The Heart Heats, The Depth Works
Esperanza Porcambio

(A letter from Esperanza to Ben when she was angry at him for something)

Lose some weight and surprise me with a rose. Then we’ll talk.


P.S. Seriously call my house, plan it with my mom and come over with fewer pounds and a rose. It’s not that fucking hard.

The Back of a Book

(If I ever write a book and get to write some little summary or something on the back of it, I probably will just rant like this, except less… biased? This is a characterized version. Kind of a mix of Esperanza Porcambio and smart teen boy angst.)

You know what I find most interesting about life? Everything. Horrible, I know, but I really do find interest in everything. Except for politics. Politics obtain a different meaning, not a meaning in the livelihood of those of us whole actually live and are not the condemned souls and slaves to the almighty Gods Stock Market and Economy. No, politics, I have no interest in.

In the days of my youth, which are now, I happen to understand and find interest in many ideas. The atrocity of which may sit as I stare unwillingly at it, willing to be not or for it to be not, which ever may be easier so I may continue moving swiftly through life in order to reach some extraordinary goal beyond my thoughts and imagination. Or just get a job and go do something fun and not crazy. This atrocity wishes to help me obtain my wildest dreams, reach the most amazing heights that any living or dead person who die or re-die to see. I hate it.

I wish for my life to be as full of atrocities as possible in order to fulfill my unquenchable thirst for decent drama and entertainment in the tampered lives of those humans I delight wholesomely in playing with. The method to these unquenchable madnesses complicates the very fabric of time and space and destroys the Maker herself in a raging fit of romance and intrigue. The most complicated idea in the world, the most easy to mix up in, the hardest to escape, is thought.

The best thing about thought is how unpredictable it is. You could be reading these ideas and thinking about anything else, even though the world may believe that you are reading and therefore receiving information from the text, while in fact you continue to daydream in an epilepsy of your own making. What I really wonder, REALLY REALLY, is why you even bothered to read this!

I mean, these back covers just destroy what the book is about! Where is the intrigue? The mystery? If you want to know what the novel is about, read it! So pick this up, I dare you. You might find something remotely interesting. Or not. Whatever you what to do.

Esperanza Porcambio

(This is a piece of fictional prose. Some aspects may be autobiographical; most are not.)

When people start writing, there usually must occur an event which provokes them to. Heartbreak, Reading a good book, a death, a birth, some life altering thing that just happens.
I’m not life altering. I don’t provoke people to write. I barely provoke myself to write. I just… write. And when I do, for a while there, it is the most fascinating thing in the world. Then the muse leaves.

A couple of days ago, I lost my voice.
It’s back. I don’t want it here.
What a blessing it would be. Just to never talk, just to be good and clean and never lie because of it.

I suppose it would be a lie. I would be able to talk.

I have a bedroom. I live in it. I only go downstairs for food, and my only friends are books, stuffed animals, my computer, music, and Ben.
Ben is my lover. He doesn’t live here. He lives on my computer.
Don’t get me wrong, he’s a real person, and I see him when I go to school.
I mostly see him on my computer.

Right now I’m in my room. It is really very comfy up here, with books everywhere and a desk I never use and lamps and dreamcatchers and bears that say I love you when they are really lying.
I was raped.

Well, no. THAT is an exaggeration. A boy touched my bosomness and squeezed his oversized hand down my pants to do- you know, he was so just uncoordinated with whatever the hell he was doing, I don’t even know. But yeah, that kind of scarred me.

I trusted the guy. Not with my life or anything, but I trusted him to not try anything like whatever the hell that was. Then I vowed to destroy him. Piece by piece.

I set out the plan like this: Calculate. First I let him believe I was fine, and then I fell into a pit of anger at the boy. Then I was nice again, and led him on like I liked him. Then I came up with a nice big finale, a dance where I performed some singing for people and hung off of all of my friends and Ben. While the boy watched and I ignored him.

I dish out emotional revenge. It’s how I work, or try.

I haven’t forgiven the bastard. Oh he forgave me but I will never forgive him.

Ben… he is my soul. I don’t really talk to him, but I’m physically attached to him, or maybe wirelessly.

And I lost myself and I don’t think I’ll find me again. Through Catharsis I think, sure. That’s why I feel this huge need to not talk, to not give the world the intelligible stuffs from my mind but to take the world away with me when I die in my mind so I can always remember things.

I wish I loved me.

Author’s Analysis of Lilith’s End

Lilith’s End is centered around the woman whose story was banished from the bible. She was created from the earth just like Adam was in the story of Adam and Eve, but she refused to have sex with Adam and let him dominate her. For this, God banished her. From then on she was rumored to be the primary succubus of succubi, raping men in their sleep to have her lilim children.

In this modern-life adaptation, I proposed a theory on how Lilith lives forever. She has the young body she originally had from her creation, but when she becomes sterile, she must kill herself and be reborn from the earth, as in burying her as we do any of our other dead. In the story, there is a man who is obsessed by her- he is her slave and possibly the person most directly in the line of Adam at the time. (Adam’s eldest son to his eldest son to his eldest son and so on) It’s revenge on Adam and God.

This man, though never named, has the job of digging up Lilith once she is reborn. He suffers from her control of his mind through her ghost haunting him. His inability to interact correctly with other human beings probably comes from being raised by Lilith as a slave. Lilith does have sex with him after the rebirth supposedly to “renew her bond with Adam.” In my belief, Lilith did not wish to be dominated by Adam, but wished to dominate or equate him, which she does with his lineage. Also, Adam’s direct sons are created through Lilith’s manipulation of the current son to rape or consensually have sex with a daughter within close lineage of Eve, causing possible cases of incest.

Anyway, the man is mad. A part of his mind is vaguely aware that he is a slave, possibly a part where Adam remains to fight Lilith, and tries to free him from her grasp by putting him in prison, or distracting him from his main goal. Unfortunately, the man’s mind is very muddled and his rebeling part of his mind can only make him say “I killed her.” After police figure out that the death of Lilith was a suicide, they send him to a mental facility. He escapes somehow, hurting himself in the process, then follows Lilith’s spirit to the grave where he digs her up and has sex with her.

Now, without looking for meaning in this piece, it is truthfully disturbing.

I really made this as a metaphor for the rebellion of every individual against everything: that which they find pleasure in, that which is good for the world supposedly. This relates to my theory of Inconsistency. People stop things, or at least I stop things, and start up opposites. There is never any quiet, unified pace of consistency, I understand that, but life lacks consistency altogether. Lilith employs this pattern of inconsistency. She does use a pattern of life and death, of the systematic stealing of Adam’s sons, but she creates inconsistencies in the world around her, such as how one minute she and the man are having sex, and then a while after he’s listening to her have sex without him and it lulls him to sleep. He’s used to it, but he’s used to everything by now. It’s this pattern of inconsistency, in this case the opposite opposite opposite scenario.

I could talk about this forever, but trust me, even I would get bored of myself. I’ll stop here.

Lilith’s End (PG 13)

“They say everything happens for a reason.”


They lost me at hello. Men in black suits and sunglasses that gazed light and decisive objectivity. Skin pale and shiny, mouths curt with secrets. Clammy hands, small wrists. A gun, a few weapons, inside of them, beneath them, within the reach of a button. Unsure, yet appearing confident in action. Derisive but precise. Hateful in appearance but commandeering in acknowledgement. I knew I was caught. Between that death, and that reality which made me one of them, treated me like I was part of them, when my skin was not pale and my weapons were not easily attainable. They had caught me in a web of lost, that very place one goes to escape from the opposite of what one is doing. And so I must be dark, I must be competently subjective, confident inside but weak and unsure on the outside, radiating friendliness, complimentary. Sloppy. Nothing they were. But everything they weren’t.

“Listen, we need information on the assault of this young woman.”

Pictures. Bloody, dead alive beautiful pictures of her, that woman without a life. She floated from the photos as if an angel, her own lush skin opposing that of the hand holding the facade, eyes rolled back, mouth open, screaming life and words that no one ever heard. She knew me, and came to me in my daydream of the moment, descending upon my shoulders to hold me. Her mouth still in a scream, her white eyes staring in judgment. Judge me, I dare you. Men watched her. Her bloodstained torso rested smoothly against my back, the friction barely noticeable as she pushed me onward to our goal, our beauty. My own eyes became hers, and we looked upon men.

“I killed her.”

My mouth moved at its own accord and her grip became deathly tight. Anger radiated from her but my mouth sought other things, and was of its own volition.


“I killed her.”

I killed her.”

I killed her.”

I killed her.”

I killed her.”

I killed her.”

And we came to a prison where they placed me in a cell. She lay across my back, severed breasts held up by my solidness, mouthing those words. Her arms draped their blood across my shoulders, and I softly touched them, feeling  the coolness. Her legs were no more, left behind so she could never support herself again.

“I killed her.”

“Shut up.”

Guard hit a stick against the bars. Inmates wallowed. She was everything. Her body slipped off of me onto my bed, and I fell on top of her heavily, ripping her breasts off of her and licking the eyeballs with kisses, so maybe she may close them. She lay more defenseless than before, no legs to open, no clothes to pry off. Everything I had wanted, all of the weakness. I lusted for her as always, and her state only invited me to push into her… In sickness, I let her lie. My own body came to rest beside hers, and I let her lie. The weakness of her, how she was no longer threatening, hurting, hunting me… I needed that pain, but she could no longer provide. So I let her lie open to the ceiling, torn apart in vicious splendor, so as to restore her identity. She was merely weak now. Let it wait.

“… Trial.”

Courtroom. People. She sat in the empty seat at the back where I set her when I arrived. I wanted her to watch this. I didn’t want to leave her alone. Time progressed.

“Can we bring you up to the stand?”

Another man, a black suit. Without his sunglasses his eyes bulged and twisted wildly in his head. Taking my hand, he lead me to a box where people stared upon. Small, I felt below the ground. At least she was there.

“So, let’s begin.”

Plaintiff. Black suit. Men. No glasses, but with keen, small eyes that darted to and fro, annoyed with everything they saw so as to seek a different pleasure item for scrutiny. They rested hungrily upon me, and she stared whitely from the back. I smiled.

“I killed her.”


“I killed her.”

“… Is that what you’re pleading? Guilty?”

“I killed her.”

The other bulgy eyed man called out some words. “… Psychiatric help…. Damaged….”

Man in a black suit. A robe really. Highest of them all. Looked down upon me.

“She committed suicide, you know. She left a suicide note in her hand writing. All the proof is here. So why do you claim responsibility?”

“I killed her.”

“Did you cause her suicide?”

“I killed her.”

Robed man sighed.

“Get this nut out of my courtroom.”

“I killed her.”

“I killed her.”

She wrapped around me as I left.

Walls of white, and people. Cages are always the same. Nice people here, men said. But a window was calling. An escape was perfect. I could see her grave.

I fell. Parts of me hurt, but not as much as she had hurt. She was the epitome of pain. My love, my vain. Pride for it, I felt it all, and so I continued, following, arm numb and broken. She led me to the place. Men had hidden her body in another case, in another place. So I dug. She sat beside me, weak, but surrounded by my love, so as to give her a shield from wandering eyes. How I love her, my master. Earth churned around me. Ground flew behind me. Softly. And there with the chime of a bell was a casket, and I opened it carefully.

“You always take such a long time.”

I extended my hand and she took it, her body another solid form, her weakness gone. Her body sloped as usual, the thighs tight with youth, supple. I carried her out of her grave and kissed her sweetly upon that mouth which had screamed words. Her lips caressed my own, and her hands warped around my body and she took me in and we reached the surface, falling to it. Her white dress ripped between my restless fingers. Against me, on top of me, around me she went, swaying with rhythm, dancing to a song of the past which we had danced so many times before. And I smiled with those lips against mine as I had her once again, and again, until the moon was full.



“Let’s return.”


She stood up, her naked body steaming the moonlight, and took my tattered coat upon her shoulders. I stood and gently picked her glory form from the ground into my arms, and carried her forward, onward. She led me.

House was there. I carried her in, and she immediately took up the phone.

“Off with you now, love.”

Her lips whispered it silently, and I crawled into my room. I lay down and listened to her soft voice chanting those sweet words and soon enough, the screaming was heard and the banging began. And so I slept, lulled by the rhythm of her love.