Butt Stuff Preview

Hello, much neglected masses...or rather the two people that read my creative writing blog.

I'm currently working on a short story for Kinky.com.  Recently, I had stayed up in San Fransisco where I luckily got to scratch an itch I've had for a long time.  That itch was for butt stuff. 

See what I did there?

Lucky for my readers who don't come here for the hanky panky, I'm not going to wax poetic on my marvelous experiences with butts.  However, I must warn you folks that the short story I'm working on does include butt stuff.  Not too much of it.  And no worries, the butts are all tastefully discussed.  I'm using this story was a way to push my limits as a writer, as I have never written a short story.  Also, I'm using this project as the vehicle through which I could touch on certain aspects of sexual realities. 


Enjoy this sneak peak of "Butt Stuff:  A Love Story"

The completed story will be posted on Kinky.com.

Mia

Brenda and Howard: Labor Day

Note to the Reader:  I hadn't realized that the next installation of the Brenda and Howard series has just been sitting in my blog folder waiting to be edited. Huzzah!  I have done just that.  If I had my way and in an alternate reality where I was a writer of sorts, I'd frame the Brenda and Howard series to track the entire pregnancy of Brenda.  As it stands, I decided to skip ahead.

If you haven't read the previous Brenda and Howard bits here are the links.

1.  Pabst Blue Ribbon and Smiling Mustard

2.  Meet Brenda Part 1

3.  Meet Brenda Part 2

4.  I hear you breathing when you sleep

Labor Day

There were enough mylar balloons at Brenda and Howard's baby shower to stock a clown convention.  None of them were blue or pink.  Brenda had decided that she didn't want to find out the gender of the baby.  She didn't want to fill the soon-to-be nursery with a gender polarized color scheme.  The wrapping paper that protruded from the recycling bin at Howard's in-laws were all neutral yellows, greens, and purples. 

As Howard walked the bin to the curb, he sighed in relief that the shower was long over and that they had one more night left with Brenda's family.  The trees that lined the sidewalk were clinging to the vibrancy of summer, but the creeping hands of autumn leeched out the green.  The leaves weren't quite crunchy yet, but the chill of Labor Day evening was enough to raise the hairs on Howard's arm. 

The close proximity to Brenda's parents brought on another chill.

Upon their arrival days earlier, it seemed that her father was finally able to put away his disproval of Howard.  Despite Howard's success as an attorney, and his well-dressed, well-mannered ways, her father radiated a subtle dislike or irritability toward Howard.  The man's lips always pinched into a severe line of neutrality whenever Howard was around.  The severity of line deepened when Howard and he were alone.  This hidden-apparent disdain made Howard pucker for fear that this man could see through him.  Howard feared that Brenda's father knew that their relationship was a bullshit farce for a man too chicken shit to out himself.  The man's own stoic attitude toward his own marriage brought on Howard's suspicions. 

That could be me in a few decades. 

However, when he saw Howard flit around like a nervous hummingbird at Brenda's beck and call, the tension between the two men eased.  The subversively irate nature with which he addressed Howard appeared to have dissipated.  The noose Howard felt around his neck finally loosened.

Luckily enough, Brenda's mother begged off from joining the expecting couple for dinner.  Naturally, her father followed suit.  The excuse to do the whole visiting not visiting thing relieved a knot between Howard's shoulder blades.  It was bad enough pantomiming a romantic relationship with Brenda without an audience.  They left on foot into town for dinner.

"Just like when we first started dating."

"Hrm?" Howard was lost in his own thoughts when Brenda broke the comfortable silence.

"We used to walk everywhere when we started going out."  She smiled up at him as she said this.  Reflexively he smiled and wrapped his arm around her.

"Well, I couldn't help but want to show you off," Howard admonished.  It was the damned truth.  He hid his frown behind her as he shrugged out of his coat and draped it over her shoulders.  Howard did this without prompting thinking as he had on all the walks to the dates they had in that town.

It's what boyfriends do.

***

They had dinner at a diner.  Red vinyl booths and that greasy spoon smell filled the place.  Brenda's cheeks were blushed from the cold and pregnant vitality.  A grin split her face when a kid ran over to pop quarters into the archaic juke box by the bar, where it had always been since she started going there.  This was where Howard first took her out to dinner.  This was where Howard first kissed her.  This was the diner where Howard proposed and where she promptly choked on Coke and gurgled yes.

"Don't you-" her question was cut off by an angry buzzing in Howard's coat pocket.

He held out his hand to have her pass the phone.

"Don't I?..."  His eyes were for the phone's screen, but hers were trained on his face. 

"Don't you remember all of the memories we have here?"

"Of course, darling."  His fingers moved deftly over the tiny screen, texting. Howard threw a radiant smile her way. 

Brenda rubbed her foot leisurely on Howard's calf.  Her lips curved lovingly as he worked on his phone.  She understood that his job was demanding in regard to the constant communication with clients and coworkers. 

Absentminded you may be, Mr. Howard, I adore you.

Unbeknownst to Brenda, Howard was managing his affair.  Ten texts into the baby shower earlier made him decide to end things with SPIN CLASS. 

By the time his unsweetened ice tea and her Sprite came, the torrid affair was ended. 

Because Eargasms Are a Thing

Because Eargasms Are a Thing

The only concerts that I have been to are choir and band high school concerts I have performed in and Toto in sixth grade.  I went with my dad and his chums to see Toto rock out.  Luckily, this past weekend through the generosity of the band Our Last Night I was able to really experience live music.  I attended their tour concert with Chiodoos and other bands at SOMA down in San Diego. 

Our Last Night according to Wikipedia is a post-hardcore band with five members.  Trevor Wentworth (vocals), Matt Wentworth (guitar, vocals), Alex "Woody" Woodrow (bass), and Tim Molloy (drums).  They were briefly signed with Epitaph records, but are currently independent.  Although the band has been around since 2007, I discovered them via a Spiked Nation upload of their Adele "Skyfall" cover.  Compelled by their rock transformation of the epic James Bond theme, their covers found a comfortable place on my workout playlist.  This past fall they released their album Oak Island, which is definitely worth a good listen with your car windows rolled up because listening to it will prompt you to drum violently on your steering wheel.  I can say this from experience. 

Although I haven't attended many live concerts outside of orchestral music, I have heard many recorded live performances.  Many of these can unfortunately sound so far from the studio recording, that it's rather off putting.  This couldn't be further from the case with Our Last Night. 

They were spot on. 

All the members of the band proved that, not only do they convey that they are bloody passionate about what they do, they are really really true to form live.  Throughout the concert, I would find myself closing my eyes just letting the music roll over me and really recognize that they don't bullshit around.  The sound live as they are recorded.

How the shit can a person sing so well while traipsing around stage like an acrobat tethered to a mike?  I know not.  The members of the band were animated despite the at times so-so San Diego crowd.  I love seeing the non-vocals oriented members of the band singing with their bandmates even if there isn't a mike pressed to their mouth.  The comfort and pleasure that the members had in performing with one another was evident in their interactions on and off stage. 

Fortunately, the band had more time than anticipated in their set, which allowed them to play more off of Oak Island, their previous records, and a cover.  Their Katy Perry cover of "Dark Horse" certainly livened up be crowd.  Truly amazing how they took a very pop song and translated it to suit their unique music and performance style.  

I don't particularly know the tech terms for music and stage mumbo jumbo, but the balance of their vocals, guitars, and percussion were extremely well executed.  You could hear all aspects of the band clearly and appreciate everything the each individual brought to the stage. 

The sheer physical force of the actual performance was a tactile experience in itself.  Speakers that broadcast the plucking of strings, vibration of vocal chords, and striking of drums penetrated each person in the crowd.  Live music, when done right, is a whore that flits through the bodies of a mass and leaves everyone satiated. 

That awe and glow a person experiences after a good O is certainly comparable to what you'll experience once their set wrapped.  You're not quite sure what happened, but it was bloody good and you want more.  Hell, even your ears ring in both scenarios. 

Thanks, Our Last Night, for convincing me that live music is definitely a good good thing.  I can only hope that you, dear reader, will get an opportunity to listen to these fine folks live.  If you do attend one of their concerts, stick around and say hullo because they are extremely receptive and appreciative of their fans.

Definitely check out Our Last Night's YouTube channel, but for now enjoy their cover of Katy Perry's "Dark Horse."

One #RelationshipCreeper: Dessert things or dinner things

A Note to the Readers:  I know that Brenda and Howard need some loving, but I'm currently stumped.  Tonight I went out to eat as I'm want to do.  A friend, who was my dinnermate tonight, suggested The Cheesecake Factory.  The restaurant has the alternate name of The Place Where Relationships Go to Hell.

I live tweeted some of the events to what I suspect will become a Twitter series and The Euphemistic Minister blog things.  Take into consideration I had a lovely friend who shouldn't have been neglected in favor of eavesdropping.  There are lapses in the story because I don't know the whole story.  This is because the story is wrought from creeping.

In the future I hope this grows into something I could recruit comic drawers, flash artists, and other folk from my community to collaborate on.  However, I don't want to go into details because once I put it to word I feel like an asshole for not following through.  I'm the sort that tries to keep her word.

Enjoy the first rough draft of installation One #RelationshipCreeper!
Mia

"Dessert things or dinner things?"

I was intrigued by this couple because they appeared well matched.  Both young, Asian, and with enough vitality to sport cat eye makeup and that socal college dude haircut respectively.  After just catching random bits of their conversation early on, the dissonance was apparent. 

It didn't start smoothly.  Onset conversation revealed that he had invited her to the Cheesecake Factory because he believed it was a special restaurant.  It's later confirmed that tonight was their first date.  Her words, "First and last date."  The choice in restaurant and her displeasure was quite the show of force for a first date meal thing. 

Unfortunately he misstepped by admonishing that he had eaten already at work before their rendezvous.  Her claws are unsheathed at this point.  She interrogates him on his thought process of picking such a restaurant for them.  Pissed that she might be the only one eating, she grills with the pattern of "Why did you...We could have..."

Let's pretend their server found an opening to get their drink order.  Thereafter their bubble of greasy silence grows.  The Cheesecake Factory is fucking noisy.  There are absolutely no TVs in this joint to dissuade the patrons from passive-actively ignoring each other in favor of HD stimuli.  You actually hear people's voices in this restaurant and not the echoed droning of whatever sport.

And yet.  Their bubble grew and stretched until it was lanced by her angst.  She remarks that they could have just gotten fast food.

"This place [Fashion Valley] doesn't even have KFC...or Taco Bell.  We could have just had KFC."

She certainly wasn't expecting a dessert thing or dinner thing sort of date.  And further, she isn't at all amused that he ate dinner at work because, "why come here if you ate already?"

I lost track of things here because a cell phone was launched to the floor at the foot of my dinnermate.  We returned the phone to its owner. 

And this is where we break because something was happening at the phone launcher's table. 

(Intermission)

This couple started their The Cheesecake Factory experience by having their server  check the balance on their The Cheesecake Factory gift card.  The man in white returned confessing that the card wasn't reading in their machine, but he could get a manager on it to check the card in the system in the back against the official The Cheesecake Factory intelligence grid.

It sounded very promising.  Over the Hill Ken, the man half of the couple beside us, was clearly pissed.

He and his wife with the feathered blond bob fell into a heated and semi-whispered conversation turn debate turn whisper shout off. 

I'd like to pretend that it was over soap opera-esque domestic tensions.  Maybe they're in a crisis over an empty nest.  Perhaps they were facing the music of being the only two meat sacks in a once burgeoning household.

It was really over calming Ken down after the gift card conundrum.  He was that pissed.

They weren't in focus for much of my relationship creeping, so their shouted whispers and heated argument wasn't too decipherable.  I know it escalated to the point that feathered bob refused to make eye contact with old Ken.  Her eyes were glued to her phone where she was fervently texting.  Their chatter was very aggressive white noise compared to the clarity of the Asian couple on the other side.

Old Ken's angry tone was hot gravel under your feet after soaking ocean too long.  It seethed and left impressions that made it hard to carry on.  She reacted with a violent gesticulation that launched her Samsung Note Mini to the floor. 

I didn't consciously confirm that they were fighting until after the phone was returned. 

I think she started crying at a point because when I looked over a ways into my complimentary bread, he pulled her close and her face was wrenched from the heartstrings. 

Her mouth and face creases were pulled in a way that make your mirror neurons ache around your heart.  At this point I looked away.  I didn't want my empathy to color my meal sad even though it made my gravy taste a little blander.  I felt badly for the woman.  She had ordered the shrimp scampi. I didn't feel bad because of her order.  It's just that I remember is how horrible it is to eat while you're crying. 

Sadness bleaches the vibrancy of flavor.  

To be continued...

Brenda and Howard Series: Meet Brenda Part 2

Hello Readers!

What do you mean you have no idea what the devil you're doing at my blog?  Surely you're here to read the next installation of my Brenda and Howard series!  If you have no bloody clue who Brenda or Howard is, do yourself a favor and read the beginning of the series here.  If you want to read the part 1 to this part 2, by all means click this sweet fucker.

So for those of you who have been on board since Howard killed Brenda (that was a misdirect for the new readers), I've tweaked the last entry's last paragraph a wee bit.  Nothing too crazy, but you may want to catch up as I have in my neglect to thoroughly edit that last paragraph.  Here is photograph of your smug blogger to make up for it.

Iron Man all day.

Enjoy the blog!
Hermia

Meet Brenda Part 2

Relief.  That was all Brenda felt when Howard pulled into the driveway.  She resisted the urge to call him all day as anticipation gnawed at her gut.  Around six her resolve broke and she phoned his office.  His secretary told her that he had left the office a bit early, vomited in the a.m. she said.  This was no comfort.  Concern polluted Brenda's anticipation, but didn't dim it.  However as the light faded, worry and night darkened her mood.

Although they had discussed ad nauseam to stop her birth control months ago, the actualization of their dreams would certain require adjustment.  She hadn't slept the evening before save for semi-conscious tossing and turning as light began to silhouette the curtains.  After hours of contemplation she decided to break the news coyly by making the mundane into a miraculous message

We are indeed pregnant! was the original words.  The indeed was cut to curb theatricality.  The we are joined in a conjunction that cut the message to two succinct words.  

We're pregnant 

She had covertly scrawled the words while Howard showered that morning.  Brenda knew that Howard would appreciate the execution.  Well, had Howard not fallen ill so suddenly, he would have appreciated it, schemed all day as he does to execute a wonderfully romantic dinner with lots of wine. 

By eight o' six on the fast kitchen clock, Brenda realized either one of two things occurred:  Howard got into an automotive accident and was occupied, or Howard was stubborn stupid and went to his spin class in spite of his early cookie tossage.

Her relief eclipsed her excitement when her arms were able to verify her husband was in one piece, albeit severely pale and clammy.  Poor love.  Brenda voiced the obvious from years of caring for sick Howards--he hadn't even looked at lunch, as even the sight of food would have risen a wave of nausea.  Thus, she thought to herself, he still doesn't know.

The game is on. 

Brenda had yet another opportunity to sharpen her coyness to tell Howard the news.  She smiled secretly to herself after nudging her naked husband into the shower.  News could wait, Brenda resolved to reschedule the talk until after his recuperation.

 First, soup.

Brenda and Howard: Meet Brenda Part 1

*Updated on January 22, 2014 because I failed to edit the original last paragraph that probably read as random...I mean, there was no mention of going out to dinner.  In the next installation they're staying in.  Whoops.  Spoiler alert.*

Hey there readers,

I hope that those of you that celebrated the holidays had a fabulous time and didn't have too many regretful New Years Eve trysts.  If you did, I hope it was worth it.  For the last twoish weeks I've been contemplating the direction of the Brenda and Howard series.  Am I just going to write through Howard's perspective?  Whose story is this really?  How is Brenda going to fit into this story?

I'm still tackling many questions, but that's part of the fun in writing.  I have a general direction, so it's time that I wrote that way and see where it goes.  For those of you who comment, please let me know what you think of Howard and the story so far.  There isn't too much yet on Brenda, however I promise you will see more in the pieces to follow.

Best regards,
Hermia

P.S. Enjoy!


Note:  Please read the first installation of the Brenda and Howard series here.

Meet Brenda Part 1

Luckily the break room at Howard's work had an usual variety of Cliff bars, a Keurig, and some left over celebratory whiskey in the freezer.  His lunch tasted like a blueberry hangover.  The Cliff bar and Irish coffee he had were dancing a pagan ritual to god of Saturn deep in his abdomen.  Each pulsing drumbeat matched the throbbing over Howard's right temple, which was neatly framed by his immaculate hairline.  With fumbling hands, he dug in his briefcase for anything minty.  His endeavors encounter stray wrappers of long consumed cough drops, adventurous paper clips, and a tin mints Brenda snuck into that particular pocket.  The mints were as stale as his marriage.

Apparently the time they had spent together really melted the boundaries of personal space and ownership of briefcases to a point of intimacy.  The color of the post its in his desk drawer were chosen by her.  The vast majority of her flats were chosen by him.  They had met at a pep rally in Brenda's senior year in high school.  She had a vague, post-romantic relationship to the remnants of his old clique.  He was a freshman in a far away college visiting his alma mater.  Although he told himself he would never visit home, he found himself looking for something familiar as a reprieve from collegiate experimentation.  She was a go-getting star senior already accepted into her reach schools and looking for an adult romance.

Sitting at his desk rather unproductively, he flung rubber bands at a framed photograph that stood sentinel by his computer monitor.  Brenda and Howard were dancing closely in the shot from a college friend's wedding.  He recalled being genuinely happy playing at an ingenuine relationship.  Anger and nausea rose like waves while he reminisced on his secret trysts, his missed opportunities, and his relationship with Brenda.  One of his rubber ring missiles knocked it's adversary to the ground.  A call from his secretary distracted him from replacing it. 

Due to a strangely awkward spin class, Howard didn't get home until 8pm.  As he pulled into the driveway, the front door of their raised ranch house flew open.  When he saw Brenda standing in the front doorway silhouetted against the lights from within, he realized that he hadn't called or texted her to confirm and celebrate their new situation.  In truth he left his cell in his car all day, still plugged in and currently playing Moby.

Fuuuuuuuck

Brenda launch herself from the stoop at Howard.  From the lack of light to perceive her facial expression, he tensed as her robe clad arms snaked their way around him.  He registered this as affection and not an attempt to squeeze him in contempt.

"I thought there was an accident," Howard heard from the wavy bob smothered against his chest.  A long rambling lost itself in muffled expressions of distress and explanations that his secretary told her he had been sick.  Just when he was starting to believe that her head couldn't get further buried from worry into his chest, Brenda looked up.  Her arms were still belted around his waist.

"If you were sick, I'm assuming you didn't eat lunch.  I know how food upsets your tummy when you're unwell." Howard's ears perked at the all too ready alibi for his lack of celebratory flowers and enthusiasm for the news he allegedly hadn't received.  How best to twist this turn of luck?  With a pseudo contemplative kiss to her fringed forehead, he conveniently and romantically suggested a dinner out because the night was too beautiful to not enjoy.  Luckily the sky was clear enough to kinda-sorta see the stars.

Brenda didn't bring up the pregnancy as she flitted between the kitchen, where she was working on soup for him, and the bedroom, where he semi collapsed on the bed still in his gym clothes.  She rambled on about the end of the year faculty meeting and proposed goals to improve next year as she ushered him into the bathroom to coax him into the shower.  He smiled as she walked away on silent feet clad in flats he chose for her.  There was no mention of maternity leave or plans.  Surely she would drop that news soon enough? Her uterus bomb won't go off for at least another seven months.  Seven months was plenty of time for Howard to evacuate ground zero.

Brenda and Howard: Pabst Blue Ribbon and Smiling Mustard

Note to the Reader:  I've been struck with a great idea for a 7 part serial following two characters and their married life.  Trust me, it'll be a bit more interesting than that description.  Enjoy!

Pabst Blue Ribbon and Smiling Mustard

            There's a day in a man's life when his wife's usage of two simple words cause an internal apocalypse.  On a June Tuesday morning after 5 years of marital bliss, Howard's wife Brenda handed him his lunch with the usual good bye kiss on the cheek.  What was unusual was the extra weight in a usually light sandwich ladened bag due to the celebratory beer she had packed for him.  A beer celebrating the two words she had scrawled on a neatly folded paper towel.  Two words that oozed the scent of Sharpie, mustard, and turkey--"We're pregnant". 

            In Brenda's excitement hours earlier, she squeezed yellow lines of mustard into a smiling face before layering on lettuce and lunchmeat.  She subscribed to the belief that love made sandwiches better.  Howard's face was anything but happy sitting behind his glass desk behind glass partitions.  In fact for the last four months of their trying to have a baby, it was really a one sided venture.  Sure sheets were grasped, the appropriate cum faces and cuddles were done, but Howard was dreading the fateful day Brenda's urine would become potent with baby indicating hormones. 

            The sandwich was dumped and the PBR can drained.  Howard, who was unaccustomed to drinking Pabst Blue Ribbon at 11:30 in the morning, promptly speed-walked to the office bathroom to vomit.  He got as far as the ladies room sink.  With the taste of alcohol and half digested oatmeal fermenting in his mouth, he stared at his exceptionally groomed face in the mirror.  The furrow between his well maintained eyebrows belied the waves of self loathing and anger.  Anger at his life long cowardice.  You see, dear reader, Howard was a closeted homosexual. 

Guest Post: War is Hell, and Sinning is Delightful Part 2

Note to the Reader:  Sorry that it took so long to get this guest post out.  And yes, I'm copping out of my Wednesday post by posting a late guest post.  Yeah, I know.  My parents' expectations of my life are probably the standard to which you should hold your expectations of my posting schedule.  That bar is limbo low.  In regard to this Nony piece, I really wish I just sat down and edited it with the first part.  The two are much stronger together than apart.  I'm personally looking forward to the next installation because this one was a ripe cunt to edit.  I may be too close to it to appreciate it singularly, and frankly, I'm/we're still waiting for the story to move along.

Have you ever heard of Hedonic Adaptation?       

War is Hell, and the sinning is delightful. (part 2)

               Put simply, it is the reason why the amount of Nutella you put on your drumstick gets larger with each passing day, until you get tired of it. We all experience this little bitch in one facet of our life or another. The reason we exist and push onward as ethical, sexual, political, intellectual etc... creatures is because of a need for new and exciting additions to our personal experiences.

               The experiences of war (especially of those who have indulged in the savaged privileges granted to them by unnatural positions of authority in foreign lands) have irreversible effects on a man's appetites in ways you would be fascinated to hear an NPR report about.  As with the previously mentioned lack of recruitment standards, a whole lot of Bill & Ted's with preexisting fascinating appetites were given clean slates after a retreat to an environment in which they were pretty much allowed to get away with rape and murder.

               You may not be aware of it. You may deny it. Doesn't change the fact that the world is a hard and tragic place that does produce people with certain quirks and kinks in their minds. For an assortment of "logical and ethical" reasons they are perfectly normal at least in their own eyes. Then they are just sent home and out of respect granted the don't ask, don't tell policy in regard to their experiences.  Their extracurricular proclivities simply never entered public view.

               Sighting down my scope, I realized that I don't know what to do about any of these issues.  I can't do anything about the numerous teachers, preachers, politicians, and god knows who or what else that get away with such despicable deeds.  Many just slip through the cracks of bureaucracy only to commit savage acts yet again.

               I honestly believe you can never know the mind of another man. Thus I can't pronounce with absolutely certainty that I was correct, but the look Bill and Ted had through my scope left me without a shred of doubt that they aimed to misbehave that day.   

               In their minds eye they are perfectly normal for a conglomeration of logical and ethical self redeeming delusions.  But when I look into the mirror eyes of  men like Bill and Ted, I see a creature who knows how much more intense and satisfying it is to take without permission. To gnaw at a thighbone with claws and teeth covered in mud and blood.            

               As I watch Bill and Ted start to descend towards the sun bathing girl, I remembered something some talking head Wall Street prick said in an interview.  He was going on about his belief in the "Falling Tree Methodology." What's that, you ask? If a tree falls in the woods, and no one is there to notice, then it's legal. That was his legal, ethical moral guiding tool. The CNN bloke or whoever was interviewing him just nodded and agreed, as if this is the new norm. 

               When you are deployed, everyone knows everyone if not directly, then by association via rumors and stories. Based on what everyone knew about Bill and Ted, I knew they subscribed to that man's sort of methodology. When we returned home, I couldn't let it go.  After a while I began shadowing Bill and Ted from time to time. Eventually, I found myself watching them through the scope of a barrowed rifle as they stalked to rape a girl in the middle of the woods.  Perhaps, come to think of it, they might have just been trying to kidnap her. But then, definitely rape her, I would bet.

               Do details like that matter to you?  

Guest Post: War is Hell, and Sinning is Delightful (Part 1)

Some Insight for the Readers:  Let's speak on length and content.  This serial already was a huge monster of text before I got my grubby, bloggy hands on it.  When I made the agreement with my writer friend, Nonny, to take that monster and share it with the world, I had the stipulation of 500ish words.  I'm not too persnickety about the 500, but I wanted to keep the serial to have enough content to make your brain-gonads want more.  This is a two parter, which was divided by Nonny.  In regard to content, this is definitely a food for thoughty installation.  Really digest it.  Read it a few times.  Then curse Nony for not moving the story along.  Yeah, he can suck a monkey for drawing this sucker out.

Enjoy!

What a piece of work is man?

War is Hell, and the Sinning is Delightful. (part 1)              

               The whole concept of "Sin" has lost all its weight in western culture. I'm not weighing in on this from a political or religious stand point mind you, just an objective observation. With the rise of secularism in the world, the idea that individuals, cultures, and even whole nations could be rewarded or punished based on the merit of their actions and behavior has been shrugged. I would have to write a rather novel book to answer all the critics on that statement, but stick with me here.

               With so many atheists and faux religious people in this world who have no idea what sinning is, the dynamics of human interaction have changed a bit and next to no one has noticed this.  

               I'm sorry... I do not know how to put this gracefully, so I'm going to just cut the shit.

               People just don't understand the gray miasma which is now ethics. There are a few things that I need you to be aware of so you can see why I had to put Bill and Ted down in front of a 18 year old girl, but not before letting them scare her for a bit.

               Out of over 3 million people, only 1.4 million serve currently in the US military. Out of that number, only about 200,000 are female. As you might imagine when deployed in places like Iraq or Afghanistan there are very few women around. Now think about the goings on of war throughout history. In my blunt summation, it was mostly a brutal and all too imaginable rape orgy. Especially if the motivations of the people involved were religious in nature. 

               In the days of occupation post the 2003 Iraq War and long after the President had declared "Mission Accomplished", which I guess is a modern way of declaring armistices, the American economy was booming. The news media was painting the ongoing conflict as sloppy, bloody, and increasingly unnecessary. The truth about poor equipment, neglected troops, and crimes against humanity made recruiting for the war effort difficult for the military.

               In light of this the Marine Core and Army began to wave their recruitment restrictions. The bar to which these standards were lowered makes me wish this were fiction. Any who was willing was recruited, scrubbed, and shipped off.  It mattered not if on their glowing CV was a list of prior drug charges or violent crime convictions.  Although throughout human history it was normal for the military to accept a the ragtag rapey type, but unique in today's secular and capitalist world. The truly hilarious thing is, they started paying outrageous bonuses to men who would agree prior to ever touching foot in boot camp, to go through boot camp and go straight to Iraq.

               Hell, up to and over six figures was offered to get Special Forces quotas. Despite all this, they still couldn't get enough people.

               Naturally, some very unsavory types were drawn into this sort of work.   

By: Nony

Regret

Note to the readers:  Because I'm attempting to keep the pledge I made to my blog readers, I'm going to not watch Vampire Diaries Suits right now.  I had a physically miserable day yesterday because of some bad decisions disguised as a good idea.  I went through something I really never had before.  If you're unlucky, it's a something you may experience time and time again.

Regret

Regret.  It's a hard thing that grows and swells in your gut like a miscarriage waiting to happen.  The rolling of its shoulders and the kicking of its feet punch the breath out of your body.  Perhaps you'll find yourself lying awake at night mulling over all of your decisions leading to this inexorable pain.  Pain that chokes your throat and clenches your bowels. 

That's how she found herself at 2 in the morning.  She awoke beside her ex in sheets that were soaked in sweat and other shameful things.  The last few hours had been spent in revelry, the press of warm bodies, and mind altering substances--all to the tune of food and drink.  A desire for gluttony and hedonism was the excuse they gave to spend time together. 

Everything in excess when the world was ending, so they told themselves. 

She had been battling the pain in her mind and body beside his restless silhouette.  The emotion she had been denying was growing too large for her to ignore, let alone coherently contemplate.  It was as if the first shared bite of that evening's dinner sealed her fate to internal damnation. 

It wasn't that she was not accustomed to pain.  Nicks, cuts, broken bones were merit badges she collected as she walked through life.  But pain that sizzles, pops, and explodes to fill your body like a bag of mating snakes was something new.  Something that snuck up on her after too many bad decisions albeit among good company.  Regret poisoned her and infiltrated her every nook with each bite of food shared with the sleeping man beside her. 

Regret gestated within her as they lost themselves in a tangle of bodies to the tune of a TV turned down.  It lied in wait until sleep sucked her under and made her vulnerable.  When her eyes snapped open hours later she realized what she had done, and she fled to her only escape.  The bathroom.

Quiet with a door that locks, the bathroom was her sanctuary.  She gave herself over to the pain and vomited until even her soul was scraped out from the bottom of her gut.

Staring into the newly flushed toilet water as the porcelain sighed, she condemned herself to a sleepless night. 

After all, food poisoning is a demanding bitch.