Archive for the ‘ Creative Writing ’ Category

The Rape of Bride

The Rape of Bride

By Stacy Lash © 2009

When you encounter someone new, it’s always a bit disconcerting when the first thing you make eye contact with is their genitalia.  Whenever this happens, I always remember them by some unusual physical characteristic and that’s what sticks.  From first glance on, whenever they are referenced, my brain will immediately conjure up the image of … well … the image of what made them ‘unique’. It’s pretty much all about the superlatives; largest, smallest, etc.  All you need to do is match the adjective with the body part, the result is what ends up ingrained in my mind.

With the Bride, though, it wasn’t so much her parts and pieces as the hirsute nature of her nethers.  Some females don’t believe in razors, however I suspect she just gave in to her condition after a while.  Her most private furs weren’t black or coarse, making them much more intriguing.  Instead, they were soft, glossy and the most unusual honey color I’ve ever seen covering a vulva.  Most pubes are more vulgar than couture but hers were truly stylish.  Packed so densely no hint of the skin underneath could be seen, a full bodied wave twisted them, root to tip, into a gentle spiral.  A lot of women would pay big bucks to for those luscious curls to adorn their heads.

I found the Bride laying spread eagle, draped over the corner of her bed, and wearing just a veil.  The sheer tulle hid nothing; I could still make out the amber hue of her right eye, which was staring toward the closet.  Naked from the neck down, arms and legs drawn up, exposing her sex, she was all but poised for consummation.  A lot to take in all at once, but being first introduced to the Bride’s fabulous honey colored corn-silk pubes the rest of her dilemma fell to the wayside.  Nice to meet you, Ma’am.  You are now synonymous with your bush.  File this case under You’re a Sick Fuck.

The crime scene was like any other, minus the blood, though from the crimson sheets she sprawled upon, you’d almost believe she lay in a pool of it.  There was no sign of a struggle, but something was missing and it would match her veil nicely.  No bra, no girdle, no panties, no garter, no stockings, no shoes.  No ring either.  I had to wonder if she was playing dress up for me instead of lying there dead, simmering in someone else’s juices.

I never like touching them.  Yes, they’re victims but the brutal act taints their flesh forever.  Immortality resulting from being pickled in your murderer’s semen doesn’t seem like a pleasant way to spend eternity.   I’m always relieved to learn of their cremation.  But until the body is out of my sight, I must restrain my gag reflex and deal with their cold, briney, stickyiness.  Shiver.

Three steps take me from the doorway of the bedroom to within an arms length of her body.

Reaching into my pocket, I snap a pair of latex gloves over both hands.  Body fluids are usually hard to spot and though I’m required to wear gloves when coming into contact with biological materials, I actually wear them because I’m fluid phobic.  Saliva and semen are just two of the liquid nasties I’d rather not have seeping through my pores.  It’s not so much the fluid itself, but because it’s a conduit.  I liken them to a hypodermic needle.  The sole reason they exist are to transport pathogens from point A to me.  Everyone has something, everyone but me that is, and I want to keep it that way.  So, even though we’ve become intimate quite quickly, bride, let’s not mingle our flora, okay?

He was a specialist with a fetish, but no necrophiliac; making the scene anything but a classic rape-murder.  She had been alive while he violated her honey succulent cunt.  His oral fixation evident in the many bite marks decorating her body like tattoos; tiny puncture wounds indicated where he’d satisfied his psycho-carnal desires by licking and chewing her, drilling holes in her bare flesh with his canines.

With my gloved finger, I flip back the veil, exposing her face.  Dried spittle shimmered in the dim light.  She had a row of stitches on the outside of her eye he had opened up.  The ends were ragged, soaked with his saliva.  No blood escaped the wound as though he’d lapped it clean after she’d expired.  He must like his bride tenderized, I thought.  Rigor mortis hadn’t set in yet and giving her a quick poke I confirmed this suspicion, watching her limbs slide freely over her joints, flexible to the extreme.

Bending forward, my face mere inches from her body, I close my eyes and inhale.  I discern a variety of scents; his acrid fluids, and her musky decay.  They open to a single, inch-long strand of black hair. His hair.  The follicle wanted to be found.  Not that he seemed worried about leaving traces of himself all over her.  He might as well have written his name across her in seminal fluids.  At least the hair was one more item to compare.  DNA would pin him, but that wouldn’t give me anything visual to go on.

Before I had a chance to pull myself back from her corpse, I heard a noise from the other side of the room.  I leaned slightly in that direction, holding my breath and trying to be as silent as possible.  Just below the lip of the mattress, tucked into a dark corner, a black head bobbed in and out of the shadows.  I heard the wet smacking sound of lips and tongue.  He was completely oblivious to my perusal, engrossed instead in the act of fondling his detumescent weapon.

A rush of blood flooded the veins in my neck and the sensation of fear pressed outward against my skull.  All my muscles tensed and the adrenaline being injected into my blood stream made them feel swift and reactive.

I lunged forward, hoping to catch him still unawares.  A split second before reaching his side of the bed, he looked up at me, eyes wide with shock and possibly even a hint of guilt.  I grabbed at air as he slipped around my legs and ran out of the room.  He was traveling so fast by the time he reached the bedroom door that he lost traction and skidded, slamming into the hollow wood panel with a sharp thud.  The door slowed him down enough for me to catch up and, colliding, then ricocheting apart, he scampered up the hall and I sprinted after.  Though his pace was quicker, my legs were longer and I was able to close the distance inside the twenty foot stretch leading to the living room.  On the threshold I flung myself, superman style and when I landed, was able to grab the bastard by his legs.  Caught.

He was behind bars before bed time and I hoped he got used to being there.  Nothing says ‘You’re screwed’ better than a cell you can barely do a 360 in.  I only wish he hadn’t made catching him so easy for me.  Sad thing is, he is sure to be out by morning.  It’s just the way it always happens.  They never seem to do enough time for their crimes.

The night had been long and I was tired.  There doesn’t seem to be as many hours in the night preceding a work day as there are on a day off and I could hear the clock ticking down like it was on crack.  Stripping, I change into the least sexy attire I can find; red, plaid flannel that covers me from neck to wrist to toe.  The holy trinity of, “I have a headache.”

All of the excitement from earlier plays itself back in fast forward while I stand paused at the end of my bed.  I see the bride, one last time, sprawled out on sullied crimson sheets and shake my head, sighing.

“Dan, can you bring me a Shop’n Save bag from the kitchen please?” I hollered up the hall.

A few seconds later he arrives, throwing a crumpled plastic bag at me.  I catch it mid-air and hastily open it up.

Using my index finger and thumb like a pair of tweezers, I grasp the amber furred Teddy Bear by the corner of her ivory, lace veil and drop her into the bag, careful not to let any of her sticky fur touch my skin.

“Why’d you do that?” Dan asked.

“Because Duke violated her earlier tonight,” I replied and tossed the bag into the small trash can beside my bed.

“Rotten dog.”

The End

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Butterscotch Tales Part 1 of 2

***Warning… though animals were hurt during the events described in this blog post, any death or dismemberment was purely accidental.***

My father is a grand story-teller and growing up with him instilled in me the desire to take seemingly innocuous events and turn them into something fabulous.  So, following in his footsteps, I will tell you the sad tale of Butterscotch the dog as it’s the one true story that kids are always asking me to repeat.

Butterscotch was a blonde lab and she was purchased for my perfect little brother Justin when he was just a wee thing.  I wasn’t allowed to have a ‘real’ pet because I wasn’t loved or special enough; instead having to be satisfied with mangy barn cats, tadpoles and skunks.

Several years after Butterscotch became part of the family, I happened to be old enough to watch my brother while our parents took trips up North to remote locations like Shirley Mills, and Mattagammon.  The first weekend they planned to go away they decided that my boyfriend, Mike, should stay over just in case anything happened.  Mike was about seven years older than me; a responsible adult.

Justin was in our parents room on the bed horsing around with the dog and she was getting pretty wound up.  I walked in to watch all the commotion when Justin sort of fell off the bed, dragging the dog – attached to his ear – with him.  They both fell into a heap, him screaming, her play fighting, blood spurting from his wounded lobe.

I don’t like injuries, or blood for that matter.  It freaks me out and I turn into a spaz.  I thought that Justin’s ear had been torn in half and I began to scream bloody murder until Mike came in and put a towel on it.  My biggest fear was having to explain to my parents how just a few hours after they leave, that their prodigal son was mamed by his best friend.

Around the next summer, Justin, Butterscotch and I were out on the front lawn playing.  The game objective was to toss a stick from one person to the other and have Butterscoth chase it or get it before us.  She was pretty fast and during a particularly powerful toss of the smooth pine branch, she beat feet to its landing spot, arriving just before it hit the ground.  The problem was that her mouth and head were directly over the stick and though it hit the soft grass of the lawn, the soil was packed hard enough to induce a good bounce.  So, with mouth wide open the stick rebounded into Butterscotch’s mouth.  Her head came down and the stick lodged deep into her throat.  We stared at her for a few seconds trying to decide if she was hurt or not.  She coughed and slatted her head to and fro.  Lowered her head, extending her neck, she coughed again more violently.  No stick came out.  But blood did.

“Moooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooommmmmmmmm!”

And that’s the story of how Butterscotch had her tonsilectomy.  As it turns out, the stick had ruptured her tonsil as well as lodged side-to-side in her throat.  Minor surgery and a few stitches got her back on her feet quickly.

——————————————————————————

Next summer, Butterscotch went into heat just before the parent’s planned trip.  My mother’s last words were, “Whatever you do, DON”T let this goddamned dog out of this house!”

don’t let the dog out

don’t let the dog out

don’t let the dog out

“Oh, hey Mike! Sure, I’d love to watch a movie tonight!”  I said as I leaned up against the doorframe.   The sensation of fur rubbing across my lower legs didn’t even register as Butterscotch stealthily slipped outside.

About an hour later I thought about my mother.  It might have been guilt or something, who knows – afterall I was on the couch watching a movie making out with my much older boyfriend.  Mike left and the though of Mom lingered.  Oh fuck! Butterscotch!

Grabbing my car keys I dashed out the back door hoping that it wasn’t too late when I found her.  I knew where she’d gone – earlier in the week she’d been determined to get out on the pit road and that’s where I began my search.  The Cross Road, as it’s formally named, is a dirt road that leads to our family gravel pit as well as the back 400 ( I would say forty but I think this figure is more accurate).  The road entrance isn’t even 200 feet from my parent’s driveway so I was able to get on the scent trail fast.  No sooner did I crest the first small knoll did I see her.

Butterscotch was lying flat on the ground.  That part didn’t bother me so much, if it weren’t for the fact that the dirty little whore was in that position because she had chosen to get it on with a dog 1/4 of her size.  Saddled up on her ass end was this grizzly-gray, unkempt Schnauzer type dog, struggling to stand on his hind legs and still keep his dick up high enough to gain entry.  He was hopping and humping and pumping and…

“What the fuck you nasty fucking…God DAMN it!” I exclaimed as I scooped up the still humping male dog, throwing  him into my back seat.  Butterscotch cowered down as I grabbed her by the scruff and tossed her in the front of my car.

My first destination was the Colgan’s house where I deposited their horny, mangy canine as I shouted expletives towards their house.   Luckily they lived just down the road so it wasn’t long before I got Butterscotch back to the house.

“What am I going to do?” I kept asking myself.  Her hind end was slimy with evidence of her whoremongering.  Because I felt like puking every time I looked at her twat, I dragged her out front and started hozing her down.  As I was scrubbing the scum off her I wondered if a good douching would prevent any unwanted pregnancy.  Without hesitation I turned the hose on her cooch. Doggy douching, hahahaha!

Butterscotch never left the house again that weekend, nor did she end up with any little mutts for me to exlain away! Thank god!

Typos Give Me Hives

I wrote this poem in response to a particularly annoying semester where I was forced to take upper level English classes with the illiterate masses.  Yes, I recognize the fact that not everyone excels at English – but let me repeat these words – Upper Level.

Typos Give Me Hives

I know my words seem quite harsh

But reading these forums is a farce

Misspelled words litter the pages

And I think it might be contagious

Do your classmates a great big favor

Use your spell-check, it’s a savior

If you didn’t know, it’s on every page

Click the ABC icon, for heaven’s sake!

When choosing words above your IQ

Look them up first, I beg of you

Don’t try to be something that you’re not

These BB forums have gone to pot

Big words, little words

Spell them Correct!

And use them in the proper context!