Rain strikes upon the glass
Wind howls throughout the room
My essence departs
Along the gust it rides
Yours it seeks
Together again they join
The passage of time – not relevant
The distance between us – erased
The realities of life which separate us – gone
Our souls no longer cry out into the void
Our souls again are one
Our souls are together as they have always been
Our souls are one with the other – forever and never
Please purchase your copy today…
Latest novelette is available for digital download in .PDF format on the Short Story Scribe Website.
“I am no longer the boy who came here, nor am I the man I was destined to be.”
Does a returning war veteran ever escape the horrors to which they bore witness?
Shell shock was the terminology of WWI, today it is called PTSD. Whatever it is called, it has long lasting effects.
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“I’m a storyteller, one who uses the written word to tell tales. I am not a professional essayist nor English professor. My grammar is not always perfect and my sentence structure not always correct. To me, what is most important, all that is important, is the story.”
https://www.shortstoryscribe.com/product-page/war-springs-eternal
At my desk, I work. From the task at hand, the aroma distracts.
Her perfume, sweet and subtle.
My head follows my gaze. In front of me, she appears. Framed by wavy hair, eyes so deep, beauty so genuine, my heart, for a moment, ceases beating, then beats much too fast.
More than a decade, almost two, it has been.
She speaks, a choir of angels fills the air.
Across the room she glides. The hypnotic sway of her hips controls me. Over her shoulder, a glance is an invitation.
The staircase, she climbs. The uneven gait, to her walk, gives a new rhythm. Her sashay beckons me to follow.
Half way into our ascent, overwhelmed am I. I turn her to face me. Our mouths meet. Inhale her, I do. I imbibe, immediate intoxication, under her spell, again, I fall.
To her legs, my hands explore. Permission I seek, I ask, I am given. Moistness allows unimpeded entry. With feverish haste, within her, my finger explores.
One, then two, finds entry. Quickly, I lower my head. The taste — my God, the taste. The finest honey could not be so satisfying, the darkest chocolate so rich, nor the most expensive wine so pleasing — the true nectar of the Gods is this.
Wider, her body opens. Her scent, overpowering. Faster, I move my hands. Panting passion is expressed in salacious screams.
“Take me!” she demands.
I want to submit to her, but our enemies are time and location. I want to, so desperately I desire to again be within. Hopefully, one day I will. Today, I am satisfied delivering.
From her, I take my fingers. Coated with her, I lift to her mouth. From my fingers, she tastes. Within the confines of paradise, I replace them. As I take from within, my fingers glisten. I sample ambrosia.
I need to have her.
I want to have her.
I must feel her around me.
Never, by only giving, have I been so satisfied. Her body is meant for pleasure. Her body is meant for lust. Her very being is meant for unimaginable sin.
That night I sleep. Visions of her flawless, curvaceous body dance in my head – incredible bosom, nipples so tantalizing, her perfect patch of well-trimmed hair – inviting. Her scent, her taste, her sound. Each perfectly memorized, perfectly etched. Each in the present as they were in the past.
She, whom against all else have been measured, was born for the wild, she was born to the wild, she was born to define the wild. She is, as she has always been, the wild.
I am first a foremost a storyteller, one who uses the written word to tell tales.
I write for my own pleasure. The length of my works are usually classified as novelettes. I self-publish simply to get my stories out there. I am thrilled if there are others who also might enjoy them.
I understand what it is like to put one’s soul into telling a story. I am rarely, if ever, critical of someone else’s work.
I despise grammar Nazis who get so lost in analyzing a drop of water that they miss the majesty of the ocean. To me, when it comes to writing, what is most important, actually all that is important, is the story.
I primarily have used Amazon, but started my own site, where my works are available for digital download in .PDF format.
I invite you to please check them out. I would be honored if you too enjoyed my stories.
Does War ever end?
I took a Saturday off from having office hours to focus on writing and it paid off. I just completed the first draft of my latest story, “War Springs Eternal” about a WWI veteran suffering from “Shell Shock” and trying to move on from the horrors to which he bore witness.
This story is dedicated to the men and women who served, and left part of themselves behind.
I am hoping to have it available for digital download in .PDF format on The Short Story Scribe on or before July 15th and across other platforms soon after.
