Coming Soon. . .

Page 22 of Scarlet Fairchild's diary. . .  Coming Soon. . .

Scarlet's Ipod

Everybody tells....

The Visitor

Page 18 of Scarlet's Diary

Three hours past midnight, I found the crescent moon slanted across my amber face, and a spine-chilling, transparent black figure at the foot of my antique sleigh bed.  I blinked several times to rid myself of the eerie structure, like I’ve done several times before when attempting to awake from a bad dream—but it wasn’t working—nothing was working.

I started to think that I might need to tighten my relationship with the big guy upstairs, but I refrained from doing so, because something in me told me that at least an elementary belief in the whole Christian thing was essential in conjuring prayers.

My eyes began to tire from all the excessive flickering, so the last time I blinked, I kept my eyes closed for several seconds.

When I finally opened my eyes, the dark shadow was still there, confirming that, yes, I was in the middle of a living nightmare in which I could not escape.  It was really there—winding horizontally like smoke mounting out of an ignited incense stick. Its serpentine contour made its way though my bed, like a ghost walking through thick walls.  Maybe that’s what it was—a ghost. 

What did great-grandma tell me about ghosts before she died?

The shadow began to glide through my ankles, up my calves, making its way to my shivering torso.

One: ghosts only walk the earth because they have unfinished business.  Two: they do not have an odor. When a spirit leaves its corporeal body, it is stripped of its floral essence.  Three: they are basically harmless and are technically searching for the peace they did not obtain while on earth.  Four: a spirit cannot make physical contact with the living, which means they are incapable of causing bodily harm.

So, I have nothing to worry about, right? 

Then, why was it that the closer the shadow got to my belly button the more I could feel the chill and moisture of its clammy mist? Why was the scent of sage filtering through my small room like a Hoodoo cleansing ritual?  

The shadow rose up above my frozen body like ripples in a shimmering river after a small rock has been thrown. It hovered there, parallel to my body. Chill bumps covered my skin as its silky touch glided past my blanket-shielded breasts, coming to a smooth halt, inches from my face.  The dark energy that made up its visage, extended toward my mouth, elongating and reaching out for my lips.

It leaned into my brown irises as I stared back into nothing. I looked deeper and deeper into the abyss. I suppose I wanted to find its eyes—the windows to its soul, or something like that, but there was nothing. All I found was more darkness.

Subconsciously, a piercing alarm sounded off in my brain, instructing me to me look away.

I turned to face the open window to my left, which ran from the ceiling to the floor. I stared at the moon, which penetrated the dark that the sun had left behind, but it did not breach the shadow that lingered above me. 

“Scarlet,” It said in a deep, raspy voice.

My eyes widened—still staring out the window. I refused to glance at it. Something about looking into all that darkness reminded me of death. It must have sensed my disobedience, because, without warning, I’d lost my capacity to govern my body, and the shadow turned my face toward it. It was like being instantly paralyzed from head to toe, and the only thing you have any control over is the ability to move both eyeballs. It was a weird kind of feeling, being controlled like that, but secretly, I kind of liked it. Who was I kidding—I loved it.

“We’ll be watching you,” It said as it leaned in closer, and its cloudlike texture swept my parted lips.

As the Ghost made its exit, back down my frame, all the limbs that it passed by began to come back to life. My neck, my shoulders, my 38B cups, my firm upper torso—a little tickle in my belly button and the stimulation after it flowed past my private box—my thighs, and the skin protecting my right and left tibias.  Crazy enough, the little piggy song came to mind as it passed over my ten toes and stood at the end of my bed, where we first met.

I stared at the mysterious black figure until it disappeared into the night that enveloped my room. It had abandoned me, just as quickly as it had come. 

Coming Soon . . .

Page 18 of Scarlet's Diary 04/22/12

Invitation

Page 31 of Scarlet's Diary

I’d be standing on an uneven marble stone somewhere. The sun riding my honey crisp complexion, while the breeze made puppets out of my long strings of pecan tanned hair.

I’d be naked of course, and preferably in the heart of Town Square.  Rednecks would gawk in utter dismay, scratching their hairy testicles, chomping on the gristle of stale barbeque pork rinds, or spitting out the shells of boiled peanuts. 

Right, as if I could be so lucky.

I swallowed the last few pieces of granulated peppermint on my scented tongue. Luck had already come once this month, and I doubted if I could unearth another insane bastard by the end of it. 

How did I know this? I hadn’t been leather-whipped or gagged since Male Number One, and that was almost five months ago.  Male Number Two was only interested in having me sit on cream pies—literally, which resulted in two unwarranted yeast infections and twenty dollars spent on a one day Monistat application that I just plain right did not have the money to buy in the first place.

 So when I stumbled upon Male Number Three, who sounded halfway normal, I figured luck and I were once again wartime allies.

I was reading the Mississippi Times Help Wanted section and came across Number Three’s personal ad.

He drove over yesterday and knocked on my door around 6:00 in the morning.  I didn’t have time to fully brush my teeth after my shower, so I gargled with citrus mouthwash and called it a day.

I opened the door with my bright smile stitched ear to ear, but when Number Three saw how pretty I was, he told me just that. “Gal, you’re just too damn pretty.  I’m not sure about all this,” he said, twirling a toothpick between the gaps in his beige front teeth.

Damn it! Had I misread him? And worse, was he senile? 

Granted, I was the psychopath who invited a complete stranger to her parents’ house, while they were away renewing their wedding vows for the sixth time in two years. But that was different.  I responded to the ad that he placed and he was the one backing out.

I did not care how unsure he was. I wanted to be bent over backwards with someone’s sock or shoe in the pit of my mouth.  Had I read it wrong? The paper? No I couldn’t have.

The advertisement read:  Single White Male seeking a Pretty Colored Woman for EXTREME S&M.

Sure I was part Cherokee, Irish, and a quarter Haitian, but ask any farmer living in South Mississippi my race, and they’ll all agree—I’m black.

Number Three, Vincent Kelly—at least that what he told me his name was last night after we climaxed via iPhones—was a rather round Caucasian senior citizen.  He was bald at the top of his skull and wore a spare tire proudly around his chubby waist. The buttons that trailed down his 70’s mob suit would have fastened, if it were not for his Santa Clause potbelly.

He exhaled. “Now, I just don’t feel right about it. Now lookie here, you’re younger than I thought. You can’t be no older than seventeen,” He paused licking his perverted lips.

“Why, you’re lighter than a brown paper bag, gal, and that just won’t do,” Vincent gave me a twice over, as if he were having second thoughts about his all-of-a-sudden moral decision. He reached out and grabbed my small breasts over my red tee shirt, before he turned around and left me standing in the doorway like an African Irish Princess of an idiot.  

I gave my girl next door look a once over, took several steps back into my house, and closed the door behind me. My mind convinced me that I should’ve opened the door wearing a dog collar and trench coat. Maybe then I would have been perfect for Master Vincent.

After I closed the door, I locked the five bolts from the inside. When it came to locks and bolts, a girl could never have too many.

Twisted Braid Diaries

Twisted Braid Diaries, are the ripped pages of Scarlet Fairchild's Diary. Scarlet is a seventeen year old girl with a strange hobby.  She doesn't think like teenage girls her age, and she is too soft-spoken to tell anyone about the thoughts that plague her mind. Instead, she keeps a diary to disclose her peculiar adventures.

By J.L. GLENN