Sarette's Reve De Mort: And Other Stories Of Not Quite Magical Realism

In the cart to my death where I belong, give me the wet and ply dirt beneath my feet in my wooden clogs. In the cart to my death, where I belong, I see the dreadful climb towering above my little wooden sabot feet above me. The widow cut to bone through my skin, head tumbling down the oak basket. Blood pouring out, oblivion. I should have seen the Guillotine, with its Sombrero hat. While I lay after I have prayed, upon my belly fat. I masturbate long nights, and think of my poor Anienne who is still at large.

So much for Melina de noir et blanc.

When the crowd stared at me, they thought be profane. My blood down the drain. Only the flow of the loving guillotine was my solace, whom had descending from many evolutions of different decapitation devices. And generally, people were executed barefoot, except in the cases of the Aristocratic classes. But it was twenty one twenty seven, and a lot of things have changed since the year of seventeen ninety two. Now people's necks are put into the stock for execution, whom are rich enough for wooden clogs. I carried a small shotgun, while I was on the run; me and my boyfriend at the time were already battling rental debts. Anienne, my love, was the closest thing I could ever come to fulfilling my romantic desires.

I had developed the tendency to switch between white and black Lolita dresses, and I had especially painted two little wooden shoes, one painted white and black. I would dress in white when I went to Church, and in black when I wanted to lurk in Cyberspace, and play at the arcades with my Anienne. Who showed me how to play various shooter games at the arcade, while swooping upon my neck like a vulture, whom nips at me like a noir la chatte. And on days I would go see her, when her father was no home from work. We would scissor, and give each other blow jobs, but there was so much more than that.

Though I'd assume you'd rather not think of sensual things with the lady of the dead. One night we connected, and updated each other on our QR code blogs, while giving each other foot jobs with out wooden clogs. Climbing all the way to the tops of nipples. Eventually the necks connecting, under the glow of green energy lights, while think of guillotines, and Birkenstock sandals. Our bodies pulsating into ninth dimensional frequencies. Two birds of extreme anxiety, two birds who trust nobody else but each other.

But it would be one our last nights together.

But I still feel it in my dress.

Something one may never guess, I don't actually have a split personality. The reality is that nobody who does the sorts of things I do really does. I took an ax head to my husbands forehead, and felt a sense of coldness. Perhaps this cold sanity, was the real reason that I was sentenced to have my head cut off. Yet the idea of being decapitated, had always turned me on. Something that had always made Anienne curious. After all, how may one be turned on when they're merely a head. But I was right ahead of her, at light speed.

My interest had developed in childhood, but it was only recently that I had become open to the idea of being such a submission victim, in a game where the only role play partner was automatic and sharpened at full extent. My death would only ever be of my mom's lament, and my love was for nobody but my Anienne. And now, I see my body, whose head had been separated, and my head, that was placed on a stick outside the court house. The idea, despite being very much dead, still give my vagina the chills, and I cum.

I release.

Me and Anienne met each other at the arcade. Her real name was Anienne Nina Himaka, a product of a half Spanish half French mother, and a Japanese father. Her father had once punished for not performing at the family business quite to his expectations, but she got by with simply a scar tattoo. But her two little wooden shoes, was what drew me to her, because they had looked better on her than anyone else.

And the face, was a face of angels, who mated with the stars, yet her behavior was quite the contrary. Because she was no ordinary very, and in bed she was quiet extraordinary. But had always been something of a bad sport. Yet now I see her riding motorcycles, and shooting at rival Yakuza at different town sectors. It had been a perpetual manhunt, comparable to Geoffrey Amerada et other notorious mob bosses.

But because she was a girl, the police had a hard time apprehending her, as most people took her side in any particular dispute. Capturing her was a matter of force, even though everyone pretty much knew she murdered her father, but not in cold blood. She simply wanted to survive this strange new world they called Earth. And she dances, in her clogs, to classical Flamenco, and electro-pop jazz. While working at times as a prostitute.

And now I watched over my bride.

Despite that she had framed me.

When she was apprehended, it was a show trial. But it was mildly erotic, she liked to discuss her sexual exploits for various Japanese and French crime bosses, and would have to be silenced by the court of public approval, along with the criminal. But eventually she was sentenced to the dreadful climb like I.

And all I could think of was death.

The Seraphs wanted her and me together, and her losing her own head to its angular blade was simply a matter of time. But when she died, after the guillotine had sliced through her neck, she died with a smile on face, because she saw me in the clouds.

I reached out a hand to reach her.

And now me and her pulsate our bodies together, in electro-pop rhythm, while visiting aliens who abducts girls from their homes.

But for me, Melina De Noir Et Blanc, I have mine.

She who was of Japan and France.