Rating NC 17

All character, settings and names are figments of my imagination. Please don't steal, if you do, I'll claim your jugular for a prize.



CARMITA
A prologue of sorts

Perhaps it was the cold stench of sweat that gave nothing compared to the heat of his body when he loved her, once. Perhaps it was the ladder in her pantyhose, so ominous to the plight, so cliché for an unfortunate. Perhaps it was nothing but the smeared crimson lipstick across her jaw. The mirror echoed her with bias, reflecting a girl with raven black hair, bright green eyes and honeyed skin, the prize of youth and eternity transfixed.

Her lips stood poised in her usual pout as she leaned over the dirtied sink. She used to cut herself once upon a time, the crimson regret pouring down the drain, meeting the engagement ring that belonged to her sister, stuck in the throat of the copper piping.

She slipped out of her favourite pair of stilettos. Not disillusioned by the drop in height her mirror still reflected the goddess. Her lips snarled back at her. This woman was fierce and strong, she had nothing to stand in her way. She had grown, she'd filled out. They were one but not the same. A porcelain doll once said it wanted to be broken. She wanted to eat her sins, but there were too many.

This city of sin she had once loved, craved for the corruption the death men entailed downtown. Now she had turned away from them.

Perhaps it was the cold stench of sweat that gave nothing compared to the heat of his body when he loved her, once. Perhaps it was the ladder in her pantyhose, so ominous to the plight, so cliché for an unfortunate. Perhaps it was nothing but the smeared crimson lipstick across her jaw.

Perhaps it was that she had grown to hate. Clayton didn't have whores, just unfortunates. No one missed those that had disappeared. She was Jane Doe. She had disappeared. She had died to those who knew her, yet now she was back. Back from the dead, resurrected. She was back for a reason. Carmita wanted revenge.

The glass shattered, blood trickled over her knuckles. She was strong, invincible.

"Bite your tongue, bitch,"

*****************

:heartbeat: Pat

Wow! That was incredible, everything. The description were so captivating that it was like watching a movie and yet not. I kept seeing your banner for this and was like, 'that sounds great' and so when i saw it was up i was pratically jumping out of my chair. I'm curious to see what happens, i'm having difficulty wrapping my mind around it because it was so beautifully written. I don't know what i'm talking about. It makes sense in my head, I have to run to my other class, ciao

~Claire

Thanks honey, I'm glad somebody is reading it :) *hugs*

New chapter up soon.

:heartbeat: Pat

WOW....how is it that every time you start a new story your writing just gets better and better??
That was amazing! The atmosphere you created was so real.
Sorry I didn't read this sooner bella, I've been busy with school and work and have been to lazy to make time for anything else. But now that I have read it, I LOVE IT!!!

Chloe xxx

I am... thrilled. This is so sexily written, so gritty and yet lyrical. **goes and steals your tallent while you sleep but get driven away with cattle prod by naked Gerry**

Brilliant. Absolutely brilliant.

Its so intriguing... why'd you stop!? Come ooonnn.... post more soon, hun. Lets see this develop more and more and more!!!

*plops on couch and pulls out popcorn*

Popcorn, anyone?

*plops down beside Samma* Ooh I'll have some...we need some drinks too *goes over to the fridge which just hapens to have appeared* What would you like??

Ahaha! Well, probably because I've matured alot as a writer over the past year. :) and Extension English helps a lot too. I can't really thank it enough. It's alright bella, but I'm SO glad someone likes it because I know it's not your main stream thing. It's not your fluffy fan fiction if that makes sense. Shit, if someone didn't know me and read some of the stuff I wrote they'd think I was so fucked up in my head ahaha.

I'm glad you like it, hopefully I won't be damned to hell for the next chapter.

I stopped due to a little and very annoying thing called holiday homework. and thankyou :)

:heartbeat: Pat

NC 17. Enjoy, is all I ask of you.


*************

It was pouring outside, skin prickling rain drowning her clothes. The crass lace moist against her honey skin. Her hair fell in torrents about her shoulders, the scent of jasmine evident from her shampoo. She may have been an unfortunate, but she could afford tempting fragrances.

Her fingers clenched over the cold metal, fumbling over the trigger. Her hand shaking as she stared up at the chapel. A light burned inside, welcoming those who were lost, like a lighthouse for the ghost ships. The last holy place in this town, though it wasn't fully untainted by sin.

Father Patrick saw the stranger enter through the mahogany doors, though he recognised her form. The pistol found her pocket and she continued for the confession booth, head hung low. He followed, entering the booth. He knew her and her practices, but he couldn't deny her coming here. She needed sanctuary and he could only provide her with God's will.

She was silent, and he knew he had to initiate, it was like coaxing a lion out of it's den, you always regretted the decision to do so.

"Speak with me and you speak with God, child," Restrictive response, but what was she expecting? A hot line to God?

"I can't talk to you," she frowned, pulling her jacket tighter about her body. She pressed her knees together, as if hoping that would erase the evils that had been done when they were apart. The fishnet stockings clung to her supple thighs, those that had enchanted many a conquest, the beloved tax payer.

"Of course you can, child," his voice was soothing, the bead of anxious sweat trickled down his forehead. He had been a fool to enter the life of chastity at the age of twenty, when he was still suseptable to temptation of her kind, denying himself worldly pleasures. His voice remained steady but he wondered for how long it would continue. His eyes fixed on the large crucifix that rested between the flesh of her breasts. He looked away, at the heavily accentuated rose tinted lips, the kohl ripped eyes ashamed and penitant. Why he insisted on calling her child eluded her, for he had only been born three years before her.

She was so young to be damned.

"I can't because..." he voice stopped for a moment before she clicked her tongue, the cocked pistol ready to do its damage. "Tonight I killed a man, and i fear eternal damnation since I am soon to join him,"

The mouth of the gun scaled Father Patrick's handsome brow. He should have protected her, kept her from harm. Now he would pay. Pay for his sins, those he had committed because of neglegence. Neglegence as a husband.

His breath chilled like the rain within him as his heart stood still, his palms sweating as they clutched the holy book next to his heart.

"Is this man already dead?" he asked, his emerald eyes pleading.

"Yes, he's been dead for quite a bit," he licked his lips because they were parched and shut his eyes, fearing his untimely end, praying for the lord to deliver him.

"Forgive me lord for I have sinned," he murmured under his breath, too transfixed by a sudden stupor to leave the booth and the girl behind.

"No," Carmita interjected. "Firgive me father, for I have sinned,"

He heard the bullet fire and leave the gun, felt his soul leave his body for an instant.

"No..." his eyes opened. "NO!"

The splash of red, her hand covered in blood, shaking a little from a nervous reflex. The pistol covered in red. Her blood splattered on the wall behind her, across his face. Tears escaped his eyes, his body still transfixed.

Sleep easy child, let the angels fly thee home.

He saw her bloodied form, in all its splendour when she still had life in her. Seconds ago. Seconds that would turn into minutes, which would then pass into hours, days, weeks and finally years.

The knees apart, hem ripped, crucifix bathed in blood. The harlot defeated by her own pistol. Her own hand.

The end of Carmita Blake, an apocalypse, and thus, the beginning of this trilogy.



:heartbeat: Pat

NOOO!!! That was so tragic. Absouletly beautiful and oh so sad. It was so heart wrenching!!!

lmao I wasn't expecting such a logical reply. Of course I like it, and you should know I love things that aren't mainstream! I mean look at my writing. As for those who don't know you thinking your fucked in the head if they were to read it...well again look at mine lol.
Still adoring this every step of the way!

Chloe xxx

That was utterly beautiful. I can hardly think of anything other than that to say. The descriptions were so stripping, so moving, so disturbing, and yet they draw you in. You're seducing us with your words, Pat. And I hate to say it, but its working. ^_^

Patty, you always amaze me with your brilliant writings. I think it's amazing how much you've improved even though you were brilliant to begin with.
This beginning is one of the most captivating I've ever read! You've just completely sucked me into the story and I can't wait for more!!

Love you much!! :hug:

You girls are too good to me! Giving me a fat head! hehe! There shall be more VERY soon about Carmita and her posse of unfortunates...(oooh...did i just give something away? *snickers*)

:heartbeat: Pat

Ooooh I can't wait!!

Evocative. Poetic. Very strong. Very vivid. Utterly exquisite.

Um...I'm having some family problems, and problems with my own health, so I don't know when I'll be updating. I'm sorry.

:heartbeat: Pat

I hope everything is okay bella, know that I love you and that if you ever want someone to vent to you've got my number so feel free to call anytime!

Chloe xxx

Oh sweety, that's no good. Call me if you need to talk, seriously, any time night or day. But I'll be at Chloe's sister's wedding on saturday, so not then.

Guess who's back, back again. Patsy's back, lock up your friends. Hello my sweeties, I realise I've been east of dead lately, especially with replying to your own fantastic stories, of which I am very sorry because I love reading them so so much. I do read them in secret, but I haven't the time to reply to them. On a good note! This will all change in the coming weeks as school draws to a close and I'll have loads of time to update myself on your fics, and update my own. A few of mine I've had to disown because my muse has died, but hopefully this one, and my absolute favourite, which you all know and (hopefully love!) As said Apollo, shall live. without further ado I give you the next chapter in this, and in any case my aim screen name ode to godiva just in case you feel like hitting me up, in the non sexual way of course.

*******

His shaking hands tore out a piece of parchment, dipping a sharpened point into a bottle of ink, cumbersome and old fashioned, forcing him to grip hard, for fear that he might spill the entire contents from the utter shock, a dread pulsating through his entire being, right to his heart.

And so, he began to write, slow at first as he stopped on certain words, letting the ink dry, and the emotion overcome him.

A paper eclipse darkens everything constructed by hands, in folds and lines where the symmetry meets, binds and trickles into crisp reflections of self. Vanity forms and fits together like tetris pieces after moments of procrastination and modification, hundreds of hours spent on useless pampering, smoke and mirrors in a kaleidoscopic world of carnivals hide a blackened soul. Blackened by night, by fright and all the terrors of the darkness, when flinged against the light, only feels shame and realises how dirty it really is, finds the flaws in the constant pounding of heart and scarlet lipstick on the bathroom mirror. Illegible writing translated as naivety, stubbornness and brashness. A silent plea amongst starved wolves to be famished elsewhere, but a blood moon speaks betrayal and shreds of an old world are torn from fingertips, as brightly polished nails scramble to continue fighting. Inner savagery released from the presumed innocent; found wanting.


"...Sir, folow ye evyn this hygheway, and hit woll brynge you to the Chapel Perelus, and here shall abyde till God sende you agayne. And yf you spede nat I know no knyght lyvynge that may encheve that adventure...,"


How do you piece back the puzzle of an old life when the glue sticks your tongue to the roof of your mouth, the stapler waits in the slips for it's turn, as tape and thread intertwine together to create organised chaos? A single needle in a bed of hay, launched into emptiness. Ma'at. Without organised chaos, there can be no reality. Black and White, Men and Women, Yin and Yang, polar opposites, keeping nature in balance, and humanity in check. When grappling for a sense of reality in a vortex of oblivion, with clenched fists, and a strained jaw that makes foreheads crease, spinning like a potter's wheel without time and space, a wonderland of unnatural and fantastic images and memories are close enough to touch, but remain figments of an oxygen deprived brain, slipping through the portholes of rational thoughts, subsiding into subconscious tales recollected in daytime but never clearly understood. Seven fat cows eaten by seven thin cows. A warning, the bubbling caldera. A valediction until labours are completed in a fury of muscle and wit, to retrieve stolen artifacts of a past life, dead and buried, for fame and recognition.

Love, what of love. A duel of fates. A weight that beats behind protruding ribs, amid morbid imagery of malnourished emotion, sickly sweet notions of escape flaunting an unreachable status. An atrocious bedside manner, beating around the bush for perilous answers, a joust for sugar coated facts because of sympathy. No, do not give sympathy, it is not wanted. There is nothing to ask for, only truth, truth that shatters glass and pierces flesh and marrow. Even if it razes accomplishments to the ground, somebody will be ready with a mighty sword, ready to suffer the blow themselves with dignity, watching painstakingly as an entire wall built over years is breached and that within is stolen for antiquity. A collector's prize, a tool for everlasting life overriding any guilt. A soldier waiting for the furious onslaught, damning hell for having to witness such arrogance and pride through the remnants of innocents. Doubtful of any success, yet vengeful, wanting purpose and fulfillment, letting no other win the glory, even if the fight is lost.


"...Knyght, sir Launcelot, lay that swerde frome the or thou shalt dye!...,"


There are no more words, not now, not for a while. Simple nods coinciding with yes and no, failing to answer rhetorical questions with sarcasm because there is nothing left. A meltdown of thought and common sense when intoxicated by the scent of passion that faded so long ago, but returned, new again. A breath of fresh air amongst the stench of loneliness. There isn't much to cling to now, with nails chipped from wear, coated in cheap gloss, raised with shaking hands connected to a pounding heart to pray a sinner's prayer, wanting forgiveness for a devil may care attitude that got stubbornness into strife, coupled with naivety. But, there cannot be sympathy, I asked to be the soldier, the knight living in the whirl of failure.


"...Whether that I lyve other dye, with no wordys grete gete ye hit agayne. Therefore fyght for hit and ye lyst...," - sir thomas malory - the tale of king arthur

As the last word scratched the paper, and the ink glistened, reflected in his feverish eyes, the tears came, a facade trickling away, as prayers of pity left his lips, to save her poor soul. Perhaps, perhaps, writing about her might keep her alive. He had no other choice. He would have to. He would write, and he would remember.

Carmita... it began, and so it would end, but how to string one coherent thought together with another, and not realise they're wishful thinking? That she might come back. Who would be his muse, persuading him to write days on end, a lost soul himself? Memories of hot lips on his own, farse, and childish he had thought back then, and now look what he'd gone and done.

Sss, ohh, my GOD so gritty, so intense. So lyrical. You have this reality you can taste, with these higher, beautiful ideas. I shall attempt to do a minor dissection on all so far....

WARNING: I am not going to hold back, because you are a better writer than me, you're more intense and far better at everything writerlike. You're a sublime writer and therefore, because I know you can write as well as any professional writer, I'm not going to hold back on criticisms. However, I am no expert, I merely suggest things, and everyone has completely contradicting opinions on stories, so ignore what you don't like.

Sss, I am burnt with the searing of this opening. Dirty, gritty. I am reminded faintly of "Secret Window, Secret Garden" by Steven King. I adore the stockings, what a vivid and evocative metaphor, using the word play too, that it's ominous, a ladder being a precarious unsteady kind of portal to something else, combined with the sordid, soiled sexuality, the burlesque quality of cheap sex, objectification for women, as represented in the installationg "The Hoerengracht" by Ed and Nancy Kienholz, or the more gritty works of Cindy Sherman. Very good use of sense imagery. I want more of the stockings and the lipstick. Devine characterisation, angel.

Okay, this sentense jars me a little. Yes, I like the echoing of Sylvia Plath, also reflecting back on the tainted sexuality and feminism, but something about the phrase 'echoed her with biased. Kind of middle ground, like your not wholey personifying the mirror, nor reflecting the character's projection of the subjective upon the inanimate. Maybe you could play around with either making the mirror more malevolent, or emphasize the girl creating her own dystopia, depends which way you're taking it. Dah! The hair and eyes. Okay, that's a pet peeve, but you did kind of slip into the cliches there, with 'raven hair', and 'bright green eyes'. You had such incredible powerful characterisation the lines before, professional writer style, it's just little things that slip sometimes. I adore 'eternity transfixed'. Very lyrical. Very beautiful.

Particular phrases here are utterly devine, 'crimson regret', and the image of the ring stuck in the the pipe, you feel this, it's just.. ahhh. Love it.
Keep the sense imagery coming, baby, give me some sound, some smell, some taste. Keep thinking of the sweat you killed us with in the opening line.

Hypothetical. They're her favourite stilettos. So, if they're her favourite, are they worn? Where are they worn? Maybe they aren't worn because she only wears them on special occasions, but the whole sullied sexual imagery would suggest otherwise, that she sells or has stolen what is special and exclusive about herself a fair bit, so maybe they'd be scratched, repaired, torn in the heat of a faked orgasm. Are they her favourite because they're comfy, they don't rub or cut her like many heels do, or are they so pretty that she wears them even though they hurt her, so she has scars and calouses corresponding to the pattern of the shoe on her feet? Are they new, does she go through a lot of favourite shoes? Are they old, and she tries to make them look new, another coat of cheap shoepolish and she's good to go? Who bought them, was it her, so it was some sweet rebelious taste of independance, of being in charge of herself and her sexuality, with echoes of rauch culture that she is still objectifying herself though she feins power. Did an admirer buy them for her, someone too old and too brutal, who made her feel less than a woman? Was it bought by a friend before her fall from grace, as a joke at her prudishness? See these shoes can tell you a lot more about this chick than the hair and eyes ever could.

**sniggers** Short....

I like the snarl, I like the imago of strength. Illusions of a troubled past, methinks? Suvival of the fittest, adaptation, evolution. She is strong because she had to be.. hmm, I am intrigued, my reading appetite is whetted. One but not the same? The reflection and th girl, I am assuming. Image and self image. I like the juxtaposition very much. Sss. Wow, I am burnt again. 'eat her sins', that is.. wow. just wow. Reminiscent of the better, more poignant moments of Peter Skzynecki, the Polish Australian poet.

Sin City. lol. And V for Vendetta. I adore teh craving.

Dejavu. I do adore this passage entirely but maybe try not having it all at once, cut it up and elaborate or something, if you want to repeat. Still powerful and evocactive the second time, just doens't further the scene as much.

Ohh, quiveringly gorgeous line. Oh, and did I mension I love the repetition of the word 'perhaps'. It creates rhythmic interest and is kind of lofty and yet deep and grounded in the gritty reality as well, the musing and the cold truth. Makes me think of the scene in Brokeback Mountain (cause you just loooove that movie, don't you spunkrat lol) where Jake Gyllanhaal is in Mexico hiring a prostitute and they have teh song 'perhaps perhaps perhaps' in the background in another language that I do not know, probably Spanish or something cool like that. (I love that song, they played it in teh play of Tristran and Isolte with their awesome house band and the double bass and harp and things it was awesome, we all got up in the isles and danced)

Snaaaaap! again, got me in the gut. Perfect beyond perfect line.

I love your choice ofwords throughout this paragraph, I really really do. You are a true wordsmith. Devine.

Sss, ohh, yes, yes YES! That is some tight biting writing, baby. You really have your readers by the balls, don't you, young missy.

Dissection of second bit coming soon.

I just wanted to let you know I am hooked.

I need more time to let it sink in, I do not have any background in literature and even though I am an avid reader, I have not read most of the masterpieces this earth has.

I actually read this twice and I found that I had missed deeper meanings the first time I red it that I did see when I read it again.
The second time I even read it all out loud to myself to let the beautiful discriptions hook themselves in to my mind.

Your writing reminds me of poetry, every line, every discription it gets to the reader. Some lines will stand out to the person reading because they can reflect so much.

Carmita stirs so many emotions in me, sadness; for her innocence that was lost, despair; for the acts she had to commit, Admiration; for her strength and pity; for the person she is now and to the one she once must have been.

Like I said, I am nowhere a educated literature buff and therefore my reply can never be as detailed and insightful as the one that Han just gave you. But I do feel the overwhelming need to thank you for writing such a beautifully dark tale.

I can only sit in suspense for more to come.

Love, Moon