The Bitter Pill

[SoulWeaver]

Scribbles for Fun ........


Thoughts ……

Thoughts never leave,
Eyes lock across the room,
A half smile invites,
Hot lips to come press,
Half protests quickly forgotten,
Teasing, sucking,
Chewing at needs.

Hands scramble, dance and grasp,
Hot flesh lifted, lace surrenders,
Head bent to sigh on cold wood,
Wet gifts spread and offered,
Lust pressing, aches combined,
Gasping cries echoing off silent walls,
Objects unseeing unwatched flesh couples,
Till cries release wet floods that sob.

Kisses and nips and licks of after,
Wet hair and sighs and flushed skin all aglow,
A giggle and maybe an invite for later,
Eyes stray and body moves,
But thoughts never leave . . .



.

 

[SoulWeaver]

The Contract ........

...................... She felt her cheeks redden again and she smiled blankly for a moment then bit her bottom lip, waiting for a reply

“Kadance … why of course you are.” He smiled, disarmingly broad, flashing white teeth and allowing his eyes to crinkle in amusement, for once in long time not having to force anything. He raised his head and closed his eyes as if appreciating fine wine. “Kandence,” he said presently after allowing a pause which drifted past the comfortable pause stage. Again, and this time more slowly, tasting, allowing the sharp consonant to bite, before rolling the vowels, “Ka dan ceeeee . . . yes, perfectly you.”

He allowed his eyes to roll open with exaggerated slowness, then fixed her with a direct gaze. “Please, if Kadance doesn’t sit then we can’t discuss.” He blinked slowly, just for effect, he did so love the dance of theater. “And you did so come to discuss . . . didn’t you?”

He reached down to the seat next to him, his white ruffled shirt fluffing and wafting a softly scented breeze of fresh soap and spring meadow around the table, and the still standing Kadance. He lifted up her rather well clutched portfolio and undid the string tie, opening the flap and allowing the comforting scent of paper to fill his nostrils. He knew without looking what the images inside were doing, for they were as happy to be seen by him as he was to have . . . his Kadance visit.

He looked up, his best innocent, can’t wait face, openly and expectantly waiting for her to decide . . .


.

 

[ObscureInsanity]

He looked up, his best innocent, can’t wait face, openly and expectantly waiting for her to decide . . .

She looked towards the entrance of the establishment then back towards him; her hand nervously went back to stroking the hollow at the base of her throat. She calculated: allowing her mind to turn out all the possibilities of what would and could happen. The way he said her name was intoxicating to her, but in all decency, she decided to fight that thought out of her mind and continued standing.

Eyes darted to her portfolio then back to the man, she wondered why exactly he didn't flip through the pages before inviting her to sit again. She didn't understand, it was odd and out of the ordinary, yet... she still felt compelled to sit down with him. Yes, it was almost a subconscious need to. Her thoughts started going fuzzy, reminiscent of a dream state, and before she could even will herself not to she was sitting with this man.

"I don't know your name..." she managed to say as she smoothed out the wrinkles of her dress's skirt again. She didn't look at him when she spoke, more, she started staring at a single spot on the table. Her back was straight, though she'd rather be slouching in this instance, shyness filled her up and she felt like she did when she first started college, that girl she swore to herself was eliminated after graduating. That girl that was slowly reawakening under such strange circumstances.

A small smile formed at her lips and she glanced at her portfolio. She could feel the heat rising from her jaw into her ample cheeks. She finally looked up, meeting eyes with eyes.

"Do you like it?" she asked. She wasn't entirely sure why she annunciated the 'it' in such a way, nor was she entirely sure if she meant her portfolio or something else.

 

[SoulWeaver]

Song of the Day

[url=http://www.postimage.org/]
[/URL]


Aint No Rest For The Wicked ~ Cage The Elephant​

I was walking down the street,
When out the corner of my eye
I saw a pretty little thing approaching me.
She said "I've never seen a man
Who looks so all alone,
Could you use a little company?

If you can pay the right price
Your evening will be nice,
And you can go and send me on my way."
I said "You're such a sweet young thing
Why you do this to yourself?"
She looked at me and this is what she said:

"Oh, there ain't no rest for the wicked,
Money don't grow on trees.
I got bills to pay,
I got mouths to feed,
There ain't nothing in this world for free.
I know I can't slow down,
I can't hold back,
Though you know, I wish I could.
No there ain't no rest for the wicked,
Until we close our eyes for good".

Not even fifteen minutes later
I'm still walking down the street,
When I saw a shadow of a man creep out of sight.
And then he sweeps up from behind
And puts a gun up to my head,
He made it clear he wasn't looking for a fight.

He said "Give me all you've got
I want your money not your life,
But if you try to make a move I won't think twice."
I go like "You can have my cash
But first you know I got to ask
What made you want to live this kind of life?"

He said "There ain't no rest for the wicked,
Money don't grow on trees.
I got bills to pay,
I got mouths to feed,
There ain't nothing in this world for free.
I know I can't slow down,
I can't hold back,
Though you know, I wish I could.
No there ain't no rest for the wicked,
Until we close our eyes for good".

Now a couple hours have passed
And I was sitting at my house,
The day was winding down and coming to an end.
So I turned on the TV
And flipped it over to the news,
And what I saw I almost couldn't comprehend.

I saw a preacher man in cuffs he'd taken money from the church,
He stuffed his bank account with righteous dollar bills.
But even still I can't say much
Because I know we're all the same,
oh yes we all seek out to satisfy those thrills

"Oh, there ain't no rest for the wicked,
Money don't grow on trees.
We got bills to pay,
We got mouths to feed,
There ain't nothing in this world for free.
I know we can't slow down,
We can't hold back,
Though you know, we wish we could.
No there ain't no rest for the wicked,
Until we close our eyes for good"​

.

 

[SoulWeaver]

Roller Girls

My friends laughed at me when I started selling women's skates as a sideline from home . . . at first anyway.
Now when the shop's open on a Saturday morning they keep finding excuses to drop over and visit ... perverts!

 

[SoulWeaver]

Scribblings for Fun

Red marks and a trail of sweat

Spread legs and groans of no,
But yes hot in the air,
Slimy wet heat incriminates need,
Parted and open for hot eyes,
A pull, a twist, nipples burn fire,
Shaking now, close to desired flash,
But achingly no stab of release,
So whimpers which beg,
Make do until then,
With red marks and a trail of sweat​

.

 

[SoulWeaver]

Motivational Posters

Feelin' a little blue? Want to express you incredulity at the intelligence displayed by the Internets?
Never fear .... there's a poster for every occasion.

 

[SoulWeaver]

The Visual Arts Center

 

[SoulWeaver]

The Cutting Room Floor

Celluloid Quotes .......



"Well hello Mister Fancypants. Well, I've got news for you pal, you ain't leadin' but two things, right now: Jack and shit... and Jack left town."
Ash, Army of Darkness.



"Negative, I am a meat popsicle."
Corbon Dallas, Fith Element



"Superladies? They're always trying to tell you their secret identity... think it'll strengthen the relationship or something like that. I say, "Girl, I don't wanna know about your mild-mannered alter ego or anything like that. I mean, you tell me you're, uh... S-Super, Mega, Ultra Lightning Babe, that's alright with me. I'm good... I'm good."
Lucius Best aka Frozone - The Incredibles




"Things are fucked up at the North Pole. Mrs. Claus caught me fucking her sister, now I'm out on my ass."
Willie, Bad Santa



"This is a good death. There's no shame in this, in a mans death, a man who has done, fine works . . ."
The Operative, Serenity



"Well I'm sorry to disappoint you but you're gonna live to enjoy all the glorious fruits life has got to offer, acne, shaving, premature ejaculation ... and your first divorce."
Jack Slater, Last Action Hero



"What the hell is that number on the back of your head? What is that, like a license plate in case someone tries to steal it?"
Darian Hallenbeck, Last Boy Scout



"Is that him?"
"That's the buffet table..."
"Well how can we be sure, unless we question it?"
Kylee and Malcom, Firefly, The Shindig episode.



"A man may fight for many things: his country, his principles, his friends, the glistening tear on the cheek of a golden child. But personally, I'd mudwrestle my own mother for a ton of cash, an amusing clock and a stack of French porn."
Edmund Black Adder, Black Adder Goes Forth



"Yeah, that makes perfect sense. I mean, think about it. We bust into their house, we eat all their porridge, we sleep in their fucking beds. No wonder they're pissed."
Sgt. Harry Wells, Dog Soldiers



"Hey, son, I'll give ya my authorisation code. It's E-A ... T-M ... E." ..
Mercenary Frank Elgyn, Alien Resurrection



"I've seen things you people wouldn't believe. Attack ships on fire off the shoulder of Orion. I watched C-beams glitter in the dark near the Tannhauser gate. All those moments will be lost in time ... like tears in rain ... Time to die." ..
Roy Batty - Blade Runner



"The details of my life are quite inconsequential... very well, where do I begin? My father was a relentlessly self-improving boulangerie owner from Belgium with low grade narcolepsy and a penchant for buggery.

My mother was a fifteen year old French prostitute named Chloe with webbed feet. My father would womanize, he would drink. He would make outrageous claims like he invented the question mark. Sometimes he would accuse chestnuts of being lazy. The sort of general malaise that only the genius possess and the insane lament.

My childhood was typical. Summers in Rangoon, luge lessons. In the spring we'd make meat helmets. When I was insolent I was placed in a burlap bag and beaten with reeds- pretty standard really. At the age of twelve I received my first scribe. At the age of fourteen a Zoroastrian named Vilma ritualistically shaved my testicles. There really is nothing like a shorn scrotum... it's breathtaking- I highly suggest you try it."
Dr. Evil, Austin Powers International Man of Mystery



"I simply love what you've done to this place; heavy metal meets house-and-garden. Splendid! It's so dark, and Gothic, and disgustingly decadent... yet so bright, and chipper, and... conservative. It's so you! And yet, so YOU! Yes, very few people are both a summer and a winter, but... you pull it off nicely."
Edward Nygma aka The Riddler - Batman Forever



.

 

[SoulWeaver]

The Contract ........

"Do you like it?" she asked. She wasn't entirely sure why she annunciated the 'it' in such a way, nor was she entirely sure if she meant her portfolio or something else.

."I don't know your name..." He smiled again at her, charming to a fault, “No, you don’t . . .” He peeked into the portfolio again and sniffed. Everything in there, every image, even the soulless digital ones reeked of emotion. Hers, of course, that went without saying, her scent was ghosted over them all, but more than that. She had captured the raw emotions of her subject. Fears, wants, needs and much more. Even the landscapes retained traces of visitors, past, present and future. For she had a gift, some would say a unique gift. One could get into a lot of trouble with a gift like that. “Yes sir, a lot of trouble.”

And there were plenty who would want it. Things maybe worse even than him. Things that pretended to be all sweetness and light, full of “happily ever after” and “love they neighbor” promises. At least he didn’t pretend, well not in that way anyway. For her gift was to make thoughts come alive through images. If she drew laughing faces, then ones cheeks ached with a surprised grin. If she captured wet aching flesh, then deep in ones loins a watery ache circled. Imagine . . . if her images contained other things . . .

“Do I like it . . .? Why yes my dear Kadence, not only do I like it, well, lets just say that between you and me I’m a bi of an art buff, and your work is really very, very good.“

He removed a picture, two lovers sitting on a beach watching a brilliantly contrasted red sunset. Under his touch the figures seems to blur a little, at first just a tiny imperceptible shimmer. A flurry of activity followed as they writhed and copulated, rutting wildly and mouthing guttural cries of release. He placed the suddenly still image down on the table. An absolutely serene and calm sunset, intimate and moving, perfectly framed and captured. “Take this picture for example. It’s deceptively simple isn’t it. Don’t you get the feeling though that it could be more, almost anything more . . . some people have an eye for such things . . .” he stared for while at the picture, then at her.

“I have a job for if you are interested . . . “



.

 

[Luna_Wolf72]

Low, husky laughter as the words are read, the pictures are enjoyed, thoughts are acknowledged.

Nice.

 

[SoulWeaver]

Low, husky laughter as the words are read, the pictures are enjoyed, thoughts are acknowledged.

Nice.

Hey thanks .......... I try to run a loose establishment, well thats what most see at first glance anyway.

 

[Luna_Wolf72]

Hey thanks .......... I try to run a loose establishment, well thats what most see at first glance anyway.

You do a fairly good job of it, I think.

I check in almost every time something new occurs.

This was just the first time I acknowledged it.

A wide grin, a wink.

 

[SoulWeaver]

Urban Dictionary

URBAN DICTIONARY Definition of the Day

Wikileaks


An uncontrollable string of soft, silent, and obscenely nasty farts. Generally accompanying a hangover or following a trip to McDonalds, wikileaks leave little doubt as to what their host was up to the night before.

"Hillary Clinton fears wikileaks endanger United States government employees the world over."


Some ass who tells your embarrassing secrets just because they can, generally teenage girls, but not exclusively, douchbaggery is a universal malaise.

Emily: "Oh My God! Tanya told everyone I lust Joe!"
Friend: "What a WikiLeaks douche!"

.

 

[ObscureInsanity]

.
“I have a job for if you are interested . . . "
.

A smile formed at her lips; her eyes seemed to light up in this dark little corner. He liked them, those pieces of art she pined over, those pieces spent endless sleepless hours on, those pieces she put her soul in, piece by piece. She was almost amazed that he seemed passionate about them--anyone else she could have shown would have muttered an 'impressive' and went about asking interview questions like how fast her pen flicking abilities were on Photoshop.


“Take this picture for example. It’s deceptively simple isn’t it. Don’t you get the feeling though that it could be more, almost anything more . . . some people have an eye for such things . . .” he stared for while at the picture, then at her. She suddenly felt very vulnerable and wondered if he knew; no, no he couldn't know unless he could read her mind (impossible...) or perhaps it was her body language, perhaps the way her eyes scanned the painting shown that there was, deeply, something more. She cleared her throat and bashfully lowered her face back down toward the table.

"What is the job?" she whispered in response. She wasn't quite sure why all of her courage had suddenly faltered; in fact, she felt she had made a mistake even coming in at this point. What could she paint or draw or sketch here? The tavern locals? the odd little man behind the bar? Could she paint or draw or sketch the man across from her? Her cheeks reddened as interest became intrigued and intrigue became... something a little darker and far out of her comfort zone.

"I am interested," she said boldly, bringing only her eyes up from her blatant submissive posture. "But I'd like to know what I'm getting into before I sign a blood oath, sign over my soul, or my first unborn child..." she smiled at her little joke, weakly so.

 

[SoulWeaver]

Bibliotheca Alexandrina

.

I raised up, and catching Laura in my arms, I carried her to
the bed and placed her on it, the firm semiglobes of her backside
resting on the edge of the bed, supported by a cushion of white satin,
covered with an embroidered cloth of fine linen.
Celestine and Caroline support each a leg, while Rose and Marie
jump onto the bed, and Manette and Rosalie stand on either side to
support me. Her legs were held apart. I enter between and plant a soft kiss on
the lips which I was about cruelly to tear open, which seemed to send
a thrill of joy through her. I slightly incline forward; the tips of Manette's fingers part the rosy
lips. Rosalie grasps hold of my pego and lodges the head in the entrance.
The two girls, who support her legs, rest them on my hips, and
standing behind me, cross their arms with joined hands so that the
ankles rest on them as on a cushion. Gathering myself up,
I make one fierce lunge forward and gain full an inch.
The sudden distention of the parts cause her to scream with pain
and to wriggle her rump in such manner that instead of in any way
ridding herself of me, it was a help to me in my endeavours to penetrate still further.
I thrust harder, I penetrate, I pierce her. The blood begins to flow.
I feel it on my thighs. Her buttocks are convulsively twitching and
wriggling in endeavours to throw me off. In her agony she utters scream after scream.
Poor little maid, it is a rough and thorny way to travel. But once
gone over, the road is ever after smooth. Again I thrust forward.
"Ah, my God!" she exclaims, "I shall die! Have mercy on me!"
I have no pity on her and shove harder than ever to put her out of
her pain and agony. I tear her open, carrying everything before me,
and one last shove sends me crowned with victory into the very
sanctum of love amidst the clapping of hands and the shouts of triumph by those who surround us.
No sooner was I buried in her to the extremest point than I lay
quivering and gasping on her belly, spending into her womb a flood of boiling sperm.
I soon regained new life and vigour, and drawing myself out to the
head, commenced a to-and-fro friction that caused no more than a few
"ahs" and deep-drawn sighs, as the sperm I had injected into her had
oiled the parts and made the way comparatively easy for the dear creature who lay under me.
She now received my thrusts and shoves with a slight quivering of her rump.
She clasps me in her arms, she closes her eyes. A few energetic heaves
and the dear girl feels pleasure, despite that pain that a woman experiences
in having drawn from her for the first time by a man the milk of human kindness.
I too meet her and again melt away in her,
fairly drenching her with the copious draughts of the liquid I spurted into her.
At last I rise up from off my lovely victim,
leaving her a bleeding sacrifice on the altar of love.

LA ROSE D' AMOUR, Anon - The Pearl Volume V​

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[SoulWeaver]

The Minds Eye

A few dimly lit thoughts, things which go bump in the night and flicker behind closed eyes. Fantasies, roleplay ideas . . . random things that might just . . . yes, this is where I'll store them, safe under lock and key.



The Show Off. Just your normal run of the mill "almost caught in public" fantasies, what, doesn;t everyone have them .... ?

• Down an alley of in the carpark building at night after coming from a night club or movie. Up against the cold brick wall in the near dark with your panties mid thigh. Neon lights, occasional car headlights and half heard footsteps and laughter add a stab of uncertainty and fear . . .
• Her panties removed in town while shopping and the day spent with public half gropes and tease.
• Teasing, flashing and playing in the car while driving. It all starts as a little innocent fun but builds and get more daring each time as we get bolder
• In the backyard either on a blanket positioned just so the neighbours can't see from their windows or in the deep of the night when all's so very quiet against the big tree.

The Obediant. Submission, dominance, but who is really playing whom .... ?

• Brattiness. I like it. A power struggle makes things much more interesting, even if the outcome is scripted, so misbehaving outrageously with the aim of getting a smacked bum works nicely.
• A text asking to let you know just before I get home. Instead of dinner you're waiting in the hall. Down on the floor on your hands and knees with your head on the carpet. Did I mention naked, yes, naked, with your pretty butt facing the door. Lets hope I didn't bring Jim from work over to lend him a DVD.
• Serving a few friends while the football is on. Drinks and nibbles. Nothing to out of the ordinary here. Except you're crammed into something just a little too tight and just a little too short. Don't worry, my mates are too nice to take advantage, apart from leering and maybe a sly grope when they think I'm not watching. Hmm, do we wait until they're gone? Or do I order you to the room for your teasing behaviour while they're still watching the game ...... hmmm?

.

 

[SoulWeaver]

The Contract ........

"But I'd like to know what I'm getting into before I sign a blood oath, sign over my soul, or my first unborn child..." she smiled at her little joke, weakly so.

He dropped his gaze back to her picture while she spoke, almost lost in the deep possibilities arranging themselves here, now. Moments like this came very few and far between, even for one to whom the sands of time meant very little. Unique things were treasures, tiny sparkles, often lost amongst the vast universal blackness but occasionally, very rarely, they managed to catch an eye.

“No, we don’t ask for the first child anymore, that’s a Hollywood fabrication,” he winked at her then laughed, placing his hand on her knee. The heat radiating from her surprised him, he wasn’t used to such intensity without prompting. He was almost sure now. The fact he didn’t have to guide her only confirmed it. She was the one.

“I will require a signature though,” he leaned over and nodded slightly to the table, where a small gilded piece of parchment sat. Beautifully subtle, it was some of his best work. He let his voice swoon around her, vibrating against the curve of her neck, exactly where he imagined his lips probing, tracing across her deliciously soft skin.

“As for the job, well that’s the easy part. All you have to do . . . is what comes most naturally. Paint for me . . . draw for me . . . the things you see . . . the things you see in your mind . . .” An inked quill sat over the parchment, ancient but vibrant, a drop of obsidian ink lay at its tip, looking like blood in the dim lighting. If one imagined it, one could almost see the hands of time that had caressed that quill. Socrates, Da Vinci, Newton, Sade, Coleridge . . . and many more. Countless hands, some shaking with self doubt, some firm and confident. Only if one imagined such things of course . . .


.

 

[ObscureInsanity]

“No, we don’t ask for the first child anymore, that’s a Hollywood fabrication,” he winked at her then laughed, placing his hand on her knee.
.

She laughed and shook her head, a slight smile still remaining.

A light, though irregular, gasp of air found its way to her lips when he touched her knee. She didn't bother looking down or act as if she was flustered by this, she just let it happen. Her mind whirled around in that moment, she was afraid that next he'd say something corny like 'come down to the cellar; I have something to show you.' The idea made her blush, and she buried it deep in her mind, away from common, kind, innocent thought.

She wasn't sure if she had seen that paper either, but logic took over: it had to be there, objects do not just appear out of thin air. She looked the piece of paper over, admiring it and the quill. Her head started feeling a little floaty; she wouldn't admit it but his voice was extremely enthralling (every syllable, whether he said her name or not), so much so that she nearly trembled. She focused on the paper then looked at him, concern filled her face. "A contract...?" she questioned; she wasn't entirely sure what her current job's contract had to say about other contracts. She wanted THIS job though, she wasn't sure why... At an educated guess, it probably had something to do with her being her own dictator of what should or should not be creatively fostered.. she could draw what was inside of her instead of being told what to draw: something lifeless, something less moving, something meant to be glanced at in a magazine then flipped to the next page, forever forgotten. She could make her mark here, yes, she could...

But... that would be putting herself on the line. What if she drew some hideous representation of hidden... things... inside of herself. What if this man she was sitting with whose hand was resting gently on her knee found her deepest desires, strewn about on different mediums to be... appalling? Her eyes darted away from him, and scattered themselves at most of the still objects in the room. She could suppress any part of her self that she needed, especially if she wasn't stimulated to think a certain way for the suppressed parts to awaken.

'Think. Kadence. Think. You can do this, you can draw the clientele of The Bitter Pill, yes, or you could... possibly do a portrait of the nice man whose... hand...' she thought absently.

She finally looked down at his hand on her knee. Any upstanding lady would be furious with this. Why wasn't she? She licked her dry lips and moved her jaw left to right until it popped. She took the quill in her hand, biting her bottom lip.

What's the worse that could happen...?

Her hand began shaking, she looked at him and set the quill back down. "Are there conditions in this Contract... ones that may mean I will need to terminate my contract with my current employer...?" She questioned. She was hoping he'd say yes. She was more than hoping, she was praying he'd say: 'you should put in your two weeks notice, you are mine.'

She bowed her head. No, she didn't want him to say that she was his... she wanted him to say something else... something... polite...

'... I want you to be my artist.' she thought. 'yes, THAT would be proper thing he could say to me...'

 

[SoulWeaver]

The Carpark

 

[SoulWeaver]

Motivational Posters

As the week here draws to a close it's time to get excited for the weekend.
What better than a few motivational images of wisdom to buoy the sagging spirits ......

 

[SoulWeaver]

Thought For The Day

.

Writing While Inebriated (or, How to Be a Drunk-Writer)

So, you want to learn to write while inebriated? This is not at all a difficult skill to master, and with just a few tips under your belt, you too can join the ranks of inebriated writers such as Edgar Allan Poe, Jack London, F. Scott Fitzgerald, and Ernest Hemingway. If you are feeling intimidated, have no fear; writing while under the influence is easier than you might imagine.


Keep alcohol on hand.
A drunk-writer is only as good as his tools. Whiskey, wine, and vodka are popular choices, but you will want to experiment with various alcoholic beverages until you find the one that most suits you. While you are narrowing down your choices, it may be helpful to have a few of your closest friends present. Perhaps they would even like to assist you in the sampling of your future Muse. Do not rush your entrance into this genre with lone experimentation; there will be time enough later for the intense, solitary drunk-writing that professionals have mastered.


Pour yourself a drink and minimize distractions.
Once you have settled upon your favorite liquid literary device, unplug or turn off your phone, and, if possible, disconnect your internet. Nothing can derail a masterpiece quite as quickly as the sudden 2:00 a.m. urge to contact an old lover.


Allow inspiration to kick in.
Trust the drink - it will not steer you wrong. You will find yourself writing things of such literary genius that they transcend traditional spelling and coherent thought. You may even write with such brilliance that the average sober person is incapable of understanding it, which will further reinforce how intelligently you have begun to write. If this happens, you are in good company. As Hemingway himself so eloquently put it, "An intelligent man is sometimes forced to be drunk to spend time with his fools."


Ignore the naysayers.
It's lonely at the top. As your writing soars to ever greater heights of awareness, you may find your fans dropping like flies. This is to be expected. You will know your Muse has truly inspired you when you yourself can only understand your writings in an inebriated state. This should be of great encouragement to you, as it probably means you are now simply ahead of your time. Your accomplishments will most likely be posthumously recognized. Go on, celebrate this future achievement, and pour yourself another drink!





Posted in Wikinut>Guides>Writing, By leftwriter
.

 

[SoulWeaver]

Song of the Day

Hero of War - Rise Against



He said "Son, have you seen the world?
Well, what would you say if I said that you could?
Just carry this gun and you'll even get paid."
I said "That sounds pretty good."

Black leather boots
Spit-shined so bright
They cut off my hair but it looked alright
We marched and we sang
We all became friends
As we learned how to fight

A hero of war
Yeah that's what I'll be
And when I come home
They'll be damn proud of me
I'll carry this flag
To the grave if I must
Because it's a flag that I love
And a flag that I trust

I kicked in the door
I yelled my commands
The children, they cried
But I got my man
We took him away
A bag over his face
From his family and his friends

They took off his clothes
They pissed in his hands
I told them to stop
But then I joined in
We beat him with guns
And batons not just once
But again and again

A hero of war
Yeah that's what I'll be
And when I come home
They'll be damn proud of me
I'll carry this flag
To the grave if I must
Because it's a flag that I love
And a flag that I trust

She walked through bullets and haze
I asked her to stop
I begged her to stay
But she pressed on
So I lifted my gun
And I fired away

The shells jumped through the smoke
And into the sand
That the blood now had soaked
She collapsed with a flag in her hand
A flag white as snow

A hero of war
Is that what they see
Just medals and scars
So damn proud of me
And I brought home that flag
Now it gathers dust
But it's a flag that I love
It's the only flag I trust

He said, "Son, have you seen the world?
Well what would you say, if I said that you could?"​

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[SoulWeaver]

The Contract .......

... I want you to be my artist.' she thought. 'yes, THAT would be proper thing he could say to me...'

.
A flicker of annoyance crossed his face, spoiling his elegantly crafted persona for a brief moment, before, like a switch it was gone. “Conditions, contract conditions my dear? People always want to know the conditions. Your employers are no longer interested in you my dear, your worthless contract with them, for all intents and purposes, has already been terminated.” He paused, adding with a wan smile, almost as an after thought, “Unless you wish to remain in the dullest of servitudes of course.”

He watched her as various thoughts played out, tiny twitches in her facial structure, molecular changes in her scent, minutiae which spoke even when she didn’t. She wanted to ask so much, wanted so many answers, but didn’t know the right questions to ask. Another part of her didn’t want to ask, didn’t want to know. That part of her was willing her just to take a risk, for once in her life. To go for the ride, carried along amidst the currents of uncertainly, fear and . . . yes, the excitement of the unknown basted with more than a hint of the forbidden.

“Unlike any previous contracts you may have signed, this one . . . should you sign, will be your last, and can only be released by myself.” He smiled warmly, just when the mood needed to be lightened, and continued brightly, “But enough of all of that, just boring details, nothing to worry about . . . Kadance, I have to ask . . .”

“Will you be my artist?”

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[SoulWeaver]

Urban Dictionary

URBAN DICTIONARY Definition of the Day


Dickhead

A rude, thoughtless or stupid person; a right bastard; a son-of-a-bitch; a moron.

Cut off in traffic by a truck full of Mecican landscapers, Carole displayed her displeasure by yelling, "Alternate merge, dickhead!"


Any person who is always right, and when questioned will come back with something witty that will make you sound so stupid, you will never want to challange again. Personal subjects will be thrown out there, and tears usually follow. Will constantly point out your negatives and will just generally make you feel worse about yourself. This person is usually very good at comebacks and will not take offense to anything.

Person to dickhead: "Are you going to the bar tonight?"
Dickhead response: "Maybe, maybe not, maybe fuckyourself"


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