bloggity blog, Mother Fucking Rant

Witch-hunt … Really?

Here are my two cents. I was holding off giving them but here they fucking are.

Get your delicate eyeballs ready for some foul language, cause I am fucking pissed the fuck off.

Two reasons why it piss me the fuck off when these men call the “outing” of sexual fucking predators a witch-hunt.

Number Fucking One)

It is not a witch-hunt when you are tracking down FUCKING CRIMINALS!

These douchey, entitled, smug men who thought they were so un-fucking-touchable cause of their fame or money or power or whatever, broke the law. You cannot touch someone who doesn’t want your filthy fucking hands on them. You cannot be suggestive towards someone unless they actually have specifically fucking told you that they want you to say dirty shit to them.

I once read something by someone (sorry I cannot give you credit) that was perfect. If you wouldn’t say it or do it to Dwayne “the Rock” Johnson, then don’t fucking do it to a woman. Still don’t get it? Go read this.

So, next time you go to send a dick pic to the chick in the apartment across from you or slap an intern’s arse or grab a woman by the (insert any body part here, not just her pussy) imagine the Rock’s face and don’t fucking do it unless she has begged to see your cock.

If she (or he) hasn’t specifically backed up into your personal space and begged you to slap her firm, round buttocks, don’t touch the hiney.  But if someone does back their arse into your personal space, butt-first, and you don’t want their shit-plopper in your face, that ain’t cool either.

If she (or he) hasn’t said something along the lines of “please! For the love of all that is under Odin’s rule, send me a photo of your hard, throbbing cock” don’t send the dick pic.

Number Fucking Two)

Witch-hunt … Really?

You bunch of over-privileged, penis mushrooms. You sack of rich, pig-headed, taint moles.

Are you seriously choosing “Witch-hunt” to describe these law-breakers being outed for sexual harassment against women.

Let’s fucking think about this for a few fucking moments, shall we???

Let us go and check our fucking history books. Go on. I’ll fucking wait.

Are we all back? Fucking brilliant.

Now, before all you blokes get your balls in a twist. Yes, they did burn men in the witch-trials too. I’m not saying they didn’t. They burned fucking children too (the foreskin nuggets) But it is like the whole domestic violence thing. Yes, there are men that are in terrible domestic violence situations out there and they need the same sort of care as the women.

But the numbers are a tad fucking skewed in the “humans with vaginas” direction.

I don’t feel like getting into the horrifying details of the torture and systematic femicide that occurred during the witch trials. If you wish to read about it, I’ll link some sites that go into it a little more.

Don’t compare your fucking hungry cock that you can’t control to the murder and torture and rape of hundreds of thousands of women. Just don’t. Fucking stop it.

If you don’t want a “witch-hunt,” stop fucking diddling women who don’t want your filthy fucking hands on them. End of fucking story.

No more silence!

Light the fucking torches, girls! Grab your bras and pitch forks and tampons and matches. They want a fucking witch-hunt? Give them one!

Time’s up, mother fuckers.

 

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bloggity blog, writing

The danger of undeserved power

Prologue

The books I’ve read have always explained blood as smelling “coppery” or “metallic.” They’re not wrong, but they’re not right either.

Yes. I could detect that old-penny tang in the air, but there were other things too.

They never mention the rot of it. The butcher shop meatiness. The piss and shit part that will undoubtedly be there. Because if there is so much blood you can smell it, then someone is either dead or about to be. A band aid would no longer help them.

Blood doesn’t just smell like loose change. I should know. I was covered in it.

The final chapter

Pain was what I felt.

There was no shock. His behaviour no longer shocked me.

It was bad, what he did, don’t get me wrong. But it wasn’t the worst. This was a Tuesday morning type of hit. Not, say, a Friday night when he knew I’d have, at least, the weekend to recover so no one could see.

Some of you may ask, what did I do to deserve it? Cause I’ve heard that one before. I must’ve started it. Asked for it in some way.

And you’d be fucking right. I did something that pissed him off. I don’t regret it neither.

I bought the wrong ice cream.

I had stood in the super market, staring into the ice cream freezer at the ice cream I knew he liked. Trying to make a decision, I fiddled with the six dollars in very small change that sat fat in my pocket and jingled loudly, sounding out the joyous accompaniment to my poverty.

I could afford to get one tub of what he wanted but we’d have not much else to eat. And he’d never share the ice cream with me. I was fat enough, he’d say.

Or I could buy milk, bread and the cheap plain stuff. I knew I could make it nice for him. I thought we’d have some Oreos in the back of the cupboard, maybe some chocolate sauce. I could turn it nice like the expensive stuff. And that way, we could at least eat toast until his pay day.

I thought it was a good idea.

While I lay on the floor, feeling my lip swell and pulse, watching my blood puddle on the linoleum, I realised I was wrong.

He said nothing as he stormed away from me, fists clenched as if he were ready to take another swing.

I stayed on the floor. Unmoving. Trying not to cry. Crying only made it worse. Playing dead. If I don’t move he can’t see me.

I sneaked a peek as he sauntered around the kitchen, his boxing ring. He slammed open the freezer door so hard that it made me flinch and I doubted it would ever close properly again. Taking out the white and black tub, he threw it at the kitchen window with a thunderous, wet crash which made me flinch again.

The ice cream, half liquefied because our freezer was on the fritz, sprayed across the kitchen bench, vanilla white tears streaked down the cob-webbed window.

I still cowered as he stalked around the kitchen, breath like fire burning, he couldn’t get it out of his lungs quick enough.

I, a mouse, a small creature, heart murmuring be still, be still, be still. But, for the first time, I do not see a cat in front of me. I do not see a tiger, a lion, a wolf.

I see just a man.

And even if he were an animal, he would be a Chihuahua. All bark and some bite, enough to draw blood. But no longer enough to eat me alive.

If my heart pounds be still then it is the heart of a bear and he heard my roar. And I will not be still any longer.

He had power over me for a lifetime and I will give him no more.

It may not have been the worst time, just a Tuesday morning, but it was the last time.

I waited till the blood stopped pumping to call an ambulance. I had to dirty a tea towel to use my phone. I won’t lie. I enjoyed watching him die.

The cleaver in my clenched fist, slick with his blood, no longer shakes.

Power is not something that can be taken, it must be given, even if it seems stolen at times. But there is a secret they – the fake wolves, fake lions, fake predators – don’t want us to know.

We can take our power back.

Short story for Chuck Wendig’s Fiction Challenge

If you or someone you know is experiencing domestic violence, please seek help. Go to the police. Do not pass go. No two hundred dollars for you. Go now. Today. Because this bullshit has to stop.

To put it into perspective for you, here is a quote from Huffington Post.

The number of American troops killed in Afghanistan and Iraq between 2001 and 2012 was 6,488. The number of American women who were murdered by current or ex male partners during that time was 11,766. That’s nearly double the amount of casualties lost during war.

And this just for America. And this number has not improved. It is only getting worse.

Silence about domestic violence can be deadly. So please, please, please speak out. #notviolentnotsilent

And don’t resort to the lengths that my character went to. This is a work of fiction and by no means an instruction to murder a spouse. Abusive or not. No stabby stabby.

If you are unsure if your partner is abusive, I will attach something below that shows the typical behaviour of DV and DA situations. If any of the items on that list are checked please call the police, ask for help, stay safe.

You don’t have to walk on eggshells forever. You don’t have to be another statistic. You can have a life again. You have the power. You are stronger than you think.

Love

Amberley

Soulmates - not exactly a love story

Soulmates – not exactly a love story

The murder of crows littered the corpse, a coffin of feathers and beaks and blackness. A fresh kill, the kangaroo’s fur still wafted in the breeze. Its face mangled by the car that had skittled him.

The setting sun lit the glimmering bitumen on fire. Stopping her walk to enjoy the last bit of warmth before night fell, Jill watched as the crows squabbled over the kangaroo’s eyes.

Night fell quickly out there in the country, making way for the dusty swell of milky stars.

It was her favourite time of day, the coming of darkness, like the earth’s final symphony.

Looking up and down the empty road, Jill crossed to the opposite side. She’d hate to disturb the crows from their feast. Hunger was her oldest friend and she understood him well.

Sweat itched under the straps of her backpack, tools of her trade a heavy but necessary burden. She considered calling it a day. The summer heat had gone to her head but the hunger was still there.

If she waited the hunger would only grow, but at the same time, feeding it would make the beast grow, its belly swell. Every time the beast raised its hungry maw it would be more ravenous, more insistent than the last.

Jill rubbed her flat, growling belly, trying to decide whether to just walk home or wait for a car that might take her there.

The night birds were starting their choir, just warming up. Jill stood still, listening to their song, facing the setting sun. If it was meant to happen today, it would. And just as she began to think of her calling, Jill heard the distant hush of car tyres.

Sticking put her thumb, she waited till the car came over the crest, illuminating her with the pale white of new LED headlamps.

Not a local. A tourist. Hopefully alone.

The beast inside her groaned and she rubbed her belly again.

The approaching car slowed but Jill knew this didn’t mean anything. Humans generally tended to be sticky beaks.

Holding her breath, she waited.
The beast inside her sharpened its fangs.

The car pulled up. It took a few moments for her eyes to adjust but she had already turned on her most brilliant human smile.

A man sat inside the car, alone. Shaggy hair as dark as a new moon sky. Beard edging his sharp features. Inky eyes, deep as pools. Jill found herself lost in them for a small eternity, drowning.

Her belly rumbled, the beast’s mouth watered.

“Hasn’t anyone ever told you it’s dangerous to hitchhike?” said the man with the inky eyes.

Jill laid her smile on a little thicker.

“Where you headed?”

“Out Toongi way,” Jill said. “You think you could give us a ride?”

“No problems, I’m heading straight through there, darlin. Hop in.”

She jumped into the passenger seat, never looking away from his dark eyes.

She might have to keep them. She had a jar that would suit them perfectly.

***

He watched her get in.

She wasn’t your typical sort of beautiful, but she was breathtaking, nonetheless.

Full-figured and firm, thighs you could sink your teeth into.

He tried to control his breathing.

She was better than he’d expected. She was perfect.

Once she was in the car, he could smell her. And it wasn’t like he had expected. Not that stale-sweat, old-food, stench which most humans wreaked of.

She smelled of spice and dandelions and … he took another long inhale … rain.

She satin the seat smiling that smile, the one he had seen in his mind. The one he had dreamed of. The one that had forced him to search for her for so long.

He was sure this one, she, was the one.

“So, where you comin from,” she said in an accent that wasn’t quite right. Her voice had a melody, an inflection he couldn’t place.

The question threw him.

“Umm…”

He didn’t know the answer. He had simply woke up one day with clothes on his back and a hunger he could never satisfy. Of course, she didn’t mean it the way he took it. She meant “from where had he driven?”

“Long way from here,” he said. The same answer he gave to anyone who asked.

“You visiting family?” she asked, the sort of question he would normally ask.

He looked at her as the car started. He’d had to get a new one after the last failed find. She definitely hadn’t been the one. And the new car was one of those “turn off at every stop” ones.

The feeding crows scattered as the engine came to life. He felt bad for disturbing their meal.

Her moss green eyes smiled at him. They were beautiful. He longed to taste one. To pop one in his mouth and roll it around in there, like a gumball. (Not that he’d ever been one for human sweets.)

He shook his head. “Nope, no family.”

The girl’s smile grew. “Naawww, a loner like me,” she said.

And he smiled, pushinghis foot on the accelerator.

Milk

Milk – chapter 2

Chapter 2 – Don’t

*if you haven’t read chapter 1, you can do so here. Don’t worry… it’s short.

Two paracetamol. One glass of Gatorade. Followed by coffee. All of the coffee.
I lean against the kitchen counter and stare out over the dust-laden house. That’s how small this place is. I can actually see all of it from in the kitchen.
It looks less like a house and more like an old photograph of a house. There is so much dust on everything, it’s like I am looking through a filter. If it were a filter on Instagram it would be called “dusty hangover.”
On the kitchen floor is a patch of red wine, sticky-fresh from the night previous.
I hadn’t exactly woken up in a puddle of vomit on the floor but I hadn’t not either.
I nudge my booted toe at the mess, trying to work out if it is mostly spilled wine or regorged wine. And does it matter? Not really. It is not the first time I would have to clean up my own puke. Not the last neither.
Thinking of Instagram, I take out my phone. There is a new crack on the screen. I must’ve fallen on my arse at some point last night. I run my thumb over the screen. It still responds. I will go online later and buy a new one.
I open Instagram and scroll through the notifications.
“Missin u”
“When you comin back???”
“Yo! Where are you at, Ms. C!”
The comments go on and on.
I smile at how much they all miss me.
Then.
It all comes back to me.
My brother. The accident.
I couldn’t have given him and open casket if I’d wanted to. Not that there would have been anyone else there, besides me, to see his mangled, unrecognisable corpse. And I sure as hell didn’t want to see it again.
I walk to the sink to refill the kettle and kick something along the floor. It skittles toward the kickboard and I hear the crack of breakage. Bending down to pick up the two pieces of the wine-stained mug I kicked, I realise I had used my brother’s favourite.
“Don’t do that,” says the memory of my brother. “You can be so careless, Conny.” I would purposefully use his mug and then place it on the edges of tables, teetering on the brink of destruction, just to get something out of my ultra-calm brother.
I place the broken mug on the counter and step back from it.
I feel like the king who would turn everything to gold with his touch. Except, I turn everything to broken.
I run out the front. I want to just sit and stare at the garden for a while. Even though I never understood why he lived the way he did, I always loved to look at that garden.
“Because I like living this way, Conny.” My memory of my brother said.
“But why? You should move to the city with me. Get out a little more. All you do is sit here with your garden.”
“I like my garden, Conny.”
“Why do you have to be such a fucking hippie! Did we even come out of the same vagina.”
I turn the old door knob and go out onto the porch, anticipating the green, the new growth, the scents of herbs and earth and flowers.
My stomach turns cold. Suddenly last night’s wine wants to regorge again.
Brown.
That is all there is. Brown. Ochre. Umber. Tawny leaves, crumpled, crumbling.
I don’t feel my legs as I walk down the steps toward the devistated garden.
As far as I can see. The rows and rows of once flourishing broccoli, twisted pumpkin zines, spinach, tomato, tall rosemary, basil, plum trees, peach trees, apricots. All of them.
Dry stalks. Brittle leaves.
What the actual fuck has happened here.
I feel my chest clenching. Bile at the back of my throat.
I turn and run back inside. I will deal with this situation. But not sober. I just … can’t.
My fingers shaking, I tip the coffee out of my mug and look around for the wine bag.
“Don’t drink so early,” says my memory-brother.
I look around the floor. I cannot remember where I put down the bag.
“Don’t be such a fucking hippie,” I said to him in retaliation.
Always in retaliation.
I see the bag by the door and I can barely wait to pour it into a mug.
I drink. Long. Deep. Sweet. Hot.
I see my memory-brother rolling his eyes, sipping camomile tea he has grown himself.
Pulling the empty mug away from trembling lips, I look out the back window. There is a post-it note on the glass, written in my brother’s hand.
“Don’t follow the lightning bugs.”