Diddy Sexual Assault Case: Casandra Ventura Speaks For First Time Since Footage
Historical, evocative fiction.
Edition #131
24.05.24
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Newsflash⚡ writes fictional stories inspired by what is going on.
This story might be a little tough to read.
But the great thing about history is that, now, it appears to be eating itself.
Estimated read time: 2.1 minutes.
LINK: the story behind this story. (BBC News)⚡
“Cassie posts first statement since Diddy footage emerged”, by Steven McIntosh @ BBC News, 20.05.24.
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1873
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The way that his shadow hung in the doorframe was almost unreal. How could something so terrible, so timeless - almost beyond real understanding - become so hauntingly picturesque? How dare it? She heard the insects humming in the reeds, felt the earth crawling up to her knees. Just more skin in the dirt. The lantern, just over his shoulder, was crackling in its glow; fading slowly, but orange; red. How dare she? This was the house he had built; the house his father, no doubt, could only have dreamed of. She felt the dust creeping up to her shins, into the folds of her skirt. If only, she thought, he could see himself - how terrified, how appalled, how foreign to himself he would feel! But this was the last of her imagination, and this was not a matter of sentiment. It was not even a matter of power, of property. It was a matter of ownership.
1921
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The rain fell over the plains like a wall. This was the moment she remembered: staring out of the window, knowing what was to come. His footsteps could be heard on the porch, heavy and quickened by anger. Water struck the glass in thick pellets; intensifying, receding, reaching a thunderous crescendo. She stood back suddenly - not in awe, but in terror. There was something in it. Something was reaching for her.
“Yoouuuuuuu-”
And she felt his grip on her shoulders. Hot, ruthless, unrelenting - like the jaws of a dog. Her bones were pulled from her muscles, her hair was torn from her scalp. And that was it - she was out. She felt the thick slap of mud on her thigh. And she began to doubt his innocence. Because, somehow, this time, it was twisted. As though a note she had never known had been lost. The water had seeped through to her forearms; the electric lamps were extinguished; the door was closed. He had thrown her out to the heavens - but for how long could the heavens rain? She lifted her forehead. She did not know, did not know what was to come.
1991
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He was nothing like the others; she knew it. He was not a man affected by the strength of Earth's nature; he was a man invincible to it. The rain bounced from his shoulders as if they were glass. There were stains on his vest, and a dark line of sweat stained his abdomen. Now he was wet, too. Why did she feel this? She felt like she might speak it; but the next blow brought blood up into her lungs; into her voice. This was what she really was: a living corpse - always and utterly. What kind of truth was that, to speak? She felt his knee, and then his knee again, and then: words. Words, from an ancient mouth, spoken now by a fading silhouette. He stood over her in the alleyway, screaming. But his voice was not heard. Where was she? Skin in the dirt. Voiceless. Somehow, she began to feel that she was here.
2016
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The five-star hotel hallway. Not the first time, she thought. At least now, they were indoors. He had tired himself out; she had let him. He was still there - lying somewhere in the linen, in a stupor of alcohol and Cuban tobacco. Half-asleep, half-living. And how could one blame him! He owned almost everything in the world. But she had left. Treading carefully - tip-toeing, barefoot - she made her way away from him; away from the door, which she had left open. Something had changed. Whatever it was. Whatever she had not understood - that pulling, that twisting sensation - she saw it. Laid bare, like the fields in cloudless summer, plain, and near to the soul. She felt her skin against the carpet. How? How had it taken so long? She had not escaped; his voice was after her, and then his steps, and then his hands, and then the soles of his feet. They stomped at her with the all the heavy dread of belief. But it was all dried up. Her skin was bruised, her eyes had swelled. Her face was contorted in a confused kind of pain - but a strange, almost foreign excitement pulled at her ears. A possibility. Where from? She leant her cheek against the elevator's steel door; felt the dust on her knees. His voice echoed somewhere, still, faintly. Whatever was left of him stuck to her body like mud. But she had been thrown to the rains. Was it blood, she could feel, in her throat?
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disclaimer:
This is fiction. The views expressed in this publication do not reflect the views of the author. The stories themselves are based on imagined events. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is fictitious and should not be taken as representative.
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And we have one of the world's super powers rolling women's rights back through history. God help us.
DOUBLE STANDARDS at show here! By the people for in many cases if it were a street sweeper or builder etc behaving like this the public/cops/law would step in but it is clear that the ESTABLISHMENT/CELEBS/ROYALS get protected etc. As said if it were a street sweeper etc they would be chased out of town!?