Sylvia Plath Novels & Stories

I am confused. "I took a deep breath and listened to the brag of my heart: I am, I am, I am. These are Sylvia Plath's words from the Bell Jar." Now it makes sense. Sylvia Plath is a good choice when her words speak your tired soul. "Meaning she thought she was having a phone call with Sylvia Plath?" I concluded. "She's completely mad." Alyssa fails to bite her tongue again.

Raymond Pls, don't make this hard for us, Sylvia was gunned down and for all we know she can't survive it, so I begging you to Pls find a place in your heart to accept me in" i cried him "Get your digusting hands off me... why are you being overly dramatic? You us together so that was why you wanted Sylvia dead? You are so heartless." He yanked at me and jerked my hands down. "This is all Sylvia fault!!!!!" She screamed throwing up and biting her palm on the desk,, "This is all that whore's fault, that homewrench! That slut, that conquete, I hate her so much with all my heart!!! So if you chooses to call heartless I don't care ."

Shirley didn’t like to make people uncomfortable; even if she were in a foul mood, she always presented herself to others like everything was okay – except for people who were close to her. Shirley went into the living and wheeled the knob to switch on the light in the living room, but the bulb wouldn’t light. She turned it back and forth several times, but the bulb wouldn’t turn on still. Shirley managed to trek into the kitchen regardless of how dark the entire place was. She was aware of her house inside out; she could close her eyes and know where every single thing was. She hit the switch, and the kitchen light lit up. Shirley unintentionally looked above the refrigerator and spotted th

she is all cut up, who could have done this to her? Why did I bring her to this dangerous place? if anything bad happens to her, I will kill myself too. “What happened to you Sylvia.” I ask, as I notice a huge knife sticking out of her tummy. The knife is all the way inside her, it must have cut her intestines in two. who could be this cruel to hurt someone innocent like this. By now I cannot control the tears down my face. She breathes so heavily, her legs start moving, her body follows too, in a strange way, as if she is convulsing.

Her voice was hoarse now, almost lazy. “There was this woman. Real talent scout. Real manager. Ryder got her drunk one night and Josephine—she was our friend—stabbed her, dumped the body, and used her identity. Surgery, forged documents. She became Elsa Palmer. Sylvia’s new manager. Just like that.” “And Ryder?” I asked. She smiled. Twisted and ruined. “Sylvia killed him. I know she did. He went missing right after he told her he’d release the pictures. Her nudes. We had everything—videos, emails. Proof. And then he disappeared. I knew she did it. That bitch. She took everything from me.”

“Live and wait, you bastard. I’ll be a thorn in your existence as I sharpen my sword, waiting for the day you meet your death in my hands.” Sylvia opened the box she used as a bed. Inside were a few of her possessions, such as a small pouch. She stuffed the pocket watch inside, buried it under her spare dress, then secured the box shut. She took a basket with its bottom gone and placed it on top. It was to let Shote know that it was her bed. ‘It’s a long way off, my revenge,’ she thought. Beside the box, Sylvia found a couple of beaten-up buckets with pieces of rags hung on their rims and a pair of worn-out leather boots.

Women danced in various costumes, some elaborate, others minimal. A woman in a black suit approached me. Older, confident, the kind of person who'd seen everything twice and wasn't impressed anymore. "First time?" she asked. "That obvious?" "You have that look." She gestured toward the back. "I'm Madam Fantasy. I run this establishment. What can we do for you?" "I have a Private booth. And I was recommended someone named Jailbird." She lifted an eyebrow, not surprised but definitely more attentive now. “Jailbird is one of our most requested performers. I hope you understand she doesn't come cheap.”

“I took a deep breath and listened to the old brag of my heart: I am, I am, I am.” ~Sylvia Plath **CALISTA** I woke up to a silence so complete it felt wrong, like my body had forgotten how to exist or how to feel pain. My eyes stayed shut, pupils roaming in the darkness. There had been no screaming this time, no pull of rushing waves, so I lay still, telling myself that it was not over. But the waves did not come, and no voices rang out—just the eerie silence, and darkness, and me.

“You just want to keep her and toy with her until she dies…” ….. At the Ardly family’s mansion. “Young master, take a look at this.” Samson’s subordinate passed him some footage. “Miss Plath had a miscarriage because she felt into an icy pond. She had a miscarriage during her first trimester because of the shock. I’ve done some investigating, and the people from Princecourt Hotel told me that Miss Plath fell into the pond when she was pushing Miss Victoria Dawn into the water. However, I’ve gotten the CCTV footage, and that wasn’t the truth.”

Later that evening after the Carson’s have gone to bed and the house is quiet, Sylvia got under the covers of her queen sized bed before opening her journal to write her plan. As the young woman started to write her left hand went to her stomach just like every other night before tonight, but instead of being happy about the impending arrival, Sylvia’s heart was heavy for the first time in ten months as her child moved within her. Sylvia continued to write as she thought silently. How would she be able to help her best friend? Would she even allow her to help?