4/30/10

Calico Eyes
By Sergio A. Ortiz


He gave her a hot-oily stare
soon as he realized someone else
could dream about her.

What if they changed the shade
of her copper skin, or if her eyes
were no longer calico?

What if she followed that man
to the movies and flipped
her phone number into his hand
just to watch the leaf storm

wade around his body?
What if she wanted to touch,
touch and lift him with her copper
right there… in the dream?


- - -
Ortiz is an educator, poet, and photographer. He has a B.A. in English literature from Inter-American University, and a M.A. in philosophy from World University. His photographs will appear in The Neglected Ration and The Monongahela Review. He was recently published, or is forthcoming in: The Battered Suitcase, Zygote in my Coffee, Right Hand Pointing, Poui: Cave Hill Journal of Creative Writing, Writers’ Bloc, and Temenos. Flutter Press published his chapbook, At the Tail End of Dusk (2009).

4/29/10

Fire-eyes
by Lena Judith Drake


You drive me crazy, you drive me crazy,
little soft-eyes, brown eyes, fire-eyes,
direct intensity,
or nonconnectivity.
Reckless smiles and reckless words.

Little pushes, little shoves,
you confuse me, turn me around, a swirling skirt;
I'm half-hurt and half-grinning, inside and out
leave me laughing and stinging
like giddy acid rain.
And you can merge with my hips.
And you can merge with my broken-glass hips.


- - -
Bio: Lena Judith Drake is the editor-in-chief of Breadcrumb Scabs magazine. She is a Creative Writing and Women & Gender Studies double major at Grand Valley State University.

4/28/10

"the chances of reproduction were harmed by EMFs, you concluded."
By Steve McGouldrick


I arrived at
your house
sporting a corduroy jacket
and pit stains,
welcomed
by a weary dog and
your own
curbed enthusiasm.

You let me in,
removed your sweater,
took me to your
parents’ closet
and showed me
how to mate
amphipods.

We spent hours
over those
unfertilized eggs
bumping shoulders,
rocking in your bed,
half buried in
fabric softener perfume.

By the fireplace
you summarized
that the chances of
reproduction were
harmed by EMFs.
Your
experiment
was kind
of a success.

It was raining
when you wrapped
me in a loose grip
goodbye, and
you were shivering.

I think you watched
from your kitchen window
as i tuned the radio
to some south Jersey
accents
and waited for
the engine to turn.


- - -
A native of the Pittsburgh area, my work has most recently found a home at Writers' Bloc and a JC Penny's changing room wall. I spend an inordinate amount of time critiquing local high school musicals, and blog at jwcharmer.blogspot.com.

4/27/10

The Waiting Game
By Liza Larregui


I stared at the phone, waiting for it to ring. I knew that Bobby Crane was going to call me. He said he would and why would he lie? I picked up the handset and brought it with me around the house so that I could do some chores while waiting. As I did the dishes, I realized my hands were very wet and soapy. What if he were to call? I couldn’t answer the phone and risk my slippery hands dropping it. I turned the water off, wiped my hands dry and stood near the counter. My eyes were drawn back to the phone. I couldn’t help it. I thought maybe if I wished it hard enough, he would call. Just as I wished away, the phone rang. Surprised and nervous, I almost dropped the phone while trying to answer it.


“Hello?” I said, in my sexiest, deep voice.


“Hi, Tina, it’s your mother. Would you be able to do me a favor? Your father --”


“Ma, I can’t. I’m waiting for a phone call. Can I call you back?” I answered, frustrated that I was possibly missing his call.


“Don’t you have call waiting?”


“Ma, I can’t take the chance that it doesn’t work. I will call you back. I love you.” I clicked the off button, hoping I didn’t insult my mother too much.


I figured I would give Bobby another hour. After that hour, I would just have to accept that he didn’t like me as much as I thought he did.


***


Five hours later, I decided that maybe he wasn’t really going to call. Because I had done nothing all day while I waited, there was a lot to do around my house. Though Bobby peeked in and out of my head every few minutes, my heart was no longer concentrated on him. The need to clean my house outweighed the need to dwell on the fact I was a twenty-seven year old single loser.


About an hour into my cleaning binge, the phone rang.


“Hello?” I answered, thinking it was probably my mother who I forgot to call back.


“Hi, Tina, it’s Bobby. How are you?” I gasped when I heard it was him and I only hoped he did not hear me.


“Bobby, hi. I’m good. What’s up?” I asked nonchalantly.


“Not much, I just called to ... umm... see if you wanted to hang out tonight?”


“I’d love to. I was actually going to dinner with friends but I don’t think they would mind if I skipped out on the girl talk tonight.” A lie never hurt anyone, I thought. I wanted him to think I had a life outside of waiting for him to ask me out.


“Are you sure they won’t hate me?” He asked with a nervous chuckle.


“No, they’ll be fine. Pick me up at 8?”


“Sure thing. Can’t wait.” He said.


And neither could I.


- - -
Liza Larregui has been writing since she learned how to use a typewriter at the age of five. Only recently has she decided to submit her work for publishing. She lives in NYC with her husband and her MacBook.

4/26/10

Waiting For That Strong Woman
By John Ogden


Calidae, sweet Calidae
I have built us a home.
The meal is cooked and warm yet,
The wood is cut, the hearth hot,
The fire built, stoked.

Put down your hammer, sweet Calidae
Set aside your swords, your armor
Just for a moment, just long enough
For me to kiss you,
To show the woman I love
Just how much
She and her trade mean
To me.


- - -
John Ogden was conceived of a government form and a passing mailbox. He lives somewhere out in the woods of a rural land more akin to the fantasy realms of literature than real life, and his favorite dirt bikes will always be the broken ones.

4/25/10

Only If
By Lee Minh Sloca


It’s nearing an endearing night with Maya. My heart leaps into beats as talk is marked by smallness of our walk that stalls at her front door. Old nervous feeling reels into realness of ‘what do I do now?’ But how will goodnight play past a lifetime of politeness? A warm swami handshake? A bubbly crushing hug? Or a lingering, singing kiss? And if ‘tis be a kiss, what lips that do not speak of this:

Heaven is overwroth by unending cost of lost kisses; since it is the first, good kiss that leads to a second date - more dates lead to long nights - longer nights lead to being serious - being deadly serious leads to being a couple - being an old couple leads to wearing each others’ underwear - each others’ pink underwear leads to prenuptial agreement - yuppy prenuptial agreement can lead to marriage - a shotgun marriage can lead to children - grown children lead to them having their own children.

ERGO, my grand children will never exist if I don’t get this first biblical kiss right.

¡Woe-man is ME!

What kind of a first kiss that she can never miss: a wet tonsillectomy, a frenchy hippie, a sugarcoated wrestle, a licky-slob lock spit, or a tongued sushi?

What kind of a lipsmacker does she quack for? Will my pucker pack a wallop or just slobbery flip-flop? Will my chivalry quiver her to crying for more or just crying? Will my true be stupendous, playful, plain or just plain forgetful? Will my moves ooze her into melting butter or just a prune-lip prude?

What smooching style does she sigh for? Can I wrap my manly strength around her mane, close enough to hold, caress her space, stroke her spoken woes, and dally playfully in her stay? Or should I just close my nose and play pin the sperm whale on her sail?

When we are mucked in sucking face, is she a feminist? If she is, will she be shaken and stirred by me making the first move? Or the only way that she will flirt is I’m the one who’s wearing the mini leather skirt?

Crab ass, I’m such a spazz. Which pre-dating shoes is a clue for kissy-poo? Go slow tango - fanny-a-fanny? Or just purchase some girly time at the nudie bar? Which, of course, will land me on the “Never date this guy, and for god’s sake, don’t kiss him!” of the female bathroom’s stall of shame.

Then, BAM! I walk straight into Maya’s front door.

Her girly highness giggles then snickers, “Let’s just KISS.”

Flustered, I muster back, “W.W.W.what?”

Her lips coyly moist, “Silly chili, you know. K-I-S-S, Keep It Simple, Stupid!”

I play along, LIPRAGEOUSLY, and make it safe, all the way down home.

- - -
Lee Minh Sloca escaped Vietnam two weeks prior to its collapse. After college, he worked for 14 years with special needs children. After campaigning for Obama in the ’08 election, he is currently seeking works that will align with the President’s philosophy of community. Lee lives in Los Angeles, CA.

4/24/10

Love At World’s Edge
By Amanda Firefox


“Jeriah.” I whispered, but the sound fell on ears that refused to hear. “Please.”

“You don’t know what you’re saying.” He shook his head, bared too-sharp teeth, teeth that held the promise I was looking for. Please. Behind him, the portal shimmered seductively. “You have a life here, a life now.”

“It doesn’t matter.” I put on my bravest face. “I love you, Jeriah. I want to be with you forever.”

“If I take you with me, if you enter into the layer of the Worldream,” He hesitated on a breath, caught somewhere between concern and fear. “You will become one of us. You will never be able to return, you’ll never see your family again.”

“I know.” I reached out, traced the line of his cheek, wanting suddenly to kiss him, to be kissed, to be wanted, needed, whisked off through the portal and into the lands, the worlds between worlds where Jeriah and the others like him wove magicks into the fabric of all the realities that bind and flow through the collective universe. It didn’t matter the cost, it didn’t matter what I had to give up, my time, my world, my family, my existence. . . all that mattered was Jeriah, my love for him.

“Only the dead can enter the Worldream.” He whispered, and I closed my eyes, because I knew and it didn’t matter. Only the bite can save me. Jeriah’s bite.

“I’m ready.” I said softly, gently craning my neck to the side, taking a deep breath as he hesitated. “A life without you is no life at all.”


- - -
Amanda Firefox is a fiery little blue-eyed 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.

4/23/10

In The Laboratory, At Lunchtime
By Sam Smith


They had long planned to make love as the sun went nova. They were the last
inhabitants of a minor planet that spun around an equally minor star, one
of the more far-flung outposts of the interstellar colonial explosion
following the discovery of the Tannhauser Gate. They had never been
together before and the stakes were high. They were Alex, an astrophysicist
of dubious significance who had volunteered to stay behind and continue to
gather data about the dying star, who was happy to have found something
larger than himself, who sometimes drifted to the thought that it wasn't
all that hard to do. They were Ethyl, a cafeteria worker at the laboratory
of assured insignificance, who had no reason to stay, who was nevertheless
stricken with a boundless love for theatrics. She had even taken his hand
in hers as the last rocket burned away.

In the laboratory, at lunchtime, they had often been near each other if
never close. Oftentimes they smiled at each other, but one or both of them
had oftentimes been many miles away. When they were both present in mind
the smiling was heartfelt, even if quickly ended by a glance flickered down
towards the synthetic pork chops. As a matter of fact, it was the highlight
of Alex's day, unless he was having a particularly good one.

Ethyl knew she was good-looking and knew that Alex knew it, too. She
thought he was good-looking, too, for an astrophysicist, if you were
looking for it. But she had always liked abundantly available men.

All necessary data had been gathered. The first kiss was hesitant, both
half-waiting for the other to back away. Neither did, and the first kiss
quickly broke for a gasp. Then a giggle, and eyes on eyes, and Alex's arms
strengthened around Ethyl's waist. The second kiss impressed them both.

On an empty planet the sexual possibilities were endless. It had been the
subject of much halting conversation. Alex's room at the laboratory was
cramped, unimaginative besides. Ethyl's apartment was dirty--cleaning was
too powerful a metaphor for swiftly approaching existentialism--and also
unimaginative. For a period of five days they had been set on a beach by a
blue stretch of ocean, but Ethyl reluctantly admitted that while she had
never had sex on a beach she had heard bad things from friends, mostly
about the sand. Alex's few friends didn't discuss the same things as
Ethyl's friends, but it made a lot of sense after he heard it.

An expensive hotel room, the honeymoon suite, high above the planet's
largest city. Speed of transit was not an issue at this stage of
technology, but it would have been a long walk. Further than Alex would
travel for sex in ordinary circumstances, a considerable unit of distance
in its own right. Ethyl's eyes were closed but Alex's were open--even while
kissing the world without his glasses was too frightening to shut out
completely--and low candlelight played foggily at the corners. Cool gold
champagne warmed both of them, because even in the far future it was the
sort of thing that didn't go out of style (and as Ethyl's nails dug softly
into his back and she let a contented sigh, Alex knew that this was the
same sort of thing). Over Ethyl's bare shoulder, out the fine window, the
apocalyptic clock flung itself towards zero.

Built skyscraper tall towards the horizon, the clock was the work of a
billionaire who became very eccentric after Directive Nova. Millions
complained, of course, but man's desire for private property could overcome
even an exploding star. It measured the exact time until the sun engulfed
the planet, cut to the millionth of a second, perhaps to try and stave off
eternity by folding it over and over again. That was the optimist view. The
pessimists, the untouchable majority, felt taunted by it. A few were killed
in skirmishes centered around its destruction until both factions agreed on
a mutual futility. In reality, most could not begin to read it, being
nothing but a fantastic set of whirring numbers so vast as to nearly curl
around one's head from the right angle. Trained men could decipher its
cobwebs of patters and algorithms, and even up until the last days anyone
stuck around different schools of thought were being hypothesized, debated,
and debunked. Alex was very well trained and could read as far into it as
his far above average comprehension would allow. Whether that made the sex
better or worse depends on who is telling the story.

Ethyl made enough acquaintances to become a part of the emergent Going Away
Party culture, which spanned the range from benders to backyard cookouts to
white tablecloth dinners. A young woman among young women, she attended an
array of house parties that all left her in a shrinking room as couples or
triples would split off to sneak in final consummation before the rockets
flung them starwards again. But she played along, even held one of her own,
and didn't even grimace when she bought far too much liquor for the final
number in attendance, tossing her hair as guest after guest begged out
early, promising to see her somewhere in the surrounding solar systems.
When it was done she didn't clean, and that is why she told Alex her
apartment was too dirty.

Alex bought quite a bit of liquor as well, and spent a bizarrely happy week
and a half consuming it in the company of his dog, who was then sent away
in the custody of cousins.

They tumbled onto the bed, skin prickling against skin. Ethyl's thighs
warmed Alex's waist as his fingers pressed tenderly into champagne-goldened
flesh. Towering above the streets, which could have been teeming with life
and still invisible from the height of the bed, his lips wandered, chasing
moans. For a moment, if anybody had been listening, the entire planet would
have emitted nothing more than sighs and ragged breath.

The way Ethyl's lips found his bottom lip, biting, sucking it in, made him
feel wanted. When a particular breath burned his ear, part of a larger
whole. Ethyl found the same in his little imperfections, a grip too tight,
or a kiss too rough. Rolling her, he could again see the clock. Without his
glasses, however, the numbers were fuzzy, illegible, but not frightening
with her lips cushioned against his neck. Her smile, heartfelt, was far
more interesting.

As she smiled he smiled. He wondered how little he cared about all things,
how far they were from him, and how the fire was racing silently through
the great void. These came in fragments, and in rhythm. His fingers took
their natural shape on an arched back. The world sank further into the
place of their meeting, seething, until something that seemed endless, very
close but in reality very far away, incinerated all thought.


- - -

4/22/10

Oaths Out of Darkness
By John Ogden


Thin and wispy, with a form and frame so tall yet light that she appeared almost emaciated, she had soft, silky and unblemished skin that was a shade away from pale and contrasted sharply with her short, midnight-black hair. She stood in the hallway, two others behind her and on either side, impartial and with eyes fixed absently ahead, stared at me, deep and beautiful dark eyes full of sadness.

“But I am one of you!” I yelled, more at the two shadowy figures behind her than at her. “I’ve proved that already! The only difference is my loyalty to the light!”The sadness of her expression intensified slightly.

“Do you feel it?” she asked, almost forcing the words out through the pain. God I loved her, and it took every ounce of strength to keep myself from running to her and pulling her into a tight embrace. I wanted her, again. I wanted what we had shared, and I wanted it now. To make sweet love, to taste her soft skin, and run my tongue along the nape of her neck... again, just before that gentle nip, where incisors gently and lovingly pierced the skin and slowly siphoned off a stream of the sweet blood beneath.

“A slight tingling in your throat?” She continued, shaking me from my thoughts. “The barest traces of a headache?”

Worried, though I tried to hide it, I nodded. I was feeling these things, and it had gotten worse.
I could see her eyes moisten slightly as she swallowed and continued, slowly turning over her left arm and gently pushing it into my view. A large, lightly stained conglomeration of gauss and bandages sat snugly on her wrist. The need to hold her intensified as I realized... She had tried to cut herself.

“I... I was injected with a poison, a blood-borne toxin that stays strong in the veins of a person for nearly a week. It has no effect on my kind, on vampires, but humans...” She choked back her tears and gently touched the bandages. “When I found out I had poisoned you, with my own blood, I tried to empty myself, to end my life by draining every last ounce of blood from my body, but...”
She looked to the floor for a moment, then her dark eyes fastened on mine again.

“Tsara?” I asked. “Is there an antidote?”

When her eyes met mine, they were red and moist -gentle tracks of tears traced their way down her cheeks, and it was a moment before she responded.

“Only one.” She spoke quietly. “And it hurts me to think of it.”

“Tsara, please-“

She looked away.

“I must...” her eyes swung back to mine. “The kiss... it is the only way. You must swear to serve the shadow here and now, and I will share the gift of undeath with you.” she looked away again. “I’m sorry, it is the only way.”

God I wanted to hold her, and yet, I wanted so much more.

“Tsara, come with me.”

That surprised her. She fixed me with a gaze that spoke of intensity, of that strong soul within her that I had loved since the moment I had first spoken to her.

“What... What do you mean?”

I made a quick gesture with my hand.

“Forsake your oaths to the shadow, Tsara!” my hand went forward, ready to receive her soft, cool-to-the-touch palms. “We can still be together, forever, without serving the shadow.”

She looked longingly at my hand, then allowed her gaze to meet mine again.

“I wish... I wish it were possible,” She looked away again. “A thousand innocents will die every day for as long as we are gone if we try.” She closed her eyes tightly, and another tear ran down her face. “A thousand more when we are finally caught.”

The tingling and the headache had gotten worse, and it was everything I could do to keep from shaking, much less running to Tsara, even though I knew I’d likely be struck dead before I had reached her.

I wanted to decline, god I wanted to decline, but I loved her, and the last thing I wanted to do was to hurt her. I wanted to spend an eternity with her, and I was willing to give up my humanity, my very mortality for it, but the oaths to the shadow were not meaningless, they were binding, and crippled those who went against them. But Tsara was good-hearted. She had managed to work within the boundaries of the oaths without succumbing to evil, and it was this that decided me.

“Tsara...” Our eyes met, and it was if our souls touched for a moment. She already knew, inside, what I had chosen. We both knew that I was too much of a romanticist and too stubborn to give up the love of my life when there was still a way, no matter how detestable or vile, to stay with her.


- - -
John Ogden was conceived of a government form and a passing mailbox. He lives somewhere out in the woods of a rural land more akin to the fantasy realms of literature than real life, and his favorite dirt bikes will always be the broken ones.

4/21/10

WHERE HAS THE ROMANCE GONE?
By Mike Berger, PhD


They are a riot, my Friday night
poker friends. Six ponchy men
playing five card draw and drinking
Bud.
They end up talking the same old
thing, "Where has the romance gone?"
They complained that the 120 pound girl
they married now has her jeans made at
the tent and awaning shop
They say they've developed a roving eye,
the twenty year itch. They are taken to their
blonde secretary. If nothing more, they talk
a good game.
These guys haven't a clue. They have a
a good woman why would they look for
more? I wonder when they last brought
their wife roses, or spent a night out
without the kids. The spark dies out
when you fail to tell her that you love
her and pat her on the fanny. Do they
talk about things other than money?
Where has the romance gone? I'll tell
you; go look in the mirror.


- - -
Mike Berger, PhD is
bright, articulate,
handsome, and
extremely humble

4/20/10

Goddess of the Gate
By G.F. Rundle


When Zera touched my cheek, I could not help but cry. I knew that this would be our final kiss, our words here the last we would share.

“I’ll miss you,” she said, and as the gateway to the spirit world behind her flexed with cold malice, I almost believed her. Almost. the look on her face was sad, tired.

“Don’t think about me, Galen.” She tried, laughing a little at herself. “This is a one way trip. I won’t be coming back.” She smiled softly. “Don’t waste your years crying over a phantom. Just pretend that I never existed.”

“Okay.” I lied, and she could see it in the tears as they slid from my eyes. “I will.”

“No, you won’t, but its okay.” She smiled again. “The pain will fade as you get older, build a family, make new friends and new enemies.” She brushed an edge of hair out of my eyes, smiled, and then she was gone, and where she had stood, only a cracked and empty altar waited, a gentle breeze playing with the husks of dead leaves.

In the silence, I swallowed, resolved from that point forward to remember her, to tell others about her, and to pray to her for guidance whenever the path ahead seemed unclear.


- - -
G.F. Rundle teaches at an elementary school in a rural mountain community and has been called both “cute” and “sexy” by passing motorists. His middle name is the same as a German town that a lot of people don’t initially believe exists until they see photos of the welcome sign.

4/19/10

The Three of Us Cannot Go On
By Kyle Hemmings


There. It’s over. She stands over their closed caskets, side to side. Elsie, with her black veil and blue eyes from the bottom of the North Sea, is too numb to make sense out of any of it. After all, it was love or some misshapen arrangement of it, wasn’t it? She, the sole survivor and the real loser, wishes to lie between them. Her British lover from MI6, Michael, and her husband, Otto, the notorious ex-Nazi, who British Intelligence had labeled as “Chameleon.” It is a day of low scuttling clouds that steal her breath.

In her black dress, she does not quiver. She works up a slow perfunctory smile, the lips pressed tight. Such control. She now thinks of escaping to a cold climate, where the whiteness of her lies will be replaced by the whiteness of snow. She wants Norway. There, she will invent a new identity and a new history. But for now, where she stands, still as a sculpture of glass, with her auburn hair that once took in the sun, she is nowhere near the North Sea.

It is Costa del Sol, a place redolent with apple carts and winding mountain roads, the rich and the jet set, in love with reflections, in love with the thought of love. Soon, for Elsie, Costa del Sol will be the distant cry of a southern bird.

As a young girl growing up in West Berlin, Elsie had seen many movies. But the one behind her eyes is the best, spliced and leaping in absurd juxtapositions.

In some scenes, her husband is the director and she is the femme fatale actress, girlish and charming and so utterly flighty, luring loved-starved men, mostly British agents, young and poorly instructed, into an endless cobweb. Michael, an MI6 assassin, who was brilliant at setting up targets, is the victim. But in the end, everyone falls down.

As the men lower the caskets into the ground, Elsie thinks: The three of them. Weren’t they so magnificent with their tortuous schemes and their jaunty rides up the Axargrua? Or the way she’d seduce Michael in a dusty room of some white-washed castle, peeling off her clothes with the unceremonious innocence of a madwoman making tea for no one. Didn’t their love rise high above the grape yards and the orange groves? Oh, Michael.

The film runs and loops. A different time. A young girl, homeless on the streets of Berlin. Women tear at each other for pieces of bread. Elsie has lost her family in an air raid. Sensing the stranger following her, she turns. Frightened, but offering friendship, she says, “Sehen Sie meine Puppe, Herr?” See my doll, mister? She’s as hungry as me.

He is towering. She is powerless. His face softens, the lips offer an ironic smile. His eyes talk. They say,” I will feed you. I will be your new father.”

She follows him home. She never leaves.

Years pass. They are constantly on the run and he invents new names. He makes her his princess, sends her to private schools. She is tall and beautiful. She can walk and sit poised like a model. He sees business possibilities. She can lure British and American agents. Then, he marries his own creation. He is now the most powerful man in the world--he makes love to his own creation.

She feeds agents the elusive bread of her body. They drown in a sea of her. When Otto tells them, they have killed a defecting Russian scientist, or a misidentified agent, they realize it’s a trap. Too late. He gives them an ultimatum: either work for me, or this information goes public. In Costa del Sol, Otto passes himself off as a wealthy Hungarian businessman. He pays off the police. He builds a whole network of ex-Nazis and young misinformed British and American agents. With some, they suddenly go missing. And Michael. He is tricked into killing a Russian defector at an opera house.

The film goes fuzzy, then, a close-up of Michael’s breathless face, his bare torso. He runs towards her on the beach, grabs her hands. Look, he says, lets run to Morocco. Tarfilalt. A place where there is nothing but sand.

He sees her limp smile, a look he has noted in so many photos of double agents.

My husband, she says.

The three of us cannot, he says.

The film fast forwards. She storms into Otto’s den. Her fingers shake. “If you touch one hair on his head,” and she stammers. “I swear I’ll leave you.”

Otto rises. Smiles. Smug. “You cannot leave me,” he says, “Blut ist Starker als Wasser.” Blood is thicker than water. His smile turns to water. “Have I really lost you?” he says. She trembles and begins to cry. She runs from the room.

In the backyard, she doubles over, feels nauseous. She takes slow steps towards the man-made brook. Her stomach feels like a fist.

In the top drawer of the desk, he keeps a luger. She looks down at the brook. The gun raises, cocked at his head. She looks down. Michael’s eyes at the bottom of the brook. Staring up at the sky that is an endless moor. She turns. Screams. The sound of the gun. A shot around the world. Hers. Otto slumps over. Leaves a pool of red lifeline no longer. She screams at the sky. An endless unnerving shriek.

On the plane, she holds a book of Norwegian phrases. She will settle in a small fishing village near the Hardengerfjord. When old woman ask her why a beautiful young girl like her is not married, she will say she is not ready. She will grow old in that fishing village. She will sleep alone at night. In middle age, she will write her memoirs. On the first page, it will read: “I had the luxury of loving so many men. But there are only two whose faces I still sleep with. . .”


- - -
Kyle Hemmings lives and works and plays in New Jersey.

4/18/10

Hide and Seek
By BJ Austin


As he watched her search for her keys he realized he loved her. He was so thankful he found a place with her to be. He had tried staying many other places, with many other women, but none of were like her. God knew she worked hard, looked after her grandmother and a disabled young man, took care of her house herself and with all that she never complained, much. The fact that she was so busy made it perfect for him to be here, but even without those things, he wouldn’t have been anywhere else. He loved the way she sang when she hand washed the dishes. He loved to be in the yard when she worked. No matter how hot or cold or wet, she smiled and stopped often to admire a small flower, a bee, a bird, and the fact her garden tools were the same color of the grass gave a wealth of opportunity. It was pure joy, and she only cried when she was frustrated. He remembered the first time he made her cry and vowed it would never happen again. He had gone too far that time. He knew others, like himself, that enjoyed causing frustration and he had to admit he had, in the past, found enjoyment in it too, but not with her. For some reason causing her too much frustration just didn’t seem right. Of course he had to cause some frustration, that was his purpose in life, but she took it good naturedly and trusted it was as it was suppose to be.

He smiled as she looked for the third time in her purse for her keys, she still wasn’t upset and was, once again methodically going through all the places she had been the night before when she had last seen her keys. All the while she looked, she talked to herself, berated herself, and verbally affirmed they weren’t here, they weren’t there. She would put her hands on her hips, sigh, blow a puff of air up that would ruffle her bangs, and start the process all over again. He so enjoyed it, she never deviated from the systematic search and one eye was always on the clock so she wouldn’t be late for work. The office was a great place too. The misplaced keys, the paper she just had in her hand, the searching, he loved the searching, it was his whole existence.

He really admired her, no matter how many times it happened, she would strive to be more organized so it wouldn’t happen again, but of course it did, it had to, he would always make sure of that. He looked at the clock ticking it was getting close to the last few seconds before the time she absolutely had to leave. Now it was his time to do the save. He focused on her breath, the beat of her heart, each blink of her eye. With super speed, and stealth, he removed the keys from under the pillow where he had hidden them and dropped them gently in her purse, and as he brushed past he whispered a thought in her ear to check her purse again. Ah, the find! The relief! And off to work they went, him anticipating the upcoming search for the time card he had hidden under her keyboard.


- - -
Belinda Wright (BJ Austin) is a bookkeeper with very little time on her hands and a wealth of stories in her mind. She lives alone (?), loves to garden, hike, and is always up for an adventure.

4/17/10

Love’s Soliloquy
By Earl Wynn


Oh, if my heart were but an angel’s drum,
Or some other divine percussive to beat
The steady rhythm of your impassioned breath
Across my brow, my mouth, my throat, my chest,
And bring forth the very blossom of the new day,
Across your honey-sweet lips, oh love’s unrequited torture–
And if my hands could but caress and touch again,
Explore the lay of your every hill and dale again,
And run quick across the shiver strands of fine-spun gold
That grow secret in the sweet seclusion of your nape.
That scent– no, that sweet censor-drift of earthbound angels,
Drawn from the loving arms of heaven,
But paltry lepers beside your beauty,
Is peerless bliss,
Is the most divine waft that my soul could ever hunger for.
I would cross a thousand deserts,
Sail across a thousand oceans,
Breech the walls of a thousand fortresses,
And depose a thousand kings from a thousand rightful thrones
If only to see your seraphim eyes again,
If only to see you, and then even if only to part again at the end,
As your smile, fair lady, is far more glorious
Than any victory, any earthly possession,
That any man could ever hope to win or seize,
And it is but a small, small part of a greater you,
A facet in a form that is surely the artifice of angels,
For no child of man or god
Could ever hope to forge such a perfect being,
Given all the ages of time and all the tools
Of every sculptor, artist, poet, or blacksmith
To ever grace the green earth with his footsteps
Or meet the face of love naked as a babe at birth.


- - -

4/16/10

The Last Work of Pedro Torrez
By Mario Esquer


“The eyes are always the hardest to capture. . .” He bent over his easel and studied his inspiration.

He had gone from the cerulean blue penthouse studio he lived in down to muted shadows of the city to rescue her.

Left the secure world of his colors and canvas then descended into the writhing darkness of a metropolis in its death throes. He fought his way through the polychromatic riot of the panicking masses. All the way, always just a scant block ahead of the crimson tide of horror and death.

He had found her then, found his lover amongst her family in the affluent neighborhood of rouged brick and gray stones. It was the place he had been told all his life he was not good enough for, that the affluent and pastel colored angels did not smile upon the lowly such as he. A bright silken angel had noticed him however. Golden haired with azure eyes, the creamy marble–like goddess had noticed his passion for creating master works, works which displayed the tragedy and futility of living in a dark world full of sorrows.

She told him his paintings rivaled the masters. Yes, she had seen his passion, promoted it tirelessly around the art circles and highborn of which she was a member, and then, when he was recognized as a success, she fell to his passion, came to him in an affair for which her own people had rejected her. She feared that they, the sullen navy blue and slate gray suits of her father and betrothed who lorded in their ivory tower of money and position would not approve. She was proved right; they did not approve and together her shadowy captors conspired to forever keep the lovers separate.

As he arrived at her brownstone flat they were greedily loading her and their other possessions into their German made car, its chrome and metallic black paint no doubt headed to a waiting pristine white private jet which would wing them away to safety beyond the horizon. They planned to escape to the emerald of the Bahamas, perhaps, or the sage of the Azores. They tried to push him away as he approached, but he had risked his hands, lithe and delicate, stark in their dark completion-- the tools of his trade, to strike her captors and lift her willingly out of their coach. Together they escaped her world, down the charcoal colored side streets littered with discarded lives and livelihoods. The rainbows cast by the trinkets of the world being swallowed by the dead. The dead that walk, casting darkness before them.

The mauve and indigo faced monsters set upon them a few scant blocks after, and though they escaped with their lives, one had tasted the flesh of a fallen angel. The two lovers made it back to his towering, glittering high-rise, and now finally, with the moans of their demon subjects below them, they lorded over all alone.

“The eyes, the eyes…” he whispers to himself. "I must get the eyes right."

After a lifetime of capturing the crimson emotions and blues of the human soul on canvas; why was it was so damn hard to express the creature’s lack of any resemblance to the strikingly beautiful woman his lover had been. The opaque void which filled her dead gaze and violet traced rotting face had captured his artist's interest. Her lifelessly writhing frame was tied to the trellis railing. It presented him the greatest challenge of his life. Pedro mixed a little more acrylic white into the mottle of colors on his palate.

She, his lost seraph, his love Sarah, would be his alone, always, and his final, greatest, unpresented masterpiece. . .

- - -
A Teacher, student, who lives with his family in the 'burbs. Mario Esquer has an appreciation for most fictional genres which speak to mankind's desire for more than what is. Occasionally, he even creates a work himself. (Generally speaking he also does not tend to speak of himself in the third person.)

4/15/10

In A Field of Yellow Flowers
By Amanda Firefox


We met in a field of yellow flowers.

The air was sweet. Rain tickled down to the end of my nose, mingled with her tears as we smiled together. Hands reached, fingers touched, knitted, flexed. “I missed you,” she breathed. The words caught in my throat. How to tell her. How to tell her.

“Rianna, I. . .” I hesitated. Her eyes were so deep, so blue. “My father, he. . .”

“Shhh.” She put a gentle finger to my lips. “It doesn’t matter.”

And then we kissed,

And the moment seemed to stretch on forever.


- - -
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.

4/14/10

Emancipation
By Glenda Grande


This empty feeling consumes me from within,
Slowly drowning my heart in sweet sorrow.
The melancholic melody plays in the night
Every note so beautiful yet it tears me apart.
The tears I wish to cry remain within me,
Unable to escape my dungeon of a cage.

Who will be the one to save me from myself?
These dreams I envision are nothing but dreams;
What I wish for are only wishes made on the stars.
The love that I desire, will it be a desire unfulfilled?
My greatest dream, wish and desire: everlasting love.
Will there really be a prince who will love me as I am?

My fears and insecurities, both have me trapped,
Bounded against the stone cold walls of loneliness.
These healed scars reflect my memories of pain;
A love which I sought that was never meant to be.
Faith shattered; a heart frozen into icy waters.
Love like a burning candle is all I seek to warm me.

This empty feeling, I wish to banish it for eternity,
Yet this is a feat which I cannot accomplish alone.
Will you be the one who unlocks this guarded soul?
I'll close my eyes and hum to the midnight lullaby,
Waiting to see if you hear me calling, whispering
If my words can reach across the borders, to you.


- - -
'Come with me and I'll take you on a stroll. Let me reveal the world to you in my perspective'
Lend me your heart, and allow to cast the angelic illusion.'
A collection of poetry and prose written by a young woman, telling the tales of life with artful words.

4/13/10

Never Ended
By John MacGregor


Lost on a sea of all, I know only what I see on the surface– I know only you.
This is the now where my heart grows thin, where the edges of my skin become papery, a love note that retains its romance even as time wears it down and the ink begins to fleck from the page. This is the now where I find you at the end of a long, dark bottle, gently take your hand
And lead you into the light.


- - -
For Rebecca

4/12/10

Without You
By Mara Wesseltorff


Standing at the corner of Love and Hate, I wait for you, but you never come.
Cars pass, people pass, opportunities pass, and still I wait.
I wait, and still you never come.
I check my watch, sigh. It’s the couples’ parade, Valentine’s Day.
A piece of heartshaped confetti lands in my neglected hair.
And still, no you.


- - -
Mara Wesseltorff has been writing for three years. She lives in New York.

4/11/10

A Woman of Light and Sky
By E.S. Wynn

I was saving myself for a woman made of light and sky. Soft pale and cerulean dashed with feathered gray. She, a falcon of concept, a hawk reflection. Caught, the eyeblink awareness, the upward curve of smile. Her heart, full with Odin’s fire, the soft touch of Freyja’s light, passion. Her heart, colored, colored like deep eyes, soul like wings, wind, rain. The light of saints in sky, wrapped in cloud. I blink, she smiles; the wind sings the notes of cut obsidian, loved saxophone. Hands; thin, strong, cool, alive.

She still flies. I look to the sky.

Nothing.

- - -
E.S. Wynn is the author of the Pink Carbide Trilogy and the long running series The Cygnus War. He lives in rural California and is slated to graduate with his B.A. in English in May of 2010. He works as a part time author, part time editor, part time sword salesman and part time broker for Pre-Paid Legal services.

4/10/10

The Journey Home
By Liza Larregui


Sam questioned the logic behind her trip. Wondering if it would be worth her while, she pulled over to rethink the plan. Am I really driving 100 miles to meet a man I never met? She thought to herself. Sam pulled out the paper she printed at work with the directions to his house. She was halfway there and determined to follow through with it.

When Sam finally arrived at Dan's house, she sat in her car outside his place. She turned the radio down to a low volume so she could reorganize her thoughts. “Do I call him and let him know I’m here or do I just ring the bell?” She wondered aloud. She reminded herself that Dan had asked her to come and that he wanted to be with her. That’s what he told her the last time they had spoken. She unbuckled her seat belt and opened her car door. Still questioning her actions, she moved slowly toward the building. She scanned the names on the door and rang the bell next to his, D. Girardi.

“Hello?” A female voice answered.

Jolted, Sam ran back to her car and drove down the block, away from his building. Pounding her fists on the wheel, she screamed in frustration and anger.

“How can you be so stupid? Why did I come all the way out to Pennsylvania for him? Ugh, stupid Sam, stupid!”

Sam began to cry. Her tears gushed uncontrollably. Underneath, she was hurting. Her heart burned with guilt and regret. “Why did I leave Frank?” She asked herself.

Sam's cell phone began to ring. She picked it up to see it was Dan. Unsure of whether to pick it up, she let it go to voicemail. After a few minutes her phone made a chirping sound, a sign that a message was left. She held it to her ear and listened.

“It’s me. Hey, did you leave yet? I hope I caught you in time. It’s not a good idea for you to come tonight. Mary’s here and I haven’t told her our plans yet. I’m sorry, Sam. I’m not sure I’m ready to tell her. Please call me at our normal time. If I don’t hear from you, I’ll just assume you’re really upset. I hope we can still meet up sometime.” Click.

Sam closed the phone and placed it on the seat next to her. “I miss Frank,” she said. A light began to blink on the corner of Sam's phone, indicating a text message had been received. Sam was hoping it wasn’t Dan and wishing it to be Frank.

Sam, please come home. Whatever that guy can offer you, I promise I’ll do better. I’ll change. Just please come home. I need you. I love you. I miss you. - Frank

Sam wiped away a tear from her cheek and smiled as she typed a message back.

I’m coming home, babe. I’m coming home.


- - -
Liza Larregui has been writing since she learned how to use a typewriter at the age of five. Only recently has she decided to submit her work for publishing. She lives in NYC with her husband and her MacBook.

4/9/10

Odd Man Out
By John Ogden


Here is a man. Let’s call him Bob.

Bob lives by himself, alone. He takes his breakfast in the kitchen, his lunch at work, and his dinner in his easy chair. He rarely eats out. He has no pets, no children, and only sees his family on holidays. He thinks about love everyday, but to him it is an abstraction, something he knows is out of reach.

At work, Bob sits in a corner and works dutifully toward the end of his day. When people come to talk to him, he smiles, puts his friendliest foot forward. If the person is a man, Bob is met evenly, some smiles, some masculine jibing and playfulness. If the person is a woman, she glares, ignores his friendly nature. The rare one that smiles back always, inevitably has a ring on her finger.

There is nothing wrong with Bob. He is young, tall, kind and handsome. He rarely drinks. He does not do drugs. He treats everyone respectfully, lives by the mantra of do unto others. He is not rich, but he knows the value of work and has used only a single sick day in the last five years.

And yet, one by one, Bob watches as the world finds matches for everyone around him. He attends each wedding, sends gifts for every baby shower, keeps an even smile through it all, even as the small, cool petals of happiness sprinkle down around him while never touching him, feathers always floating just out of reach.


- - -
John Ogden was conceived of a government form and a passing mailbox. He lives somewhere out in the woods of a rural land more akin to the fantasy realms of literature than real life, and his favorite dirt bikes will always be the broken ones.

4/8/10

Love Sonnet 18
By William Shakespeare


Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?
Thou art more lovely and more temperate:
Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,
And summer's lease hath all too short a date:
Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines,
And often is his gold complexion dimm'd;
And every fair from fair sometime declines,
By chance or nature's changing course untrimm'd;
But thy eternal summer shall not fade
Nor lose possession of that fair thou owest;
Nor shall Death brag thou wander'st in his shade,
When in eternal lines to time thou growest:
So long as men can breathe or eyes can see,
So long lives this and this gives life to thee.


- - -
William Shakespeare is, without a doubt, one of the most prolific and widely read authors in the English Language. His love sonnets still retain their beauty and their power to this day.

4/7/10

Silent Night
By Glenda Grande


I'll close my eyes under these diamond stars,
Knowing under the same sky, you lay afar.
We'll whisper confessions into the velvet night;
Into the silence, while watching the candlelight.

Our eyes filled with tears - who cries first?
I've tried my best to hold back this hurt;
To erase this illusion in my heart called love -
I don't think I can handle something this rough.

This tension, it suffocates me. Can we go back?
If only you and I could be how we were. Backtrack
To the days we lived in harmony; with love in mind.
Now time has become the enemy - being so unkind.

I placed my apologies by your door, along with a rose,
Then I turned and walked away, tears falling to my toes.
I could wait for you, if you tell me to wait for you, but no -
I know what's best for me, and that's to step away. I'll go.

With our eyes closed, laying under the same silent sky,
Can you and I whisper goodbye in this emotional high?
Goodnight, sweet dreams; tomorrow is a brand new day.
Perhaps then, we can express the things we want to say.


- - -
'Come with me and I'll take you on a stroll. Let me reveal the world to you in my perspective'
Lend me your heart, and allow to cast the angelic illusion.'
A collection of poetry and prose written by a young woman, telling the tales of life with artful words.

4/6/10

The Kiss
By G. Fostertagg


As the sun set, we kissed, and it was a kiss that seemed to go on forever. It was a strong kiss, a passionate kiss, a kiss that we held all night, a kiss that carried us on into the next day, held us even as the sun rose again, even as we welcomed our first daughter and our son into the light. Even as the years etched their words into our faces, our arms, our eyes, we didn’t let go, didn’t break that kiss. We held it. We’re still holding it, and every day the kiss grows stronger, our connection deeper, more passionate.

To love is to live, but to love eternally is to live forever in the purest paradise–

Each other.


- - -
For the one I love. :)

4/5/10

Free Fall
By Seawytch


The feeling of forever falling
moving so fast
I try to hang on to something
anything familiar
but things race past me
All I can do is watch
and feel

I feel you
like the thunder of water falling
Your heart beating
against mine
falling together
eat me!
Drink me!

The taste of possibility
My soul grows with it
Your kiss, your eyes
I am branded by them, by you..
I go to life's greatest mystery
with a trembling heart

I realize
laid open
I am more innocent than I thought
I have returned to wonderland
like a child I am in this way
discovery and curiosity
hold me in rapture

This is not to say
I don't have my own Jabberwocky to slay
Indeed fear, doubt..
hold sway
but the light of potential, of possibility
are the light
that guide my way

Free fall
the feeling of falling forever
opening, flowing, hopeful
down the rabbit hole I go
what will become of me
I do not know
all I know for sure is
this journey has just begun
and that I must go


- - -

4/4/10

Meeting at Night
By Robert Browning


The gray sea and the long black land;
And the yellow half-moon large and low:
And the startled little waves that leap
In fiery ringlets from their sleep,
As I gain the cove with pushing prow,
And quench its speed i’ the slushy sand.

Then a mile of warm sea-scented beach;
Three fields to cross till a farm appears;
A tap at the pane, the quick sharp scratch
And blue spurt of a lighted match,
And a voice less loud, through joys and fears,
Than the two hearts beating each to each!


- - -
Robert Browning's Meeting at Night is, without a doubt, one of my favorite love poems, and it is an honor to be able to feature it here, on Daily Love.

4/3/10

The Reasons Why



by



Richard Cody



For



Sarah Cody











No. 1



I love you because

when you hold me close

and I, in turn, pull you near



these silly distinctions,

you and I,

fall away



and we know

what we have always known:



there is only One here.








No. 2



I love you because

you cook our meals

as Millay crafted meter and rhyme.



You are a poet of the gas range,

composing sonnets in crushed red pepper,

garlic, butter and thyme.








No. 3



I love you because

your blue eyes shine!



Faerie glow!

Heaven’s stolen fire!

Eternal Light that has inspired

talents far grander than mine.



You ought to have symphonies

spelling out your name,

portraits painted by genius hands

in honor of that flame



which burns forever bright.



You, my Love,

deserve poetry

of the rarest air.



I give you this instead

and in my dreams write with ease

lines worthy of your light.








No. 4



I love you because

loving you

is completely natural for me.



I take air no easier.



And if I have ever

loved you thoughtlessly

it is only because,

like the air we breathe,



the dearest things

are taken too much for granted.







No. 5

I love you because,

as that old man said,



"The sun sure does shine brighter

when you're walkin' by."



How lucky am I

to know that brighter glow



when you stop your walkin’



and take me in

to share your bed.






No. 6



I love you because

our last kiss

was just like the first.


- - -

Richard Cody, a native Californian, has been known to write poetry and fiction. His work has appeared in many print and virtual publications, most recently Eclectic Flash and Weirdyear. He also takes pictures of all that he sees, and much he doesn't. His books can be found at RCodywrites and Amazon!

4/2/10

Midnight Melody
By Glenda Grande


In the whispers of the wind, secrets that float by
I send them off with a kiss on my lips, "Goodbye."
An enchanting tale of what once was so beautiful,
Now nothing more than a memory within a tear.

"Hold me, remember me, the sweet lullaby;
Embrace me, call me, say it wasn't a lie."
Echoing through the forest, a magical spell -
Jewels erupting in colour, suspended with wings;
A hushing baritone - my heart surrendering.
The breath of life, opening my eyes to a new world:
It was here all along, yet I was blinded - alone.

The impossible made possible; infinite dreams
A road which says no to none shines; it gleams.
Voices sweetly hum like the little nightingale;
The Goddess of the moon smiling down upon me
As I gaze upon her and her children; they glitter -
They fill my heart with unspoken desires. My love,
If I speak gentle words, close your eyes and listen:
For the whispering wind carries my secrets gently -
They were born from my lips and travel towards you

This story - yours, mine; ours, it will always be beautiful.
Remember within each tear, a memory is held and born.
Hold it, remember and sing your midnight lullaby,
Embrace your life, for it is real, and call on me
Because I will be there whenever you need a friend.


- - -
'Come with me and I'll take you on a stroll. Let me reveal the world to you in my perspective'
Lend me your heart, and allow to cast the angelic illusion.'
A collection of poetry and prose written by a young woman, telling the tales of life with artful words.

4/1/10

Tá Republique
By Amanda Firefox

Love, closeness.

I can see it in her smiles, her eyes, the gentle words. I can see it in the way she reaches out to touch me, to adjust the collar of my shirt when time leaves us standing alone on the barren tops of buildings. I admire her grace, her speed, the nimble movements of her fingers as they tap new life into old keyboards, setting the air aflame with the sublime beauty of a masterpiece of mathematics and sound. She is everything I have ever wanted in a consort, everything I could hope to find, but like the seraphim that flit incandescent in the halls of high heaven, she is the embodiment of an ideal that flies on, forever out of reach. In reality, she is the consort of another Alpha, untouchable, the betrothed of another leader among the men of this dusty Republique.

I know the man that she is betrothed to. He is a man who is brother to me in every way but in blood. I have lived among his people, his father is as my father, and I count him among my most trusted allies. I have seen the way she looks at him, the way the love that stirs between them manifests in smiles and kisses, gentle touches– but I have also seen the way her perfect lips pinch up in disgust when he destroys the things that she loves most as a show to others of the strength that he finds in his ignorance. Together, they stand incongruous, two shapes which could only connect in some impossible vision of the universe. She sings, and her voice becomes a heavenly thread which sews tapestries of feeling and tone that bring the tears only an artist of the soul can cry to my too-long-dry eyes.

But the eyes of my brother remain dry, stone-like, unmoved. His heart is a place that is full of knives. Only in the fires of the killing fields do I ever see him smile. Only amidst the cries of the butchered helpless do I ever hear his laugh.

As with others, I try to be happy to see them together, try to see the light in the love that my brother has fought so hard for, won so many of his own wars for. It doesn’t matter. There is a pain within me which refuses to be squelched, and even as the forbidden lion awakens in my heart at the raised hand my brother uses to sweep away and smash her isometric joys, I know it will not roar. The passing love of eyes and frightened, innocent touches is strong indeed, a hard-shelled seed which may nest and fester in the heart of one, but the love that binds brothers back to back in the fields of fire is a stronger love still.

The unspoken code of Alphas, the iron bond of unbreakable understanding, of mutual respect, is a rope of steel and wire that manacles and bites at my hands, gags my heart. Caught in a trap of my own design, my strength of will becomes a cage from which I can never escape.


- - -
Amanda Firefox is a fiery little blue-eyed 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.