Anna-Marie With Her Shotgun -- Part Eighteen -- Hemato-Tomato -- The Language Gap

You may wonder, if the technology were available, why I would personally choose not time travel; the reason is simple, whenever I wrote about time travel at a young age, it was a matter of allowing myself the witness the execution of my beloved princess within the pages of a digital LitRPG novel. There was something about the flow of blood, draining from their severed neck. And the feeling of fluid that once gave life feeding my inner core. In traditional Vampire lore, the vampire is the one that drains the blood.

But with the execution of a French girl, her neck slowly lowering into the stock of the guillotine, it was the idea of not having to kill them myself. For deep down, I knew that, as I watched in horror as my father raised up the blade on Anna-Marie, that part of me did not really want them to die. But there was a part of me, despite the desire to not see it happen, that reveled in the eye of seeing ones dark brown almost black locks fall inside the wicker basket, where other revolutionary heads of women have been before. In my own personal lore, I dream of vampire queens, and werewolves Kings. Yet in these dreams of dreams, I knew that, despite my own inner lust for the darkness, that I would never been one of the demons. Midnight eclipse falling, the rotation of the Earth, allowing for a certain gravity lunar frequency for lust. The lust of sharpened bloody axes and angular guillotine blades gone to rust, the flow of gentle B cup breasts covered in genial tears. The best beheading of a French girl I had seen all my years.

But the reality was, I was not a vampire.

I was only one in the desire for blood. But I always hated others, whom never thought twice about killing French girls, my father adapted nicely to his new job as a headsman, after working as a short order cook. "What can I say? I like cooking pork." -- In reference to him sending beheading girls to the dissection chamber of lore. This was not the chamber of disillusioned chamber maids, or the flow of severed braids as younger ones entered the orphanage to sing Roman Catholic hymns inside of a decorative dome. This was not Rome, nor was this France. Now it was the old United States, where France took its place.

We beheaded women in their underpants.

We beheaded them in long flowing dresses, we tore to expose the neck.

And everything in between, disillusioned poodle skirts. The flow of gentle blood squirts, that came from fare ladies whom were once flirts.

We didn't need a hell.

I was already in it.


Anna-Marie was the first to understand our language gap, that kept me from being able to make myself try to deal with being around Spanish and French girls, and other Latinas of the European continent. After the French take over, we kept a low key profile. We only met once or twice a week. Even then I had a feeling she was doing things that she never bothered telling me about. Would you be willing to tell an executioner, you were trying to poison your father? In this time, he became increasingly frazzled.

We finally broke up, when I told her, jokingly, that I liked dead girls more than ones still breathing. Even though I didn't like dead girls, what I liked was blood play, the entire misunderstanding made our relationship gradually fall apart. We didn't have a yelling match, but she was constantly afraid to be around me, because she thought I'd cut her head off at any moment, despite doing that would essentially mean going rogue. But I was rogue among other rogues, preferring to sling dagger blades instead of shotguns.

I only got a Guillotine Gun later.

A guillotine gun was a special form of bladed projectile weapon. The projectile would not have as much freedom in trajectory as a regular bullet: the blades were for decapitation, the victim restrained by a portable Lunette. Strapped to a portable board once the body was paralyzed, the preist would guide their soul into the afterlife, if they were not already atheistic. Whether Anna-Marie was Spanish or French, it no longer mattered: she was a child, and so was I. Despite not wanting to watch another girl die, my paralysis allowed her to leave me behind.

A left my only love in hell.

In a world behind.

She was such a quiet girl, and I never understood her tendency to avoid talking to me during the hours in which both of us would be up. We were both insomniacs, but lived in somewhat different time zones. And much of the time she was visit family up in Montagna. These were the hours I would spend writing, or imagining myself riding fictional horses under the sunset, with her riding behind on my back. But instead we both rode the rail less train tracks across different parts of the united states, splitting off our lives at the knee. Why she chose to come back to the old country of Tennessee, was never something I ever understood.

The Americas, after the war, borrowed significant amount of French culture, one of which involved executing foreign nationals au contraire to international law. This meant she was at constant risk of being recaptured; like an outlaw in the wild, robbing different banks across the country. Anything to keep her from being apprehended in her own home country, where the corpses of her dead brothers and father still lay behind, and her sister Ursula never forgiving her for this sin. There was a chance she would be murdered again.

While I still masturbated, to girls being beheaded on the guillotine. But not really wanting them to be dead. I watched movies about alien invaders, and wondered how much, if people knew the reality of my own fetish and kinks, whether I would be treated in the same way as her. Despite her more numerous experience in the deserts across the old empire. The empire that once housed an land far more expansive than the Roman empire, and yet lasted for a shorter time frame, do the greed of man, and the coming of the Nuclear Bomb. Much of the world, after World War III, became a vast open desert expanse.

When back in Tennessee, we would go to bowling alleys, go to movies together. And very occasionally she would give me a foot job with her Birkenstock Boston Clogs she wore barefoot, and give me lovely blow jobs under a mistletoe tree when our parents were not home. We had just graduated high school. And I knew that my mom would not be back in town for a while, so I thought. One blow job would not hurt. Unzipping, tee shirt ripping. My wrists tied to the edges of the bed, the feeling of masturbation lotion in the homestead. But no dog collars, under the flow of soft L.E.D. lights.

She only stood in the pillory, when she stole those pair of Birkenstocks, and that's when they finally pursued the other investigation, that resulted in the death of most of her family members. Thus my family was called on the scene.

posted by JustSarah @ 22nd Sep 2018, 9:37 PM

Anna-Marie With Her Shotgun -- Part Seventeen -- Hemato-Tomato -- Quizilla Godzilla

Despite the ill will even if we both take pills, slowly we turn to the inside of the mind. Rear u turn, unwind. Enjoy the car crash enveloping into flames. Death in a flash, two times over. Deny ones inner lust; enjoy the seatbelt turned to rust. Savor the pulsing sensation of inglorious feelings having their way. Reality changes with age; Enjoy the car crash enveloping into flash, killing you at a tender age. No more vigilantes, no more rescue from rust. If only I had never met Desiree, the girl that kick started my anxiety, when it had once died. My issue with French girls was indirect, and not the easiest to follow, although my assumption had never been that they were blond, which an entirely different issue.

For me and Desiree, we had met each other on Quizilla. I was fifteen and she was thirteen. She was the second French girl I had ever known. We used to watch together, movies like Godzilla. We dated for about a year, but for me it felt like many a year.

Desire did not kick start my issue with blonds, but was a contributed factor. But she was never prime enough to multiply by fifty nine; I certainly was not her modular inverse, to unfold her life's puzzles. Yet she created many quizzes, similarly to this other place that models itself more after another writing site, but still has personality quizzes. This was before the French had invaded the decaying United States. For me, I had already had issues with Bianca and Stephanie, but had just gotten out of the swing of detesting Flamenco and masked vigilantes. I understand the irony of my hunting after other vampires. Our love was temporary, finite. She treated me like my hair was covered in mites. But I justified it as being already. We split because she was an awful kink shamer, and I simply wanted to be stoner.

"So when you see you like girls in Birkenstocks?" she asked, briefly holding back the second portion. Then resuming, "Do you mean you like girls because they wear Birkenstocks?" At the time I had been unaware of French fashion, and the French had had long term issues with Germans, which I would learn later they were associated with.

"I don't, but what if I said I did?" I said.

Needless to say, she didn't take this challenge to well. So I built up this suspicion of the idea that in general girls who were of French heritage didn't like to be challenged. More so they any other person of female gender. Me begging the question, good will was never dealt out like even thinning rose petals. I simply wanted pour down her throat molten metal. But, the idea, despite the thought, gave me something of a sour throat. I had resolved from that point onward, which Anna-Marie challenge inside me, to never again date a French girl. I tried finding more Celtic girls to date, and developed a fancy for Swedish girl. But most of these problems finding dates, came down to this particular disdain for crepes and chocolate flavored Flamenco, near the Southern edge of Spain.

My body was object, rotten meat,

I caved into my own desires.


posted by JustSarah @ 22nd Sep 2018, 9:33 PM

Anna-Marie With Her Shotgun -- Part Sixteen -- Hemato-Tomato -- The Lobster Soup

When I had met Anna-Marie, one of the first nights we allowed her to visit my place, was when she had various cuisine styles she wanted to teach me, because she knew that I liked to cook. She introduced me to Pate D'Alsace, and when I lovingly spoke French to her, she would always correct me on the grammar. But I always took it in good cheer. There was some reason I knew that she didn't want to come back to her place, so when I was visit with her outside of these occasions, she would hang out at the local bookstore, focusing primarily on foreign language. Of course, the language she chose would be French.

At night, when she once cooked for us, she made a dish that we all really loved. although it was closer to Italian than French, because mom's rebel streak kept her from being willing to cook in a French fashion all the way, which meant including a tomato sauce in recipes that called for cream, among other variations. One night, Anna-Marie was gone for a little to long, and I wondered why she wasn't there to teach me how to cook. Then the restroom flushed, but the soup was still boiling, and the tea was brewing.

"Is everything OK Desiree?" I asked.

Desiree had been my first girlfriend before Anna-Marie, though we mostly dated online. "My name is Anna, who is Desiree?" she asked, flabbergasted. "You're not seeing other girls are you?" she finished.

"No, it was someone I dated before you."

"But you said I was your first date."

"Anything to get you in my pants."

Anna-Marie pushed me out of the way, determined to finish the cooking that I started. "I'll make you a soup to prove how much I love you." I wasn't sure what this meant exactly, but I knew that previously she had had troubles with law enforcement, because other friend's familla she visited had gotten sick. "Because I'm you're girl, no Desiree."

Nothing seemed to come of it at first.

At the dinner table, we eat the soup. I was the only one in the family, besides Anna-Marie, that didn't seem to get sick. My parents were polite enough not to say anything, but when Anna-Marie had not visited one night, mom told me "Next time she comes, it's long pig for dinner. Say goodbye to the French girl."

Our relationship had never been the same sense.

And now I long for a day when I can cook like Anna-Marie, because her cooking was no bad at all. My parents were just narcissists. They pretended to be sick, just so they could get my darling in trouble. Have her dumped overboard into the sea.

So much for Lobster night.

For my darling Anna-Marie.


posted by JustSarah @ 22nd Sep 2018, 9:30 PM

Anna-Marie With Her Shotgun -- Part Fifteen -- Hemato-Tomato -- A Game Of Wolves And Deer

I've had issues with blond girls ever since I met the one French-American and Spanish-American girls back in fifth grade; the impression I had gotten was that in general, while both Latinas hated attractive people (although don't mistake this for assuming I consider myself attractive), they both liked "Ugly Men".

There were several reasons why this was an issue, but let's first begin with the statement and judgment call we call "Ugly". In American contemporary usage, and this permeates across various fields of life, including fashion; the word ugly carries the meaning of being unattractive. The word homely began being used in the same way during my era, even though it had originally meant "someone I want to take home with me." It didn't seem like there was enough of their immigrant background for them not to realize the very American context. It was one thing for Bianca to treat me this way, as I had once confused her for a Mexican (kids say that kind of stupid shit all the time). But with Stephanie, there was no possible way for her to think I was confusing her for anybody. It was a grudge I had hidden for all the years of my life.

Around the same issue, blond girls, which Stephanie was almost, became increasingly associated with bitchy behavior, doubled with the fact that one girl I knew in high school, essentially rejected me using my best friend as a proxy; it wasn't that I wouldn't have accepted being rejected, but rather I was already dealing with gender identity issues, often being referred to as effeminate. Apparently I was so feminine, like one of the girls, that Emily decided to reject me in a backhanded fashion, highlighting some of her own issues. Mom was also becoming increasingly narcissistic at the time, and it all set the stage for my issue with petite blond girls with cat eye glasses. I was prepared to think of French girls as one way, and not this other way that turned out to be incorrect. But then, and why I jokingly refer to them as Latinas, was what said the stage for the other misunderstanding, and allowed me to be victimized by my ex.

There was a book web site I read a long time ago, that labeled France and being Latino. I already had developed issues about Latino girls, based on my limited interaction with Spanish girls, and why I chose for many years not to learn Spanish, do to associating the language with Flamenco and whatever genre of song the word La Paloma was, which was later adapted across the Latin European world, and was beloved by the Belgian princess. As someone who had for many years hated Folk Music, it made me that much more determined to hate Spanish thing. As someone who was willing to give French girls a chance, and having been somewhat of a Francophile to begin with, ultimately everything seemed to come to ahead.

I felt totally betrayed, because I liked French girls.

I wanted to reject all Romance languages. My ex, whom I had known in trans support group, emotionally manipulated these issues further, and wanted to manipulate me into being something of a Francophobe.

It took at the strength I had.

But I also had a darker secret.


Love crashes into you like an oncoming van, crash victim speeding on a motorcycle fueled up on nitroglycerin; the dangerous game of deranged chess masters warring for to win a round of blow jobs and doggy style. A game of blood, necks, and teeth; the angular blade hitting similarly to a headman's sword. There was a time I didn't think I'd ever date, preferring to recline in a private jet and masturbate; watch nothing but porn stars on holographic screens, textured with various kinds of cell shading.

It was then, as I lay thinking I was dying, remembering the smell of sweat and tears by my ex room mate Kat Mac. "Have you ever thought of writing for erotica magazines, you sure have the sex drive for it." Alone, my body returning to the midnight forest, where wolves hunt the deer, and beers for the fish.

My life of one dying wish.

To see Anna-Marie again. Instead I dreamed of snoring on the motel bed, the texture of fallen hair on the floor, and the uncleaned dishes that were only washed in the bath tube. "Or am I renting to much head space." I woke up in the hospital, in a daze. The doctor said that I had been out for a week; I was more worried that they could peer into my mind, using a dream-scanning machine, my dreams of silent hills and ghosts of another past, merging into a collective group of various government entities in the verge between life and death. For some people, what they see is a tunnel of light, but for me it was always night.

Except for me and my angel.

My Anna-Marie. The girl who wore a lopsided bow, and at other times a flower in her hair. As we snuggled under the moonlight, dreaming of fireflies and lady bugs. A dream of being with her again, as I lay beyond the mortal life. "No, I'm just thinking about something else" I would say to Kat Mac, who was not my Anna-Marie, but some monster from my past whom I had hoped to leave forgotten, like dust in the wind.

Because for me, there was only Anna.

As opened her coffin, and kissed her cheek.

And dreamed of being with her in death. Instead I grabbed my shotgun, which I had purchased on the black market, outside of the oversight of my parents, whom were now hopelessly bought into the state; even for dad, whom had lost his prostate, among other organs. Yet for me, there was only me, the whole me, and nothing else.

Me, for my Anna-Marie.

And I dreamed of severed lady heads, laying beside me on my lap. The last moments of their life fading into total darkness, while simply no longer wanted to feel alone. So I could be with somebody, into eternity.

But life is a guillotine.

You have to be cut throat.


posted by JustSarah @ 22nd Sep 2018, 9:28 PM

Anna-Marie With Her Shotgun -- Part Fourteen -- Flaxy Boxy Cereal

What they call loneliness, in the world of the net, is really a symptom of addiction. Some call it addiction to the social life, despite all the evidence to the contrary based on its unsociableness. The symptoms a manifestation of a larger disease more toxic to humanity than the fetish for blood and decapitation. For me, I find as I move toward using more federated network, I find that I can actually get more actual interactions that I need, that I've never received anywhere else. But on some level this is a mechanism of coping, not unlike the girl on the street who is doping. Yet not third world enough to grant sympathy.

One of the main issues, some may call self-fulfilling prophesy, although I simply call it being realistic, is how it seems like you never really can really on reliably a European to teach you the language. This is especially the case among girls of that country; there seems to be this unspoken rule that if someone mentions wanting to learn a language, then maybe it's a good idea to say in a false promising way "Oh maybe I can show you one of mine?".

But then you just kind of know, like people from Seattle, the reason they never really through is their tendency to be flakes. This isn't an issue of political correctness, it's just an observation about how French people seem to treat people of American heritage.

This was one of the reasons I was unsure whether I really felt comfortable meeting Anna-Marie, although ultimately there were other issues that made whether or not French people were reliable at much of anything largely a moot point. Because you were the only two who trusted each other enough just to get by in this strange world. A world where when a French girl doesn't get along with her own country, and an American with hers, ultimately it becomes a very toxic game of hate fucking and anti-desire.

It consumes you in entire.

Like being ran over with tires. Splatter. Pop goes the weasel. Boom box bursting the voice box. Radio night streaming, skeleton man screaming, Dreaming of another time when one could break up far sooner.

And yet there was something else.

Something to make you hold on.


posted by JustSarah @ 22nd Sep 2018, 8:22 PM