bouquets were as fake as her breasts, the brim dry
and thirsted like an Ethiopian child. Fire left her

insides charred, dusted with a raven ash. Though
she spewed flames, nobody could she burn with

acrimonious revenge. Piercing screams haunt,
unstable demons plot, but this fork-tongued

woman had only revenge to make her content.
She bathed in its ecstasy, furrowed into orgasmic

pools of Machiavellian deeds. One day, when her
river becomes sterile, she’ll be merely a grain of
desert sand.

© Donna J. Sanders

Excerpt from the book “Ataraxia”

Now Available for Purchase $13.95 at:
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Photo Credit: © Gary Weathers/Tetra Images/Corbis