It’s a tee. It’s a dress. It’s the new Graphic T-shirt Dress.

The Petal'philles Chapter I +Genesis+

Second Draft, First Draft perusable below second draft. TY
She was wet, and the sound her inside’s made as they leaked into the trash bag, slowed my heart rate. Were anyone to see me, single white female, taking the apartments back stairs, they’d be assured “poor little Emma”, was merely struggling under the weight of her weeks worth of trash. As soon as the words “taking out the trash” ran through my mind, I laughed aloud the cacophonous giggle escaping so quickly I barely had time to temper it. The sound, oddly acoustic, my own voice echoing off the stairwell scared me. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t consider the fact I’d done a poor job shutting the bitch’s mouth, but one prod to the gelatinous heap that was the hefty bag, renewed my confidence in a job not only well executed, but thoroughly enjoyed. The shriek of the door merely 10 feet below me brought my eyes upward and froze my blood. It wasn’t until his eyes locked on mine that I knew this dog would roll over with the simple threat of a belly rub.

Onyx orbs met the yellow of my hazel and he looked away. It took everything inside me to abandon the path of least resistance, but I held my tongue. I passed him without uttering a sound. To still my tongue I imagined the face of the woman who had fed me so many years ago in that back alley, asking only that I remember her and what the world had done to her: “Don’t let the world tread on you, Dearest Emma” she cooed. “Stand up and be counted, be heard.”

I filed this memory with the few precious memories I thought worthy to bring to the States from Russia. I placed it deep within the walls of my cerebellum that August night in 97 when I fled. I fortified it with mental kryptonite and guarded it from the thieves that often leave holes in my memory, and in moments like this, I bathed in it for distraction.

The image of his face in the sweet gypsy woman’s clothing detoured me enough to focus my resolve on simply making it out the back door. Not everything that could be preyed upon, should be preyed upon. He was stepping closer, the long coat he wore billowing as he stepped quickly one level to the next. His smell which preceded him, fanned by the coat, hit me like an invisible wall reminding me of October. Burning leaves and leather, mystery wrapped in safe warm comforting package. Nearly lost in my revelry of such memory evoked by the fragrance, I almost missed the small gesture he made as he passed. Head cocked slightly towards me, nostrils flaring like that of a blood hounds, I heard the hiss of the wind he pulled quickly and keenly into his olfactory passages, pausing but just for a split second he flashed his storm cloud eyes my way, what I didn’t see there sent my brain reeling in fantasy and wild hope. What it was I couldn’t place just then, and I didn’t want to fearing it’d take away the small seed of hope it had planted somewhere deep in my numb and colorless soul. I loved a game of intrigue you see, more than solving the problem, more often than not I watch Jeopardy to see the “genius” fail, a true cynic to the end, endlessly searching for the hand basket. I was hooked before I realized it, indebted to him before I understood what he was, or what that made me.

Original Rough Draft
She was wet, and the resulting sound slowed my heart rate. Were anyone to see me taking the apartments back stairs, they’d be assured “poor little Emma”, single white female, was merely struggling under the weight of her heavy weeks worth of trash. As soon as the words “taking out the trash”, ran through my mind I laughed aloud, the cacophonous giggle escaping so quickly I barely had time to temper it. The sound, oddly acoustic, my own voice echoing of the stairwell scared me. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t consider the fact I’d done a poor job shutting the bitches mouth, but one prod to the gelatinous heap that was the hefty bag, renewed my confidence in a job not only well executed, but thoroughly enjoyed. The shriek of the door merely 10 feet below me brought my eyes upward and froze my blood. It wasn’t until his eyes locked on mine that I knew this dog would roll over with the simple threat of a belly rub.

Onyx eyes met the yellow of my hazel and he looked away. It took everything inside me to abandon the path of least resistance but I held my tongue, I passed him without uttering a sound. To still my tongue I imagined his face the face of the woman who had fed me oh so many years ago in that back alley, asking only that I remember her and what the world had done to her “Don’t let the world tread on you, Dearest Emma”, she cooed, “stand up and be counted, be heard.” The image of his face in the sweet gypsy woman’s clothing detoured me enough to focus my resolve on simply making it out the back door. Not everything that could be preyed upon, should be preyed upon. He was stepping closer, the long coat he wore billowing as he stepped quickly one level to the next, his smell which preceded him, fanned by the coat, hit me like an invisible wall reminding me of October. Burning leaves and leather, mystery wrapped in safe warm comforting package. Nearly lost in my revelry of such memory evoked by the fragrance I almost missed the small gesture he made as he passed. Head cocked slightly towards me, nostrils flaring like that of a blood hounds, I heard the hiss of the wind he pulled quickly and keenly into his olfactory passages, pausing but just for a split second he flashed his storm cloud eyes my way, what I didn’t see in those eyes sent my brain reeling in fantasy and wild hope. What it was I couldn’t place just then, and I didn’t want to fearing it’d take away the small seed of hope it had planted somewhere deep in my numb and colorless soul. I loved a game of intrigue you see, more than solving the problem, more often than not I watch Jeopardy to see the “genius” fail, a true cynic to the end, endlessly searching for the hand basket. I was hooked before I realized it, indebted to him before I understood what he was, or what that made me.

The Petal'philles Chapter I +Genesis+

Edibl3leper

New Haven, United States

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Artist's Description

Pre-Story, lol, I hate to over explain myself. Let me just say, this is merely the beginning, I appreciate critique and insight no matter what it may be, please keep in mind I have only just begun.

At this time it is meant to be a voyage into the completely insane sanity that is a female killers mind. In the end I hope to high light the love that can be found in darkness, without adding flowering flourishes. Yet more than anything else, I wish to display the raw human cruelty than can exist behind long eyelashes and short stature. I am not a feminist, and neither is Emma, but I venture to say, we could all learn a thing or to from her view.

If you would like to continue on reading Emma’s journey, please look into my folder named Work in Progress , that is where you will find the following chapters numbered. I did this in the hopes of making the story easier to leave and come back to, tied up in neat little packages.

Artwork Comments

  • Arcadia Tempest
  • Edibl3leper
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Edibl3leper

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