into grizzly bear; an 800 pound, rabid, enraged bear that feels no pain and carries explosives. 

It makes me sad and reflective to think that on the other side of the world there is a mother with a dead child, a sister that is raped, a grandmother that is stoned to death and that 26 year old boys rule their world and are now affecting ours. 

Terrorism, fanaticism, sexism, racism, it all needs to stop. The thinking that I am better human than you because of my skin colour, my religious beliefs, my gender or my sexual orientation is exclusionary, an act of cowardice and morally wrong. 

HERE LIES: Frank William Fish

FWF

February 5, 1944 - May 19, 2015

Mr. Fish led an auspicious life when he made a fatal decision to alter his path, in his mid twenties. He decided to indulge in his personal predilections and proceeded on a path to destruction. The people in his life survived. He did not. 

He died alone, stinking, rotting from the inside, far away from the family who used to love him and even farther away from anyone who cared. In his senior years, no one pretended to notice whether he lived or died and no one bothered to visit, send flowers or even pop in to ease his pain. All this brought on by one stupid decision which carved a path of destruction started when he was 25. 

Imagine for one moment, making a decision, causing irreparable damage at 25 that would cause a painful, rotting, stinking, despised death 50 years later. 

His carnage included a wife that loved him in the beginning, a son that loved him, in the beginning and a stepdaughter that despised the very earth he touched. He went on to destroy other people along the way: Another family, other victims and created a path of destruction so long and so wide, hundreds of people are affected by his one decision at age 25. People have thought about suicide, murder and just disappearing because of his one choice. Others became alcoholics, drug abusers and mentally ill. His victims chose silence because that was the only choice at the time. His victims chose to destroy themselves a piece at a time rather than hurt others. His shameful existence is a pound of ash, left in an unclaimed box, sitting on a shelf in a forgotten room. His soul, however, will be eaten, a piece at a time, ripped to shreds and fed to the demons in Hell. 

He destroyed people, he destroyed the good in himself, and he never thought about the effect on others because he was a psychopath. And he is where he should be. Do Not Rest in Pieces. 

Psychopathy and Children

Psychopaths are a big hit these days: Dexter, Secrets and Lies, Hannibal, Games of Thrones, Criminal Minds, House. The list could go on. But the one thing that people cannot agree on is the psychopathy of children.

Psychiatrists and other learned professionals will argue that children cannot be psychopaths. Their brains are not fully formed, emotions are not fully developed and the DSM V does not recognize it. Instead, children are labelled as unemotional, callous, unresponsive. Which is interesting, because you can also label an Autistic person as such. And Autistic children are no where near the spectrum of psychopathic children.

Psychopathic children will hurt and bully others, manipulate and control anyone they can, much like the adult version, but of course on a different level. Autistic kids do not. They have no concept of lying, manipulating or bullying. What's interesting though, is the inability of people to think that kids can be deliberately hurtful, deceitful and out to kill others.

Anyone who has been a teacher, a parent or a relative of a psychopathic child will tell you otherwise. Think back to the school shootings, the killers of James Bulger and Reena Virk, and the gang rapists of the 13 year old in Alberta, or the football player rapists in the US.

I think people find the idea abhorrent that children and young teens can be psychopaths, much like thirty years ago females could not be sexual predators. Given time and enough evidence however, law and science have discovered that female predators exist and for the same reason male predators exist.

According to the Canadian Rights Council, 86% of victims of female sexual predators are not believed so crimes go unreported and un-prosecuted.  (see link).  Women account for 25% of all sexual abuse cases, but as a society we still find that hard to believe. Granted, cases like Karla Homalka, Crystal Henricks, and Terri-Lynne McClintic have paved the way to more and more people believing in the psychopathy of females.

Now, we need to convince doctors, parents and others that psychopaths can also be children. This is more important because maybe with enough treatment and counselling we can reverse this trend. Ignoring it will not make it go away.

Psychopathic children do exist. And they get better at it when they get older.

What got me started on this was two things: First, the show Secrets and Lies, which is only 10 episodes long and is provocative and entertaining, and a story I wrote about a psychopathic 10 year old. The editor at the time would not believe that a 10 year old would speak and think like the character in the novel. I was surprised, because after all, I write horror, not romance. But also at the naiveté of the editor to think this child would not speak the way my character did.

I did not change the voice of my character and the piece was published, but that conversation always stuck with me.

I know in this child-centric version we have of the world today, that little Bobby and Suzie can do no wrong. Failing kids is bad, everyone gets a trophy and working hard in school is too difficult. But trust me, we are not doing kids any favours. In fact, we may be harming the good ones, by protecting the bad. And please, kids will be kids is just a poor excuse.


http://www.canadiancrc.com/Female_Sex_Offenders-Female_Sexual_Predators_awareness.aspx

Chronic Pain, Life, Dying

I saw the article from the neurosurgeon who wrote upon reflecting what it is like to know you have a limited lifespan. He started out a fine young man, went to University, became a doctor, specialized in neurosurgery, saved countless lives and then was diagnosed with cancer and told he had six months to live.

It was a beautiful piece, knowledgeable and intelligent upon which he reflects upon his life and what he has learned. He has a baby daughter and he wonders if she will remember him.

I read that piece with intensity because I wonder how much time I have left. I do not have cancer that a doctor can say 'You have six months, a year, etc.' I have a time bomb in my head that can go at any time. I can drop dead tomorrow or in 45 years. It's a crapshoot. I truly do not know which is worse: Knowing you have six months and needing to fill in the time or take it slow, or knowing today could be your last day.

I grieve the person I lost. I grieve what I have been robbed of and I mourn what is ahead of me. Each day is special, blah, blah, blah. Life is a gift. Be happy you survived this long. Be positive. I can do that up to a point and then I drown in my own pre-ordained death sentence and fall apart, sobbing to the ground and wonder why this is the way it has to be. My husband picks me up, and tells me he loves me, and I sob until I am hoarse and wish I could disappear.

I have PTSD, actually Compound Complex PTSD between my childhood and this thing growing in my head, that sticks by me as my shadow and follows me around, constantly telling me, don't laugh too hard: Pink Mist. Don't cough. Do not stress. And all that does is increase the constant terror that has become my life.

I have become a hermit, locked inside my own diseased mind and all I can do is read and watch horror movies, the bloodier the better, so I can forget, for one hour, one day, that I am dead.

The fear is overwhelming. The anxiety is like having a too big a piece of food lodged in your throat that you cannot get rid of. And what really, truly sucks, is that some people that know me, think I should carry on and continue being the rock and the hand that rocks the cradle, and forget about it, but concentrate on their perception of life.

That has made me re-evaluate everything. I do have severe clinical depression thanks to my step-monster, along with many other invisible scars. And I bet if you sprayed Luminol on my soul, you would see each and every one of them: The childhood torture and rape of my spirit, the mental and physical illness it created, the stress, the brain aneurysm, the pain of having a family, the pain of needing a family with the realization I will never have one that I crave.

No, today is not a good day. Tomorrow, who knows.

Celebrating Women Horror Writers: Do Women Write Horror Differently Than Men?

I have heard the comments growing up; women can't be professional race car drivers; women can't be professional chefs; women can't do comedy and women can't do horror. These comments usually came from men. And I often wondered what it was about these professions and gender that sealed the deal. No one could tell me or pin point the error, other than saying women weren't funny or couldn't cook professionally. I found it interesting that girls develop language earlier than boys, read easier and faster because of brain development, write quicker and neater for the same reason, so why could they not write horror? If they developed these skills at an early age and worked on them longer, why was horror the one thing they could not write? Do we not have the stomach for it? Do we not give enough detail? Too much emotion? Not enough sex or violence? Too subtle? Pretty it up too much? Add sparkles....oh, wait.

Then came crime. Women weren't sexual predators. Women weren't serial killers. Women weren't sadists. And again I pondered this mythos our society perpetuates about gender. I have known many female sexual predators that went after both male and female children. I have known women that tortured people, women that enjoyed inflicting pain, women that sought it out and women that led the chase.

Granted, they were fewer in number when it came to getting caught and in serial murders, but in sexual crimes the numbers were almost as high.

So what's the problem? As an impromptu question on Facebook, I asked, Do you read female authors? Why or why not? Most of the people had only positive things to say, and that gender did not factor in. Others pointed out that there were more male authors than females, which is correct. But some did say nope. Won't read them. And they pointed out things like females hold back and men are more disturbing. Others said women writers dissolve in to dark romance. I am not going to argue with these people because they are correct. I remember when paranormal meant anything vaguely paranormal related. Now, it is usually a term for paranormal romance writers (not all of whom are women, by the way).

But I do think there are some women that knock it out of the park; Chantal Noordeloos, Billie Sue Mosiman, Penelope Crowe, Suzi M, Allison Dickinson, Lisa Lane and there are many, many more.

Do women write horror differently than men? You be the judge. I am going to post six pieces.One of them is mine. What makes these pieces work? Not work? Which were written by the women? How can you tell?

ENTRY ONE

Sherryl felt a rush of impotent, bitter anger. She brushed a tear from the corner of her eye. A cramp tore through her. She drained her teacup and set it down on the table and drew her legs up on the couch, feeling it sinking and settling. “I'm so sorry, Noko,” she said. “I wish there was some way to fix it, to go back.” Noko shook her head. “So do I. They thought they were helping us. Kill the Indian in us, they said. They killed a lot more. My boy.” Sherryl raised her head to look at Noko over the side of the couch. The older woman's face was drawn, set in lines from years of pain. Shadows stretched her eyes into skull sockets. “Oh, Noko. What happened?” Noko took a deep breath and folded her hands in her lap, where they twisted like small animals burrowing. “I was gigishkaage,” she said. “Pregnant. How old were you?” Noko nodded. “Thirteen, maybe fourteen. We were supposed to be in school until sixteen, but a lot of us didn't last that long.” Sherryl had to stifle a sarcastic, inappropriate laugh, as if it was an understatement. She thought of another story, about a nun who had struck a child so hard the child's neck broke and the nun's instructions to the other children: step over the body and get back to class. “I was able to hide it most of the year,” Noko continued. “It was winter, late and cold and I couldn't hide it anymore. The people who ran the school, they were mean but not stupid.” “How did they find out?” Noko shrugged. “They saw it. Or maybe somebody told. Who knows? The matron, she beat me, but what was she going to do? I wouldn't tell her who the father was.” “What happened to the baby?” As far as she had ever known, her Uncle Ray was Noko's first born. Then her mother and her Aunt Bess. Noko looked at the moving pictures on the silent television. She stared for so long, Sherryl was about to give up and turn the sound back on, when Noko spoke again.

ENTRY TWO

It wasn't until the titanium blade caressed her flawless cheek that she shook and wept, silently screaming under the duct tape. I pressed a little harder and the blade bit into her skin causing a scarlet trail of blood in its wake. She screamed but the duct tape muffled it well. I set the knife down and saw a moment of relief in her. Can’t have that now can we? Relief is no fun. I picked up the pliers and put her fleshy earlobe between the vice of the pliers. I then squeezed as hard as I could, delighting in her wincing and repressed screams. I had some more fun with the pliers on other parts of her body. Paying particular attention to her fingers. What can I say? I enjoyed the sickening crunch of her cartilage being mangled by the steely jaws. Several times she passed out from the pain, every single time I grabbed the smelling salts and brought her to.

ENTRY THREE

For some reason he figured that must be his destination. Would getting there end the Hunt? Was there any end to the Hunt? There must be, for by the time he actually made it to the trailer he was in the Splatterhouse; walls dripping red blood, organs sticking to them as if they had been flung forcibly against them. Hands snatched at him, tried to trip him up, tried to grab his clothes and hair; disembodied extremities falling off the walls with fingers curling around his ankles. His progress was stunted by this, it felt worse than when he was being pursued by the masked chasers in the narrow tunnel bordered by canine fiends as he seemed to be getting nowhere. Every step he took shook the Splatterhouse walls and cascaded more blood down them, shook more mutilated flesh off them to fall upon him. A tangle of entrails dropped in ghastly ropes around his neck, an eyeball bounced off his cranium. Rolled along the plane of the floor, splashing into a puddle of congealing blood, staring at him. The masked Hunters came right through the walls. They ripped through them with their blades, sliced great holes and jagged rends in them as if they were actually composed of flesh, forcing their bodies through their created apertures, looking like mutated creatures in the midst of a gruesome birth.

ENTRY FOUR

Scarlet snarled and palmed her knife, holding the sharp blade just above Grandmother’s heart and plunged it deep with both hands. She closed her eyes, breathed in deeply, a moan of satisfaction escaped from her lips. She pulled out the knife and the spear and then rolled the body over, kicking it with her foot.  She licked the blood from the blade. It was still slightly warm, salty.

A hunger overtook her, consumed her. An overwhelming sensation enveloped her mind, like a mist which wrapped its nebulous folds around her synapses and nerves compelling her to consume the flesh. ‘Eat’ it insisted.

Scarlet sank to her knees and whimpered, fighting the command, while at the same time her hands moved willingly along the body, tearing at the clothes and discarding them in a pile. The knife traced the  sagittal line on the body neatly dividing it into two halves. The skin parted and Scarlet help separate it from the bone, and the internal organs spilled from their casing. Blood, gore, muscle and fat oozed onto the floor. Intestines and stomach contents collapsed into a gelatinous puddle of offal. Scarlet plunged her hands and arms into the mess, feeling the warm innards wrap themselves around her skinny arms. She rubbed the organs over her face and body, trying to fight the impulse to bite into the organs, but her hands kept shoving the body pieces closer and closer to her mouth. Gagging, Scarlet’s hand reached for the heart and pulled it out of the chest cavity. She gripped the muscle and yanked it out of its home, ripping it free with a slurping sound. Blood ran down her arms. Sobbing, gagging and turning her head, her hand forced the heart to her mouth, her mouth opening wider and wider. The heart was warm and slightly heavy in her hands, a myriad of red and blue veins and arteries. Scarlet slowly sunk her teeth into the muscle, the blood squelching between her teeth. She ripped into the meat and tore it in half with her teeth. She chewed and swallowed, chewed and swallowed and ate the entire thing and fell asleep amongst the mess.

ENTRY FIVE

The voice is in Denny’s head; a lilting sing-song, scolding him for something. His eyes remain clenched; he’s afraid to open them, terrified, though he has no idea why. Something’s not right. A stench fills his nostrils, familiar, surrounding him…drenching him. “Bad, bad daddy.” Harsher this time, as though through gritted teeth, the voice clotted, congested. No, the voice is not in his head. He slowly peels his eyelids apart, looks around at the blurred bedroom from where he huddles in the corner. Like a scene viewed through a lens smeared with grease everything is distorted, runny. The only color he can make out is a deep, violent red. And this red is everywhere, in Rorschach splotches and splashes, in rivulets and puddles. Everywhere.

ENTRY SIX

“Nine months,” Susan said to her living room—her mourning room.  “Nine months, to-day.  And today’s the day, isn’t it?”

            No answer.  Why would there be?  She was alone, had been practically the entire time.

            No suprise.

            Her baby was coming.  And she knew, knew with knowledge and feeling, she wasn’t going to survive.  Nor did she deserve to.

            Little Susie Bruisey had messed around , yessiree.  Had messed around with a Tall, Dark and Handsome, and, as her mother would have said, had landed in the soup.

            Soup, hell, daddy would’ve added—you’re chin-deep in the chowder.

            She sat down on her couch, disgusted with the mess she had allowed to fester: pizza boxes, Chinese from Wong’s (“We Speak English/We Delivery” written on the side of their van), Stouffer’s by the ton (Lasagna Italiano, Macaroni and Cheese, Salisbury Steak, Meatloaf, shrimp scampi, and more), OJ cartons and bottles ... candy wrappers, and One A Day Women’s that she had taken by the triple (her baby was needy, and there’d been no OB/GYN prescribing prenatals), and that was just some of the food-stuffs.  There was also the piles of laundry, all dirty, full of filth and bile and crusted clumps of tissue and blood.  Way too much blood.  She hadn’t dealt with occasional spotting, no.  She had gushed, again and again, for months. 

Scary.

            The price to pay.  And the bleeding had seemed the least of it.

            Hair had gone, too.  First, she lost her perm.  Then her hair went flat, its life gone.  It turned gray, then corpse white.  A sunrise or two later, started staying on her pillow.  Ugly warning patches of witch’s-tress.  Next, was its washing down the drain, freaking her out as it inch-wormed down her shower’s walls and snaked its way past her feet toward oblivion.

            She did have some teeth left. 

That was nice.

            But then there was the arthritis, the insomnia, the back-pain (let alone her arms, hands, legs and feet).  Oh, sweet Susie, let’s not forget about the incontinence—her favorite.  Or the bonus round of eczema that fruited everywhere save her healthy, rosy-glow stomach.  No carny would dare guess her age, which could be anything from 90 to 175. 

She used to be so, so pretty. 

            Last month she’d turned 22.

            Had it been worth it?

            No.

            But almost, she thought.  Oh, yes, almost.  She’d bedded an angel.  How many could say that?  A beautiful angel—a son of God.

            “I thought there’d be wings.”

            “No, Susan Thorpe.  No wings.  Angels don’t have wings … only the Seraphim on the Ark of the Covenant.  The wings are symbolic.”

            “Oh.”

            His voice had been magick, a mesmerizing croon.  And though there’d been no wings—“... Angels don’t have wings.”—there’d been that glow, his glow, flashing up the bedroom in its mystifying black-light, more romantic than a single or a thousand perfectly placed candles, a radiant smolder of the divine that shrouded the room, and her heart, in a blazing puissant embrace.

            He’d enveloped her.  One thrust.  That was all.  One thrust as she lay back, legs splayed, knees impossibly high, sex beckoning—begging, pillow under her bottom ... and that one seed-driving thrust.  A single plunge enforced by gripping, manly hands.  Just one singular, stabbing pitch of power and ... then he stopped, freeze-framed, shivered, yelled and—

            —she’d yelled with him, an orgasmic bellow beyond knowing that simultaneously was also a keening wail, an exhalation of release so pleasurably-traumatic it would kill her, would have to.  Would indeed be the highest blessing for which she could ever hope—to die with his coming and hers, her body and soul’s. 

            Yet, she’d somehow lived through to gasp another breath … then another.

            Her angel had left.  But not that nirvanic peak.  Oh, no—that remained on hold, ready to explode any time she flipped the switch.

            Still would, if she willed it.

            Her angel’s parting dowry, the anesthesia that kept her going through all these long and horrifically short months, the ability to put herself back into that cumming moment.  A perfect drug on mental tap that she could draw down on demand, any time, in any mood, day or night—the perfect distraction while her body channeled all its resources for the baby.  Don’t like going bald?  Go have a ten-hour orgasm.  Don’t like puking up your left lung?  Go twitch and drool through the night.

 How jealous Amy Winehouse would’ve been. 

At least she hadn’t had to worry about anything else.  All his promises had been kept: the place to stay, the DVD player, the big TV, all the food and utilities taken care of, all the clothes she could want—a full-blown complete blank-check.  Her job?  Sit back, zone out.  Feed her baby: its food, its fluids, her life. 

She only had to get through nine months, before, like a good little girl, it would be time to quietly slip away.

That’s almost what she had done.

            Till six days ago, when she’d said enough’s enough.  No more.  Till six days ago when a moment’s realization came that she was damned, her baby destined for the same … twice-over, that Little Susie Bruisey was going to Hell and how that would break her daddy’s heart, her mother’s … how her baby becoming his, would break hers. 

She’d said no more, and started to pray again, like when she’d been a little girl, even an early teen, well before discovering boys and how much fun it was to twirl them ’round slim fingers.  Well before discovering the intoxication inherent in saying fuck-all to her parents’ stooped rules.  Before she’d learned to say no, but to them, not drugs.  Yes, before all that.  Back to when she’d known how to pray, with an honest and believing heart. 

She’d tapped into those memories and brought back those blessed ways.  Humbled herself and begged.  For herself, sure.  It was inevitable.  Pure survival instinct.  But really, in her heart of hearts, she had pleaded for her unborn—for him (and it would be a him) to have a chance at redemption, for something better than the life of blasphemy and murder his father had planned.

            And then there was today, her seventh day of sobriety.  Wonderful number seven.  It was a good number. 

It was her last. 

Tonight was, after all, the night. 

Her baby was coming. 

            She looked at the good-bye letter, enveloped and scented with Love’s Baby Soft, like she’d used as a girl to mark all her birthday, Christmas, Mother’s and Father’s Day cards.  She’d even found enough strength to clean a spot on the disaster-strewn coffee table so it woudn’t get dirty.  Mommy and daddy were going to love it. 

            Colors had been one of her gifts.  She knew ’em all.  Collected them, too: pencils, pens, ink bottles and paints.  For her letter, there’d be nothing plain; a ball-point would’ve been an abomination.  She’d written her letter in calligraphy using a quill dipped in her favorite ink bottle: a small, circa 1950, cobalt-blue (her favorite color) glass affair, labeled, New Parker/Super Quick/Permanent Black/2 Fl. Oz.59cc/Made in USA. 

            The ink was a hell of a lot newer.  Still, Jane Austen would have been proud.

If she had any tears left, she’d let ’em fly. 

Her parents deserved so much better. 

Spilt milk. 

Gallons.  

            She thought of her words, spat out some of the room’s stink, and thought of her words—of their total inadequacy:

            Dearest Daddy and Mums,

Remember your little girl ... do you?  Falling out of that apple tree, Daddy?  Busting her lip in the swimming pool, Mommy?  Always getting hurt, always sorry and ready to do better?  Well, she’s back.  Loving God again, and back.  And so sorry.  So very, very sorry.  Understand?

            I’m sorry.

            I’ve been bad, and I’ve gotten hurt again.  But it’s for the last time.  I’ll never be bad again, because I’m back in His loving arms—for good.  Don’t worry, no more and never.  Don’t cry, either, at least not more thanna little.  You’ll see me again … here, there, or in the air—I promise.  I’ve found the Lord again, and I’m okay. 

            Again, If I could just take it all back, everything, for being gone for so long, for torturing you two.  But that’s all over, and this time, as hard as it is to believe, I’m telling the truth.  Or like when I was littles and waiting for my new uppers: I’m tellin’ the troof.

Thank you for everything, and know that you were right.  You were right about it all.

            Loves and Misses,

                        Your Susan

xxx/ooo 4-ever and evers

            In retrospect, she supposed there were too many sorries in the letter.  They made her sound like some kind of ’tard, but that was okay.  She wasn’t going to change a thing. 

            She sniffled.

KFC napkin in-hand, she wiped her tears.  Guess, I wasn’t out after all, she thought. 

Then her doorbell rang, the first time in all these months. 

Christ a’mighty, what now?

            She thought about getting up and waddling to the door, scrawny left hand in vain trying to support her back, and then she thought better.  Why go to all the trouble?  The door wasn’t locked—never had been.  Why should it be?  She was safe as safe could get.  She was going to have his baby, after all.  Nothing on Earth could touch her.

            “Come ON IN.”  Old instincts started to drive her hands for some last-second hair fixin’, but she quickly corrected herself.  What was the point?  “Door’s unlocked.”

            The front door opened and two men in white stuck their heads inside.  Susan almost gasped.  Next to her angel, the two were the most handsome men she’d ever seen, their eyes almost glowing, almost golden—almost.  “Can I help you?”

            One of the men, the brown-haired one that made Brad Pitt look like a hairy-ass, said, “The Agency sent us.  Somebody having a baby?”

            “You could say that.”

            The other man answered her rhetorical statement: “Super.  We’re here to help you through it.”  And then they came in, each one carrying one of those medical kits she’d seen EMTs use on TV. 

            “Now who sent you guys?”
            Brown hair again, “The Agency.  Can we get started?”

            “Uh ….”

            Then the other guy, face and form perfect, hair blonde as a sunbeam, “Yeah, the Agency.  Now, what we’re going to do is set up, clean this place, and give you all the help you asked for and more.”

            “All the h—”

            “Shh,” blondie hushed.  “Don’t worry about a thing.  You were heard.  Now drink this.”  He opened his kit and pulled out a bottle of water made by some company called “Living Springs” and handed it to her.  “It’ll make you feel better, I promise, and then we’ll get crackin’.”

            The other guy smiled.  “Trust him.  He never lies.”

            “Never-ever.”  Blondie grinned and got moving.

            She opened the bottle and drank, and immediately felt all her fears melt.  She stared into the brown-haired man’s eyes, and for a second, the briefest of flickering moments, they were golden … shiny, heart-melting golden orbs.  She blinked and then they were blue again, but shifting … from lightning bolt to Nordic to gentian … others, all the blues in the universe, the kind she could just fall in forever and 4-ever. 

“Thank you, my name’s Susie Bruisey.”

            “Not any more, Lady Susan,” the two answered together.  “Not anymore.”

Ok begin your guesses........six entries, which ones are which?