nick armbrister poem book3 link

poem book 3 collection http://www.lulu.com/shop/nick-armbrister/the-complete-nick-armbrister-poetry-collection-volume-3-1996-2013/paperback/product-21875202.html

Inwards

Admiral Nukhimov lies in the usual position, on her side, on the seabed with sixty four bodies still aboard. Hit by a freighter Pyotr Vasev making a disaster. Two divers died while retrieving bodies from the wreck. Eighteen people standing upright behind a glass screen, led out one at a time by a diver, giving him memories he’ll never forget, awful. We don’t replace the dead with the living, leave them there. A 1986 tragedy.

Sixty year old ship, second time she sunk! Used in Operation Hannibal with the Gustloff, another German liner. Both doomed. One torpedoed, one hit mines. Salvaged by Russia and rebuilt, forty years of service. Old ship lasted so long, about to be scrapped but took four hundred and twenty three souls with her. Another tragedy at sea, a fine ship gone.

BOX

What’s in a box?

Is there a chance that this small box

I have here is the key to my future,

that I will need nothing more in my life ever again?

No job juggling numbers of paying bills

and skimping for food.

No dreams of holidays or getting a car.

All I need is here in my box,

8 by 6inch of cardboard one inch deep.

I open it and find this pad here with this pen.

I do this poem, the poem that will change my future for ever.

What’s in your box?

Credit cards, God, jewellery or other riches?

Open it and find out.

I have the key to my future right here,

out of my box—a book and a pen, nothing more.

THINK

THINK

Do you want to renounce violence against other people on a personal scale and on an international level, where countries are bombed and shelled? This isn’t good, people are injured and die. Think what happens if I hit someone and kill him with one punch, this does happen. If a mortar falls and kills a dozen people in a busy market place.

What does it solve? Each person has a relative and a loved one who holds them dear. It’s so easy to throw a punch or pull a trigger and not even think about it. Hate erupts so easy, aggression growing like flames on lit petrol. Engulfing our lives, towns and countries.

Each year, a new war takes hold on a country. New murders on our streets, blighting the planet. Think how this affects our world of humankind. It’s not very good is it, violence against people perpetrated by others. Will education and tolerance stop all that is wrong, in the cities and nations of our precious world?

older stuff

QUEEN OF HEARTS

The country and the world have been brought to its knees

through mourning. A princess has died, it’s such a waste.

She was Princess Diana, the Queen of hearts taken

so tragically from us. No one can replace

the loss, for she was truly unique.

Slowly the pain will heal

but the sense of loss never will.

Our hearts go out to you, Diana.

Rest in peace.

NOT PAYING

Bought a bomb shelter cheap,

cost me next to nothing at the auction.

Once in it they would never get me out,

not as long as they want to make me pay.

Fifteen years of poll tax to keep them bastards in power.

What do they know of the struggle of the common man?

Keep the wolf from the door by all and every means.

Got me 30 years of food and my own keys –

locked my own door from the inside out.

No authorities here!

PMs came and went, Thatcher, Major, Blair and…

Tried to make me pay but they failed,

Got six feet of concrete and two feet of steel

Between me and them.

If I pop out for daylight to see the sun,

Will they be there, waiting, for me to pay my poll tax?

MARCH OT TECHNOLOGY

Computers, internet, email and robots

all thrown together in our hi-tech world.

An awesome power that is unbelievable,

it touches each and every one of us in our daily lives.

We take it all for granted but just think,

what will be here in ten years?

Mankind could be on the way out as computers finish

the revolution they started thirty years ago.

Southern Song 

I’m one of the boys. I’m one of them who live in my southern English town of Witches’ Elbow.
We just love it in our quaint little town by the sea, we chill out on the beach on the long summer nights, drinking warm beer and making love on the sand dunes knowing these moments will last forever.
I’m originally from the north and moved to Witches’ Elbow coz I got a job in the harbour unloading the fishing boats three years ago.
Its steady work and I’ve got my mates down there that I share a beer with down in the town in the many pubs and clubs.
We often argue and fight, you see I’m not a southern pussy but a northern monkey who likes his beer and a good rook when I’m challenged and the other guy won’t back down.
There’s one brothel in town called Anne’s Armpit, we go there once a month to get laid, we love the gals coz we get a discount and new gals are coming all the time from Eastern Europe. They cum slowly with me coz I’m a real man.
My town has a tattooist called Ernie’s place he does the best bit of ink on the south coast and no one comes close. He did my dragon on my arm and “WOW” on my arse when I’d had too many bears, my mates paid for that after a drunken bet.
When I drop my jeans it’s a real party piece, the gals love it, they ask what’s on the front? I say come here and I’ll show you.
Often we go up to the forest on the hill just above town to walk through the trees on a Sunday afternoon. We go and smoke some marijuana to chill and to relax after a hard week on the docks.
Local cops don’t like it coz it’s an illegal drug but I say fuck the cops coz I don’t do no crime, I’m a hard working bloke who just wants some fun and to be left alone.
On a Wednesday night I like to go to the Ragged Bear pub to see a live band, who cares if they’re any good? I just like the vibe and live music and strong beer.
One night in the pub I saw a group of men from the local car factory, they was arguing and the mood was down. I asked what’s up, they replied their factory will shut and they’ll be on the dole unemployed.
Bang, two hundred jobs down the drain. I guess no one wants to buy their cars anymore.
Myself, I’m happy working unloading fishing boats and taking the fish to the market, a hard but rewarding job even though I start at 5am before the sun is up.
I can go home and have a sleep and then go to the pub for a beer to ease my aching body after a hard days graft.
Witches’ Elbow has a long pier jutting out into the sea, half a mile long full of arcades with slot machines and space invaders, local teenagers hang out there acting hard, new couples in love walk the length and stare out to sea lost in each others world.
I like to drink at the Pier End Bar right at the end of the pier taking in the sound of the sea and dreaming of what if?
Once a month there is a Goth/heavy metal night at the small club down by the coast road, I like to go coz the music reminds of my time back north before I moved down to start my new life.
I still go back north to see my folks and my old mates. I never did have a gal there not anyone to love, maybe that’s why I moved and got a new life.
I like the history of my southern town from an old castle built during the Napoleonic wars armed with old cannons protecting the harbour to being bombed by Nazi hit and run warplanes in the last war.
Their ain’t no war now just the raucous of the weekend when the boys hit the town. We chase the women and eat their pussy and fight amongst one another after ten pints of strong warm beer.
We argue who was the witch of this small town? My mate says it’s his mother especially when she catches him in bed with his first cousin! Just wait till they both find out about me and her, won’t that be funny!
Life goes on in the small southern English town of Witches’ Elbow, I never will move back north. Yeah I miss Manchester but I just love this small seaside town. 

Times of Nonchalance By Jimmy Boom Semtex Downwards

Times of Nonchalance
By Jimmy Boom Semtex


Downwards
Every time I think of North American P-51 Mustangs, I think of Sunny 8 crash.                          
How I must go there to pay my respects.                                                                                                     I think of the Mustang replica I saw crash at Barton air show in 1983 killing the pilot.                    
I think of how I saw 2 Mustangs soar up into the clouds like homesick angels in 2006 at Southend air show and how I was rather upset at feelings I can't describe.                                    
How the woman I was with was a only girl and she just didn't (and never would understand) how I felt.                                                                                                                        
I don't miss her.                                                                                                              
Further down the coast, a Mustang is in the sand, with half a pilot.                                                                      
Last missing American serviceman in the UK.                                                                                  
They only recovered part of him.                                                                                                                        
I think of the black pilots who everyone wrote off, they escorted the heavies and never lost a bomber to the Nazis.                                                                                                            
They were the Tuskegee airmen.                                                                                                          
I think of how I finally met a gal who is a woman and how we both briefly saw a Mustang plane at the museum in Manila.                                                                                                      
Her being there meant so much.                                                                                                    
She understood.                                                                                                                              
And above all, to me, the Mustang fighter means freedom to me.                                                          
And makes me feel things I struggle to understand or describe to you.                                                  I like the H version the best.

HEART OF THE COUNTRY SHORT STORY COLLECTION BY NICK ARMBRISTER out on amazon

HEART OF THE COUNTRY

       SHORT STORY COLLECTION

            BY NICK ARMBRISTER

out on amazon

NORWAY BOMBER STORY – SCENE 1
The Halifax bomber soared over the small coastal islands at the mouth of the fjord, clearing the rocks by a scant few feet. Gently levelling off the plane remained at thirty feet above the silent Norwegian water. Four ripples of water followed the plane at two hundred and forty miles an hour. Vertical rock sides reared up three thousand feet at either side of the mile wide fjord, giving a breathtakingly stunning view that was almost primeval in its power and imagery.
Unusually, the alert German defences remained quiet, too quiet. No flak, no fighters from their nearby base at Kristiansand airfield. Was something up? Or was it just his nerves, the pilot thought as he scanned his instruments and the outside view speeding by every second. Not even the radar and listening posts stationed at Oderoya Stadion had found them; they were undiscovered till now, or so it seemed. Maybe they would make it – they had pulled a bad and dangerous mission; to get back home would be nothing short of miraculous. Fuck this! No time for doubts, press on, all the way to their objective, the target! If the pilot failed, he would die trying. Again he scanned his instruments, moodily this time and frowned. He spoke slowly and clearly into the intercom. “Pilot to Flight Engineer. Starboard outer is running a bit hot, come up front and keep an eye on the gauges. I’m busy checking for those frisky Krauts.”
“Engineer to Pilot. On my way.”
“Pilot to crew. Keep an eye out for Flak and fighters. Keep scanning. If you see the bastards, call ’em out and for fuck sake, use the clock system. We’re in enemy territory now. Let’s do this mission and make it count. Pilot, out.”
Banking around the fjord edge, the heavy warplane followed the dark water like a huge bird, built for war, to kill or to be killed on the most dangerous mission of the war. And of their lives. This was it – to prove it was possible, even achievable, for soon they would find out one way or another.
Now the fjord was straight ahead, a deep glacial valley, steep sided and water filled. Three miles of calm cold water as dark as death itself and as cold as Norwegian ice. German guns ringed the cliff tops on each side with a clear field of fire in their line of sight. Just one shell could end their day now, badly. Surprise remained theirs – the guns were silent. Suddenly a thought came to the pilot and his heart turned cold, at the thought of her, the lost one. Shaking his head he snapped out of his reverie and flew the plane.
                                                                                                                                                                                    “Dark Stone”                                                                                                                                                          
Oh how I yearn to be with you, my dark angel of the forbidden realm,                                                      Our time was brief, full of enduring emotion, of bridges crossed, forever.                                                           Now you’re gone, nothing but dust, your memories haunting me, tempting me to my grave.                       So tempting, to stop the pain in my soul, just one quick action and I’ll be with you.                                      Not now though, as I have a job to do.                                                                                                      Soon enough we will be as one.                                                                                                                 Now I use my pain, our pain to do my eternal duty.                                                                                               Forgive me for going to war against your kind, now my enemy by circumstance.                                                
I love you my dark one…

The heavy bomber roared down the fjord, thirty feet of air between it and the water, three miles to the objective, the target, the secret facility. Now the Germans woke up, sporadic firing coming from the hilltops on either side of the fjord; the height of the cliff sides was lower here so the guns could target the plane… just. Large guns and small alike spewed out their deadly fire. Several waterspouts sprang up behind the bomber, fingers of white water a hundred feet high. Straining against gravity, they collapsed, harmlessly. Nazi gunners made the classic mistake of firing on sight of their enemy but not allowing for forward movement, so the shells fell behind. They would soon learn and adjust their aim.
In the cockpit of the Halifax bomber the pilot watched the shore based weapons fire ineffectively and he acted accordingly. He gently brought the left wing up thirty degrees and climbed twenty feet and allowed the bank to starboard to continue, a little. Enough to leave their present course by yards but enough to keep forward momentum up the fjord. After ten seconds and half a mile he corrected his course to the original. This paid off: the second salvo of large anti-aircraft shells thundered into the water at where the plane would have been. Yes, the gunners had re-aimed correctly but their target wasn’t there, it had been a hundred yards to the right. Onboard the pilot spoke. “Knew it would work. Okay, two miles to go, keep alert. The square heads want to nail us now.”
Flying out of range of the last German guns brought them into contact with more, an ongoing game of chess, who would draw blood first? Yellow and red tracer shells arced in several directions as the light guns on the shore tried to find the range, and failed. Proximity-fused shells exploded in the air, scattering small razor-sharp fragments far and wide. Like a fine rain this fell into the water in small splashes, well away from the plane.
“Top Turret Gunner to Pilot. Can I return fire at the enemy guns?” the frustrated gunner asked.
“Okay, but keep your bursts short; save some ammo for our home trip.”
With a soft mechanical whirring noise the top turret turned to port and lined up on the shore guns, four hundred yards. A staccato of gunfire shot from the four point .303inch Browning machine guns in the turret, at the limit of their range, a definite morale boost for the gunner and his crew. The small shells fell around a shore based twin 20mm gun position. Caught reloading, two of the gun crew fell dead, the price of war. When their bloodied corpses had been removed, the Halifax was out of range…
Events moved so quickly, a rollercoaster of war that was unstoppable with its ferocity and vengeance, calling for more death, more high explosives, more gunfire and flying steal. Soon the surprise of the bomber ran out, ran away from them and left them naked and now vulnerable; all that remained was a large slow four engine heavy bomber with seven men on a suicide mission and a quick death.
With the target in sight, less than two miles away down the far end of the fjord, it all went wrong. It was so simple, really. A large explosive charge had been placed in the water – was it one or many? That never mattered; the bomber crew never suspected death lay lurking in the dark water below them. When the bomber passed over at a mere thirty feet, under many of the guns but just right for the moored explosives, primed for action, tragedy struck. Six steel cables held a ton of High Explosive just below the surface delicately, balanced by twenty four large air bladders. Now the shore guns lost their battle, but this outcome was different.
Placed a mile and a half from the end of the fjord, away from the so-called “target” which was out of blast range and within good visual range of the officers who controlled the detonator, they pushed the plunger and sent an electrical spark down waterproof wires under the water to the bomb that slept no more. Here the fjord was just half a mile wide; those on either bank had better duck or the blast wave would take the air from their lungs and give them a huge slap in the face. Watched through several pairs of binoculars away from the target and from other locations, the plane flew into to the trap. As planned, like a child to a toy. No more seconds ticked away and more badly aimed shellfire splashed around the plane, ineffectively. On the ultimate part of the mission, so close yet so far to confirm what was suspected but not known. Would it soon be a fact, were the Germans and their evil allies doing their deadly business? No one on the Halifax would ever know. A great “kick” in the water erupted into a tower of blinding white water and spray, rising like some huge awakening monster from slumber. At nearly two hundred and fifty miles an hour and just above zero feet, the plane roared into it. Avoidance was impossible.
Onboard the bomber the pilot saw the blast and water rise when he was a hundred yards away, rising, forever increasing in height as the blast energy forced the water upwards. In two seconds it was there – events were devastating. Up front the Bomb Aimer manning the single front gun screamed: “Fuck! Skipper turn, turn away!”
But it was too late. Nosing into the water, metal was torn, sheets of aluminium were torn, breaking, flying from the wing surfaces. Exposed ribs and stringers of the inner wing structure bent and creaked under immense strain. Several main wing fuel tanks ruptured, fuel mixing with water. Propeller blades on the port two engines snapped like matchwood and sent fragments spinning like confetti; number one port engine coughed and died, flooded by water. Number two now bladeless continued to run for a split second, screaming as the engine oversped; in a blur the top cowling cover was torn free and spun into space like an autumn leaf in a gale. Straight after, the engine mountings failed and snapped. Freed of the wing, the engine tumbled free and fell into the fjord waters. Loose electrical cables sparked and arced, shooting sparks into the air like angry little creatures themselves alive as the warplane died. Under the upward shove of rising water, the bomber lurched upwards as if by a giant hand, and both bomb doors failed immediately, the port door jamming up against the warload, the starboard door bending downwards and coming away in the spray of water. Both right engines continued to run, turning their airscrews at full power. As the port wing engines had no power, the starboard side yawed out of control and added to the destruction, overstressing the right main spar that coupled with the upward thrust from the blast to separate the starboard wing cleanly from the fuselage. Now coming out of the terrific column of water the airplane was battered, broken, wounded, dying. Sure enough, the explosives had worked as intended. Spinning like a falling leaf, the right wing soared and careered two hundred yards through the air. Visible damage amounted to large sections of alloy missing from the lower surface and three single panels from the upper. Both engines turned a speed until the wing hit the surface of the sandy shoreline, under a cliff face, in a noise made like Thor himself, and the aerofoil ceased to be. Ruptured fuel tanks exploded as metal sparked against rock, igniting hundreds of gallons of gasoline. The structure collapsed, bent and deformed, sending metal fragments in all directions, shattering in a ball of angry orange flame. Black smoke rose into the air as the remains tumbled and bounced, dislodging part of the rock face by the narrow beach. In a cacophony of sound, tons of loose rock fell onto the wreckage and into the shallow water, sending ripples gently outwards as the fire burned, fed by burning alloy and fuel vapour. It resembled a scene from hell. Was this a snapshot of what would soon happen if the Nazis used their new super weapon?
Missing a wing, the Halifax continued in the direction of flight for a few more seconds. Now only a fine mist remained of the water tower from the explosion, gravity dragged the battered outburst back to its home, the fjord. Ripples spread far and wide as a reminder the blast. In the air, the mortally hit Halifax curved to earth in a big arc, what airspeed there was fell away. It resembled a child’s model plane, broken and thrown away, discarded after a tantrum. But this warplane contained seven men. In the tail gun position the gunner, a 26-year-old Irish man, a veteran of eighteen missions, was very fearful. He glimpsed the torn-off wing hitting the beach and the chaos that followed and he knew what would follow, that he was about to die. In the top turret the 22-year-old gunner screamed, an animal sound as he prepared to die. Up front the Bomb Aimer was one of the lucky ones; knocked unconscious by the blast, it was his young fiancée back in England who would be unlucky. In the cockpit the pilot struggled in vain to control what was uncontrollable: until the last moment he struggled, a lost battle – he was a brave man. Down by his side the Flight Engineer hung on for his life, with no functioning engines to monitor now. Never in his young nineteen years had he ever been as scared but he still had faith in his pilot to land this broken plane, even now. His young innocence was also naivety. Behind the Bomb Aimer, the Navigator quickly prayed as he felt the bomber shake and lurch through the air. He quickly looked at the view ahead and past the unconciouss Bomb Aimer and he became upset. He had reason to be.  The last crew member, the Wireless Operator, in the fuselage, was already dead. A piece of metal had broken away and had hit him on the head, fracturing his skull. He was slumped over his radios, dead at his post.
Now, falling tail first to the earth from an altitude measured in a few dozen feet, debris broke away and followed the plane, small splashes in the water. Touching once, violently, the Halifax bounced back into the air, tail lifting for a second and then plunging into the water followed by the rest of the machine. The glazed nose area caved in, smashed in by the water; torrents poured in past the Bomb Aiming position, washing the Gunner down the fuselage, along with the Navigator, who drowned, horribly. Water cascaded like a mad serpent through the plane, filling space occupied by air in less than ten seconds, a watery tomb for all on board. Those alive and conscious drowned and left this world. Settling into the dark water, lower and lower until the fuselage disappeared completely, the plane disappeared from view. Due to the missing wing, the starboard side sank first to the bottom of the fjord, thirty metres below and a hundred from the shore. In two minutes calm water replaced the ripples and waves; only floating debris remained, along with the burning wing on the shore. It was like the airplane has ceased to exist. Now the pilot was with his dead Satanic love.
Orders had been followed and sombre congratulations were passed by radio to the gun crews and special explosive crew who had taken part in the battle and won. Victory was won, proving the technique of placing a ton of explosive in shallow water, could bring a plane down. Gun crews had harried their enemy but equally helped in the end result. Would the next attack be as easily repulsed? What if it was a dozen bombers, a hundred? Only time would tell…

Hell Fire Fairies 

   Stacy was a girl who was just like any other; she had nice long light brown hair and grey eyes that were full of intelligence and life. She was a tall captivating lady with a full figure and ample assets, not too big. She caught the attention of a guy quite early on in her life. His name was Nigel; he was only two inches taller than her and of equal intelligence and creativity. He was an author, matching her career as an artist. Both were the best in their fields and had made considerable money from their endeavours. Neither was materialistic, both lived for one another and the simple joy of being together and unconditional love. For five years they had been couple and they were planning a pagan hand fasting wedding the next summer, it had to be right and just for them. Something very special to remember that day bringing them closer together, the start of the rest of their young lives joined as one. Both had the same tattoos on their left arms, a dark fairy with the words “Hell Fire Fairies” delicately inked on by their local tattooist.

   Stacy’s grey eyes sparkled when she greeted Nigel when she came home from teaching part time at the local college. Stacy smiled, holding Nigel’s gaze. She walked over and embraced her lover, kissing him slow and passionately on his lips. He didn’t mind this break in writing his new gothic horror story on the computer, a follow up to his two earlier best selling books. His hand found her waste pulling her closer towards him. Slowly he moved it down the back of her light weight summer skirt feeling her firm backside under the delicate expensive material. Onto her thighs, which were seductively visible in the bright daylight, an inviting outline. Quickly he ran his hand lower up to her lower legs and lifted the skirt like a spring breeze. He smiled and kissed his bride again, enjoying the timeless moment, bringing his hand up the smooth flawless flesh of her upper legs. He groaned in ecstasy, this was his most favourite place leading to somewhere even better but Nigel was a legs man first and foremost. And Stacy had superb legs; she moaned gently leaning on him as he caressed her legs in gentle circles, turning her on. For minutes he did this, she leaned into him kissing him and then she sat down on top of him on the computer chair. His hand remained where it was between her luscious legs. Getting comfy, she kissed her man deeply with tongues hers meeting his, exchanging spit as Nigel called it!

   No words had been spoken since she returned from teaching; none needed to be, love crossed all boundaries, especially unconditional love. And this is what this couple had in abundance. Both were very alternative, not just in their creative careers, being tattooed and into gothic/alternative music, they were pagans and absolutely worshipped nature and her environment, one hundred percent. Their passion for earth based matters was only exceeded by their love and commitment for one another. It was nice to know some things in their lives were permanent. She joked their love was more permanent than the tallest mountain, even nature would wear the same mountain down to grains of sand one day and then mounting building would start all over again. Their love would endure long after their mere mortal bodies had turned to dust. It was black and white, he loved her and she loved him, unconditionally. He knew this when his hand found her warm pussy; quickly flicking her white virgin panties aside he inserted two fingers up her beautiful erotic fanny revelling in the warmth and wetness of his lady.

   She squirmed and wriggled in absolute anticipation just loving it, eagerly ready for what would come, love making in the most special and intimate way. Slowly Nigel moved his fingers up and down Stacy’s pussy enjoying the feeling of her tightness though she was fully moist. The material of her panties was soaked, part of her skirt would be but that didn’t matter, soon she would be naked not needing any second skin to hide her beauty for they had no secrets or inhibitions. With his thumb he tickled her clit in a difficult action only few men could do accurately. She let out a huge groan and kissed him deeper. He matched her passion and turned her on even more bringing her up the path that led to the summit. Here she would orgasm in the most stunning display of enjoyment she knew possible – total heaven brought on by her pagan lover and soulmate Nigel.

   Those cool grey eyes were shut and her head moved in unison with his while they kissed. He briefly opened his green eyes to get a snap shot of his lady doing her thing, surrendering to him totally. He increased the pressure on her clit and watched the ecstatic expression on her face as he moved his thumb. Her hand moved to his black jeans and found his cock. It was bulging through the thick material. Nigel closed his eyes while she rubbed his dick. It wouldn’t be long till he spunked up in his pants and not the first time. His lady was close to orgasm now. She arced her back, pulled away and screamed. In rapid breaths she moaned in pleasure. “Oh yes, oh yes, oh yes!”

   Wetness covered Nigel’s hand; his lady was so moist it was unreal. He brought her to orgasm, not letting up in his effort or technique; knowing just where to touch and what to do with his darling. Her cum cascaded over his hand, she nearly fell off his knee. Nigel hurriedly held onto her with his free hand and satisfied his woman.

   Stacy’s efforts to make him cum never stopped, she traced slow circles on his denim where his cock thrust through. A gradual wetness of pre-cum seeped through the fabric. His orgasm started rapidly catching Stacy’s, so they both came together. He held his breath, groaning and shouting her name when exotic eroticism overtook him like a rampaging storm tide, drowning everything else out of their world. She screamed and collapsed onto him, her hair hanging loose from her stormy orgasm. For a timeless moment they remained in each other’s arms, exhausted by a simple joint orgasm. Lovemaking would be later. Both would take their bodies on an unbelievable trip into sensory stimulation.

   In bed Stacy was totally naked with nothing except a single white satin sheet over her form like a veil over a gothic princess. She was a woman waiting for her knight to protect her from the evils of the world and bring bliss into her bedchamber. He walked into the room and stopped a metre from the bed, looking down at his lovely future pagan bride. She was really something. He wanted no one else only her. He belonged to this woman before him one hundred and ten percent. Nigel wore a simple red silk robe draped over his shoulders, hanging down to his ankles and open revealing his hard twitching cock, eight inches of throbbing gristle pumped full of blood to do his bidding. A smile and chuckle escaped his lady’s lips. She knew what was to come in the following minutes, absolute heaven.

   His jackhammer would pound her pussy into submission and bring a new chapter in their lovemaking and being together. He planned to say his pagan wedding vow to his lady while he made love to her. Would she say hers to him? Both had talked and agreed on this but kept their verse and words secret till the time was right, making love. Who would go first? Stacy because she was a lady or Nigel taking the initiative? Fate held the answers. He let his robe fall to the floor and stood totally naked before his woman.

   Her eyes took in his well-toned body and firm figure, almost athletic. She lingered on his cock, that powerhouse of muscle that brought so much happiness and feeling. All eight inches of it waiting to be used, she saw it twitch once. With one hand she beckoned him over to join her in their marriage bed, pagan man and wife together in idea. In their hearts they were already married and nothing could ever change that, nothing. He walked over to the bed and joined his lady, gently removing the single sheet that barely covered her and looked. Her body was like ivory and perfect in everyway. Yes, she had a vein on her right leg that was a slight imperfection but this added to her beauty, like her neurosis from her breakdown when she was eighteen, half her life ago now. She would never be right but was perfect in his eyes, a lovely gothic artist of amazing skill.

   Nigel’s cock twitched and he gently wanked himself to stimulate his senses, never taking her eyes off Stacy. She smiled and opened her legs so he could see her pussy. It was nicely shaved with pretty lips. Parting these with a finger and gently playing with herself to do her bit, Stacy showed she had no inhibitions. Her man wanked before her. They watched one another in a display of voyeurism. Nigel’s big cock throbbed and pulsed like a live thing when he wanked, quickly bringing himself to orgasm. He focused his gaze on her cunt, at her fingers probing into her most secret sacred place. She inserted two fingers inside to finger fuck herself and then concentrated on her clitoris, the special nub where all the nerves met bringing unreal pleasure. Her fingers played a steady rhythm on this area moving with her body, moaning and groaning coming up to her orgasm. It started to wash over her, invigorating her body with a feeling of lust and happiness. She screamed when she came, her eyes swam unfocused unable to keep her gaze on her lover, who came himself. Nigel’s spunk shot onto the bed sheets and her leg with violence, such was the power of his orgasm. His gasps filled the room. With cum dripping from his dick he leapt onto the bed and kissed his pagan bride to be, whispering, “I love you my Stacy! That was awesome to watch, it really was.”

   “I enjoyed watching you play with yourself, my dear. And I love you too my darling,” Stacy replied, kissing her man passionately like it was their last day on earth. Little did they know the trick fate would later play.

   Grasping his hard cock, Stacy put him inside her feeling his eight inch member enter its home; the snake was in its lair where it belonged. Gently he thrust up into her using his muscles to propel it all the way up her lush tight cunt. How it remained like this, when Stacy was in her mid thirties was a mystery. Was it because she was a goddess? She matched his rhythm, enjoying the feeling of having already cum and working towards that second even more powerful orgasm, what joy! Missionary style, they made love till Nigel tapped her leg and indicated he wanted Stace on top. He rolled off her and she positioned herself on top, guiding his wet missile into the launcher ready for love. She rocked back and forth. He held her hips when she found her speed and traced her toned muscles with his fingers, closing his eyes, thinking totally of Stacy. Remembering this moment forever. On and on they fucked, doing the oldest human act of enjoyment that there was. Both lovers groaned and moaned in unison, united by heir love and intimacy. Nigel was in a reverie when he spoke his pagan hymn wedding verse, struggling to focus because his orgasm was near:  

   “My pagan bride my Stacy, you’re the one for me and I want to spend the rest of my life with you, only you. I want you to be my wife, please say yes. And when we’re together in the world of spirit I want us to be together forever, as pagan man and wife, hand fasted together from this moment on. You’re my rose quartz crystal so full of unconditional love, for our world and me. Do you take me as your husband my pagan bride?” 

  “Yes my pagan husband,” was Stacy’s reply. “Yes, I will be your pagan wife! So mote it be!”

   “Thank you my queen, my pagan bride. I love you my Stacy,” Nigel replied, almost a hostage of his orgasm and to his wife’s beauty. Now it was her turn to say her vows: 

   “Nigel my pagan husband, how I have loved you since the day we met. I will love you for the rest of our lives here on earth and in spirit. I want you to be my pagan husband to be with me through all of the hard times and good times. You accept me and my disability for what it is and for that I’m eternally grateful. Will you Nigel be my pagan husband? You’re my silver cloud and I love you to bits!” 

“Yes my wife, my pagan wife my answer is yes!” agreed Nigel. “Now we are together as one, nothing will ever part us, nothing my wife.” Now they were together in union, it only needed to be made official at the hand fasting ceremony in the near future by their pagan high priestess.

  Stacy came, the first of many orgasms, screaming and scratching Nigel’s chest with her fingernails drawing blood. This drove him wild and he doubled his effort thrusting up into her. She screamed and shrieked like a demon possessed her, the demon of love and orgasm filling her body with stunning desire and feeling. Her orgasm lessened and faded to a background sensation, his started slowly coming to him from the distant horizon like an old friend that gave the portent of a good time, the lovemaking of his woman. He gasped and breathed heavily such was his exertion, sweat covered his face and he smiled – Nigel was in heaven. When he spunked up into his woman it took him by surprise, boom! His cum shot up Stacy and she screamed in delight, startling her lover who grinned like an idiot as his orgasm whooshed through him. This was good fun! What a shame it was over so fast but not before she had another two orgasms, a good result. Her staying power was excellent. No other woman was like Stacy; maybe it was what happened to her all those years ago when the chemistry of her brain had changed forever. One benefit was that she was a nymphomaniac! 

***  

   Later in the evening the couple went out for a bottle of wine and a takeaway to chill in their evening. Stacy wore a nice blue dress and a light jacket; Nigel had his trusted leather bike jacket and black jeans on for the ten-minute walk to the local shops. Neither knew they were being followed by three young teenagers’ intent on trouble. The dark evening hid the equally darkly dressed kids. It also hid the gothic couple.  The lads spotted them leave their house and planned their assault. Not in the darkness but under the street lamps near the shops, not caring who saw them. Each punch and kick would be on target in the light. They watched the couple like a hawk watching a mouse and increased their speed, bearing down on the duo. The tall leader of the lads called the girl a name, a sentence of insults and swears words. Her boyfriend heard these and ignored the lads, putting his arm around his wife. When the first punch came he wasn’t expecting it and Nigel shouted in surprise, turning round to meet his attacker. He was just in time for a single left in the face, knocking the daylights out of him and sending Nigel to the floor. Stacy screamed and started to run but the two smaller lads were on her before she got two yards. They kicked out and tripped her up. She fell to the ground ripping her dress and cutting her knees. Nigel tried to get up but a well aimed series of kicks pinned him down. The leader used his dirty skilled street fighting skills, mercilessly kicking the bigger man in the chest to wind him and cracking his ribs, wearing him down so he wouldn’t resist. Nigel attempted to kick back and bring the youth down but his kick missed and only made things worse. The leader booted the gothic guy in the head like you would a football. A horrible sound of sports trainer on bone echoed down the street. Stacy saw this and screamed, “Nigel! Nigel! Oh you bastards! Leave him alone, leave him alone! Somebody please help! Help us!”

   Her screams for help went unanswered. The two sixteen year olds dragged the tall lady down an alleyway next to the shops so they could rape her. They weren’t bothered that their mothers were the same age or that it was wrong, the lads behaved like feral animals ruling the streets in broken Britain. One of the guys shoved the woman onto the dirty paving stones while his accomplice lifted her dress up past her knees, revealing nice bare legs and cuts that bled slightly. He took up position between her legs and got his small cock out, already hard for the rape that was coming. The girl screamed and tried to get up. The other black clothed chav teenager slapped her twice to make her quiet, he was ready to punch her and break her face if she struggled anymore. She tried to move but the wall stopped her and the other boy pinned her down, his mate ripped Stacy’s panties off and felt her shaved cunt. Even now it was wet with the violence of the sex attack, having an affect on her body at its most animalistic level. She stopped struggling and waited what was to come, her mind collapsed as it did eighteen years before when the first rape had occurred by her so called best friend. In her mind she was back in his flat again and losing her innocence forever.

   On the street the tall lad was kicking Nigel to death, a man over twice the thug’s age and size, beaten senseless and now dying, hovering in unconsciousness. One final kick and Nigel was out cold, stopping breathing. He started to die. If medical aid wasn’t given immediately a murder would occur. The youth rifled through Nigel’s pockets, finding the ten pounds for the wine and some spare change and a cheap mobile phone. He pocketed these and dragged Nigel into the alleyway where his two pals was raping the man’s wife.

   Muffled sounds of sex came from the dark alley. The first youth was fucking the Goth girl and loving raping her. He slapped her and scratched her face, defacing her lovely pale looks. He didn’t last long such was his arousal, he spunked up his victim and wiped his cock on her dress then moved aside so his friend could take his turn. Undoing his tracksuit the boy was ready, his mate changed places so the girl couldn’t escape and to keep an eye out. Slipping his cock up Stacy, the teen grunted as he thrust raggedly away on her wet sperm filled pussy.

   The leader was homosexual so he fucked the corpse he had just produced. What had once been a fit man in his 30s was now a body. He wasn’t bothered the pretty lady being raped; no, he took the dead man’s trousers down and buggered the body. The murderous teens weren’t alone. While this was going on a crowd gathered at the alleyway to watch the macabre scene, someone muttered that the Devil was at work and walking the streets. Another person called the cops and ambulance before the single youth on guard chased the snoopers off so his friends could finish their crime in peace.

   Distant sirens echoed over the rooftops. Finished the three youths ran off and left two bodies on the floor. Nigel and his disabled soon to be pagan bride were dead, murdered by three feral teenagers who showed no mercy. The cops arrived too late as did the ambulance; all they found was two brutally beaten warm bodies. The crime scene was cordoned off and the search went on for any witnesses. Those found were very hesitant on doing statements, in case they were targeted next. All knew who the youths were but this went both ways. Criminals ruled the streets. And so died a gothic couple called Nigel and Stacy, shocking the community. Why did two harmless alternative people have to die for no reason?

*** 

   Weeks after the joint funeral, three youths had been brought in for questioning. Four witnesses declined to testify against the youths for fear of reprisals. It was only due to blurry CCTV film footage of the assault that charges were brought, not for murder but manslaughter and rape. Sentences were duly handed out and people, especially the couple’s relatives, thought it was a travesty of justice and that the culprits would be free in a few years, unrepentant to kill and mug again.

***

   Strange lights were seen in the incident area, what was it? Was it ghostly spirits, trapped and earthbound, unable to leave the horrific area where they had been brutally murdered? No one knew something odd was happening when people reported a feeling of coldness on the street near the shops and alleyway. Nobody believed in ghosts but a rumour was slowly going around. These ghosts would have their revenge, no matter how long it took… 

Long

Everyone's waiting

for the next big thing.

It doesn't have to be big,

as long as it's good... 

CLUSTER

See you praying in the church heads bowed

for the god you pretend to worship.

Does it do you any good?

Get into your friends nickers?

Bring payrise so you can pay mortgage?

I’m up in the bellfry with my radio,

I can see you below if I look down.

Ahead I see the roof, inverted red tiled vee.

I speak clearly and the devil does his evil act in your eyes.

For me business as usual.

A small dot approaches in silence,

becoming larger every second.

Now! See four dark shapes fall free and tumble

downwards. Stopping in mid air bits break

away and things fall forth, hundreds!

Onto red tiled roof, breaking several tiles,

exploding in a crazy rush of noise, violence and war.

Bits of tiles slip down forty five degree roof, freefall.

Some cluster bomblets punch through unbroken tiles

to the parishoners inside, heaven!

Others destroy the roof and rain debris and shrapnel

below injuring some. Discarded bomb casing drops

to earth, deadly cargo placed on the church.

I duck behind the wall as more bolblets explode.

Most made it inside and hell has opened forth.inside,

confined space adds to a cacophony of an event.

Sliced flesh, torn clothes, bloodied severed limbs,

disregard for gos lambs in total action and ending.

Death does not rule here absolute.

In time some will be crippled, end up in wheel chairs

or in homes or asylums. As for the priest –

he refused my wedding plans so I ripped him off,

wrecked his church and killed a selection of his oppressed flock.

His bloodied robes blow in the breeze as a man in black

walks forth. His foot fall silent leaving footsteps in blood.

Broken glass crunches and a severed limb twitches.

Old Nick was here!

Hot Day

It was a hot day in the Nevada desert.

Slowly in the distance, a dot trailing smoke came closer.

Minutes passed.

Above a faint jet engine sounded, no more than a whisper.

The sun was at its highest, burning mercilessly down.

An omen of coming events?

The dot was now a vehicle, an old yellow school bus.

Bars covered the windows.

Hands poked out of the gaps, as if asking for solace.

Rumbling along at twenty miles per hour, the bus eventually stopped.

Level ground arced out miles around it, leaving the vehicle naked.

Rusty hinges creaked and the front and rear doors slowly opened.

Nothing happened for a few seconds.

Then three dozen hardened criminals sensed freedom and left in a riot of arms and legs.

Some ran almost falling, others staggered unable to grasp that they were ‘free.’

Up above the jet engine was louder now, diving down upon its target.

With sudden ferocity the F-20 Tigershark opened fire with twin 20MM cannons.

TAT - ATAT - TATA - TAT! roared the guns.

Shells kicked up sand, bounced off rocks and exploded across the bus.

In a hiss one tyre burst, the bus leaned drunkenly over.

A small fire started inside.

Several men were sprawled on the ground, red blood soaking in.

Other prisoners now knew what was happening:

liquidation.

They ran for their lives as the jet curved round to re-attack.

It dropped a cluster bomb at a group of fifteen prisoners.

POP - POP - POP - POP! went the small bomblets when the case opened.

Most were killed outright, sliced and diced by anti personnel bombs.

One or two had arms and legs blown off, they moaned for their mothers.

A small hill gave cover for four men.

Rolling down range, the fighter came in.

The pilot selected rockets.

WHOOSH - WHOOSH - WHOOSH  WHOOSH! screamed the 80MM explosive rockets.

Like the cluster bomb, they were area weapons and the complete hill was blanketed.

Nothing survived the wicked explosions except drifting smoke.

Another gun run hit three men running over the open desert, cutting them down.

Two more men stood their ground and told the F-20 pilot to fuck off.

The pilot saw their raised fingers.

His remaining cluster bomb soon sorted them out.

Now it was time for his ‘dumb’ bombs.

Three tumbled free, aimed by computer, and hit the yellow bus.

BOOM - BOOM - BOOM! spoke the 750lb bombs.

A cacophony of sound and violence tore the smouldering machine apart.

Six men who had doubled back and hid inside or under it were blown to Hell.

With only a few cannon shells left of air to ground ordnance, the pilot spotted a lone figure.

A dive, a burst, a kill and it was over. Too easy!

Climbing back to altitude, the Tighershark went in search of his only airborne target -

a Boeing 747 full of 500 murderers.

Like the old school bus, it was remotely controlled with no crew.

Two Sidewinder missiles would take care of this beast and his underwing drop tanks were still half full.

Happily the merc pilot grinned. This line of work was fun and paid well.

And it got rid of scum.

often

OFTEN. In the cold war I was afraid from one type of war but this was born out of the death of another war. I feel I was close to some who were eternally lost. Over the dark moors they flew never to be men but their end, their violent death torn apart was that of men, I wondered if on dark rainy lonely windswept nights if their spirits were trapped on the barren north moors. If I could talk to them id ask what is it like out here amongst the rocks and the heather. I have no illusion at what happened here I saw something no kid should see - the alloy of their Lancaster melted onto rocks like liquid candle wax onto the flesh of a trusted lover. Death ruled here not love. Was it for our freedom they perished out there on the moors? I have to guess yes or their deaths are in vain. 

english goth

ENGLISH GOTH 

   Diane was no ordinary English lady she was a Goth, one with the night who loved what she was into. It was her life and nothing came close not even guys who she frequently met in her young 24 years. She lived in the historical English town of Langford in the north of England. It wasn’t a big place just large enough so people didn’t know your business. After all Diane was a private gal even if she had red and black hair that was visually oh so beautiful.

   Diane worked in the local printing factory making blueprints for missiles, a topic that bored her. The cash was good allowing her to go out and be footloose and fancy-free. That suited her. On Monday Diane went to the Right Drunkard club that had dance night if you liked gothic music from England’s past. Bands like the Cult, the Mission, All About Eve, the Sisters of Mercy, Ghost Dance and much more. Diane was into 80s Goth music but born at the wrong time to see her bands live when they were young and vibrant. In the club she met Liam; he had seen every band that Diane loved in his 42 years.

   Wearing a stunning short black number that was a sensual dress made of flowing fabric that was layered, had sequins on it, black flowers embroided into the fabric and it showed of her shapely bare legs well above the knee especially when she sat down. She chose a table on the balcony bar that overlooked the dance floor on the lower level; here she got a good view of guys and gals dancing and jiving to the best 80s alternative music in the world. A heavy pulsating rhythm bumped out of the speakers, she found herself nodding her head slowly to it and singing along to a song that spoke of a failed romance and of loneliness and death. Yet the song’s music was uplifting and a heady rush.

   She lifted her Bloody Mary drink to her lips and took a generous mouthful feeling the alcohol rush into her body warming her up. She would finish this drink and then go dancing feeling the rush of the music overtaking her as it did the other dancers who were just loving it, having the time of their lives. She downed her drink and got up to join them, making her way down the dark winding stairs to the dance floor. As she got there the record changed to a heavier slower song with a loud bassline and screaming guitar and loud vocals, Diane danced around waving her arms and smiling like a cat with the cream as some people left the floor, this song wasn’t for them. It was for Diane as she bumped into a lad who turned to look at her and smile, she gently held his arm before he moved out of reach and brought him towards her as the rhythm of the music gave them all a life of its own. She faced the boy who was only eighteen and pulled him towards her so they were touching; she smiled mischievously and kissed him slowly her tongue passing his delicate pale lips probing inside to meet his tongue that touched hers. He closed his eyes and melted into Diane, she supported his weight and closed her eyes enjoying the moment as the song pounded on in a slow mesmerising rhythm. As the song wound down the couple still kissed in their close embrace; a new faster guitar driven track came over the speakers as the DJ spun the discs the boy pulled away withdrawing his tongue from Diane’s ending the coupling to go and find his friends. She turned and slowly walked in a wavy line over the dance floor in the other direction to the lower bar to buy a drink, still tasting the teenager on her warm moist lips. Looking up and down the bar she made eye contact with the barman and ordered a Screwdriver (double vodka and fresh orange juice and ice in a half pint glass). Paying him and thanking him she walked around the club, which was rapidly filling up with happy young customers.

   Diane walked round the club checking the talent out wanting to score. It had been 3 long weeks since she had bin naughty and made love to anyone. Tonight she wanted it more than ever, with a nice man who was like her - a Goth... One of the dark ones who lived in a twilight world of long shadows and poignant music. It was then she saw him; standing by a stone pillar watching people dance to the loud music. Unaware that he himself was being watched, the hunter becoming the hunted. Diane walked over taking a sips of her strong drink feeling the alcohol rush to her head and warm her insides up, she wasn’t shy but coz she was out on her own (would that soon change her mind taunted her…) she was being a bit forward but no worries. Here we go! Next to the man who was still watching the dance floor area Diane stopped and spoke, “Hi there how are you? I’m Diane.”

   “Hello dark princess of the night, nice to meet you. I’m fine,”  replied the tall dark stranger as he turned to look at the gothic beauty standing before him, who blushed ever so slightly. This he noticed and smiled reassuringly so she wouldn’t turn and run in embarrassment.

   “And nice to meet you…” Diane left a pause because the man hadn’t introduced himself, “I’ve not seen you here before,”  she finished.

   “Oh, I’m Liam, sorry, I’m always doing that! And yes I’ve just moved to town just two weeks ago. I missed last months Goth night here due to that. I must say I’m enjoying it!”  Liam said over the music. He opened his arms and motioned to the dance floor that was full of people, “It’s a good club isn’t it? I’ve been into this music for many years, probably before you were born!”  he happily laughed. Diane went even redder, thinking to herself was she doing the right thing making an approach to an older man? It was too late now! She managed a smile.

   “Wow, that long? You don’t know my age. I could be a young looking thirty five.”

   “Well my dear Diane age is only a number and I don’t mind how old you are coz you look stunning and are a real gothic queen, really you are. I can tell you like this music and are not just one of the hangers on or someone who just looks the part in here checking this place out.”

   “No, I love this music. All of the 80s Goth music, some metal and much more besides. I have many of the albums and saw what bands I could when they reformed a few years ago. Have you been to any gigs then?”

   “Oh yea Diane I’ve been to many gigs. I’ve lost count how many, must be over a thousand gigs over my years. Both big bands and small bands that just did one show before splitting up. Maybe I should write a book on it one day…” Liam reminisced looking into space no doubt remembering those heady times.

   “Hey, do you wanna dance or are you gonna stand there all night? Come on!” Diane insisted grabbing Liam’s hand as he still thought about the old days and gigs and more. He followed her through the crush of people dancing and swaying this way and that on the packed floor as a new track came on, a stomping drum machine pulsated as a wicked guitar riff kicked out of the speakers. When the vocals started – a woman with a stunningly soaring voice – the crowd went crazy, a life force of energy loving every minute of it. Liam was pushed into Diane in the crush so they danced chest to chest as more people filled the dance floor as the song sang on in a heavenly rush. Dancers moved this way and that hardly able to move their arms, gently but firmly dancing and jostling Diane so she was nearly carried away from Liam, she let out a yell in surprise. Liam held out his hands and steadied Diane holding her around her waist and by her left elbow so she wouldn’t be stolen from him by the crowd, he smiled and she looked him right in the eyes, right then, knowing that this intentions were honourable and genuine. She returned his smile and gently placed her right hand on his neck to bring his head down, she kissed him once on the lips. As friends or had a line been crossed?

   The song, an industrial one still throbbed from the speakers, it must be an extended remix of the original track and everyone just loved it. Hundreds of people, it seemed moved this way and that on the dance floor enjoying what to them was heaven, how could it ever be better than this? For two people who had just met it was even better, something was happening, something magical right here and now a spell so powerful it would never be broken out of nothing came something. Another song by a different band came on as the DJ faded the previous one out, the crowd of dancers slackened somewhat but neither Diane nor Liam wanted to break the spell that bewitched them both. It was a special moment that came only once in a human lifetime, they wanted to enjoy it and let it never end. Diane gently placed her head against Liam’s solid chest her red and black hair looking wild under the flashing lights against his 1988 Fields of the Nephilim tour t-shirt. He brought an arm up to embrace Diane to hold her close and he bowed his head to kiss the top of her head, in his heart Liam knew this was it. After two marriages including one where his wife was wickedly taken away from him by cancer, he knew he had found his soulmate never again would he be alone. After this dance Liam would ask Diane to be his pagan bride and would she be with him for the rest of their lives? Would she?

   As Diane gently swooned against Liam’s chest she felt complete, something had happened she didn’t know what and didn’t dare wonder how long it would last. She wouldn’t leave his side, not to go to the bar or to look for a younger man, here she wanted to be no matter what it took or what her mother or her jealous so called friends would say. Other than her music few things in her young life meant anything to her but this man who had gently taken her heart meant the world to her. How was this possible? It wasn’t was it? Was it a gothic fairy tale that would end when she opened her eyes or when the clock struck midnight? She never wanted it to end, it occurred to her the songs were right, well some of them. Love wasn’t dead there was hope… 

Times of Nonchalance By Jimmy Boom Semtex Fili Thief poem

Times of Nonchalance

By Jimmy Boom Semtex

Fili Thief

Storm in paradise, tropical island retreat. Something of magnitude happens here. Twelve thousand island. Some are idyllic, some war, some disaster. One is where princess is. Someone so lovely I forgot the ones before. We wanted to go to Cebu. Imagine if I stayed longer, we would of been there. In the typhoon. Would we live or die? Some Brits were lost in this awful storm, thousands more died. Nature, Mother Nature, so powerful and merciless. Price for such beauty and living in paradise. One day we will go there.

Our friends lost loved ones there. A man with traditional tattoos. His closeness to nature debited the ultimate unthinkable cost. Would he or the others of accepted that cost? Would Ulop and I, if it was us? On Cebu and Leyte. And other dreamy tropical places locales.

A Filipino lady living in a hut by the beach. Waiting for her lover to return home. He never returns. Claimed by the waves. Love stolen by not one but dozens of waves. Storm tide surge. Angry brown turbulent waves. Stealing innocent souls. A fisherman lost at sea in his little craft. A lady mourns her husband. Soon they were together. That little hut where so many romantic times were shared is gone. Washed away. Along with the girl and thousands of others. Stolen by Typhoon Yolanda. An awful thief.

Not over there. A certain island torn apart by war and death. Mindanao. More events, not good. Italian missionaries and priests kidnapped. Pay up or else. Funds raised, who says illegal ransoms don't work? All foreigners, unless you're a terrorist, are targets. Governments issue travel warnings, avoid Mindanao. Communist insurgents killing pigs, a joke? No real. All madness.

Each island has a story and character. Next year I'll be back to see my Ulop fiancé.