2 comments/ 26656 views/ 7 favorites One Moment By: Celticdawn Everything is moving in slow motion. The smoke is in the air, curling around right outside of my grasp. There's the illusion of people everywhere. People are dancing, people singing, people rubbing their bodies up against one other. Their eyes closed. Hands reaching back to stroke the thighs of the stranger behind them. With circular hips, grinding beats, my hair is caught between her breasts and my back, dangerously pulling my head back, exposing my neck until all I can do is lay my head against her chin. My only option is to surrender to the moment, to expose myself to her right then, in the darkness, with the smoke circling dangerously around my face. I keep moving, knowing that if I relax just for a second, I will be vulnerable, there in her arms. The music stops. Laughing, I turn around and see her for the first time. She appears to be behind a smoke screen, her hair, her lips, and her face foggy, hidden amongst the haze. Her eyes are the only part of her that pierce through the fog and they never left my own, a deep green, shining in the darkened room, beckoning me to lay my head against her shoulder again, to trust her, but only in the moment. She stands there looking at me, her palms pressed against the sides of her thighs, and even though I know that I surrendered to her in the moment before, I know without a doubt that this moment is mine to do with what I want. I look at her and see how beautiful she is and I know that now, now I am in charge. Never saying a word, I take her hand in my own, and I begin to walk to the back of the bar, where the couch and fireplace are. There, I see my best friend sitting on the couch with some guy he picked up. I catch his eye, and he leaves without a question. He knows too. She stands next to the couch, the fireplace crackling a few feet from us; the only light in this corner of the room, in this the area of the outcasts. I can tell she is nervous by the flush in her face, the slight shake of her hands. My eyes narrow and I look at her and smile for the first time. Not a toothy smile, but the smile of someone who knows, who accepts that there is no other option but to touch this most beautiful woman. I watch the muscles in her shoulders begin to relax under my slow, steady gaze. Without a word, I take my hand to the back of her neck and I gently push her back to the wall, and I press my body up against hers, feeling her breasts press against my own, her breath rise and fall, her stomach quiver, and I kiss her. I kiss her with all the passion of the dance. I taste her, and with my tongue I gently trace the inside of her mouth. I can tell by how she returns my kiss that she isn't used to kissing women. I withdraw and she tries to come for me. I push her back. I hold her there and a frightened look comes into her eyes, and slowly, slowly, slowly I bring my lips to hers, just a fraction of an inch away. I taste her breath. I feel her heat, her open lips, her tongue, her desire, and I place my mouth on hers, my way. I gently touch my tongue to hers, massaging her shoulders, her neck. Her hips begin to move slowly and with that I deepen the kiss, never making a sound, feeling my nipples tighten against her own, my body responding to hers like I have never experienced before. My fingers trace her jaw, her shoulders, and down her arms. I lean back and with one hand I unbutton her blouse and allow myself to look at her exposed flesh. Her unbound breasts spill out into my trembling fingers. She watches me as I drown in need to touch her, consume her; her breath coming is slow gasps, her eyes, her eyes watching my every move. Because she is too exquisite to be exposed in such a dingy place, I take her long black hair in my hand, and I gently bring it around to cover her breasts for a moment as I button her shirt back up. "Do you want to come with me?" I ask, speaking for the first time. "Yes." Without another word we leave the bar and begin the two block walk to my apartment. I open the door for her and watch her as she walks in, no longer nervous, no longer in wonder of what is going to happen. I take my time closing the door and locking it. I take our jackets and hang them in the hall closet. I indicate for her to wait and I go into the kitchen and pull out a bottle of wine and pour us both a drink. She takes the drink from me, and she watches me as she takes several sips into her mouth. I take the cup from her and with the palm of my hand on her chest; I push her up against the wall. I take her wrists and hold them above her head with my left hand, and with my right hand I again unbutton her blouse. I watch her chest rise and fall with her deepening breath. Taking my sweet time, I continue to hold her hands above her head and dip my mouth and take her left nipple into my mouth. I suck, and tug at it. I listen to her moan, and I gently take it in my teeth and hear her suck in her breath and with my unoccupied hand, I take her other breast and I caress it, tracing her nipple with my fingers, continuing my assault on the other one. Her hips begin to buck uncontrollably; her moans are deepening into cries of desire and want. I let go of her wrists, and turn her around so that she is facing the wall. My hands on her thighs, I push up her skirt and feel her warm, wet flesh. I pull her skirt down quickly and with it her panties. I pull her shirt off her back, and there before me is the most exquisite, beautiful woman I have ever seen. She tries to turn around, and I push her back, keeping her back to me. I take off my clothes. I watch her back move as she breathes, and I come behind her, and press me body up against hers. She jerks, as I slide my hard nipples up and down her back, slowly. I press my hard clit up against her buttocks and can barely feel it slide between. I can tell that she can feel me too because she begins to push back and grind herself against me. I let her do this for a few moments until I can't take it anymore and then I turn her around and press myself up against her. I notice briefly that we fit together perfectly. I begin to kiss her wildly, passionately. If I could cum just from the press of my tongue against hers I would have, I am so in tune to her body at that very moment. For the first time, I reach my hand down her stomach, feeling her quiver as I move, and I slowly stroke between her legs, feeling her desire, her warm, wet, swollen clit sliding between my fingers, throbbing and pulsing with every movement. I know she is close to climaxing when I pull back. Her breath is coming in short gasps when I reach down and take her nipple into my mouth again. She screams out as I enter her with my fingers, thrusting, in and out over and over. I gently pull my fingers out and lower myself to my knees. With her standing over me, her wetness in front of my face, her hard, throbbing clit begging for release, I take her into my mouth and flick my tongue back and forth, up and down, my fingers continuing to thrust in and out excruciatingly slowly. I feel her clit swell even more and begin to throb. I feel her hips move as she presses herself down on my hand begging me to feel every inch of her, pressing her body into my mouth, and with one final guttural moan, she finds her release. She attempts to turn me around and begin to do the same for me, when I place my hand on her chest and gently shake my head no. "Why not?" She asks me with her beautiful, sexy voice. I replied the only way I knew how, "I finished when you did." She studies my face for a few moments before she leans in and tries to kiss me. "Please," I repeat, "No." She continues to study me with those piercing green eyes, and I can feel myself wanting to feel her body pressed up against mine, and I back away a couple of steps and take a deep breath, recognizing that this is dangerous territory, my body begging me to allow her to touch me. I don't know if it's her inexperience or just my desire that has me take her fingers and lace them into my own and pulling her into me so that I can feel every inch of her. Her breasts, her stomach, between her legs, her thighs, all pressed against my own, her breath on my neck, her closed lips moving along my neck, the bottom of my ear. I close my eyes and beg the throbbing in my body to stop, to regain some sense of control of the situation, but she is so close and unassuming and the desire in the room so thick. I hear myself start to breathe deeper, heavier. I attempt to pull away from her again, but this time she knows that she has me. She steps back a couple of inches and lowers her eyes to my breasts, my nipples betraying me, begging her to touch them. Our fingers still laced, she gently takes my nipple into her mouth. It tightens even more, and I watch her suck on me. I watch her experiment with her tongue and her lips. She raises her eyes and meets my own and in that moment, I surrender to her, completely and fully. I pull her up and take her to my bed and pull her down beside me. I lay her on her back and watch her instinctively open her legs, exposing her sex fully to me. I climb between her legs and press my hard, swollen clit up against her own, feeling her wetness, her desire for me. I press my tip to her tip and move my hips so that it rubs gently on her. Our nipples meet, our bellies, our clits, rubbing, faster and faster. Our eyes never leaving one another, I begin to moan. I can't help myself. I am losing control in her embrace. I feel my thighs tighten, my clit, my body as I cum pressed up against her. I cry out as I lose myself completely in this moment, this one moment that I never allow myself, except for this one time with this most exquisitely, beautiful woman. One Moment NOTE: All characters in this story are over the age of consent and clearly from my warped imagination. 18+ My first story. Multiple chapter fic. 1. All my life I knew I was different. I was always shy and reserved, I read books and was hauled up in my room all hours of the day unless I was hungry, then I would eat and go right back upstairs to my solitude. My name is Jennifer, but I go by Jenny for short. I'm twenty, 4'11, with brown hair, dark eyes and a baby face. My lips are full and my body is small. I don't even think I break a hundred pounds on the scale. In short I look like a twelve year old so guys rarely come near me. I have an older brother, Michael. He's twenty four with dark brown hair, hazel eyes, plus a body toned and sculpted from years of football, he the direct opposite to my shy personality. When he walks into a room, everybody seems to know him, girls always throw themselves at him. He's always out getting into something. More or less, he's never home. Our parents divorced when we were little, Michael took it the hardest, I was too young to understand, when we were older, Dad always said our mother wasn't 'the one' he would never put himself, or subject us to a false reality. Mike and I were never close by any means, but we never really wanted to be. We moved around a lot for dad's job, considering he's the head of multiple companies. I was home schooled by choice up until I was eighteen, Mike ended up getting a job, where we moved to our final location, and where we will be living permanently. We reside in a beautiful home in California, with a pool in the back yard, and plenty of space. Kid's my age would kill for this life, but like I said, I'm different. When we first moved in our house, Dad said I could do whatever it is I wanted to my bedroom. It was light purple with bay windows. I fell in love with it immediately. It was then I knew the perfect quote to sum up my world. One moment can change your life in an instant. Xxx Dad finishes loading up the car with luggage, Mike and I stand awkwardly by the side doors as he's on his phone finishing up last minute flight details. He clicks off and hugs us both. "You kids be good now. I don't know when I'll be back for certain, but I know it'll be before the month is over." he states, kissing my cheek. Ruffling Mike's hair. He scowls. "Michael no parties. Jenny, keep an eye on your brother." "I'm older than her." Mike quips, Dad chuckles. "She's wiser. Be good!" then he's off, turning the corner down the road and I'm left standing alone on the pavement as Mike's footsteps lead back inside. "Going back to your room, hermit?" "Nothing else to do." scoffing, I catch my brother's gaze "We live in California. There's plenty to do, instead of reading your dumb little books, you see the outside world." "Shut up Mikey." "At least I have friends." "Your drinking buddies don't count." "Correction, story book characters don't count." "Fuck off." I snap. Mike whistles lowly smirking at me. "Damn, when Daddies away little miss innocent snaps." his voice ascends the stairs with me. "Go cry to your little books, they'll be there for you!" my door slams and I hear his laughter echo to the kitchen. My bodies on fire and I feel as if I'm going to burn alive. I need a cold shower to breathe and stop the rage from building. I stand before the full length mirror in the bathroom and look at myself. I'm self conscious, and my body is the main reason. My A cup breasts and small hips, there is no curve in any part of me. I don't want to be dramatically bigger, but I do want to have something there. The only thing I could say I like would be my sensitivity. I'm no prude when it comes to masturbation. I may not of had boyfriends, but I had kissed a few back in high school. I know what pleasure is. The water is lukewarm, the pelts melt into my shoulders and relax me almost instantly. I lather up my hair, piling it on the top of my head, I grab the nearest body watch, I massage my neck, working down my small chest, my nipples hardening as I sigh, down my stomach and sides the feelings between my legs heighten as I go down my legs and dip into my thighs, finally hitting my arousal, I flick my fingers against my clit, shuddering. I slide my fingers in with ease as far as they can go, pumping steadily. "Is this how you want it sis?" his voice is in my ear. I feel his fingers slam up into me again, my walls clench, I'm so close. "My sweet little sister. Cum for me." My eyes snap open as my orgasm takes me. I bite my lips to keep from screaming out, the intensity of cumming blacks my vision, I slump against the wall, suds from soap and shampoo drip behind me, I can't breathe. I came to the thoughts of my older brother fingering me. Suddenly, I'm so ashamed, and the pleasure is gone. One Moment In Time "I have returned," said a low, harsh voice from beneath the blackness behind the raging fire. She was ready and knew what he wanted. He wanted more of her. It was the cost of her creation. It came back after each task to consume, to take more of her essence. She had a choice. In the beginning, she always had an option. She could pay, or she could lose her creation to the void, and thus, part of her. She had taken the former course many times, because it was the smart option, the way to spend less of her in the long term. All she had to do was to utter the words of banishment and he would be gone, never again to return to her world. The fire at which she had first created him still burned hot and bright in the basin carved into the black marble floor of the chamber. The flame had not dimmed in the two years and five feedings that had intervened since its birth. She had already fed him too often. Already she had given him so much of her magic that he was acquiring some independence from her, to have his own motivations, his own wants, his own needs. It was too much. The years of training she had gone through at the hands of her teacher and master told her to let him die of starvation or soon she would never be rid of him. Soon he would not need her; he would be completely independent and she would lose forever the essence of herself she had put into him. She would be forever diminished, if only by a small piece, but that small piece would not grow back while he lived and she would never have the means to kill him. He would cease to be her magical creation and would begin to become her own personal demon, forever longing to feed from her, forever bleeding her but never again completely doing her bidding, never again... controlled. His form became visible behind the flames, fading slowly from the other world, solidifying in hers. She wondered if he was yet strong enough to know what he risked. She wondered too if the taste of her essence had limited his sexual awareness. She hoped not. At the first glimpse of his solid form, her resolve weakened, her desire to feed him once more awoke. In the pit of her stomach she felt the flutter of energy inflame her, it burst, like a lightning bolt from her belly. Colour inflamed her cheeks, and, on the Throne of Bone her hips moved slightly. It always happened, she remembered. And she knew why. When she made this one, she had been in love - in lust. The ritual undertaken to make these creations had inflamed her passion and her lust, that she could not control, had somehow taken the ritual further than she had ever gone before. In her moment of orgasm, that was the climax of the ritual, she had momentarily lost her grip on the powers that she wove into this new creature. In a moment of abandonment she had given it a piece of herself. She had never felt such powerful lust, such a powerful burst of emotion, that powerful lovemaking with any man. It had lasted minutes, tens of minutes, while she burned in an inferno that was so intense as to be painful; so consuming that for the duration of it she had forgotten who she was and what she was doing. And that passion, she now knew, was to be her bane. From it had come the 'being' she had intended to create; a servant. It was intended to be a simple thing, a mindless, almost formless creature. But the intensity of the ritual had breathed into it a vitality that she soon recognized. Her passion had given it the form she most desired. In her moment of boundless passion, she had created her dream. ****** He looked toward 'Her.' His task was complete, he had done Her bidding. He was going home again, to his reward. He did not remember the first task, and he did not really recall his own creation, but he knew from whence he came. He knew also that he was alive and that he was not supposed to be alive. His first clear memory was his first reward. He remembered the taste of 'Her' was exquisite. The flood of 'Her' essence filled him, making whole his emptiness, making real his life, making solid his flesh, his very existence made him of value. He knew what he was, what he was created to be; 'Her' servant, 'Her' worshipper and in a perverse way, 'Her' tormenter. He knew this was so, and he revelled in his cause, his mind consumed by these thoughts when alone and inactive. Forgetting the task he had just completed he willed himself from the flames, saying, "I have returned," in a voice so low as to be almost below the capacity of earthly hearing. She sat on her Throne of Bone; long black hair falling over her pale, white skin. She sat on the skeletal lower jaw of the long dead dragon, its huge curved fangs polished into arm rests. It was jet black. Its bones shining a malevolent black glare; empty eye sockets stared a hateful blackness throughout the cavernous room. She was naked. She always was at the time of feeding. Her flesh glowed with lustful anticipation. Her proud breasts rose and fell with each ragged breath, each full breast tipped with a hard, erect nipple. Against the scarlet cushions she moved slowly, hips rising and falling in a continuous rhythm. Her pale hands clenched and unclenched, gripping the dragon's teeth, as though she feared being torn from her sanctity. She had drawn one leg up to her, and the other stretched before her, rising and falling with her hips. Her motion gave her an undulating, pulsating appearance. Her eyes followed his glistening body and her gaze alone gave him reward. He rose from the fire pit, his skin almost indistinguishable from the fire at first, then gradually forming itself into human shape, he stepped forward and up onto the black marble floor. He was a tower of musculature and even the slight step he took showed the grace with which he had been endowed. His form was a wedge, muscles rippled like a panther's before the burst of killing speed. He flowed as he moved, one motion into the next with no hesitation, more creature than man. His hair was the same colour as the flame from which he stepped, and his skin also, though a few shades darker. He looked like a moving sculpture of liquid bronze, and he flowed forward, almost floating in his grace, slowly, towards her. His arms hung loosely at his side and swung gently, slowly, in time with his movements. He was enormous. Tall, broad shouldered and densely muscled, as though built from a perfect mould. Her perfect mould. He stopped, perhaps ten feet from her and raised his head. His eyes, black as coal, lifeless before his first feeding, locked with hers. She knew then, without a doubt, no regret, that she would feed him again. His eyes pierced her soul, looked into her heart, into her being. They looked at her thus, because they had come from her, her desires, her dreams. Those eyes knew her, knew all of her. She felt it coming and tried to repress it, to suffocate it, to confine it but found that she could not. A slight moan escaped her and she increased her pelvic rhythm. "I hunger," he said, in a voice so low that she felt it reverberate in her chest. The voice boomed; vibrated across the room, and echoed into the pit of her stomach, sending a shiver through her. "I feel your hunger," she replied. She stared at him, into his eyes. She told herself that she was in control, that she still had a choice to make, that she could still escape this fate. She knew she was lying to herself, but she felt in her mind, with the thrill of seeing him again, a spark of fear. She knew that this was no longer her creation, but was now her desire. He had come to steal her essence, to weaken her. She could see that in his eyes. He was real now. Independent. Dangerous. "Feed me, Mistress," he said slowly moving forward again, his smooth effortless stride captivating her. 'Here is your doom, woman,' she thought. 'He is coming for you. If you give in to him now, then he is with you forever. Feed him and you will never have the essence you lent him, you will be forever diminished.' The part of her that was not a Sorceress, the voice of the woman who saw her every dream personified in this towering yet gentle figure approaching, said to her, 'So be it.' All of her life, as a sorceress, she had suppressed what it was to be a woman, to feel lust for a man. Her Master had spent his life denying his manhood, suppressing his lust for women. This was common to those who practised the arcane arts. And most often it was that very suppression that was both their source of power and their doom. Absolute self control was her desire, and, in achieving that ability, her amassed desires had burst forth during the creation ritual, spawning this embodiment of her dreams. She squirmed on the cushions. A light sheen of perspiration covered her body, giving her flushed pale complexion a rosy glow, the flames seemed to radiate from her. His eyes looked upon her, perceiving her nudity and another piece of reality was bestowed him. He became a little more alive. "You are beautiful, Mistress," he said, and for the first time his voice had inflection and emotion as well as the deep, bass throb she had given him. She had never meant him to have enough understanding of beauty. In that instant she knew then that he was alive. She had lost the choice. No longer could she banish him through simple denial. The realization flooded through her like a tidal wave of lust. She was free. The decision was not hers to make, it had already been made now she had to decide whether her creation would be her friend or foe. Once fed, would he serve her or steal her passion; her soul. It was an easy choice. "Come to me," her voice sang, and the act of submission, if submission it could be called, sent another rush of lust through her. For the moment the sorceress was asleep, the woman awake. And the woman desired her creation. He fell to his knees, worshipping his glistening, fire flamed goddess, his creator. He bowed his head and crawled on his knees, to the throne base. He lowered his head to her foot that rested on the black marble floor, and touched his forehead lightly against the arch of her foot. His warm contact sent a shiver through her flesh and she moaned. He moaned also, a low throb that vibrated through her. He understood that he was pleasing her and brought his hand to her heel. On his knees, he caressed her small, pale foot, feeling every tremble that caused her joy. He lived to please her and only her pleasure could please him. He lowered his lips to her toes, gently kissing each toe, tenderly, extending his tongue to swirl, savouring the texture of her skin, loving the feel of her. He wanted to explore her, to taste her every essence, her every part, and worship her, his creator. She moaned, abandoning all pretence, all self control as he licked, then sucked her toes, the arch of her foot, then her ankle. She leaned back into the mouth of the dragon, her body stretching from the pleasure of his touch. His gentle caresses moved upward. How could she ever have thought of this as her doom? Only once in her life had she been on fire like this, and it was overwhelming her. Her body was burning like the flames she had constructed when she created him. She was burning in the fire; his fire. His gentle, loving kisses had reached the back of her knee, so she lifted her leg and placed it on his shoulder. Seeing him; his face a reflection of her pleasure. She felt the heat from him, the burning, almost painful warmth from his lips and tongue as he worked his way eagerly upward. Reflected in his face was only his desire to please her, no hostility, and no malevolence. The last of her fear drained from her, as his large, muscular hand moved toward her breast, cupped it, and pushed her body back, to recline gracefully beneath him. She placed her slender hand at the back of his head, and, unable to withstand his tender caresses any longer, drew his face to her womanhood, inwardly screaming as he explored her deeply with his probing tongue. Again, for a moment that stretched outside time, she forgot all but her passion. Her orgasm fed him, and she poured her energy into him, her magic, her essence, her self. And now, because he was real, not a servant, nor an automaton, she felt his own essence, his magic now independent of hers, a small, yet growing candle flame next to her pyre of passion. She felt... love. One Moment in Time Why does it seem I spend so much time writing eulogies? Michael Jackson, Steven Jobs and now Whitney Houston. I remember growing up in South Carolina. I was raised primarily by my great grandmother, a woman who was almost sixty when I was born. We lived in what was called a mill village. Back in the teens, twenties and early thirties, textile mills in the South would build small wooden frame houses surrounding their factories. They would then sell these to their workers, taking the 'mortgage' payments out of their weekly pay. It ensured a relatively stable local work force. Of course, by the time I was born in sixty-five, the mill had cut back production and most of the original workers, who had bought those houses, were like my grandmother...retired. But growing up in a neighborhood where the majority of residents were elderly, I learned about death and dying early. I cannot even count the number of funerals I attended as a child. What's more I was soon drafted into a rather macabre tradition. In addition to making food and taking it when someone died, the neighbors would also collect money to purchase an arrangement of flowers. I can remember being as young as six and going around with my teenage aunt. We would collect fifty cents or a dollar from everyone, carefully writing down their names and donations on a sheet of paper. When my aunt married at eighteen, the job became mine. It was an all too frequent honor. But what I remember most clearly and is most relevant to this conversation is how my Nanny, as I called her, responded to the death of famous people. It seemed strange to me that she would mourn the loss of actors, singers and politicians that she had never known or met. I remember sitting upon the front porch and listening as she told me about the great funeral train that ran along the tracks in the woods across the road from our house. It had carried the body of Franklin Delano Roosevelt from Warm Springs, George to Washington, DC to lie in state. She told how people came from all over to line up along the tracks to say their good-byes to the 'greatest President this country ever had.' She was proud to have been among them, paying her respects as she would call it. Of course, I was not alive for his death or John Kennedy's, but I was present as a myriad of others passed on as we politely called it. Desi Arnaz, William Conrad (the original Matt Dillion), and of course the unforgettable Elvis Presley. My great aunt Gertrude loved Elvis. She owned every record the man had ever made. She had even gone to Las Vegas to see him perform (that was a major trip in those days). When Elvis died, she cried for days and days. I honestly believe that she would not have mourned her own husband's passing as much as she did Elvis. I could not understand it. Why would you shed tears over people you had never known? Admittedly, I am getting older, but I understand now. I have lived through deaths of my own. Princess Diana, Michael Jackson and now Whitney Houston, among my own most memorable. I realize now that it is not as much those people that we never knew that we mourn but that part of ourselves that they take with them...the reminder that we are all mortal and that death calls for us all. Our day too will come. Whitney like Michael is special to me because of the way her music speaks to my soul. When I gave up on organized religion, finding it too hypocritical, I found that my soul cried out for something to restore it during those hard times. For me it is music, inspirational music in particular. With the advent of technology and the Internet it is easier to access, organize and play back your own musical history...those songs that lift you and carry you on the wings of angels to another time and place. For me that is my YouTube playlist. It has a variety of songs, genres and musicians. But only three performers have more than one song on my playlist...John Lennon, Michael Jackson and Whitney Houston...all gone too soon, dying too young. Their music reaches out to the dreamer in me and makes me believe for a few minutes that mankind can be more than we are. Each morning before my special needs daughter awakes, I grab my computer and a cup of coffee. I bring up YouTube and my soul takes flight to the words of...Imagine...Man in the Mirror...Let It Be...We are the World...Heal the World...The Greatest Love of All and my anthem...One Moment in Time. With these songs streaming from my laptop, I am able once more to face whatever the day holds for me. It is much the same as the time I once spent in prayer to a god. As I now remember Whitney (the others and my own mortality), I am drawn to the words of my anthem...One Moment in Time. I have a laminated copy of its words hanging on my goals wall in my bedroom. It is decorated with pictures of rainbows and stallions running wild on a beach. In particular, these lines sum it all up... You're a winner for a lifetime If you seize that one moment in time. Make it shine. And that is why we mourn these famous people that we never knew. Because they seized their one moment in time and made it shine. Despite the troubled lives that came before or even after that one moment in time, they did something special. They lived. Let me say that again...they LIVED. They grabbed their lives by the horns. They took chances. And they used their talents to touch others. And not even the twisted legacy of sex, drugs and rock-n-roll can negate the power of that. So this morning as I finish this article and plug in my YouTube playlist, I imagine somewhere out there in this universe (heaven if you like...although I think John might get really mad at me for even making that analogy) there is a new choir forming. Alongside Frank Sinatra singing 'I Did It My Way,' are John, Michael and now Whitney. I like to think too that sitting in the front row and enjoy the music is Princess Diana. And it is with a bit of sadness and a great deal of hope that I recognize I too will one day join that audience...but not I hope before I seize my One Moment in Time. RIP...Whitney.