Anna-Marie With Her Shotgun -- Part Twenty -- Hemato-Tomato -- A Rose In Her Hair

Anna-Marie's severed head was not traditionally beautiful.

She had very long curly blond locks, with a flower in her hair. At times I think I see life in her eyes, and yet I can never be certain. Is that what a severed head looks like? I thought, because it was far more beautiful, and yet more tragic than I ever imagined. When I stared into her face, seeking comfort and love, I thought of the times that we could have had together. At times I do her make up for her, even though I've never been good at putting it on myself. God damn, do I miss her. I miss everything about her.

And yet now, she is here with me always.

You might be surprised how easy it is to hide a person's severed head. Especially if the state already considers them to be dead. To think that I could finally fulfill my desire, and yet this desire feels so empty and sad. There are times when I wonder, quietly, as i write notes to my publisher, why it is I chose to waste my life. There was a time when I had wanted to go horse back riding with her, but we lived in a time when there was no more need for the chevaul. When I was hiding from my parents, I visited the lack that we used to spend together, and I would keep her severed head besides me, hoping that there would be something that could bring her back. I brought my favorite sub sandwiches, but I could not be genial to a severed head.

Is this the point that we all come to?

When I've seen the dead.


For a long time I had considered myself without deserve of love. Even when I tried to write middle grade stories, I would have them wear two little wooden shoes and a cotton cap, really more resembling the stereotype of the Dutch rather than the French, although the French had their own version of the wooden clog. But the kinks in my bloodstream kept a flowing, while the cold wind of my dead Anna-Marie was blowing, the ghost of my former girlfriend, and whom I had would someday be my wife.

I had researched that the Dutch used hanging as the traditional method of execution, au contraire to how the French would most typically decapitate you by guillotine after the year 1793, which continued to be used until 1978, only being formally banned around 1981, just eight year prior to my birthday. Holland also some of the best policies for trans women, while France continued to suffer issues related to beating up homosexual men, and issues related to birth certificates for trans women. You might think it would have been an easy choice to choose which country to move to, especially when in the lore of one the French novels, the leading lady would have rather have been hung, than dating the person that crushed on her.

But Anna-Marie was no Esmeralda, contrary to my expectation, but her little bare feet were just as pleasingly plump and wrinkle free. Whose long blond curly locks fall just below her back, couple with a habit of braiding her hair, as a way of choosing not to wear the ridiculously large bows girls from this immigrant culture wore on formal occasions. We had met when my dad still insisted on taking my to church, despite my special brand of atheism. But I wasn't much like other Atheists, with memories of other lives I couldn't explain.

And there in the darkness, was Anna-Marie.

Who, despite my knowing no French, took a chance of me. But for me, I was so stuck inside of myself, that I couldn't see the obvious.

Now I wish to set my soul free.

posted by JustSarah @ 22nd Sep 2018, 9:46 PM

Anna-Marie With Her Shotgun -- Part Nineteen -- A Sense Of Hate And Despair


If I could describe myself, it is something similar to the offspring of Elizabeth Bathory crossed over with Camilla. I didn't use to think I could date a girl outside the web. Given the nature of my condition, for loving women with their heads cut off, their heads rolling into a wicker basket, you might not think I'd love a girl outside of Le Guillotine Familla. I live just a few yards into the twenty first century, and I can still here the screams of women pleading for their lives in the various revolutions of France.

And yet the idea of a girl, whose head would be on a metal slab in the mortuary, was never something I'd think would bother me before. I spent so many nights and days after school masturbating to severed necks, the flow of blueish fluid gradually becoming as dark as a crimson sky, the flow of Flamenco on the piano, to sinister rhymes. Yet the song of the lost children, played in deranged melodies, the song of madness; the song of decay; the song of the damned. The song of a girl crying, while holding the severed head of her once true love. It was with this, that I had made my decision. That I could keep her severed head, and treat her as one of my own children, and run as far away from town as I could.

But the real world was a no man's land, a land where secret police stalk the street. A world where girls wore wooden shoes on their feet, for lack of stores that could sell normal foot ware at a decent price. This was a land of giant cock roaches, the return of hair lice. The return of the old classes in earlier centuries.

I wanted my world to end.

Yet I wanted to end my life on my own terms. I wanted to finish the obligations that I had left as a fiction writer, even if it was only a few autobiographical shorts. But there were some autobiographical facts that people almost never share. A world with no self-realization. That there is a part of us, just like Dracula and Carmilla:


Where the new Bastille was rising,

The land of total uprisings.

A land of dirt and decay.

The dead is arising.

And there is no bread to share.


I grew a total resentment for the mortal life; the life of crawling into ones own inner cave. A cave where only the good die young, the bandits die younger. And those in between are tossed into a hell in between. I wanted some vague nation, of a distant love beyond masturbation lotion. A girl I could travel Europe with, leave the United States behind. And travel her old country of Alsace. Where the flowers were always blooming, even if it were not the land of the University Of Flowers. Ride on airships and and hot air balloons. And think of soft fluffy teddy bears.

I wanted my life to be beyond anything I ever known.

Anything, but this sense of hate.

posted by JustSarah @ 22nd Sep 2018, 9:43 PM

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