By Samantha G.

“What is this place?” I asked, hoping some of the darkness will turn to light. Hoping I am not alone. It’s cold, very cold as I feel the chill going right to the marrow of my bones. I can feel myself shaking to keep any warmth around me. My clothes feel old and made of tattered heavy wool, and smelling very dank. I can hear the faint rhythmic tapping of horses hooves on a hard surface. They seem to echo as though endless in their journey through the blackness.

“Can anyone help me?” I feel consumed in this unrelenting dark and cold. The feeling of hopeless solitude is creeping into my confused mine.

“Are you in despair?” A far away voice seems to have answered my call.

“Yes, I need your help.” I exclaim, somewhat relieved to hear any human presents in this frigid blackness. I can feel the sting of cold earth on my knees and my hands. “Where are you? Please, what is this place?” I fear any truthful answer. I should be lying on my bed at home, and reading some of my old term papers on literary giants of early America.

“What is this place? Please Sir, tell me!” I am full of panic, and near sobbing as the revelation begins to manifest. The odor of dirt reaches my senses. My hands are those that have been deep in the earth, digging and clawing, but for what? My fingers sting with the bite of frost.

“Westminster Burying Grounds.” He says in a low disparaging tone. “You can find your way to me. Come and receive my aid.”

My surroundings slowly turn from pitch-black to reveal it is night. I begin to see the soft glow of a distant kerosene street lamp and then a horse drawn enclosed carriage near the area of dim light. It appears to be parked and waiting for someone. The horse and driver are motionless as though suspended in time for a reason. A force seems to have me in its grip, a force that I cannot see. It’s not one, but more are holding me here.

“Come! Come this way!” The voice of the man is within that enclosed dark carriage, and there’s a hand waving to me from a passenger within its confines. He whispers again.” This way, Annie, come and join me.” Shadowy figures begin to dart off to the left and right of me, making me feel lighter and not pinned to this grisly task. I slowly rose to my feet. Is he calling to this Annie person or, me? The fog in my mind dissipates and it becomes very clear where I am. “OH dear God.” I gasped in disbelief.

“I know this place, and the time.” I exclaimed to the hidden rider of the carriage. “This is Baltimore, isn’t it?” The clanging of far away ships bells piercing through the cold night air confirms that I am near a harbor. My bare feet are standing on freshly turned frosty earth. I have been digging into a recent grave. I look behind and see a large multitude of grave markers as the night air breathes out another blanket of freezing dense fog. I clutch my rags of clothes and begin to run towards the carriage, and away from this corner lot grave. My feet feel the cold wet cobblestone of the street as I approach my rescue. A pale white hand emerges turning the outside lever and opens the door to the dusty dark carriage. I climb into it and sit directly across from the shadowed figure inside. His face remains hidden from view, as his head is tilted down, afraid to see me. He wears a small hat of tightly woven straw, and his clothes are no better than those of street beggars. His hands are small and neatly placed in his lap. Without any signal, the carriage driver snaps the reins and the horse begins to move us forward, into the night. Its hooves know our destination.

“This is a dream, right?” I’m more comfortable with my inquiry, as I search him for some simply answer. We slowly pass by a corner street marker that reads; Fayette and Greene.” Sir, I believe that this is a dream of my own making, but it seems to real for me to comprehend.” I have a thousand questions to query him about.

“I never wanted to come to Baltimore.” He said with regret. “My drink had this destination chosen for me. The sting of the alcohol is a far better comfort than that of losing you.” He slowly raised his head to reveal himself. “Oh my God.” I exclaimed covering my mouth. I know of him, and I also remember falling asleep long ago, and so far away from here, while I slumbered over some old term papers from my college days in literature classes. Wait, what brought me to all of this?

It was a very long day at work, as it now seems to be centuries old to me. I couldn’t wait to get home and feel the comfort of my house, my bed and a good book to get lost in. After a quick supper, I decided to go through some of my old college papers and came across several that I wrote on an author of great importance to American literature, Edgar Allan Poe. I clicked on my cd player and listened to the music of Evanescence as I got into bed and began to look over some of my old work. I wrote several essays defending his tortured life. Everything this soul ever loved had been viciously taken from him. His gambling and struggles with the bottle would lay a dark foundation to a short life. Tuberculosis wore the garments of the Grim Reaper, quickly claiming his first and only truest of loves, Annabel Lee. It would then feast upon his brother, Henry. The cloaked disease made another laborious call when it took his wife and first cousin, Virginia after twelve years of marriage. Her lungs were in turmoil for two years before finally succumbing. The soul harvest would chase him for two more exhausting years before staking its final claim, and display poor Edgar as penniless and lying face down in the gutter. His death would manifest in an unknown ailment, as doctors couldn’t discern it. His aunt Maria and the mother of his thirteen-year-old bride, would be at his bedside in the Baltimore hospital when he passed away, on October seventh of the year, 1849 at five o’clock in the cold early morning. He was interned on the following day in an unmarked grave of a corner lot. In a wicked twist of fate, his headstone was destroyed in a train accident before getting to Baltimore, shredding his final act of public dignity.

The horse and carriage came to a stop outside a small two story brick dwelling with very few windows and only a single tall door in the front. The night chill seemed to be fading as he reached and opened the carriage door. The scene is void of any surroundings, as though just this dwelling was dropped from the dark night sky, and landed on this spot.

Why does the warmth of life abandon us in death? If we have life after this time on earth then isn’t death just a cold word and not an outcome? My thoughts became a jumble of incoherency. But I knew I was very much alive, though not in this time. I felt as an unused portal of purpose. I was then given a glimpse of a raging sea, and torments of a great storm as it unleashed great waves crashing against a shoreline tomb. Cracks appeared in its foundation and an urgent need to escape its confines became immanent.

“We’re home, Annie.” A long awaited smile now brightened his deeply anguished face. I accepted his warm hand as he helps me to the tall white door of this house. Warm air spills onto me as I step inside. He follows closely behind, closing the door to shut out the chill of Baltimore. I’m greeted by a small crackling fire to my right in a small cooking area. The air is heavy with the scent of burning oak. I feel him lightly touching my shoulders under this tattered woolen cloak I have draped on me. He slowly removes it and drops it to the floor. His breath quickens into wisps of the name, “Annie,” as he repeats it begging for my console. ” Please Annie, turn to me in this hour of need.” He quietly beckons to me. And I obey him as I slowly turn to see him in the light of the fire. He embraces me, drawing his breath and quietly sobbing, as I lay my head on his narrow frail shoulders and peer into the reflection portrayed in the nearby dark glass of a tall thin window. It takes my breath away. A woman faintly appears in the dark of the window.

“ I know of this young woman that is imprisoned in the glass.” I whisper to him but keep my eyes on her. She is preparing for something. She seems to be hesitant or impatient.

“It is she that you so desperately seek, isn’t it?” I quietly confirm to both of us.

She is a whitely pale woman, almost ghost like, with large pouting eyes staring into my soul. She is absolute innocence, and her beauty is stark. Her skin is opaque white, as though she were sculpted from the finest of porcelain. She wears a smile of extreme content that silently says thank you. She knows I’m here. She can feel his presence.

Her eyes close to mask all the years of sorrow that have plagued her. I can feel him stir, as I look down to see him unbutton my dirty white cotton blouse of old. He has exposed my firm and full breasts, naked and waiting to be touched and held. His warm hands found them, and gently cup the small roundness, but I see my own skin now, without her paleness. I quickly gasp and look back to the reflection. Her head is drawn back and her small mouth is agape in the elusive pleasure of finally feeling his touch. The window is a perfect mirror, and only a stage for ghosts of the past.
I glance back into his face as he releases me and steps away. He knows the time for her is short.

“My dear, you have brought us together.” He informs me while his gaze is on the woman in the reflection. My existence in this place and time is becoming clearer.

“You need me to bring her to you.” I’m hesitant to continue but do so.” It was she in the tomb, wasn’t it? The crashing waves of the sea freed her from the sepulcher. This woman in the glass is your beloved Annabel Lee!”

“My dear Annie,” He says her name over and over as he begins to disrobe. He is no taller than I am. So fragile is his demure body as he reveals his narrow bony shoulders by dropping his coat and torn shirt. His chest is deeply rooted by the starving ribs that barely cling to his pronounced breastbone. I turn to the window mirror and see the alabaster woman continue where he left off, as she lets the ancient large skirt fall to the floor, making her completely naked for him. I see him approaching her in the reflection. His frailty and brutal misgivings on his physical body was a thing of the past, as he was blessed with a prodigious organ of unbridled sexuality. It swayed with strength and a heavy demand.

“OH my-“ I stifled my shock, afraid this apparition would disappear. I looked from the window back to him standing in front of me. I tried to take my eyes off of it. It’s enormous life and fullness was readily apparent as the weight of it nestled against my moisture laden warm womanhood and thighs. He embraced me again. I could feel him quickly filling with life giving blood as his ponderous organ began to rise and swell against me, instigating my own selfish burning desires. Uncontrollable wetness and heat was building between my legs, as they felt ready to quit the chore of holding me upright. He gently pushed me back against a small eating table, only to lift and sit me on the edge of it, naked with my legs apart for him. My eyes watched as my hands reached down and grasped his organ of immense desire.

“Is this what you’ve longed for all of these tortured years?” I asked as I stared back into his sadly deep-set eyes. My hands were full of his heavy growing lust, so soft as though it was silk, so strong as though it was designed of a fleshy oaken wood, so warm to hold, bringing me a demand to experience him. He gently took hold of my shoulders and laid me back slowly onto the table. I turned to the window mirror, compelled to look.

“She can feel you, look at what you’re doing to her.” I reveled in her delight as their consummation ceremony began.

His attribute was thrusting into her, as she writhed and flowed across the tabletop, feeling that which was so long ago lost, and never given its time. Her white skin seemed to flush into a wide variety of real flesh tones, as her body accepted his intimidating size with passion and surrender. Her milky legs swinging in all directions as her head flailed back and forth engulfed in echoes of her impending need for the hunger and fulfillment that only he could relieve. His reflection sank fully into her. The sudden loss of her virginity was readily apparent as he withdrew his firm blood strewn phallus only to thrust it back into her. She turns her lovely head towards the partition of glass, looking directly into me, and into my person, my soul, as her small mouth opens.

“It is done.” She says over and over. Each time gaining a more desperate intensity. He keeps pumping her laboring vagina with the prodigious organ. Her screams are deafening. She reaches as though she is trying to give me something. Our fingertips meet at the surface of the window cold glass. I can feel her every thought.

“Oh my God, oh my god- “ I grasped the edges of my table with all my might, as the dread fullness of him became my own agonizing endeavor. I look to her for help, as his phallus is making way. It’s pushing me across the top of the small table, making me gasp and moan incoherently, as the rush of pain swelters. I raise my head and look down my trembling body to see him between my flailing legs.

“No, No, Edgar, No!” I’m yelling for an explanation, an answer. Watching as his tiny body is in command of such a large menacing penis. My drenched vagina is expanding to receive it. He keeps a steady onslaught of pushing it further into me. It is hard for me to watch it slowly plunging deep, as my body is in convulsions of intense pain and pleasure. His gaze is always for her in the window.

“Take him. Go with him.” Her voice resins through me. I quickly wrap my arms and legs around him. Taking him deeper into my stretching womb. I’m lifted off the table, impaled on him, clutching him and hanging from him. My head is draped back as my long dark hair cascades about my waist. My eyes are bulging from the enormity that has found its way so deep into me. Not a single whisper can escape my gaping mouth. He moves away from the table and towards a steep set of wooden planks that reach upwards. He ascends them. Each long slow step is forcing his phallus to move in and out of my saturated vagina. I’m barely aware of the new surroundings as my mind is only in this coupling. He can carry me with ease, high into his room of slumber. A small room with only a writer’s table next to a narrow window, a flickering candle fixed upon a tiny stand and a small bed that he gently lays me on; shaking with anticipation while his organ is still very much in me. Our close naked bodies can only feel the heat of the moment, as he rises from between my widely spread legs, pulling his great length away and almost completely out.

“No, don’t go! Give me Eddy, give me please!” Her voice and urgency is mine. I try to prepare for the oncoming rush of his ominous organ. He hears her and obliges by sending the fullness back into me, ever so gently. I feel so deceitfully covetous from the amount of gratification it dispenses. I must watch it; I must watch his extraordinary appendage as it has succeeded in calming her young voracious hunger. My wet slickness is shimmering on it as he pulls the length into my view filling me with amazement as I watch it slowly bend and quickly disappears back into my willing vagina. Waves of thick lathered white fluids escape from my gushing womanhood, coating his organ in warmth and lust.

“Oh my dear God, Oh sweet-“ I shout a chorus to join hers. I suddenly feel as though he has kept me from ecstasy on purpose as I am hypnotized by the spectacle of his huge phallus fully pumping in and out of me. The spill and sound rising from my loins fill the air with each large thrust. I glance up and into his deep eyes. They are looking straight ahead but over my body as though his head were detached from his thrusting body. It’s then that I see her directly over me and reaching to embrace her beloved. I’m viciously overmatched by his final thrust as it pierces into the deepest regions of my yearning for orgasm. The climax batters my wrenching twisted body with sweet violence as my hips hump and grind against him as though to devour his very sexuality. Screams and moans are filling the air as my mind surrenders letting them take control of my existence. My sated vagina erupts in a flood of satisfaction, and every nerve ending in me begins to sing. My eyes roll into darkness, but I can see them embraced. Her thoughts turn once again to me.

I’m deliriously happy as warm tears bathe my face.

“The giving and taking of such gifts should only be the bonds of true devotion.” She lovingly said, as her echoing words sent me drifting away from this time and place.

The very next sound I heard was my five in the morning alarm clock beeping away. I reached over a scattering of college papers and shut it off. I then noticed a single wrinkled sheet of paper in my clutching fingers and read;

Annabel Lee
by Edgar Allan Poe
(published 1849)

It was many and many a year ago,
In a kingdom by the sea,
That a maiden there lived whom you may know
By the name of ANNABEL LEE
And this maiden she lived with no other thought
Than to love and be loved by me.
She was a child and I was a child,
In this kingdom by the sea,
But we loved with a love that was more than love–
I and my Annabel Lee
With a love that the winged seraphs of heaven
Coveted her and me.

And this was the reason that, long ago,
In this kingdom by the sea,
A wind blew out of a cloud by night
Chilling my Annabel Lee;
So that her high-born kinsman came
And bore her away from me,
To shut her up in a sepulchre
In this kingdom by the sea.

The angels, not half so happy in Heaven,
Went envying her and me
Yes! that was the reason (as all men know,
In this kingdom by the sea)
That the wind came out of a cloud, chilling
And killing my Annabel Lee.

But our love it was stronger by far than the love
Of those who were older than we
Of many far wiser than we
And neither the angels in Heaven above,
Nor the demons down under the sea,
Can ever dissever my soul from the soul
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee

For the moon never beams without bringing me dreams
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee
And the stars never rise but I see the bright eyes
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee
And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side
Of my darling, my darling, my life and my bride,
In her sepulchre there by the sea
In her tomb by the side of the sea.

This poem was Edgar Allan poe’s last published work. Was this a compilation of all the heart break he lamented in? Or was it just as it says, all for Annabel Lee? How different we have become from our past. Today, or tonight we can achieve sexual gratification at a mere glance in any given public enviroment, as we take our accomplises home and fuck each others brains out. Now think of waiting nearly two hundred years to consumate with the one true love in your life.