I will send a piece of me to you
Through the thinness of the morning air,
It will penetrate your eyes of blue
And remain inside your heart forever.

I will send a piece of me to you
Over poppies, vilets and roses,
It will vanish in a church's pew
And resurface where your soul reposes.

I will send a piece of me to you -
You alone in all of humankind -
It will disappear from my view
And become a figment of your mind.

I will send a piece of me to you -
Nowhere else I'd send it to instead -
I will tell you to take it - take two -
And retain them all inside your head.

I will send a piece of me to you
Over oceans and over lands,
It will be so supple and so new -
Mold it, mold it, mold it with your hands.

I will send a piece of me to you -
A created piece, a piece complete -
Let it be your own, I say this too,
To just trample underneath your feet.

I will send a piece of me to you
I do not know where, nor even when,
I will send it how, I wish I knew,
To expire and live in you again.

I will send pieces of me to you
In the winter, summer, spring and fall,
And inside your being they'll accrue
Until I am none and we are all.

By Ilya Shambat
https://sites.google.com/view/ilyashambatpoetry

On Friday, May 12, 2023 at 9:03:48 PM UTC-4, Ilya Shambat wrote:
> I will send a piece of me to you
> Through the thinness of the morning air,
> It will penetrate your eyes of blue
> And remain inside your heart forever.
>
> I will send a piece of me to you
> Over poppies, vilets and roses,
> It will vanish in a church's pew
> And resurface where your soul reposes.
>
> I will send a piece of me to you -
> You alone in all of humankind -
> It will disappear from my view
> And become a figment of your mind.
>
> I will send a piece of me to you -
> Nowhere else I'd send it to instead -
> I will tell you to take it - take two -
> And retain them all inside your head.
>
> I will send a piece of me to you
> Over oceans and over lands,
> It will be so supple and so new -
> Mold it, mold it, mold it with your hands.
>
> I will send a piece of me to you -
> A created piece, a piece complete -
> Let it be your own, I say this too,
> To just trample underneath your feet.
>
> I will send a piece of me to you
> I do not know where, nor even when,
> I will send it how, I wish I knew,
> To expire and live in you again.
>
> I will send pieces of me to you
> In the winter, summer, spring and fall,
> And inside your being they'll accrue
> Until I am none and we are all.
>
> By Ilya Shambat
> https://sites.google.com/view/ilyashambatpoetry

Nothing like self-mutilation.

On Friday, May 12, 2023 at 9:47:45 PM UTC-4, Edward Rochester Esq. wrote:
> On Friday, May 12, 2023 at 9:03:48 PM UTC-4, Ilya Shambat wrote:
> > I will send a piece of me to you
> > Through the thinness of the morning air,
> > It will penetrate your eyes of blue
> > And remain inside your heart forever.
> >
> > I will send a piece of me to you
> > Over poppies, vilets and roses,
> > It will vanish in a church's pew
> > And resurface where your soul reposes.
> >
> > I will send a piece of me to you -
> > You alone in all of humankind -
> > It will disappear from my view
> > And become a figment of your mind.
> >
> > I will send a piece of me to you -
> > Nowhere else I'd send it to instead -
> > I will tell you to take it - take two -
> > And retain them all inside your head.
> >
> > I will send a piece of me to you
> > Over oceans and over lands,
> > It will be so supple and so new -
> > Mold it, mold it, mold it with your hands.
> >
> > I will send a piece of me to you -
> > A created piece, a piece complete -
> > Let it be your own, I say this too,
> > To just trample underneath your feet.
> >
> > I will send a piece of me to you
> > I do not know where, nor even when,
> > I will send it how, I wish I knew,
> > To expire and live in you again.
> >
> > I will send pieces of me to you
> > In the winter, summer, spring and fall,
> > And inside your being they'll accrue
> > Until I am none and we are all.
> >
> > By Ilya Shambat
> > https://sites.google.com/view/ilyashambatpoetry
> Nothing like self-mutilation.

I wrote a short story about self-mutilation called "Fool for Love." It's a black comedy in which the protagonist cuts off various parts of his body and sends them to his ex-girlfriend. I can see him as having written Ilya's poem:

FOOL FOR LOVE

'T is better to have loved and lost
Than never to have loved at all.
-- Alfred, Lord Tennyson

Easy... easy... just a half an inch more. Attaboy! Steady... just one more pull... There! It's finished. Charles Archer's freshly sawed off right hand fell to the floor with a sickeningly dull thud.
That'll show her! thought Charles half-aloud as he gazed down admiringly at his gruesome piece of handiwork. She'll think twice next time before she hangs up the phone on me; you can just be damn sure of that! He had always been pretty good with tools.
Charlie immediately shoved his ragged stump of a wrist flat against the bottom of a red-hot frying pan that had been going full-blast on the stove for the past forty-five minutes. That's to cauterize it, he told himself -- desperately hoping he could stand the searing bursts of pain long enough to staunch the bleeding.
He managed to hold out for nearly three full minutes before losing consciousness. His eyes rolled back and up inside his head, as he dropped to the blood-covered floor in a crumpled heap. The frying pan fell flat against his left leg, burning a hole through his trousers and charring the better portion of his thigh. The pain would be unbearable … once he regained consciousness, that is. But, as the immortal Bard once put it: "The course of true love never did run smooth." And still it could have been a lot worse; after all, he might have accidentally burned down the house as well.
Admittedly, Charlie had always been a little too melodramatic for his own good. I'd known him since our sophomore year at college, a good half dozen years ago. And in the time I'd known him, his melodramatic outbursts were invariably connected with girls. It was a girl who'd cost him his history final the year we'd met, and it was a girl who'd caused him to abandon his academic career. A girl cost him his job at the local supermarket. A girl cost him his job as a part-time telemarketer. A girl cost him his job as a car-park attendant. This time a girl cost him his right hand. Talk about your going overboard!
Six hours later he awoke. The pain was far worse than he'd ever imagined. Both his right arm and thigh were throbbing with a sharp, blistering pain, as if someone had stuck a red-hot knife in each of these areas and was violently twisting it around inside the holes. The pain seemed to increase with every throb, and in a matter of minutes had gone from excruciating to unbearable. And since Charlie had used up the last of the extra Vicodin pills that were left over from his having had his wisdom teeth extracted, he had no other option than to pass out for a second time.
When he awoke again, Charlie figured that quite a lot of time must have passed, since his throat was so parched that it was starting to burn almost as much as his wrist. Fortunately for Charles, his need of a cauterizing frying pan had necessitated his performing the do-it-yourself amputation in the kitchen. He painfully dragged himself across the floor to refrigerator and grabbed a bottle of diet Snapple off one of the shelves. Since his stomach was as empty of food as it had been of drink, he helped himself to some deli slices of boiled ham, pastrami and pickle & pimento loaf as well.
He had barely finished his fourth slice of p&p when a profound sense of nausea began competing with the throbbing sensations in his wrist and thigh. He began to suspect that he'd contracted a high fever, but considered that to be the least of his worries. For the moment, he only wanted to keep his impromptu dinner down. But Charlie soon found out the hard way that wishes aren't horses and beggars are forever doomed to be pedestrians. In short, his meal quickly transformed itself into a modern art collage that incorporated significant portions of his shirt, pants and the kitchen floor.
The pain then overtook him for a third time in a wave of agony that quickly left him down for the count.
Charles Archer lived alone in a three-room, railroad apartment. He was twenty-six years old and had been living on his own since the death of his father some two-and-a-half years earlier. His mother had preceded her beloved to the Isles of the Blest by another eleven years. The combined effect of these domestic tragedies sufficed to leave the young man adrift in the great, wide world -- utterly and irrevocably alone. This, coupled with the unfortunate fact that he was temporarily unemployed left him solely responsible for procuring emergency medical assistance.
His telephone was kept on a nightstand beside his bed. But his bedroom was situated at the northern end of the apartment and his kitchen at the southern end with a living room in between. And even if he weren't feverish and dizzy, his burned leg (which had swelled to nearly twice its original size) was in no condition to attempt such a lengthy trek. Not that Charlie would have wanted to call himself an ambulance. He was much too proud to admit that he needed any help. Time, they say, heals all wounds, and the one thing Charlie had plenty of was time.
A day or two later, the fever and swelling began to subside, and Charlie managed to literally crawl into his bed. Soon he was feeling strong enough to hobble and hop his way to the bathroom and back (although a little late for stopping the two-day's worth of excrement from accumulating on the sheets), and was even able to finish off the remaining lunchmeat without any negative consequences. Just a few more days, he thought, and I'll be back to my old self again.
It was on his first visit back to the kitchen that he'd first thought about the preservation of his hand. That is he'd gotten the idea when he noticed that it had started to turn a dark shade of brown like an overripe banana. Its smell wasn't particularly pleasant either, but he wouldn't notice that until much later -- the lingering acidic odor from his rejected dinner was still effectively masking it. He tossed it in the ice cube bin in his freezer, and kicked himself for never having gotten around to taking that course in taxidermy.
His prediction proved correct, and in a few days he had returned to his prior state of health -- except for a slightly painful limp and, of course, the inability to use his right hand. It's about time I got that present wrapped, he prodded himself. Sometimes he could be lazy about doing things, and needed to give himself a push. He removed the frozen hand from out its makeshift resting place, and made a spot appraisal of the damage. It was pretty far gone, but nothing he couldn't salvage with a little window dressing. It's all in the presentation, he smiled. Charles Archer was an artist, and could already envision the manner in which the severed hand would be displayed.
He opened his bedroom closet and removed a fancy looking lingerie box from off one of the upper shelves. It was a classy looking box with satiny pink and shiny silver stripes on it, and running diagonally across the top was a picture of a bright red satin ribbon with a bow. He placed the box in the center of his bed, gently lifted off the lid, and tossed the sexy red camisole inside it at the wastepaper basket beside his desk. His toss was a yard and a half short and off to right by about as many feet; but that was to be expected. Charlie had been right-handed, after all.
He then brought the defrosted hand into his room and carefully centered it on the luxurious bed of tissue paper that filled the inside of the box. That was when he first noticed the smell. That will never do, he thought. So the hand was removed from both bedroom and box and unceremoniously tossed into the scrub bucket that he kept under the kitchen sink. There it was doused with the contents of a nearly full bottle of Pine Sol, and left to soak for several hours.
When he finally removed it, it still didn't smell quite right, but at least it no longer bowled you over with its stench. It was going to be a gift after all, and the last thing that a gift should do is offend its intended recipient. He returned his now pine-scented hand to its former position in the gift box, and gently placed a dried white carnation in the center of its upturned palm.
Nor was it just any old white carnation. It was a very special one that she would immediately recognize. It was less than a year ago that she'd pinned the flower to his lapel, when he brought her to the Winter formal at her college. It still had the little sprig of baby's breath tied to it with a thin black satin ribbon. The stick pin it came with was the perfect tool for securing it to the palm. After indulging in a soft, wistful sigh, he fluffed up the tissue paper around the hand and closed the lid.
He wrapped the box in Valentine's Day paper -- the kind with lots of little hearts all over it -- and stuck a bright red bow on the top. It really didn't matter that Valentine's Day had come and gone a good three months before. The significance lay in the fact that the paper should remind her of the time they'd spent together last Valentine's Day. More importantly, it should remind her of all the promises they'd made that night at the Shangri-La Motel.
"Her," by the way was Julie C. Buddingbusch -- the one true love of Charlie Archer's life.
Poor Charlie couldn't help but cry a little as he wrote a final declaration of his undying love in the Hallmark card he'd bought her -- with his left hand. Unfortunately, as he'd always been right-handed, and as ambidexterity had never been one of his talents, the resultant scrawl was a few bits shy of legible.
I really should have hacked off the left one, he thought more than a bit reproachfully. Besides, the left arm's the one that's supposedly connected to the heart -- at least I think it's the left one. He'd almost chosen the left hand for that very reason, but had changed his mind at the last minute because A) he doubted that Julie would have gotten the esoteric symbolism, and B) that as one generally attaches more value to the hand he uses more often, she would naturally write a left-handed gesture off as half-hearted.. Women! What can you do?
"My dearest darling," he wrote down in a wildly squiggling hand that would have shamed a kindergartner. "My dearest darling, just a little token of the indescribable pain your leaving me has wrought upon my heart." And he signed it "Yours forever, Charlie." That'll show her, he once again thought half-aloud, only to realize that he couldn't seem to get the card into the envelope. It would have been difficult enough if he'd actually held on to his good hand -- no pun intended -- but as things presently stood, it was downright impossible. Putting a card into an envelope has always been a two-handed job.
He sulked for several minutes, pouted a bit, then mustered up his courage for his twenty-second attempt. Seventeen attempts later and Charlie was still at it. He may have been prone to acting a little rashly every now and then -- but one could not fault his determination. How many spurned lovers have entertained the idea of sawing off one of their appendages, only to choke at the decisive moment? Not Charlie. Once he made up his mind to do a thing, he did it. Come hell or high water, Charlie Archer did it. In the end, he was forced to remove his right shoe that he might wedge the envelope between his toes. This move was especially painful to his freshly-scabbed-over thigh (which still had a lot more healing to undergo). However, it proved successful.
The next problem -- which subsequently presented itself -- was that of the package's delivery. Driving a car may not have been entirely out of the question, but Charlie felt he wasn't quite ready for an attempt at doing it one-handed. Perhaps if his car had been an automatic instead of a stick. He'd definitely have to see about trading it in. At first thought, the alternative of his old bicycle seemed more feasible, but upon trial proved merely to introduce another set of difficulties. His scabby stump, it seemed, was hardly suited to keeping a firm grip on the box and he needed his left hand to steer and work the brake.
He tried to press the package tightly against his chest, of course, only to drop it three times before reaching the end of his driveway. The third fall landed it smack in the center of a mud-puddle, causing a great deal of unsightly damage to the wrapping paper, Hallmark card, and bow. Charlie kicked his bike a couple of times with his good leg and broke lose in a loud string of expletives.
A backpack would probably have solved his problems at this point, but Charlie hadn't been blessed with the foresight to procure one. Backpacks are for yuppies, he'd always said. He decided to sleep on the problem -- still feeling a little weak from the loss of blood. When he awakened twelve hours later, it was too dark outside to pursue the matter further, so he promptly returned to his apartment, flopped down on his bed and went back to sleep. His dreams were all of Julie -- the nightmares and the pleasant dreams alike -- he seemed to be forever dreaming of her.
In the morning, he decided to walk the package over. It was quite a haul, as Julie lived two towns away, but Charlie felt secure that he could make it. He'd been on the track team back in his high school days. He'd simply have to start out early... first thing in the morning if he could cut his sleep time to a reasonable level. The fever and the nausea were long gone, and his wrist and thigh were basically healed... there really wasn't any need for him to be this tired any more. Especially when he'd just gotten up from a twenty-hour nap. I must be getting lazy, he kidded himself. He immediately noted, and was glad to see, his sense of humor coming back.
Fixing breakfast with his left hand proved far less difficult than he'd imagined -- as long as he kept away from items that required preparation. No more western omelettes, BLTs, or pancakes -- even the seemingly innocent orange was far beyond his present capabilities. Thus he contented himself with a bowl of cold cereal and Twinkies (Twinkies are a bitch to open with one hand!). By the time he'd bitten into the second Twinkie, he'd decided that he could definitely survive this way. Of course once Julie got the package she would marry him -- or so he thought -- and she surely wouldn't have any reservations about cooking a fancy breakfast for a man who'd sacrificed so much for her.
Tucking the package under his arm, Charles Archer stepped outside into the morning sunlight. It was a warm, spring day, and the sweet scent of apple blossoms filled the air. The world is such a beautiful place, he thought. How sweet and good it is to be young and in love on a day such as this in the Springtime!
Charlie paused and listened, briefly, to the turtle dove's plaintive song -- perhaps it was the cuckoo's -- he had never really been a big fan of bird calls. But this morning he simply adored the birds -- he was bubbling over with a boundless love for all the living world. This morning all would be forgiven him. This morning she would be his love again.
Thus with a smile on his face and a song in his heart, Charlie Archer set out upon his early morning hike to Julie's house. He had planned on it taking him approximately three hours, but his slowly mending body didn't quite have the stamina of his spirits. Four and a half hours later he arrived at Julie's door. After tactfully concealing the poorly bandaged stump inside his jacket pocket, he rang the bell and was greeted by Julie's mother.
"Good morning, Mrs. Buddingbusch," he practically gushed.
"Good morning, Charlie," Mrs. Buddingbusch returned, rather coldly. He'd always suspected that Mrs. Buddingbusch had been less than fond of him. "What brings you around so early?"
"Is Julie home?" he inquired.
"Julie? No, why would Julie be home at this time? You know she has a class on Monday."
Damn! Charlie thought to himself. Damn! damn! damn! damn! damn! In his excitement, he'd totally forgotten that Julie would be at college. Worse yet, the college was situated a good twenty miles in the opposite direction. Poor Charlie just wasn't up to it. As a matter of fact, he wasn't even sure if he was up to the walk back home.
"Could you just give her this when she gets back, please?" he asked Mrs. B.., thrusting the slightly soiled package forward with his left hand. "It's just a little something for Julie."
"I thought you two had broken up," she told him without even so much as an implied question mark.
Charlie blushed, and managed to force a sorry excuse for a smile. Then, mumbling something about a peace-offering, he took his farewells and headed toward his home. It took him over six hours to return -- his energy levels having been severely depleted in the out-going stages of his excursion. Julie should have gotten home by now, he thought to himself as he staggered through the door -- unlocking the door with your left hand is a bitch! He plopped down beside the phone -- no messages. No biggie. It's only a matter of time now. Charlie waited, and the first day passed.
On the morning of the second day, a police car pulled up to Charlie Archer's door. The officers confronted him with the severed hand, then promptly ushered him into the back of their squad car. Charlie made a joke about uselessness of handcuffs in this case, but the officers failed to see the humor in it. Cops are stupid, Charlie thought -- fortunately he thought this to himself. They escorted him to the emergency room of the local hospital, and later to a shrink for psychiatric evaluation. Throughout the ordeal, Julie was nowhere to be seen. A second, then a third day passed after which Charlie -- restraining order in hand -- was released from custody.
I'd stopped by Charlie's house that day, just as the squad car was pulling out of the driveway. Charlie's apartment was actually the ground level floor of a small, one-story house. A second, Mexican family lived in the basement, but the two renters rarely interacted. Needless to say that when I got my first glimpse of Charlie's right arm, I was shocked.
We spent the rest of the afternoon together, with Charlie catching me up on the horrific series of events that culminated in his recent arrest. The psychiatrist had found Charlie to be suffering from temporary insanity due to stress factors from his recent break-up, but deemed him to be harmless to society at large. He was, obviously, not as harmless to himself, but one can't throwaway good tax dollars on every self-mutilation case that comes down the pike. On the bright side, he had been found to be completely free of suicidal tendencies.
I did my best to talk some sense into his head. He was a young, good looking and able bodied (except for his right hand) man. There would be other girls -- other loves. Life was too bountiful to throw it all away over one girlfriend. I even quoted some Elizabethan poetry to him: "Quit, quit, for shame!/This will not move./This cannot take her --/If of herself she will not love,/Nothing can make her./The devil take her!" But, alas! to no avail. He would have none of it. Julie C. Buddingbusch was his sun and moon and stars. Without her, his life was a travesty... or a tragedy... or both. (I'm not certain what his exact words were, as we'd both had a few by this time and his speech was, consequently, a bit slurred.)
Charlie Archer barely slept that night. He had still received no word from Julie. Sure, one could infer a thing or two from the restraining order -- but that seemed so impersonal -- so bureaucratic. Julie couldn't be that heartless! Not Julie! No, it was Mrs. B. who brought the police into this thing. I'll bet Julie never even saw the package. What an idiot I was to leave my hand in the hands of Mrs. B. She's always wanted Julie to break up with me. Always... and so he continued muttering to himself long into the wee hours of the night.
By morning everything was crystal-clear to him: Van Gogh, he thought aloud, Vincent van Gogh! Julie had often expressed her admiration for Van Gogh's art. She even had a poster of his masterpiece, "The Starry Night," hanging over her bed. She couldn't help but appreciate the significance of his act!
Charlie's ear came off with much less difficulty than had his hand. He'd made sure to take the left one off this time, although in the case of an ear it really didn't appear to make a difference. Of course the restraining order prevented him from delivering this, his latest body-part, in person. No matter -- he could always send it Federal Express. Typing is a bitch with just your left hand! However, it beat the hell out of writing, so Charlie simply bit down on his lower lip and proceeded pounding out the address label lefty style.
That evening the police were back. They were much less understanding this time -- if such a thing were actually possible. Once again they put him through what he was rapidly coming to realize were "the usual paces" of squad car, emergency room, and nut-house. Only this time the process seemed to take a whole lot longer... especially the duration of his forced residence at the Happy Home.
It took Charlie nearly a week to figure out what the problem had been. He'd trusted Federal Express to deliver the package directly into Julie's hands. That they'd left it with her mother -- as they obviously had, since Julie would surely have come to him if she'd received it -- was almost beyond comprehension. Charlie felt betrayed by Federal Express, and spent the next several days fantasizing about avenging himself on them with a series of homemade pipe bombs. In Charlie's defense, there isn't a heckuva lot else for one to do in a rubber room.
Eventually he hit upon the truth -- Mrs. Buddingbusch's first name was also Julie! Fed Ex had simply delivered it to the wrong Julie. Damn! he thought half-aloud to the consternation of his caretakers. Damn! damn! damn! damn! damn!
It took him over three months to get released this time. Unfortunately, his rent having been long overdue, his landlord had rented out his apartment to another Mexican family and removed his belongings from the premises. My own place wasn't much larger than Charlie's had been, but naturally I wasn't about to close my doors on a friend in his hour of need. I promptly offered Charlie my sofa until he could get himself back on his feet..
Sadly Charlie's feet were the next things to go. First his left one, then his right. He'd begged me to place them into Julie's hands (Julie the younger, that is), and I swore to him that I would carry out his wishes. I was lying through my teeth. It didn't take a rocket scientist to see that a successful delivery would only get Charlie sent back to the loony bin. What other choice did I have? I left them in the Goodwill bin behind the supermarket where Charlie used to work.
Charlie couldn't get around much after his second foot was sent off to a needy family. Still, I managed to rustle up an old pair of crutches from a Thrift Shop, which I "modified" for Charlie's special needs by using a can opener to cut the bottom off of an empty coffee can and mounting it (the can, that is) on the post of what then became his "right crutch" as a combination arm-holder/sleeve. Charlie's tool box had been among the belongings that were removed by his former landlord -- even if the "removed" (as we both suspected in this instance) meant they'd been removed to said former landlord's garage -- but I always kept a screwdriver or two around for emergency situations like this.
The crutches seemed to buoy up Charlie's spirits and I soon had him accompanying me on my evening jog. It's surprising to see just how fast a one-handed man on crutches can actually go. Several nice-looking girls (that is, of the type euphemistically identified as "nice girls") seemed to take an interest in the sorry plight of my companion. I guess his condition brought out the mother instinct in them. But Charlie remained ever faithful to his former love.
Once we'd both become acclimated to his handicapped status (familiarizing ourselves with handicapped entrances and such), he began accompanying me on my weekend tours of the Hoboken bars as well -- just as he had been wont to do in our happier, college days. Unfortunately, I'd never considered the fact that Hoboken had also been one of Julie's old stomping grounds. Charles, on the other hand, apparently had -- the prospect of running into her having been his primary motivation in coming.
When our paths met their proverbial crossing point, the ensuing scene landed my friend right back into the asylum. This time for nearly a year. I got into a bit of trouble myself for failing to have reported the pedal amputations. They let me off with a warning, but made it abundantly clear that if it happened a third time, I'd be serving a little time myself.
So when Charlie's tongue mailed out nine months later, my own tongue started wagging faster than you could say "Olly Olly Oxenfree." Needless to say, our friendship suffered as a result. When Charlie was finally released two years later, he refused my offers to resume his former residence with me.. Instead, he began bunking at the local Y.M.C.A. -- his monthly disability checks adequately meeting his expenses.
Three years later, Charlie Archer was running desperately short of expendable appendages and organs. Still, he managed to send his remaining leg (sans foot, of course) to Julie's wedding reception as a gift. We'd been playing a game of chess in the park when he happened across the wedding announcements section of the paper -- which only serves to prove the old adage that "no news is good news." He'd signed to me that he wanted to show up at the church so he could throw his teeth (in place of rice) at the happy couple. Fortunately I restrained him from attending.
Unfortunately good taste dictates that I refrain from mentioning any of the details pertaining to the surprise honeymoon present he had Fed Ex'd (he was back to trusting them, as Julie no was longer living with her mother) to their hotel room in a pickle jar filled with vinegar. Vinegar being an aromatically superior substitute for formaldehyde. This restriction is doubly-regrettable, as the honeymoon delivery would be his last. I'm told, however, that the bride and bridegroom got a good (if understandably nervous) laugh out of it. And, since the police failed to show up the following day, I'm assuming that they either surreptitiously disposed of it, or kept it for a nicknack on their mantelpiece.
It was shortly after Julie's wedding night that poor old Charlie Archer up and lost his mind.
I found him -- rather, what remained of him – locked in his Y..M.C.A. dorm room a few weeks later. No longer recognizable as a human being, he appeared to be little more than a throbbing, pulsating mound of raw, bloody flesh. His sole remaining appendage, though mutilated to a horrifying degree, was still recognizable as his left arm and hand (although one or two of the fingers seemed to have disappeared). This arm, clutching fast to a regulation Boy Scout pocket knife, was flailing wildly about in a frenzied attempt to hack off the remaining shards of flesh from the blind, repulsive mound to which it was attached.
As his best friend, I was left with no other recourse but to shoot him. Luckily the retort from the gunshot failed to raise any eyebrows in the neighboring rooms.
Having stuffed the carcass into a lawn-size Hefty garbage bag, I managed to remove Charlie from the building (also without raising any suspicions among the other residents). I proceeded to toss my buddy into the back of my pickup truck and drove him on his final trip to Julie C. Cummerbunds' (nee Buddingbusch's) home. Upon arrival, I made my farewells, wiped away a tear, and deposited the remains on her front doorstep. Charlie Archer had been a damned good friend, and I knew he would have wanted it that way.

On Saturday, May 13, 2023 at 2:28:26 PM UTC-4, Michael Pendragon wrote:
> On Friday, May 12, 2023 at 9:47:45 PM UTC-4, Edward Rochester Esq.. wrote:
> > On Friday, May 12, 2023 at 9:03:48 PM UTC-4, Ilya Shambat wrote:
> > > I will send a piece of me to you
> > > Through the thinness of the morning air,
> > > It will penetrate your eyes of blue
> > > And remain inside your heart forever.
> > >
> > > I will send a piece of me to you
> > > Over poppies, vilets and roses,
> > > It will vanish in a church's pew
> > > And resurface where your soul reposes.
> > >
> > > I will send a piece of me to you -
> > > You alone in all of humankind -
> > > It will disappear from my view
> > > And become a figment of your mind.
> > >
> > > I will send a piece of me to you -
> > > Nowhere else I'd send it to instead -
> > > I will tell you to take it - take two -
> > > And retain them all inside your head.
> > >
> > > I will send a piece of me to you
> > > Over oceans and over lands,
> > > It will be so supple and so new -
> > > Mold it, mold it, mold it with your hands.
> > >
> > > I will send a piece of me to you -
> > > A created piece, a piece complete -
> > > Let it be your own, I say this too,
> > > To just trample underneath your feet.
> > >
> > > I will send a piece of me to you
> > > I do not know where, nor even when,
> > > I will send it how, I wish I knew,
> > > To expire and live in you again.
> > >
> > > I will send pieces of me to you
> > > In the winter, summer, spring and fall,
> > > And inside your being they'll accrue
> > > Until I am none and we are all.
> > >
> > > By Ilya Shambat
> > > https://sites.google.com/view/ilyashambatpoetry
> > Nothing like self-mutilation.
> I wrote a short story about self-mutilation called "Fool for Love." It's a black comedy in which the protagonist cuts off various parts of his body and sends them to his ex-girlfriend. I can see him as having written Ilya's poem:
>
> FOOL FOR LOVE
>
> 'T is better to have loved and lost
> Than never to have loved at all.
> -- Alfred, Lord Tennyson
>
> Easy... easy... just a half an inch more. Attaboy! Steady... just one more pull... There! It's finished. Charles Archer's freshly sawed off right hand fell to the floor with a sickeningly dull thud.
> That'll show her! thought Charles half-aloud as he gazed down admiringly at his gruesome piece of handiwork. She'll think twice next time before she hangs up the phone on me; you can just be damn sure of that! He had always been pretty good with tools.
> Charlie immediately shoved his ragged stump of a wrist flat against the bottom of a red-hot frying pan that had been going full-blast on the stove for the past forty-five minutes. That's to cauterize it, he told himself -- desperately hoping he could stand the searing bursts of pain long enough to staunch the bleeding.
> He managed to hold out for nearly three full minutes before losing consciousness. His eyes rolled back and up inside his head, as he dropped to the blood-covered floor in a crumpled heap. The frying pan fell flat against his left leg, burning a hole through his trousers and charring the better portion of his thigh. The pain would be unbearable … once he regained consciousness, that is. But, as the immortal Bard once put it: "The course of true love never did run smooth." And still it could have been a lot worse; after all, he might have accidentally burned down the house as well.
> Admittedly, Charlie had always been a little too melodramatic for his own good. I'd known him since our sophomore year at college, a good half dozen years ago. And in the time I'd known him, his melodramatic outbursts were invariably connected with girls. It was a girl who'd cost him his history final the year we'd met, and it was a girl who'd caused him to abandon his academic career. A girl cost him his job at the local supermarket. A girl cost him his job as a part-time telemarketer. A girl cost him his job as a car-park attendant. This time a girl cost him his right hand. Talk about your going overboard!
> Six hours later he awoke. The pain was far worse than he'd ever imagined. Both his right arm and thigh were throbbing with a sharp, blistering pain, as if someone had stuck a red-hot knife in each of these areas and was violently twisting it around inside the holes. The pain seemed to increase with every throb, and in a matter of minutes had gone from excruciating to unbearable. And since Charlie had used up the last of the extra Vicodin pills that were left over from his having had his wisdom teeth extracted, he had no other option than to pass out for a second time.
> When he awoke again, Charlie figured that quite a lot of time must have passed, since his throat was so parched that it was starting to burn almost as much as his wrist. Fortunately for Charles, his need of a cauterizing frying pan had necessitated his performing the do-it-yourself amputation in the kitchen. He painfully dragged himself across the floor to refrigerator and grabbed a bottle of diet Snapple off one of the shelves. Since his stomach was as empty of food as it had been of drink, he helped himself to some deli slices of boiled ham, pastrami and pickle & pimento loaf as well.
> He had barely finished his fourth slice of p&p when a profound sense of nausea began competing with the throbbing sensations in his wrist and thigh. He began to suspect that he'd contracted a high fever, but considered that to be the least of his worries. For the moment, he only wanted to keep his impromptu dinner down. But Charlie soon found out the hard way that wishes aren't horses and beggars are forever doomed to be pedestrians. In short, his meal quickly transformed itself into a modern art collage that incorporated significant portions of his shirt, pants and the kitchen floor.
> The pain then overtook him for a third time in a wave of agony that quickly left him down for the count.
> Charles Archer lived alone in a three-room, railroad apartment. He was twenty-six years old and had been living on his own since the death of his father some two-and-a-half years earlier. His mother had preceded her beloved to the Isles of the Blest by another eleven years. The combined effect of these domestic tragedies sufficed to leave the young man adrift in the great, wide world -- utterly and irrevocably alone. This, coupled with the unfortunate fact that he was temporarily unemployed left him solely responsible for procuring emergency medical assistance.
> His telephone was kept on a nightstand beside his bed. But his bedroom was situated at the northern end of the apartment and his kitchen at the southern end with a living room in between. And even if he weren't feverish and dizzy, his burned leg (which had swelled to nearly twice its original size) was in no condition to attempt such a lengthy trek. Not that Charlie would have wanted to call himself an ambulance. He was much too proud to admit that he needed any help. Time, they say, heals all wounds, and the one thing Charlie had plenty of was time.
> A day or two later, the fever and swelling began to subside, and Charlie managed to literally crawl into his bed. Soon he was feeling strong enough to hobble and hop his way to the bathroom and back (although a little late for stopping the two-day's worth of excrement from accumulating on the sheets), and was even able to finish off the remaining lunchmeat without any negative consequences. Just a few more days, he thought, and I'll be back to my old self again.
> It was on his first visit back to the kitchen that he'd first thought about the preservation of his hand. That is he'd gotten the idea when he noticed that it had started to turn a dark shade of brown like an overripe banana. Its smell wasn't particularly pleasant either, but he wouldn't notice that until much later -- the lingering acidic odor from his rejected dinner was still effectively masking it. He tossed it in the ice cube bin in his freezer, and kicked himself for never having gotten around to taking that course in taxidermy.
> His prediction proved correct, and in a few days he had returned to his prior state of health -- except for a slightly painful limp and, of course, the inability to use his right hand. It's about time I got that present wrapped, he prodded himself. Sometimes he could be lazy about doing things, and needed to give himself a push. He removed the frozen hand from out its makeshift resting place, and made a spot appraisal of the damage. It was pretty far gone, but nothing he couldn't salvage with a little window dressing. It's all in the presentation, he smiled. Charles Archer was an artist, and could already envision the manner in which the severed hand would be displayed.
> He opened his bedroom closet and removed a fancy looking lingerie box from off one of the upper shelves. It was a classy looking box with satiny pink and shiny silver stripes on it, and running diagonally across the top was a picture of a bright red satin ribbon with a bow. He placed the box in the center of his bed, gently lifted off the lid, and tossed the sexy red camisole inside it at the wastepaper basket beside his desk. His toss was a yard and a half short and off to right by about as many feet; but that was to be expected. Charlie had been right-handed, after all.
> He then brought the defrosted hand into his room and carefully centered it on the luxurious bed of tissue paper that filled the inside of the box. That was when he first noticed the smell. That will never do, he thought. So the hand was removed from both bedroom and box and unceremoniously tossed into the scrub bucket that he kept under the kitchen sink. There it was doused with the contents of a nearly full bottle of Pine Sol, and left to soak for several hours.
> When he finally removed it, it still didn't smell quite right, but at least it no longer bowled you over with its stench. It was going to be a gift after all, and the last thing that a gift should do is offend its intended recipient. He returned his now pine-scented hand to its former position in the gift box, and gently placed a dried white carnation in the center of its upturned palm.
> Nor was it just any old white carnation. It was a very special one that she would immediately recognize. It was less than a year ago that she'd pinned the flower to his lapel, when he brought her to the Winter formal at her college. It still had the little sprig of baby's breath tied to it with a thin black satin ribbon. The stick pin it came with was the perfect tool for securing it to the palm. After indulging in a soft, wistful sigh, he fluffed up the tissue paper around the hand and closed the lid.
> He wrapped the box in Valentine's Day paper -- the kind with lots of little hearts all over it -- and stuck a bright red bow on the top. It really didn't matter that Valentine's Day had come and gone a good three months before. The significance lay in the fact that the paper should remind her of the time they'd spent together last Valentine's Day. More importantly, it should remind her of all the promises they'd made that night at the Shangri-La Motel.
> "Her," by the way was Julie C. Buddingbusch -- the one true love of Charlie Archer's life.
> Poor Charlie couldn't help but cry a little as he wrote a final declaration of his undying love in the Hallmark card he'd bought her -- with his left hand. Unfortunately, as he'd always been right-handed, and as ambidexterity had never been one of his talents, the resultant scrawl was a few bits shy of legible.
> I really should have hacked off the left one, he thought more than a bit reproachfully. Besides, the left arm's the one that's supposedly connected to the heart -- at least I think it's the left one. He'd almost chosen the left hand for that very reason, but had changed his mind at the last minute because A) he doubted that Julie would have gotten the esoteric symbolism, and B) that as one generally attaches more value to the hand he uses more often, she would naturally write a left-handed gesture off as half-hearted. Women! What can you do?
> "My dearest darling," he wrote down in a wildly squiggling hand that would have shamed a kindergartner. "My dearest darling, just a little token of the indescribable pain your leaving me has wrought upon my heart." And he signed it "Yours forever, Charlie." That'll show her, he once again thought half-aloud, only to realize that he couldn't seem to get the card into the envelope. It would have been difficult enough if he'd actually held on to his good hand -- no pun intended -- but as things presently stood, it was downright impossible. Putting a card into an envelope has always been a two-handed job.
> He sulked for several minutes, pouted a bit, then mustered up his courage for his twenty-second attempt. Seventeen attempts later and Charlie was still at it. He may have been prone to acting a little rashly every now and then -- but one could not fault his determination. How many spurned lovers have entertained the idea of sawing off one of their appendages, only to choke at the decisive moment? Not Charlie. Once he made up his mind to do a thing, he did it. Come hell or high water, Charlie Archer did it. In the end, he was forced to remove his right shoe that he might wedge the envelope between his toes. This move was especially painful to his freshly-scabbed-over thigh (which still had a lot more healing to undergo). However, it proved successful.
> The next problem -- which subsequently presented itself -- was that of the package's delivery. Driving a car may not have been entirely out of the question, but Charlie felt he wasn't quite ready for an attempt at doing it one-handed. Perhaps if his car had been an automatic instead of a stick. He'd definitely have to see about trading it in. At first thought, the alternative of his old bicycle seemed more feasible, but upon trial proved merely to introduce another set of difficulties. His scabby stump, it seemed, was hardly suited to keeping a firm grip on the box and he needed his left hand to steer and work the brake.
> He tried to press the package tightly against his chest, of course, only to drop it three times before reaching the end of his driveway. The third fall landed it smack in the center of a mud-puddle, causing a great deal of unsightly damage to the wrapping paper, Hallmark card, and bow. Charlie kicked his bike a couple of times with his good leg and broke lose in a loud string of expletives.
> A backpack would probably have solved his problems at this point, but Charlie hadn't been blessed with the foresight to procure one. Backpacks are for yuppies, he'd always said. He decided to sleep on the problem -- still feeling a little weak from the loss of blood. When he awakened twelve hours later, it was too dark outside to pursue the matter further, so he promptly returned to his apartment, flopped down on his bed and went back to sleep. His dreams were all of Julie -- the nightmares and the pleasant dreams alike -- he seemed to be forever dreaming of her.
> In the morning, he decided to walk the package over. It was quite a haul, as Julie lived two towns away, but Charlie felt secure that he could make it. He'd been on the track team back in his high school days. He'd simply have to start out early... first thing in the morning if he could cut his sleep time to a reasonable level. The fever and the nausea were long gone, and his wrist and thigh were basically healed... there really wasn't any need for him to be this tired any more. Especially when he'd just gotten up from a twenty-hour nap. I must be getting lazy, he kidded himself. He immediately noted, and was glad to see, his sense of humor coming back.
> Fixing breakfast with his left hand proved far less difficult than he'd imagined -- as long as he kept away from items that required preparation. No more western omelettes, BLTs, or pancakes -- even the seemingly innocent orange was far beyond his present capabilities. Thus he contented himself with a bowl of cold cereal and Twinkies (Twinkies are a bitch to open with one hand!). By the time he'd bitten into the second Twinkie, he'd decided that he could definitely survive this way. Of course once Julie got the package she would marry him -- or so he thought -- and she surely wouldn't have any reservations about cooking a fancy breakfast for a man who'd sacrificed so much for her.
> Tucking the package under his arm, Charles Archer stepped outside into the morning sunlight. It was a warm, spring day, and the sweet scent of apple blossoms filled the air. The world is such a beautiful place, he thought. How sweet and good it is to be young and in love on a day such as this in the Springtime!
> Charlie paused and listened, briefly, to the turtle dove's plaintive song -- perhaps it was the cuckoo's -- he had never really been a big fan of bird calls. But this morning he simply adored the birds -- he was bubbling over with a boundless love for all the living world. This morning all would be forgiven him. This morning she would be his love again.
> Thus with a smile on his face and a song in his heart, Charlie Archer set out upon his early morning hike to Julie's house. He had planned on it taking him approximately three hours, but his slowly mending body didn't quite have the stamina of his spirits. Four and a half hours later he arrived at Julie's door. After tactfully concealing the poorly bandaged stump inside his jacket pocket, he rang the bell and was greeted by Julie's mother.
> "Good morning, Mrs. Buddingbusch," he practically gushed.
> "Good morning, Charlie," Mrs. Buddingbusch returned, rather coldly. He'd always suspected that Mrs. Buddingbusch had been less than fond of him. "What brings you around so early?"
> "Is Julie home?" he inquired.
> "Julie? No, why would Julie be home at this time? You know she has a class on Monday."
> Damn! Charlie thought to himself. Damn! damn! damn! damn! damn! In his excitement, he'd totally forgotten that Julie would be at college. Worse yet, the college was situated a good twenty miles in the opposite direction. Poor Charlie just wasn't up to it. As a matter of fact, he wasn't even sure if he was up to the walk back home.
> "Could you just give her this when she gets back, please?" he asked Mrs. B., thrusting the slightly soiled package forward with his left hand. "It's just a little something for Julie."
> "I thought you two had broken up," she told him without even so much as an implied question mark.
> Charlie blushed, and managed to force a sorry excuse for a smile. Then, mumbling something about a peace-offering, he took his farewells and headed toward his home. It took him over six hours to return -- his energy levels having been severely depleted in the out-going stages of his excursion. Julie should have gotten home by now, he thought to himself as he staggered through the door -- unlocking the door with your left hand is a bitch! He plopped down beside the phone -- no messages. No biggie. It's only a matter of time now. Charlie waited, and the first day passed.
> On the morning of the second day, a police car pulled up to Charlie Archer's door. The officers confronted him with the severed hand, then promptly ushered him into the back of their squad car. Charlie made a joke about uselessness of handcuffs in this case, but the officers failed to see the humor in it. Cops are stupid, Charlie thought -- fortunately he thought this to himself. They escorted him to the emergency room of the local hospital, and later to a shrink for psychiatric evaluation. Throughout the ordeal, Julie was nowhere to be seen. A second, then a third day passed after which Charlie -- restraining order in hand -- was released from custody.
> I'd stopped by Charlie's house that day, just as the squad car was pulling out of the driveway. Charlie's apartment was actually the ground level floor of a small, one-story house. A second, Mexican family lived in the basement, but the two renters rarely interacted. Needless to say that when I got my first glimpse of Charlie's right arm, I was shocked.
> We spent the rest of the afternoon together, with Charlie catching me up on the horrific series of events that culminated in his recent arrest. The psychiatrist had found Charlie to be suffering from temporary insanity due to stress factors from his recent break-up, but deemed him to be harmless to society at large. He was, obviously, not as harmless to himself, but one can't throwaway good tax dollars on every self-mutilation case that comes down the pike. On the bright side, he had been found to be completely free of suicidal tendencies.
> I did my best to talk some sense into his head. He was a young, good looking and able bodied (except for his right hand) man. There would be other girls -- other loves. Life was too bountiful to throw it all away over one girlfriend. I even quoted some Elizabethan poetry to him: "Quit, quit, for shame!/This will not move./This cannot take her --/If of herself she will not love,/Nothing can make her./The devil take her!" But, alas! to no avail. He would have none of it. Julie C. Buddingbusch was his sun and moon and stars. Without her, his life was a travesty... or a tragedy... or both. (I'm not certain what his exact words were, as we'd both had a few by this time and his speech was, consequently, a bit slurred.)
> Charlie Archer barely slept that night. He had still received no word from Julie. Sure, one could infer a thing or two from the restraining order -- but that seemed so impersonal -- so bureaucratic. Julie couldn't be that heartless! Not Julie! No, it was Mrs. B. who brought the police into this thing. I'll bet Julie never even saw the package. What an idiot I was to leave my hand in the hands of Mrs. B. She's always wanted Julie to break up with me. Always... and so he continued muttering to himself long into the wee hours of the night.
> By morning everything was crystal-clear to him: Van Gogh, he thought aloud, Vincent van Gogh! Julie had often expressed her admiration for Van Gogh's art. She even had a poster of his masterpiece, "The Starry Night," hanging over her bed. She couldn't help but appreciate the significance of his act!
> Charlie's ear came off with much less difficulty than had his hand. He'd made sure to take the left one off this time, although in the case of an ear it really didn't appear to make a difference. Of course the restraining order prevented him from delivering this, his latest body-part, in person. No matter -- he could always send it Federal Express. Typing is a bitch with just your left hand! However, it beat the hell out of writing, so Charlie simply bit down on his lower lip and proceeded pounding out the address label lefty style.
> That evening the police were back. They were much less understanding this time -- if such a thing were actually possible. Once again they put him through what he was rapidly coming to realize were "the usual paces" of squad car, emergency room, and nut-house. Only this time the process seemed to take a whole lot longer... especially the duration of his forced residence at the Happy Home.
> It took Charlie nearly a week to figure out what the problem had been. He'd trusted Federal Express to deliver the package directly into Julie's hands. That they'd left it with her mother -- as they obviously had, since Julie would surely have come to him if she'd received it -- was almost beyond comprehension. Charlie felt betrayed by Federal Express, and spent the next several days fantasizing about avenging himself on them with a series of homemade pipe bombs. In Charlie's defense, there isn't a heckuva lot else for one to do in a rubber room.
> Eventually he hit upon the truth -- Mrs. Buddingbusch's first name was also Julie! Fed Ex had simply delivered it to the wrong Julie. Damn! he thought half-aloud to the consternation of his caretakers. Damn! damn! damn! damn! damn!
> It took him over three months to get released this time. Unfortunately, his rent having been long overdue, his landlord had rented out his apartment to another Mexican family and removed his belongings from the premises. My own place wasn't much larger than Charlie's had been, but naturally I wasn't about to close my doors on a friend in his hour of need. I promptly offered Charlie my sofa until he could get himself back on his feet.
> Sadly Charlie's feet were the next things to go. First his left one, then his right. He'd begged me to place them into Julie's hands (Julie the younger, that is), and I swore to him that I would carry out his wishes. I was lying through my teeth. It didn't take a rocket scientist to see that a successful delivery would only get Charlie sent back to the loony bin. What other choice did I have? I left them in the Goodwill bin behind the supermarket where Charlie used to work.
> Charlie couldn't get around much after his second foot was sent off to a needy family. Still, I managed to rustle up an old pair of crutches from a Thrift Shop, which I "modified" for Charlie's special needs by using a can opener to cut the bottom off of an empty coffee can and mounting it (the can, that is) on the post of what then became his "right crutch" as a combination arm-holder/sleeve. Charlie's tool box had been among the belongings that were removed by his former landlord -- even if the "removed" (as we both suspected in this instance) meant they'd been removed to said former landlord's garage -- but I always kept a screwdriver or two around for emergency situations like this.
> The crutches seemed to buoy up Charlie's spirits and I soon had him accompanying me on my evening jog. It's surprising to see just how fast a one-handed man on crutches can actually go. Several nice-looking girls (that is, of the type euphemistically identified as "nice girls") seemed to take an interest in the sorry plight of my companion. I guess his condition brought out the mother instinct in them. But Charlie remained ever faithful to his former love.
> Once we'd both become acclimated to his handicapped status (familiarizing ourselves with handicapped entrances and such), he began accompanying me on my weekend tours of the Hoboken bars as well -- just as he had been wont to do in our happier, college days. Unfortunately, I'd never considered the fact that Hoboken had also been one of Julie's old stomping grounds. Charles, on the other hand, apparently had -- the prospect of running into her having been his primary motivation in coming.
> When our paths met their proverbial crossing point, the ensuing scene landed my friend right back into the asylum. This time for nearly a year. I got into a bit of trouble myself for failing to have reported the pedal amputations. They let me off with a warning, but made it abundantly clear that if it happened a third time, I'd be serving a little time myself.
> So when Charlie's tongue mailed out nine months later, my own tongue started wagging faster than you could say "Olly Olly Oxenfree." Needless to say, our friendship suffered as a result. When Charlie was finally released two years later, he refused my offers to resume his former residence with me. Instead, he began bunking at the local Y.M.C.A. -- his monthly disability checks adequately meeting his expenses.
> Three years later, Charlie Archer was running desperately short of expendable appendages and organs. Still, he managed to send his remaining leg (sans foot, of course) to Julie's wedding reception as a gift. We'd been playing a game of chess in the park when he happened across the wedding announcements section of the paper -- which only serves to prove the old adage that "no news is good news." He'd signed to me that he wanted to show up at the church so he could throw his teeth (in place of rice) at the happy couple. Fortunately I restrained him from attending.
> Unfortunately good taste dictates that I refrain from mentioning any of the details pertaining to the surprise honeymoon present he had Fed Ex'd (he was back to trusting them, as Julie no was longer living with her mother) to their hotel room in a pickle jar filled with vinegar. Vinegar being an aromatically superior substitute for formaldehyde. This restriction is doubly-regrettable, as the honeymoon delivery would be his last. I'm told, however, that the bride and bridegroom got a good (if understandably nervous) laugh out of it. And, since the police failed to show up the following day, I'm assuming that they either surreptitiously disposed of it, or kept it for a nicknack on their mantelpiece.
> It was shortly after Julie's wedding night that poor old Charlie Archer up and lost his mind.
> I found him -- rather, what remained of him – locked in his Y.M.C..A. dorm room a few weeks later. No longer recognizable as a human being, he appeared to be little more than a throbbing, pulsating mound of raw, bloody flesh. His sole remaining appendage, though mutilated to a horrifying degree, was still recognizable as his left arm and hand (although one or two of the fingers seemed to have disappeared). This arm, clutching fast to a regulation Boy Scout pocket knife, was flailing wildly about in a frenzied attempt to hack off the remaining shards of flesh from the blind, repulsive mound to which it was attached.
> As his best friend, I was left with no other recourse but to shoot him. Luckily the retort from the gunshot failed to raise any eyebrows in the neighboring rooms.
> Having stuffed the carcass into a lawn-size Hefty garbage bag, I managed to remove Charlie from the building (also without raising any suspicions among the other residents). I proceeded to toss my buddy into the back of my pickup truck and drove him on his final trip to Julie C. Cummerbunds' (nee Buddingbusch's) home. Upon arrival, I made my farewells, wiped away a tear, and deposited the remains on her front doorstep. Charlie Archer had been a damned good friend, and I knew he would have wanted it that way.

On Saturday, May 13, 2023 at 7:15:22 PM UTC, Edward Rochester Esq. wrote:
> On Saturday, May 13, 2023 at 2:28:26 PM UTC-4, Michael Pendragon wrote:
> > On Friday, May 12, 2023 at 9:47:45 PM UTC-4, Edward Rochester Esq. wrote:
> > > On Friday, May 12, 2023 at 9:03:48 PM UTC-4, Ilya Shambat wrote:
> > > > I will send a piece of me to you
> > > > Through the thinness of the morning air,
> > > > It will penetrate your eyes of blue
> > > > And remain inside your heart forever.
> > > >
> > > > I will send a piece of me to you
> > > > Over poppies, vilets and roses,
> > > > It will vanish in a church's pew
> > > > And resurface where your soul reposes.
> > > >
> > > > I will send a piece of me to you -
> > > > You alone in all of humankind -
> > > > It will disappear from my view
> > > > And become a figment of your mind.
> > > >
> > > > I will send a piece of me to you -
> > > > Nowhere else I'd send it to instead -
> > > > I will tell you to take it - take two -
> > > > And retain them all inside your head.
> > > >
> > > > I will send a piece of me to you
> > > > Over oceans and over lands,
> > > > It will be so supple and so new -
> > > > Mold it, mold it, mold it with your hands.
> > > >
> > > > I will send a piece of me to you -
> > > > A created piece, a piece complete -
> > > > Let it be your own, I say this too,
> > > > To just trample underneath your feet.
> > > >
> > > > I will send a piece of me to you
> > > > I do not know where, nor even when,
> > > > I will send it how, I wish I knew,
> > > > To expire and live in you again.
> > > >
> > > > I will send pieces of me to you
> > > > In the winter, summer, spring and fall,
> > > > And inside your being they'll accrue
> > > > Until I am none and we are all.
> > > >
> > > > By Ilya Shambat
> > > > https://sites.google.com/view/ilyashambatpoetry
> > > Nothing like self-mutilation.
> > I wrote a short story about self-mutilation called "Fool for Love." It's a black comedy in which the protagonist cuts off various parts of his body and sends them to his ex-girlfriend. I can see him as having written Ilya's poem:
> >
> > FOOL FOR LOVE
> >
> > 'T is better to have loved and lost
> > Than never to have loved at all.
> > -- Alfred, Lord Tennyson
> >
> > Easy... easy... just a half an inch more. Attaboy! Steady... just one more pull... There! It's finished. Charles Archer's freshly sawed off right hand fell to the floor with a sickeningly dull thud.
> > That'll show her! thought Charles half-aloud as he gazed down admiringly at his gruesome piece of handiwork. She'll think twice next time before she hangs up the phone on me; you can just be damn sure of that! He had always been pretty good with tools.
> > Charlie immediately shoved his ragged stump of a wrist flat against the bottom of a red-hot frying pan that had been going full-blast on the stove for the past forty-five minutes. That's to cauterize it, he told himself -- desperately hoping he could stand the searing bursts of pain long enough to staunch the bleeding.
> > He managed to hold out for nearly three full minutes before losing consciousness. His eyes rolled back and up inside his head, as he dropped to the blood-covered floor in a crumpled heap. The frying pan fell flat against his left leg, burning a hole through his trousers and charring the better portion of his thigh. The pain would be unbearable … once he regained consciousness, that is. But, as the immortal Bard once put it: "The course of true love never did run smooth." And still it could have been a lot worse; after all, he might have accidentally burned down the house as well.
> > Admittedly, Charlie had always been a little too melodramatic for his own good. I'd known him since our sophomore year at college, a good half dozen years ago. And in the time I'd known him, his melodramatic outbursts were invariably connected with girls. It was a girl who'd cost him his history final the year we'd met, and it was a girl who'd caused him to abandon his academic career. A girl cost him his job at the local supermarket. A girl cost him his job as a part-time telemarketer. A girl cost him his job as a car-park attendant. This time a girl cost him his right hand. Talk about your going overboard!
> > Six hours later he awoke. The pain was far worse than he'd ever imagined. Both his right arm and thigh were throbbing with a sharp, blistering pain, as if someone had stuck a red-hot knife in each of these areas and was violently twisting it around inside the holes. The pain seemed to increase with every throb, and in a matter of minutes had gone from excruciating to unbearable. And since Charlie had used up the last of the extra Vicodin pills that were left over from his having had his wisdom teeth extracted, he had no other option than to pass out for a second time.
> > When he awoke again, Charlie figured that quite a lot of time must have passed, since his throat was so parched that it was starting to burn almost as much as his wrist. Fortunately for Charles, his need of a cauterizing frying pan had necessitated his performing the do-it-yourself amputation in the kitchen. He painfully dragged himself across the floor to refrigerator and grabbed a bottle of diet Snapple off one of the shelves. Since his stomach was as empty of food as it had been of drink, he helped himself to some deli slices of boiled ham, pastrami and pickle & pimento loaf as well.
> > He had barely finished his fourth slice of p&p when a profound sense of nausea began competing with the throbbing sensations in his wrist and thigh. He began to suspect that he'd contracted a high fever, but considered that to be the least of his worries. For the moment, he only wanted to keep his impromptu dinner down. But Charlie soon found out the hard way that wishes aren't horses and beggars are forever doomed to be pedestrians. In short, his meal quickly transformed itself into a modern art collage that incorporated significant portions of his shirt, pants and the kitchen floor.
> > The pain then overtook him for a third time in a wave of agony that quickly left him down for the count.
> > Charles Archer lived alone in a three-room, railroad apartment. He was twenty-six years old and had been living on his own since the death of his father some two-and-a-half years earlier. His mother had preceded her beloved to the Isles of the Blest by another eleven years. The combined effect of these domestic tragedies sufficed to leave the young man adrift in the great, wide world -- utterly and irrevocably alone. This, coupled with the unfortunate fact that he was temporarily unemployed left him solely responsible for procuring emergency medical assistance.
> > His telephone was kept on a nightstand beside his bed. But his bedroom was situated at the northern end of the apartment and his kitchen at the southern end with a living room in between. And even if he weren't feverish and dizzy, his burned leg (which had swelled to nearly twice its original size) was in no condition to attempt such a lengthy trek. Not that Charlie would have wanted to call himself an ambulance. He was much too proud to admit that he needed any help. Time, they say, heals all wounds, and the one thing Charlie had plenty of was time.
> > A day or two later, the fever and swelling began to subside, and Charlie managed to literally crawl into his bed. Soon he was feeling strong enough to hobble and hop his way to the bathroom and back (although a little late for stopping the two-day's worth of excrement from accumulating on the sheets), and was even able to finish off the remaining lunchmeat without any negative consequences. Just a few more days, he thought, and I'll be back to my old self again.
> > It was on his first visit back to the kitchen that he'd first thought about the preservation of his hand. That is he'd gotten the idea when he noticed that it had started to turn a dark shade of brown like an overripe banana. Its smell wasn't particularly pleasant either, but he wouldn't notice that until much later -- the lingering acidic odor from his rejected dinner was still effectively masking it. He tossed it in the ice cube bin in his freezer, and kicked himself for never having gotten around to taking that course in taxidermy.
> > His prediction proved correct, and in a few days he had returned to his prior state of health -- except for a slightly painful limp and, of course, the inability to use his right hand. It's about time I got that present wrapped, he prodded himself. Sometimes he could be lazy about doing things, and needed to give himself a push. He removed the frozen hand from out its makeshift resting place, and made a spot appraisal of the damage. It was pretty far gone, but nothing he couldn't salvage with a little window dressing. It's all in the presentation, he smiled. Charles Archer was an artist, and could already envision the manner in which the severed hand would be displayed.
> > He opened his bedroom closet and removed a fancy looking lingerie box from off one of the upper shelves. It was a classy looking box with satiny pink and shiny silver stripes on it, and running diagonally across the top was a picture of a bright red satin ribbon with a bow. He placed the box in the center of his bed, gently lifted off the lid, and tossed the sexy red camisole inside it at the wastepaper basket beside his desk. His toss was a yard and a half short and off to right by about as many feet; but that was to be expected. Charlie had been right-handed, after all.
> > He then brought the defrosted hand into his room and carefully centered it on the luxurious bed of tissue paper that filled the inside of the box. That was when he first noticed the smell. That will never do, he thought. So the hand was removed from both bedroom and box and unceremoniously tossed into the scrub bucket that he kept under the kitchen sink. There it was doused with the contents of a nearly full bottle of Pine Sol, and left to soak for several hours.
> > When he finally removed it, it still didn't smell quite right, but at least it no longer bowled you over with its stench. It was going to be a gift after all, and the last thing that a gift should do is offend its intended recipient. He returned his now pine-scented hand to its former position in the gift box, and gently placed a dried white carnation in the center of its upturned palm.
> > Nor was it just any old white carnation. It was a very special one that she would immediately recognize. It was less than a year ago that she'd pinned the flower to his lapel, when he brought her to the Winter formal at her college. It still had the little sprig of baby's breath tied to it with a thin black satin ribbon. The stick pin it came with was the perfect tool for securing it to the palm. After indulging in a soft, wistful sigh, he fluffed up the tissue paper around the hand and closed the lid.
> > He wrapped the box in Valentine's Day paper -- the kind with lots of little hearts all over it -- and stuck a bright red bow on the top. It really didn't matter that Valentine's Day had come and gone a good three months before. The significance lay in the fact that the paper should remind her of the time they'd spent together last Valentine's Day. More importantly, it should remind her of all the promises they'd made that night at the Shangri-La Motel.
> > "Her," by the way was Julie C. Buddingbusch -- the one true love of Charlie Archer's life.
> > Poor Charlie couldn't help but cry a little as he wrote a final declaration of his undying love in the Hallmark card he'd bought her -- with his left hand. Unfortunately, as he'd always been right-handed, and as ambidexterity had never been one of his talents, the resultant scrawl was a few bits shy of legible.
> > I really should have hacked off the left one, he thought more than a bit reproachfully. Besides, the left arm's the one that's supposedly connected to the heart -- at least I think it's the left one. He'd almost chosen the left hand for that very reason, but had changed his mind at the last minute because A) he doubted that Julie would have gotten the esoteric symbolism, and B) that as one generally attaches more value to the hand he uses more often, she would naturally write a left-handed gesture off as half-hearted. Women! What can you do?
> > "My dearest darling," he wrote down in a wildly squiggling hand that would have shamed a kindergartner. "My dearest darling, just a little token of the indescribable pain your leaving me has wrought upon my heart." And he signed it "Yours forever, Charlie." That'll show her, he once again thought half-aloud, only to realize that he couldn't seem to get the card into the envelope. It would have been difficult enough if he'd actually held on to his good hand -- no pun intended -- but as things presently stood, it was downright impossible. Putting a card into an envelope has always been a two-handed job.
> > He sulked for several minutes, pouted a bit, then mustered up his courage for his twenty-second attempt. Seventeen attempts later and Charlie was still at it. He may have been prone to acting a little rashly every now and then -- but one could not fault his determination. How many spurned lovers have entertained the idea of sawing off one of their appendages, only to choke at the decisive moment? Not Charlie. Once he made up his mind to do a thing, he did it. Come hell or high water, Charlie Archer did it. In the end, he was forced to remove his right shoe that he might wedge the envelope between his toes. This move was especially painful to his freshly-scabbed-over thigh (which still had a lot more healing to undergo). However, it proved successful.
> > The next problem -- which subsequently presented itself -- was that of the package's delivery. Driving a car may not have been entirely out of the question, but Charlie felt he wasn't quite ready for an attempt at doing it one-handed. Perhaps if his car had been an automatic instead of a stick. He'd definitely have to see about trading it in. At first thought, the alternative of his old bicycle seemed more feasible, but upon trial proved merely to introduce another set of difficulties. His scabby stump, it seemed, was hardly suited to keeping a firm grip on the box and he needed his left hand to steer and work the brake.
> > He tried to press the package tightly against his chest, of course, only to drop it three times before reaching the end of his driveway. The third fall landed it smack in the center of a mud-puddle, causing a great deal of unsightly damage to the wrapping paper, Hallmark card, and bow. Charlie kicked his bike a couple of times with his good leg and broke lose in a loud string of expletives.
> > A backpack would probably have solved his problems at this point, but Charlie hadn't been blessed with the foresight to procure one. Backpacks are for yuppies, he'd always said. He decided to sleep on the problem -- still feeling a little weak from the loss of blood. When he awakened twelve hours later, it was too dark outside to pursue the matter further, so he promptly returned to his apartment, flopped down on his bed and went back to sleep. His dreams were all of Julie -- the nightmares and the pleasant dreams alike -- he seemed to be forever dreaming of her.
> > In the morning, he decided to walk the package over. It was quite a haul, as Julie lived two towns away, but Charlie felt secure that he could make it. He'd been on the track team back in his high school days. He'd simply have to start out early... first thing in the morning if he could cut his sleep time to a reasonable level. The fever and the nausea were long gone, and his wrist and thigh were basically healed... there really wasn't any need for him to be this tired any more. Especially when he'd just gotten up from a twenty-hour nap. I must be getting lazy, he kidded himself. He immediately noted, and was glad to see, his sense of humor coming back.
> > Fixing breakfast with his left hand proved far less difficult than he'd imagined -- as long as he kept away from items that required preparation. No more western omelettes, BLTs, or pancakes -- even the seemingly innocent orange was far beyond his present capabilities. Thus he contented himself with a bowl of cold cereal and Twinkies (Twinkies are a bitch to open with one hand!). By the time he'd bitten into the second Twinkie, he'd decided that he could definitely survive this way. Of course once Julie got the package she would marry him -- or so he thought -- and she surely wouldn't have any reservations about cooking a fancy breakfast for a man who'd sacrificed so much for her.
> > Tucking the package under his arm, Charles Archer stepped outside into the morning sunlight. It was a warm, spring day, and the sweet scent of apple blossoms filled the air. The world is such a beautiful place, he thought.. How sweet and good it is to be young and in love on a day such as this in the Springtime!
> > Charlie paused and listened, briefly, to the turtle dove's plaintive song -- perhaps it was the cuckoo's -- he had never really been a big fan of bird calls. But this morning he simply adored the birds -- he was bubbling over with a boundless love for all the living world. This morning all would be forgiven him. This morning she would be his love again.
> > Thus with a smile on his face and a song in his heart, Charlie Archer set out upon his early morning hike to Julie's house. He had planned on it taking him approximately three hours, but his slowly mending body didn't quite have the stamina of his spirits. Four and a half hours later he arrived at Julie's door. After tactfully concealing the poorly bandaged stump inside his jacket pocket, he rang the bell and was greeted by Julie's mother.
> > "Good morning, Mrs. Buddingbusch," he practically gushed.
> > "Good morning, Charlie," Mrs. Buddingbusch returned, rather coldly. He'd always suspected that Mrs. Buddingbusch had been less than fond of him. "What brings you around so early?"
> > "Is Julie home?" he inquired.
> > "Julie? No, why would Julie be home at this time? You know she has a class on Monday."
> > Damn! Charlie thought to himself. Damn! damn! damn! damn! damn! In his excitement, he'd totally forgotten that Julie would be at college. Worse yet, the college was situated a good twenty miles in the opposite direction. Poor Charlie just wasn't up to it. As a matter of fact, he wasn't even sure if he was up to the walk back home.
> > "Could you just give her this when she gets back, please?" he asked Mrs.. B., thrusting the slightly soiled package forward with his left hand. "It's just a little something for Julie."
> > "I thought you two had broken up," she told him without even so much as an implied question mark.
> > Charlie blushed, and managed to force a sorry excuse for a smile. Then, mumbling something about a peace-offering, he took his farewells and headed toward his home. It took him over six hours to return -- his energy levels having been severely depleted in the out-going stages of his excursion. Julie should have gotten home by now, he thought to himself as he staggered through the door -- unlocking the door with your left hand is a bitch! He plopped down beside the phone -- no messages. No biggie. It's only a matter of time now. Charlie waited, and the first day passed.
> > On the morning of the second day, a police car pulled up to Charlie Archer's door. The officers confronted him with the severed hand, then promptly ushered him into the back of their squad car. Charlie made a joke about uselessness of handcuffs in this case, but the officers failed to see the humor in it. Cops are stupid, Charlie thought -- fortunately he thought this to himself. They escorted him to the emergency room of the local hospital, and later to a shrink for psychiatric evaluation. Throughout the ordeal, Julie was nowhere to be seen. A second, then a third day passed after which Charlie -- restraining order in hand -- was released from custody.
> > I'd stopped by Charlie's house that day, just as the squad car was pulling out of the driveway. Charlie's apartment was actually the ground level floor of a small, one-story house. A second, Mexican family lived in the basement, but the two renters rarely interacted. Needless to say that when I got my first glimpse of Charlie's right arm, I was shocked.
> > We spent the rest of the afternoon together, with Charlie catching me up on the horrific series of events that culminated in his recent arrest. The psychiatrist had found Charlie to be suffering from temporary insanity due to stress factors from his recent break-up, but deemed him to be harmless to society at large. He was, obviously, not as harmless to himself, but one can't throwaway good tax dollars on every self-mutilation case that comes down the pike. On the bright side, he had been found to be completely free of suicidal tendencies.
> > I did my best to talk some sense into his head. He was a young, good looking and able bodied (except for his right hand) man. There would be other girls -- other loves. Life was too bountiful to throw it all away over one girlfriend. I even quoted some Elizabethan poetry to him: "Quit, quit, for shame!/This will not move./This cannot take her --/If of herself she will not love,/Nothing can make her./The devil take her!" But, alas! to no avail.. He would have none of it. Julie C. Buddingbusch was his sun and moon and stars. Without her, his life was a travesty... or a tragedy... or both. (I'm not certain what his exact words were, as we'd both had a few by this time and his speech was, consequently, a bit slurred.)
> > Charlie Archer barely slept that night. He had still received no word from Julie. Sure, one could infer a thing or two from the restraining order -- but that seemed so impersonal -- so bureaucratic. Julie couldn't be that heartless! Not Julie! No, it was Mrs. B. who brought the police into this thing. I'll bet Julie never even saw the package. What an idiot I was to leave my hand in the hands of Mrs. B. She's always wanted Julie to break up with me. Always... and so he continued muttering to himself long into the wee hours of the night.
> > By morning everything was crystal-clear to him: Van Gogh, he thought aloud, Vincent van Gogh! Julie had often expressed her admiration for Van Gogh's art. She even had a poster of his masterpiece, "The Starry Night," hanging over her bed. She couldn't help but appreciate the significance of his act!
> > Charlie's ear came off with much less difficulty than had his hand. He'd made sure to take the left one off this time, although in the case of an ear it really didn't appear to make a difference. Of course the restraining order prevented him from delivering this, his latest body-part, in person. No matter -- he could always send it Federal Express. Typing is a bitch with just your left hand! However, it beat the hell out of writing, so Charlie simply bit down on his lower lip and proceeded pounding out the address label lefty style.
> > That evening the police were back. They were much less understanding this time -- if such a thing were actually possible. Once again they put him through what he was rapidly coming to realize were "the usual paces" of squad car, emergency room, and nut-house. Only this time the process seemed to take a whole lot longer... especially the duration of his forced residence at the Happy Home.
> > It took Charlie nearly a week to figure out what the problem had been. He'd trusted Federal Express to deliver the package directly into Julie's hands. That they'd left it with her mother -- as they obviously had, since Julie would surely have come to him if she'd received it -- was almost beyond comprehension. Charlie felt betrayed by Federal Express, and spent the next several days fantasizing about avenging himself on them with a series of homemade pipe bombs. In Charlie's defense, there isn't a heckuva lot else for one to do in a rubber room.
> > Eventually he hit upon the truth -- Mrs. Buddingbusch's first name was also Julie! Fed Ex had simply delivered it to the wrong Julie. Damn! he thought half-aloud to the consternation of his caretakers. Damn! damn! damn! damn! damn!
> > It took him over three months to get released this time. Unfortunately, his rent having been long overdue, his landlord had rented out his apartment to another Mexican family and removed his belongings from the premises. My own place wasn't much larger than Charlie's had been, but naturally I wasn't about to close my doors on a friend in his hour of need. I promptly offered Charlie my sofa until he could get himself back on his feet.
> > Sadly Charlie's feet were the next things to go. First his left one, then his right. He'd begged me to place them into Julie's hands (Julie the younger, that is), and I swore to him that I would carry out his wishes. I was lying through my teeth. It didn't take a rocket scientist to see that a successful delivery would only get Charlie sent back to the loony bin. What other choice did I have? I left them in the Goodwill bin behind the supermarket where Charlie used to work.
> > Charlie couldn't get around much after his second foot was sent off to a needy family. Still, I managed to rustle up an old pair of crutches from a Thrift Shop, which I "modified" for Charlie's special needs by using a can opener to cut the bottom off of an empty coffee can and mounting it (the can, that is) on the post of what then became his "right crutch" as a combination arm-holder/sleeve. Charlie's tool box had been among the belongings that were removed by his former landlord -- even if the "removed" (as we both suspected in this instance) meant they'd been removed to said former landlord's garage -- but I always kept a screwdriver or two around for emergency situations like this.
> > The crutches seemed to buoy up Charlie's spirits and I soon had him accompanying me on my evening jog. It's surprising to see just how fast a one-handed man on crutches can actually go. Several nice-looking girls (that is, of the type euphemistically identified as "nice girls") seemed to take an interest in the sorry plight of my companion. I guess his condition brought out the mother instinct in them. But Charlie remained ever faithful to his former love.
> > Once we'd both become acclimated to his handicapped status (familiarizing ourselves with handicapped entrances and such), he began accompanying me on my weekend tours of the Hoboken bars as well -- just as he had been wont to do in our happier, college days. Unfortunately, I'd never considered the fact that Hoboken had also been one of Julie's old stomping grounds. Charles, on the other hand, apparently had -- the prospect of running into her having been his primary motivation in coming.
> > When our paths met their proverbial crossing point, the ensuing scene landed my friend right back into the asylum. This time for nearly a year. I got into a bit of trouble myself for failing to have reported the pedal amputations. They let me off with a warning, but made it abundantly clear that if it happened a third time, I'd be serving a little time myself.
> > So when Charlie's tongue mailed out nine months later, my own tongue started wagging faster than you could say "Olly Olly Oxenfree." Needless to say, our friendship suffered as a result. When Charlie was finally released two years later, he refused my offers to resume his former residence with me. Instead, he began bunking at the local Y.M.C.A. -- his monthly disability checks adequately meeting his expenses.
> > Three years later, Charlie Archer was running desperately short of expendable appendages and organs. Still, he managed to send his remaining leg (sans foot, of course) to Julie's wedding reception as a gift. We'd been playing a game of chess in the park when he happened across the wedding announcements section of the paper -- which only serves to prove the old adage that "no news is good news." He'd signed to me that he wanted to show up at the church so he could throw his teeth (in place of rice) at the happy couple. Fortunately I restrained him from attending.
> > Unfortunately good taste dictates that I refrain from mentioning any of the details pertaining to the surprise honeymoon present he had Fed Ex'd (he was back to trusting them, as Julie no was longer living with her mother) to their hotel room in a pickle jar filled with vinegar. Vinegar being an aromatically superior substitute for formaldehyde. This restriction is doubly-regrettable, as the honeymoon delivery would be his last. I'm told, however, that the bride and bridegroom got a good (if understandably nervous) laugh out of it. And, since the police failed to show up the following day, I'm assuming that they either surreptitiously disposed of it, or kept it for a nicknack on their mantelpiece.
> > It was shortly after Julie's wedding night that poor old Charlie Archer up and lost his mind.
> > I found him -- rather, what remained of him – locked in his Y.M..C.A. dorm room a few weeks later. No longer recognizable as a human being, he appeared to be little more than a throbbing, pulsating mound of raw, bloody flesh. His sole remaining appendage, though mutilated to a horrifying degree, was still recognizable as his left arm and hand (although one or two of the fingers seemed to have disappeared). This arm, clutching fast to a regulation Boy Scout pocket knife, was flailing wildly about in a frenzied attempt to hack off the remaining shards of flesh from the blind, repulsive mound to which it was attached.
> > As his best friend, I was left with no other recourse but to shoot him. Luckily the retort from the gunshot failed to raise any eyebrows in the neighboring rooms.
> > Having stuffed the carcass into a lawn-size Hefty garbage bag, I managed to remove Charlie from the building (also without raising any suspicions among the other residents). I proceeded to toss my buddy into the back of my pickup truck and drove him on his final trip to Julie C. Cummerbunds' (nee Buddingbusch's) home. Upon arrival, I made my farewells, wiped away a tear, and deposited the remains on her front doorstep. Charlie Archer had been a damned good friend, and I knew he would have wanted it that way.
> Bravo
>
>
>
> Outta the way,
> Ilya
>
>
> there's a new storyteller in town.

Ilya Shambat wrote:
>
>> I will send a piece of me to you
> Through the thinness of the morning air,
> It will penetrate your eyes of blue
> And remain inside your heart forever.
>
> I will send a piece of me to you
> Over poppies, vilets and roses,
> It will vanish in a church's pew
> And resurface where your soul reposes.
>
> I will send a piece of me to you -
> You alone in all of humankind -
> It will disappear from my view
> And become a figment of your mind.
>
> I will send a piece of me to you -
> Nowhere else I'd send it to instead -
> I will tell you to take it - take two -
> And retain them all inside your head.
>
> I will send a piece of me to you
> Over oceans and over lands,
> It will be so supple and so new -
> Mold it, mold it, mold it with your hands.
>
> I will send a piece of me to you -
> A created piece, a piece complete -
> Let it be your own, I say this too,
> To just trample underneath your feet.
>
> I will send a piece of me to you
> I do not know where, nor even when,
> I will send it how, I wish I knew,
> To expire and live in you again.
>
> I will send pieces of me to you
> In the winter, summer, spring and fall,
> And inside your being they'll accrue
> Until I am none and we are all.
>
> By Ilya Shambat
> https://sites.google.com/view/ilyashambatpoetry

I missed this one the first time around, good work, Ilya.

🙂

On Friday, May 12, 2023 at 9:03:48 PM UTC-4, Ilya Shambat wrote:
> I will send a piece of me to you

Coming from you, I could see that statement as truth.

On Sunday, May 28, 2023 at 9:10:31 AM UTC-4, Family Guy wrote:
> On Friday, May 12, 2023 at 9:03:48 PM UTC-4, Ilya Shambat wrote:
>
>> I will send a piece of me to you
> Coming from you

Troll much, Dink?

🙂