Poop Desperation Novels & Stories

He says the last word eerily slow. “I know all the shit we just went through, I know you probably hate the idea but I’m desperate for someone babe, I’ve been doing so much more work on top of all the shit I already do, I’m sorry, it’s just that..I’m out of options right now.” He says word vomiting his point. Way to make me feel guilty…

#MarriedButAlone #IMarriedACheater #PagesI’llDeleteLater “What is this? A pity poem?” I spat with a scowl, “Who the hell wrote this?!”

he answered flatly, “covered in leaves and a little bit of bird poop.” Her nose wrinkled in horror. “Oh my God! Where?” She immediately started poking at her face and hair, sniffing delicately. “Get it off! Get it off!” she hissed, trying to pinpoint the exact spot where the offending poop might be hiding. “Bird poop is like the herpes of outdoor stains. It just never fully goes away.”

Chapter One: The Debt's Shadow The late afternoon sun slants through the cracked window of the Lee family Kitchen, painting golden streaks across the chipped linoleum counter. I’m scrubbing at work so hard my knuckles ache, sweat beading on my forehead despite the October chill creeping through the walls. My apron, stained with soy sauce and grease, clings to me like a second skin. At least it was empty here for a while as I had the opportunity to clean around. The restaurant, my parents’ dream, a tiny Southeast Asian haven in Brooklyn’s quiet corner where it smelled of lemongrass and despair. The lunch rush was a pathetic trio of customers, and now it’s just me, the hum of a dying fridge, a

I did not even want this job. The words pregnant woman echoed in my head. I hesitated, my heart pounding. Why are you here then? I asked hoarsely. He sighed, a tired sound, and ran a hand through his hair. I need money for my wife’s surgery. Something about the way he said it made my chest ache. Not sympathy exactly, but understanding. Desperation recognizes desperation. I closed my eyes. Slowly, deliberately, I brought the cup to my lips and drank. The water was cool. Clean. It soothed my throat instantly.

Because yes, that’s exactly what I’d been going to say. “Kneel.” I dropped to my knees on the hard floor, the impact sending pain shooting through my kneecaps. I looked up at him, tears still streaming down my face, waiting for whatever he would do to me. “You’re pathetic,” he said, but there was something in his voice—not quite satisfaction, but close. Like my desperation pleased him. Like my brokenness was exactly what he wanted. “Crying and begging like a desperate whore. Is this what you’ve become?”

As I walked through the streets of Chicago with a small box of crap from my desk, I felt almost like a zombie; like my physical body was there, but my brain was a million miles away. I wasn't even crying anymore... I just felt empty; like I didn't have anything going for me anymore.

"Ah, I see you've found my plaything." Mr. Martini steps through the mob towards me, as though he's been called. His shirtfront is smeared with blood, and it appears his nose is shattered. Though it's short-lived, the thought of this tiny girl roughing him up so severely makes my veins tingle with pleasure. A few women and several men respectfully nod as he passes, despite his scars. Most likely, some are trying to win his favor, but others... I make an effort to ignore it. People are changed by money and desperation. forces people to take actions they wouldn't otherwise.

Every time I thought it was over—every time I dared to hope—I was slammed back into agony—a savage cycle of pain and humiliation. The stench was unbearable. The air was thick with it. My own sickness clung to every surface, every breath. My vision blurred, the edges of the world going dark. The 'poison' in that cursed food was wreaking havoc. I'd read about poisoning before and even used the method myself. Sickness, diarrhea, palpitations, and organs failing, causing body pain and exhaustion. Check, Check, Check.

My boyfriend had a border collie named Milo that he treated like his own child. No matter how broke we were, Milo never went without. We waited outside the warehouse club for its 10 p.m. bread markdowns, then bought Milo fresh seafood flown in that morning. We worked until conjunctivitis left our eyes bloodshot and still didn't dare take a day off, all so we could send Milo to a summer camp that cost more than three thousand dollars. I always thought Lucian simply loved animals too much, that people could tough it out but Milo shouldn't have to suffer. Until the Calloway heir threw a lavish banquet in the north end of town for his beloved pet's birthday. I snuck in hoping to take home some f