Soul Stripping on the Net

                                                                                            I               Dropping bombs must have been either very terrifying if you are ridden with a conscience, or very pretty if not, especially if you are high on patriotism. Imagine flying a huge metal pipe through black flak mushrooms, zigzagging through death like a two-wheeler in Pune, and as you make a U-turn back home, marvel at your doing. Little orange flowers, spreading like fireworks across a black earth. Brick and flesh bursting fountains of smoke. Whoever said “Death is an art” was surely a part of the bomber crew.       ...

  <<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<HOMO SAPIEN STELLARIS OBSERVATION, 13.44.56.980.1   Daily Study Log 1 Names: Ram Pietrovich and Abdullah Martin, Lagrangians from the Jovian System Profession: Interstellar Mechanics, Class III Both subjects were observed on a mechanical dirigible on the way to a report of a malfunction of the Kardashev abyssal panels around their central sol.   Prima facie evidence points to recent mega flares, which have been occurring with increasing frequency. Though currently well within the limits of ever reaching the Chandrashekhar Arrested Limit, they do not know that continuous harvesting and comet bombardment to increase the photon output means their sol will continue beyond the red giant stage and collapse their solar system. It does not seem that these two will be able to reach in time and tell their species of the same. Slingshot manoeuvres are an extremely inefficient way for thi...

  Beauty. What do I not call beautiful? Your hair smells of henna, you leave it on the pillows after you wake up. I wake up, and awaken at that scent. Your eyes, they play their own game, independent of your lips. But more on those later. Your eyes laugh, beckon, tease as I look into them through the mirror, when you delicate fingers comb your hair. But more on that later. Your lips. Luscious, pouted. They parch mine, waiting to bleed together as I kiss up your supine neck, but more on that later. Tongues lash even as our breathing deafens us over the shout of the paperwalla. Those delicate fingers run up and down my back. Sometimes the nails bite in to the back. Sometimes tickle. But we have to break. The morning does not wait. That mole on the tender neck, I kiss. Just above where the collar bone now lays exposed over the dishevelled blouse. I would have said more on that later. But you have to pick up your husband from the airport, and my wife is returning by the morning...