OctPoWriMo 2018: Day 21: Hideous Death or Merely Misery


Since I have the libido of roadkill
I really couldn't give a rip
Whether it's love or lust
If there was a spark in the dark
I probably didn't notice
My desire is long dead and buried in a desert 
Or a scrap heap
Or a tomb with no view
And I have no intentions of reviving it
Anytime in the near future
Or ever
I'm better off without it
But I am questioning
And I am deciding
Whether this wretched cough
Complete with nasty mucus
Is just a lousy cold
Or if this awful feeling
Like someone set an anvil on my chest
Is in fact the beginnings
Of something quite a bit worse
Like maybe Captain Trips
So my choices boil down to this:
Am I a miserable hypochondriac
Or am I about to leave behind a really vile corpse
For some unfortunate soul to discover
Laying on the couch
Slime running from the eyes, nose, and mouth
Of my putrefying body
Kitchen Nightmares playing on the computer
I will die thinking 
If Gordon Ramsay survives
He will cut Randall Flagg to bits with his words
Thus ends my alternate universe version of The Stand
And now, if you'll excuse me
I must cough up a lung
By now it should come as no surprise
That I don't have a man in my life
My Give-A-Fuck broke a long time ago
No fellow in his right mind wants a partner
With a twisted sense of humor like mine

~Cie~


The Party: WEP

Angela Bassett as Marie Laveau was my inspiration for Aunt Mila

Gabourey Sidibe as Queenie was my inspiration for Maria

The Party

Genre: Supernatural/Horror
Words: 1000
Content Warnings:
Body shaming, sexual assault, profanity, sexism
Rating: PG-13 

“Did they force you to their will, my girl?”
Ludmila Lum’s angular face bore a staid expression, but Maria could see the little vein in her aunt’s set jaw pulsing. Aunt Mila’s warm brown eyes had gone black as the sky over an angry sea, the kind of sky that produced storms which sent ships to their graves on the ocean floor.
Mila’s expression softened at the worry in her niece’s eyes. Her bony hand enfolded Maria’s soft, plump one and a gentle smile pulled at the corner of her mouth.
“It’s all right, Mee-Mee. I am not angry with you. Even if you were drunk or high, even if you were flirting with all the boys. Now, you tell your Auntie Mila, did those boys force you to their will?”
“It wasn’t…sex,” Maria said softly, looking down at her feet. “I suppose I am making too much of nothing, as the University President said.”
Maria’s soft, round face, usually so sweet and happy, reflected shame and self-loathing. Ludmila tried not to project anger, lest her sensitive niece believe the ire was directed at her. Maria was a big girl in a world that made no bones about its hatred of soft, pillowy bodies. Ludmila worked hard to teach Maria to love herself as she was, to give her shy, plump niece the confidence that reflected her loving spirit. Ludmila was enraged that awful people had exploited the innocent girl’s attempt at sociability in an unspeakable way.
“They did not put themselves inside me, Auntie,” Maria explained in a quavering voice. “When they first invited me into the party, they were nice enough. It was guys and girls together, just showing off their costumes, just everybody dancing and having fun. The boy who invited me in, I started to think that perhaps he was falling in love with me, as he seemed only to have eyes for me in those first two hours.”
“Does this boy have a name?” Ludmila inquired.
“Omer, Auntie,” Maria revealed quietly.
“Omer Raines? Doctor Raines’ boy? The one you’ve carried the torch for since you were ten years old?” Ludmila demanded.
Maria nodded, her body shuddering as she wept.
“All these years he was my friend,” she sobbed. “In school, he defended me whenever anyone made pig noises at me or called me names. I thought we were destined to be only friends, but at the party, he seemed to echo my feelings. I gave thanks to Erzulie for the gift. ‘His heart echoes my heart,’ I thought, and at that moment, I was so happy.”
“He brought me to the front of the stage where the band was playing, and he told me to dance,” Maria continued. “’Show the world how beautiful you are, Chere,’ he insisted. ‘Dance for us!’”
“So, I danced, and at first, it seemed that all the years of hate and shame for this big body were burned away. Here I was, dressed as the Queen of Hearts, but a kind queen, not one calling for heads to roll. Everyone was clapping and cheering, and I was dancing, Auntie! I was getting down, and everyone was getting down with me, and no-one was laughing at me. But then the fraternity president gave a signal with his hands, the band changed their tune, and so did everyone else.”
“Any special tune they played?” Ludmila inquired, and by the look in her eyes, Maria was sure her aunt knew the tune she meant.
“The stripper song, you know, the one they always play in cartoons and stuff. I thought it was a joke like maybe some of the fellows would drop their trousers and do a moon, all in fun like that. But then one of the boys called out ‘take it off, Fat Girl.’ I flipped him the bird, still laughing because I thought perhaps it was a joke. But then they started pulling at my clothes, boys and girls alike. There was a blonde girl wearing almost no clothes at all who slapped me and said: ‘you don’t belong at a party, you pig, you belong in a barnyard!’”
Maria shuddered as she dropped to the floor and rested her head against her aunt’s lap. Each of her niece’s violent sobs threatened to shatter Ludmila’s heart.
“They tore the front of my dress and exposed my breasts,” Maria revealed. “The boys were grabbing my breasts and slapping my backside. The skinny blonde girl kicked me in the backside and said ‘get your fat, ugly ass away from our party, Petunia Pig! This party is for people only!’”
“Omer followed me from the party,” Maria continued. “He asked where I was going. I said I was going to the police. He tried to stop me, said it was only a joke that got out of hand. I slapped him and told him to never talk to me again. The police just said I should have known better than to go to such a party. I went right to the home of the University president. He told me that he was sorry it happened and that he would talk to the fraternity President, but he asked me to keep things quiet because we would not want to bring shame upon the school. I have always believed in a just and fair world, Auntie, but I see now there is no justice for people like me.”
“There will be justice,” Ludmila reassured her niece. “You rest now, my love.”
While Maria slept, Ludmila worked her spell.
“Justice is served,” the Voodoo priestess declared, leaning back in her chair.
A day later, there were multiple articles about the sudden rash of gender reassignment surgeries among students and faculty at Bayou College. The wives of both the University president and the chief of the campus police publicly expressed their shock, and local doctor Henri Raines declared that he’d no inkling that so many students, including his own former son Omer, were seeking gender reassignment surgery.

~The Real Cie~


Insecure Writer's Support Group: More About Cross-Pollination

Insecure Writer's Support Group: More About Cross-Pollination: Lately, I’ve been obsessed with cross-pollination. I’m not talking plants; I’m talking about linking up with endeavors of different kinds.



My response to this post:

For me, there's criticism and there's attack. Unfortunately, because of being bullied throughout school and having perfectionistic parents who inadvertently raised me to believe that I couldn't do anything right no matter how hard I tried, attacks tend to make me flare up and then shut down and become mired in self-doubt. I appreciate constructive criticism, i.e. "Cie, this paragraph is confusingly worded, and you never mentioned this character before." Sometimes when one is writing, one is so mired in their own Universe that they forget that other people are visitors and need an explanation of the characters and various events.

Constructive criticism helps writers and artists to build and grow rather than to become discouraged and walk away.

It's easy to say that we should just ignore the kind of toxic schmucks who enjoy attacking others' creations. Maybe some people are self-assured enough to do that and walk away unscathed. I'm not, although becoming older and meaner, I have developed a degree of self-esteem which allows me to blow off the kinds of losers who delight in causing harm.

OctPoWriMo 2018: Day 11: Fallen Through


A life filled with events unexpected
A soul epitomizing imperfection
Goes slipping through the cracks unnoticed
One fateful night she was forced to see with new eyes
She now fights to begin again in spite of everything

~Cie~


Notes:
I began with the intent to make a cascade poem, but once these five lines were there in front of me, I felt that extending the poem would only make it seem unnecessarily verbose. I felt that this poem needed to be brief and to the point, so I am leaving it as a stark free verse.

Closing Comments on This Blog

At this point, this blog is only a place for sharing links, and the only comments I've been getting are comments like the following fro...