The One Who No Longer Absorbs the Bitter

Please excuse the use of metaphors, symbols, and mythic writing. Please excuse the music I created with my own voice. Please excuse the AI generated metaphorical images of ancient times. Please excuse my filmmaker background. Please excuse my age of 76. Please excuse my abiliyu to want to keep learning which includes AI. Maybe I should crawl back in my 'dark night of the soul' depression. Pease excuse my love for science fiction, art, film, eccentric, and creating too many videos from visions I saw in my dreams. I know the majority of writers on this platform hate AI. So, the stories I create will not be read because you do not believe a 76 year old hippie child could create such nonsense. I do not write for naysayers and anyone who avoids being progessive. I have always been on the cutting edge of technology. I am a REAL LIVE HUMAN BEING.

WRITTEN, CREATED, EDITED BY

VICKI LAWANA TRUSSELLI

The One Who No Longer Absorbs the Bitter

NO MORE TONGUE SLASHING

In the small theater of the shared house,

the rain tapped its soft, steady percussion

while the Instigator rehearsed her bitter lines

behind a tightly closed door.

Her tongue, a serpent of old, festering grievances,

coiled and ready to strike at any shadow

that dared to breathe near her.

She mistook her bitterness for power,

her venom for truth,

her volume for victory.

But in the center of the room,

the Faithful One sat

calm, unshaken,

wrapped in the quiet, resilient armor

of someone who has already survived

far worse storms.

She saw the performance for what it was:

the Instigator’s rage,

nothing more than a malabsorption

of her own poison.

A toxin she could not process,

so she spat it outward,

hoping someone else would swallow it.

But the Faithful One

had long since sealed her sacred depths.

No seepage.

No absorption.

No entry.

She watched the bitterness swirl

like smoke that could not find a host.

She watched the imaginary “cut down”

fall flat at her feet,

unable to pierce a woman

who no longer lived in that THEATER.

The Instigator’s words, once sharp and stinging,

now drifted like dull, lifeless echoes

in a hall where the acoustics

no longer favored her.

And the Faithful One rose

not in anger,

not in fear,

but in crystalline clarity.

She stepped out of the reach

of the blame game,

the nonsense,

the creeping, petty peeps

of provocation.

She breathed.

And in that breath,

the stage lights shifted.

The script dissolved.

The performance ended.

Her imaginary “cut down” fantasies,

where the Instigator thinks

she can shrink the Faithful One

with a single, poisoned sentence

It no longer computes.

The math don’t math.

The code don’t run.

The spell don’t cast.

For she, the Faithful One, was free

to be

herself.

And no bitterness in the world

could seep into a soul

that had already chosen

the light.

This is my first draft. I worked all day to get this 'just right'.

SPOKEN WORD: The One Who No Longer Absorbs the Bitter

I see it.

The bitterness.

The performance.

The absurd behavior

spilling out of a tone

that thinks it’s thunder

but lands like static

on a broken radio.

This bizarre circumstance

this theater of the unhealed

where one woman’s tongue

spouts venom

like she’s auditioning

for a role

nobody wants to watch.

And me?

The faithful one?

I sit with no fear.

No more tears.

No more fears.

No more tears.

I’ve cried that river dry

and crossed it.

Her spirit of chaos

tries to seep,

tries to creep,

tries to leak

into the depth of my sane observations—

but I am sealed.

I am steel.

I am the one who no longer absorbs

the bitter.

Her poison?

Her anger of mass proportions?

Her imaginary “cut down” fantasies

where she thinks she can shrink me

with a sentence?

It no longer computes.

The math don’t math.

The code don’t run.

The spell don’t cast.

I am too far away

from the nonsense

to be touched

by a peep

creeping

into nonsense.

I ignore the instigator

of no suspense

the one who invents

incentives

to cut down

whoever stands

in front of her

blame game.

But I don’t play.

I don’t bend.

I don’t break.

I don’t take

what was never mine.

I am free.

Free to be

me.

Free to breathe.

Free to leave

her bitterness

on the floor

where it belongs.

I walk away

with my light intact.

My breath steady.

My spirit is clean.

I am the one

who no longer absorbs

the bitter.

PROMPTS USED FOR VISUALS

“A woman alchemist at her rustic worktable, seen only through her hands and presence, preparing a protective salt symbol. Warm firelight illuminates jars of herbs, colored liquids, old books, and parchment covered in hand drawn sigils. She presses a wax seal onto the parchment beside a brass plaque engraved ‘Salt: For Grounding & Protection.’ The atmosphere is ancient, mystical, and ritualistic, capturing the moment a woman crafts a sacred salt sigil.”

.The Ritual of Grounding

A rustic, candlelit workspace where an old world practitioner prepares a protective salt sigil. Hand drawn diagrams, circular symbols, and handwritten notes cover the parchment. A wax seal is pressed into place, surrounded by jars of herbs, colored liquids, and a brass plate engraved with “Salt: For Grounding & Protection.” The mood is sacred, intentional, and quietly powerful.

The Salt Symbol of the Faithful One

A mythic workshop scene: parchment filled with symbolic diagrams, swirling lines, and protective markings. A figure seals the parchment with wax as jars of salt, herbs, and alchemical tools glow in warm firelight. A metal plaque reads “Salt: For Grounding & Protection,” anchoring the image in ritual and sovereignty. The tone is ancient, protective, and deeply grounded.

I wanted to share the prompts as they are extremely important for any of my stories. Excuse my interest in prompts.