23 Sunday Oct 2016
Posted in Crap Shoot
≈ Comments Off on Insert Evil Laughter Here
By Narcissa Lyons
The Dark is upon us. Wish that was not double entendre this year. Been a bit frenetically busy, but I will not let this time of year go by without any mention of this spookiness, eeriness and lovely horrorfest time. It is All Hallows Month, and very quickly is approaching All Hallows Eve. Continue reading
01 Saturday Oct 2016
Posted in Crap Shoot, Ears Open
≈ Comments Off on When the Chimes End
By Narcissa Lyons
Man walks into a bar.
A tall but feminine cowboy shot my brother right in front of me.
She took off her brassiere very slowly in front of the alien.
Above statements are pretty great openers for whatever subject they would be introducing. I am not getting the vibe or the dazzle that I’d want to convey for one of the best things in life–Music, dear music, our necessary and attentive lover. Continue reading
11 Sunday Sep 2016
Posted in Biting and Drinking
≈ Comments Off on Breakfast Pasta
Narcissa Lyons
Level of Difficulty: Very Simple
Serves: 6-8
Breakfast pasta–that’s what I call it for apparent reasons but better for lunch or dinner. It is similar to Pasta Carbonara but has no peas, plus a few other subtle differences that, per me, make it much tastier. Anyway, here you go.
28 Sunday Aug 2016
Posted in Crap Shoot
Tags
By Narcissa Lyons
We’ve many of us been there. Taken a test, rejoiced or cried at the results, decided to just carry on and see what God meant to happen. The pregnancy test. And all this means, with or without child, is that our life will veer one way for a while. That if we’re seventeen and it is negative we breathe a little easier, a little forlornly at wondering how we could have been stupid enough to have gotten so close to those kind of chains. Or at seventeen it is positive and we are immediately dread-soaked – first, to keep or not to keep it and the many ways to recover from either decision—then once decided to weigh everything, to trade teen-age angst with way-too-early-motherhood angst.
That is one picture. There are many others. Others of mothers that are precisely where they need to be and want to be, get seeded exactly as planned so as to have their first child on that best day of that best year. Goes to shit after that but at least the birthday is perfect. Continue reading
10 Wednesday Aug 2016
Tags
By Mezmerelda
I’ve been traveling a lot, and I haven’t been able to go to anything kink. Since I only just got into covering this kind of thing I was surprised how much I felt the itch. Course traveling and no kink shows meant I was not only missing getting visually stimulated (at least), but I also wasn’t writing which is clearly the opposite of what I am supposed to be doing. So it was time to get creative on the source of my articles/interviews. I hung out on various sites to see if I could have a discussion on the maybe less exciting of sexual escapades – the three-some (this time I am tackling two women/one man). No amount of shyness on this topic since it happens more than you might think. Not just the rich, good-looking and famous get this kind of love. Since I got a lot of feed-back I had to have several mini chats to get what I thought might be a more meaningful story. What I mean by that is that I didn’t want to interview women who decided on a semi-drunken night to delight some guy they decided deserved it. While that might have its own kind of story, I wanted a little more this time. Regular debauchery I will have to ease myself into, so it’s a story for later. Anyway, I came across Dahlia, a girl who had bounced around a few times with the same couple, so I thought her story could be better.
I waited for her at the college campus bench and looked around, watched summer students, trees bend in the tiny but brave breeze. I have decided to always be the first one at an interview because it gives the chance of a longer observance of a person’s manners, expression, etcetera, and I guessed correctly when a confident looking girl with long dark hair walked purposefully towards me, a smile on her face. She was dressed in jeans, flip-flops and a mid-riff revealing shirt, simple but flattering. She was, from what I could tell with her eyes shaded by glasses, beautiful. But I guess youth in and of itself is beautiful.
We got the introductions out of the way and then walked to a nearby tree that provided the shade we wanted.
Mezmerelda: What made you want to be the third wheel of a standing couple?
Dahlia: Wow. That doesn’t make it sound like a lot of fun (laughs). They are a couple of my closest friends. We went out one night to a club and Ginger asked me if I’d ever slept with another woman. Which I have. A few anyway. Then she asked me if I’d consider fucking her and her husband. Maybe she was a little more delicate than that, but the deed is what it is no matter how you wrap it.
Mez: You said yes.
Dahlia: Obviously, or we wouldn’t be here talking.
Mez: Sorry. How was it arranged?
Dahlia: Was later that same night. We just left early. No one was drunk. By the way, her husband is HOT. I have a kind of thing for him, always have, even when I was going out with one of his friends. Or maybe that’s why, can’t really remember. He is not hot in the obvious looks kind of way, though still cute. He is just drop dead sexy/sexual/yes of course I want to fuck your husband.
Mez: What about your attraction to Ginger?
Dahlia: Existed sort of, but thinking about it enhanced it. She did not do it for me for more than this, but that sounds mean, but you can’t help what gets you turned on, you know? I was into this for the experience, for the chance to have good sex because I never had it. Or have it. Sex is not as good as it should be, but I had a very good feeling my friends would know what they were doing and that is hot right there. And attractive.
Mez; I know you’re young, but you seem old enough by now to have had at least some good in and out, or oral or something.
Dahlia: Well, you said it. I’m young which means so are the men I’ve been with and they haven’t had time to figure it out, or they are so possessed with their own getting off they can’t help you out even if they want to.
Her wisdom was out-tiring mine.
Mez: OK, so how was it?
Dahlia – Pretty fucking intense. He has a big dick. They looked at me a lot, looked like they knew they were giving me almost as much of a gift as I was giving them. I could feel her pleasure as she watched him fuck me and that was also a turn-on. And when she wasn’t watching me she was licking me elsewhere, all over. The overwhelming feel of multiple hands and lips on me during the whole thing was shattering, so fucking shattering. I got more into it. I looked at Robert as he watched me and fucked me and even though I can’t come with intercourse (yet), I made it seem like I was. That was the first time, and then the next time we dropped acid and that was more intense, but also more weirdly meaningful.
Mez: What does that mean?
Dahlia: Please don’t print this…Nevermind….or this wasn’t that long ago, a month I think. I was still seeing Jason, Robert’s good friend, and I slept over of course. Well Jason showed up the next morning. He stops by a lot like that because he gets high with them. Robert had to make something up while I was in the bathroom hiding, slightly weird. But I’m getting off track. That part was funny. The stupid feelings started to get involved is the problem.
Mez: Your feelings for Robert?
She looked away, not troubled but not happy. “I care about them. Ginger too even though I hate her jealousy. If you fucking ask another chick to fuck your husband you are not allowed to be pissy or jealous.
Mez – Not sure there’s a rule book on that but I get what you mean.
Dahlia: It’s just that I go over their place a lot, mostly just to hang and have some beers, but if Robert looks at me a fraction longer than Ginger wants him to he gets in trouble and I get some kind of cold shoulder from her.
Mez: How many times have you danced this dance?
Dahlia: Four times now. The last time he watched me go down on her, which I’d done before but not quite like this. We dressed for it, laced up, delicate, almost ignoring him. As if he minded (laughs). She was lit with it, with me and how much she was liking it.
Mez – So you enabled a freakishly good orgasm for her?
Dahlia: Well, sure, but it doesn’t really matter and then we had to talk about it the next day.
Mez: Talk about it?
Dahlia: Well, we’re friends so we talk about shit, and obviously Robert, being the guy that he is, had a little ego re-building to do, like “well you know exactly where to put your tongue since that’s your anatomy, etc.”. He’s right but he got off. And still I did not.
“Mez: You didn’t? Why?
Dahlia: Because I’m good at pretending, of living in a good but maybe half fake moment just to see people I care about get to where they want to go.
Mez: So you got them there.
Dhalia: Mmm. They’re there, they like to look at me with and without clothing and we are good friends, now and always. I think.
Mez: Gotta say here Dahlia, you don’t look like a happy sex goddess or anything, despite his ferocious sexuality and come hither dick.
At this point, Dahlia looked up at me, a weird and daring look in her eyes almost daring me to figure it out, whatever it is I couldn’t. “We are not strangers, which is something I want to try. We can’t all fit in their bed so I have the guest room after we’re done with the raunch. That is not a great feeling at night if you’re buzzed, and it is really crap in the morning when you might be a little hung-over, if it’s light out, when you are not waking next to someone. Yeah you have breakfast together, and there are light touches, caresses and soft kisses, but the line is there.
She looked over at me and smiled. “I sound a little poetic or pathetic I guess.”
I have pictured her story so far so I don’t think so. “No.”
Dahlia: I think it’s not over, because I know how I feel about him, which makes it sound even worse. Oh, this poor idiot of a girl went and fell in love with her married fuck buddy, and she should have known that might happen. What I did not tell you is that I told him I loved him.
Mez: Oh.
Dahlia: Yeah, oh. Obviously, she does not know and he won’t tell her. I would be a liar if I said I have not enjoyed any of this so far, and it is “so far” because I’m not done and can’t be just yet, but I am not sure I would say yes if someone turned back the clock. I like the sex, the pretty clothes and the two acid nights so far, but I am getting a little tired. It can be lonely, and even though I am a decent looking chick (understatement), it is not enough in the face of committed friends who you don’t want to hurt.
Mez: I guess I can’t disagree with that. How are you going to exit?
Dahlia: Dunno. I do know that I am going to find some good-looking strangers, and figure it out and learn things and for tits’ sake teach things. I would like not to be the only one who can get me off. I think I’d like to be with two men next. And then maybe seventeen. And then maybe something real.
Mez: Seventeen?
Dahlia: Well no, at least not at once.
She winks and smiles but the wink is not without acknowledged irony.
I didn’t really know what to think of her, other than I believed everything. None of it was wild enough for me to think otherwise. We talked for a while about the rest of college life and for a change I did not get nostalgic. I knew there was more to cover, but I would get no more from Dahlia. As I said, next time I’ll stick to the smuttier, less storied fun. Don’t get me wrong, Dahlia’s story isn’t sad, and she is just at the beginning of her sexual journey, but I remember those days not long ago, and they are not easy ones.
24 Sunday Jul 2016
Posted in Biting and Drinking
By Narcissa Lyons
I was going to write my first article here about pigs. I almost don’t have enough good things to say about this fat, delicious animal (and I will forcibly forget that they have been known to eat us right back if given the chance). But then I came across a site I have come to love, even if I know my own patience limits me from recreating a few of the recipes I read, and this site reminds me about all that is pleasing and beautiful about food–the simplicity of food’s beginning and of its gathering to eventually end up on a hopefully discerning and appreciative palate, but I’ll point you there later.
Food, the buying of it, the listing of it, the discussing of it, the assembly and presentation of it, smelling, tasting and mixing of it, the sweet satisfaction of putting it on the table in front of people you love with the knowledge they will mostly swallow it down while doing more important things like talking, laughing and OK, arguing – is what is The Dine. And part of that is certainly the sharing of the task. Cooking, chopping, emulsifying whilst talking about the very mundane or the excruciatingly great gossip on a mutual friend or hated stranger, anything at all – this becomes part of the mixture. Even the occasional explosion of the chef (figurative) under pressure is part of the event’s make-up because while fixing the fixin’s has its pleasure aplenty, there is mayhem in the kitchen! And exponentially more so with the body count, er.. the quantity of guests. It is not easy to cook for a lot of people, and if a “helper” makes the slightest slip at the wrong time (during said explosion), get the hell out simple as that. My mother was famous for this. And I think two of my sisters inherited the quality but to a less frightening degree (sorry Panni, Paulette but tis true, maybe more Panni). Everything would be fine, someone setting the table, someone asking who wanted red or white, etc., but my mother, coming out of the kitchen, might notice that a place setting was incorrect in some way or another. A shriek fest like that you don’t want to see—but I am certain this is not a rare phenomenon to other families either. It’s just a boiling point (pun intended) when the fear that the meal will be an utter failure is foremost on the cook’s brain. My point here since it seems to have strayed is that we who love food want to please those we love with it, to honor the occasion marked so that it is memorable, enjoyable, and really as delightful as possible –and being the one who is responsible for that is not a light thing even if it is only unwritten.
Thanksgiving is not over-rated. Some will say so, they tend to be younger, but they are well aware what they say is just silly. For shit’s sake it’s a four-day weekend and that is money. And the three days prior are just a joy fest talking about it with others, strangers even, just to understand who is hosting, who is buying the organic or the to be triple deep fried bird. “I am not going to cook but I have to bring the deviled eggs”. No one really works. Actually, no one works at all, they just attend their place of business. That is not a secret so I cannot get fired. For that.
The house gets cleaned, items hiding in strange places get washed, guests clarified, wine, beer and all good liquids accumulated. This is the feast of the year. What was my point? That food is about taste, delection and being with people. About preparing to be with people and talking about preparing and talking about the guests we are expecting and what they are preparing, ad infinitum. About talking on the subject because it is a subject and not always can one find that kind of common ground.
And that is what it is. Food is common ground. It is common, sumptuous, aromatic and tactile ground. It invites, in all of its ways, from the simplicity of mac’ and cheese to the complexity and divinity of fois gras with figs and raspberries. Shake my hand and I will shake your hand and we will find what it is we have in common and I know it will taste good. Burger at the dark joint down the street with a respectable long pour on the wine. Common and delicious and down our throats.
As always, be well.
The site to which I earlier referred and is food beauty:
The Infinite Belly – Beet Soup
Even if you don’t think you have the talent to make this loveliness, just looking at the pictures nearly puts the soup in your mouth.
14 Thursday Jul 2016
Posted in Erotica
By Mezmerelda
I finally have been able to attend my first erotica related event, and went with a new friend of mine about whom you may have now heard, Ángelita. I had briefed her on the distance of the venue, and the content (demonstrations on fire and wax play), and we decided it was a good adventure for us each to seek our respective goals–me, a story, and her, well whatever might come along.
We wound up in the heart of a rather large town, and neither of us knew the town at all, or even any surrounding town, and after driving around a little to explore the area we were still uncertain as to the sketchiness/non-sketchiness of the area, but we decided we needed to find the address and just do it. In a quirky section and amid two strange looking churches we found the building we had sought after some degree of confusion and parked. Half jokingly I asked Ángelita if she had a gun. She said no but then took out a very respectable knife and said she’d been trained in its use. This prompted nervous laughter, but none-the-less a sense of some kind of security.
And our fears were for naught. We went up stairs by candlelight and a sweet chandelier, and at the top were greeted by a few hosts who checked us in, validated we were who we claimed, and that we were on the list. There was a friendly ambience and a table of snacks, for after all the event was scheduled for a 5 hour span. Since we were newcomers, a gentleman brought us around for a quick tour of the establishment and a provision of general rules.
The main room was dimly lit, large and open with several oriental rugs spread about, a corner lounge area, other chairs here and there for sitting or watching, but the rest of the furnishings were about rope, chains, play mats, and other means be which to apply other stimulations. David, our tour guide, showed us a few private rooms for those that wished to play without eyes on them. There was also a “recovery” room furnished with soft couches, pillows and blankets for people to relax after a “scene” should they so need. I’ll get to that later. As far as rules: No nudity, no sex, and no talking to those in a scene. You could only talk to those who were providing demonstrations. He left us and we walked around, observing.
My main interest, other than the acquisition of information, was wax play. I’ve dabbled and wanted to see just a little more, so I was a little disappointed the first show was to be on fire play. Fire play? Seriously? Why would you ruin some perfectly good sex with getting important things burned? I had told Ángelita as much. But after witnessing what it really meant I was the first one to raise my hand for a personal demonstration. I was asked to lean over a bar height bench, my shirt pushed down to allow maximum back coverage, and a woman who was able to keep her hands lit with fire massaged my back. This is not an easy skill, to keep your hands lit, but she could transfer from one hand to the other as one hand got too hot. It was an amazing massage, very hot, singing even, but it was not too much. She had asked me what my safe word was and I said “how about don’t burn my hair” or “ow”. No such safe words came from me even when she changed from her own hands to the fire stick itself rolling across my back (a stick with cloth soaked at the end that remained lit). While this also felt good, it can’t beat human hands on fire, skin to skin. Afterwards, my skin tingled, felt new, relaxed and alive.
From almost the beginning of our arrival and during my fire application came the sound of a woman crying out in pain. She was in the open area so we knew it was she in the corner leaning over a leather device specifically for such entertainment. The garment she wore was leather and thong-like so that the cheeks of her ass were exposed properly to the whipping she was receiving. I think the duration may have been about 20 minutes in total, and when it was over the gentlemen who had accommodated her (one by her head so as to hear any safe words uttered, and one administering her desired punishment), gently walked her to the recovery area. This is a fetish I do not yet understand, but it was perhaps the first of three such events during our two hour stay, so it will be part of future interviews and investigation. The particular device on which she had leaned was next to a heavy chain spider web that spanned about 8′ across and 6′ high. I could not take a picture and for the life of me could not find a picture on the web anywhere (pun intended). We did not get to see this piece in practice, but my imagination and yours likely gets the gist.
In the center of the room was a rope play square where those that practice with rope (the art of Shibari or Kinbaku) were able to suspend themselves or others. One woman, an extremely talented Shibari artist, knotted herself in several places and, upside down, performed beautiful twists and turns to rhythmic, pretty music. It was enchanting. We later learned she was an expert, and saw her assisting another with self tying.
This brings me to the highlight of the evening, which was when a gentleman approached us as we sat watching the wax demonstration. He introduced himself as Gabriel, a rope “Top” (the roll of tying up an individual) and asked if one of us would like to be the “Bottom” (recipient). As it happens, Ángelita is a fan of this art and volunteered. We had already been sitting next to the mat where he would be practicing, until this point empty.
What I witnessed for the next 20 minutes was hypnotizing, not only because Gabriel was good at what he did, but because Ángelita was transfixed, overtaken, enraptured. He told her to get on her knees and face any direction she chose, and she chose something halfway between the wall and me. From the moment he knelt behind her and readied her for the experience, she let out gasps of anticipation, desire. Her eyes were closed, her head tilted back, and then forward depending on where Gabriel positioned himself. Initially ropes went round her waist, and then began placement of strategic ropes that crossed above and below her breasts, with the knots having to be tied at points on those very tight lines. The art of Shibari is more about emotion and the connection between the top and bottom, and here there was clearly a connection, that from my 4 foot distance felt electric. Due to the nature of rope tying, Gabriel had to be intimately close to Ángelita, had to tie knots between her breasts and then pull snugly, each time doing so eliciting sighs or moans of pleasure from her. A few times he had to pull her close to command a tighter hold with the ropes, and it was clear that as he did so he whispered things to her, guiding her, getting to know her. From where I sat I could swear she was close to orgasm from the sheer expression on her face and the sounds she made, and at one point she opened her eyes and looked at me. I just blinked and smiled slightly, since this experience was having its own effect on me. Nearing the end Gabriel must have said something to her that taunted her about being somewhat helpless since she was tied up because she said “Yeah, but I can still kick your ass”. This got her, to her increased pleasure, placed on her stomach, her ankles tied together, and then that rope hooked to the rope that already crossed her back, so that her body was now arced, truly rendering her defenseless, and utterly enthralled.
After a few minutes in that somehow joyful helplessness, he gently untied her, and Ángelita arose a little unsteady–and hungry, maybe voracious for something more that could finish what had been started within her.
Gabriel asked me if I wanted a turn. I did. But we had a long drive home, things to talk about, time to unwind.
As we started out on our long ride home I realized I was missing an answer. “Was that the first time you’ve been bound?” I asked her.
“It’s the first time I have been bound by a stranger”. She paused. “And I am so glad I said yes to that experience.” A deep sigh, smiles on either side of the front seat. Hungry indeed.
13 Wednesday Jul 2016
Posted in Biting and Drinking
Level of difficulty: Simple, just some chopping takes a little time
Makes 6-8 servings
Came up with this on a last minute whim, and then couldn’t remember it so have now made it a few times and results below. In addition to being a really refreshing and pleasing salad, it is a great accompaniment to any kind of pork cut (loin, chop, etc.) if you heat it just a bit.
In a medium sized bowl assemble main ingredients, simply piling on as you prepare.
(1) English Cucumber, skin on (scrubbed clean of course) and seeded. Note that saving the seeds for a later ingredient to a lemon/cucumber and water detox drink means no scraps here. Sliced very thin. Patted dry.
(1) C each cleaned and patted dry black (or red) and green grapes, cut in half
(1) oz. mint leaves, cleaned and patted dry, chopped but not too finely.
Dressing:
1/3 C EVOO
Juice of one lime
1/2 TBS honey
Whisk above well and pour over salad ingredients. Mix gently but well. Add Salt and pepper to taste. Tastes best if it sits for ~ 1/2 hour chilling before serving.
PS – If you want to really kick this up with a sharp dimension, add a thinly sliced clove or two of garlic.
11 Monday Jul 2016
Posted in Crap Shoot
≈ Comments Off on The Issue of Life
And how much it matters.
I have strong beliefs on politics and religion but those are two subjects that I will never cover here. Mostly because subjects so controversial can lead to serious verbal sparring, if not outright rudeness and hatred, and I am endeavoring to invite only compassionate and intelligent conversation here. Though lively is always fun! Back to the matter at hand.
I think it’s fair to say that most of us are passionate about life, the existence of it, how we spend it, with whom we share it, what it means, and all sorts of other nuances that define our own lives and life in general. I also think most of us value life, certainly our own, and understand why everyone else values theirs. A lot of that has to do with the fact we don’t know if we get to go on after this, that perhaps our existence is, in fact, it. Because that is the niggling fear in the background, we take steps to cherish what we have, to tend to our families and friends, to care for others, more or less, depending on how altruistic we are as individuals. Over the centuries, countless treatises, morals of stories, commencement speeches get to the point: live life to the fullest cuz you just never know.
With that noted, it is clear life not only matters to us all, but all life matters. I don’t understand what has happened in the last few years where we are all of a sudden faced with statements like “black lives matter”. It’s quite true. Obviously so, in fact. Black lives do matter. But all lives matter. And a black life does not matter more than any other life. I will not argue that the black population suffers more at the hand of prejudice than does the white population, and that is an awful fact, more so with each passing year where one would think prejudice would begin to fade, but letting one injustice lead to illogical anthems is not the answer. No one should be threatened, abused, murdered or wronged. As a society we need to prosecute the people guilty of hate crimes, or racial crimes, of crimes against any human. And we certainly can’t kill the protectors of our laws randomly. How will that avenge the wrongfully dead, black, white, pink or whatever? The wronged are just that, and justice should be sought for that particular event. A person that protests violently, and acts in the same heinous fashion towards law-abiding citizens of the “offending” race, whatever the case, is becoming the very being that in fact thinks black lives don’t matter. That life doesn’t matter. An ethical and thinking person knows this. A young black man is viciously shot in his car by an officer for what seems to be no good reason at all. Horror and horrible. Unforgivable even. But then another youth takes it upon himself to murder five white police officers who had nothing to do with it. This is an atrocity, does not prove that black lives matter, widows families, robs the world of five lives that matter. Escalation after escalation. I know it is the few that are committing crimes against either side, but marching up and down streets hailing that black lives matter emboldens the deluded killers, draws them out and makes them act. Fervor breeds fury, and fury in the wrong hands only means the death of innocents.
All our lives matter. Even advanced beings from other galaxies watching us from a safe distance as they shake their heads sadly–know all our lives matter.
By Narcissa Lyons
05 Tuesday Jul 2016
Posted in Page without Prose
≈ Comments Off on Sargeant Magenta
The soldier was not in a familiar arena,
And very darkness deep in someone else’s,
Whip-like aware of dwindling defenses.
The indifferent heat would be his undoing–
Almost visible the tongue of steam.
He was itching in the undergrowth,
Twitching with the expect,
Capital Fear at what’s next.
Bugs—festering, brilliant, myriad,
All fucking over him, and catastrophic loud,
Seemingly ignorant in this fetid shroud.
The various smashes of sound were unnerving.
If an enemy could be defined,
What was the enemy behind?
Alone he was alone he was alone.
He was sure in youth he knew despair.
Now derision at such nonsense etched him crookedly.
What was that despair?
The glee of heart-break?
Some inconsequential waif waving get lost?
Bitter, bitter this particular chocolate.
This used to be sticks! He shouted in silence.
We hid behind rocks!
It was Ollie “Speeder” Finch
And Tim the moron down the street,
And the soldier smiled as only a soldier can smile.
But here sticks were dirty mean, underhanded.
Wooden pieces waiting to betray—
Stop progression, snap as he ran.
Traitors all, he thought.
Yet another traitor snap and now the enemy fired.
A thud of pain found his back,
Grew aching fingers further up his spine.
The soldier paused while buckling.
Had he been shot—had he been gotten?
Messy confusion, regret, rotten.
The ground was kindly there
To catch his endless descent.
He was shuddering, shuddering.
Blood sputtering, sputtering.
Then he heard foot-falls, determined.
Someone was closing the deal.
Even now, clichés from another planet.
Knowledge seeping, seeping.
Mr. Black creeping, creeping.
His ender approached and up looked the soldier,
Ready for this moment of which he had dreamed,
For which he had bravely braced.
But this was not his reverie,
Did not belong to him.
The fiend who had sent the bullet was smiling.
The soldier had imagined righteousness—
A knowing recognition—
A meaningful glance exchanged between fighting men.
A solemn, but proud moment in death.
Bravura.
Glory.
Vicious, Vicious the foe he faced.
Sardonic, haughty, eager to witness one more.
He reached for anger but only got disgruntled.
So this was bloody it.
Valor and honor gone to shit.
What of beauty in this fading gray?
What of an angel at the end of his day?
Stupid smile on a stupider enemy who would remain unadvised of same.
Death was not unkind, just vilely disappointing.
He stared at his enemy while vaguely dying,
Duly noted the raised gun butt,
Understood the pristine intent.
A rather large Alas.
Maybe Tim was not the moron.
if not for Passion 