Author’s Note: I have been through quite a lot recently, and I am finding it hard to cope with everything. In the midst of all that, I have been receiving rejection after rejection. I receive set back after set back, and it’s all getting a bit much. I want to do things my way from now on. I am sick of playing this egregious game without any reward. So, I may post a few things on here. I don’t know what I will do now, but the thought of writing/submitting makes me feel sick.
Dolores banged her head against the wall. The rain came soon after; a shocking wine. Her bee-stung beret, sliced in half like an open sandwich. Minced filling flopped over the side. The vice-like pain grew and fell; a symphonic plague sweeping over her tungsten flesh. Knowing the pallidity of time, Dolores swore never to speak of her mark again. Over the coming days, the reminder oozed browned butter. Salted scales rubbed against depressive fabric, translucently lunate. Hats on the hook, hanging for the tragedian amidst her reverie. Spleen of Chambord; an illustration of a wild chase across the boggy hills. Ghost clouds descended above the banana-esque split along the white core of her scalp. They have always called Dolores difficult, perhaps a bit fanciful. To enter her space, your eyes must have narrowed to pithy raisins, yearning for the graze of the sun. Her cheeks sink into the suture of knives. She fell into a grave; an elastic embryonic sac, mountainous.