To You
By Jason Sturner
You laugh, and the world unfolds.
Light falls like rain, stains the dark.
I’m helpless, without speech;
your soul becomes the blue of my eyes.
Forgive me if I stray—
To you.
You smile, and no wars ever were.
You hold time in place, erase the hands.
I’m overcome, filled with adoration;
my soul becomes the brown of your eyes.
Forgive me if I write these words—
To you.
You speak, and the otter shakes a whisker.
You enchant me, a sea horse ballet.
And I swim, deep where tears shed;
now my poetry breathes under oceans.
Forgive me if I expose my heart—
To you.
- - -
Jason Sturner was born in Harvey, Illinois, and raised in the western suburbs of Chicago. He has published four books of poetry: Kairos, 10 Love Poems, Selected Poems 2004-2007, and Collected Poems (all available as free downloads; see website). He currently resides in Knoxville, Tennessee, where he writes short stories of psychological horror and the supernatural. Website: www.jasonsturner.blogspot.com
Friday, December 31, 2010
Thursday, December 30, 2010
12/30/10
Our Wonder
By Amy Sollins
When you gave birth to our medical miracle
I couldn’t have loved you more.
Now that you’ve taken away our medical miracle
I couldn’t have hated you more.
They say love
and hate
go hand in hand
powerful emotions
passions
I say
Each is solitary
Each is earned.
- - -
By Amy Sollins
When you gave birth to our medical miracle
I couldn’t have loved you more.
Now that you’ve taken away our medical miracle
I couldn’t have hated you more.
They say love
and hate
go hand in hand
powerful emotions
passions
I say
Each is solitary
Each is earned.
- - -
Wednesday, December 29, 2010
12/29/10
Light Within
By Joseph Ment
When I sit down beneath your sky
Look up into your eyes
I see within
I see light
The light within
Me
Us
Both.
You are my sky
You are my soul
- - -
Joseph Ment drives Cattle in Montana.
By Joseph Ment
When I sit down beneath your sky
Look up into your eyes
I see within
I see light
The light within
Me
Us
Both.
You are my sky
You are my soul
- - -
Joseph Ment drives Cattle in Montana.
Tuesday, December 28, 2010
12/28/10
That Cambrian Age
By Troy Manning
Given Ambrosia’s intense disdain for cockroaches, she turned into a crawfish instead. But as much as her irritation with her parents made her want to climb the walls, her cumbersome claws and legs made this impossible. She opened the window and climbed out like she did every other Tuesday night and took hold of the trellis. It gave way under her additional weight and Ambrosia collapsed onto the lawn. She was afraid the cracking noise of her shell might have woken her parents, so she sat quietly for a few moments before scuttling toward the pond.
Ambrosia received an initial chill as some of the October water seeped through the shell’s crack but she otherwise felt quite in her element. She was fifteen in human years and began to suspect that, in crawdad years, she was almost a fossil. It seemed rather tragic that a young girl who had just recently begun to take a more active interest in boys would have to settle down at the bottom with someone firmly encrusted in their shell. As she looked around however, not only did all the other crawfish appear terrified of her, but they were altogether too picayune.
She thought about going back to her old way of life but began to be concerned about the fluid issuing from her shell. She wondered what that might translate into in human terms. Rather than finding out the hard way, she decided to stay the night in the pond. As she was about to submerge, she saw the beams from two lights scanning the water’s surface. Even though she feared it might be her parents with flashlights, she realized they would never recognize her in her new regalia and moved closer to the shore.
Ambrosia recognized Ellis and Stanley Crawford, fraternal twins who were the same age as her in human years. She always thought Ellis was a bit of a weasel but the name Ambrosia Crawford crossed her mind more than a few times on account of Stanley. She presumed they were down at the pond at his bidding, as Ambrosia knew Stanley was enamored with crustaceans. She guessed correctly that making her presence known to the boys would send Ellis running. She thought the same might be true of Stanley since he would surely have never seen a five-foot crawfish before. To her pleasant surprise, he stood transfixed with his light upon her. Ambrosia imagined something of a halo effect from the gleam of the light upon her shell. Stanley didn’t move as she gently extended a pincer toward him.
Ambrosia nearly jumped out of her shell at Stanley’s piercing scream as she took his hand when she had only meant to hold it. She tried profusely to apologize but what seemed to her like speech must have been nothing but bubbles to him.
She watched as Stanley ran screaming toward his home. She allowed her body to drift to the bottom with that sinking feeling one sometimes gets when unintentionally depriving someone they care about of an appendage. She tried to drown but was unable keep herself from surfacing for air. She crawled despondently onto the bank and made her way back toward her window like she did every other Wednesday morning.
Ambrosia realized that with the trellis down, she could not climb up to her window. At this point, however, a cockroach no longer seemed beneath her so she became one and began the ascent. By the time she got to her room, she was her old self again, except that Ambrosia was now far more concerned about the wound Stanley sustained from her selfish exploits than her own plight.
When Stanley and Ambrosia later married, she tried to apologize for that night but he just laughed at her. He still loved crustaceans though, and was more than patient with the crabbiness that occasionally continued to overtake her. And those moments were quickly dispelled when Ambrosia Crawford thought how grateful she was that Stanley still had a hand into which her father had gladly placed her own.
- - -
Troy Manning is a graduate of Westminster Seminary California. He has recently been taking literature classes at Cal State University, San Marcos where his stories have been published in the creative writing program's Cat Ate My Chapbook, Fierce Notes 1 & 2, and the Spring 2010 issue of Oh, Cat!
By Troy Manning
Given Ambrosia’s intense disdain for cockroaches, she turned into a crawfish instead. But as much as her irritation with her parents made her want to climb the walls, her cumbersome claws and legs made this impossible. She opened the window and climbed out like she did every other Tuesday night and took hold of the trellis. It gave way under her additional weight and Ambrosia collapsed onto the lawn. She was afraid the cracking noise of her shell might have woken her parents, so she sat quietly for a few moments before scuttling toward the pond.
Ambrosia received an initial chill as some of the October water seeped through the shell’s crack but she otherwise felt quite in her element. She was fifteen in human years and began to suspect that, in crawdad years, she was almost a fossil. It seemed rather tragic that a young girl who had just recently begun to take a more active interest in boys would have to settle down at the bottom with someone firmly encrusted in their shell. As she looked around however, not only did all the other crawfish appear terrified of her, but they were altogether too picayune.
She thought about going back to her old way of life but began to be concerned about the fluid issuing from her shell. She wondered what that might translate into in human terms. Rather than finding out the hard way, she decided to stay the night in the pond. As she was about to submerge, she saw the beams from two lights scanning the water’s surface. Even though she feared it might be her parents with flashlights, she realized they would never recognize her in her new regalia and moved closer to the shore.
Ambrosia recognized Ellis and Stanley Crawford, fraternal twins who were the same age as her in human years. She always thought Ellis was a bit of a weasel but the name Ambrosia Crawford crossed her mind more than a few times on account of Stanley. She presumed they were down at the pond at his bidding, as Ambrosia knew Stanley was enamored with crustaceans. She guessed correctly that making her presence known to the boys would send Ellis running. She thought the same might be true of Stanley since he would surely have never seen a five-foot crawfish before. To her pleasant surprise, he stood transfixed with his light upon her. Ambrosia imagined something of a halo effect from the gleam of the light upon her shell. Stanley didn’t move as she gently extended a pincer toward him.
Ambrosia nearly jumped out of her shell at Stanley’s piercing scream as she took his hand when she had only meant to hold it. She tried profusely to apologize but what seemed to her like speech must have been nothing but bubbles to him.
She watched as Stanley ran screaming toward his home. She allowed her body to drift to the bottom with that sinking feeling one sometimes gets when unintentionally depriving someone they care about of an appendage. She tried to drown but was unable keep herself from surfacing for air. She crawled despondently onto the bank and made her way back toward her window like she did every other Wednesday morning.
Ambrosia realized that with the trellis down, she could not climb up to her window. At this point, however, a cockroach no longer seemed beneath her so she became one and began the ascent. By the time she got to her room, she was her old self again, except that Ambrosia was now far more concerned about the wound Stanley sustained from her selfish exploits than her own plight.
When Stanley and Ambrosia later married, she tried to apologize for that night but he just laughed at her. He still loved crustaceans though, and was more than patient with the crabbiness that occasionally continued to overtake her. And those moments were quickly dispelled when Ambrosia Crawford thought how grateful she was that Stanley still had a hand into which her father had gladly placed her own.
- - -
Troy Manning is a graduate of Westminster Seminary California. He has recently been taking literature classes at Cal State University, San Marcos where his stories have been published in the creative writing program's Cat Ate My Chapbook, Fierce Notes 1 & 2, and the Spring 2010 issue of Oh, Cat!
Monday, December 27, 2010
12/27/10
A cup of tea with you
By Rubie Irene
So, I have this date planned.. with you..
I have been thinking about it all day... drinking my tea and wondering what you are doing.. It's insane.. I know.. but I have been planning this for a few hours now.. I'll let you in on the details.. hope you don't mind.. I will try not to spoil too much..
I figured we would start early.. I will try and fit a lot into a day.. I hope you don't grow tired of me.. but in all honesty that thought of spending any amount of time with you gives me those stupid little butterflies we talked about before..
Breakfast sound good? We can go to globe. I know how much you like it there.. besides.. some place you are familiar with to start.. I will let you order for me as long as you promise to let me pay? Does that sound alright? I am really not that hungry though I must say. I tell you about what I read about in yesterday's paper when I was staring at my phone hoping you would message me.. you did.. thank you for that.. I notice you staring at me behind your cup.. I pretend I don't see you, but the way your eyes can see through me is amazing. It feels unexplainable.. I like it though.. so please don't stop. I'll try not to let on that I know... I will tell you about it later though.. so I can see you blush...
It was far too short of a time but you look ready to go. I hope you aren't calling it a day. I ask what you would like to do.. you say it's up to me.. Thank grace.
I ask if you are up to walking.. you say it's fine.. So we walk to Elliot bay book store.. I am hoping they have this flash book I have been waiting weeks for.. every time I go in there I feel like I am in high fidelity and Jack black keeps saying "maybe next week".. I tell you this and you laugh at me.. I usually might be offended but I know you mean it in the most endearing way possible.. plus, I could not possibly be mad at you.. not with a smile like that.. We walk out of the store empty handed.. naturally. I just want to stare at you for a while.. even this old beautiful architecture doesn't hold up to you.. I want you to know that.. I begin writing you a poem in my head.. I'll let you read it later once I pen it down..
This all feels so surreal by now. I hope it's not. I hope it's not.
It's a long walk back to my car.. but I hardly notice. You talking to me makes the entire world around me fade. I don't notice the obscenities being yelled at me by the construction workers on 5th avenue.. I forgive them anyhow.. working on the same street for this long would have me a little loopy as well.. I'm trying to remember how you looked at me over breakfast.. It would be enough to keep me warm..
You ask where we are headed next.. I don't want to tell you in case you think it is cheesy. We head over to my side of town.. I think you can see where we are going.. but maybe not..
The kittie shelter has always been one of my favorite places to go.. because of this, I arranged a playdate with a few local felines.. I know how much you like them so I figure this might put a smile on your face.. I am hoping to adopt one.. perhaps you will give me your opinion? I want to ask you but you seem like you are in kitty heaven. I choose they grey one.. I will name it something studious..
By this time I would hope you are having fun.. If not I really wish you would tell me...
I'm ready for lunch, you say you could go for some.. We head over to Hillside Quickies on Brooklyn.. It's one of my favorite sandwich shops in the city.. You ask me what is good.. I tell you everything is.. I know.. I am of no help.. but watching you study that menu is something to be remembered.. I take a mental picture.. You are really a sight you know?
Lunch kind of slides by like a whirlwind. You appreciate the kitchy vibe of this place, you talk about the art on the walls, I watch your hands move.. I want to memorize you.. is that odd? I hope not.. perhaps you will want to remember me too.. The city has never been so beautiful until you arrived here.. I wonder if anyone else notices..
I run to the back to wash my hands and you are waiting for me by the front door. You picked up a copy of the weekly.. the personals are funny in that paper.. wonder if you ever read them?.. They are a good laugh.. I would much rather read the expressions on your face though..
It's about a 20 minute drive to west Seattle, but I want to show you my favorite record shop. Sure, we could have went to Easy Street on Queen Anne, but I have so much more history there.. I tell you the story of Eddie Vedder at the deck of the store.. we overlook everyone else.. I hold your hand.. you don't move away.. Those butterflies are working again.. Damn them.
I make off with 4 albums and you get 2. We walk down California Avenue, otherwise known as the Junction.. we stop off at the pet store to get the new kitty some toys and a collar.. You ask me about the name.. I still haven't decided.. perhaps Clyde? You laugh.. You really are beautiful..
Alki art supply.. It's not a huge store and sort of overpriced.. we don't buy anything but it really motivates me to paint when I get back home.. I tell you about the first picture I painted in Kindergarten.. It was of a flying saucer with people in it.. attached to a stick.. there were mountains behind and people below.. everyone looked happy. My teacher asks me if I have ever been "there".. I didn't know where there was.. and then I tell you that Seattle had always been my destination since I was a little girl.. you completely understand.. Your eyes look so gentle in the light.. it's a truly calming sensation.
We make out of the store without me spending a dime.. I tell you it's a miracle though I don't know that you believe me. We cross the street to the toy store.. I used to work here as a buyer I tell you.. You ask what that entailed.. I told you that I used to play with toys all day and decide on whether or not we should buy them for the store.. You asked why I ever left such an easy job like that.. I say "I never really did".. I buy us two bubble guns.. don't really know why, but they are such innocent toys and that is how I feel when holding hands with you..
We walk back to the car and you ask about the benches outside several of the stores.. I show you the one I painted.. You ask the inspiration.. I tell you about love, and my mother.. I don't know that you understand, but I tell you that I wouldn't want to be anywhere else but right here with you on this bench.. you lean into me.. You are pure magic.
The walk back to the car is pleasant.. we talk of food and it is making you hungry.. but yet, not hungry enough for dinner, so we hold off. I ask you if you have ever felt like you were floating on water.. and you ask why.. I tell you.. It's how I feel right now.. you don't say anything.. so I tell you I will show you.
We drive to this old boat launch in the Luna Park district of West Seattle. It used to be a really popular place until the new launch was built a few years ago. We can hear the seals from the aquarium just across the sound.. the wind is mild but a little cold.. we walk to the end of this dock that is only tied down by a rope. We could very well drift off into the sound and no one would be the wiser... You don't notice your feet skimming the water until you look down. When you look ahead of you all you see is water and the city lights turning brighter as the sun sets behind us.. At this moment I wish we weren't facing east as the sunset is really beautiful from behind the Olympic mountains.. its very reminiscent of you behind your tea cup this morning.. I remember.
I'm starving.. Perhaps dinner next..
We drive over to Minnies, it's after 6pm so the parking is much better now. Not a lot of people know about Minnie's.. But it is one of my favorite places.. Dinner is amazing as it always is there.. you can see the spaceneedle just outside the windows and the costume shop just across the way. People are in there messing around with the feather Boas and cowboy hats.. You tell me about your drive in Tina, and how much you had seen. I wish I could have seen it all with you.. perhaps another time..
We skip dessert so we can go to Mr. Spots. That Tea house I was telling you about.. For some odd reason, you order chai.. as do I. Mine gets cold and you need a refill.. you call the waitress over and I begin to pen that poem I was writing for you in my memory. You pretend not to notice but I see you sneaking glances.. Don't worry I'll sneak it in your pocket later I am sure..
We discuss the day and I tell you how much I enjoyed your company, I am hoping you tell me the same. Perhaps you do, it's too soon to tell. But those butterflies are working overtime as I know our day is drawing to a close..
I want to spend the night just talking over tea and watching you.. i want to see your eyelids get heavy when you can't talk anymore.. I want to see you tell me all the wonderful things that cross your mind.... Perhaps one day soon.. Perhaps one day soon?
- - -
I am a 28 year old artist, living in Tacoma Wa.
Boston Terriers, all things nautical, tattoos and bearded things in general.
Loved and lived to tell about it.. sort of.
By Rubie Irene
So, I have this date planned.. with you..
I have been thinking about it all day... drinking my tea and wondering what you are doing.. It's insane.. I know.. but I have been planning this for a few hours now.. I'll let you in on the details.. hope you don't mind.. I will try not to spoil too much..
I figured we would start early.. I will try and fit a lot into a day.. I hope you don't grow tired of me.. but in all honesty that thought of spending any amount of time with you gives me those stupid little butterflies we talked about before..
Breakfast sound good? We can go to globe. I know how much you like it there.. besides.. some place you are familiar with to start.. I will let you order for me as long as you promise to let me pay? Does that sound alright? I am really not that hungry though I must say. I tell you about what I read about in yesterday's paper when I was staring at my phone hoping you would message me.. you did.. thank you for that.. I notice you staring at me behind your cup.. I pretend I don't see you, but the way your eyes can see through me is amazing. It feels unexplainable.. I like it though.. so please don't stop. I'll try not to let on that I know... I will tell you about it later though.. so I can see you blush...
It was far too short of a time but you look ready to go. I hope you aren't calling it a day. I ask what you would like to do.. you say it's up to me.. Thank grace.
I ask if you are up to walking.. you say it's fine.. So we walk to Elliot bay book store.. I am hoping they have this flash book I have been waiting weeks for.. every time I go in there I feel like I am in high fidelity and Jack black keeps saying "maybe next week".. I tell you this and you laugh at me.. I usually might be offended but I know you mean it in the most endearing way possible.. plus, I could not possibly be mad at you.. not with a smile like that.. We walk out of the store empty handed.. naturally. I just want to stare at you for a while.. even this old beautiful architecture doesn't hold up to you.. I want you to know that.. I begin writing you a poem in my head.. I'll let you read it later once I pen it down..
This all feels so surreal by now. I hope it's not. I hope it's not.
It's a long walk back to my car.. but I hardly notice. You talking to me makes the entire world around me fade. I don't notice the obscenities being yelled at me by the construction workers on 5th avenue.. I forgive them anyhow.. working on the same street for this long would have me a little loopy as well.. I'm trying to remember how you looked at me over breakfast.. It would be enough to keep me warm..
You ask where we are headed next.. I don't want to tell you in case you think it is cheesy. We head over to my side of town.. I think you can see where we are going.. but maybe not..
The kittie shelter has always been one of my favorite places to go.. because of this, I arranged a playdate with a few local felines.. I know how much you like them so I figure this might put a smile on your face.. I am hoping to adopt one.. perhaps you will give me your opinion? I want to ask you but you seem like you are in kitty heaven. I choose they grey one.. I will name it something studious..
By this time I would hope you are having fun.. If not I really wish you would tell me...
I'm ready for lunch, you say you could go for some.. We head over to Hillside Quickies on Brooklyn.. It's one of my favorite sandwich shops in the city.. You ask me what is good.. I tell you everything is.. I know.. I am of no help.. but watching you study that menu is something to be remembered.. I take a mental picture.. You are really a sight you know?
Lunch kind of slides by like a whirlwind. You appreciate the kitchy vibe of this place, you talk about the art on the walls, I watch your hands move.. I want to memorize you.. is that odd? I hope not.. perhaps you will want to remember me too.. The city has never been so beautiful until you arrived here.. I wonder if anyone else notices..
I run to the back to wash my hands and you are waiting for me by the front door. You picked up a copy of the weekly.. the personals are funny in that paper.. wonder if you ever read them?.. They are a good laugh.. I would much rather read the expressions on your face though..
It's about a 20 minute drive to west Seattle, but I want to show you my favorite record shop. Sure, we could have went to Easy Street on Queen Anne, but I have so much more history there.. I tell you the story of Eddie Vedder at the deck of the store.. we overlook everyone else.. I hold your hand.. you don't move away.. Those butterflies are working again.. Damn them.
I make off with 4 albums and you get 2. We walk down California Avenue, otherwise known as the Junction.. we stop off at the pet store to get the new kitty some toys and a collar.. You ask me about the name.. I still haven't decided.. perhaps Clyde? You laugh.. You really are beautiful..
Alki art supply.. It's not a huge store and sort of overpriced.. we don't buy anything but it really motivates me to paint when I get back home.. I tell you about the first picture I painted in Kindergarten.. It was of a flying saucer with people in it.. attached to a stick.. there were mountains behind and people below.. everyone looked happy. My teacher asks me if I have ever been "there".. I didn't know where there was.. and then I tell you that Seattle had always been my destination since I was a little girl.. you completely understand.. Your eyes look so gentle in the light.. it's a truly calming sensation.
We make out of the store without me spending a dime.. I tell you it's a miracle though I don't know that you believe me. We cross the street to the toy store.. I used to work here as a buyer I tell you.. You ask what that entailed.. I told you that I used to play with toys all day and decide on whether or not we should buy them for the store.. You asked why I ever left such an easy job like that.. I say "I never really did".. I buy us two bubble guns.. don't really know why, but they are such innocent toys and that is how I feel when holding hands with you..
We walk back to the car and you ask about the benches outside several of the stores.. I show you the one I painted.. You ask the inspiration.. I tell you about love, and my mother.. I don't know that you understand, but I tell you that I wouldn't want to be anywhere else but right here with you on this bench.. you lean into me.. You are pure magic.
The walk back to the car is pleasant.. we talk of food and it is making you hungry.. but yet, not hungry enough for dinner, so we hold off. I ask you if you have ever felt like you were floating on water.. and you ask why.. I tell you.. It's how I feel right now.. you don't say anything.. so I tell you I will show you.
We drive to this old boat launch in the Luna Park district of West Seattle. It used to be a really popular place until the new launch was built a few years ago. We can hear the seals from the aquarium just across the sound.. the wind is mild but a little cold.. we walk to the end of this dock that is only tied down by a rope. We could very well drift off into the sound and no one would be the wiser... You don't notice your feet skimming the water until you look down. When you look ahead of you all you see is water and the city lights turning brighter as the sun sets behind us.. At this moment I wish we weren't facing east as the sunset is really beautiful from behind the Olympic mountains.. its very reminiscent of you behind your tea cup this morning.. I remember.
I'm starving.. Perhaps dinner next..
We drive over to Minnies, it's after 6pm so the parking is much better now. Not a lot of people know about Minnie's.. But it is one of my favorite places.. Dinner is amazing as it always is there.. you can see the spaceneedle just outside the windows and the costume shop just across the way. People are in there messing around with the feather Boas and cowboy hats.. You tell me about your drive in Tina, and how much you had seen. I wish I could have seen it all with you.. perhaps another time..
We skip dessert so we can go to Mr. Spots. That Tea house I was telling you about.. For some odd reason, you order chai.. as do I. Mine gets cold and you need a refill.. you call the waitress over and I begin to pen that poem I was writing for you in my memory. You pretend not to notice but I see you sneaking glances.. Don't worry I'll sneak it in your pocket later I am sure..
We discuss the day and I tell you how much I enjoyed your company, I am hoping you tell me the same. Perhaps you do, it's too soon to tell. But those butterflies are working overtime as I know our day is drawing to a close..
I want to spend the night just talking over tea and watching you.. i want to see your eyelids get heavy when you can't talk anymore.. I want to see you tell me all the wonderful things that cross your mind.... Perhaps one day soon.. Perhaps one day soon?
- - -
I am a 28 year old artist, living in Tacoma Wa.
Boston Terriers, all things nautical, tattoos and bearded things in general.
Loved and lived to tell about it.. sort of.
Sunday, December 26, 2010
12/26/10
Until The Last Drop
By Chelsea Oliver
Raindrops.
Fall from heaven,
but again
I am unable to reach you.
They say conditions are bad. Drivers
…be cautious.
And as my eyes watch each
drop fall,
my heart splits between the silence,
they force us to share.
- - -
Chelsea is a senior at Seton Hill University in Greensburg, PA, where she is double majoring in New Media Journalism and Communication. She's also very much in love with a beautiful man.
By Chelsea Oliver
Raindrops.
Fall from heaven,
but again
I am unable to reach you.
They say conditions are bad. Drivers
…be cautious.
And as my eyes watch each
drop fall,
my heart splits between the silence,
they force us to share.
- - -
Chelsea is a senior at Seton Hill University in Greensburg, PA, where she is double majoring in New Media Journalism and Communication. She's also very much in love with a beautiful man.
Saturday, December 25, 2010
12/25/10
The Key to a Woman’s Heart is Within the Man
By Jason Sturner
Soundless, he crashed along her walls.
Fell like a bruised rock, died shivering in the clover.
She stirred, asleep: an oblivious, silent orchestra.
Autumn leaves and music entered his death—
inner seasons began to change.
The stars shined like a million candles held by darkness.
His cadaver eyes were illuminated, lit by the crescent moon.
His body twitched: the soul threw the Reaper in chains.
By morning he was breathing, somehow stronger—
built less of stone, more of dream.
He opened his arms, embraced the air’s eternal form,
took the earth’s colors and drank them like forgotten wine.
He realized he’d had to die at her feet
before he could be alive in her arms.
I adore you! I adore you, my love!
She awoke with colors exploding over her;
his caring words were sailing down.
Two bluebirds built a nest nearby. She put out two cups of tea.
The morning lifted off the ground and turned her eyes on.
She sighed. She blew a kiss over the garden wall…
His chest cracked, crumbled, blew away.
A fresh, wet heart emerged and stretched its wings.
It beat new, beat with a selfless purpose:
to pump love through all his veins;
to take her hand and lead her towards forever…
So he spread his arms, soared into her beautiful waiting.
Inhaled her sweet stare and found a soft place to land.
And when he dropped glass shadows on boulders, destroying his fears,
a gold key fell from the sky and splashed in her cup of tea.
I love you! he proclaimed, wiping tears from his eyes.
I know, she said, kissing him. I’ve always known.
- - -
Jason Sturner was born in Harvey, Illinois, and raised in the western suburbs of Chicago. He has published four books of poetry: Kairos, 10 Love Poems, Selected Poems 2004-2007, and Collected Poems (all available as free downloads; see website). He currently resides in Knoxville, Tennessee, where he writes short stories of psychological horror and the supernatural. Website: www.jasonsturner.blogspot.com
By Jason Sturner
Soundless, he crashed along her walls.
Fell like a bruised rock, died shivering in the clover.
She stirred, asleep: an oblivious, silent orchestra.
Autumn leaves and music entered his death—
inner seasons began to change.
The stars shined like a million candles held by darkness.
His cadaver eyes were illuminated, lit by the crescent moon.
His body twitched: the soul threw the Reaper in chains.
By morning he was breathing, somehow stronger—
built less of stone, more of dream.
He opened his arms, embraced the air’s eternal form,
took the earth’s colors and drank them like forgotten wine.
He realized he’d had to die at her feet
before he could be alive in her arms.
I adore you! I adore you, my love!
She awoke with colors exploding over her;
his caring words were sailing down.
Two bluebirds built a nest nearby. She put out two cups of tea.
The morning lifted off the ground and turned her eyes on.
She sighed. She blew a kiss over the garden wall…
His chest cracked, crumbled, blew away.
A fresh, wet heart emerged and stretched its wings.
It beat new, beat with a selfless purpose:
to pump love through all his veins;
to take her hand and lead her towards forever…
So he spread his arms, soared into her beautiful waiting.
Inhaled her sweet stare and found a soft place to land.
And when he dropped glass shadows on boulders, destroying his fears,
a gold key fell from the sky and splashed in her cup of tea.
I love you! he proclaimed, wiping tears from his eyes.
I know, she said, kissing him. I’ve always known.
- - -
Jason Sturner was born in Harvey, Illinois, and raised in the western suburbs of Chicago. He has published four books of poetry: Kairos, 10 Love Poems, Selected Poems 2004-2007, and Collected Poems (all available as free downloads; see website). He currently resides in Knoxville, Tennessee, where he writes short stories of psychological horror and the supernatural. Website: www.jasonsturner.blogspot.com
Friday, December 24, 2010
12/24/10
"Thirty Two"
By My Future Self (Contributor Anonymous)
Dedicated to Zach Gough
She would be thirty-two today.
I sit down on a cool oak bench, looking up towards the playground. A few small children are screaming and yelling as they scale the small plastic apparatus (probably pumped out of an industrial factory in China). My mouth curls into a bitter smile as I roll my shoulders under the weight of my large down coat. I haven’t used this coat in years, but I appreciate the warmth from it as fall was approaching and the air was crisp at this time of day.
I don’t know why I came to the park today. I simply wandered over here from the recording studio after a session. I have to go back at seven o’clock to finish it off, anyway. The show I’m recording is a wacky cartoon for kids; it’s all about a small little fish that gets into trouble all the time. I feel the same way, as if trouble is attracted to me. I shuffle my feet under the bench as my toes began to feel the chill. It is definitely fall.
Looking up as I adjust my scraggy brown scarf, I see that the parents had coaxed their kids off the monkey bars and are leading them home. There is a small boy with them, and his wily screams fade away as his mother patiently pulls him along. I grin, I don’t have any children or even a wife, I’m just a thirty-something voice actor for cartoons. “The new Robin Williams!” they called me. Some even said, “Talent that compares to that of Jim Carrey’s!” I remember the pride swelling up inside me when I read my reviews, but at the same time I had experienced a crawling itch in the back of my head.
She had said those things. I zip up my jacket to my collar.
“Johnny!” calls a voice from my right. Curious, I turn and see a family of four. A blond man with a dark blue coat and jeans carries a young, similar looking boy on his shoulders. Beside them is a woman, her brown hair is short and bobbed. She’s wearing a red coat. There is a stroller, one you’d see at Sears. The woman gives the boy a daring look, and he sheepishly turns away and grasps the man’s hair. He’s probably the father. But at this day in age, who knows if he is?
As they approach, I redirect my gaze to a large maple collaged in oranges and reds. I wait anxiously as the family comes closer, hoping they’ll pass. Unfortunately, the father sprints down to the playground with the boy. Giggles of delight trail behind them. More noise. Great. The woman sits down on the opposite end of the bench. I notice her gather up a bundle of blankets from the stroller. Peering downwards, I notice a small girl peeking out at me. The baby begins to stare at me, and I cough awkwardly, my eyes darting away.
“Good evening,” the woman invites, turning to me with a soft smile, “it’s getting a lot colder, and a lot sooner than last year too!”
“I suppose, “ I agree, “but they are always going on about climate change anyway.” She chuckles and smiles, gently wrapping the blankets around the child. “Is that your daughter?” I dare.
“Yes, it is. Her name is Laura, short for Lauren. She’s about eight months old,” she sighs back to me, smiling back down at the sleeping girl.
“Congratulations.”
“Thank you.” Suddenly, a squeal of delight causes us to glance towards the playground, where the little boy taunts his father from the top of the slide.
“That’s my husband over there, and our son,” she laughs, “they cause me a heck of a lot of trouble.”
I smile and turn back to her, “Well, what would they be if they didn’t?” She nods fondly. I grin at her, but something in her face gave me an ache in the chest.
“I guess trouble is better than nothing,” she jokes as she presses the child close to her chest, wrapping her arms around it in a protective and loving manner. We continue to watch the man and the boy play a game of cat and mouse, the boy holding his hands high in the air as he dashes in circles around the fireman pole.
“What are their names?” I ask casually, leaning back against the bench and hearing it creak back at me.
“My husband’s name is Jacob, and our son is Johnathan. We usually just call him Johnny, though,” she answers, “And yours?”
“Edward. Call me Ed,” I extend my hand to her, but the little girl in her arms starts to cry, and her attention rushes to the girl. I watch her begin to hush and comfort the baby. Embarrassed, I slip my hand back into my pocket. A few minutes pass as she rocks the bundle. After another five minutes, the girl hiccups and then abruptly falls back asleep. The woman’s face relaxes and a relieved sigh escapes her lips and forms a small, faint cloud in the cold air. I blush. She is beautiful.
“Sorry about that,” she apologizes, and places the bundle into the stroller, pushing it back and forth gently. I nod at her, my eyes cast down as I try to hide my embarrassment. Then a sudden pang of pain again hits me again, “Are you alright?”
“I’m fine,” I cough, my cheeks flushing even more red, “I think I’m coming down with something.” Some more wild screams erupt from the playground and cause the woman to look away. Nervously, I adjust my coat and tighten my scarf. Why am I so tense? And Jesus, it is pretty damn cold for September. But after a few moments, curiosity gets the better of me and I look out of the corner of my eye at the woman. Her eyes squint in content, causing her eyelashes to brush against each other. She looks a lot like her.
I close my eyes and exhale a large, transparent cloud into the sharp air. Why is she plaguing my mind so frequently? At least 12 years have passed since then and I’ve gotten over it. Sure, I was upset for a bit after she rejected me, but I dusted it off. Maybe it’s this time of year. Being in the entertainment industry, fall is the downer season. Summer is always a fling with some girl: someone who drools over your work and then finds out that you are much less glamorous than your recordings. I’m funny and I’m a comedian, but to them I’m all a joke and no “serious commitment”. They always say that. “Serious commitment” and “I really loved you!” It’s never just about walking out the door. And they act as if the whole world has fallen apart for Christ’s sake. They think they know me by just listening to my recordings. Where’s the sense in that? Did they expect a replay of some chick flick they saw me in? I’m barely able to make ends meet some months; I’m no big-shot celebrity!
A cold gust of wind shatters my train of thought as it passes right through my down jacket.
The woman clutches her arms and laughs, “Now that was cold!” I look over at her, and she bursts with laughter. It echoes down the path and rings in my ears. Maybe I am thinking from a “cold” perspective.
“You’re right,” I reply shyly, smiling to myself, “maybe it was.”
“Maybe? I felt that in my bones!” Now it’s my turn to laugh. At first, she stares at me with a puzzled expression, but soon she joins in. We laugh and laugh. I know she doesn’t understand why, but she does anyway.
Looking up, the sun was reaches the edge of the skyscrapers towering over the small little blotches of trees. I look towards the studio I’m working at. It is gray, dull and stubborn on the horizon. It appears to be too old against the other new, flashy skyscrapers that are built with glass on stilts of iron. It’s a ticking clock, only a few more months until some rich real estate agent buys out the building and knocks it down to build another showy ‘scraper for all those corner office men who had way too much money to spare.
Glancing over, my eyes once again glance irresistibly toward the woman. Her eyes are such a deep brown; they compel me to lean towards her, but I resist. Her husband is lucky. Moreover, her demeanour is fascinating. She’s like a school teacher, gentle and understanding yet you know she’s in charge. She’s so much like her. Like Catherine.
I can’t help it, and for the first time in years, I let Catherine’s memory seep into me. Why can’t I move on? I have a career, I have had lots of other women and I have my fame. I’m fairly stable financially, except those months I spend a little too much at the bar, and I’m doing what I love. But still, sometimes Cathy casually brushes her fingers over my mind. I can’t help but chase her. Her memory taunts me and comforts me. It lulls me to sleep and it wakes me up; it drowns me in depression and lifts me back out. Twelve long years, and I haven’t seen her since. I clutch my coat.
“Cathy!” My head whips around. Did I just hear that? It isn’t possible, is it? How could she be here? She moved to Chicago after I asked her to be my girlfriend. She told me she’d never come back, so it just isn’t possible. I sigh; it has to be my mind playing tricks on me.
“Cathy!” calls the blond man from the playground, holding the small little toddler in his arms, rushes over to the woman. I see the tears lying across the small boy’s cheeks as he clutches his knee to his chest. I follow them with my eyes, not knowing what to think, as they approach the woman. She calmly fishes a bandage out of the stroller and administers it to the little boy’s knee.
Is this her?
It isn’t possible. Cathy left twelve years ago. I remember it so clearly. We had been the best of friends throughout high school; and I was oblivious to the fact I was helplessly in love with her the entire time. Then in the year after grad, we had a fight and she didn’t want to see me again. I got mad, and I did some bad things, and she didn’t talk to me for months. Finally, I heard she was going to move to Chicago. I packed my bags, met her at the airport and told her how much I loved her, begging her to let me move with her. I promised I would work two jobs to pay the rent for her so she could study, and I swore I’d treat her better than any other guy she could possibly imagine. She was silent. She looked up at me with eyes that split my heart in two. They explained everything. Barely hearing what she said to me, all I can remember is “moving with boyfriend”, “it was a long time ago”, “I’m sorry” and “he loves me”. Yet the whole time I just gazed into her eyes and felt my body fracture and crack, tumbling to pieces. She turned. She walked into the gates. I stood there for five hours waiting to see if she would come back, but she was gone.
Catherine.
“Johnny, what did you do to get so scratched up?”
The boy, softly sobbing, bumbles, “I was just running and then I fell!”
Tutting, the woman leans over, “What will I do with a monkey like you?” The little boy stops sobbing, and a small smile begins to grow and light up his face.
Lifting the boy to his shoulders, the husband adds, “Cathy, we should head home. The roast is probably almost done.”
“Alright, let me just fasten Laura.” Tenderly fastening her daughter, the woman softly pulls herself upright and smiles at me. I didn’t know if my heart would break or if it would soar.
“It was nice talking to you,” she notes friendly.
I gaze up at her, not knowing what to say, until it just blurts out of my mouth, “Is it your birthday today?” She blinks at me.
“No, it was yesterday.”
I take one last look at her face, and then I look at her family.
“Well then, goodbye,” she nods.
“Goodbye,” I reply, nodding back to her. They leave.
I watch them walk down the path; halfway, her husband wraps his arm around her waist. I follow them with my gaze until they disappear between the magnificent yellows, oranges, reds and browns of the trees. And after a moment, I lean over the ground and close my eyes gently. I sink into the sound of the rustling leaves.
“Goodbye.”
- - -
By My Future Self (Contributor Anonymous)
Dedicated to Zach Gough
She would be thirty-two today.
I sit down on a cool oak bench, looking up towards the playground. A few small children are screaming and yelling as they scale the small plastic apparatus (probably pumped out of an industrial factory in China). My mouth curls into a bitter smile as I roll my shoulders under the weight of my large down coat. I haven’t used this coat in years, but I appreciate the warmth from it as fall was approaching and the air was crisp at this time of day.
I don’t know why I came to the park today. I simply wandered over here from the recording studio after a session. I have to go back at seven o’clock to finish it off, anyway. The show I’m recording is a wacky cartoon for kids; it’s all about a small little fish that gets into trouble all the time. I feel the same way, as if trouble is attracted to me. I shuffle my feet under the bench as my toes began to feel the chill. It is definitely fall.
Looking up as I adjust my scraggy brown scarf, I see that the parents had coaxed their kids off the monkey bars and are leading them home. There is a small boy with them, and his wily screams fade away as his mother patiently pulls him along. I grin, I don’t have any children or even a wife, I’m just a thirty-something voice actor for cartoons. “The new Robin Williams!” they called me. Some even said, “Talent that compares to that of Jim Carrey’s!” I remember the pride swelling up inside me when I read my reviews, but at the same time I had experienced a crawling itch in the back of my head.
She had said those things. I zip up my jacket to my collar.
“Johnny!” calls a voice from my right. Curious, I turn and see a family of four. A blond man with a dark blue coat and jeans carries a young, similar looking boy on his shoulders. Beside them is a woman, her brown hair is short and bobbed. She’s wearing a red coat. There is a stroller, one you’d see at Sears. The woman gives the boy a daring look, and he sheepishly turns away and grasps the man’s hair. He’s probably the father. But at this day in age, who knows if he is?
As they approach, I redirect my gaze to a large maple collaged in oranges and reds. I wait anxiously as the family comes closer, hoping they’ll pass. Unfortunately, the father sprints down to the playground with the boy. Giggles of delight trail behind them. More noise. Great. The woman sits down on the opposite end of the bench. I notice her gather up a bundle of blankets from the stroller. Peering downwards, I notice a small girl peeking out at me. The baby begins to stare at me, and I cough awkwardly, my eyes darting away.
“Good evening,” the woman invites, turning to me with a soft smile, “it’s getting a lot colder, and a lot sooner than last year too!”
“I suppose, “ I agree, “but they are always going on about climate change anyway.” She chuckles and smiles, gently wrapping the blankets around the child. “Is that your daughter?” I dare.
“Yes, it is. Her name is Laura, short for Lauren. She’s about eight months old,” she sighs back to me, smiling back down at the sleeping girl.
“Congratulations.”
“Thank you.” Suddenly, a squeal of delight causes us to glance towards the playground, where the little boy taunts his father from the top of the slide.
“That’s my husband over there, and our son,” she laughs, “they cause me a heck of a lot of trouble.”
I smile and turn back to her, “Well, what would they be if they didn’t?” She nods fondly. I grin at her, but something in her face gave me an ache in the chest.
“I guess trouble is better than nothing,” she jokes as she presses the child close to her chest, wrapping her arms around it in a protective and loving manner. We continue to watch the man and the boy play a game of cat and mouse, the boy holding his hands high in the air as he dashes in circles around the fireman pole.
“What are their names?” I ask casually, leaning back against the bench and hearing it creak back at me.
“My husband’s name is Jacob, and our son is Johnathan. We usually just call him Johnny, though,” she answers, “And yours?”
“Edward. Call me Ed,” I extend my hand to her, but the little girl in her arms starts to cry, and her attention rushes to the girl. I watch her begin to hush and comfort the baby. Embarrassed, I slip my hand back into my pocket. A few minutes pass as she rocks the bundle. After another five minutes, the girl hiccups and then abruptly falls back asleep. The woman’s face relaxes and a relieved sigh escapes her lips and forms a small, faint cloud in the cold air. I blush. She is beautiful.
“Sorry about that,” she apologizes, and places the bundle into the stroller, pushing it back and forth gently. I nod at her, my eyes cast down as I try to hide my embarrassment. Then a sudden pang of pain again hits me again, “Are you alright?”
“I’m fine,” I cough, my cheeks flushing even more red, “I think I’m coming down with something.” Some more wild screams erupt from the playground and cause the woman to look away. Nervously, I adjust my coat and tighten my scarf. Why am I so tense? And Jesus, it is pretty damn cold for September. But after a few moments, curiosity gets the better of me and I look out of the corner of my eye at the woman. Her eyes squint in content, causing her eyelashes to brush against each other. She looks a lot like her.
I close my eyes and exhale a large, transparent cloud into the sharp air. Why is she plaguing my mind so frequently? At least 12 years have passed since then and I’ve gotten over it. Sure, I was upset for a bit after she rejected me, but I dusted it off. Maybe it’s this time of year. Being in the entertainment industry, fall is the downer season. Summer is always a fling with some girl: someone who drools over your work and then finds out that you are much less glamorous than your recordings. I’m funny and I’m a comedian, but to them I’m all a joke and no “serious commitment”. They always say that. “Serious commitment” and “I really loved you!” It’s never just about walking out the door. And they act as if the whole world has fallen apart for Christ’s sake. They think they know me by just listening to my recordings. Where’s the sense in that? Did they expect a replay of some chick flick they saw me in? I’m barely able to make ends meet some months; I’m no big-shot celebrity!
A cold gust of wind shatters my train of thought as it passes right through my down jacket.
The woman clutches her arms and laughs, “Now that was cold!” I look over at her, and she bursts with laughter. It echoes down the path and rings in my ears. Maybe I am thinking from a “cold” perspective.
“You’re right,” I reply shyly, smiling to myself, “maybe it was.”
“Maybe? I felt that in my bones!” Now it’s my turn to laugh. At first, she stares at me with a puzzled expression, but soon she joins in. We laugh and laugh. I know she doesn’t understand why, but she does anyway.
Looking up, the sun was reaches the edge of the skyscrapers towering over the small little blotches of trees. I look towards the studio I’m working at. It is gray, dull and stubborn on the horizon. It appears to be too old against the other new, flashy skyscrapers that are built with glass on stilts of iron. It’s a ticking clock, only a few more months until some rich real estate agent buys out the building and knocks it down to build another showy ‘scraper for all those corner office men who had way too much money to spare.
Glancing over, my eyes once again glance irresistibly toward the woman. Her eyes are such a deep brown; they compel me to lean towards her, but I resist. Her husband is lucky. Moreover, her demeanour is fascinating. She’s like a school teacher, gentle and understanding yet you know she’s in charge. She’s so much like her. Like Catherine.
I can’t help it, and for the first time in years, I let Catherine’s memory seep into me. Why can’t I move on? I have a career, I have had lots of other women and I have my fame. I’m fairly stable financially, except those months I spend a little too much at the bar, and I’m doing what I love. But still, sometimes Cathy casually brushes her fingers over my mind. I can’t help but chase her. Her memory taunts me and comforts me. It lulls me to sleep and it wakes me up; it drowns me in depression and lifts me back out. Twelve long years, and I haven’t seen her since. I clutch my coat.
“Cathy!” My head whips around. Did I just hear that? It isn’t possible, is it? How could she be here? She moved to Chicago after I asked her to be my girlfriend. She told me she’d never come back, so it just isn’t possible. I sigh; it has to be my mind playing tricks on me.
“Cathy!” calls the blond man from the playground, holding the small little toddler in his arms, rushes over to the woman. I see the tears lying across the small boy’s cheeks as he clutches his knee to his chest. I follow them with my eyes, not knowing what to think, as they approach the woman. She calmly fishes a bandage out of the stroller and administers it to the little boy’s knee.
Is this her?
It isn’t possible. Cathy left twelve years ago. I remember it so clearly. We had been the best of friends throughout high school; and I was oblivious to the fact I was helplessly in love with her the entire time. Then in the year after grad, we had a fight and she didn’t want to see me again. I got mad, and I did some bad things, and she didn’t talk to me for months. Finally, I heard she was going to move to Chicago. I packed my bags, met her at the airport and told her how much I loved her, begging her to let me move with her. I promised I would work two jobs to pay the rent for her so she could study, and I swore I’d treat her better than any other guy she could possibly imagine. She was silent. She looked up at me with eyes that split my heart in two. They explained everything. Barely hearing what she said to me, all I can remember is “moving with boyfriend”, “it was a long time ago”, “I’m sorry” and “he loves me”. Yet the whole time I just gazed into her eyes and felt my body fracture and crack, tumbling to pieces. She turned. She walked into the gates. I stood there for five hours waiting to see if she would come back, but she was gone.
Catherine.
“Johnny, what did you do to get so scratched up?”
The boy, softly sobbing, bumbles, “I was just running and then I fell!”
Tutting, the woman leans over, “What will I do with a monkey like you?” The little boy stops sobbing, and a small smile begins to grow and light up his face.
Lifting the boy to his shoulders, the husband adds, “Cathy, we should head home. The roast is probably almost done.”
“Alright, let me just fasten Laura.” Tenderly fastening her daughter, the woman softly pulls herself upright and smiles at me. I didn’t know if my heart would break or if it would soar.
“It was nice talking to you,” she notes friendly.
I gaze up at her, not knowing what to say, until it just blurts out of my mouth, “Is it your birthday today?” She blinks at me.
“No, it was yesterday.”
I take one last look at her face, and then I look at her family.
“Well then, goodbye,” she nods.
“Goodbye,” I reply, nodding back to her. They leave.
I watch them walk down the path; halfway, her husband wraps his arm around her waist. I follow them with my gaze until they disappear between the magnificent yellows, oranges, reds and browns of the trees. And after a moment, I lean over the ground and close my eyes gently. I sink into the sound of the rustling leaves.
“Goodbye.”
- - -
Thursday, December 23, 2010
12/23/10
White Rose
By Neeti Vashi
You said you wouldn't,
I watched you leave.
But I found you again,
In my dresser drawer,
Words on paper that used to mean so much.
I'm woken up by you, in the middle of the night,
By the scent of you, still on
The pillow with which you once slept.
And in the morning, as I put on my perfume
I hear the satisfaction in your tone
As you breathe me in every time.
Yes, then you're around my neck,
Dangling around my wrist,
and hanging from my ears.
You appear in the lyrics of every song,
In the words of complete strangers.
That white rose you gave me years ago
Still on my shelf, still screams your name
Every time I walk by.
It seems that I just can't escape you.
- - -
I'm an 18 year old university student studying science. I love writing - have been doing it for as long as I can remember - and use it as an outlet for the emotions that don't carry out as well through speech. Hope you enjoy this piece! :)
By Neeti Vashi
You said you wouldn't,
I watched you leave.
But I found you again,
In my dresser drawer,
Words on paper that used to mean so much.
I'm woken up by you, in the middle of the night,
By the scent of you, still on
The pillow with which you once slept.
And in the morning, as I put on my perfume
I hear the satisfaction in your tone
As you breathe me in every time.
Yes, then you're around my neck,
Dangling around my wrist,
and hanging from my ears.
You appear in the lyrics of every song,
In the words of complete strangers.
That white rose you gave me years ago
Still on my shelf, still screams your name
Every time I walk by.
It seems that I just can't escape you.
- - -
I'm an 18 year old university student studying science. I love writing - have been doing it for as long as I can remember - and use it as an outlet for the emotions that don't carry out as well through speech. Hope you enjoy this piece! :)
Wednesday, December 22, 2010
12/22/10
Loving and Living
By Rubie Irene
All passengers on the southbound train must exit.
There are no turnarounds, this is the last stop.
Dance around in circles and chase my words in the air blown from cheap bubble wands.
My sonnets will fall dead by the touch of your fingertips on the skin of their frail existence.
I held your hand as we walked through vicious cycles of loving and fighting.
Making up was always the best part. Feeling your hands on my face as you told me you loved me, feeling my tears fall on your colored fingers.
I’m back at ground zero digging through the rubble of our demise.
I’m looking at old photos that have been singed by grief and some lame attempt at overcoming this misery we put ourselves through. Your smile still shines through the soot. Your eyes still pierce through my heart like a needle in the haystack we made love in.
Turn me on, wind me up.
I’m better with you than I ever was rummaging through your memories.
I won’t climb hurdles over your laugh, I won’t dig tunnels under your breath.
I will live this life in front of you, telling you how much this world is grey without the blue in your eyes to light up the sky.
Kiss me twice baby so I know I am not dreaming.
Kiss me twice baby so I know I am not dreaming.
- - -
I am a 28 year old artist living in Tacoma, WA.
I have loved, lost and lived to tell about it..
By Rubie Irene
All passengers on the southbound train must exit.
There are no turnarounds, this is the last stop.
Dance around in circles and chase my words in the air blown from cheap bubble wands.
My sonnets will fall dead by the touch of your fingertips on the skin of their frail existence.
I held your hand as we walked through vicious cycles of loving and fighting.
Making up was always the best part. Feeling your hands on my face as you told me you loved me, feeling my tears fall on your colored fingers.
I’m back at ground zero digging through the rubble of our demise.
I’m looking at old photos that have been singed by grief and some lame attempt at overcoming this misery we put ourselves through. Your smile still shines through the soot. Your eyes still pierce through my heart like a needle in the haystack we made love in.
Turn me on, wind me up.
I’m better with you than I ever was rummaging through your memories.
I won’t climb hurdles over your laugh, I won’t dig tunnels under your breath.
I will live this life in front of you, telling you how much this world is grey without the blue in your eyes to light up the sky.
Kiss me twice baby so I know I am not dreaming.
Kiss me twice baby so I know I am not dreaming.
- - -
I am a 28 year old artist living in Tacoma, WA.
I have loved, lost and lived to tell about it..
Tuesday, December 21, 2010
12/21/10
What Makes a Man
By Troy Manning
My Harry was kind but he lacked a certain withitness. We tried remedies of various sorts but nothing really seemed to help. My aunt was something of an expert with men so we went to see her. She said I could leave Harry with her and have the day to myself. I did several things I don’t usually do and then picked him up at 8 p.m. sharp. Harry was all dressed and ready to go. My uncle had passed a few years back and left behind quite the wardrobe. I’m not really naïve enough to buy into the whole clothes-make-the-man philosophy, as materialist explanations have always struck me as a bit Marxist, but I did esteem Aunt Veronique’s flair for fashion.
Before retiring for the night, I laid out the clothes I knew my Harry would want to wear the following day then entered the bathroom to brush my teeth. There on the counter was Harry’s toothpaste tube with the cap on it. I clutched it so hard the cap shot off and red gel oozed onto my fingers. I walked into the bedroom and shook the tube before Harry’s alarmed face. “You didn’t put the cap on your toothpaste, and I didn’t put the cap on it, so who put the cap on your toothpaste?!”
“There is no cap on it,” he snidely replied.
I wasn’t going to let him sidestep the point so I let fly the word “affair.” With a certain effrontery, my Harry said he was not just having one but many of them. After taking Harry back to my aunt’s for a few days so I could think things through, I was astounded at how the evidence began to mount. Even the word “many” was sounding like another of Harry’s euphemisms. I found a few two-for-one breakfast sandwich receipts, a number of buy-one-get-one-free doughnut receipts, not two but three practically identical pocketknives, and even two copies of the same issue of Field & Stream. I could see by the date on the magazines this double-life had been going on for quite some time. I headed for my aunt’s with some of the items to show my Harry his gig was up.
My aunt greeted me more warmly than usual and she had Harry all dressed up as though anticipating my arrival. It was eerily conspiratorial. She even had the gall to put my very favorite of Uncle Renfro’s ties on my Harry as though to make sport of me. I would have gone right up to Harry, taken the two ends of it in my hand and pulled with all my might if I wasn’t afraid he might have another of his lover’s knives on him. Instead, I reached into my purse and pulled out the magazines. One of them dropped to the floor and fell open to its centerfold. What gawked up at me was no jackrabbit but a June bunny. Astonished, I flipped through the other magazine and saw that it too contained something quite other than what was promised on the cover. I suddenly felt a sharp pain in my back and instantly realized my aunt must have thrust a pocketknife between my shoulder blades. I stared into my Harry’s fretful eyes and smiled, even if it did hurt to be right.
After recovering, I visited Harry several times at the prison. His sentence was light compared to that of my aunt’s, for whom I have since lost tremendous respect. I tried to get my Harry to reconsider proceeding with divorce but his stewing in the tank noticeably hardened him. He admitted to having several more affairs since his brief stay in prison, but I knew him well enough to know it was only from wounded pride that he was still trying to backstab me. I managed to prevent our discussion from wandering off on rabbit trails and exercised great patience with him, as I could only imagine how discouraging for him doing time must be. And although he didn’t acquiesce with the attitude I might have liked, he finally assured me he wouldn’t file the papers. I knew, after all, deep down that wasn’t really what my Harry wanted.
- - -
Troy Manning is a graduate of Westminster Seminary California. He has recently been taking literature classes at Cal State University, San Marcos where his stories have been published in the creative writing program's Cat Ate My Chapbook, Fierce Notes, and the Spring 2010 issue of Oh, Cat!
By Troy Manning
My Harry was kind but he lacked a certain withitness. We tried remedies of various sorts but nothing really seemed to help. My aunt was something of an expert with men so we went to see her. She said I could leave Harry with her and have the day to myself. I did several things I don’t usually do and then picked him up at 8 p.m. sharp. Harry was all dressed and ready to go. My uncle had passed a few years back and left behind quite the wardrobe. I’m not really naïve enough to buy into the whole clothes-make-the-man philosophy, as materialist explanations have always struck me as a bit Marxist, but I did esteem Aunt Veronique’s flair for fashion.
Before retiring for the night, I laid out the clothes I knew my Harry would want to wear the following day then entered the bathroom to brush my teeth. There on the counter was Harry’s toothpaste tube with the cap on it. I clutched it so hard the cap shot off and red gel oozed onto my fingers. I walked into the bedroom and shook the tube before Harry’s alarmed face. “You didn’t put the cap on your toothpaste, and I didn’t put the cap on it, so who put the cap on your toothpaste?!”
“There is no cap on it,” he snidely replied.
I wasn’t going to let him sidestep the point so I let fly the word “affair.” With a certain effrontery, my Harry said he was not just having one but many of them. After taking Harry back to my aunt’s for a few days so I could think things through, I was astounded at how the evidence began to mount. Even the word “many” was sounding like another of Harry’s euphemisms. I found a few two-for-one breakfast sandwich receipts, a number of buy-one-get-one-free doughnut receipts, not two but three practically identical pocketknives, and even two copies of the same issue of Field & Stream. I could see by the date on the magazines this double-life had been going on for quite some time. I headed for my aunt’s with some of the items to show my Harry his gig was up.
My aunt greeted me more warmly than usual and she had Harry all dressed up as though anticipating my arrival. It was eerily conspiratorial. She even had the gall to put my very favorite of Uncle Renfro’s ties on my Harry as though to make sport of me. I would have gone right up to Harry, taken the two ends of it in my hand and pulled with all my might if I wasn’t afraid he might have another of his lover’s knives on him. Instead, I reached into my purse and pulled out the magazines. One of them dropped to the floor and fell open to its centerfold. What gawked up at me was no jackrabbit but a June bunny. Astonished, I flipped through the other magazine and saw that it too contained something quite other than what was promised on the cover. I suddenly felt a sharp pain in my back and instantly realized my aunt must have thrust a pocketknife between my shoulder blades. I stared into my Harry’s fretful eyes and smiled, even if it did hurt to be right.
After recovering, I visited Harry several times at the prison. His sentence was light compared to that of my aunt’s, for whom I have since lost tremendous respect. I tried to get my Harry to reconsider proceeding with divorce but his stewing in the tank noticeably hardened him. He admitted to having several more affairs since his brief stay in prison, but I knew him well enough to know it was only from wounded pride that he was still trying to backstab me. I managed to prevent our discussion from wandering off on rabbit trails and exercised great patience with him, as I could only imagine how discouraging for him doing time must be. And although he didn’t acquiesce with the attitude I might have liked, he finally assured me he wouldn’t file the papers. I knew, after all, deep down that wasn’t really what my Harry wanted.
- - -
Troy Manning is a graduate of Westminster Seminary California. He has recently been taking literature classes at Cal State University, San Marcos where his stories have been published in the creative writing program's Cat Ate My Chapbook, Fierce Notes, and the Spring 2010 issue of Oh, Cat!
Monday, December 20, 2010
12/20/10
Stop
By Chelsea Oliver
She said we would keep moving. She said we’d be going and going, not settling, not slowing down and not, defiantly not, stopping.
But here we are. We’re stopped. We’re in our countryside home. We’re married; we have two children and another on the way. We both have jobs, stable jobs; the kind of jobs that keep you tied down to one place. The jobs that make you stop.
She was a young free spirit when we met. And when we fell in love though she worried at times - she never ceased to amaze me with her element of surprise and her grace. But above all, with her love. From that second, on a chilly November night in Pennsylvania with the shutters drawn tight, I asked her to be with me and from that moment on loving her was one thing I could never stop.
But now here we are. With the house and the kids and that big dog she begged me to get and we’re stopped. Clearly, quite obviously, stopped. We’re not as carefree. We’re married, we’re parents, we have jobs, we have responsibilities and we’re stopped. Sure we take vacations, we get away, we still give each other little surprises now and then. We’re still intoxicated by each others presence in a room and we’re still utterly in love, but we’re stopped.
She and I still have a lot to look forward to, our babies will grow, our lives will change but we’ll be here, we’ll be stopped. Our children are growing up, they’ll get married and move out and have their own children. We’ll out live our dog, we’ll out live our neighbors and we’ll probably even out live our dreams of before we were stopped.
She will eventually be able to poetically tell me about how great her love for me is and when that day comes I will still sit, stopped, in awe of how she could string words together so beautifully and I will only be able to say again, I will always love you, wondering how to ever say anything so profound and falling in love with her even more. The seasons will change; the house will wear with years. And here is where we’ll sit. Stopped. On the porch swing. Hand in hand. Laughing and talking like we always have. Our kids will be grown. Our dreams will be gone. We will be here. We’ll love here. While our hearts beat in rhythm with each other and our fingers intertwine, our love will never stop.
- - -
Chelsea is a senior at Seton Hill University in Greensburg, PA, where she is double majoring in New Media Journalism and Communication. She's also very much in love with a beautiful man.
By Chelsea Oliver
She said we would keep moving. She said we’d be going and going, not settling, not slowing down and not, defiantly not, stopping.
But here we are. We’re stopped. We’re in our countryside home. We’re married; we have two children and another on the way. We both have jobs, stable jobs; the kind of jobs that keep you tied down to one place. The jobs that make you stop.
She was a young free spirit when we met. And when we fell in love though she worried at times - she never ceased to amaze me with her element of surprise and her grace. But above all, with her love. From that second, on a chilly November night in Pennsylvania with the shutters drawn tight, I asked her to be with me and from that moment on loving her was one thing I could never stop.
But now here we are. With the house and the kids and that big dog she begged me to get and we’re stopped. Clearly, quite obviously, stopped. We’re not as carefree. We’re married, we’re parents, we have jobs, we have responsibilities and we’re stopped. Sure we take vacations, we get away, we still give each other little surprises now and then. We’re still intoxicated by each others presence in a room and we’re still utterly in love, but we’re stopped.
She and I still have a lot to look forward to, our babies will grow, our lives will change but we’ll be here, we’ll be stopped. Our children are growing up, they’ll get married and move out and have their own children. We’ll out live our dog, we’ll out live our neighbors and we’ll probably even out live our dreams of before we were stopped.
She will eventually be able to poetically tell me about how great her love for me is and when that day comes I will still sit, stopped, in awe of how she could string words together so beautifully and I will only be able to say again, I will always love you, wondering how to ever say anything so profound and falling in love with her even more. The seasons will change; the house will wear with years. And here is where we’ll sit. Stopped. On the porch swing. Hand in hand. Laughing and talking like we always have. Our kids will be grown. Our dreams will be gone. We will be here. We’ll love here. While our hearts beat in rhythm with each other and our fingers intertwine, our love will never stop.
- - -
Chelsea is a senior at Seton Hill University in Greensburg, PA, where she is double majoring in New Media Journalism and Communication. She's also very much in love with a beautiful man.
Sunday, December 19, 2010
12/19/10
Whiteboard Hell
By E.S. Wynn
I met her in a whiteboard hell where everything sagged like an overripe breast.
Our love was like a triangle. We were the complimentary angles, but there was always something in between, ninety degrees of something. Like an equation, she took my love, broke it down, carried the remainder and recombined it into some new form of expanded like terms until that hell collapsed under layers of bureaucracy and we were redistributed into new jobs.
Reduced again to our absolute values, we saw finally who each of us really was.
I was a six, she was a ten. What could I expect? When it came down to differences, we both knew our sum could only be negative.
- - -
E.S. Wynn works as a math tutor at a charter school. Sometimes this is at odds with his English degree and passion for writing.
By E.S. Wynn
I met her in a whiteboard hell where everything sagged like an overripe breast.
Our love was like a triangle. We were the complimentary angles, but there was always something in between, ninety degrees of something. Like an equation, she took my love, broke it down, carried the remainder and recombined it into some new form of expanded like terms until that hell collapsed under layers of bureaucracy and we were redistributed into new jobs.
Reduced again to our absolute values, we saw finally who each of us really was.
I was a six, she was a ten. What could I expect? When it came down to differences, we both knew our sum could only be negative.
- - -
E.S. Wynn works as a math tutor at a charter school. Sometimes this is at odds with his English degree and passion for writing.
Saturday, December 18, 2010
12/18/10
Sentimental Blue
By Jason Sturner
It’s a forget-me-not flower.
It’s a surprise letter by mail.
It’s the love song’s artistic hue.
It’s the color of my words to you.
It’s the waves crashing in.
It’s the ocean beyond the shore.
It’s a warm sky filtering through.
It’s my eyes when I look at you.
It’s a crayon in a child’s hand.
It’s a hug from their small arms.
It’s a glass heart speaking true.
It’s my tears because I miss you.
Sentimental Blue
- - -
Jason Sturner was born in Harvey, Illinois, and raised in the western suburbs of Chicago. He has published four books of poetry: Kairos, 10 Love Poems, Selected Poems 2004-2007, and Collected Poems (all available as free downloads; see website). He currently resides in Knoxville, Tennessee, where he writes short stories of psychological horror and the supernatural. Website: www.jasonsturner.blogspot.com
By Jason Sturner
It’s a forget-me-not flower.
It’s a surprise letter by mail.
It’s the love song’s artistic hue.
It’s the color of my words to you.
It’s the waves crashing in.
It’s the ocean beyond the shore.
It’s a warm sky filtering through.
It’s my eyes when I look at you.
It’s a crayon in a child’s hand.
It’s a hug from their small arms.
It’s a glass heart speaking true.
It’s my tears because I miss you.
Sentimental Blue
- - -
Jason Sturner was born in Harvey, Illinois, and raised in the western suburbs of Chicago. He has published four books of poetry: Kairos, 10 Love Poems, Selected Poems 2004-2007, and Collected Poems (all available as free downloads; see website). He currently resides in Knoxville, Tennessee, where he writes short stories of psychological horror and the supernatural. Website: www.jasonsturner.blogspot.com
Friday, December 17, 2010
12/17/10
Discarded
By Chelsea Dangrubb
Discarded
A faded rose
In a nest of garbage
Drained
Abandoned
I drift
Dying
But never really dying
Only lingering
Too far gone
For love.
- - -
Chelsea Dangrubb works at Walmart and believes in the healing power of Jesus Christ.
By Chelsea Dangrubb
Discarded
A faded rose
In a nest of garbage
Drained
Abandoned
I drift
Dying
But never really dying
Only lingering
Too far gone
For love.
- - -
Chelsea Dangrubb works at Walmart and believes in the healing power of Jesus Christ.
Thursday, December 16, 2010
12/16/10
A Prize to be Won
By Jared Knox
When he looked at her, it was with the eyes of a salesman appraising a car, a breeder appraising a fine philly. She was his show dog, his golden trophy, his arm candy.
She didn’t care. He kept her in diamonds. He kept the liquor cabinet full. A half-finished painting of a fading kiss lingered in their parlor, dry and peeling, yellowed by countless abandoned winters.
- - -
Jared Knox lives in Michigan.
By Jared Knox
When he looked at her, it was with the eyes of a salesman appraising a car, a breeder appraising a fine philly. She was his show dog, his golden trophy, his arm candy.
She didn’t care. He kept her in diamonds. He kept the liquor cabinet full. A half-finished painting of a fading kiss lingered in their parlor, dry and peeling, yellowed by countless abandoned winters.
- - -
Jared Knox lives in Michigan.
Wednesday, December 15, 2010
12/15/10
Beneath the Waves
By Jason Sturner
He floats on green sea, sky softens eyes twilight blue.
Fish set course for curious, jump like finned rainbows.
The heart ventured at daybreak, went searching with sail;
anchored soul waits for resurrection, swirls with dreams.
Apart since sunrise, he’s been at opposite ends of her hour.
Life sleeps on shore, sunset bends towards fiction.
Love has splashed her, soaked the heart with promises;
angelic soul lifts, maiden albatross flies.
He waits, she will come—
and they will swim down together.
- - -
Jason Sturner was born in Harvey, Illinois, and raised in the western suburbs of Chicago. He has published four books of poetry: Kairos, 10 Love Poems, Selected Poems 2004-2007, and Collected Poems (all available as free downloads; see website). He currently resides in Knoxville, Tennessee, where he writes short stories of psychological horror and the supernatural. Website: www.jasonsturner.blogspot.com
By Jason Sturner
He floats on green sea, sky softens eyes twilight blue.
Fish set course for curious, jump like finned rainbows.
The heart ventured at daybreak, went searching with sail;
anchored soul waits for resurrection, swirls with dreams.
Apart since sunrise, he’s been at opposite ends of her hour.
Life sleeps on shore, sunset bends towards fiction.
Love has splashed her, soaked the heart with promises;
angelic soul lifts, maiden albatross flies.
He waits, she will come—
and they will swim down together.
- - -
Jason Sturner was born in Harvey, Illinois, and raised in the western suburbs of Chicago. He has published four books of poetry: Kairos, 10 Love Poems, Selected Poems 2004-2007, and Collected Poems (all available as free downloads; see website). He currently resides in Knoxville, Tennessee, where he writes short stories of psychological horror and the supernatural. Website: www.jasonsturner.blogspot.com
Tuesday, December 14, 2010
12/14/10
Soft Shadow
By Ron Koppelberger
- - -
I am aspiring to become established as a poet and a short story writer. I have written 98 books of poetry over the past several years and 17 novels: I have been submitting my work for the past year and a half. I am thrilled by acceptance.
By Ron Koppelberger
Harmonies of sweet asylum and engaging
Eyes borne of perplexity, by love, sweet days of love
And breaths of mazy mist gaining the flurry
Of scarlet spears in indigo skies, of soft shadow and
Horizons attended by the pain of distant
Dreams and babes in castes of quiet concern.
Eyes borne of perplexity, by love, sweet days of love
And breaths of mazy mist gaining the flurry
Of scarlet spears in indigo skies, of soft shadow and
Horizons attended by the pain of distant
Dreams and babes in castes of quiet concern.
- - -
I am aspiring to become established as a poet and a short story writer. I have written 98 books of poetry over the past several years and 17 novels: I have been submitting my work for the past year and a half. I am thrilled by acceptance.
Monday, December 13, 2010
12/13/10
Longer Than Forever
By Amanda K Mendez
Forever is too short
It isn’t my sort
Of way to say I love you
The stress drives me lonely
I yearn for my only
Darling the time seems so far apart
I want to be selfish
And have you just like this
But I love you too much to trap your heart
Who said anything ‘bout forever?
I’ll love you longer-whenever
Never ever say never
I’ll love you no matter- whatever
Don’t worry about how
I’m doing now
As long as I have you I’m fine
You’ll never know how much
Of all of my love
I have for you- for all time
Who said anything ‘bout forever?
I’ll love you longer-whenever
Never ever say never
I’ll love you no matter- whatever
Please always smile
With or without me
I want you happy
Want this life to be worth while
Whatever you decide
I’ll hold onto it tight
And let you go at the same time
- - -
By Amanda K Mendez
Forever is too short
It isn’t my sort
Of way to say I love you
The stress drives me lonely
I yearn for my only
Darling the time seems so far apart
I want to be selfish
And have you just like this
But I love you too much to trap your heart
Who said anything ‘bout forever?
I’ll love you longer-whenever
Never ever say never
I’ll love you no matter- whatever
Don’t worry about how
I’m doing now
As long as I have you I’m fine
You’ll never know how much
Of all of my love
I have for you- for all time
Who said anything ‘bout forever?
I’ll love you longer-whenever
Never ever say never
I’ll love you no matter- whatever
Please always smile
With or without me
I want you happy
Want this life to be worth while
Whatever you decide
I’ll hold onto it tight
And let you go at the same time
- - -
Sunday, December 12, 2010
12/12/10
Something New
By Mikayla Oglesby
"You're just too easy to love," she said,
so casually, "I could never just settle on you,
you just lack some kind of mystery..."
as her arms found their way around
my waist, her breath to my ear
"I guess you're just too ordinary..."
"Then why are you here?
and you do not love me- not yet,
so I wouldn't speak with such
confidence."
She fell back, then. A thoughtful
look on a puzzled girl lost in a world
filled with "philosophers" of the new age.
I just hummed along to the beat
and took her words in stride;
wouldn't let go of her fingers,
it just ain't my jam.
We walked for a few blocks,
shop to shop in some historic downtown.
Following our whims in silence
until she broke away.
She ran a few steps ahead, I just looked
along and waited for her eyes to find me again
and I asked, "If I'm so ordinary, so lacking to you,
then why don't you just keep running?"
Maybe it was something
in my eyes,
or something I said,
maybe it was something in her mood,
but she came back again.
- - -
I'm just a girl who's trying to figure out life. I recently reached adulthood, though I'm not quite sure what that means, yet.
By Mikayla Oglesby
"You're just too easy to love," she said,
so casually, "I could never just settle on you,
you just lack some kind of mystery..."
as her arms found their way around
my waist, her breath to my ear
"I guess you're just too ordinary..."
"Then why are you here?
and you do not love me- not yet,
so I wouldn't speak with such
confidence."
She fell back, then. A thoughtful
look on a puzzled girl lost in a world
filled with "philosophers" of the new age.
I just hummed along to the beat
and took her words in stride;
wouldn't let go of her fingers,
it just ain't my jam.
We walked for a few blocks,
shop to shop in some historic downtown.
Following our whims in silence
until she broke away.
She ran a few steps ahead, I just looked
along and waited for her eyes to find me again
and I asked, "If I'm so ordinary, so lacking to you,
then why don't you just keep running?"
Maybe it was something
in my eyes,
or something I said,
maybe it was something in her mood,
but she came back again.
- - -
I'm just a girl who's trying to figure out life. I recently reached adulthood, though I'm not quite sure what that means, yet.
Saturday, December 11, 2010
12/11/10
Human
By Kortnee Tilson
The hours have approached with the anticipation of speech, and they passed with nothing, a silence that she loathes. He has not spoken in three days, perhaps he never will again. She thinks, I could get used to this, because, after all, humans are an adapting species. He had once told her that if the world flooded, humans would grow gills and fins and everyone would be a mermaid. She remembers this story as she pours him a glass of water and sets it in front of him, she doubts he will drink it when she is there.
She spends the day watching his mouth for any twitch of a movement, whether that be an opening to speak or a smile. He hasn’t smiled, either, which she doesn’t hold against him because she too has not smiled in three days. When watching him gets to be too much, she goes to the mirror and watches herself instead. Her reflection is alien, it’s an old woman whose face is ripped with wrinkles and tiredness. Not since she turned forty, a decade or so ago, has she been content with this woman in the mirror. She longs for youth like all the women do, she buys face creams and anti-age formulas but gives up on them for being tedious and feeble. Because humans have aged and will always age, she figures that she will eventually learn to be friends with the old woman in the glass, but for now she stays a stranger.
When she returns to him, the glass is empty of the water, not even a drop. She finds comfort in that he is still a thorough person and hopes he will always be, even if he’s silent.
In the kitchen, there are vases of white flowers that she doesn’t know what to do with. She won’t keep them in the house much longer, they are stinking the room up with pollen and sorrow. She waits to see if they will wilt in the next hour. If a petal falls, she will take them outside and leave them to rot in a ditch. But they don’t, and she leaves the kitchen to face the rest of her house. She has never been so restless.
At night, they lie in their marital bed and she decides she wants to be able to make love again. He is still and just barely breathes, though she isn’t afraid that he’s stopped. He has had strong lungs all his life. She turns to her side and drapes her arm across his chest. It’s the first time she’s touched him in three days, she hopes he feels it. In the dark, it is apparent that neither of them are asleep. She can see that his eyes are open and they’re looking at her. He keeps them closed when she kisses him, he keeps them closed when she lifts off his clothes. Because they are humans and humans have mates, they love each other in a way they haven’t before. She thinks it’s one of the saddest things she’ll ever experience.
Morning comes and so does a light snowfall, it’s early November and the sun is hidden behind a wall of grey clouds. Everything is dull. He has awoken early and crept down the stairs, into the kitchen. He takes the white funeral flowers and he gets rid of them. He keeps the Sorry For Your Loss cards and puts them in a distant drawer. When she comes into the kitchen, wrinkled and tired, he speaks and says what is obvious.
“I miss her.”
She walks around the room and enfolds him to her chest like she would a teddy bear. It occurs to her that he was silent, she thinks, because he was closer to her in that way. Their child is silent in her grave, he was silent in his; this empty house. She says what is obvious.
“I love you.”
She wonders if they will be around to see the world flood, if they will become mermaids… probably not, they are only human.
- - -
Kortnee Tilson is a senior student living in Ontario who writes short stories, flash fiction and the odd poem. She has been featured on Daily Love three times.
By Kortnee Tilson
The hours have approached with the anticipation of speech, and they passed with nothing, a silence that she loathes. He has not spoken in three days, perhaps he never will again. She thinks, I could get used to this, because, after all, humans are an adapting species. He had once told her that if the world flooded, humans would grow gills and fins and everyone would be a mermaid. She remembers this story as she pours him a glass of water and sets it in front of him, she doubts he will drink it when she is there.
She spends the day watching his mouth for any twitch of a movement, whether that be an opening to speak or a smile. He hasn’t smiled, either, which she doesn’t hold against him because she too has not smiled in three days. When watching him gets to be too much, she goes to the mirror and watches herself instead. Her reflection is alien, it’s an old woman whose face is ripped with wrinkles and tiredness. Not since she turned forty, a decade or so ago, has she been content with this woman in the mirror. She longs for youth like all the women do, she buys face creams and anti-age formulas but gives up on them for being tedious and feeble. Because humans have aged and will always age, she figures that she will eventually learn to be friends with the old woman in the glass, but for now she stays a stranger.
When she returns to him, the glass is empty of the water, not even a drop. She finds comfort in that he is still a thorough person and hopes he will always be, even if he’s silent.
In the kitchen, there are vases of white flowers that she doesn’t know what to do with. She won’t keep them in the house much longer, they are stinking the room up with pollen and sorrow. She waits to see if they will wilt in the next hour. If a petal falls, she will take them outside and leave them to rot in a ditch. But they don’t, and she leaves the kitchen to face the rest of her house. She has never been so restless.
At night, they lie in their marital bed and she decides she wants to be able to make love again. He is still and just barely breathes, though she isn’t afraid that he’s stopped. He has had strong lungs all his life. She turns to her side and drapes her arm across his chest. It’s the first time she’s touched him in three days, she hopes he feels it. In the dark, it is apparent that neither of them are asleep. She can see that his eyes are open and they’re looking at her. He keeps them closed when she kisses him, he keeps them closed when she lifts off his clothes. Because they are humans and humans have mates, they love each other in a way they haven’t before. She thinks it’s one of the saddest things she’ll ever experience.
Morning comes and so does a light snowfall, it’s early November and the sun is hidden behind a wall of grey clouds. Everything is dull. He has awoken early and crept down the stairs, into the kitchen. He takes the white funeral flowers and he gets rid of them. He keeps the Sorry For Your Loss cards and puts them in a distant drawer. When she comes into the kitchen, wrinkled and tired, he speaks and says what is obvious.
“I miss her.”
She walks around the room and enfolds him to her chest like she would a teddy bear. It occurs to her that he was silent, she thinks, because he was closer to her in that way. Their child is silent in her grave, he was silent in his; this empty house. She says what is obvious.
“I love you.”
She wonders if they will be around to see the world flood, if they will become mermaids… probably not, they are only human.
- - -
Kortnee Tilson is a senior student living in Ontario who writes short stories, flash fiction and the odd poem. She has been featured on Daily Love three times.
Friday, December 10, 2010
12/10/10
Hearts Aflame
By Ron Koppelberger
- - -
I am aspiring to become established as a poet and a short story writer. I have written 98 books of poetry over the past several years and 17 novels: I have been submitting my work for the past year and a half. I am thrilled by acceptance.
By Ron Koppelberger
The prevailing belief, billowing blue and
Syrupy scarlet, by hearts aflame and eyes of
Distant love, the
Sweet alliance of surging passionate affection
And comfortable embraces done in velvet shadow
And seasons of silent sugar, of calm reverie
In sustained touch.
Syrupy scarlet, by hearts aflame and eyes of
Distant love, the
Sweet alliance of surging passionate affection
And comfortable embraces done in velvet shadow
And seasons of silent sugar, of calm reverie
In sustained touch.
- - -
I am aspiring to become established as a poet and a short story writer. I have written 98 books of poetry over the past several years and 17 novels: I have been submitting my work for the past year and a half. I am thrilled by acceptance.
Thursday, December 9, 2010
12/9/10
My First Rumor
By Libby Cudmore
According to Suzanne, I was sleeping with Jeff, the new manager from our Arizona branch, during our annual office retreat. She asked David in faux concern if he thought she should contact Jeff’s wife via a series of complicated maneuvers, including cornering him at the Saturday evening cocktail hour, stroking his elbow with a French-tipped finger until he gave up his home phone number and leaving a message for his wife detailing the sex we supposedly had in my rental car.
Suzanne would know all about illicit rendezvous—after all, last Christmas she got tanked on white zinfandel at the office party and dragged Jason into the copyroom. Should the subject ever come up, I’ve got the photocopy to prove it. I keep it hidden in a drawer in case I swallow poison.
The ultimate truth was that while everyone else was learning how to be better team leader, Jeff and I were at an empty bowling alley drinking smuggled mini-bar pinot out of paper cups. His game got better as the night wore on. Mine got worse. Around ten we came giggling back to the hotel, my hair down in dizzy tangles, his tie stuffed in his pocket. It’s hard to bowl with a tie on. Everyone saw us get in the elevator together. We said goodnight without an embrace and went to our separate floors.
My first rumor was a good one. I kept to myself in high school and was only the subject of vague, minor commentary on a slow news day—“I heard Charlotte did it with one of the basketball players in the locker room showers during halftime,” though no one ever fessed up to doing the deed. After one round, something bigger and better—“Tina Beston was sleeping with the music teacher”—inevitably came along, wiping out my traces of paparazzi stardom. Being rumorless was equal to being invisible.
Now I was infamous. Now I was the subject of hushes and whispers over morning coffee. All eyes on me. Was I showing too much skin? Were my eyes tired, my eyeliner smeared? Didn’t I wear that blouse yesterday? The tension of “did they/didn’t they” among our coworkers became almost as sexually-charged as the supposed event itself. I wanted to savor the moment.
“I’m supposed to stay away from you,” Jeff joked, stirring creamer into his coffee.
“Says who?” I said, pulling the red coffee stirrer through my lips with mock suggestiveness.
“Suzanne via Jason, although David was the one that actually told me. The exact words were, “Jeff better stay away from Charlotte.””
“Ooh, I’m trouble,” I purred. “Except I heard from Heather in finance than you told Ben from accounting you wanted to, how did she put this, “Have ravenous sex with her in the shower?””
“Oh no,” he said. “I’m a pretty tall guy, and there’s barely room in that shower for me—we could have sex on the couch, though. Or on the desk.”
It was at that exact moment that Suzanne reached for the creamer. Jeff winked when their eyes met and when she was out of earshot, I said, “She’s spying on us.”
“How can you tell?”
“She only takes her coffee with sugar.” I smiled. “Watch, by the end of this weekend, I’ll be pregnant with your lovechild. Twins, probably.”
“You’ll have to give the kid up for adoption,” he said with a melodramatic sigh. “I can’t have a couple of brats showing up at my door when it’s time to pay for college.”
Todd from editing slunk by, avoiding eye contact. I couldn’t keep up the act any longer and broke character with a laugh. Jeff put his hand on my shoulder and shook me playfully. “I’ll catch you at lunch?”
“Sure thing.”
He grinned and winked, ducking through the doorway separating Climbing the Corporate Ladder from Your Manager and You: The Marriage of Business. I took my seat next to Suzanne and smiled. “Pass the creamer?”
I’d be lying if I said I didn’t want to have sex with Jeff in the shower. With that image in my head, it was almost impossible to sit through my two hour seminar without fidgeting away the glassy glaze in my eyes. At least my first rumor involved someone sexy, not like Todd or worse, Jason from marketing. He had pig eyes. Jeff’s eyes were pale blue, bordering on silver in certain lights. He kept them open when he laughed. I wondered if he kept them open when he made love.
Suzanne was probably jealous. She was single, childless and stuck in a career rut in our IT department. She dressed all legs and tits like she was still twenty-three, came in on Mondays still nursing Saturday’s hangover and hit on every new guy that walked through our office doors. I almost felt sorry for her—after all, I was in the same sinking singles boat—but she was just too desperate and too nasty to warrant my sympathies.
I was finally having my moment. I’d faced down every other goon; the psycho ex, the backstabbing best friend who stole my boyfriend in college, the bimbo with the bad tattoo who always managed to get the guy I wanted. Now I was facing the Prom Queen, The
Head Cheerleader, Medusa herself. I had what she wanted and the only way she knew how to get it was to resort to a cat fight. I was ready, nails filed, hair pulled back. Bring it on.
By lunch Jeff was consulting a divorce lawyer. We sat in the back corner with my fellow copy editor David and Jeff briefly took his wife’s call, ending with a sincere, “I love you too, sweetie. See you tomorrow night.”
“So much for a divorce,” I said, taking a sip of my Coke.
He turned to David. “You heard none of that conversation,” he commanded with a grin. “If Suzanne hears that I’m still with my wife, my reputation will be ruined.”
“I don’t understand why you two are doing this,” David said.
“Have you ever had a rumor spread about you?” I asked. “I mean a real rumor, not like a generic, “David’s gay” or something like that. Something with erroneous details and quotes and sources?” He shook his head. “Me neither. Suzanne cares enough about my pathetic life that she is reading into everything I do and churning it back out like a bad gossip rag. She’s obsessed with me. No one’s ever been obsessed with me before.”
“What about me?” Jeff asked. “Does this mean you’re just using me to forward your career?”
“You know I love you, baby,” I cooed.
He reached over and squeezed my hand. My heart stopped and it took all my focus to
get it started again. Suzanne was staring at us. I winked and he released me.
I spent extra time on my hair and makeup for the office party, not just to look the part of the other woman, but because I wanted Jeff to notice me beyond the joke. It was silly, he was married, but still I needed to feel some sort of connection, anything to let me know he wasn’t just using me as a joke. The whole affair put me in high school mode. What if Suzanne was in on the whole thing and they were laughing at me, stupid me, thinking the Captain of the Football Team wanted to take me to Prom? I took out my diamond earrings and reapplied a more conservative lipstick. How could I even consider flirting with a married man, gorgeous as he was? The cocktail dress came off and on went the knee-length skirt. Lower heels, a simple pendant. I looked in the mirror and felt like I was going to church.
He waved and excused himself from the conversation by the Red Sox game on TV to meet me at the entrance of the bar. “You look lovely,” he said.
“Thank you,” I murmured, tilting my head to the floor.
“What do you want to drink?”
“A gin and tonic,” I said without thinking. The immediate choice would have been something airy, something light, something not too noticeable. I wanted to stay under the radar and downing a hefty drink was not a good way to do it. A good way to blurt that he should come back to my place, maybe, but not for keeping myself in check.
“A woman who drinks gin—I like that.” He gestured for the waiter and repeated my drink order. A few minutes later I had a drink in my hand. I hadn’t taken a sip, but I still felt dizzy.
“Cheers,” he said, tapping his pint against my tumbler. “C’mon, let’s dance. It’s been fifteen minutes since I’ve heard anything—we’re becoming yesterday’s news a day early.”
He took my free hand and led me over to the dance floor. The DJ was spinning Duran Duran’s “The Reflex” and Jeff twirled me once before releasing my hand. I rocked back and forth on my hips while he grooved conservatively. If this was a prank, he was taking it to extreme limits.
Suzanne made her way through the crowd and slipped behind him, gliding her hips against his in a move that could only be described as the prison bop. He took a step towards me, putting his hands on my waist. She sidled up on my side, did two hula hoops and dumped her white zinfandel all over my blouse.
“Oh my God, I’m so sorry,” she purred.
She might has well have poured pig’s blood on me. I’ve given presentations with spinach in my teeth, I tore my blouse in homeroom once and had to go around the rest of the day wearing a lime green Surf Bum tee-shirt from the bin in the nurses’ office, but not even the time I fainted during our eighth-grade rendition of “I Will Follow Him” was as humiliating as that moment. She’d taken it too far.
My drink was still nearly full. I lifted it with the full intent to throw it in her face. All the energy in the room was still. Jeff tightened me in close to him. My wet blouse, my drenched pride, it was all worth it for that one moment, breathing in his cologne, the warmth of his hand on my hipbone. I never wanted him to let go.
I took a sip of my own drink and flagged down the waiter. “She spilled her wine,” I said. “Could you please bring her another glass?”
There was a collective silent sigh of relief. Suzanne whirled on her wedge heels and stormed off without ordering another glass. Turning back to Jeff, I said, “Thanks for the dance,” and turned to leave, letting my face get hot.
Glaring over his shoulder at Suzanne, he made sure she was watching when he took my arm. “I’ll walk you up.”
We didn’t speak until we got in the elevator. “That was just sad,” he said. “Starting a rumor is one thing, but spilling her drink all over you? You handled that a lot better than I would have.”
“I’m glad you think so,” I said, mopping off my blouse with a stack of cocktail napkins I swiped on the way out. I walked ahead of him when we got off the elevator and stopped at my door. “Look, it’s been fun, but I think I’m just going to go to bed.”
He put his hand on the doorframe. “If I go back down there without you, Suzanne will eat me alive. You’re the only hope I have of getting back to my wife.” He got down on his knees and clasped his hands together, eyes lifted and pleading. “Come on, get changed and we’ll go anywhere you want. Drinks, dinner, dancing, bowling, we’ll run circles around my Mastercard. Let’s just get out of here.”
I laughed. I couldn’t fault his logic and I wasn’t really ready for bed. I slid my room key and invited him inside my hotel room. If only Suzanne was there to see him slip inside my door.
“Where to next?” Jeff asked, swallowing the last of his wine and accepting his receipt from the waitress.
I savored the last bite of lava cake before answering. “Let’s just walk around,” I said. “I’m not really ready to go back to the hotel.”
“Me neither,” he agreed. “Let’s walk in that direction and see what we find.”
We got our coats and began back towards our hotel. The wine and chocolate cake washed away any lingering thoughts that he was using me for bitter ends, but now the problem was that I was anxious to make all those rumors true. He’s a married man, I reminded myself. You cannot seduce a married man. Nothing good will come of being the other woman.
He pointed towards a playground. “Let’s go sit there for awhile. I’ll push you on the swingset.”
I followed him across the street to an expansive wooden playground. “When I was a kid we just had a rusty swingset and a teeter-totter. Remember how dangerous those
were?”
He laughed. “Let’s just say I’m surprised my tailbone is still intact. If a guy named Rusty Thompson ever asks you to go on the teeter-totter with him, say no.” He took my hand and guided me up into an alcove lined with benches, probably where parents sat watching their children play. “How about we sit here?”
“Fine by me.”
We sat close. I studied his face in the mandrin streetlight, his enormous eyes, the silhouette of his nose, the curve of his lips. I’ve never wanted a man so badly,
this whole weekend the rumors piled up in my head until the tension was like Christmas. My defenses were down. My breath came in trembles. I hope he didn’t notice.
“I really want to kiss you,” he blurted, turning to face me.
“You’re married,” I said, hating my words. “And drunk.”
“A little drunk, sure, very married, yes, but damn, that doesn’t stop me from wanting to kiss you.” He smiled, but his eyes weren’t joking around.
I sucked in a deep breath, wishing I didn’t have to say what I was about to say. “I want to kiss you too.” I began. “But I can’t. You’re married and I’d feel terrible.”
“I know, I know.” He rolled his eyes. “And I do love my wife, very much, but hasn’t this been fun? I haven’t felt this kind of tension in years. It makes me feel like I’m in college again.” He grinned and nudged me.
He was right. Anticipation was the best part of anything fun: sex, Christmas, dessert. As badly as I wanted him, any move we made would shatter this perfect illusion
we’d created. When I looked back on this night, he could be as good or bad as I allowed him to be. I had control because I had no real event to compare him to.
“I didn’t want you to think I was messing with you,” he added. “I really do enjoy your company. This wasn’t just a joke for me, and if we’d stayed for one more drink, I probably would kiss you right now.”
His lips were tempting. What was stopping me from kissing him? I was a liberated woman, I didn’t have to wait until the third date. More than likely, he wouldn’t resist. His wedding band glittered in the streetlight. I slumped my shoulders and inched away.
“We should probably get back to the hotel,” I said, the words like glass on my tongue.
“Yeah,” he sighed, standing and offering his hand. “I should call my wife.”
I drove him to the airport the next morning, my heart fluttering and my stomach sinking. I didn’t want to say goodbye. It had been so long since anyone had made me feel as giddy and glamorous as I felt when he was beside me, and once he walked through that gate, the rumors would die down and I’d just become another dull office drone.
At the security checkpoint, he put down his briefcase and gave me a long hug. “It was really great to meet you,” he murmured. “I’ll e-mail you as soon as I get to my gate.”
I laughed a little, trying to hold back tears that seemed too sentimental for the moment. After all, I’d only known him for three days; I didn’t want to turn into that woman who assumes one date entitles her to call a man her husband. “Let me know when you’ll be in town again.”
“Will do.”
He started to walk away and I saw Suzanne out of the corner of my eye. He must have noticed her too, because he turned around, took three wide steps towards me, grabbed my arms and mashed his mouth onto mine. He tasted like coffee and vanilla creamer and the last wisps of mint toothpaste. Might as well play along, I thought, sliding my hand down his back.
Suzanne wasn’t there when we came up for air. He grinned at me and said, “Why not, right?”
“Yeah,” I said, savoring the warmth he left on my lips. “Now go on, before she catches us having sex in a phone booth.”
He laughed and I waved a second goodbye, turning around and walking away before I could go back for another kiss. Suzanne was standing in line at the coffee shop, texting furiously. I smiled at her and said, “See you on Monday.”
- - -
My stories and essays have appeared in The MacGuffin, The Yalobusha Review, The Chaffey Review, The Southern Women’s Review, Nefarious Muse, Sunsets and Silencers, Red Fez, Inertia, Xenith, Pulp Pusher, The Midnight Diner (where I also serve as an editor) and the anthology Relationships and Other Stuff. I am a regular contributor to Celebrities in Disgrace, Crime Factory, Hardboiled, Shaking Like a Mountain, Battered Suitcase, a Twist of Noir and Thrillers, Killers ‘n’ Chillers, where my story “Unplanned” won a Bullet award in 2009 and was nominated for the 2010 Derringer award in flash fiction. My work will also be featured in upcoming issues of Connotation Press, Needle, and the anthology We’ll Always Have Chicago.
By Libby Cudmore
According to Suzanne, I was sleeping with Jeff, the new manager from our Arizona branch, during our annual office retreat. She asked David in faux concern if he thought she should contact Jeff’s wife via a series of complicated maneuvers, including cornering him at the Saturday evening cocktail hour, stroking his elbow with a French-tipped finger until he gave up his home phone number and leaving a message for his wife detailing the sex we supposedly had in my rental car.
Suzanne would know all about illicit rendezvous—after all, last Christmas she got tanked on white zinfandel at the office party and dragged Jason into the copyroom. Should the subject ever come up, I’ve got the photocopy to prove it. I keep it hidden in a drawer in case I swallow poison.
The ultimate truth was that while everyone else was learning how to be better team leader, Jeff and I were at an empty bowling alley drinking smuggled mini-bar pinot out of paper cups. His game got better as the night wore on. Mine got worse. Around ten we came giggling back to the hotel, my hair down in dizzy tangles, his tie stuffed in his pocket. It’s hard to bowl with a tie on. Everyone saw us get in the elevator together. We said goodnight without an embrace and went to our separate floors.
My first rumor was a good one. I kept to myself in high school and was only the subject of vague, minor commentary on a slow news day—“I heard Charlotte did it with one of the basketball players in the locker room showers during halftime,” though no one ever fessed up to doing the deed. After one round, something bigger and better—“Tina Beston was sleeping with the music teacher”—inevitably came along, wiping out my traces of paparazzi stardom. Being rumorless was equal to being invisible.
Now I was infamous. Now I was the subject of hushes and whispers over morning coffee. All eyes on me. Was I showing too much skin? Were my eyes tired, my eyeliner smeared? Didn’t I wear that blouse yesterday? The tension of “did they/didn’t they” among our coworkers became almost as sexually-charged as the supposed event itself. I wanted to savor the moment.
“I’m supposed to stay away from you,” Jeff joked, stirring creamer into his coffee.
“Says who?” I said, pulling the red coffee stirrer through my lips with mock suggestiveness.
“Suzanne via Jason, although David was the one that actually told me. The exact words were, “Jeff better stay away from Charlotte.””
“Ooh, I’m trouble,” I purred. “Except I heard from Heather in finance than you told Ben from accounting you wanted to, how did she put this, “Have ravenous sex with her in the shower?””
“Oh no,” he said. “I’m a pretty tall guy, and there’s barely room in that shower for me—we could have sex on the couch, though. Or on the desk.”
It was at that exact moment that Suzanne reached for the creamer. Jeff winked when their eyes met and when she was out of earshot, I said, “She’s spying on us.”
“How can you tell?”
“She only takes her coffee with sugar.” I smiled. “Watch, by the end of this weekend, I’ll be pregnant with your lovechild. Twins, probably.”
“You’ll have to give the kid up for adoption,” he said with a melodramatic sigh. “I can’t have a couple of brats showing up at my door when it’s time to pay for college.”
Todd from editing slunk by, avoiding eye contact. I couldn’t keep up the act any longer and broke character with a laugh. Jeff put his hand on my shoulder and shook me playfully. “I’ll catch you at lunch?”
“Sure thing.”
He grinned and winked, ducking through the doorway separating Climbing the Corporate Ladder from Your Manager and You: The Marriage of Business. I took my seat next to Suzanne and smiled. “Pass the creamer?”
* *
I’d be lying if I said I didn’t want to have sex with Jeff in the shower. With that image in my head, it was almost impossible to sit through my two hour seminar without fidgeting away the glassy glaze in my eyes. At least my first rumor involved someone sexy, not like Todd or worse, Jason from marketing. He had pig eyes. Jeff’s eyes were pale blue, bordering on silver in certain lights. He kept them open when he laughed. I wondered if he kept them open when he made love.
Suzanne was probably jealous. She was single, childless and stuck in a career rut in our IT department. She dressed all legs and tits like she was still twenty-three, came in on Mondays still nursing Saturday’s hangover and hit on every new guy that walked through our office doors. I almost felt sorry for her—after all, I was in the same sinking singles boat—but she was just too desperate and too nasty to warrant my sympathies.
I was finally having my moment. I’d faced down every other goon; the psycho ex, the backstabbing best friend who stole my boyfriend in college, the bimbo with the bad tattoo who always managed to get the guy I wanted. Now I was facing the Prom Queen, The
Head Cheerleader, Medusa herself. I had what she wanted and the only way she knew how to get it was to resort to a cat fight. I was ready, nails filed, hair pulled back. Bring it on.
By lunch Jeff was consulting a divorce lawyer. We sat in the back corner with my fellow copy editor David and Jeff briefly took his wife’s call, ending with a sincere, “I love you too, sweetie. See you tomorrow night.”
“So much for a divorce,” I said, taking a sip of my Coke.
He turned to David. “You heard none of that conversation,” he commanded with a grin. “If Suzanne hears that I’m still with my wife, my reputation will be ruined.”
“I don’t understand why you two are doing this,” David said.
“Have you ever had a rumor spread about you?” I asked. “I mean a real rumor, not like a generic, “David’s gay” or something like that. Something with erroneous details and quotes and sources?” He shook his head. “Me neither. Suzanne cares enough about my pathetic life that she is reading into everything I do and churning it back out like a bad gossip rag. She’s obsessed with me. No one’s ever been obsessed with me before.”
“What about me?” Jeff asked. “Does this mean you’re just using me to forward your career?”
“You know I love you, baby,” I cooed.
He reached over and squeezed my hand. My heart stopped and it took all my focus to
get it started again. Suzanne was staring at us. I winked and he released me.
* *
I spent extra time on my hair and makeup for the office party, not just to look the part of the other woman, but because I wanted Jeff to notice me beyond the joke. It was silly, he was married, but still I needed to feel some sort of connection, anything to let me know he wasn’t just using me as a joke. The whole affair put me in high school mode. What if Suzanne was in on the whole thing and they were laughing at me, stupid me, thinking the Captain of the Football Team wanted to take me to Prom? I took out my diamond earrings and reapplied a more conservative lipstick. How could I even consider flirting with a married man, gorgeous as he was? The cocktail dress came off and on went the knee-length skirt. Lower heels, a simple pendant. I looked in the mirror and felt like I was going to church.
He waved and excused himself from the conversation by the Red Sox game on TV to meet me at the entrance of the bar. “You look lovely,” he said.
“Thank you,” I murmured, tilting my head to the floor.
“What do you want to drink?”
“A gin and tonic,” I said without thinking. The immediate choice would have been something airy, something light, something not too noticeable. I wanted to stay under the radar and downing a hefty drink was not a good way to do it. A good way to blurt that he should come back to my place, maybe, but not for keeping myself in check.
“A woman who drinks gin—I like that.” He gestured for the waiter and repeated my drink order. A few minutes later I had a drink in my hand. I hadn’t taken a sip, but I still felt dizzy.
“Cheers,” he said, tapping his pint against my tumbler. “C’mon, let’s dance. It’s been fifteen minutes since I’ve heard anything—we’re becoming yesterday’s news a day early.”
He took my free hand and led me over to the dance floor. The DJ was spinning Duran Duran’s “The Reflex” and Jeff twirled me once before releasing my hand. I rocked back and forth on my hips while he grooved conservatively. If this was a prank, he was taking it to extreme limits.
Suzanne made her way through the crowd and slipped behind him, gliding her hips against his in a move that could only be described as the prison bop. He took a step towards me, putting his hands on my waist. She sidled up on my side, did two hula hoops and dumped her white zinfandel all over my blouse.
“Oh my God, I’m so sorry,” she purred.
She might has well have poured pig’s blood on me. I’ve given presentations with spinach in my teeth, I tore my blouse in homeroom once and had to go around the rest of the day wearing a lime green Surf Bum tee-shirt from the bin in the nurses’ office, but not even the time I fainted during our eighth-grade rendition of “I Will Follow Him” was as humiliating as that moment. She’d taken it too far.
My drink was still nearly full. I lifted it with the full intent to throw it in her face. All the energy in the room was still. Jeff tightened me in close to him. My wet blouse, my drenched pride, it was all worth it for that one moment, breathing in his cologne, the warmth of his hand on my hipbone. I never wanted him to let go.
I took a sip of my own drink and flagged down the waiter. “She spilled her wine,” I said. “Could you please bring her another glass?”
There was a collective silent sigh of relief. Suzanne whirled on her wedge heels and stormed off without ordering another glass. Turning back to Jeff, I said, “Thanks for the dance,” and turned to leave, letting my face get hot.
Glaring over his shoulder at Suzanne, he made sure she was watching when he took my arm. “I’ll walk you up.”
We didn’t speak until we got in the elevator. “That was just sad,” he said. “Starting a rumor is one thing, but spilling her drink all over you? You handled that a lot better than I would have.”
“I’m glad you think so,” I said, mopping off my blouse with a stack of cocktail napkins I swiped on the way out. I walked ahead of him when we got off the elevator and stopped at my door. “Look, it’s been fun, but I think I’m just going to go to bed.”
He put his hand on the doorframe. “If I go back down there without you, Suzanne will eat me alive. You’re the only hope I have of getting back to my wife.” He got down on his knees and clasped his hands together, eyes lifted and pleading. “Come on, get changed and we’ll go anywhere you want. Drinks, dinner, dancing, bowling, we’ll run circles around my Mastercard. Let’s just get out of here.”
I laughed. I couldn’t fault his logic and I wasn’t really ready for bed. I slid my room key and invited him inside my hotel room. If only Suzanne was there to see him slip inside my door.
* *
“Where to next?” Jeff asked, swallowing the last of his wine and accepting his receipt from the waitress.
I savored the last bite of lava cake before answering. “Let’s just walk around,” I said. “I’m not really ready to go back to the hotel.”
“Me neither,” he agreed. “Let’s walk in that direction and see what we find.”
We got our coats and began back towards our hotel. The wine and chocolate cake washed away any lingering thoughts that he was using me for bitter ends, but now the problem was that I was anxious to make all those rumors true. He’s a married man, I reminded myself. You cannot seduce a married man. Nothing good will come of being the other woman.
He pointed towards a playground. “Let’s go sit there for awhile. I’ll push you on the swingset.”
I followed him across the street to an expansive wooden playground. “When I was a kid we just had a rusty swingset and a teeter-totter. Remember how dangerous those
were?”
He laughed. “Let’s just say I’m surprised my tailbone is still intact. If a guy named Rusty Thompson ever asks you to go on the teeter-totter with him, say no.” He took my hand and guided me up into an alcove lined with benches, probably where parents sat watching their children play. “How about we sit here?”
“Fine by me.”
We sat close. I studied his face in the mandrin streetlight, his enormous eyes, the silhouette of his nose, the curve of his lips. I’ve never wanted a man so badly,
this whole weekend the rumors piled up in my head until the tension was like Christmas. My defenses were down. My breath came in trembles. I hope he didn’t notice.
“I really want to kiss you,” he blurted, turning to face me.
“You’re married,” I said, hating my words. “And drunk.”
“A little drunk, sure, very married, yes, but damn, that doesn’t stop me from wanting to kiss you.” He smiled, but his eyes weren’t joking around.
I sucked in a deep breath, wishing I didn’t have to say what I was about to say. “I want to kiss you too.” I began. “But I can’t. You’re married and I’d feel terrible.”
“I know, I know.” He rolled his eyes. “And I do love my wife, very much, but hasn’t this been fun? I haven’t felt this kind of tension in years. It makes me feel like I’m in college again.” He grinned and nudged me.
He was right. Anticipation was the best part of anything fun: sex, Christmas, dessert. As badly as I wanted him, any move we made would shatter this perfect illusion
we’d created. When I looked back on this night, he could be as good or bad as I allowed him to be. I had control because I had no real event to compare him to.
“I didn’t want you to think I was messing with you,” he added. “I really do enjoy your company. This wasn’t just a joke for me, and if we’d stayed for one more drink, I probably would kiss you right now.”
His lips were tempting. What was stopping me from kissing him? I was a liberated woman, I didn’t have to wait until the third date. More than likely, he wouldn’t resist. His wedding band glittered in the streetlight. I slumped my shoulders and inched away.
“We should probably get back to the hotel,” I said, the words like glass on my tongue.
“Yeah,” he sighed, standing and offering his hand. “I should call my wife.”
* *
I drove him to the airport the next morning, my heart fluttering and my stomach sinking. I didn’t want to say goodbye. It had been so long since anyone had made me feel as giddy and glamorous as I felt when he was beside me, and once he walked through that gate, the rumors would die down and I’d just become another dull office drone.
At the security checkpoint, he put down his briefcase and gave me a long hug. “It was really great to meet you,” he murmured. “I’ll e-mail you as soon as I get to my gate.”
I laughed a little, trying to hold back tears that seemed too sentimental for the moment. After all, I’d only known him for three days; I didn’t want to turn into that woman who assumes one date entitles her to call a man her husband. “Let me know when you’ll be in town again.”
“Will do.”
He started to walk away and I saw Suzanne out of the corner of my eye. He must have noticed her too, because he turned around, took three wide steps towards me, grabbed my arms and mashed his mouth onto mine. He tasted like coffee and vanilla creamer and the last wisps of mint toothpaste. Might as well play along, I thought, sliding my hand down his back.
Suzanne wasn’t there when we came up for air. He grinned at me and said, “Why not, right?”
“Yeah,” I said, savoring the warmth he left on my lips. “Now go on, before she catches us having sex in a phone booth.”
He laughed and I waved a second goodbye, turning around and walking away before I could go back for another kiss. Suzanne was standing in line at the coffee shop, texting furiously. I smiled at her and said, “See you on Monday.”
- - -
My stories and essays have appeared in The MacGuffin, The Yalobusha Review, The Chaffey Review, The Southern Women’s Review, Nefarious Muse, Sunsets and Silencers, Red Fez, Inertia, Xenith, Pulp Pusher, The Midnight Diner (where I also serve as an editor) and the anthology Relationships and Other Stuff. I am a regular contributor to Celebrities in Disgrace, Crime Factory, Hardboiled, Shaking Like a Mountain, Battered Suitcase, a Twist of Noir and Thrillers, Killers ‘n’ Chillers, where my story “Unplanned” won a Bullet award in 2009 and was nominated for the 2010 Derringer award in flash fiction. My work will also be featured in upcoming issues of Connotation Press, Needle, and the anthology We’ll Always Have Chicago.
Wednesday, December 8, 2010
12/8/10
There are Two of us, and Not one is You
By Kalyn Partain
Two years ago I wrote you a letter,
a letter about my feelings
about you about your lack.
I never got to send the letter;
it had been addressed,
stamped and ready,
the Pregnant envelope, that is,
with your name, your street.
And my fingerprints throughout.
I wrote this letter for your eyes,
for your heart.
It dripped with angst
an inky flow of expression.
I lost the letter.
One year ago I lost the letter I wrote to you.
The letter that spoke of love,
and of hate,
about philosophy about Eggs.
It got lost in the drawer of the desk in my corner,
the one full of Birthdary cards
I sent to the trash.
The letter I wrote to you
for you for you for you.
It sat in its envelope,
Huffing and Puffing and
dripping its angst to the others.
The envelope had a stamp,
two, if you count
three lines, four lines,
expressing its Ownership.
It smelled like roses, like me.
Its invisible lip prints
waited to meet yours -- anxious.
I saw it everyday, waiting,
nagging to be sent.
For six months it glared,
it shouted,
it pushed and pushed.
I Pushed, too.
I pushed the letter through the
crack at the top of the
third, bottom, drawer
on the left of my desk,
cackling all the time at
how I Pushed it --you--
out of my sight.
Three months ago I decided I would send the letter.
I would send the letter to a boy
in a faraway place,
who had found something new
something worse
someone new to write him letters.
The drawer Pulled Out easily,
my hands Slipped through
mountains of stiff paper
and parchment -- I cut my
hand on a card.
Alas! the letter was gone.
In a fit Nine months prior I
had emptied the drawer.
I emptied the drawer
with a coldness, a silence, in my heart.
The letter went into the garbage.
Two years ago I wrote you a letter.
Two years ago I wrote you a letter.
It was simple;
It was true.
There are Two of us, and
Not one of them is You.
- - -
I am a 22 year old biochemistry/anthropology student who has no idea what she is doing. I also like octopuses.
By Kalyn Partain
Two years ago I wrote you a letter,
a letter about my feelings
about you about your lack.
I never got to send the letter;
it had been addressed,
stamped and ready,
the Pregnant envelope, that is,
with your name, your street.
And my fingerprints throughout.
I wrote this letter for your eyes,
for your heart.
It dripped with angst
an inky flow of expression.
I lost the letter.
One year ago I lost the letter I wrote to you.
The letter that spoke of love,
and of hate,
about philosophy about Eggs.
It got lost in the drawer of the desk in my corner,
the one full of Birthdary cards
I sent to the trash.
The letter I wrote to you
for you for you for you.
It sat in its envelope,
Huffing and Puffing and
dripping its angst to the others.
The envelope had a stamp,
two, if you count
three lines, four lines,
expressing its Ownership.
It smelled like roses, like me.
Its invisible lip prints
waited to meet yours -- anxious.
I saw it everyday, waiting,
nagging to be sent.
For six months it glared,
it shouted,
it pushed and pushed.
I Pushed, too.
I pushed the letter through the
crack at the top of the
third, bottom, drawer
on the left of my desk,
cackling all the time at
how I Pushed it --you--
out of my sight.
Three months ago I decided I would send the letter.
I would send the letter to a boy
in a faraway place,
who had found something new
something worse
someone new to write him letters.
The drawer Pulled Out easily,
my hands Slipped through
mountains of stiff paper
and parchment -- I cut my
hand on a card.
Alas! the letter was gone.
In a fit Nine months prior I
had emptied the drawer.
I emptied the drawer
with a coldness, a silence, in my heart.
The letter went into the garbage.
Two years ago I wrote you a letter.
Two years ago I wrote you a letter.
It was simple;
It was true.
There are Two of us, and
Not one of them is You.
- - -
I am a 22 year old biochemistry/anthropology student who has no idea what she is doing. I also like octopuses.
Tuesday, December 7, 2010
12/7/10
Letter to a Stranger
By Emily Gilmour
"You know, life is a lot longer than you think."
You said it with such convincing calm.
With so much depth and knowledge in your eyes.
I had nothing to respond with. Only the thought that -
I must be too young to understand what you meant.
Or just too oblivious to care.
Why do you find me so interesting?
What has captured your attention?
Lately, I feel as though I have nothing to share
or keep secret.
I am as simple as you imagine me to be.
Lost in this vague idea of love -
empathizing with everyone and relating to no one.
Maybe this is the natural consequence of losing purpose.
I've forgotten the ambitions that carried me here,
so I float in the water I was unable to cross.
Too overwhelmed to keep swimming,
blissfully unaware of activity on the shores.
I wish I could stay forever,.
drifting in serenity that surrounds you.
- - -
I do not want to live. I want to love, and live incidentally.
By Emily Gilmour
"You know, life is a lot longer than you think."
You said it with such convincing calm.
With so much depth and knowledge in your eyes.
I had nothing to respond with. Only the thought that -
I must be too young to understand what you meant.
Or just too oblivious to care.
Why do you find me so interesting?
What has captured your attention?
Lately, I feel as though I have nothing to share
or keep secret.
I am as simple as you imagine me to be.
Lost in this vague idea of love -
empathizing with everyone and relating to no one.
Maybe this is the natural consequence of losing purpose.
I've forgotten the ambitions that carried me here,
so I float in the water I was unable to cross.
Too overwhelmed to keep swimming,
blissfully unaware of activity on the shores.
I wish I could stay forever,.
drifting in serenity that surrounds you.
- - -
I do not want to live. I want to love, and live incidentally.
Monday, December 6, 2010
12/6/10
Here I am
By Juan "JL" Torres
You mean everything to me
And now I’ve got to leave
I don’t know why or where I’m going
I pray you’re waiting there for me
Wherever I go you’ll be with me
Even if it’s in my dreams
But how can I even sleep at all
Without you here I’m nothing
So here I am just waiting
For your next phone call
I need to hear your voice again
So I can keep on going
Wherever I go you’ll be with me
Even if it’s in my dreams
But how can I even sleep at all
Without you here I’m nothing
I figured out where I’m going
And why I had to leave
I’m going to wherever you’re not
So I can come home to you
Wherever I went you were with me
Always in my dreams
I found that I could fall asleep
Just by thinking about you
Home is where the heart is
That’s what they always say
But I say home is where you are
Waiting for me always
You are my peace
You are my castle
You are my every little thing
You are everything I need
Wherever I went you were with me
Always in my dreams
I found that I could fall asleep
Just by thinking about you
Now I’m finally home
And there you are waiting
With arms wide open
To take me back again
- - -
I'm a fun easy going guy who loves to write. I write poetry, short stories, songs, and I am currently writing a novel. I hope you enjoy!
By Juan "JL" Torres
You mean everything to me
And now I’ve got to leave
I don’t know why or where I’m going
I pray you’re waiting there for me
Wherever I go you’ll be with me
Even if it’s in my dreams
But how can I even sleep at all
Without you here I’m nothing
So here I am just waiting
For your next phone call
I need to hear your voice again
So I can keep on going
Wherever I go you’ll be with me
Even if it’s in my dreams
But how can I even sleep at all
Without you here I’m nothing
I figured out where I’m going
And why I had to leave
I’m going to wherever you’re not
So I can come home to you
Wherever I went you were with me
Always in my dreams
I found that I could fall asleep
Just by thinking about you
Home is where the heart is
That’s what they always say
But I say home is where you are
Waiting for me always
You are my peace
You are my castle
You are my every little thing
You are everything I need
Wherever I went you were with me
Always in my dreams
I found that I could fall asleep
Just by thinking about you
Now I’m finally home
And there you are waiting
With arms wide open
To take me back again
- - -
I'm a fun easy going guy who loves to write. I write poetry, short stories, songs, and I am currently writing a novel. I hope you enjoy!
Sunday, December 5, 2010
12/5/10
Burn This Wall
By Peter Thorington
You stand stubbornly in denial
Leaving you no option or chance of fleeing
The defeatist results from past calamities
Your chin skims the grass; you hold your head so low
For so much hope that you could possess, where has this cynicism risen from?
A boy will come with his slips and blunders
A day will eclipse if you feed it conviction
Living in your doubt with the entrance already fastened shut
Will keep you solitary eternally
The desire to show you the light, the truth, the happiness
Grows with every instant that your smile hides in the murkiness
Your heart could prosper and your smile could glow
You could know love as it desires your chance
Athletics, grades, family and all will bring you gaiety
But the opportunity you’re missing out on would spark
The exquisiteness that you stow away
Your heart could race; your blood could rush
Your stomach would flutter; your cheeks would blush
You could know what it is to wake up with your cheeks sore
From smiling so hard
You could prove yourself wrong to know that happiness can get better
You could live and experience the most powerful emotion
And say you only did because you took a risk
A risk that you would never think about taking back
Take a break, run away, go and live, or just stay
And live the sentience through not knowing
The chance to love and receive it back
What do you have left to loose?
You’re impenetrable, from how you live
Open up and allow someone to be your life and you theirs
Give it a chance and it’s a moment you will never forget
A second in time that you said you could and you did
You tore down the wall you built and risked it all
Tell me I wasn’t wrong because I wanted it more than you
P.S. Never frown because you have no idea who is falling in love with your smile.
- - -
By Peter Thorington
You stand stubbornly in denial
Leaving you no option or chance of fleeing
The defeatist results from past calamities
Your chin skims the grass; you hold your head so low
For so much hope that you could possess, where has this cynicism risen from?
A boy will come with his slips and blunders
A day will eclipse if you feed it conviction
Living in your doubt with the entrance already fastened shut
Will keep you solitary eternally
The desire to show you the light, the truth, the happiness
Grows with every instant that your smile hides in the murkiness
Your heart could prosper and your smile could glow
You could know love as it desires your chance
Athletics, grades, family and all will bring you gaiety
But the opportunity you’re missing out on would spark
The exquisiteness that you stow away
Your heart could race; your blood could rush
Your stomach would flutter; your cheeks would blush
You could know what it is to wake up with your cheeks sore
From smiling so hard
You could prove yourself wrong to know that happiness can get better
You could live and experience the most powerful emotion
And say you only did because you took a risk
A risk that you would never think about taking back
Take a break, run away, go and live, or just stay
And live the sentience through not knowing
The chance to love and receive it back
What do you have left to loose?
You’re impenetrable, from how you live
Open up and allow someone to be your life and you theirs
Give it a chance and it’s a moment you will never forget
A second in time that you said you could and you did
You tore down the wall you built and risked it all
Tell me I wasn’t wrong because I wanted it more than you
P.S. Never frown because you have no idea who is falling in love with your smile.
- - -
Saturday, December 4, 2010
12/4/10
Soar
By Izabel Reyes
I go back…
Back to us.
Remember when we painted our sky?
We painted it just the way we liked it, until all the gray was covered up, and it was just a burst of color.
You took me by the hand, and led me to a kite on the ground- a big kite on the ground.
Big enough for two?
You got on, and then beckoned me to follow..
I had never ridden a kite before... but then again, I had never painted a sky either..
I climbed on hesitantly,
And suddenly, with the graze of the slightest breeze, we ascended
We rode that kite high!
We soared.
High..
Higher..
Just a bit higher still..
And just when we couldn’t breathe, we had found it.
That moment.
That moment, that never leaves you.
That moment, that long after it has passed, is just a blink away, you close your eyes, and it’s there, waiting.
That moment that’s so beautiful in its purity.
So holy, so special, so different..
I close my eyes, and there you are staring straight into mine.
I go back.
Back to us.
Back to when we were on that kite, up high in the sky.
- - -
I love writing, and I love loving. What better than to combine the two?
By Izabel Reyes
I go back…
Back to us.
Remember when we painted our sky?
We painted it just the way we liked it, until all the gray was covered up, and it was just a burst of color.
You took me by the hand, and led me to a kite on the ground- a big kite on the ground.
Big enough for two?
You got on, and then beckoned me to follow..
I had never ridden a kite before... but then again, I had never painted a sky either..
I climbed on hesitantly,
And suddenly, with the graze of the slightest breeze, we ascended
We rode that kite high!
We soared.
High..
Higher..
Just a bit higher still..
And just when we couldn’t breathe, we had found it.
That moment.
That moment, that never leaves you.
That moment, that long after it has passed, is just a blink away, you close your eyes, and it’s there, waiting.
That moment that’s so beautiful in its purity.
So holy, so special, so different..
I close my eyes, and there you are staring straight into mine.
I go back.
Back to us.
Back to when we were on that kite, up high in the sky.
- - -
I love writing, and I love loving. What better than to combine the two?
Friday, December 3, 2010
12/3/10
Heart Veins
By Meghan Williams
I wrap myself around you like veins around a heart.
I will be gentle, I will not harm.
Just trust in me.
Our veins start to infuse
And our hearts become one.
They beat together,
And can never be apart.
- - -
I am a university student in Indiana. I write for fun and to let out my feelings. I have slowly improved throughout the years and hopefully people enjoy reading my work as much as i enjoy writing.
By Meghan Williams
I wrap myself around you like veins around a heart.
I will be gentle, I will not harm.
Just trust in me.
Our veins start to infuse
And our hearts become one.
They beat together,
And can never be apart.
- - -
I am a university student in Indiana. I write for fun and to let out my feelings. I have slowly improved throughout the years and hopefully people enjoy reading my work as much as i enjoy writing.
Thursday, December 2, 2010
12/2/10
Love Will Bust You Heart
By Pierrino Mascarino
"Go-or-or do," sung cinnamon-skinned little Graciela in front of his stainless steel sausage cart.
"Please," said Gordo, looking both ways to see who’ d heard her, crowding another bacon-wrapped sausage onto his sputtering cart grill and looking up at the advancing dawn; “don’ t,” although he was embarrassed it was still true, "don go callin me Gordo no more, I been rebajaing my weights to guardar mi linea."
So, little Graciella only whispered to him in a husky voice, "Mira, Gordo,” trying to be tender through the eye-watering sausage and bacon smoke, and holding up her vase of yellow ranunculus, purple anemones, crimson poppies with a blue delphinium or two, “ I bring you flores,” Graciela said, waving her hand to fan away the heavy smoke from her jet black eyes, looking up at Gordo with her ancient Maya face, here in front of his brightly lit sausage cart in the rose tipped dawn.
But, zzzzst, pop pop Gordo's sausage was spattering pig grease right up on her fleshy anemones, slicking their delicate petals.
"Para mi," Gordo said, "you bring? For why?" Jamming in toothpicks to secure the spiraled bacon strips onto another grey sausage.
"For saying, ‘ I love you,’ you silly Gordo," stamping her foot making her flowers jerk.
"Love?" hardly looking at them, "dis not love time, if I not sell my salchiche this morning, I don't sell him at all. And they no good manana, don't you?"
"What you are?" Graciella demanded, moving her head to avoid a sudden street draft that was whipping around the sausage smoke, made by an arriving flower van, "you are" (cough, cough) "una bestia, who don't have no eyes and ears for de love, for seeing de mujer here que te quere?"
"Who dis womans who love me?" said Gordo looking away.
“¿Quien? Maldito, you know who is who love you."
“Have a salchiche gratis," he said scooping up, in one professional motion, one of his popping, bacon-wrapped specials covered with onions and little cut bits of ajo, dripping grill grease, while he sprinkled on little round green capers and fresh cilantro.
"Sweet Gordo," she said playfully, "please don't pretend no ignorances to me, you know I don't come to get no salchiche gratis."
The large arrived flower van creaked out its door and out bounced Jorge de las Poesias, famous driver-poet of the Los Angeles, Wall Street flower district, who quickly ran round to the rear and was pulling out a long cardboard box, "Jorge,” called Graciela to him.
"Parking costs too much," said Jorge, "I got no quarters; I wonder do Gordo tiene quarters?"
Gordo said, "Por supuesto, I got, but only for sausage cambio, eberybody want quarters, I am salchiche not bank."
"Muy bien, da me dos; 5 centavos, the parking minute ees costes now, de minutes are, de repente, made of goldt?" then to Graciella, "and look, quien esta, most beautiful embra of the whole flower markets, making eben de flower themself look too ugly," he smiled and winked at her, resting his large gladiolus box on the corner edge of Gordo’s smoky cart while pulling out sausage dollars.
“Ten cuidado ispantoso,” Graciela laughed, “please, Jorge, quickly tell to dis pinche Gordo, some poesia so he don’ t be so escare of de love.”
Jorge’ s limericks were famous here on early morning Wall Street.
Jorge quickly checked his flashing red, expired meter--50$ fine--and then the approaching little yellow-blinking Parking Enforcement light; he picked up one of Gordo sausages along with his parking meter change and ran over to charge the red meter, turning back while unwrapping and taking a dripping hot bite, "Eeet going to find you Gordo, ees esneaking up on you--spring, primavera," popping in greasy parking quarters, talking around a mouthful of sausage, then going back and taking up Graciella’s flower vase, he began reciting:
You hab shut you heart
Like shut a door,
To starve de loves inside, not bodder you no more.
But down Wall estreet here come de wet new wind of May,
Blowing you flower’ s smell from la Graciela's bouquet.
Now you love yell out in thee,
‘I strong, I break you hearts,
If you don’ t set me efree.’
Graciella clapped her hands, “Muy maravilloso, gracias Jorge," little tears in her eyes, "your poecia would make the estones fall in love."
"Take a salchiche gratis," said Gordo.
- - -
By Pierrino Mascarino
"Go-or-or do," sung cinnamon-skinned little Graciela in front of his stainless steel sausage cart.
"Please," said Gordo, looking both ways to see who’ d heard her, crowding another bacon-wrapped sausage onto his sputtering cart grill and looking up at the advancing dawn; “don’ t,” although he was embarrassed it was still true, "don go callin me Gordo no more, I been rebajaing my weights to guardar mi linea."
So, little Graciella only whispered to him in a husky voice, "Mira, Gordo,” trying to be tender through the eye-watering sausage and bacon smoke, and holding up her vase of yellow ranunculus, purple anemones, crimson poppies with a blue delphinium or two, “ I bring you flores,” Graciela said, waving her hand to fan away the heavy smoke from her jet black eyes, looking up at Gordo with her ancient Maya face, here in front of his brightly lit sausage cart in the rose tipped dawn.
But, zzzzst, pop pop Gordo's sausage was spattering pig grease right up on her fleshy anemones, slicking their delicate petals.
"Para mi," Gordo said, "you bring? For why?" Jamming in toothpicks to secure the spiraled bacon strips onto another grey sausage.
"For saying, ‘ I love you,’ you silly Gordo," stamping her foot making her flowers jerk.
"Love?" hardly looking at them, "dis not love time, if I not sell my salchiche this morning, I don't sell him at all. And they no good manana, don't you?"
"What you are?" Graciella demanded, moving her head to avoid a sudden street draft that was whipping around the sausage smoke, made by an arriving flower van, "you are" (cough, cough) "una bestia, who don't have no eyes and ears for de love, for seeing de mujer here que te quere?"
"Who dis womans who love me?" said Gordo looking away.
“¿Quien? Maldito, you know who is who love you."
“Have a salchiche gratis," he said scooping up, in one professional motion, one of his popping, bacon-wrapped specials covered with onions and little cut bits of ajo, dripping grill grease, while he sprinkled on little round green capers and fresh cilantro.
"Sweet Gordo," she said playfully, "please don't pretend no ignorances to me, you know I don't come to get no salchiche gratis."
The large arrived flower van creaked out its door and out bounced Jorge de las Poesias, famous driver-poet of the Los Angeles, Wall Street flower district, who quickly ran round to the rear and was pulling out a long cardboard box, "Jorge,” called Graciela to him.
"Parking costs too much," said Jorge, "I got no quarters; I wonder do Gordo tiene quarters?"
Gordo said, "Por supuesto, I got, but only for sausage cambio, eberybody want quarters, I am salchiche not bank."
"Muy bien, da me dos; 5 centavos, the parking minute ees costes now, de minutes are, de repente, made of goldt?" then to Graciella, "and look, quien esta, most beautiful embra of the whole flower markets, making eben de flower themself look too ugly," he smiled and winked at her, resting his large gladiolus box on the corner edge of Gordo’s smoky cart while pulling out sausage dollars.
“Ten cuidado ispantoso,” Graciela laughed, “please, Jorge, quickly tell to dis pinche Gordo, some poesia so he don’ t be so escare of de love.”
Jorge’ s limericks were famous here on early morning Wall Street.
Jorge quickly checked his flashing red, expired meter--50$ fine--and then the approaching little yellow-blinking Parking Enforcement light; he picked up one of Gordo sausages along with his parking meter change and ran over to charge the red meter, turning back while unwrapping and taking a dripping hot bite, "Eeet going to find you Gordo, ees esneaking up on you--spring, primavera," popping in greasy parking quarters, talking around a mouthful of sausage, then going back and taking up Graciella’s flower vase, he began reciting:
You hab shut you heart
Like shut a door,
To starve de loves inside, not bodder you no more.
But down Wall estreet here come de wet new wind of May,
Blowing you flower’ s smell from la Graciela's bouquet.
Now you love yell out in thee,
‘I strong, I break you hearts,
If you don’ t set me efree.’
Graciella clapped her hands, “Muy maravilloso, gracias Jorge," little tears in her eyes, "your poecia would make the estones fall in love."
"Take a salchiche gratis," said Gordo.
- - -
Wednesday, December 1, 2010
12/1/10
The Slow Time Mover
By Kortnee Tilson
So it seems, time is not my friend
I move hindered and slower than you can conceive
With every breath
I feel each particle drift into my lungs
When my blood courses
It walks gradually round my veins
Every beat of the heart
Is an echo on and on
And each time I blink
Is a full year of darkness
The worst is this
You have lived and loved
Been broken and healed
Cried and feared
Made milestones and memories
You've died and turned to dust
All while I was sleeping
I am only thankful
That I had glimpsed you for one moment before
And loved you madly and deeply for that second
Because it was a lifetime
- - -
I'm a high school senior who has been writing for Daily Love for a little while now. Some of my other works can be found on the site. The Slow Time Mover is a story that is told like a poem.
By Kortnee Tilson
So it seems, time is not my friend
I move hindered and slower than you can conceive
With every breath
I feel each particle drift into my lungs
When my blood courses
It walks gradually round my veins
Every beat of the heart
Is an echo on and on
And each time I blink
Is a full year of darkness
The worst is this
You have lived and loved
Been broken and healed
Cried and feared
Made milestones and memories
You've died and turned to dust
All while I was sleeping
I am only thankful
That I had glimpsed you for one moment before
And loved you madly and deeply for that second
Because it was a lifetime
- - -
I'm a high school senior who has been writing for Daily Love for a little while now. Some of my other works can be found on the site. The Slow Time Mover is a story that is told like a poem.
Tuesday, November 30, 2010
11/30/10
The Tinkle of Your Eye
By Troy Manning
According to my parents, I wasn’t exactly an “oops” and I wasn’t exactly planned. Much of my life has since been an exercise in trying to understand what they meant. But as each direct query to their meaning only met with even more cryptic responses, my tactics have become more experimental in nature. I recall one instance when my mother told me that I was once a Twinkie in my father’s eye. My father corrected her and said I was never his eye’s Twinkie but its apple with which he baked forbidden pie. On another occasion, he sat me down to tell me the story of the early birds and the busy bees. I remember squirming at the plight of the worms as the birds dug them up from their holes while the bees busily injected them with their poison. The worms swelled until they exploded like frenzied car-bombers, and aluminum shards littered the landscapes of unwitting lives like those of my parents. I felt just terrible.
After getting some integrative counseling, I again felt ready to face the world. I ceased to ask my parents for explanations of my origins and instead majored in cellular biology. I learned a lot in that program, about both my cells and yours. I remember, for instance, when we scraped some of the skin from your scalp and looked at it under the microscope. We observed the organisms that lived in your tissue and remarked at how well they all seemed to get on. You said it reminded you of your childhood home in St. Paul and the symbiosis of the relationships displayed therein. When, however, we scraped my head, it was an altogether different story. Do you remember the discord, the dissonance, the disarray? A tear fell from your eye, so we quickly scooped it onto the glass slide for examination. We observed with wonder at how everything seemed to coalesce so harmoniously. The fluid from your eye was like a cleansing flood that swept away the obstreperous players from the stage of my head-tissue, while a quiet, satisfying resolution pervaded the set. The smiles that ornamented the remaining organisms’ visages were something to behold. I took your hand and you didn’t withdraw it. We pledged even then we would never tell our children they were an “oops,” or an auto accident, or a Hostess product. To the contrary, they would be nothing less sublime than the tinkle from your eye.
- - -
Troy Manning is a graduate of Westminster Seminary California. He has recently been taking literature classes at Cal State University, San Marcos where his stories "Edgar's Telegram" and "Head Knowledge" have been published in the creative writing program's Cat Ate My Chapbook and the Spring 2010 issue of Oh, Cat!
By Troy Manning
According to my parents, I wasn’t exactly an “oops” and I wasn’t exactly planned. Much of my life has since been an exercise in trying to understand what they meant. But as each direct query to their meaning only met with even more cryptic responses, my tactics have become more experimental in nature. I recall one instance when my mother told me that I was once a Twinkie in my father’s eye. My father corrected her and said I was never his eye’s Twinkie but its apple with which he baked forbidden pie. On another occasion, he sat me down to tell me the story of the early birds and the busy bees. I remember squirming at the plight of the worms as the birds dug them up from their holes while the bees busily injected them with their poison. The worms swelled until they exploded like frenzied car-bombers, and aluminum shards littered the landscapes of unwitting lives like those of my parents. I felt just terrible.
After getting some integrative counseling, I again felt ready to face the world. I ceased to ask my parents for explanations of my origins and instead majored in cellular biology. I learned a lot in that program, about both my cells and yours. I remember, for instance, when we scraped some of the skin from your scalp and looked at it under the microscope. We observed the organisms that lived in your tissue and remarked at how well they all seemed to get on. You said it reminded you of your childhood home in St. Paul and the symbiosis of the relationships displayed therein. When, however, we scraped my head, it was an altogether different story. Do you remember the discord, the dissonance, the disarray? A tear fell from your eye, so we quickly scooped it onto the glass slide for examination. We observed with wonder at how everything seemed to coalesce so harmoniously. The fluid from your eye was like a cleansing flood that swept away the obstreperous players from the stage of my head-tissue, while a quiet, satisfying resolution pervaded the set. The smiles that ornamented the remaining organisms’ visages were something to behold. I took your hand and you didn’t withdraw it. We pledged even then we would never tell our children they were an “oops,” or an auto accident, or a Hostess product. To the contrary, they would be nothing less sublime than the tinkle from your eye.
- - -
Troy Manning is a graduate of Westminster Seminary California. He has recently been taking literature classes at Cal State University, San Marcos where his stories "Edgar's Telegram" and "Head Knowledge" have been published in the creative writing program's Cat Ate My Chapbook and the Spring 2010 issue of Oh, Cat!
Monday, November 29, 2010
11/29/10
Hell Yes
By Amanda Firefox
I proposed to her three times. The first time, it was night. We were in bed. She was worried, scared. The words tumbled from my mouth. “I love you so much I can’t help but want to marry you.” Silence flooded into our minds, a tension. “Will you marry me?”
And her words: “Yes. Hell yes.”
The second time, it was mid day. I had a ring, too big for her but still meaningful. I got down on one knee. She blushed. The words tumbled from my mouth “Will you marry me?”
And her words: “Yes. Hell yes.”
The third time, it was morning. I had the ring, our ring, black hills gold with diamonds, an heirloom trubute to the women of my family. I kissed her, gently took her hand in mine and slipped the ring onto her finger. Tears played at the edges of her eyes as I smiled, met her gaze.
“I love you.” The words came firm, bright. “Marry me.”
Her words:
“Shut up, you stupid bastard, and kiss me.”
“Of course I’ll marry you.”
- - -
Amanda Firefox is a fiery little brunette who spends as much time at the beach as she can manage. She doesn't write much, but when she writes, it's almost always about her favorite subject: boys.
By Amanda Firefox
I proposed to her three times. The first time, it was night. We were in bed. She was worried, scared. The words tumbled from my mouth. “I love you so much I can’t help but want to marry you.” Silence flooded into our minds, a tension. “Will you marry me?”
And her words: “Yes. Hell yes.”
The second time, it was mid day. I had a ring, too big for her but still meaningful. I got down on one knee. She blushed. The words tumbled from my mouth “Will you marry me?”
And her words: “Yes. Hell yes.”
The third time, it was morning. I had the ring, our ring, black hills gold with diamonds, an heirloom trubute to the women of my family. I kissed her, gently took her hand in mine and slipped the ring onto her finger. Tears played at the edges of her eyes as I smiled, met her gaze.
“I love you.” The words came firm, bright. “Marry me.”
Her words:
“Shut up, you stupid bastard, and kiss me.”
“Of course I’ll marry you.”
- - -
Amanda Firefox is a fiery little brunette who spends as much time at the beach as she can manage. She doesn't write much, but when she writes, it's almost always about her favorite subject: boys.
Sunday, November 28, 2010
11/28/10
Meat Market
By Kenneth Morris
Smoky Voice
Thighs like prime cuts
Of steak
Sweet Hams
Marbled
Rich and dark
Smooth
Her curves
Supple
Generous
She makes my mouth water
She makes me want
her.
- - -
Kenneth Morris lives life like a weekend.
By Kenneth Morris
Smoky Voice
Thighs like prime cuts
Of steak
Sweet Hams
Marbled
Rich and dark
Smooth
Her curves
Supple
Generous
She makes my mouth water
She makes me want
her.
- - -
Kenneth Morris lives life like a weekend.
Saturday, November 27, 2010
11/27/10
Silence
By Ciara Livingston
Your silence draws me in
Bound to a tepid embrace
Urging your words
To boil over the surface
Burst into flame
Delicate and soft as the fabrics
Of a well worn blanket
We huddle in our comforts
- - -
Ciara is a 20 year old student who likes to write when her emotions are the strongest. She has been writing ever since she could hold a pen in her hand.
By Ciara Livingston
Your silence draws me in
Bound to a tepid embrace
Urging your words
To boil over the surface
Burst into flame
Delicate and soft as the fabrics
Of a well worn blanket
We huddle in our comforts
- - -
Ciara is a 20 year old student who likes to write when her emotions are the strongest. She has been writing ever since she could hold a pen in her hand.
Friday, November 26, 2010
11/26/10
An Almond Flavoured Chance
By Ryan Avery
I vaulted up these stairs. Slipping and sliding to the top. Skinned knees and hasty apologies apparent upon first glance. Words came spilling out of me as fast as thoughts could flow. Your hard shell melted away. The door slowly changed from showing a crack to open wide. A smile and a hug later, you finally led me inside.
The coffee steamed in contrast to the snow out the window. We sat quietly listening to British radio in the kitchen. Truths dealt out on the table. No more secrets.
The white knuckles surrounding my cupful of sensibility slowly gained colour. Your voice flowed smooth and soon I had completely relaxed. Let's hope the second time around we'll do things right.
- - -
I live in the north woods of Michigan without any idea of who I am or where I'm going. I spend my days drinking hot chocolate, listening to music and watching the clouds sail overhead. When I have nothing better to do I attend classes for an engineering degree.
By Ryan Avery
I vaulted up these stairs. Slipping and sliding to the top. Skinned knees and hasty apologies apparent upon first glance. Words came spilling out of me as fast as thoughts could flow. Your hard shell melted away. The door slowly changed from showing a crack to open wide. A smile and a hug later, you finally led me inside.
The coffee steamed in contrast to the snow out the window. We sat quietly listening to British radio in the kitchen. Truths dealt out on the table. No more secrets.
The white knuckles surrounding my cupful of sensibility slowly gained colour. Your voice flowed smooth and soon I had completely relaxed. Let's hope the second time around we'll do things right.
- - -
I live in the north woods of Michigan without any idea of who I am or where I'm going. I spend my days drinking hot chocolate, listening to music and watching the clouds sail overhead. When I have nothing better to do I attend classes for an engineering degree.
Thursday, November 25, 2010
11/25/10
Time Passes
By Neeti Vashi
Time passes
But it doesn’t change a thing.
Your face is still vivid in my memory
Your voice, the sweetest melody
It’s a shame you don’t realize
That you’re all I need.
The feelings still present,
Though marked with scribbles of hate,
The penmanship deeply engraved.
Forgive me
For wanting you,
For believing the words that linger around your lips
Because it’s ending and it’s over
All at the same time
We grow and we lessen
In this exact routine
We’re in the same place we started
I know this because
I’m falling
And the only one I’ll allow to catch me is you
And I’ve been crawling
Through broken glass to get to you
And though the wounds on my palms may never heal,
I know that
Your arms are waiting to catch me.
- - -
I'm an 18 year old university student studying science. I love writing - have been doing it for as long as I can remember - and use it as an outlet for the emotions that don't carry out as well through speech. Hope you enjoy this piece! :)
By Neeti Vashi
Time passes
But it doesn’t change a thing.
Your face is still vivid in my memory
Your voice, the sweetest melody
It’s a shame you don’t realize
That you’re all I need.
The feelings still present,
Though marked with scribbles of hate,
The penmanship deeply engraved.
Forgive me
For wanting you,
For believing the words that linger around your lips
Because it’s ending and it’s over
All at the same time
We grow and we lessen
In this exact routine
We’re in the same place we started
I know this because
I’m falling
And the only one I’ll allow to catch me is you
And I’ve been crawling
Through broken glass to get to you
And though the wounds on my palms may never heal,
I know that
Your arms are waiting to catch me.
- - -
I'm an 18 year old university student studying science. I love writing - have been doing it for as long as I can remember - and use it as an outlet for the emotions that don't carry out as well through speech. Hope you enjoy this piece! :)
Wednesday, November 24, 2010
11/24/10
Madly In Love
By Janet Robinson
Dear Ida,
Last night was an incredible night.
The mothership came and whisked me away.
We made a pitstop at Pluto
And picked flowers with unicorns on Jupiter.
I met a much of little men with green skin.
(They told me they knew you and missed you as much as I do.)
But our meeting was cut short by socks
(Evil socks)
Bent on world domination.
Thank god for Gunter.
If it hadn’t been for his rainbow-shooting axe
We all surely would have died.
After that, we went back home and had tea in the bathtub
Of the eighth dimension.
It was a wonderful time.
Hugs and kisses,
(Wish you were here)
Love you always
- - John
P.S. Tell the guards at your asylum that I said “hi.”
- - -
Janet Robinson teaches special ed and campaigns for gay rights in her hometown of Loup City Nebraska.
By Janet Robinson
Dear Ida,
Last night was an incredible night.
The mothership came and whisked me away.
We made a pitstop at Pluto
And picked flowers with unicorns on Jupiter.
I met a much of little men with green skin.
(They told me they knew you and missed you as much as I do.)
But our meeting was cut short by socks
(Evil socks)
Bent on world domination.
Thank god for Gunter.
If it hadn’t been for his rainbow-shooting axe
We all surely would have died.
After that, we went back home and had tea in the bathtub
Of the eighth dimension.
It was a wonderful time.
Hugs and kisses,
(Wish you were here)
Love you always
- - John
P.S. Tell the guards at your asylum that I said “hi.”
- - -
Janet Robinson teaches special ed and campaigns for gay rights in her hometown of Loup City Nebraska.
