Unnamed_narrator on Knotty Biscotti

Since I Died

Tue, 25 Aug 2026 00:00:00 +0000

How very still you sit!

If the shadow of an eyelash stirred upon your cheek; if that gray line about your mouth should snap its tension at this quivering end; if the pallor of your profile warmed a little; if that tiny muscle on your forehead, just at the left eyebrow’s curve, should start and twitch; if you would but grow a trifle restless, sitting there beneath my steady gaze; if you moved a finger of your folded hands; if you should turn and look behind your chair, or lift your face, half lingering and half longing, half loving and half loth, to ponder on the annoyed and thwarted cry which the wind is making, where I stand between it and yourself, against the half-closed window—Ah, there! You sigh and stir, I think. You lift your head. The little muscle is a captive still; the line about your mouth is tense and hard; the deepening hollow in your cheek has no warmer tint, I see, than the great Doric column which the moonlight builds against the wall. I lean against it; I hold out my arms.

You lift your head and look me in the eye.

If a shudder crept across your figure; if your arms, laid out upon the table, leaped but once above your head; if you named my name; if you held your breath with terror, or sobbed aloud for love, or sprang, or cried—

But you only lift your head and look me in the eye.

If I dared step near, or nearer; if it were Permitted that I should cross the current of your living breath; if it were Willed that I should feel the leap of human blood within your veins; if I should touch your hands, your cheeks, your lips; if I dropped an arm as lightly as a snowflake round your shoulder—

The fear which no heart has fathomed, the fate which no fancy has faced, the riddle which no soul has read, steps between your substance and my soul.

I drop my arms. I sink into the heart of the pillared light upon the wall. I will not wonder what would happen if my outlines defined upon it to your view. I will not think of that which could be, would be, if I struck across your vision, face to face.

Ah me, how still she sits! With what a fixed, incurious stare she looks me in the eye!

The wind, now that I stand no longer between it and yourself, comes enviously in. It lifts the curtain, and whirls about the room. It bruises the surface of the great pearled pillar where I lean. I am caught within it. Speech and language struggle over me. Mute articulations fill the air. Tears and laughter, and the sounding of soft lips, and the falling of low cries, possess me. Will she listen? Will she bend her head? Will her lips part in recognition? Is there an alphabet between us? Or have the winds of night a vocabulary to lift before her holden eyes?

We sat many times together, and talked of this. Do you remember, dear? You held my hand. Tears that I could not see, fell on it; we sat by the great hall- window up- stairs, where the maple shadow goes to sleep, face down across the floor upon a lighted night; the old green curtain waved its hands upon us like a mesmerist, I thought; like a priest, you said.

“When we are parted, you shall go,” you said; and when I shook my head you smiled—you always smiled when you said that, but you said it always quite the same.

I think I hardly understood you then. Now that I hold your eyes in mine, and you see me not; now when I stretch my hand and you touch me not; now that I cry your name, and you hear it not,—I comprehend you, tender one! A wisdom not of earth was in your words. “To live, is dying; I will die. To die is life, and you shall live.”

Now when the fever turned, I thought of this.

That must have been—ah! how long ago? I miss the conception of that for which how long stands index.

Yet I perfectly remember that I perfectly understood it to be at three o’clock on a rainy Sunday morning that I died. Your little watch stood in its case of olive—wood upon the table, and drops were on the window. I noticed both, though you did not know it. I see the watch now, in your pocket; I cannot tell if the hands move, or only pulsate like a heartthrob, to and fro; they stand and point, mute golden fingers, paralyzed and pleading, forever at the hour of three. At this I wonder.

When first you said I “was sinking fast,” the words sounded as old and familiar as a nursery tale. I heard you in the hall. The doctor had just left, and you went to mother and took her face in your two arms, and laid your hand across her mouth, as if it were she who had spoken. She cried out and threw up her thin old hands; but you stood as still as Eternity. Then I thought again: “It is she who dies; I shall live.”

So often and so anxiously we have talked of this thing called death, that now that it is all over between us, I cannot understand why we found in it such a source of distress. It bewilders me. I am often bewildered here. Things and the fancies of things possess a relation which as yet is new and strange to me. Here is a mystery.

Now, in truth, it seems a simple matter for me to tell you how it has been with me since your lips last touched me, and your arms held me to the vanishing air.

Oh, drawn, pale lips! Nerveless, dropping arms! I told you I would come. Did ever promise fail I spoke to you? “Come and show me Death,” you said. I have come to show you Death. I could show you the fairest sight and sweetest, that ever blessed your eyes. Why, look! Is it not fair? Am I terrible? Do you shrink or shiver? Would you turn from me, or hide your strained, expectant face?

Would she? Does she? Will she?—

Ah, how the room widened! I could tell you that. It grew great and luminous day by day. At night the walls throbbed; lights of rose ran round them, and blue fire, and a tracery as of the shadows of little leaves. As the walls expanded, the air fled. But I tried to tell you how little pain I knew or feared. Your haggard face bent over me. I could not speak; when I would I struggled, and you said “She suffers!” Dear, it was so very little!

Listen, till I tell you how that night came on. The sun fell, and the dew slid down. It seemed to me that it slid into my heart, but still I felt no pain. Where the walls pulsed and receded, the hills came in. Where the old bureau stood, above the glass, I saw a single mountain with a face of fire, and purple hair. I tried to tell you this, but you said: “She wanders.” I laughed in my heart at that, for it was such a blessed wandering! As the night locked the sun below the mountain’s solemn, watching face, the Gates of Space were lifted up before me; the everlasting doors of Matter swung for me upon their rusty hinges, and the King of Glories entered in and out. All the kingdoms of the earth, and the power of them, beckoned to me, across the mist my failing senses made,—ruins and roses, and the brows of Jura and the singing of the Rhine; a shaft of red light on the Sphinx’s smile, and caravans in sandstorms, and an icy wind at sea, and gold in mines that no man knew, and mothers sitting at their doors in valleys singing babes to sleep, and women in dank cellars selling souls for bread, and the whir of wheels in giant factories, and a single prayer somewhere in a den of death,—I could not find it, though I searched,—and the smoke of battle, and broken music, and a sense of lilies alone beside a stream at the rising of the sun—and, at last, your face, dear, all alone.

I discovered then, that the walls and roof of the room had vanished quite. The night- wind blew in. The maple in the yard almost brushed my cheek. Stars were about me, and I thought the rain had stopped, yet seemed to hear it, up on the seeming of a window which I could not find.

One thing only hung between me and immensity. It was your single, awful, haggard face. I looked my last into your eyes. Stronger than death, they held and claimed my soul. I feebly raised my hand to find your own. More cruel than the grave, your wild grasp chained me. Then I struggled, and you cried out, and your face slipped, and I stood free.

I stood upon the floor, beside the bed. That which had been I, lay there at rest, but terrible, before me. You hid your face, and I saw you slide upon your knees. I laid my hand upon your head; you did not stir; I spoke to you: “Dear, look around a minute!” but you knelt quite still. I walked to and fro about the room, and meeting my mother, touched her on the elbow; she only said, “She’s gone!” and sobbed aloud. “I have not gone!” I cried; but she sat sobbing on.

The walls of the room had settled now, and the ceiling stood in its solid place. The window was shut, but the door stood open. Suddenly I was restless, and I ran.

I brushed you in hurrying by, and hit the little light- stand where the tumblers stood; I looked to see if it would fall, but it only shivered as if a breath of wind had struck it once.

But I was restless, and I ran. In the hall I met the Doctor. This amused me, and I stopped to think it over. “Ah, Doctor,” said I, “you need not trouble yourself to go up. I’m quite well to- night, you see.” But he made me no answer; he gave me no glance; he hung up his hat, and laid his hand upon the banister against which I leaned, and went ponderously up.

It was not until he had nearly reached the landing that it occurred to me, still leaning on the banisters, that his heavy arm must have swept against and through me, where I stood against the oaken mouldings which he grasped.

I saw his feet fall on the stairs above me; but they made no sound which reached my ear. “You’ll not disturb me now with your big boots, sir,” said I, nodding; “never fear!”

But he disappeared from sight above me, and still I heard no sound.

Now the doctor had left the front door unlatched.

As I touched it, it blew open wide, and solemnly. I passed out and down the steps. I could see that it was chilly, yet I felt no chill. Frost was on the grass, and in the east a pallid streak, like the cheek of one who had watched all night. The flowers in the little square plots hung their heads and drew their shoulders up; there was a lonely, late lily which I broke and gathered to my heart, where I breathed upon it, and it warmed and looked me kindly in the eye. This, I remember, gave me pleasure. I wandered in and out about the garden in the scattering rain; my feet left no trace upon the dripping grass, and I saw with interest that the garment which I wore, gathered no moisture and no cold. I sat musing for a while upon the piazza, in the garden- chair, not caring to go in. It was so many months since I had felt able to sit upon the piazza in the open air. “By and by,” I thought, I would go in and up- stairs to see you once again. The curtains were drawn from the parlor windows and I passed and repassed, looking in.

All this while the cheek of the east was warming, and the air gathering faint heats and lights about me. I remembered, presently, the old arbor at the garden- foot, where, before I was sick, we sat so much together; and thinking, “She will be surprised to know that I have been down alone,” I was restless, and I ran again.

I meant to come back and see you, dear, once more. I saw the lights in the room where I had lain sick, overhead; and your shadow on the curtain; and I blessed it with all the love of life and death, as I bounded by.

The air was thick with sweetness from the dying flowers. The birds woke, and the zenith lighted, and the leap of health was in my limbs. The old arbor held out its soft arms to me—but I was restless, and I ran.

The field opened before me, and meadows with broad bosoms, and a river flashed before me like a scimitar, and woods interlocked their hands to stay me—but being restless, on I ran.

The house dwindled behind me; and the light in my sick- room, and your shadow on the curtain. But yet I was restless, and I ran.

In the twinkling of an eye I fell into a solitary place. Sand and rocks were in it, and a falling wind. I paused, and knelt upon the sand, and mused a little in this place. I mused of you, and life and death, and love and agony;—but these had departed from me, as dim and distant as the fainting wind. A sense of solemn expectation filled the air. A tremor and a trouble wrapped my soul.

“I must be dead!” I said aloud. I had no sooner spoken than I learned that I was not alone.

The sun had risen, and on a ledge of ancient rock, weather- stained and red, there had fallen over against me the outline of a Presence lifted up against the sky, and turning suddenly, I saw. . . . . .

Lawful to utter, but utterance has fled! Lawful to utter, but a greater than Law restrains me! Am I blotted from your desolate fixed eyes? Lips that my mortal lips have pressed, can you not quiver when I cry? Soul that my eternal soul has loved, can you stand enveloped in my presence, and not spring like a fountain to me? Would you not know how it has been with me since your perishable eyes beheld my perished face? What my eyes have seen, or my ears have heard, or my heart conceived without you? If I have missed or mourned for you? If I have watched or longed for you? Marked your solitary days and sleepless nights, and tearless eyes, and monotonous slow echo of my unanswering name? Would you not know?

Alas! would she? Would she not? My soul misgives me with a matchless, solitary fear. I am called, and I slip from her. I am beckoned, and I lose her.

Her face dims, and her folded, lonely hands fade from my sight.

Time to tell her a guarded thing! Time to whisper a treasured word! A moment to tell her that Death is dumb, for Life is deaf! A moment to tell her—

Elizabeth Stuart Phelps - 1873

Heatwave

Fri, 07 Aug 2026 00:00:00 +0000

I check my phone.

03:11
Fri, 07 Aug
☁️ 37℃ (99℉)

It’s been 37℃ since the sun went down.

My sheets are wet. My hair is wet. My armpits are wet. There is nowhere on my body that is not, in some small, humiliating way, glistening.

I get up.

I pull on my thinnest, baggiest t-shirt, not bothering with a bra. I step into an equally loose pair of running shorts because the hallway has a camera and I still have some limits. My gym bag is already packed. It’s been packed since Tuesday. Water bottle. Small towel. The dildo and a new bottle of lube, wrapped in the small towel, because… I honestly don’t know why. It felt less pervy that way, I guess.

The service stairwell smells like someone’s cat and wet concrete. Six flights. Sweat trickles down my back before soaking into my shorts. There’s a damp band that stretches across my waist by the time I reach the landing below the rooftop. I stop and listen—nothing, just the apartment building sighing softly—then I lean my shoulder into the heavy fire door as I press the crash bar. The chunk sound startles me, even though I’m expecting it, and I stop again.

Silence.

I’m good.

The roof is dark. The sky is a featureless black dome. The city is orange all around and below.

I’m alone.

I’m sure I’m alone.

The sky goes white in the distance for a second and I jump. Heat lightning. It’s nothing.

I set my bag beside the plastic recliner I dragged up here in June and never took back down, and for a moment I stand there in my sweat-damp t-shirt and my shorts and my running shoes. This is the part where I’ll lose my nerve, if I’m going to lose it at all.

I don’t lose it.

I sit on the chair and the plastic weave is somehow both hot and cold against the backs of my thighs, and that’s such a stupid, strange sensation that I laugh—a nervous, giddy squeal that I clap my hand over immediately. The city doesn’t answer. A car horn, blocks away. A bass line from somebody’s window, muffled to a heartbeat.

I unlace nothing. My shoes stay. I like the shoes. I need to keep them on, or I won’t be able to do this at all.

The shorts come off first. I fold them carefully and set them on the concrete beside the chair like I’m at a doctor’s appointment. The panties—plain, grey, ruined by sweat—I fold those too, and tuck them inside the shorts, because apparently even in the middle of a private crime I have some modesty.

And then, there I am, sitting on a rooftop in August in nothing but a soaked white t-shirt and my running shoes. A breeze puffs by, caressing my short-trimmed pubic hair and my mound. It’s thrilling, and I gasp softly.

I open my bag. Set the water bottle beside the chair, then nervously unwrap the dildo.

It’s laughable. The silicone is an ugly marble of red, brown, and yellow. It reminds me of those super bouncy balls. Along the underside are ridged plates like scales. The head is uncut and not fully exposed, with a curve at the tip that I remember thinking, in the store, that’s going to be a problem and then, two nights later, Oh! Oh, that’s not a problem at all.

I won’t need the lube. I check anyway, two fingers between my legs, separate my outer lips while my middle finger slides between them. I am soaked—have been soaked since the stairwell, maybe since I packed the bag knowing I would do this.

I glide the tip over my dark-brown pussy lips. I breathe out. I push.

The head goes in easily but as the first bumpy nodules around the shaft enter me I sob like I’d been gut-punched. I freeze. I listen. A pigeon, behind me. A distant siren.

Still alone.

I ease the dragon-cock the rest of the way in, whimpering as each ridge pushes down on my entrance. My pussy relaxes once the ‘plate’ is fully inside, and the next begins opening me once more. As the weird tip finds my swollen little spot, I think: Okay. Okay.

The heat isn’t just around me anymore; it’s inside me, a liquid weight pushing against my ribs. I can’t breathe. Every lungful of air is heavy and wet. I shift my hold on the dildo and I pull it out. I gasp again—be quiet!—and grind the slippery underside over my clit. My toes curl inside my shoes, then I jam the toy back inside. Hard.

Flash.

My heart skips a beat, a frantic, fluttering thing in my throat, and my knees slam together. Did someone… the balcony across the street…? I imagine a thousand eyes, a thousand tiny glass circles, watching the way my thighs are trembling, watching the way I’m sweating through this stupid, thin t-shirt.

Heat lightning. That’s all.

I start fucking like I’m trying to punish myself. The rhythm is wrong, it’s too fast, it’s desperate, my hips are slamming against the flimsy chair with an uneven thud-thud-thud that seems loud enough to wake the whole city. Sweat traces the underslope of my breasts and pools beneath me. The smell—roofing tar still cooling from the heat of the day, the city, and my own body—makes my head swim.

Flash.

Someone caught me! No, it’s just in my head. A click! I don’t care, I hammer my pussy even harder with my ridiculous dildo.

Nobody’s watching. I’m alone.

I’m exposed. I’m naked and sweating and being watched by the dark. The schlick-schlick-schlick of the cock pounding my hole horrifies me. It’s too loud! It’s gross!

It’s hot!

I bite my wrist, digging my teeth into my skin, trying to muffle my small, needy whimpers, but it’s no use. The bumpy, ridged tip is hitting that perfect spot and it’s sending jolts of electricity straight to my brain.

I’m spiralling. My thoughts won’t make sense. I’m just nerve endings and heat and paranoia. My eyes go wide, staring at a neighbouring building, and I see them—the lenses. They’re everywhere. In the windows. In the shadows. They’re waiting for me to break.

Flash.

“Oh fuck!” I wail; pathetic and broken and still powerful. I don’t care who hears me. I want them to hear. I need them to watch. I’m giving them a gift! I want them to see me becoming my orgasm. The build is a crushing weight pressing down on my belly, and I’m clawing at the moulded armrest with my free hand, my knuckles white, my breath coming in jagged, hitching gasps.

It’s coming. It’s too big! It’s too much! I can’t hold it—

I scream! A raw, animal howl that tears out of my throat and thunders into the night. My whole body thrashes. My legs kick uselessly against the air. My head snaps back so hard I fear I’ll break my neck. My cunt squeezes and squirts, and my hand is drenched, and I can’t hold on to the monstrous dildo anymore, and it bounces to the rooftop, and the world is gone.

I check my phone.

04:44
Fri, 07 Aug
🌙 27℃ (81℉)

It feels much cooler now. I repack my bag and dress. My panties feel cold, still sweat-damp but no longer body-warm.

I take a breath, hope I won’t bump into anyone in the hall, and open the fire door.

Knotty