Death's territory is a slow, sapping territory. Death's home is a slow, sapping home. It is a slow, sapping territory that pops up where it chooses to pop up and it is a slow, sapping territory that affects those whom it chooses to affect. The coffee house, the bar. Political canaries. Thugs. Manipulators. Lowlifes. Currencies of kills. Night creatures. History's games bemoan a draw. Kills skirt perfection. History's games bemoan honor, purpose, strength. History sets traps. Death sets traps. Atonement. Survival. Empires built, deployed. Time is a stage. Actors act through of time. She was quite the sensual, wondrous toy, Sweet Amy. She was quite the user, hustler, abuser, lover, killer, breaker, saint. She had friends, she reeked of acquaintance. She had a magic past. She was the apple of my eye, a smoldering cauldron of sin, a temple of want, origins wrapped in enigma, a sashay to cherish and a song to match. The blonde works for a gambler. Her father is a linchpin in a game of dear survival. Kaye is a smoldering cauldron of sin, a temple of want. She too is wrapped in enigma, a sashay to cherish and a song to match, my wisp of a wife, an aphrodisiac with coldness of purpose, nights of thrills, intimidation, vulnerabilities lurking; she has paths open to searing sins of seminal miscalculation. The muse must be cherished. Depression America. Mid century America. World Wars. Aftermath of war. The high twenties. The rough hewn teens. Games played. Base myths. Back alleys. Dark places. Modern times. The hard scrabble thirties. "The will business is a fascinating business, young Steele," Amy had said. "The conditions imposed on us by mere existence, Steele," she said, "offer countless variations on basic themes," she said. "The will business is a fascinating business," Amy said. She was pure or not, my reward or not, my savior or not. "Tell me," she said, "of veins of ice, wills of iron, men of steel. Tell me," she said, "of men so bent and weary with the weight of the world on their noble backs. Tell me about the insurmountable," she said. Muses skirt perfection. A trip through lovers' lane, searing challenges, hard victories. Love, yearning, fear. A soldier, mercenary, businessman runs with a young lady, an accomplished actress, an American sweetheart Identities fuse with purpose, libidos with the dregs of history, wills with fulfillment. "I can make you sell your mother, your father, your past, your future just for a whiff of me, a whiff of my clothes, a look at me in the pale light," she said. "I can make you beg to take a fancy ride with me to the left side of hell," she said. "We empower the currency of will, Steele," he said. "We yield to the temptation of corruption," he said. "We see as men of ability see, Steele," he said. "We structure in our little goals." Bazaars, back alleys, base myths. Intimidation stalks time and decades. A tempered stew radiates out from the sinews and muscles of longing and regret. Sweet honor. The hero wished his ideal. Death seeks his muse. The good strive to survive. The hero, The ex wife. The killer? The killed? The temptation of slyness. The firmness of all true hearts. The dashing tricks of an icon. Time a strange longing myth. The world an art. The kill is the winning bastard, chasing down the scurrying flock. It is for honor and freedom that we rush through our journeys, the chase after the end of the rainbow. Breakers break, killers kill, owners own. Those that dehumanize dehumanize. Swirling plays for the depths of men's souls stir the chase. Swirling plays of power and greed stir the games at hand. Good judgment, the follies of character, the dregs of time are there to keep us company.
About the Author: A damned scholar, B. Schiff writes to avoid ennui ......... ACCESS to e book, A 20% SAMPLE of novel, BACKGROUND material .... AVAILABLE at http: //www.smashwords.com/profile/view/bschiff ........ Also available by B. Schiff Lust Games: An Essay on Honor A Novel ........ Johnny boy was true, very, very true. Johnny would stick. Johnny would stay and do what had to be done. Johnny would be there if needed. He could leave if not. Johnny boy was true. Johnny was a cynical bastard who was rotten and self centered to the core but Johnny boy was true. He was a wanderer, a panderer, a bum. He was lazy and he cared not to move. He was unimpressed by the joys of interaction. Johnny boy was intent on being left alone. He wanted his peace. Johnny boy wanted not to be put upon by anything or anybody. Johnny was what his god had made him. The world was full of poor lost bastards. Johnny boy owed his god a fine steady trek through his world, sneered at the conversations of man, was not about to be anybody's helper, chose his company carefully. Johnny boy did not care to be to be anyone's holy redeemer. He didn't trust the beautiful. He worshipped the damned. He thought that he was a fucking idiot for even opening his eyes in the morning. Johnny boy, Rachel. Rachel, Johnny boy. Johnny boy was true. Johnny boy was good. Johnny boy would stick. He would stay and do what had to be done. information and information on book samples Website: http: //bschiff.com Contact email ... bschiffwork@comcast.net Print versions Dominance Games: An Essay on Power A Novel http: //www.amazon.com/Dominance-Games-Essay-Power-Novel/dp/1460916069/ref=sr_1_17?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1299525934&sr=1-17 https: //www.createspace.com/3563938 Lust Games: An essay on Honor A Novel http: //www.amazon.com/Lust-Games-Essay-Honor-Novel/dp/1460925858/ref=sr_1_11?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1299546268&sr=1-11 https: //www.createspace.com/3565665