orzel-bialy-blog1

[orzel-bialy-blog1]

You seem to be a pretty adventurous person in certain aspects, so do tell us, dear writer: what are your most secret fantasies? The desires you might be too shy to speak aloud?

Humming lowly the tune of a made up song, Wojtek continued to write on the notebook; blue ink always, never any other color (he would claim it destroyed creativity.), head bowed down in deep concentration. He wasn't entirely sure what the point of the question was, prudence for him had been lost among Berlin streets and bed sheets, and so it wouldn't draw any slight embarrassment from him. To the two questions he only choose to answer with one reply, trying hard not to scoff at being called shy in sharing any sexual wish, only to fail. ❝ I am very open to experiment, as you have so pointed out. ❞

Setting down the pen between the notebook he lifted his head, if just to rest his eyes from the heavy writing, looking like he had suddenly fallen in deep thought as he glanced at the other. ❝ I've tried a few things...I don't mind being tied to the bed posts neither do I mind some rough sex. ❞ a pause, just short as he picked up the pen again and began tapping it rhythmically to the beat in his head. ❝ You know...I've always wondered about threesomes. ❞ the tapping ceased as he concluded with a shrug and returned back to work.

[orzel-bialy-blog1]

@nordwxnd

Wojtek woke up with a start, rapidly rising to a sitting position. His breath hung between an exhale and a gasp, and those blue eyes, so bird-like in movement as his bodily actions, scanned the room rapidly, half expecting to meet with the worst scenery anyone could encounter. It was the placid calmness of darkness that meet him instead of the hallucination of slaughtered corpses, brimming fire and troops running amok the small site they had currently secured as resting place. The cry, or rather shout, had come from behind him.


He was still asleep, the Alsatian whose life had become intimately intertwined with, his handsome face depicting nothing of calmness. Instead he looked aggravated and when the Pole reached a hand to stroke his cheek he found them wet with tears. That was a quick trigger on him. 


To anyone else Wojtek Slaski was an insufferable asshole. Selfish, arrogant and incapable of feelings and concern towards others. They wouldn’t know him well. Not many did. Especially not as Schamberg had come to know him. To fully experience him by touch and voice, prying layer after layer until he found the real loving person huddled and cowering from a world he deemed too cruel. It was true few stirred emotions of desperate carrying and tender loving like Schaumberg did on him, just like then as he shook him gently by the shoulder; calling, calling, his own face a portrait of deep concern. He was crying louder now, shouting words in French that Pole couldn’t decipher. Desperation sank rapidly. 
❝ Karl? Karl? Karl. Wach auf. Wach auf. ❞ 


When Karl’s startled eyes meet his he ceased talking, greeting him immediately with a warm smile. ❝ Bonjour.❞ the French was badly butchered, partially wrong too for such a late hour (though not in context), but that didn’t matter neither did he care to really impress him with his piss poor language skills that he had slowly been picking up from the Alsatian. Unless it made a difference to the shaken man in bringing out some humor after the mental turmoil (as he intended), then it didn’t matter. What he wanted was to reassure him. Goodness…he was shaking. He had never seen him in such a state…What had he even been dreaming of that could aggravate Karl to tears? To shout so loudly? So angrily? Wojtek’s face briefly twisted into one of deep concern, masking it instantly with a soft look that said nothing was wrong. He didn’t like this, but a dream was a dream. They rarely became real, right?


❝ You were having a bad dream. ❞he ran a hand across Karl’s moist cheek, stopping right at the corner of his eye to wipe away the tears that had accumulated there. When he leaned in to kiss him he found even his lips tasted of salt. He only licked his own lips and got comfortable right next to him. ❝ All is fine. You’re safe, see? It was only a dream. ❞

[orzel-bialy-blog1]

Glazed eyes, empty hearts

[orzel-bialy-blog1]

Poles are otters. @orzel-bialy / @gott–mit–uns I’m so sorry

[orzel-bialy-blog1]

I like the idea of ink flowing out of my hand and saturating the paper. There’s something intimate about that.  - Tom Robbins

[orzel-bialy-blog1]

@ichbinkeinfloh gets a mini lyric starter

❝Never leave me, and don't deceive me I'll keep on crawling my friend Never tease me and don't leave me here It's all the same in the end. ❞

❝And I am afraid Take back what I said. ❞

                                            Never Leave ; Seether

[orzel-bialy-blog1]

@quietresistence ♥ for a lyric starter !

“The writing on the walls May be foreign to us all 'Cause the casualties of war Haven't changed us much at all.”

                                         Writing On the Walls ; 10 Years

[orzel-bialy-blog1]

@majormeyer ♥ for a lyric starter !

“In the crowd alone And every second passing reminds me I'm not home Bright lights and city sounds are ringing like a drone Unknown, unknown.”  

My happy little pill Take me away...   Bring colour to my skies

                                      Happy Little Pill ; Troye Sivan

[orzel-bialy-blog1]

@nordwxnd ♥ for a lyric starter !

“When you came in the air went out And all those shadows there filled up with doubt I don't know who you think you are But before the night is through I wanna do bad things with you I wanna do real bad things with you.”  

                                       Bad Things ; Jace Everett

[orzel-bialy-blog1]

@soldierforfreedom ♥ for a lyric starter !

”We've been here for so long we can't Remember who we are And we eye the sky through prison bars, Hope fading with the light”

“To hell with this cell, we're breaking out tonight !”

                              Breakout ; Celldeweller ft. Scandroid

[orzel-bialy-blog1]

@heinrxch ♥ for a lyric starter !

“So how do you portray the sentiment? The ruse is brought, the truth is bent And much to our dismay, they're ignorant The more that we make up the more it fits.”  

                                       Pale ; The Birthday Massacre

[orzel-bialy-blog1]

@tinyfeuerkopf​ ♥ for a lyric starter !

“Tip the scales and Drive the nails in deeper every time.”

“Dear God, Will anyone get out of here alive?”

                                                Backlash ; 10 Years

[orzel-bialy-blog1]

The BDSM Test

94% Rope bunny 91% Submissive 73% Experimentalist 63% Vanilla 63% Rigger 59% Brat 49% Exhibitionist 45% Switch 35% Dominant 31% Masochist 23% Primal (Prey) 13% Master/Mistress 12% Girl/Boy 10% Slave 6% Voyeur 5% Ageplayer 4% Pet 4% Degradee 4% Brat tamer 3% Sadist 3% Non-monogamist 3% Primal (Hunter) 2% Daddy/Mommy 0% Owner 0% Degrader

[orzel-bialy-blog1]

❝ I’ve got a bad taste in my mouth. Could it be cause I trusted myself? I got a bad feeling in my bones. Could it be cause I went it alone? I think I’m gonna lose my mind. ❞

[orzel-bialy-blog1]

‘Można nas zabić! Ale nie można zabić NAS WSZYSTKICH!’ Grzegorz Poplawski yells in all his might and expires.

And there were Wojtek lies after the blast that made Poplawski chew on concrete and swim on blood, there is no time think, no time to lay paralyzed in fear. Someone yells biegać! But he fails to abide, miserably so. He can’t run, just drag himself across the pile of rumble that traitorously bites and scrapes at the raw meat of his hand. His head spins too much, his ears ringing too much; cheeks feel wet, not saline wet but iron wet, and on his stomach the vibrations of tank mock with advocated necessity to get up and r u n. A couple of seconds in he realizes it was his own imploring voice that urges him on.

Horse and human hair dance like grains of wheat and bullets whizz, sterilizing hot. He’s not a man breed for war, like the war horses and war hounds or the men in field gray.

                                                             “Kurwa!”

The loaded rifle from Poplawski lays just five feet away, and with a second wind he rises, dashing across to retrieve the gun and grenades.

They say we writers are madmen. I will tell you what. During my days on Berlin I have come to the conclusion that indeed, all artists are madmen. For example, how can you write about something you have not experienced? Remember the time you broke your arm and described the pain vividly? I, my dear Ilya, cannot describe such a pain for I have not lived it. I then must seek to break my arm myself in order to write about it as vivid, and on point as possible.

                                                      -----excerpt from a letter to Ilya Kuznetsov, 16. 10. 1934

Almost there, almost, and like a gale of strong wind he is taken off his feet —– slow motion, sepia to black and white movie reel, burning, burning —— slipping and burning, b u r n i n g. Wojtek’s left side swerves with sheer force, back hits concrete, the red wetness of his own blood sipping through the fabric at his shoulders.

They say writers are madmen, but he would not be seeking the thrill of being pierced by a bullet again.

[orzel-bialy-blog1]

Members of the Polish Home Army resting in a forest.

[orzel-bialy-blog1]

“Germany is broken” Polish resistance propaganda after the battle of Stalingrad, 1943.