#truly it's an accursed fate and a blessed one sometimes

[solitudiante]

Some days, I really hate my writing, so I stop writing, only to write again, and then I hate. Again.

And then I stop. And then I write. And then I write.

Again and again and again and again and again.

Eventually, I stop. Hating my writing.

[diveronarpg]

In fair Verona, our tale begins with HARRIET D’ANGELO, who is THIRTY-FIVE years old. She is often called HERMIONE and is NEUTRAL. She uses SHE/HER pronouns.

TW: DEATH

When a PRINCESS is born, we all know how the story goes. She grows up in a castle that reaches up to the peaks of Heaven, with all that she desires at the tip of a bejeweled finger and the entirety of the world posed outside a gold-plated window; conquered and left for the taking. The princess embraces it all as she leads a happy, star-streaked childhood – but then she flourishes into cynical adulthood, and happiness becomes nothing more than a myth. Her castle in the skies turns into a prison buried within the depths of the earth, and the world outside her window becomes nothing more than an unattainable dream. And then the rest of her journey fades into a haze of rebellion and rage – because it can’t possibly end any other way, could it? Stories like these are abound in cities like Verona. You can almost see their scripts written over blood-soaked cobblestones and drawn across dusty, boarded up windows. And so, it’s only natural for one to FORESEE this story and claim to know how it unfolds without even sparing its text a glance. But there could be no greater mistake when it comes to the story of Harriet D’Angelo for it is not one that speaks of princesses and dragons and noble heroes. It simply speaks of a girl who loved and lost and LIVED to tell her own tale.

Harriet wasn’t born a princess, and she didn’t grow up in a castle – but she certainly came close. The D’Angelo family was not in the ruling class towards which the likes of the Du Ponts and the Vernons belonged, but it was esteemed in its own right. And so, Harriet received the BLISSFUL upbringing that could be expected for any child born onto the glamorous, gleaming pedestal of aristocracy. She received the greatest education, dressed in the finest silks, and hovered within the brightest social circles. However, while some would fill themselves up with such blessings until they reached the pinnacle of gluttony, Harriet merely took what was enough and looked no further. She possessed an uncanny sense of HUMILITY, despite being born to a mother who hungered for influence and a father who thrived on the opinions of others. Her eyes never sharpened with disdain as she looked up at her superiors, and her nose never wrinkled with disgust as she looked down at her lessers, either. Her sights were limited to what was before her; her heart tethered to the bright, sunlit slice of the world she found with her family – because for all their faults and flaws, they loved each other, and to Harriet, that was more than enough.

Even when that love was tested beyond its bearings, it was still ENOUGH for her, although it took her a tremendous amount of time and patience to reconcile with that belief. After all, no amount of faith could prepare anyone for the prospect of being shackled by the very people through which they sought freedom and safety – and that was exactly what happened on the dreary day when her parents made her an unprecedented, unwanted, offer of betrothal. It was from an established young man who, in her mother’s words, had hymns sung to his name around every corner of the city – but not even that description was quite as appalling as the story he spun. A chance encounter had apparently set him on Harriet’s unwitting path, and indeed, just like that, he wished for her be his. It was at that point that Harriet decidedly shut her ears to the rest of her mother’s honeyed words, eyes brimming with enraged tears and lips clamping shut against the protests that struggled to break free. But then her mother began to speak of how impactful such a marriage would be for their family name, holding Harriet’s hand in a feather-light grip as her lips curved with a smile that sparked stars into her eyes and dug the tenuous doubt into Harriet’s mind that perhaps this was indeed a venture worthy of her SACRIFICE. Her mother would have moved on to ensure her that she was under no obligation to do this – but before her tongue could even roll around the words, Harriet said yes. Even then, she would have still said yes. Even if asked to jump off a precipice and give her life away for her family’s sake, she would have still said yes. LOYALTY was as rigid and firm in her blood as a pillar of steel, and if anything stood true to Harriet, it was that.

Her marriage only lasted a handful of months, and when it finally sputtered away, it left behind a waning, war-torn GHOST of who Harriet had once been. The man she had gifted herself to turned out to be nothing more than a cruel, conniving monster who took away her life and then dared to take away the one thing that would have brought it back; feeding her lies of redemption and change upon the adoption of their child, only to walk away and leave her in the dust mere months later. Her son was the breath of life her heart had starved for, and it was in the wake of his blessed arrival into her life that Harriet found the will and the strength to gather her ashes and RISE from them. Years passed in blessed peace that she and her son joyously shared – right before it was ripped from them; right before he was ripped from her. The twist of fate couldn’t have been more random, or more cruel. Another vicious link had erupted in the chain of war harnessed by undeserving Capulet and Montague hands, and her son fell victim to it. A casualty was the exact wording in the tabloids, but there was no describing the loss or the AGONY that it brought forth. Once again, she crumbled; only this time, Harriet had to learn how to pick herself up. This time, she let herself soak up in the ashes in the hopes they would leave the scar on her heart even a little bit faded by the time she was back on her feet. This time, she taught herself how to stand alone, and how to seize that loneliness and turn it into strength. Now, she has risen, and rather than wait and pray, she has stolen a slice of peace and made it hers. And even with her heart torn in two, even with her happiness incomplete and unfulfilled, she was determined to protect what little of it she’s managed to earn. In Verona, the cost of PEACE is bloody and heavy, but make no mistake; she is willing to PAY it.

ODIN BELLO & MATTHIAS WARREN: Demons. Othello and Malcolm. Two accursed names that have haunted and tormented her from the moment they poked out of the retelling of her son’s death like twin blades. Out of the drawling, monotone slew of the police officer’s words and straight into the core of her gnashing heart. Harriet doesn’t wish to find them, but she knows that her path will inevitably collide with theirs. After all, no two strings of fate ever went untangled when pulled by the hands of tragedy – especially in a city like Verona. But just as her story is not one that centers around a princess-turned-queen, it is not one that is driven by a force of vengeance, either. She doesn’t seek to harm them or punish them—but that doesn’t mean she isn’t seeking to condemn them with every untarnished inch of her heart.

DELILAH BELLO: Reflection. She’s heard the scathing whispers tacked onto Delilah Bello’s name, and the dreary tale that follows in its wake. It’s one that undeniably parallels her own, with the only difference being that Harriet was leashed by the chain of devotion while Delilah was caught in the snare of love. But in the end, is there truly that much of a difference between the two? Harriet isn’t too keen on figuring that out, but she is intrigued by Delilah’s story and the struggle she must find in her ceaseless attempts to regain control of its narrative. Perhaps it will help Harriet regain control of hers. Perhaps it will help her learn that such is a goal that she should have aspired for many years and losses ago.

SANTINO GALLO: Lost soul. The vision of the man struck her heart the moment she laid eyes on him, although at the beginning, it was merely due to the pitiful state in which she found him. Huddled up in a dark alleyway, one hand pressed against his stomach and the other gnarling against the grimy pavement as he retched. Her immediate impression was that he was a drunken fool who wasn’t worth the waste of her time, but despite the thought, something kept Harriet’s feet rooted to the ground. Perhaps it was mistaken judgement or perhaps it was something far more intrinsic than that, but she decided to help him. Took him home, laid him on his couch, brushed his sweat-slicked hair from his forehead with a gentle hand, then bid him farewell with a glass of water and one last wondering glance. Somehow, Santino was able to track her down later on and demanded that she let him repay her for what she did—and strangely enough, she let him. Something about Santino tinges her tongue with the bitter taste of loss; sears her mind with the weighted question of whether or not her son would have wound up on a similar path of condemnation had his life not been cruelly ripped away. She seeks only an answer from Santino, but she might be in for a lot more than she bargained for.

MONA CHEN: Kindred spirit. Mona Chen is the last person she would have expected to befriend in the years following her son’s death. Before then, yes, Harriet would have been compelled to unravel the mysteries enshrouding the renowned Lady of Whispers—but now, the fire of her curiosity has been doused by the icy blades of mourning, and thus she should have avoided Mona at all costs. After all, her son’s precious life was ripped away at the hands of ruling figures such as Mona. But as much as it sometimes feels like a betrayal to that crucial missing piece of her heart, the sentiment only lessens with each day that she spends in Mona’s company. She’s a woman who keeps her cards close to her chest, but in turn, Harriet has no cards of her own—and perhaps that is why Mona’s let her in as much as she has. There is a lot that eludes her about the infamous woman, no matter how close they’ve grown over the years, but that speck of distance, while it may be significant to others, is of no consequence to Harriet. She shares a kinship with Mona that she hasn’t found with anyone else, and that’s all that matters to her.

Harriet is portrayed by JENNA TALACKOVA and was written by JEN. She is currently TAKEN by EMMA K.

[writer59january13]

100% Natural psyllium husk...

insync, especially with Amitiza delivered solid ecstasy

Without shadow of doubt

I feel much relief

though literally pooped out

attested courtesy following

(oft posted poem written some years ago in short self plagiarism), where funhouse mirror

humorously distorts physique

disproportionately skinny or stout as though plagued with excess adipose tissue

in reality paunch throughout abdominal area mine

self evident yours truly

generic guy does not work out.

As of early/mid afternoon today - November 30th, 2021

I could not but barely move

mine whole body felt analogous to sluggish mollusk frequent constipation found me

doubled over in gastrointestinal agony

as if elephant or red (livid with rage)

I've re: created how bull heaver in fiber thrust his tusk

into lower abdominal area dawn to dusk

ah...voila... hence subsequently blessed natural laxative,

the magic of Daily Fiber

100% natural psyllium husk also known as metamucil.

Upon sprinkling two doses powder pack,

which orange flavor sweetened

the missus mishmash pop slop

not aesthetically pleasing major drawback

heavy as a full coalsack

sometimes burned and scorched black

movement came swift, on par how fast

snaky Mister Plumber doth attack

obstructed potty bowl.

Well now... monumental poetic challenge,

I now craftily abbreviate

(think clogged toilet synonymous with blockage)

waste matter after days did accumulate

ready to apply corkerasp* regarding rectal blockage to alleviate.

Imagine impossible mission to defecate

which debilitating scenario mine accursed fate

frequently recurring more often as yours truly i.e. latter day saint Matthew Scott got older rectal affliction compromised me

ordinary easy going demeanor

disallowing, disenabling, and not permitting

me - effecting, emulating, and exhaling Tony the tiger's catchword grrrrrreat

if queried about my constitution

absolute ecstasy found me

expelling bowel movement

weighing approximately hundredweight

though relieved, nevertheless

the toilet bowl clogged,

correcting historical records

on two accounts despite

causing potential ruckus

disaster buffs may incriminate

nsync notion huge bowel movement (mine) took down (analogous voyage to bottom of sea) toto Lusitania

and actually additionally

caused separate incident

complex edifice (think Titanic) both sturdy ships of state

former rendered

latter purportedly crashing

into iceberg me mate.

------------------------------------------------

*Lemme explain the essence of a corkerasp

Whenever constipation a pain in the ass

just maneuver this lightweight metal contrivance made of brass

no matter if anybody considers this action crass

apply corkscrew motion up the alimentary canal to remove waste

which most likely will be thick like petrified paste

stuck deep inside bowels of the sphincter muscles and solidly encased

causing severe cramps within lower gastrointestinal tract

inducing one to wince nonstop from being with fecal matter packed

and no amount of primal groaning doth loose this hard fact

nor does imagery of freed turd

ease the anal plight

no laughing matter despite how absurd

squeezing does nothing even applying all inner might

thus necessary to incorporate unnatural intervention to unclog

rectal blockage + uncomfortable bloating swelling anus the size of a hog

disabling barely any ease to stand let alone jog

yet tis essential per extricating what feels like one swallow a log

lest epitaph induce impossible eulogy unless spoken the language of Prague.

Every ounce of effort required to bend

over gingerly affixing plunger end of device to business rear end

best accompanied with close companion or friend

since dirty deed done dirt cheap trick will ideally rend

rock solid excrement to roll and crashing sound send

upon the bathroom floor

possibly inducing seismic waves less or more

whereby toilet bowl water will pour

over the sides akin to white caps near sea shore

without doubt making gluteus maximus extremely sore.

[writer59january13]

Prolonged offal bout courtesy constipation... reduxa worse hellish fate than perdition

At least forty eight hour time span lapsed whereby big boy wanted to cry

explaining how yours truly

felt he would die an undertaking malaise

found me experiencing physical duress vis a vis,

a bowel movement,

wherein waste unable to expel

from the anus of this guy,

which bout with rectal obstruction

found me doubled over

with lower abdominal distress

whereby comfort found me unable to lie

down nor sit upright

(with back padded with pillows

against the cellar brick wall),

thus severe bloating a bonus well nigh

and managed on a previous occasion

to muster the means to bare

frigid arctic vortex aire to purchase

the Acme brand Metamucil,

which akin to Drano doth ply

thru the excretory tract

supposedly loosening the stools,

which optimism (product

didst earn claim to fame) generated a sigh

if that expressed intent

to cease LivingSocial would try

humph enjoining this lxii year old married male

to cede victory to the grim reaper, who would vie

as winner de jure

to this common fellow invoking libretto

ohm resistant understudy waste not want not

allowing, enabling and providing relief,

without successful defecation

despite the oppressive urge to bolster this Uriah

heap of balled up and tuckered out

five foot and ten inches of lovely bones,

thence mouthing retraction

of former thought to cease existing

though a non-bull lever

in any power broker qua mankind

relief at long last provided posterior answered prayer

yet, this scrivener

scrutinizes his recurring

pain in the ass jagged torture

and asks a rhetorical one word question "WHY"?

As of early August 20th, 2021-

I finally move bowels but...

mine whole body felt analogous to sluggish mollusk stasis of lower bowel found yours truly

doubled over in gastrointestinal agony

as if elephant or red (livid with rage)

bull thrust his tusk into mine tush

ah...voila... hence subsequently I tout blessed magic of laxatives Amitiza, Dulcolax, and Miralax

relieving lower abdominal and rectal

discomfort agonizing me dawn to dusk.

Upon swallowing first or second named laxative

or sprinkling Mix-in powder pack,

within 8+ ounces of water,

not aesthetically pleasing major drawback

foisting human waste heavy as a full coalsack

sometimes burned and scorched black

movement came swift, on par how fast

snaky Mister liquid Plumber doth attack

obstructed potty bowl.

Well now... monumental poetic challenge,

I now craftily abbreviate

(think clogged toilet synonymous with blockage)

waste matter after days did accumulate

ready to apply corkerasp regarding rectal blockage to alleviate.

Imagine impossible airy mission to defecate

which debilitating scenario (mine) accursed fate

frequently recurring more often as yours truly ages i.e. latter day saint Matthew Scott got older rectal affliction compromised me

ordinary easy going demeanor to boot

disallowing, disenabling, and not permitting

me - effecting, emulating, and exhaling Tony the tiger's catchword grrrrrreat

if queried about my constitution

when alas... absolute ecstasy found me

expelling bowel movement with effort

weighing approximately 0.71428571stone

though relieved, nevertheless

the toilet bowl clogged,

prompting me to correct historical records

on two accounts despite

causing potential ruckus

disaster buffs may incriminate

nsync notion huge bowel movement (mine) took down (analogous voyage to bottom of sea) toto Lusitania

and actually additionally

caused separate incident

complex edifice (think Titanic) both sturdy ships of state

former rendered, lifted, foundered...

latter purportedly crashing

into iceberg mate.

[writer59january13]

100% Natural psyllium husk delivered solid ecstasy

As of late - I could not but barely move

mine whole body felt analogous to sluggish mollusk frequent constipation found yours truly

doubled over in gastrointestinal agony

as if elephant or red (livid with rage)

bull thrust his tusk

into lower abdominal area dawn to dusk

ah...voila... hence subsequently I tout blessed natural laxative the magic of Daily Fiber

100% natural psyllium husk.

Upon sprinkling two dose powder pack,

which orange flavor sweetened

upon missus mishmash pop slop,

not aesthetically pleasing major drawback

heavy as a full coalsack

sometimes burned and scorched black

movement came swift, on par how fast

snaky Mister liquid Plumber doth attack

obstructed potty bowl.

Well now... monumental poetic challenge,

I now craftily abbreviate

(think clogged toilet synonymous with blockage)

waste matter after days did accumulate

ready to apply corkerasp* regarding rectal blockage to alleviate.

Imagine impossible mission to defecate

which debilitating scenario (mine) accursed fate

frequently recurring more often as yours truly ages i.e. latter day saint Matthew Scott got older rectal affliction compromised me

ordinary easy going demeanor to boot  

disallowing, disenabling, and not permitting

me - effecting, emulating, and exhaling Tony the tiger's catchword grrrrrreat

if queried about my constitution

when alas... absolute ecstasy found me

expelling bowel movement with effort

weighing approximately hundredweight

though relieved, nevertheless

the toilet bowl clogged,

prompting me to correct historical records

on two accounts despite

causing potential ruckus

disaster buffs may incriminate

nsync notion huge bowel movement (mine) took down (analogous voyage to bottom of sea) toto Lusitania

and actually additionally

caused separate incident

complex edifice (think Titanic) both sturdy ships of state

former rendered foundered

latter purportedly crashing

into iceberg me mate.

------------------------------------------------

*Lemme explain the essence of a corkerasp

Whenever constipation a pain in the ass

just maneuver this lightweight metal contrivance made of brass

no matter if anybody considers this action crass

apply corkscrew motion up the alimentary canal to remove waste

which most likely will be thick like petrified paste

stuck deep inside bowels of the sphincter muscles and solidly encased

causing severe cramps within lower gastrointestinal tract

inducing one to wince nonstop from being with fecal matter packed

and no amount of primal groaning didst loose this hard fact

nor does imagery of freed turd

ease the anal plight

no laughing matter despite how absurd

squeezing does nothing even applying all inner might

thus necessary to incorporate

unnatural intervention to unclog

rectal blockage + uncomfortable bloating swelling anus the size of a hog

disabling barely any ease to stand let alone jog

yet tis essential per extricating what feels like one swallowed a log

lest epitaph induce possible eulogy possibly spoken the language of prague

every ounce of effort required to bend

over gingerly affixing plunger end of device to business rear end

best accompanied with close companion or friend

since dirty deed done dirt cheap trick will ideally rend

rock solid excrement to roll

and release crashing sound sent

upon the bathroom floor

possibly inducing seismic

waves less or more

whereby toilet bowl water will pour

over the sides akin to white caps near sea shore

without doubt all the while gluteus maximus extremely sore.