mlaw: (smiling IK)
[personal profile] mlaw
Click on the gin bottle to take you to the story:

mlaw: The Man from UNCLE artwork- my user (Yellow MFU art)
[personal profile] mlaw

Kuryakin walked along the grey corridors of headquarters, his nose  buried in folder. Wearing his tinted glasses, they kept slipping down his nose; without thinking about it, he pushed them back in place every few minutes.

“Psssst,” It came from a nearby utility closet.

Napoleon peeked out, pulling Illya inside.

“What is going on?”

They’re back,” Napoleon whispered.

“They as in…?”


“Oh bother, what are they going to do to us now? Torture, romance, death or some bit of silliness?” Illya moaned.
mlaw: blinky black cat (Default)
[personal profile] mlaw

Spring rain:

telling stories,
a staw coat,
an umbrella walks past.

Inspired by a haiku by: Yosa Buson (1716-1783)

Napoleon sat on the park bench even though it was raining. He wore a trench coat not caring that it wasn’t enough; he stayed, watching the umbrellas walk past.

His face turned upwards, letting the water trickle down on him, It reminded him to stop, to remember the simple things in life... a rainstorm, a rainbow after it perhaps….a life he was lucky and grateful to still have.

Illya lying unconscious in medical in an induced coma while he healed was a stark reminder of that.

They would both be here yet, living another day to tell their tales.
mlaw: blinky black cat (Default)
[personal profile] mlaw
 No April story this week. So am posting a fic from my continuing drabble series, 'The Randomness of Life', based on lines from a randomly selected poem...

   Prompted by: The Last Supper ~Rainer Maria Rilke

The loneliness of old comes over him

There are times that I wonder about Alexander Waverly. The man never sleeps, never misses a trick. He is always the sly one, clever in his plans and strategies.

He's getting up there in years, and I hope that I'll live long enough to be half the man he is.


and (like a shot that scatters birds from trees)

His is a name that strikes fear into the hearts of our enemies, yet to look at him; he seems the kindest, most gentle spoken of men...a grandfatherly type.

But there are those who know that within beats the heart of a fierce lion waiting to quickly...unmercifully strike.


everywhere like an all-pervading twilight-hour.

He watches over us, his agents like a sentinel. And the weight, I know, of sometimes sending people to an untimely death weighs heavily upon his shoulders.

I wonder, will I be able to fill those shoes someday? Will I be deserving of the title,

"The Old Man"



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Section VII Propaganda and Public Relations

September 2017

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