meat perfume water


A girl stood at the half-ruined walls of the castle, which were all but consumed by a mat of vicious thorns. Here and there, a single red rose bloomed, the color and delicacy out of place among the drab vines and crumbling stone. The girl looked at the identical rose she carried; surely, this was the place.

She had worn her finest gown for the occasion, and now it swirled around her in wind that whistled through the forest. The girl shivered, wrapped her arms around herself against the chill. The wind carried her scent deep into the woods.

"Is there anyone here? My father - he took a rose from the garden..."

She was a rare beauty, the jewel of her village, thoughtful and kind. The boys of the village begged her not to go. "Mlle LeFauve, don't! The prince is a tyrant - a monster. You cannot think to reason with him." But Mademoiselle just smiled at them, sadly and fetchingly, and walked into the forest.

She had no intention of reasoning with the prince, not since she had found her father's mangled corpse, the red rose tucked in his lapel.

Out of the corner of her eye, she could see the sleek shape gliding through the bracken. She pretended not to have seen, and turned her head away slightly, to let the eau de parfum she'd dabbed on her neck waft towards him. A strange and somewhat gruesome concotion, perhaps, but young ladies rubbed themselves with lavender and jasmine to ensnare their prey all the time. It just so happened that her particular prince had less delicate tastes.

"I'm cold," she said, adding a measured quaver to her voice. She thrust her hands into her sleeves, as if to keep them warm, and closed her fingers around the hilt of the Florentine dagger.

Only the faintest rustle indicated that the beast had pounced. Mlle. LeFauve whirled around, and in one smooth motion, fell to one knee and plunged the dagger into the joint of beast's oustretched foreleg. The beast roared in pain and stumbled over its ruined limb, its forequarters pitching to the ground in a mockery of a court bow. Mlle. LeFauve laughed merrily, and swept up her skirts in a formal curtsey.

The creature heaved itself onto three feet, snarling.

"Very well, Votre Altesse," said Mademoiselle LeFauve, as she drew a wicked-looking saber from a slit in her skirt. "Now that we've been introduced - would you care to dance?"

back by popular demand?

Some of my favorite spamlit authors seem to be missing spam_literature. Since I am both beneficent and extremely selfsh, I put forward an actual e-mail I received yesterday in my professional account. Do with it as you will.

subject: ignite redtop biotic biotic functor
whom engel functor candela discriminatory hagen engel
spoken moat perceptible functor commensurate gland forbear sparse commensurate
arrow native flynn forbear sonata
perplex expanse
quietus perceptible yokel perplex bloomington
redtop crafty crafty engel native spoken
crafty commodity nielsen hadamard nielsen perceptible millenia yokel waterloo dwight ignite
homecoming discriminatory flipflop eulerian

Hebrew skate biblical

Hey everyone - thanks to zia_nattora's recent contribution, I feel a renewed enthusiasm for spam literature.  Here's a few seeds, if anyone's interested:

Indias ramayana soldierz
cavalry six unveiling
serial killers time director

And here's my humble offering.  Please note that I am probably the last person on earth that should be writing about Hebrew or WWII naval officers.  If I screw something up, please forgive me.

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goonies, die

Sewerage K. Smokeless, Private Eye

Hey, Everybody! I was pointed here by somehedgehog after posting the following in two entries in my journal, who instructed me to share!

I hope this isn't too long-- if it is, please let me know and I will cut it.

New York, New York, 2007.

They say March comes in like a lion and goes out like a lamb, but something about this particular March told me that the lion and the lamb were making mad, passionate love on the savannah, the days moving from unseasonable heat to freezing hailstorms as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

Of course, the weather didn't do anything for business. Today was cold, not as cold as it had been, but cold enough that Lady Liberty's nips were standing on end underneath that copper gown of hers.

So imagine my surprise when I was unexpectedly interrupted my morning perusal of Flickrbabes by a knock on my office door.

"Come on in," I answered, minimizing the pinups on my laptop screen. I removed my feet from my desk, smoothed down my shirt. Sure, we all do what we have to to keep up appearances.

But I realized that wasn't enough when I saw the doe-eyed dame who came dancing through my door.

"Mr. Smokeless?" she asked, her voice as smoky as my name wasn't. That's me. Sewerage K. Smokeless. And Johnny Cash thought he had it bad when they named him Sue.

The minute the gal walked into my office, I felt the temperature spike like the mercury was going to pop out of the thermometer.

They say there's something about motherhood that makes a woman more attractive, but I say it's widowhood. I don't know about the rest of you suckers out there, but seeing a pregnant belly never struck me as a great big neon "available" sign the way a little black dress and tearstained cheeks can do.

And this one, my friends, was all widow. And all legs. And those legs ended in pumps so shiny that, well, let's just say that what they say about black patent leather isn't entirely myth, why don't we?

But I'm getting off the subject. "Mr. Smokeless?" the lady asked, sniffing into a tissue that she held with nails lacquered so red that for a second I thought her nose was bleeding. "Mr. Smokeless, I have a problem, and they said you'd be the one to talk to. You can call me Fusie."

Fusie?" I asked. I'd heard my share of slick nicknames, but this was a new one. "What's that short for, babe?"

And that dame gave me a look so cold I almost reached for my jacket. "Transfusion," she answered. "Transfusion Unrepentant."

I blinked. For once, somebody else had me beat on the name. "All right, Fusie," I agreed. Hell, there were worse nicknames you could get from Transfusion.


delete grey miasmal

Excerpt from the forbidden text **NAME REDACTED** found on Ruska 4, circa 2439:

And lo! for the second of three promised days
the bubbling pool did heat and stir
releasing its steam and smoke.
And the goodly man cried out in fear.

For what is in the pot but a foul plague
released unto the sky as if the
pits of Hell open up.
And the sky turns dark with the clouds of demons
shades of blue, shades of black, the magnets.

Send them your demons, oh great Cepo
The invaders from the heavens shall
feel your wrath
And turn on their fallen angels of Del,
Apul, and the hated Eyebeam,

And then there will be nothing but
As their books turn to nothingness
And their works
To zero
And one.
  • Current Music
    Dresden Dolls - Delilah (in my head)
Grammar nerd
  • ayeshak

Ode to the Spam folder of my Gmail account

At three
oh four
eh em

From one Pen,
Pen Moran.

Ominous paperclip to the right
of the cryptic first line
(Here Be Attachment)
Warns me off
I fear
and shall not open.

groin -

First line:
This version will be very close to complete, with little else to do but find bugs and squash them...

Contemplating groin bugs,
I click Delete Forever


and resume Civ 4 and hangover nursage.
  • Current Music
    Lake Woebegon

(no subject)

I so rarely get spam thanks to a decent filter, but this one made it through and seemed interesting.

admiral became a planet nearer the inhabitants of the voluminous
  • Current Mood
    exhausted exhausted