Spent tea leaves

Definition: Spent tea leaves – those leaves (or hypothetical leaves) used and without flavor.

I’ve had many flavorful cups of tea in my lifetime. Some so full of flavor I could savor them till the last drop. I have equally had teas that merely lacked depth or flavor of any kind regardless of how long it was steeped.

More often than not, those lacking are the same ones that leave a bitter or just dissatisfied disappointment behind to only become those irritatingly stuck leaves that must be scrubbed from the fragile porcelain of my tea cup. Then again, they have equally been known to leave a pesky stain that not even the greatest of solvents can devour.

Such a pity, that is. And then, disappointment reoccurs all over again. The truth is, most of the time I have been blessed by finely tuned senses that allow me to discern when a particular brew won’t be as splendid as it sounds, but then again there is always that one that slips by and surprises me with nothing more than bland palate.

I can’t say I expect anyone other to have the same feelings about that one vile tea in question or be any less loyal to whatever ingredients have been forged together that’s “supposed” to be amazingly brilliant. However, being true to myself and incapable of faking it even for the Queen herself, I must admit it’s shit.

Let me clarify further, I may not fully understand all the ins and outs in tea mixology, but, I ‘am capable of understanding the basics. With that being said, it really doesn’t matter how strong the base leaf is, if it’s mingled with lesser quality leaves, spices and or flowers, it’s still going to be shit. In fact, those lesser quality leaves have the unique ability to completely taint and destroy the stronger leaf used as the base note.

Further more, the conclusion is starkly clear and my analogy is such, It only takes but a tiny drop of mud to obliterate, destroy and utterly ruin untouched, fresh water.

Now, if we break this down further we must take a look at the maker of thus said shit tea. It might be understandable if perhaps the maker were a random stranger by which you, yourself know nothing about, however if you should be so fortunate to actually know this particular maker of shit, then I’d say it changes everything. Don’t you?

First, and that is going on that we “know” the maker, is to examine their intentions as well as their interests. Meaning, what is it that lies just beneath the very surface of thus said person. I must beg to ask, what emotions are they hiding in the deepest facets of their mind and are they aware they have whole heartedly mislead the drinker, which of course in this scenario, myself.

I’d imagine, and that’s if I choose to guess, this person isn’t fully aware of their ill fortune. Which, I can only presume has to do with some kind of emotional attachment to the leaves in question. It is, with out doubt that those with attachments shall indeed defend those poor quality ingredients. However, before you begin to think poorly of the mixologist, you must understand they aren’t necessarily defending the blandness of its taste nor the lack of depth and flavor but more so the mixologists choices for choosing such shit to begin with.

For the most difficult part of this discussion, we may devilishly dig into the actual reasoning behind the mixologists desire to continue steeping such garbage. Well, that one is really quite simple my friends. Guilt. Pure, and not to be confused as lacking in any way, guilt.

Surprised? I know, it’s a challenge to think that something of such a lower vibration could affect someone so ruthlessly, but, as we all know, it’s quite common. Guilt, is the hidden seed hiding among the leaves as nothing more than loyalty, but it’s still guilt no matter how many times this brew is steeped and served. It will remain as it is, unfulfilling, bland and with rapid tendency to grow rather cold, most quickly.

The mixologist isn’t unaware either, that’s what makes it so divinely complicated because they do know all of the above. The thing is, they are willing to die on that hill than to accept, openly, they have created and sold a truly crappy cup of tea. And, to go a bit further with that, they have chosen to instead toss such blastedly grotesque and unpalatable concoction by holding tighter to it still.

I must add, and although, perhaps I should not, I will go on to say, the biggest mistake made by the mixologist and to plainly put it, unfathomable to allow such a tea without any true substance to permanently stain the finest bone China in the cupboard.

If I keep to the complicated and narrow path about the mixologist in question here, then quite simply, there isn’t much more to be said. But, as you would know the ways of “this” particular witch, then surely you already understand the story doesn’t end with the mixologist. No no, that would be most boring wouldn’t it?

Indeed, it would.

Try as it might, can you imagine the betrayal of the quest sipping this wretched tea? I can. It’s not pleasant. In fact, it’s most unpleasurable. It does not matter if the mixologist has upsold his/her mixings nor does it matter what the mixologist actually thinks about the brew itself on a whole. What matters most, and is of utmost importance here, in this moment, is the sheer ability for the sipper to see with their (my) own eyes the nasty stain beginning to form around the rim of their (my) favorite, and least to add, finest tea cup. If that weren’t enough then surely my smile has begun to fade when upon smelling this particular mix of spices and leaves I detect something sour. I have to admit, I expected so much more when the tea finally touched my lips. I had already imagined the idea of it swirling across my tongue and how the chords would perhaps be sour followed by notes of sweet spice but to my own shock and amazement, I tasted nothing more than the weakest hints of spent tea leaves, used and reused to the point of being useless. There is not and shall never be enough cream nor the brownest sugar or the sweetest honey that could hide that factor alone.

If that were a nightmare in the sense of taste then surely one might understand the horror when I, in fact, managed to swallow down this weakened shit without regurgitatimg on to the fine Persian rug at my feet, saw what that wretched tea had done to my beautiful little tea cup.

No longer that creamy shade of porcelain, but now stained with an ugly greenish brack stain was a hideous crack down the side, all the way to the stem. Try as I might, I carefully attempted to clean the delicate pores of the cup, now forever stained in hopes of repairing the crack when something more egregious and sinister happened in the blink of an eye, the cup merely vanished before my very eyes.

Unbelieving, I searched the pool of soapy water, first calmly, and then frantically for my precious cup. You see, it was more than special to me and not just something in which I might sample teas with or relish in its fine craftsmanship inside a protected hutch. This cup, this very special and priceless cup had been gifted by my the only love I have ever had. It was beyond precious, it held value that was irreplaceable and although I am aware an object should not hold such merit, it nevertheless was a pearl of great price, to me.

Hands empty and bare, In that moment, I realized that very bland and useless tea of no value had just consumed something quite valuable and even with that swimming in it’s bland belly, I doubt it was full. Rage, anger and unfathomable, inhuman thoughts raced in my head in a dizzying blur. Clarity regained control and then what came, and not to my surprise but the most foul curses for such a heinous act. I wanted revenge and nothing more, still do. But, if you are wondering, how might one take revenge upon the great nothingness?

It’s an enigma, you see?

That leaves me, really, with only one further look down this morbid rabbit hole and that is to the mixer himself. At first, upon viewing more closely, I thought my feelings were mirrored back. That, is of course the travesty in this situation of rotten tea and vaporized cups when I realized what I had failed to see all along.

What is tangible, and real, is not always valued as priceless. Sometimes, the priceless entity is merely the idea of something being tangible, although, simply is not. It’s that very idea, that one can value so highly, so important and precious that they have mistakenly put all their loyalty into, hoping it will return one day as something whole. But, an idea is just that, an idea. Even more disheartening is watching that person set aside what they held whole to put a protective value on an empty dream.

My beloved has si ce replaced my precious tea cup and I do love it very much, but it will never be the first. That, which, was taken from me. It matters not that the mixer tries desperately, and fails miserably to hide his secrets from me. It only matters that it still hurts my heart over and over just as it was the day I first sampled his brew and tried very much to love it, although I could not, to only have that which I loved taken from me simply because, I was the one, holding out my cup.

The moral of this story is at best, a cup with a hole in the bottom, will never be filled and a spent tea will never regain its flavor.

Thank you for reading ♥️

The undeniable estrangement of a pisces.

Estrangement. What exactly is it?

From the very moment I was born and drew upon my first breath, I was estranged. In more ways than one, I have always experienced the sensation of ill belonging. I have never fully embraced that which so many others follow. My attention and careful eye was always looking somewhere different.

Often, I wished to be like the masses. That seemed easier in a sense. Later, and of course after much punishment to my own self, I realized it was far easier to be the lone wolf than a wolf among sheep. Sheep get rattled easily when wolves are present, and I do, honestly get that. However, with that understanding comes the next sense of knowing, if I am a wolf then where is my mate.

Some journeys, are life long feats. Those feats are the exact ones that toughen our mind, sharpen our teeth and prepare us for battles ahead. I can’t say, I wasn’t grateful. If not for these spirit hardening obstacles, one could assume, and certainly myself, I would not have made it thus far to even have the remote opportunity to write about it. It was, without question, those beatings that served as a survival tactic in my youth. Simply put, I had been put here without my mate, and I was in desperate search.

If, what I felt existed, then I was meant to find it. I knew I was searching for something. At times, I wasn’t fully sure what that ‘something’ was. I only knew I had been and was, groomed for that moment.

There were times, of course, I thought to myself that it was all a figment of my imagination. That everything I felt was nothing more than fantasy behind a silly dreamers eyes. A sleepless dream, yearning to break free and become as real as was the wooden boy, Pinocchio. I told myself I was crazy, delusional, and even insane to have such ideas. Yet, I always had something manifest right in front of me, reminding me of my path. Atleast, enough of a reminder to keep me looking, that is.

Survival tactics taught by the almighty Universe, have lasting scars. They steal the most innocent parts of you, to only chew them up and spit them at your feet. They beat upon your spirit in ways, not even a fist can do to purple flesh. There is of course the one hit you remember most.

That one horrible blow, the one that hits so hard, it sucks all the air from your lungs. And, for a moment you can’t be for certain, but it’s possible, this, is what it feels like to die. Your credible thoughts slip from your mind as quickly as did your breath. The only thing happening inside that deafening silence is the natural instinct to fight. And, it’s there in that milla second, that your spirit decides if it will try to breath or succomb. I am not even sure if the decision is conscious or merely one made for us by creator, but I can say this. That blow, is the very one that marks your soul with a heavy, burdensome, mark.

There will never be another moment I will be free of knowing what it is to have your spirit broken. As is the graceful spirit of a wild stallion set free upon this earth, to then be caught, corralled and whipped until the last of his spirit, his fight, has drained away. A spark dies out.

Hopelessness, often fills that cavernous void. It reeks such havoc. The darkness swims around you and even then it’s troublesome to locate the light. But, even then, broken and without, something calls to you. It whispers your name, beckoning you on. It knows your suffering and yet it still finds your beauty worthy enough to yet still, call to you.

I never liked my reins, nor did I like the fences. I longed to be free, but not just of these chains, free of the pain, so burned inside me. I would fight, but this time, I would fight without the fear of dying, because I had already experienced that. I fought now, for that one chance that if I were free, I might find what still called to me. My spirit, my soul, although broken, wasn’t too ugly for whatever called to me. I knew, without a compass nor a star in the sky, that I, must, find it.

Escape comes with a great price, there are sacrifices to be made and often they are ones I had wished I could have spared, but none is the sacrifice if it weren’t exactly that. As I have lived a thousand lives inside one, I have walked many miles, down desolate roads. I have twisted my way through endless labyrinths, turning this way and that until I found myself right where I started. I slept a million, sleepless and dreamless nights, under a blanket of stars, that just might would have told me their secrets, if only I had known how to read them.

I was close to giving up, I wanted to. I wanted to close the door on anything I had ever imagined to be true. I wanted to burn the book of anything I believed to be real and simply evolve into a character I had created. And, I was doing so with great effort, but yet still, I felt it. I could hear it, just ever so lightly, but it was there. The whisper, then my name, calling on me.

At first, I was confused by it. I even thought what I heard and what I needed to do, where two separate things. When in fact, they were the same exact thing.I could not fully embrace what I was, who I was because in those moments, I wasn’t fully aware, although it would come soon enough.

The power, the true strength of the flame came from whence I stated what I wanted and then let it go. This time, it was my voice he heard, whispering the call. Unbeknownst even to myself, I had beckoned the flame with undeniable power. The desire to reunite with its truest self, it’s most natural form was beyond any other. In that moment, he, my mate, my twin flame, awnsered the call.

There is nothing short of cosmic in this union. No, it’s not literal explosions of galactic partials floating around in space, but, it is something powerfully moving. So moving, that one must try, as difficult as it is and comprehend what it means for the Universe to right itself.

It is a reversal without actually reversing. It’s becoming whole when there are no pieces to fill the spaces. Our eyes, were miraculously washed clean. Birth, death and even the after all became the same. Suddenly, just as swift as was the power in which I stated my desire, the world changed, just as we did.

And, in that way, we were no longer those lone wolves, searching endlessly for the other. We were, ‘one’ complete, being. We were whole and complete, but even greater still, we were free.

There, in our greatest storms, we battled together, knowing one day we could once again, be as we were. One.

3, is nothing, when compared to forever. 11.11 ♥️

Thanks for reading.

Fat Mary AND The Shrew, Buttbeard-ison

Once upon a time, in a not so far away place lived two, craggy fat women.

One went by the name, Fat Mary and for obvious reasons. Simply put, her name was Mary and she was fat. The other woman gained her namesake by being every bit the battle ax she was.

I am sure it was challenging for her to keep up the Ill temperament, foul mouthed, nasty tongue of hers, and of course general unhappiness, but it seemed to come so easy that Shrew was the only thing that suited her round, fat face. If your slightly curious about the Buttbeard-ison part, well that one’s easy. You see, the Shrew being the tasty vermin she was also had a tendency to be lacking. When I say lacking, I mean bearded in every place that counts.

As you can see, it’s no wonder the Shrew is so cantankerous all the time. I suppose I would be too if I cloaked a wooly diaper all the time. As far as Fat Mary goes, well she’s just one of those kind where they try real hard to be important, but fail. Poor thing can’t help it, really. She is merely the product of underprivileged life and for all those obvious reasons, quite bitter about it.

If theses times were as the old days, Fat Mary would have been a kitchen maid with some unsightly vile job. And, certainly one that took her away from being seen by anyone of importance. God only knows what talk would be had, can you imagine if you were to see such a wretched thing serving tea. No no, she would be hidden where no one would have to look upon her inbred, doughy face.

It might seem like an unlikely pairing, Fat Mary and The Shrew, but actually it’s quite predictable. You see, as I stated above, Fat Mary is one of those sad little souls that always wishes to be more. She desires a slimmer waist line and a pretty face. She dreams of a husband who isn’t having an affair with a recliner and a bag of chips. She’s the woman who wanted so badly to be a doctor, but settled for the attendant job at a nursing home kind. She’s loud by nature, but my God, what unsightly manners that wretch has. You really couldn’t take her anywhere without being embarrassed to be standing with her, I mean good God, what would the neighbord think if you were to fraternize with such a toad as she….

Well, I can tell you one thing. I would never be caught dead with Fat Mary, but then again their is always the Shrew to play the part of bestie.

The Shrew is equally a toad, the only difference between the two is, the Shrew has convinced herself, and of course Fat Mary, she’s higher up the toadstool. You see, long ago when the Shrew was a wee, no strike that, she’s never been wee, but let’s ponder the word, younger.

When she was *younger * the Shrew squatted with her small boy child in a tiny bedroom of her Father’s house. Filthy and unkemp, perhaps even pig sty were her fashionable choosing for homey decorum. She clearly came from the “trailer park”, and I don’t mean an actual “mobile home park”, I mean the kind of trailer park where cockroaches dwell in small rv’s they call trailers. It’s not the actual address that counts, it’s merely understanding the type of woman in which she is.

So, now that your getting thd idea here, let’s move on.

The Shrew lived in squalor, worked those double jobs and yet still couldn’t seem to get out of the hole. What money she did make went to partying on the weekends at bars. The Shrew sure loves a good drink, and certainly not a beverage for ladies. No no, she’s that beer drinker who doesn’t even bother pouring it properly in a glass, but instead guzzles it from the neck like a red necked man in the back hills of Tennessee. To make this more palpable, she was going nowhere. She just couldn’t pull of being classy or charismatic, and certainly not in the same moment. She was large thighed with no gap in the slightest, had a mouth full of bubbly teeth and a head full of hair more suited for a donkeys tail than a woman’s mane. There are few men who venture into purchasing such a toad, especially one with short, tree trunk legs.

The Shrew was on a mission, being that she absolutely understood everything stated above, to find a keeper. She had no intention of caring about this unlucky soul, only that he take her and her small boy child in.

As always, there’s a tragic happening and the only one here is that the Shrew did find a keeper. He was quite the handsome, intelligent and hard working type with a touch of a tender heart. After “dating” and dissolving a friend of the Shrew, the keeper saw her as the sad, pathetic “little” roundish single mother living out of a bedroom in her Father’s house. Being kind, and having a job that put him away more than not, he offered her to stay in his house while he was away, rooomate style.

Now, as you might guess the Shrew is quite the cunning devil. She told her keeper she would move in his house while he was away, and then of course said the magic first words “I need” a table, bed, sofa…. So, the keeper bought those items feeling sorry for her and the child.

Upon his return, he found his previously humble bachelor house, set up with furniture, well lived in, as a Shrew lives, all by the fruits of his wallet. The Shrew, being a nasty cunt, used the slit between her legs as “payment” or “a thank you”, if you will for all the things he purchased for her to squat upon.

The keeper fell in love with child, and out of charity took her in. He attempted to toss her to the curb like the trash he knew she was, but by then he worried for the boy child. Children are the root of all evil, I know this to be true.

Anyway, as time waged on so did a miserable life for the keeper. He saw every bit of a louse she was. Lazy, fat, dirty and unkempt. Bearded to say the least, always on a period, an unloving hag, unaffectionate and to boot, a hateful nag.

He worked, she did nothing. To make a very long and deathly painful story short, the Shrew took advantage of her husbands hard work and intelligence by going to school after she popped out two more children like a liter of unwanted puppies.

She didn’t bother to teach them manners or skills of any kind, but instead chose to ignore them with nothing but sour clothes to wear. Clearly, cleaning isn’t her thing.

Once educated, she could formally pretend she belonged in the status her keeper had let her have by riding in his wake. She was like that pesky toliet paper that gets stuck to your shoe, billowing behind you until someone says… Hey, that’s ass wipe following you…

Needless to say, that’s exactly what happened. However, this elevated ego of the Shrews, only made her feel entitled. As if she had always belonged there, except she didn’t. She would have never gotten there if not for her keeper. Ever.

When her keeper put in his dutiful time, he gave her a pink slip.

You would know this enraged the Shrew, how dare he leave her to fend for herself. She deserved all that life he provided, although ignorance isn’t always bliss. Every good woman knows the way to keep a good husband is by keeping yourself kept, tending to your children, house work and still managing a job while giving him a lasting impression in the bedroom. That’s ‘ how we ladies do it, but obviously, she knows not the ways of a southern woman. The Shrew didn’t come from the big house anymore that Fat Mary did. Instead, she came from the shack across the rail road tracks, by the swamp.

Bitter, and in need of a pawn to dump those puppies on, here comes Fat Mary. The Shrew did get a job and one that required a degree, however most women would agree that she spent ąlot of money on college for less than average job. I could have managed a book store and made more money than she did, but then again, smart isn’t necessarily her thing. Anyone can read a book, write fancy words and buy themselves a title. But, one thing is for sure. You can’t buy a pedigree nor can you wash the trailer out of your poorly bred DNA, but you can hang that degree on the wall.

Now that the Shrew was wearing the evident costume of importance and accomplished, Fat Mary instantly gravitated to her like a mosquitoe to a blue light. Degenerate souls usually do this sort of thing, you know, spit each other out in a crowd… Well, that’s what Fat Mary did. The Shrew, seeing that Fat Mary was quickly awe struck by her accomplished importantance, played the dutiful fat friend when her keeper discarded her for something better.

Fat Mary used her small mind to attack the better thing, as if it had the power to lure the keeper away from the steaming pile of shit he previously called wife. The keeper had already left, but as you know, accomplished Shrews can’t divulge that information. Everyone would know she’s a poor wife and mother if she did that… However, truth be told. Everyone already knew.

The keeper instantly became the evil enemy, Satans cousin and the one eyed demon in nightmares along with his exceptionally talented, rightfully entitled and beautiful companion.

Fat Mary tickled the Shrews beastly ears by saying, your prettier than her, she’s a whore, she’s stupid, she’s not that accomplished, she’s not that talented, she doesn’t make that much money. All of which weren’t true at all. The companion was actually by far more beautiful than the shrew could ever be, striking was the word most often used to describe her. She was noble, classy and came from a wealthy family. She was quite brilliant, charming and so referred to as every man’s “Dream girl”. She did make exceptional amounts of money for her talent in the arts but equally an heiress to her families business wealth. She produced beautiful children, that although had tongues like razors, were still mannered and perfectly kept.

The strikingly beautiful companion soon became the deserving wife, to the Shrews once, keeper. But now, he was something different, something he should’ve always been, a true gentleman and husband.

Impossible before as it was with the Shrew, she is no longer the bag of shit he feels the loyalty to wag around. I can’t imagine the embarrassment of having to stand next to her for some years. The gentleman was a Saint for that charitable work. No question.

Sorry, we teetered off. Back to the Fat Mary and Shrew. As you can see these two were drawn to one another. The Shrew was constantly in need of a patsy to dump her puppies on and for the reward of doing so, she allowed Fat Mary to be her “Friend”. Fat Mary was the go to for all things, helping the Shrew move from her nice house to the incredibly ugly lemon she bought the next town over, to watching children, picking them up, feeding them dinner and of course but not least, stroking the Shrews ego in attempt to prove she was the true prize, dumped for no good reason.

One would think the sucker punch to the gut would have come when the Shrew began to date again. The evidence of her true status should be starkly clear, especially when all that finds her of interest are boozy, unattractive men that have that washed up kinda feeling. To be even more precise, the kind of fellows with 50k a year jobs. Now that’s prime.

However, these two barking fatties enjoy their miserable comfort together. They do so in such fashion that their slights, misfortunes and ill manners delight us with mirthful evenings. It’s a moment of true reflection and pause. It’s the kind of pause where the once companion, now wife and once keeper, now husband say to each other, our life is perfect.

Meanwhile, Fat Mary receives a package in the mail. Upon opening it, she sees a rather large, chocolate cock inside with the words EAT A DICK inscribed inside. Now, I wonder who sent that?

Thanks for reading. ♥️

I am testing the waters here, but if it seems as a good story to tell, more will come from the Fat Mary and Shrew saga.

– M. Fowler

Pythoness

Flames lick the air, seeking another soul to devour. Greedily, it calls out.

Our names are carried on a breeze, like a haunting whisper. They drift among sleeping clouds, through open windows and slip effortlessly into our slumbering dreams.

Fear is daft, unknowing to the things in the universe it can not understand. Seeking to destroy all that challenges it with reckless abandon.

You can burn us if you want. You may bury us beneath our own ashes if you so choose, but you can never eliminate us.

For every tree you take down, releases a million seeds to grow from the ashes.

We are the granddaughters of all the witches weren’t able to burn, as are we the seeds from the ones you did.

You thought you buried us, but we were the seeds that flourished.

Poetry of static

Ticking clock, running water, someone talking from another room , TV belting out babble of news, yet I hear none of it.

Instead, I hear the maddening thoughts in my head spiraling into static. They distract me from the outside world, stirring my insides like a jar of sleeping butterflies shook by the dirty hands of a toddler.

I am here, atleast my body is, yet my mind is far from here in place called Not. There isn’t much there except the growing weeds of discontent, heartache and anxiousness. There are trees of growing fear that reach high into the depths of the endless sky and a river of right or wrong that flows as swift as it does after the spring thaw.

Where do I go and from what place is there words to fill the spaces and quiet the blaring static that sounds so loudly that I want to run. I could try to run, I could attempt to fill my ears with noise, but it only stops the sickness in my belly for a brief moment.

Everything around me familiar, suddenly feels foreign and strange. My footing seems to be that of a drunken chicken as I muddle through the thick muck.

I try to find a steady place to rest but just when the world seems to still, it all falls down.

There is no reprieve for what it seems is fate, yet I am unsure of it either way. I try to open my mouth and make my voice heard, but nothing comes out except for a million moths, silencing my mind and heart.

I am silent because I have been silenced by the unending turmoil that comes with the victory of sound, and so I sit in my head. I sit among the static as if it were a juice filled wine, drunken on the distorting affects and helplessly, hopeless.