A letter from Steve:

Dear readers and fans,

You may have noticed I have not been actively writing this last six months. I would like to apologize to all of my readers.

I was going through sudden severe depression due to circumstances I can’t explain here. I haven’t been in the same headspace I was in when I began writing Tapioca Pudding and therefore would not have been able to properly finish the novel.

I do intend to hit the typewriter or pickup the pen all summer long and finish Tapioca Pudding. Once again, I’d like to apologize for not being active the last six months. You, the reader, are what’s most important and I left you all waiting without explanation.

I beg of you to please continue to support my writing and projects as they progress.

Thank you,

Steve Crowley.

Tapioca Pudding Cover

Tapioca Pudding Cover

Tapioca Pudding

When writers block ensues sometimes it’s nice to put aside the work you’re struggling with and write a completely new project. Sometimes what you write becomes mindless dribble and sometimes it becomes Tapioca Pudding.

Check out this new story on WattPad: https://my.w.tt/UiNb/rCvpZlFyRJ

I Had A Dream.

I Had A Dream!

Last night I dreamt I was a partially famous author and as I walked through an old bookstore I saw a copy of ‘The disconnected’ in a .99 cent bin. A young lady approached me and asked me to sign and for a moment I felt blissful and excited,  intrigued and empowered. It was the most wonderful experience I’ve ever dreamt and I really hope it happens again soon.


Hell On Earth

Hell On Earth

By Steve Crowley

To my mom, Patsy Des Brisay, may your soul be forgiven for bringing me into this world.

1. Pride and Prostitute.

Sarah is a cunt. A judgmental homophobic twat that admits to thoroughly enjoying lesbian sex with her friends but believes in her heart she could never cheat on her husband. Her children are beautiful and live a beautiful lie. I am her secret. I’m not sure if she is afraid she is like me or if one of her children will turn out like me. I’d love to ask her but as quickly as she brought me into her life she cast me to exile without offering closure.

I hope her life becomes a fraction of the hell mine is so she can experience some of the cynical negativity I so freely express.

I can’t wish her damned and condemned to hell or even illness on her family because I have a loving incestuous lust for her I’d hoped she’d felt in return. This attraction was based on facial similarities, narcissism, The idea of loving yourself in the mirror and the taboo sickness required to fuel my fantasies and though I must admit I never perused the fantasy due to law, realism and a fear of rejection I have found another warm body willing to say “Call me Sarah. I am your sister!” to help role play and guide my sick, selfish fantasy. – Welcome to hell. I am the Devil and I was sent to do the Devils business.

2. The Hunter and the Witness.

Suzanne has a low self esteem. She’s beautiful in every way with eyes that allow you to see into her soul and a voluptuous heart shaped behind that cushioned her fall from God. Don’t tell her she has a nice face, eyes or body as these things are out of her control. She’ll accept a compliment about her wardrobe choice, makeup or hair style. She chose these for herself.

You could bring her to a nice restaurant for an intimate date for two but afterwards you’ll sit at the table alone for 45 minutes while she ‘fixes her makeup’ which is code for purging the contents of her stomach as if she is a high school cheerleader with a stepfather whom has boundary issues. $37.50 plus a 10% tip flushed once for the bulk and again for the remainder.

Suzanne may have been created in the image of God but she yearns to maintain the image of a playboy model. It must be difficult to be petite and fit into children’s clothes but see a hippopotamus when she looks into mirrors.

At the very least she gets comfort from the ability to complain she is fat to her obese friends she only maintains friendships with to be the prettiest girl in the room. I assume her friends want to eat her like she’s the glistening pearl at the finale of a rage inspired game of hungry hungry hippos.

Suzanne has no attraction to herself or men. She simply has a desire to be touched as if her father didn’t hug her enough or possibly hugged her a little too much.

Once she’s in bed and enthusiastically consenting while keeping her shirt on for her own comfort to conceal what she considers to be a hideously deformed human body as if she was was a third degree burn victim you can use her to your liking until your fantasies are fulfilled, her boundaries are pushed to the limits and you’re ready to leave her with a false sense of self-worth most women would consider degrading violation. Used. Disposed of.

Have you ever slept with a woman that knows she’s attractive and has self-respect? You’d might as well be cracking open a cold one. – You will recognize my beauty in your heart and you will know my name is the Lord.

3. This Calling.

I have a wide set vaginal cavity that I’ve never understood. My oversized clitoris has always confused me. I am a sexual being that enjoys being touched and I’m quick to moisten from the natural lubricant God has given me. Penetration hurts physically and mentally. I feel as though I’m being stabbed. I’m not a masochist but I feel as though I’d thoroughly enjoy life if I was. I want mutual pleasure from the camera my father gave me that I’ll never experience.

When the aches and cramps started I stayed home from school until the first trickle of blood. I knew that at such a young age I was becoming a woman. I was educated on the matter. It wasn’t comparable to the traumatizing scene of a Stephen King horror novel.

When I broke my hymen or assume it was broken during the insertion of an unnamed foreign object into my sin cave I felt the ache again and once again a trickle of blood became present. I knew this was natural but when it happened the second time and the third time I began to wonder if I was cursed. Is my hymen repairing itself?

It’s been fifteen years ad many failed attempts at sexual satisfaction before I found someone content with mutual masturbation and a gentle exchange of oral love. My partners name is Meghan and I’ll burn in hell for the love we share. A love I’m forced into because of the broken parts God gave me. I’d sooner be damned in hell than live the loneliness that is hell in this lifetime. – There is no angel of mercy.

4. That’s Blasphemy.

I was born out of sin into a Roman catholic family. Due to the shame of having a child out of wedlock, my mother temporarily separated from the church. In my favor and to my liking I was never baptized.

Many members of my family including my grandmother strongly suggested abortion to my mom due to the heinous nature of the way I was conceived. I knew of this from an early age and even in my adolescents if wished I had been aborted. I still wish I was aborted and now I find myself in a constant state of impulsive self-destruct.

I was born an atheist. Some day God doesn’t interfere with our lives but I couldn’t imagine such a divine creator allowing the suffering that was my childhood. If God doesn’t interfere then why was Noah instructed to build the ark so God could drown the non-believers?

I live a wager; if there is an afterlife I’ll be sentenced to an eternity in hell for my sins. If I’m right there is no existence after death. I’d rather live a life that is structured around science. Seeing is believing. It’s possible one day I’ll accept that my own acceptance of the wager implies I’m agnostic but even confronted by God, Jesus, and the angels at the pearly gated I will not bow to God.

I will spit in his face for the burden that was my life before my descent into hell. I am my own God and I will continue to be my own God even while my shackled soul is burned and tortured. We have all sinned. – I’ll see you in hell.

5. Gender issues and general abuse.

We’re the same age and always have been but I guess that goes without saying. I wasn’t attracted to her. Not in the beginning or naturally.

It turned out she’d grow into an attractive model. A former miss teen Canada.

I wasn’t attracted to girls until my abusive homophobe step-father whom would ask over dinner “Do you like girls yet or should I buy you a dress?” He asked daily. When he was finally tired of my negative responses he purchased me a dress to parade me around the neighborhood in shame.
I was six years old.

Ashley lived across the street but she was more than the girl next door. She became a friend and a fantasy. I loved her with my entire heart at one time. She quickly became my best friend and eventually my first kiss. We had our differences.

I wore black to match my soul and she became a valley girl with no soul. She was my first obsession.
So close but to close to be my first victim. I’d watch her sleep through her bedroom window. It was almost voyeurism but she’d intentionally leave her curtains open and lights on at eight in the evening every evening while she changed.

I would manipulate myself to be forever stricken with a near fatal attraction. When we were fifteen years old during the month of October I came home from a punk show, Bad Religion, arguably the best moment of my life which was followed quickly by the worst moment of my life. Ashley was crying on my front porch waiting to tell me my Grandmother had died. My grandmother who was the closest thing to God I’d seen was gone.

Life became a blur and I’m not sure if from that day forward I saw the hurt on her face from that night when I looked at her or if she forever had to embrace the empathy she felt when she watched my soul escape my body but we didn’t talk after that and shortly after Christmas she would move away to live with her mother. I miss her from time to time and I look for signs of her in every partner I have. – Rest In Peace, Childhood.

6. The victim and the gift.

It’s said that if you make a deal with the devil you will receive troublesome and unforeseen circumstances that would be easily predicted if not for man’s lust and greed.

A commonly misquoted expression is that money is the root of all evil. This is untrue as money can solve many of life’s problems. The love of money is the root of all evil…
A gift, even an unwanted gift is still a gift. If a naughty Christian child receives a lump of coal in their stocking they have still received a gift.

My mother received a gift sexually transmitted to her through the heinous crime of rape. She chose to keep the gift and it would grow to become the burden that is me. I am the beast, 666 and though it’s arguable that with this burden she acquired a personal demon that would allow those who trespass against her to see evil and hell on earth the trespasser will not heal from and will be chained and shackled for eternity.

If you hurt my mother I will murder your children and purge your friends. I will cripple you on the inside and you will live in your own personal hell for your sins against God.

It’s also arguable that she herself will be punished for the conception of the anti-Christ. I am living, breathing proof that there is no God and the devil walks among you. Many innocent people have lived a hell they never knew imaginable because of the gift the victim received. – You will walk past a murderer 37 times in your lifetime. I’ve had coffee with one every morning. I like my coffee similar to how you enjoy the cock you have thrust into your throat. Extra large, hot and black.

7. The Hidden One.

To say she didn’t know of me would be a lie. I was in a long term mutually abusive relationship with her best friend in high school. The kind of love where you lie, cheat and steal. You lie, cheat and steal and you like it.

Jenna and I didn’t have a first date. We shared a first hug, first kiss, and first sexual encounter.
“Are you clean?” She asked.
I’d been checked for sexually transmitted infections a few partners ago and I hadn’t received any awkward phone calls that would suggest I’m carrying a disease and it certainly doesn’t burn when I urinate. I have no sores or lesions.
“Of course I am,” I replied with total confidence.
“I don’t want to get pregnant.” She said nervously.
“I can’t get you pregnant. I’m broken.” This could have been a lie but it was based on an educated guess and on the high amount of partners I’ve had, The fact that I’ve never used protection and I have no spawn that I’m aware of.

I felt no chemistry aside from pure physical stimulation. When I rolled off of her she nuzzled her head into my chest. “I love you.” She whispered. I said it back. It would be awkward not to say it and as she closed her eyes prior to drifting to slumber she mumbled: “I haven’t been fucked like that since high school.”

That was the start of a beautiful relationship. Have you ever told a lie and liked it? Jenna is a beauty. One of the beautiful people. She’s thin but has curves. Her skin is tight but she has tiger stripes. Her hair is curly but she straightens it every morning.
She’s a punk but it’s not a phase.

Jenna feels ugly on the inside.
She’s used her mouth as a cum dumpster but would rather it be used as a social ashtray. I, narcissist, I could do better. I just tell myself I don’t have the motivation to try. I use her body and she uses my mind. I fill her body with flesh that stimulates and she fills my mind with questions that don’t materialize. Fair trade.
“Is the world a vampire or an ashtray?” She asks.
“The world both sucks and burns,” I tell her as I stare at an open area of skin on my arm and visualize my next tattoo.

She’s wearing red booty shorts. Only red booty shorts. In this institution, this has become her uniform. If I was her employer there would be a mandatory dress code that enforces this policy. Jenna does everything to please me. I still don’t love her. It’s as if she would have Stockholm syndrome if she wasn’t free to leave at her own free will. I don’t argue with French Toast and oral sex. I’d let her stay for oatmeal and a hand job. – You will see God when I take my mask off.

8. I’ll keep you in my garden.

When I first embraced Jenna she was homeless by choice. Her parents condemned her life choices. Home was safe but not happy. She sought sanctuary in shelters but the morning after our first encounter we lived together.
I still have anxiety about asking her to leave…

I look deeply into her eyes from across our faux oak rectangular table for two purchased at Ikea and assembled by myself. Without instructions, I might add. I contemplate my next sentence to her. Should I say it? But before I know it it’s slipped out of my mouth.

“I want to eat you.”
“I want you to eat me.” She blushes and giggles.
“I want to skin off your vagina and fry it like sizzling bacon.” I’m salivating at the thought.
“Bacon sounds good. Do you want me to make hash browns and cheese omelets too?”

Jenna is starting to grow on me emotionally. If I hadn’t lied about being an orphan I might have introduced her to my family.

Jenna spoke negatively of her father and as if her mother was a complete sheep to his opinion.
“She’s always told me he meant well when we were alone.”

“I don’t want you to see either of them again. You’ll be an orphan like me. No, you’ll be a mother to my child and a child to my heart.”

“Only if you keep care of me and keep me forever.” Jenna smiled.

I owned her now. I owned her from the first night we slept together but now she’s said it aloud. I’m becoming her lover, father, and God. She has never seen a God before but as I provide her needs she no longer has to evolve as if she’s a puppy and I’m her owner. Fetch Jenna, Fetch!!!

Our sheets would have caught fire if our bodies didn’t keep them moist. We would forget to eat anything but each other and sleep as if we were junkies drifted past the point of euphoria.

If we weren’t dead to the world or another soul gave a damn about either of us we would have been reported missing.

This is how passion and lust transformed into obsession and love.

“Never leave my line of sight, sweetheart. It’s you that I adore and you’ll always be my whore. I want to taste you.” I told her.

“You know my taste. You’ve tasted everything I have to offer.” She smiles. She always smiles after she’s done talking as if it’s her way of expressing a fear of saying the wrong thing.

“I want to taste your blood, your essence of life.”

“My darling, my daddy, my Dracula?” She giggled.

Jenna took a letter opener from the nightstand and slid it beneath her flesh, dragging it horizontally across her wrist until the thin slit in her arm opened wide.

“I like it when the red water comes.” Jenna giggled as a pool of blood fills her wound and blood begins to run down her arm and drip on the black ceramic tile beneath us. She offers me her wrist to feed on. Her blood is thick and tastes metallic. I firmly slide my hand up her forearm to her open wound, forcing blood to it. I’m aroused by the idea of drowning in her blood, choking on it and draining her life essence completely but when her skin turns from clear to blotchy and finally pale, flush, I stop feeding. – I am the push that makes you move and I am down with your sickness. I will always haunt you.

9. Mutually disturbed.

Staring at this yellow-haired girl, Jenna. Part of me wants to feed her her favorite meal, watch her favorite movie or show her sexual satisfaction but the rest of me, my demon wonders what her head would look like mounted on my wall like a hunter’s trophy. As if she’s only a game. I’m just not sure I could find glass eyes to replace hers with that could see into my soul the way that Jenna’s do and the thought of watching her eyes decay and rot, losing their purity and innocence make me feel nauseous.

I don’t think I could handle the guilt of her destruction and though it’s arguable that I’ve destroyed her mentality, social life, family structure, dignity, and values. I do this to simply offer her my warm body to cuddle with and help repair her. I am saving Jenna. Together we are made from broken parts. She sought me for salvation but I cannot save her. I can’t even save myself.

“Did you mean what you said?” She asks.
“Elaborate.” Sometimes I’m simply not a mind reader.. sometimes.

“I’ll be a mother to your child?”

“I’m broken be broken and I’d make a terrible father.”

“You’re a great father to me.”

“That’s my point.” I smirked. Jenna is so broken and so innocent. In my own simple way, I think she wants me only.

Jenna and I settle down to watch television for the night and we choose to watch my favorite hardcore pornography. – Choking chicks and sodomy.

“Is this how you see love?” She asks.

“No, This is how I see sex and violence. I only see love when I look at you.”

She stares at the TV just like a junky and says “Man, I wish I was beautiful.”

I had nothing to say. You can’t comfort an interior issue with an exterior compliment. It would be similar to adding racing stripes to a Dodge Neon and trying to drag race. – If you love me let me go. I am the damned soul. You are my sheep and I am your Sheppard.

10. The Comforting One.

Christmas came all too quickly. For Christmas I filled her stocking with her favorite perfumes, hair products and other luxurious essentials that were generally out of our financial reach. Jenna has so many presents that we could’ve easily filled the bottom of another Christmas tree to fit them all under. Each present read “From: Santa Claus.” excluding one. A ring. Just a gold promise ring. I’d never do something as tacky as give an engagement ring as a Christmas present. She gave me a grey guitar. Grey is my favorite color – All 5,000 shades of it,

I’m not sure how she raised the money to purchase the guitar. I assume it involved a casting couch but Jenna isn’t out of my proximity long enough to steal such a generous gift let alone raise the money for it. It only takes two and a half minutes to negotiate and sell your ass to a pawn store owner and I still appreciate the gift more than her dignity. This is all based on assumption, anyhow and in some ways may suggest I’m becoming jealous and insecure about Jenna; This is how I know I’m truly beginning to care.

I want to bash her head in with a hammer and cover her face in acid to make her so hideous no other man would look at her. I don’t need to look at her face with it jammed into a pillow while she gently gasps for air. Auto-erotic, fuck you and followed by an all apologies Hallmark card or better yet, A slap on the bottom to assure her she’s been a good girl. – What am I going to do to you?… Everything.

11. You’re No More Fun.

It’s February – sometime so it must be Jenna’s twenty-first birthday. At the stroke of midnight on the eve of your birth you’re exactly one nanosecond older than you were before the date change but you consider yourself a year older. She’s now beginning her twenty-second year of life. I wanted to assure I was inside of her from eleven-fifty-something till shortly after the stroke of midnight to see if I felt the age transition as if it was a miraculous holy gift or a piece of divine natural change. I felt nothing. I did, However quickly realize that if I spend my life with her I’ll never have a twenty year old again.

Her birthday gift this year was a shock to us both. She is late. I sexually transmitted a soul. Our broken parts were used for the point of life, reproduction. This is not in my favor. I’m disgusted. I have anxiety so bad that the vomit in my mouth tastes like spoiled orange juice and rotten dairy curds. – I’m the man in the box and it smells like teen spirit.

12. No Dignity for the Digested.

Jenna sits cross-legged on the floor. She’s eating from a box so old it could literally be maggots – Dead maggots. She stares down at her leftover, decaying meal and begins to sob.

“We can’t be parents. Look how we live. We can’t even afford an abortion.” She says while tears fall to her rice like cold November rain turning the snow to ice.

“We’re not going to be parents and we don’t need an abortion.” I look at her with a grin she knows all too well.

“What are you going to do? Push me down the stairs or attack my vagina with a coat hanger?”

“I could never do that to you, hon. We’re going to hide your pregnancy, fuck it and eat it.”

“The baby?” Jenna looks shocked and for a moment almost sickened.

“It’s just meat, Jenna. If we never name it it’s just meat.” I say with a rational confidence. I try to state everything with confidence. confidence is power. Power is very important in a relationship. Never allow yourself to become to weaker partner. If you do even for a moment than you’ve lost the game. Prepare to be walked on.

“How will we hide a pregnancy?… A baby?”

“By hiding you, sweetheart. We’ll live exactly how we do now. We’ll be ghosts to the world.” I stare at her with a grin. Despite being a guy with curves, lean by no means I have very desirable looks and pure green eyes that don’t allow you to see into my soul but rather remind you of nature and the purity in the world no matter how disturbing I’m trying to make it or how disturbed I may be.

My favorite pass time is sitting in the dark. I feel safe in the dark. I am the hunter. I sit in the dark and daydream about things that would give other people post-traumatic stress disorder. I like to sit in our best lit room but with no lights. I wait for Jenna to fall asleep to leave and do what I call ‘mandatory meditation’ and I may thing about human mutilation, self-destruction, or how I want to be a cowboy. I was born to be a cowboy.

“Sometimes I look at you and think How can I exist without her?” I pat Jenna on her bum, firmly.

“.. And the other times?” She asks.

“I’m simply not thinking,” I say in a short hollow breath.

  • Doctor Blind just prescribed the blue ones. I’d do anything to make her happy.
  1. 100 Shades of Red.

It would only be logical to have a pregnancy test done to determine if Jenna is with child. We bought a dollar store piss stick manufactured by more than likely pregnant kids in Asia who ironically couldn’t afford a dollar store piss stick. It was positive. Mind you, it came out of the packaging that way. We went to the drug store.

Jenna used the washroom in the generic, gray beef and golden fries fast food restaurant across the street and despite our plans to literally destroy the bundle of joy I still walked in anticipation as if I was a freshman whose life was about to be destroyed. My favorite song is on the radio. Tom Sawyer by Rush. Rush was formed in 1968 in Toronto, Ontario, Canada. The trio features the amazing bass skills of Geddy Lee. The smooth guitar of Alex Lifeson and the precise percussion of Neil Peart. Did you know the original drummer was John Rutsey? A fucking diabetic… Do you like Phil Collins? Fuck Phil Collins.

I sit down and all I can is apple juice and animal crackers. The smell of retarded children. I’m feeling melancholy while I wait for Jenna to return. I twiddle my thumbs and kick my feet. I hope that smell isn’t me. Have I gone retarded? Probably not. It’s starting to smell like an unclean hamster cage.

“Hurry the fuck up.” I whisper under my breath.

Jenna emerged from the washroom like a bat out of hell and whipped the dipped piss stick at me.

“You told me you were broken! You fucking bastard!” she screamed loud enough to make a small child eating a crappy meal that will grow up to be a large child cry.

I didn’t know how to respond as I’ve never seen Jenna angry and I didn’t want to again so I slapped her across the mouth. Hard.

“I’m calling the police!” said a little old lady waiting for her coffee and a complimentary bran muffin.

“You won’t fucking live until they get here, cunt! C’mon Jenna, let’s go.” I put my arm around hers as if we were walking down the isle and we skipped all the way home. – Do onto others what has been done to you and today’s Tom Sawyer gets high on you.

I want to fuck Jesus Christ in his hand holes.