ELLA'S JOURNAL

Men are trash - a love #poem

11/28/2018

MEN ARE TRASH
A LOVE POEM

men are trash

say three words
men are trash
and men will show up to prove it

whisper three words
men are trash
like a prayer
god will always answer

learn these words
men are trash
and don't you ever forget it

lest you forget,
repeat it with me
men are fucking trash

Social media is rigged against women - the rules favoring the trash men that stalk, troll, and harass women on every corner of the internet. Why is Facebook in particular so slanted against women? You can't type 'Men are trash' (Facebook deems it hate speech), but you can type 'Feminists should be burnt on a bonfire' and not run afoul of the thought police. (Yes, you can try both for yourself.)

I tell you and it's true. Men are fucking trash.

buy my fucking book

Origin Paperback

5/29/2017

ORIGIN
PAPERBACK

The paperback is alive at Amazon. It feels 'real' now. No, I'm not a book snob that thinks e-books aren't books. But, there's going to be something special in the moment when I hold this book in my hands. All these years I've promised - I'm going to be a published writer and finally that day is here.

The things George said to me long ago about writing and publishing have become clearer to me now. It's taken years to get my words onto the page, never mind the dirty business of getting people to read the book. I'd say it almost feels hopeless at times, but I can't think of times that the almost part of the sentence applies.

But, I will write and put words between pages, hoping for...something. I can't even tell you what I want. Maybe the author is the last to know. If you ask me what I wish for the reader, I hope you are entertained by the insanity of the my stories and life. In my attempts at catharsis, may you find...whatever it is you seek.

Mother told me not to waste time writing stories after she caught me scribbling in the notebook father bought me. She wanted me to learn how to be a proper lady. But, I was never much for listening. Today is for you mother. I hope you're burning in hell with father.

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The Hunt

5/28/2017

THE HUNT

The limousine idles in a parking lot while I check my phone, refreshing a website page over and again in hopes that the sales numbers will change. But, nothing. Not a single sale. It worsens my mood and I glance at Paul. He sits like a statue on the seat opposite me in the limo, waiting for me.

"Some say killing is easy, but it's not. Before you can learn to be a killer, you must kill. I imagine that's a confusing thing to hear, but to be honest, I don't give a damn."

Paul gulps in air and I light a cigarette. Returning my attention to the phone, I open a message from Saul and show the screen to Paul. He studies the map, using two fingers to zoom closer on the target address.

   "That's a residential address."

   "You're quick, Paul. We're hunting a man today. Mostly, men live in houses."

   He begins to respond, but thinks better of it and leans back against the headrest, eyes locked with mine. I tap a button on the console built into the door and a drawer opens, revealing a row of handguns. Removing one, I eject the clip and the bullet in the chamber before handing the gun to Paul. While he examines it, I retrieve a silencer and black gloves and place the items in a pile next to him on the seat.

   "Tell me about this man we are hunting. What do I need to know about him?"

"He's a Nazi. That's all the information you need. As for the deed, it could not be simpler. Saul will park outside the home. You'll enter the building and execute the target. Drop the gun next to the body and return to the limousine. Any questions?"

"Won't someone see? It's still light out."

I take a drag of my cigarette and stare out the window. It's tiring dealing with the anxiety of my book and explaining these simple things to him. "We wait for nightfall, then we move. Is that it, you're worried about being caught? No other questions about your target?"

The clicking sound of Paul disassembling the handgun fills the limousine and I turn to watch him work. He places the pieces on a copy of my book, using it as a makeshift table on his lap. With a series of deft movements, he assembles the pieces and loads the firearm.

"Saul taught you well. That was very well done."

"I do have one question. Is this man guilty?"

   "He's a Nazi. Self-professed. You need know nothing more about him."

Paul nods and I tap a button on the phone to play music. We wait for darkness and listen to Mozart.

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Origin E-Book

5/26/2017

ORIGIN
EBOOK

My book of stories is *alive* at Amazon. I don't know if I should be happy about it. Does anyone even know?

I can't explain what took me so long to publish this slim volume of my earliest stories. This book should have been published two years ago. But...I've been busy getting drunk and high and...playing with my male toys.

I hope you enjoy this stroll through memory lane. I'd like to thank the FBI for keeping some of these lost stories in evidence and letting me have them.

The Bank (first story in the collection) is the only one that remains that I wrote when mother was still alive. Make of that little trivia what you will.

I must celebrate with a martini. I'll see you around.

THE TRIAL IN VEGAS -- SUPER BLOOD MOON

5/26/2017

THE TRIAL IN VEGAS
SUPER BLOOD MOON

I follow George through the set of double doors leading to the garden. Ray and Ana stand near a row of rose bushes, the entire area lit by the glow of the blood moon. My white dress flutters in the light breeze while we wait for Saul to bring the prisoner from the kennels. His hulking shadow passes over the fountain and I know the moment draws closer. We will have a trial in Vegas.

Saul leads the man, hooded and shackled into the clearing and binds him with rope to a thick wooden pole. I approach him as George, Ana, and Ray sit on the stone steps of the fountain. Beside the pole is a table and on it my special knife rests next to a stack of documents. Taking the knife into my hand, I remove the hood from the prisoner.

   A slim blonde man wearing glasses blinks at me, duct tape covering his mouth. I doubt he understands the situation, but I remain silent, studying him for a span of time stretching into minutes. Why not make him sweat before I tell him the bad news? Let his imagination conjure the worst of his fears. I yank the duct tape off in a swift motion and smile when the man yelps with pain.

"Do you know why you are on trial tonight?" I ask.

   His eyes move from me to the watchers by the fountain and back again. "The man that broke into my apartment told me it was because I am part of Gamer Gate."

"You harass and stalk feminist women online. Women like me. Tonight you will answer for your crimes."

   "Crimes? You're such a victim that you consider someone disagreeing with you on the internet a crime? Fucking feminists."

   I laugh and grab a paper from the table. "When I saw your tweets online, I knew there was more to it than simple harassment. I don't kill people for opinions, only rape. Saul hacked your computer and ran a background check on you. You have something of a record. Don't you, Paul?"

"No..." he begins to stammer, but I interrupt.

   "Save it. You pleaded guilty to sexual assault freshman year of college. Rich papa saw to it that you didn't catch a more serious charge. But you raped that girl. Don't bother with denials, Saul found proof on your hard-drive. You were stupid enough to video tape the party. Spoiled rich boy indeed. Tsk, tsk."

   The man opens his mouth to respond, but I do not let him speak and place the duct tape over his lips.

"I heard enough of your hate online. I've heard more than enough from all you Gamer Gate people harassing me. When I see men stalk and harass women online, I know that most of the time it's not just online. Looking into a few hundred of the screen names associated with Gamer Gate, many have been convicted of sexual assault, harassment, and stalking women. You're no lone wolf exception. It's very common."

   George approaches me, hands behind his back waiting for my orders. I nod to him and he removes a mobile phone from a suit pocket and taps a button to start the music playlist. One of my favorite songs plays, Total Eclipse of the Heart.

   "I'll tell you this, Paul. Gamer Gate will soon be over, because the ones stalking and harassing will ruin the movement, but for you, it will be tonight because you met the Butcher of Vegas."

   Pulling the tape away enough for him to speak, I say, "I don't suppose you have heard of me."

   "The what of Vegas?" he asks and once again I pull the duct tape over his lips.

   "The Butcher of Vegas and I don't suffer rapists stalking me," I say, placing the knife against his throat. I begin singing with the song, watching his eyes pleading with me for mercy. "Every now and then I fall apart...and kill people."

   Dragging the blade deep into his neck, I watch the life ebb from his eyes while streams of blood cover my white dress. Looking up at the blood red moon, I smile.

   "Bring me the next rapist, Saul."

Preview of the Cover - ORIGIN

5/17/2017

introduction to ORIGIN

4/21/2017

INTRODUCTION

Serial Murder: The unlawful killing of two or more victims by the same offender(s), in separate events.

Serial killer. Speaking those words in my mind, I try them on like a dress at the department store.

   Serial killer. I think of Jack the Ripper, Ted Bundy, and Hannibal Lecter. I imagine my name on that billboard in bright yellow lights.

   Am I a serial killer? The FBI insists that I am and this applying of labels and definitions falls under their jurisdiction, but I must admit to not knowing the first thing about all that. I have killed, plural, or multiple, I can never get the grammar to agree or work.

   Did I kill in a similar fashion or choose my victim for certain reasons? I don’t see any of that in the definition so I can’t tell you if it’s part of the whole sordid affair.
It all started with my father, but if you’re reading this book you likely know that fact. But, the first kill doesn’t make you a serial killer, my dear readers. One must kill again, in a separate event to be labelled under the FBI definition.

   I make no attempt to explain any of it in these pages. These are my stories that may or may not help you to understand how I came to be named serial killer by the FBI. Was it nature or nurture or some combination of both? I can’t answer that and leave it to the clinical psychologists and professionals to argue the semantics.

This book contains some of my earliest writings, the pieces that survived my capture and incarceration. Take a journey into my mind and try not to go crazy, dear readers. Some have said my stories caused them nightmares. I won’t lie, that makes me happy. I hope to carve a space in your brain and occupy it for later use. Consider yourself warned. Enter at your own discretion.

#SerialPlaylist - Mozart The Piano Sonata No 16 in C major

4/2/2017

The Poet - Part Two - Interrogation

4/2/2017

INTERROGATION

  Shifting my body on his lap to find a comfortable position, I wrap my arms around his neck to keep from falling off the chair. His erection keeps jabbing into me and he lets out a groan when I press my weight on him. Crossing my legs elicits a yelp of pain and I laugh over the soft sounds of Mozart playing on the stereo.
            “What’s the problem, Paul?”
            He can’t answer and squirms under me, trying to free himself from my embrace. “I…”
            “The prisoners aren’t allowed to pleasure themselves in any way, you see. I imagine Paul is suffering from what men refer to as blue balls. Is that the correct expression?” George refreshes my coffee and takes a spot within an arm length of the chair. “Paul must be in a good deal of pain.”
              “That’s a sad story, Paul. I really need you to concentrate on the lessons. What shall we do about this?”
            Paul closes his eyes and a wave of pain passes over his features when I shift again on his lap. Oh, how fun. I can hear the sound of his teeth grinding over the music. A few beads of sweat gather at his temple and his body shakes under me.
            “Men claim to be so strong, but turn into babies at the least bit of pain.” I reach into his pants and cup his balls with my palm. Squeezing softly, I smile when he howls, head rearing back, eyes tightly shut. I increase the pressure and his body begins to thrash under me, almost throwing me off the chair.
            With a sigh, I stop and let him pant in the afterglow of agony. Unbuttoning his pants, I push the boxers lower to give me better access. “I need you to answer an important question. Can you manage that in your current state?”
            “I…”
            I stop him from speaking by putting my free hand across his lips. “Have you ever been hunting?”
            Removing my hand from his mouth, I wait for an answer.
            “What? No, why would I? I shop at the supermarket.”
            I laugh and give him another hard squeeze, enjoying the scream that escapes his lips. “You must learn to hunt. I will take you later today and teach you how to be a man. You do want to be a man, don’t you, Paul?”
            He doesn’t answer and I squeeze harder. Sweat drips down his face and his skin looks quite pale.
            “I can’t think with the pain.”
            I sigh and count in my mind to keep from getting angry. “When did you last have an orgasm?”
            “The day before I arrived at Holden Farms.”
            Oh? I turn to George and he nods, understanding my question.
            “The men are keep locked at all times in devices that prevent masturbation. We can’t have the prisoners giving in to their base nature. It’s uncivilized.”
            I ease my grip and he groans in relief as the pain abates. “We must do something about this…condition of yours before we go hunting. I need your full attention on the lesson.”
            Gripping his chin, I force him to look at me. He fights the attempt and clenches his eyes shut. “Would you like me to help with your problem?”
            He nods and I turn to George.
            “Bring me the knife from my desk drawer, George.”
            “What?” His eyes snap open and he looks to George as if somehow I’ve misspoken.
            “Right away, Ella.”
            “No,” he says. “I thought you meant…”
            I apply pressure again, more than before and he screams with pain. Shifting my body so I can reach him, I squeeze with both hands. George appears beside the chair and holds Paul’s shoulders to keep him from moving.
            “You want to orgasm before I clip you, Paul?”
            “Don’t.” He begins crying and I roll my eyes.
            Sliding my hand higher, I pull at him slowly. “I’m not going to geld you today, Paul. But you have to stop crying or I’ll cut your throat. I fucking hate that weak shit.”
            He tries to compose himself and wipes a tear with his hand.
            “You aren’t allowed to have orgasms without my permission, do you understand?”
            Nodding, he looks toward the ceiling, face a mask of pain. I continue to stroke him and his body tenses under me. In less than a minute he seizes and bucks forward, thick streams of semen splashing the desk. The orgasm continues on and on, seemingly endless amounts built up from months of being locked in a cage.
            “You got some on my leg.”
            “I’m sorry.”
            I place my hand around his throat and squeeze. “Stop fucking being a bitch. Pretend like you have balls. You’re making me sick. If you can’t pull it together, I’ll have George feed you to the dogs.”
            Paul nods again and I shake my head in disgust.
            “George, have Saul bring my car to the side entrance. It’s time to go into the city for a hunt.”

TEA WITH THE FBI

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The Poet: An Introduction

3/25/2017

THE POET
AN INTRODUCTION

The quiet of the library soothes my inner turbulence following the meeting with the FBI. Holding a book in my hands, I trace a finger along the spine and replay the conversation with Marcus in my head. Can I really leave Holden Farms? I’ve known nothing other than this mansion for five years. What will life be like in an apartment without the comforts of Holden Farms?
The sound of wheels rolling on the marble hallway outside the library interrupts my reverie. George swings the doors open and Saul pushes an upright gurney rigged with multiple straps to keep the young male prisoner immobile. A mask restraint covers most of the man’s face, brown eyes darting about the library in fear as Saul halts a few feet from me, standing the prisoner and tightening a loose strap.
Placing the book on my desk, I examine the man in front of me. Short brown hair sticks out from holes in the restraint mask. I observe pale skin and a general thinness of body, effects of his months of confinement.
“Have you been fed?” I ask.
No answer from the young man.
“He can’t speak, the mask prevents his mouth from moving. As to your question, he’s been fed and cleaned. The doctor gave him a clean bill of health even if he looks a bit worse for wear.”
George loosens the buckles at the man’s neck and pulls the mask free.
“How have you been treated? Are you well?”
The poet’s eyes shift to the side, spotting Saul. “I have not been mistreated in any way.”
Saul fights a grin and I shake my head. “Would you like some coffee? I have a matter to discuss with you.”
“I…” he begins, but again looks to Saul.
“Speak, boy. Pretend you have a fucking spine.”
The man takes a few deep breaths and turns his eyes to me. “I’d love coffee.”
I nod to George who exits the library. Saul begins unlatching the young man from the gurney and removing the straight jacket binding his upper body. The man grunts with discomfort and fingers rub at the welts on his arms. Saul helps him into the chair opposite me and takes a spot several feet away, giving us space.
"You will be released from confinement as of today.”
George enters with coffee service and pours a cup for the young man. I wait for him to add milk and a spoon of sugar before I continue.
“I have a job of sorts for you.”
He sips the coffee, eyes pinned to mine. “A job? I’m not qualified for much, I’m just a poet.”
"Not anymore. You're going to be my boyfriend and get a job. A paying one. George will find you something suitable.”
His eyes squint with concentration and I know he doesn’t understand anything I’ve said.
"Your new name will be Paul because I like that name.”
"But my name is…”
"Quiet.” I walk around the desk and sit on the arm of his chair, dangling a bare leg over his lap. “You will do what you’re told, without questions. George will set up interviews and help you secure employment. Do exactly as he instructs you. Deviate in the slightest and I’ll return you to Saul.”
Paul gives a slight nod in answer. “Am I to sign a contract like in the movies?”
"No contract, Paul. All you need to do is what I say. Tell me you understand.”
He doesn’t answer and I grab my phone off the desk. Tapping the screen, I find a music selection. “Saul, you can leave us. Telling him will not do it, I must show him what it means to be my boyfriend.”
The color in Paul’s face becomes a shade paler and I slide off the chair into his lap.
"Lesson number one…”

COLD
MOURNING
TEA WITH THE FBI
DUET
INTERROGATION

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