A strangeness lit the air like the feeling of static caught in a newly washed blanket. Unseen and yet so profoundly there.
Night, seemed to grow even darker as it seemed to swallow the moonlight in large gulps. The only thing the inky blackness hadn’t devoured, was a few splotches of silvery light here and there.
Even the wind had taken notice, leaving all the country side without a trace of its existence. Nothing moved and nothing made a sound. It was as quiet as it is when snow has first fallen and everything has gone still.
The dancing crickets had stopped chirping before night took over and the fireflies had long since retired for the evening. It was as if the night had suffocated life, yet something stirred low in the shadows. It all but moved with stealthy precision, hearing every single breath that had been held in its wake.
The owl moved through the night without a single sound. It was patient and had enjoyed watching the mouse dance and flail around as if it thought it owned the hour itself. The great winged fowl, beautiful and strong as it was, wise and noble, slowed it’s flight until it almost hovered over the haughty mouse.
The mouse, ignorant to such a magnificent creature, nor fully understanding its power thought it wise to taunt the great owl. The valourous owl never wavered nor swayed from its position. Instead, it watched the mouse with amusement as the mouse attempted to mimic the owl, failing miserably.
The owl, patient as it was continued to watch the mouse with unyielding eyes, circling silently above. The energy around the owl felt like a great happening as if the forest itself was holding its breath, waiting for that moment it would strike.
The mouse grew more bold and brazen, spewing jibberish and careless insults as the owl silently observed its every move. The mouse danced around, laughing at its own jokesto misunderstand the position of the owl. The valourous owl, wise beyond reason continued to let the mouse have its fun as it had no idea it was about to be ingurgitated whole.
Finally, the owl yawned with boredom, growing tired of the rodents unintelligible tirade. The owl thought not of the mouse, but brought its feet forward and spread its razor sharp talons making an oval pattern, stretching its legs forward as it struck the mouse from behind. The mouse shrieked and cried out, begging for mercy but for the owl it was nothing more than a snack.
This is another fictional story from The black widow series. Enjoy. All characters are just figments of my imagination. Any or all resemblance to an individual is merely coincidence.
She (the black widow) sat hours in her easy chair, oblivious to the world around her, including her children. She furiously stretched her mind into the massive organ it is by spending countless hours crushing candy as if it were her only reason to live. She spent every waking moment doing as little as possible just so she could crush those striped candies into a big win.
Without a care in the world the widow crushed candy all the while ignoring her husband as if he never existed, whilst her children were raiding the pantry for every sugary, carb loaded treat they could find. Laundry was piled into mountainous heaps in the garage as if the washer itself had violently vomited them across the floor. Which isn’t surprising since the clothes often smelled so putrid and so sour it would make you gag if you smelled them, thinking they were clean.
The widow was typically in a real maddening hurry and had no choice, but to run over the laundry with her car. She never had a problem rolling over those stacks of dirty jeans, t- shirts, towels and underwear like speed bumps in the car line at school. She couldn’t be bothered with that stufg, she was just too tired. She wasn’t even going to be able to cook because she was so tired. Besides, she really needed to get to her easy chair and crush candy.
She spent so much time engrossed in candy bombs that she never saw the beautiful bombs chasing around her very ignored husband by her back. They snickered and laughed, asking him why he was even with her. They loved coming to her parties where she tired to sell some kind of plastic bowl or scented waxy shit because the widow loved to drink. And, when she did… They would go on the hunt for that sexy husband of hers that she didn’t even know she had. She would sit on her sofa, pounding beer from a bottle, laughing about menial things no one really wanted to talk to her about. That gave the perfect little out for a friend to slip out to the garage.
The widows friend spotted the highly attractive husband in the garage. He had been hiding from the cats in the house when one, bad, little kitty escaped. She pawed and nipped hoping he would play. The kitty friend told him the widow never had to know, meowing like a cat in heat.
To be frank here, this sort of thing happened quite often. But, as fate would have it, the widow wouldn’t have noticed. She couldn’t have because, she was so very very busy. Busy making ass imprints on the sofa with her dildo, that is….
It was obvious she didn’t want her husband like the babysitter did. And, she couldn’t possibly want him like those women at church who loved their fitness training. They frequently invited him over for some cross training, if ya know what I mean…
The widow sure loved the energizer bunny, while her closest, and dearest friend was still fantasizing about the time she had her way wity the widows husband. Of course, the dear friend never told the Widow, but then again, she never told the widow she had once warned her husband before their marriage not to marry her because she was a user.
Which of course, all of that said was true. The woman couldn’t do a thing on her own, she needed him to do everything for her or slave her children out. She couldn’t clean the house and she couldn’t cook, and she certainly couldn’t do laundry anymore than she could clean her ass. She was busy you know and that was a chronic problem, but then again so was her month long periods too.
Behind her back people whispered. She thought she had snowed them all including the congregation at her church, but her husband had been two steps ahead the whole time. He never let an opportunity go without sharing to the Pastor and other deacons about her “personal issues”.. Like the one where she puts her ass print on the sofa…
Unbeknownst to her, he forwarded her emails she sent him, photos of food rot crusted in the fridge, laundry stacked in the garage and filth everywhere she never cleaned. He recorded her cussing like a sailor and let the pastor hear what she really sounded like when no one was listening. He even sent the church, the most damning email of all, where she admitted to all her egregious acts.
One day, her husband decided that he had never loved her and put her to the curb. He had only felt sorry for her little snot nose toddler she had when he met her and against his better judgment stayed for the rug rat. But, that rug rat had grown up and it was time. He hadn’t found her attractive for years and years. He couldn’t stand her voice anymore than he could stand her, so… he left.
She thought she had won. She gloated around town like she had just taken him to the cleaners, except he didn’t want anything she got. Andvthe best part was he had the last laugh. He had bested her in her own playground.
Every week she went to church after he left, and told the poor abandoned wife tale, they placated her and then snickered all over again. They laughed and made fun of her knowing she was the liar and fake that she was. They knew, because her husband made sure to let everyone know the truth, just before he divorced her. In fact, she may never have known what all those sideways glances were actually for and probably wouldn’t have wanted know either.
She had been made a fool in her own backyard. If it couldn’t get any worse for her, it did when her son began telling the world about her drunken escapades with men from dating apps. She thought no one knew, but everyone knew. Her place of employment knew, her church, her neighbors and even her so called friends.
The black widow had been stripped of her power and dethroned. Her crown was stripped and she had to sell the big house, trade in the mom mobile and take the demotion in front of the entire world and God.
The slight itch grew, although mild for a second, became a frenzied clawing motion just shy of mind numbing. She never thought the itch could get worse, but it had. The itch moved into her skin as if it were apart of it, biting and nawing itself raw. Delusional with it’s interference, she could barely think straight, let alone do anything. Her mind was always focused on the unyielding burn in her flesh. It never ceased to stop because it was always there. Occasionally, she would get occupied enough to forget it’s annoyance, but just when she did it emerged back with a vengeance. It stirred her thoughts and chased her everywhere she went.
Of course, the itch was only an itch that is, until she allowed it to fester into a disease. It took over her ever waking thoughts like a plague and haunted her dreams. It pulled at her brain every time she dressed herself or looked in the mirror. She let it naw at her to the point she couldn’t even do the simplist of tasks without it ravaging her thoughts like poison.
What she would never understand is that the disease was derived from nothing short of poison. Easily fed she lapped it up like a gluttonous pig, eating it by the spoonfuls.
She couldn’t help herself, because with every bite she took the more addicted to it she became. She craved it like a drug, wanting it over anything else in the world. She tried to tell herself she didn’t like it and that it was awful and vile, but the truth was she couldn’t get enough.
She ate and ate until it bloated her head and ate at her blackened soul. She let it devour her without ever knowing it had been feeding on her, hollowimg her out like a pumpkin.
She couldn’t hide it and when other people saw her infection, turning away, she found a million low hanging excuses to justify why “she” wasn’t at fault. It was always someone else’s problem and never hers because she thought she was perfect in every way. She had only had bad things happen to her not the other way around where she was the one being abusive and cruel to those around her. She never even saw how her little chickens were carbon copies of herself, incapable of love because they had never been taught how to love.
But, that of course wasn’t her fault. It was someone else’s fault. It wasn’t, her fault, she had only but a couple of friends, never keeping any for long periods of time. It was their fault. It wasn’t her fault she couldn’t get or keep a boyfriend, there wete things wrong with them, not her.
She didn’t even understand why the surroundings of her choosing were sub par. If you guessed it was somone else’s fault, you would be correct. You see, narcissistic people ways find the right poison the fastest. The gravitate to it out of their own need to be important. They need attention and a stroked ego. They want to find every fault in someone else so to justify why they are somehow better and when that isn’t enough they will attempt to attack someone they have no business attacking.
In fact, they think the poison is made just for them and it is. They just don’t understand the true nature of it. It’s like feeding candy to a baby. Every good witch can spot it early on and begin working her magic. It’s quite easy and takes little or no effort. To be precise, it’s like weaving a blanket. You begin with the first stitch, looping each thread into another, building it one square at a time until after a while you have sown a beautiful quilt ready for the taking.
Poison is the easiest to give and in a sense it’s her own greediness that gets her the most. Ultimately, she will hang herself right in front of everyone, showing the world the ugliness she truly is. But, by then the damage is done, irreversible actually.
If you come close, I’ll whisper to you what the poison is, but… Shhh you mustn’t tell. It’s a secret you know.
Are you listening… Words. The poison is words. That’s it.
All you have to do is feed a person a bundle of words they can search for and when they gobble them like a starving dog you won’t have to do another thing. The words do it all for you.
Character is defined by who you are when no one is looking. When your heart is pure, words have no affect. Those magical words, can’t hurt you, mostly because you already know who you are. And so does everyone else. You’re loved by many and people that barely know you love you immediately. That’s when you know your immune to the poison.
If your heart is blackened and you look to take without ever giving an ounce, expect what isn’t deserved and couldn’t show love or empathy without killing yourself first, then get ready to be eaten alive.
WARNING. THIS POST IS A CATTY, LOW VIBRATION KINDA POST WITH MASSIVE INSULTS TO A CERTAIN UNNAMED PERSON. IT CONTAINS VULGAR WORDS AND DESCRIPTIONS. IF EASILY OFFENDED, DO NOT READ AND SKIP TO THE NEXT BLOG.
What you should know about ass bearded women.
A bearded ass is merely the epitome of lazy, fat or both. Women that take a high pride in themselves understand the importance of proper grooming especially in the ass region. One, because no one wants to see a beard peeking out between an ass crack and secondly, cleanliness is Godliness.
Often, the bearded ass woman will have a gaggle of other bearded asses and that’s not excluding they themselves are all equally fatties. In nature, fatties seem to pack up like a bag of jumbo puffs marshmallows. Let’s face it, thin, charmingly attractive and well mannered women don’t want to be seen canoodling with a hairy, beastly whale of a woman. That would be the equivalent of placing a dump next to a million dollar gated community, the property value drops.
Bearded buddies are often described as fugly, horse teethed and or having fat stacked flip flops purchased from those large chain discount stores. They love mumus, drinking beer. And, from the bottle or can no less. They often find seeking out the garage in order to have rendezvous’s with their car part salesman or beverage truck driver boyfriend, by which her teenage children will most definitely notice and report. Bearded bitches love snack time and cheap looking brick, shoebox houses.
Bearded ass fatties have the tendency to work menial jobs they got by forcing, a now ex-spouse, to pay more money for an education than the actual job is worth. And, let’s not forget how they pretend they are a scholars just because they went to college for a brief moment. Bearded butts tend to live in denial with the reality that a home depot worker makes more than they do without a degree. Whilst pretending, like a high paid actress, they put on the show of being a good mother, when in fact, they spend more time neglecting their children all in an opportunity to drink booze with other fat friends.
They are often known as dick suckers or cock gobblers verses actually being a fucker. Those fatties most assuredly swallow like the nasty cunts they are. The one thing that defines a woman of class is the simple question of swallow or spit? Only a swallower shows her true nature, trailer trash. But then again, fat women have to pull all stops because… Well.. Because they are fat.
Butt beards are known for several common traits, fat being the more obvious one and the more obscure being their gapping puss hole. Sloppy and oversized like that biggie size order of frys she’s pounded earlier in the day. They will complain they can’t feel a dick in that abyss because it would take the girth of a bologna log to fill that stinker hole. That Vag hole is like Jonas being a cock and that gapping puss the whale, swallowing it whole.
Butt beards equally have challenges of keeping their ass region clean, mostly because of that bear coat growth in their ass, but also because wiping that giganta – ass is as complicated as a rubix cube. Therfore, the slight smell of shit can be detected and or puss odor.
They typically choose m&m colored cars and love small stupid looking suvs as well as Ford focuses and dodge neons. They often have yellow kitchens, bathrooms or bedrooms as if all that cheer will brighten their gloomy shit hole life, which is an epic failure but nevertheless they try.
Butt beards equally love defending their brood of children even when caught red handed in a crime so long as that crime is against a more beautiful alpha female. Jealousy rules their world like the moon rules the tide.
Fatty ass coats love to invite grown children back into their tiny shoebox house, only to let them squat on a sofa like homeless hobo who just wandered in from the street. Clothes and filth will liter the living room like a horders house and if you just decide to be brave enough to see what articles of clothing are clean or not will most likely find is impossible. All clothing from an ass coats home will smell soured from leaving them to rot in the washer. Apparently, transferring them to the dryer is just too much effort.
The fridge will be a putrid over growth of rotten fruit, vegetables with good intentions and take out boxes. Milk cartons gone sour to old and crusty condiments will fill otherwise empty spaces and the very tinge of stink will be detected.
It’s important to note that women of this nature are often located/living in shit hole, back wood areas and typically man hate as a way to deflect their own fat asses, ugly faces and hateful attitudes. Mind set of a fatty is merely to use a man if they can catch one but they can not. If they do after say 35, it will most likely be another washed up fatty with a minimum wage job.
Bitter, bearded ass women should be avoided at all times. Go the other way, fake an emergency or out right call for help. They are not your friend and if they want to be, then you’re fucked anyway.
Disclaimer, this blog is written in good fun and fictional mirth. Any likeness to any person /persons or even affiliate is merely coincidence.
Thank you for reading ❤️
Cattiness can be cheap therapy. Especially when written.
I do say your honor, I think that piggish woman might, just potentially be, and or is, slightly menopausal.
I mean, she’s not exactly the most beautiful thing there is to look at with that rotund fat face and short tree trunk legs. Matter of fact, and that is of course if I were guessing, but she seems like the sort of woman who isn’t getting fed enough in her ol piggy pie. If ya know what I mean….
It must be difficult for a fat woman with a shrewed heart and badly cut bangs to find a sausage for her piggy pie. What a sad little world it must be for Miss. Pig, no one to love and no one to use. I don’t think she’s read the book titled Ego, as it is evident hers has taken over in an unsightly way.
If you’re asking me why, I have to think it’s because she is so seething with jealousy her mind is full of pork. Her soul is a fatty ball lumped into her large and sagging chest where she still flips over letting her grown children drink from her nip, although it’s been dry for quite some time.
Ah, yes. Her mouth, you ask….
She does, indeed have a large mouth of teeth to match her fat cankles, but one can’t help such flaws, not all pigs are as perfect as is a swan. Which if you must know, is what made the Pig snorting jealous. The swan.
It must be damning to watch from the mud and shit she stands in at the beautiful swan across the field in a stunning pond of her own. Pig, sad and pathetic as she is, must be forced to watch the Swan elegantly swim so deliciously in the water with her handsome Cob at her side and a brood of beautiful little ones swimming so perfectly behind her. The swan family is as happy as happiness could ever be only reminding Pig, she will always be exactly that, a Pig.
The honorable one speaks.
It is with my expertise and years of experience that it goes against the law of nature to take a Pig from its slop and put in the pond and expect it to be anything other than a Pig.
Someone important, although they remain anonymous, You can take a girl from the trailer park but you can’t take the trailer park outta the girl. Once trash, always trash, or Pig.
This song isn’t about you. None of them are. But, I wouldn’t want them to be.
Thank you for reading ❤️ Everyone knows a Pig.
DISCLAIMER :
These are colorful blog posts written from a vivid imagination about no particular person in general. Any likeness to a person /persons is merely coincidence as it’s all artful storytelling. Cheap. Therapy.
Prophecies Tea 
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