Month: May 2014

“Starship Rider” – Chuck Wendig Flash Fiction Challenge: Random Title!

It’s time again, dear readers, for a challenge from the terrible mind of Chuck Wendig!

This week’s assignment? A story title generated at random from two lists of words. A story written to match that title. 1000 words or less.  I came in right on the nose with this one, and am awfully pleased with the results.

And in the interest of fairness, here is proof of my random rolls for the words I got.

Here’s “Starship Rider”:

“And there she is, Mr. Drevin. The Starlance-005. Fastest warp bike ever made.”

I whistled as my hands found her cold, smooth surface. I caressed her as if she were a new lover, tenderly but eagerly, exploring every curve and surface. I was in a hurry, but you didn’t rush this kind of thing. I bent low, my eyes gazing across her gleaming, stainless surface, my breath fogging the duranium plates that made up her exterior. Flawless.

“Frankly, I think you’re a little nuts. But then, I think all you rocket jockeys are.”

I smiled and turned towards the sales rep.

“Nuts, huh? Can’t say that’d be the first time I was accused of that,” I said, then chuckled. “Don’t imagine that’s a real great sales tactic, though.”

The rep, Cho, I think his name was, laughed.

“Buddy, I know your type. Twelve hells, I could probably tell you that riding that thing would cause a plague on three random core worlds and simultaneously cause your mother to sprout horrible, life-altering warts, and you’d still swing your leg over that crotch-rocket and ride. No…I don’t have to sell these, friend. You do that for me.”

I laughed too, sincerely, despite my hurry. Because he was right.

“May I?” I asked, gesturing towards the lady. Cho gave a nod, and I swung my leg over, settling down into the saddle.

A little nuts was probably right. Warp bikes were insanely dangerous vehicles, and they barely qualified as that. They were little more than a warp drive fitted with handlebars, a saddle, a few control pedals and panels, and an ionic force-field generator. Support systems were as minimal as possible. Magloks to hold your atmo-suit. Molecularly-compressed oxy tanks to keep you from suffocating. A micro-fusion reactor to power the beast. Handlebars to steer it. There was no shortage of people who thought anyone stupid enough to magnetically attach a nuclear-powered rocket between their legs deserved the likely very short life they got.

Especially when there were comfortable transports around. Reliable star barges, shuttling to every populated planet in the galactic system. Nice. Safe. Slow. It was that last word that killed it for me, though. Can’t have slow. Even if that term is extraordinarily relative. Even the slowest transport traveled several times faster than light through warp space, but for a guy like me, that still wasn’t fast enough. A warp bike, though, was a starship of a different color. They were the fastest man-made objects in space. Nothing could out accelerate one, not even the top of the line dart fighters employed by the Republic peace keepers.

Granted, a bike had no weapons, no amenities, no place to rest, eat, or shit. All it had was a whole lot of speed. You couldn’t go far on one. Short jumps between systems, with regular refueling. Ancestors help you if you ran out of juice and fell out of warp somewhere off the shipping radar. There was also the need to find a place to do things like resting, eating, and so forth. Even with all that, though, even with having to stop and sleep and lose that travel time, they were still magnitudes faster than any other ship known.

And that was exactly what I needed.

I spared a glance to the skies. Clear, getting dark. It wouldn’t be long now. Cho and I wrestled verbally over the price for a short while. The final price was still ludicrously high. Starfighter high, maybe a bit more. I could have gotten him lower, but I knew I was running out of time as it was. My appreciation of that fine hunk of machinery had been a waste of time I probably couldn’t afford, but I let my baser instincts get the better of me. Besides, it’s not like they were going to be around long enough to collect on my debt.

The paperwork took too damned long, and I was beginning to get antsy. I thank the ancestors that Cho read that as eagerness to get starborne, but twelve hells, I wished he would hurry it up. Finally, he had a contract in hand and a smile on his face. I signed it, rapidly, my scrawl taking up a quarter of the page. No time for neatness. Cho escorted me to the sales lounge, helped me suit up into an acceptable atmo-suit.

Outside, the sky was dark. Any time now.

Cho ran out with me as I rushed over to the bike, opening one of the tiny storage bays and stuffing what few belongings I had into them. The sales rep beamed like a proud new father, and for a moment, I felt kind of bad for him.

Or would, if he’d let me leave already!

“Hold up, Li!” he cried. We’d taken to using first names by this point. “You’re forgetting something!”

“What?” I asked in exhasperation.

“A christening!” he laughed, pulling a small bottle of terrible champagne from his pocket. “You know it’s bad luck to fly without a name! What will you call her?”

I hopped on to the bike, my legs locking into the magloks as the atmo-tubes clicked into the air tanks. I looked to the sky.

“Harley,” I decided. “Her name is Harley.”

Cho smiled, and brought the bottle back in an overly dramatic swing.

The sky filled with flashes of light.


Too late – I thought about warning Cho but it was too late. And a warp bike was a one person ride.

They descended planet-side quicker than anything I’d ever seen. A thousand stars, tens of thousands of planets, and we’d never found another sentient race.

Until three cycles ago.

I’d burned out my last bike getting here. I’d barely escaped then.

“Sorry, Cho,” I said, kicking the warp drive into gear. Entering warp in atmo is dangerous. Ludicrously so. I had no choice. They were here. I had to get to the core. Warn the Republic.

I hoped I could ride fast enough.

#FFC52 – 2014 Flash Fiction Challenge Week 22 – “When is a Door not a Door?”


This week’s Flash Fiction challenge, from the lovely mind of…

…ok, well, I can’t do that. I came up with this week’s prompt. I’ll allow you to decide if it’s lovely or not. ;)

Thanks again to the marvelous Thain in Vain, for sponsoring such a fun weekly challenge! One day, perhaps, I’ll settle on a format for the title… ;)

Without further adieu…

“When is a door not a door?”

Bill, my doorman, stood there smiling. I was used to this; he was cheesy,  but lovable.  Today, though, I was not in the mood. I’d walked in the door to find my apartment empty, save for a note from Cheryl. A real Dear John note, she’d left and taken everything.  My world collapsed. She ran off with some guy she’d been banging, apparently for years.

I won’t lie. I wasn’t in the mood for anything. Not even life.

I gave Bill a weak smile, fighting back my tears.

“When is a door not a door?” he repeated. I relented.

“When it’s ajar,” I sighed. He smiled, mischief in his eyes.

“That’s one answer,” he chuckled, holding the door open for me. Staring at my feet, I walked through it.


The first thing I noticed was the smell.

It wasn’t a bad smell, just a different one. Not the city. Not the stink of a million people crammed into a tiny little living space. Not the scent of asphalt and exhaust. This was fresh. Earthy. Pure.

I was in a forest.

I turned around. My building was gone. Bill, gone. I felt my heart sink, then begin to pound again, furiously.  I looked everywhere for Bill, for a door, for something that would explain this fucking madness.

In the jungle, I heard a roar. A strange, unearthly roar.

The fuck?

The roar came again. I trembled.


It’s been nearly a year now. I’ve found a way to live here. The vegetation here is edible, delicious even. I have shelter, food, water. The climate here is amazing – temperate, warm, all the time as best I can tell. There are dangers, yes, but I’ve conquered them all. I’m fit again, no room for fat when surviving.

And I am surviving. Thriving, even. Every day I awaken and I find myself renewed by the energy of this world, the strange beauty of the plants and creatures within. I find myself healthy, happy, alive. To think, how close I came to losing this.

I do get lonely, though.


I found her, crying, trembling in fear. At first I thought she was a dream, a figment of my lonely heart and mind, but when she saw me, she rushed for me, sobbing with relief. She fell into my arms, and I held her, comforting her. Wondering.

Eventually, she calms. She speaks. It’s strange to me at first…God, had I forgotten how to speak? I know one thing, I’d forgotten how strange it felt to be naked in front of another person.  I’d forgotten the need for clothes.

Her name is Eve. How crazy is that?

God, she’s beautiful.


We’re happy here. This place is perfect. Eden.

I was not surprised to hear her story. Pain, abandonment, lost hope. Her mind flirting with thoughts of the comfort of death.

And then, a doorman. Smiling. Cheesy, but a lovable sort. Asking a silly riddle.

When is a door not a door?

Lust tapers? Not! (NSFW, AC, Sexual content, be warned)

You must forgive my needs, my dearest love,
For how can I not want you all the time?
Of all the things this poet can think of
To set to meter, fancy up with rhyme,
There is not one that even can compare
To you, my love, my dearest lady fair.

I know, at times, it seems that all I do
Is lust for you, like some demented fiend,
And when I cannot have you, it is true
I tend to get quite grumpy, dour, and mean.
How can I not? For you are like the drug,
And I the fiending, desperate, needing thug.

I long for you with every single ounce
Of passion that I can within me find,
I see you, and I feel that I must pounce
Upon you, feel our bodies intertwined,
But since we can’t, oh, torturous the fire
That burns within me, fueled by this desire!

And soon I find that every waking thought
Is filled with dreams of you in wicked ways,
Till nothing else could penetrate the knot
Of fantasies, and nothing else could faze
My sheer desire, my throbbing, aching need
For you, that you alone could quench, could feed.

I want to feel you, soft, beneath my hands,
I want to squeeze your breasts, to hear your sighs,
I want you to give in to my demands
With giggling lust, and willful spreading thighs,
I want you to want me how I want you,
As evidenced by wet and wanting dew.

Ah, to feel that wetness as I spread
It all across your wanting, waiting flower
With playful teasing from my other head
Till both of us are drunk upon the power
That mutual lust inspires in the heart,
And makes it hurt to ever be apart.

And then, to thrust into you, to combine
Our bodies, to give in to utter bliss,
To see you flush, as red as any wine,
To taste the need upon your flowery lips,
To take you and to love you, hard and fast,
Such are the dreams that build, endure, and last.

And oh, when you are wet like that, I joy
In ways no simple words could dare describe,
For though my carnal nature may annoy
At times, I’d love if you could but imbibe,
And drink full well my lust for you, and take
All that I have to give, our lusts to slake.

I do not think I ever could relay
How powerful my need for you has grown
With every passing hour, every day
That you and I have one another known,
“Lust tapers” – no, least not for you, from I,
But burns like sun and stars within the sky.


Kick Fear in the Sack…

Three days of not writing is all it took to make it hard again. Well, not terribly hard. After all, here I am, writing and reading and commenting. The latter part helps more than I would have guessed; reading the works of the brilliant (and sometimes terrible) minds of the people I’ve stumbled across on this journey of habit formation is sometimes the very cure I need to my lethargy. I read your words, my friends, and weep. I read them and laugh. I read them and shout with excitement. I read them…and feel. Oh, so very much. And what is writing, what is reading, if not feeling?

A friend of mine, a fellow writer, mentioned that sometimes, she sits down to write, and wonders if it is worth it, if there aren’t better things she could be doing with her time. She also asked what excites us about writing, and what makes us scared. This was my reply:

Imagine if Hemingway had asked that. Or Tolkien. Or Rowling. The thing is, ALL writing is worth your time. Even if you were a terrible writer (which I doubt absolutely), the time you spent would not be wasted. I have read some terrible, awful fiction…and yet, it got published. And that terrible stuff inspires me to write. Maybe something less terrible. Maybe even something great, that will inspire and entertain, and maybe even teach someone a little. The point is, that wondering, that questioning of worth, is just another aspect of fear. Another way that fear is manipulating you and keeping you from doing what your heart wants. Kick fear in the sack. Write.

My moments of excitement are easy to define – they are the ones where I begin writing and become lost in the world of my imagination, when the words flow from my brain through my fingertips and onto the screen and I can say to myself “this is good stuff!” The moments of fear are less hard to define, as they can be so insidiously subtle. They are the moments where I am too tired to write (but not too tired to play a video game for several hours). They are the moments where I have a great idea, then sit down at the screen and stare at it blankly. They are the moments where I am a hundred pages into a work, then go back and read it and rip it all to shreds and start over. Fear sucks. Fear is, as Herbert so eloquently put it, the mind-killer. But when you conquer that fear? That is the best excitement of them all.

So that is my advice for today. The advice that I am going to take myself.

Kick fear in the sack.

Be excited.


“Protected” – Another Chuck Wendig Flash Fiction Challenge: 100 Word Stories…

One hundred words to tell a complete story. Beginning, middle, and end. It’s a tough challenge this week from the terrible mind of Chuck Wendig, but I did my best to meet it.  Warning, it’s a bit dark.

Cancer. Fucking pancreatic cancer.

I left when she started crying. I took the letter with me, its portents of doom delivered.

Fuck. FUCK!

I know what I need to do. No chemo. No stretching out the inevitable, until I’m too sick to do anything but wish I hadn’t done anything.

I walk to the closet. Beneath the linens from her mom. I open the gun case.


The barrel smokes. Her ex, a bloody mess on the floor.

I’m sorry babe. If I can’t protect you in life, I’ll protect you with death.

One more shot to go.

I love you.


2014 Flash Fiction Challenge Week 21 – “Baggage” #FFC52


This week’s challenge, from the lovely Thain in Vain:

“A woman purchases a cookbook at a charity book sale and discovers a note tucked in the pages.”

As usual, 500 words or less. This one comes in right on the nose. Here we go, with “Baggage.”

“Karen! Cookbooks!”

Molly knew the exact words to catch Karen’s attention. Molly was her best friend, and she knew that Karen’s great loves in life were reading and cooking. When Molly got word about a book sale to raise money for the battered women’s shelter (Molly’s passion, thanks to her abusive ex), she knew she had to drag Karen along.

But Karen was reluctant. It was harder and harder to get out of the house since her husband Dean died. He had ignited her love of cooking – a passionate chef, he awakened her inner foodie, exposing her to strange and exotic tastes, expanding her appreciation for food and the world. Dean was a contractor, flying all over the world, and everywhere he’d go, he’d find new recipes and bring them back to share with her. That way, even though they couldn’t see it together, she could get a taste of the world. It was on such a trip that he’d died in a plane crash.

It was hard at first, going into the kitchen without him. Just looking at the stove would cause her to burst into tears, grasped in the clutches of inconsolable grief and shaken violently by its unrelenting pain. Time, though, made it more bearable. Eventuall6y, she found that cooking was a way of making things feel normal again. In the kitchen, she could almost feel Dean’s presence behind her, guiding her steps, advising her choices of spices and ingredients. She could, for a while, pretend he was there. She always cooked for two.

It was how she and Molly had come together. They had never really talked while they were both married, but had lived across the hall from each other for years. Things with Molly’s ex had come to a head not long after Dean passed; it was Karen who called the police, who escorted Molly to the hospital with a broken jaw, a dislocated arm. It was Karen who stood by her side when time came to prosecute. It was Karen who always had an extra plate of dinner to comfort her.

The two began flipping through the stacks of cookbooks.

“I wonder where they come from?” Karen mused.

“All over,” Molly answered. “Some are donated by clearance houses. Some from libraries. Some even come from that place that processes lost baggage.”

Karen picked up a book. Around the World in 80 Recipes. She smiled sadly. Dean probably would have loved this one. She picked it up, leafed through it.

Something fell out, a small folded bit of paper.

She bent and picked it up, unfolded it.

Her heart nearly stopped as she began to read.


 This next trip is going to be a long one. I found this at the airport bookstand. Their prices are ridiculous, but I couldn’t resist. I know I’ll miss you, and that you’ll miss me, but maybe these recipes will help make it feel like I’m there.

 I love you.


Karen closed the book and wept.

About Critiques, Part Two

As promised over in part one, here is part two on critiques! In this post, I’m going to talk about how to accept a critique. I don’t believe I need to go into the backstory on this one, so let’s jump straight to the five rules of accepting a critique.

1.) We are all writer friends here. Yes, I know, this is almost the same rule number one as the rule number one of the previous post, but that doesn’t make this point any less important. We *are* all friends here, and that’s an important thing to remember because the critique you receive may hurt your feelings. And it won’t be because we *aren’t* friends, but because you have been lead to believe that friends are going to deliver praise and adoration for the things you have written (we’ll get to that in rule number two). But what we are is writer friends. We practice the same craft you do, and we’ve come to a fairly shocking realization…

2.) You can’t trust the opinions of your friends and family. That sounds harsh. It really isn’t meant to be, but you see, we’re used to having our friends and family tell us how awesome we are. It’s one of the great advantages to having supportive friends and family. We write, they read, they rave about how awesome it is, how talented we are, and how we are totally doing great. And man, that feeling is awesome. So you take that story to a writer’s circle, a convention, maybe a workshop…and it bleeds. The red pens fly with frightening fury, and suddenly, your confidence in your work is shattered, as is your faith in the critical opinions of your friends and family. Curious as to how I know? I’ll let you guess…Thing is, you don’t have to lose trust in them. It’s not that your friends or family were trying to be dishonest with you. They most likely legitimately believe what they’ve said. But they love you. And love has a funny way of glossing over the details that would cause someone less emotionally involved to take pause. So love your family and friends. Trust them in all things. Except for writing critiques.

3.) Don’t take it personally. Really, don’t, because it’s not. No matter how your critique turns out, none of it, not a single bit, is a personal attack on you. Now, it may feel a little like it is. If you’re anything like me, your story feels like a part of you. You put time, effort, thought, and emotion into forming it. It is a child of your passion, your delightful madness that makes you take the time to set words to the page. When someone comes in and starts pointing out things that could be better or cleaner or clearer, its hard at first not to get upset by that. But you need not to. That person isn’t attacking you…they’re helping you. They’re not some butcher hacking up your poor story like a cheap cut of meat. They’re a surgeon, attempting to repair, rebuild, and restructure so that your story works better, faster, stronger. They’re doing you a huge favor with their own time and energy and critical eye to detail. And like I learned so many years ago, if they didn’t think it was worth it, they wouldn’t bother critiquing it.

4.) Accept that changes are going to have to be made. I know that the temptation is going to be there to defend every bit of your work. When the critique is telling you that something doesn’t work, you’re going to want to argue why it does. This kind of defeats the purpose of the critique though, doesn’t it? If you didn’t want it to be changed, why are you having someone read it with an editorial eye? The whole point of a critique is to find ways to make your story and work better, more readable, more involving. Your fellow writers, your friends, are trying to help you with that goal. Arguing every suggestion is just a waste of your time and theirs. If you like your story as is, then publish it. Submit it to a publishing house, or a magazine, or put it up on your blog or what have you. Which brings us to the last rule…

5.) You don’t have to follow every suggestion. In the end, the person giving your critique is human. They are bound to make mistakes in understanding and judgment. They are also most likely writers, who also have work that needs to be critiqued. So it is bound to happen that they are going to suggest something at some point that just doesn’t feel like it’s going to work to you. And it’s ok to say “thank you, I’ll take that into consideration” and then leave that part of your work as is. Now, I would definitely seriously consider every suggestion first. Maybe try it out, rework that portion of the story a bit, and see if maybe they didn’t have something there. But keep a copy of the original. You can always go back to it if you just aren’t feeling it.

And that’s that, my friends. Five simple rules to accepting a critique.

Comments and critiques are, of course, welcome. ;)

About Critiques, Part One

A few of my local writing friends and I have been discussing the idea of doing a story workshop. Creating a challenge, having every participant write a story to meet that challenge, then distributing the results to the group to have them critiqued and analyzed and hopefully, in the end, made better for it. In advance of that, I thought it’d be a good idea to write down some basics of critiquing. Some of my friends already know this stuff, as they’ve been through workshops and conventions and classes and submissions to publishers. Others are less experienced, and it’s for those friends that I am writing this up. I plan for this to be a post in two parts – the first will be how to critique another writer’s work, and the second will be how to respond to a critique.

There are those, no doubt, who will wonder why I feel it necessary. That reason is pretty simple. I remember the first time I was critiqued as a fresh, new writer. I thought my story was amazing, ground-breaking, innovative, and oh so cool. Guess what? It wasn’t. And the first person I gave it to for critique was…shall we say, less then gentle. Her words were harsh, critical, and cutting. She spared no feelings, gave no praise, and made my story bleed with crimson ink. At the end, she asked if I had ever even taken a writing class, because if I did, it didn’t show. Wow. I was devastated. Angry, at first, then shattered. I threw the story away. I stopped writing completely. It would be years before I attempted fiction again, but I daresay that some of my own hesitations as a writer today stem back to that critique.

Now, I will grant her this; she wasn’t wrong. Her critique was spot on in regards to the problems with that work. I can see that now, in hindsight. But she was a college-educated English major, and I was high school dropout with no experience in critiques whatsoever. She came at me as she might a peer that she was reviewing for a college thesis. She made no mention of the positives she saw because she figured I already knew those and only needed to know what needed fixing. Which was a lot, yes, but there were still some good things in that old story. I know this because I ran into her many years later, and she actually asked how my story turned out. I mentioned that I had thrown it out, that it clearly wasn’t good, and she was sincerely shocked. “If it wasn’t good,” she said, “I never would have critiqued it.”

The point is, approaching a critique with a mind towards balance can do a world more good than merely doing so with an eye for what is wrong. With that in mind, I’ve made a short list of “rules” for critiquing – one set for the one giving the critique, the other for the one receiving it. Here goes.

1.) We are all friends here. It may seem silly to make this the number one rule, but it’s an important one to remember. We *are* all friends here, and friends should be mindful of each other’s feelings. When you finish a critique, read through the notes you made, and ensure that they say what you mean them to say. Try to imagine them from every angle, and determine if they will come off harsher than you perhaps intended.

2.) You don’t have to like the story to critique it. You are not going to like every story you read. Some will be written in tenses or points of view that bother you. Some will be in genres you don’t enjoy. Some will be filled with things that irk you, drive you crazy. You can still critique them on their merits, even if you didn’t enjoy the read.

3.) For every two things wrong, find something right. This can be a tough one, especially if it’s something you didn’t like. That said, it isn’t *that* tough. Even in the worse story ever written, you will find a turn of phrase that reads well, a character’s action you agree with, a use of words that came across strongly and clearly defined the author’s intent. Compliment these successes as you critique. That said, if it’s really bad, don’t be afraid to say so…tactfully. An overly gushing review of a bad piece of fiction is just as harmful as an overly critical review of the same piece. Remember rule #1 –we’re all friends here, and the reason we’re here is to become better writers. Empty praise does not make a writer better. Just do your best to find the good with the bad, and comment on it.

4.) Be tactful with your commentary. When you have to point out something negative, be mindful how you frame it. Saying something like “your spelling sucks and your work is full of tired clichés” is not going to make someone see how to be a better writer. It’s going to make them give up, or worse, cause them to ignore valid critiques on later works. Try to give suggestions instead of criticisms, and include examples. Consider: “I noticed a lot of spelling errors in this piece. If this was not an intentional artifact of the narrator’s voice, you may want to spellcheck it more thoroughly before your next critique. I also found some of the story elements to be a little overly familiar; for example, the cop character who dies a day before retirement is something everyone expects in a story. What if you instead made him the rookie, who dies the day before the veteran retires? It could add a poignant moment for said retiree to reflect on as he ends his career, and will keep the reader on their toes.”

5.) Clarify the depth of critique that your writer is looking for. Some writers like to get an idea of how well their story is working before going in for “clean up.” They may be aware that there are spelling and grammatical errors that they plan to fix, but not until they know whether to scrap the entire story. If you find numerous repeated mistakes, mark the first couple, then make a note on the margin to remind the writer to look for those things through the entire work.

And that concludes part one. Five simple rules that will make your critiques a lot more effective, and give your writer a lot more tools to better hone their craft. Click here to read part II!


A Crayon in the Sun

I’ve always fallen for mean ones,
Whose words cut worse than any sheet
Of fine paper, on which there runs
The blood of poets; thick, replete
With red regrets, but freely shed
With tears of masochistic joy.
But how long can a man be bled
Till those same wounds seek to destroy
All confidence he may have felt?
His microscopic sense of will,
Like crayons in the sun, will melt
And puddle; useless, muddled swill,
To cast away with shredded bits
Of wrapper, which could not prevail
Against the fire of her tongue…
And so, as meek protection, fail
To block the heat, and thus are flung
Into the refuse, like my heart,
That with a final beat, departs.

This is an older piece that I’ve always been particularly fond of. Written about my ex. Glad to say that I repaired that attraction to anger and venom and did not make the same mistake with my second wife! :)

My Lust for Her…

A difficult form tonight. The ballade (not to be confused with the ballad) is a form of medieval and Renaissance French poetry

The ballade as a verse form typically consists of three eight-line stanzas, each with a consistent metre and a particular rhyme scheme. The last line in the stanza is a refrain. The stanzas are often followed by a four-line concluding stanza (an envoi) usually addressed to a prince. The rhyme scheme is therefore usually ‘ababbcbC ababbcbC ababbcbC bcbC’, where the capital ‘C’ is a refrain.

The many different rhyming words that are needed (the ‘b’ rhyme needs at least fourteen words) makes the form more difficult for English than for French poets.

 (See wikipedia for the full article on the form.)

My lust for her…

I see her form, and much to my delight
She’s unadorned, no trinkets to display,
No clothes about her wrapped to bar my sight
Nor anything but what she wore the day
She came into the world, but more risqué
For all her shapely curves, her woman’s claim
That fuels this man to passionately say
My lust is hers, and hers alone to tame.

And oh, the wicked smile that takes its flight
Across her face might lesser men dismay,
And cause their weaker passions to afright,
Their doubts and inner demons to obey;
Not I, for my desires are not allayed
By such a thing as doubt or fear or shame,
My flames go stronger, rather than decayed.
My lust is hers, and hers alone to tame.

And thus, my need her own seems to incite
As we embrace and with each other play,
As lovers, twisting, writhing in the night
And long into the breaking of the day.
And yet, unspent, our urges don’t away
But grow in power, glory, and in fame –
And as each other’s passions we essay,
My lust is hers, and hers alone to tame.

Then finally, we crest, we rock, we sway,
To rest and comfort in each other’s frame.
She knows it was the truth when I did say
My lust is hers, and hers alone to tame.