The New Year's auspice. It approaches!

So, stranded in the middle of the expansive bridge that spanned 3 miles on either side of them; and, being advanced upon by the gregarious, though I must say, gregarious of the type referent to the guard who gives the deathrow inmate a cigarrette and proceeds to talk melancholy about "women who got away" before accompanying him to the giblet on the morrow, being advanced upon by these gregarious collections of fiendish army brigades, our poor and webbed characters find their chilling, modern mortality as they face death.

Richardson grabbs at McCrall's pants, attempting very gropingly to unravel them from their sturdy refuge of McCrall's cock.

McCrall, being thus uncladded, waits until the trousers are properly descended before jaunting over to Peggy, honing his fingertips on the jutting, chestal area.

Peggy artfully dodges the lustful enrapturement, and sets on rubbing her fan-fanny over Gerard's monstrous pelvisly located jelly factory.

Gerard, aloof and asexual, trots afar, away from the group, and into the embraceful spears of the approaching army, who before long subsume the bridge under the bloodlettered death of our remaining characters.


If this story were written 50 years ago, Peggy would have altruistically accepted the burden of providing the other, male characters with the necessary sex that precedes an inevitable death. Instead, modern diverse sexuality has made dry-welled, sex-deprived fools of us all.

Return to Innocence

If one makes out in the parlor, there is nothing in it. If one makes out under the sunset, and through the frowzy glass of the onlookers, there again is nothing. Which hypotheseizes the question, "Where, oh where, can I ram my tongue into a female?" First, off with your head. Then, the penis. Lastly, take out the trash.

The father, bowing his head dolefully in the recliner, gripped the armrest as he finished saying this. What is a child to do, but make amends to his lifegiver?

I've thought of saying that the child would go to the kitchen and retrieve the knife, but this would be cruel to the boy. Instead, I think he would rather lunge at the father with his penis, as a bull who finds himself painted red.

Granted I believe in the dialectics, of which I know nothing about. I also like that author, whom I've read about in magazines. Finally, if a little girl was to give me a shaved corpse, I would have to say to her, "No thank you. I like the hair." Who will deflower me when I have these abominably high standards?

I trust, too, that if the kingdom of grapes and feet and wines offered me taste, I would have to decline politely. "It is not out of spite that I refuse you, oh ambassadors of fine liquid satiations; rather, I'm fresh out of love, and would not want my cheeks to lie in merry blush." I would turn my back on the fauns' flutes, on the perked breasts of the young centaurs, who are so very talented at crushing grapes.
I would trudge my way to a teary respite in a manhole.

Then, the bombs would drop, the heads would bow. Would I look up? Would you? Perhaps that was underhanded, but perhaps you should answer the question.

Bless our Lord the Father Almighty forever and in all eternity.

When you've seen the sun come up, you are awake. When you've heard the sweep of the moon sputtering over the stars, you are asleep. Then, is it sensing the unseeable eye, the noonday shine from the sky, that signifies existence; and does one know in that self-righteous affirmation that the sun arose not for awakeness, but for itself? We should all do a little something for ourselves. There's so little time, and so many wonderful people to do things for. The sun is a selfish miser. Fuck the sun.

The End

On Sliding my Cock into -

Waking up as if from sleep, I opened the window. To my surprise, I discovered that I was opening the window from the outside, and I fell.