Journals of a Psychopath



Elaina the mother of Clarkson's daughter.


The black-angels flapped their wings in frustration their faces were hideous. Slashing my torso and the red-solution ran from the wound, I allowed the scarlet-substance to fall onto the roots of the Taskmasters, it satiated for a period, and they forgot the disappointment about Taylor. My wanton lust for Lady Flarice increased, I was her Knight, my pride was immense, sources of adrenalin, and the narcissi in me controlled events.
      “You are impressive,” the Trees said.
They breathed down my neck and their breath arctic icy-cold, the hairs on the back of my isthmus stood to attention, and I was relieved, when they swished away.

The Lady Flarice’s House

Walking through the unlocked doors and the Lady Flarice gripped a bottle of wine she beamed.
      “Do you want one?”
Slinking into the kitchen and I pursued her, she discharged some liquor, holding the glass, she eyed me with spurn.
      “You think you are too grand for me,” I said.
      “No I do not, but I do possess a sense of doom.”

The Bistro

Pep was with me and folk inspected, as we moseyed to the seat. Perry was dejected, as he walked to the restroom, and Elaina gawped when she came to me.
      “Some steaks and I want you.”
Perry returned and we ate our food, Elaina moved in and out of the tables, Perry watched, but Elaina peered at me.
      “You have an admirer are you going to go there?” Perry asked.
      “Perhaps I will.”
      “She is presenting as if you already had her.”
      “All women glance at me in that way.”
      “I do not know how you do it.”
      “Oh, yes you do my body is to die for.”

Global Scriggler.DomainModel.Publication.Visibility
There's more where that came from!