Birthday Diaries
By Jay Coral
Day 1
I will be turning thirty tomorrow. Birthday plans are in order, even though I don’t really feel like celebrating. Family will be coming from out of town to be in town to be with me. I had contemplated refusing their company but I was too slow to come up with a better excuse. I will not be alone, for sure.
Day 2
Lunch at the pier was good and everyone was all out digging and dirtying their hands. We talked little, I assumed because they did not want to ruin my birthday by bringing up my bachelorhood, and they were hushing, mouths full or not, because they could always banter me up during less special occasions.
My uncle came in later that night. I was in my pajamas when I opened the door and beheld his horsey guffaw. “I don’t do gift wraps” he pulled a stunning hooker (an ex-girlfriend who owed him a special favor I later learned) from behind the trees and shoved her body to mine and her weight upset my balance. And before I can even say “stop”, she was all over me like a hammer. “Wake up now and let me fuck you good.”
Day 3
“You are not getting any." I don’t know if I will be mad or be thankful to my uncle, sitting on my couch and smoking like some playboy mogul this morning.
“But I do."
“You lack the killer instinct, boy.” He goes on to explain in his amateurish Jungian way how I like to say yes on my murderous mind but am afraid to do the bloody crime. He is so convinced with himself that he never elaborates his point nor will he take any of my adjudications. “Be like me,” his voice more of a command. “Be like you?“, I zip my mouth faster than I can restrain my thought, letting my hidden shame linger and I let it be.
Day 4
I was not born yesterday, nor was I virgin, but being secretly embarrassed has a way of gutting the entrails of my corner-tucked pride. I was unabashedly seeing a young man encapsulated by emotional failsafe. What I had and always have are animal lusts spread to drunk and sorrow-drowning skin, what I give and receive are libidinous consolation for being in a bachelor limbo, “But I do”, I want to shout it on my uncle’s face but I feel I deserve to be mocked.
Day 5
Thirty is the vanishing midway point. Either I embrace loneliness for being happily alone or I am courting companionship just so I will not feel lonely.
“But I don‘t”, I don’t even know where I stand.
“But I do”, I can hear myself lying under my breath.
- - -
Jay Coral was once 30, 24, and 18 years old. He likes how age descends from his memory and how his spirit uplifts everytime he reminisces them. He presently posts stuffs on http://bluejayeye.blogspot.com/
Sunday, May 30, 2010
Saturday, May 29, 2010
5/29/10
A Summer Romance
Fred E. Beaulieu
Did e’er two hearts beat more in tune
Than yours and mine that treasured June
When summer winds spoke glorious vows
And blew so sweetly ‘cross our brows
Were e’er two minds so knit as one
Below that bright anointing sun
The thoughts we shared ‘neath sheltering trees
And dreams that flowed with placid ease
Hath e’er two souls been so entwined
Within that season’s sacred shrine
Where, in your arms, my spirit soared
And basked in heaven’s blest reward
Was e’er affection so bestowed
Which scaled the heights of love’s abode
Your tender lips, O bliss sublime
'Twill stir me till the end of time
- - -
I am a lifelong resident of West Michigan, and have enjoyed a rewarding career in computer programming. My interests include music, reading, puzzles, old movies, and of course poetry. I enjoy writing poems which reflect the many faces of life and love.
Fred E. Beaulieu
Did e’er two hearts beat more in tune
Than yours and mine that treasured June
When summer winds spoke glorious vows
And blew so sweetly ‘cross our brows
Were e’er two minds so knit as one
Below that bright anointing sun
The thoughts we shared ‘neath sheltering trees
And dreams that flowed with placid ease
Hath e’er two souls been so entwined
Within that season’s sacred shrine
Where, in your arms, my spirit soared
And basked in heaven’s blest reward
Was e’er affection so bestowed
Which scaled the heights of love’s abode
Your tender lips, O bliss sublime
'Twill stir me till the end of time
- - -
I am a lifelong resident of West Michigan, and have enjoyed a rewarding career in computer programming. My interests include music, reading, puzzles, old movies, and of course poetry. I enjoy writing poems which reflect the many faces of life and love.
Friday, May 28, 2010
5/28/10
Secret Stitches
By Paula Ray
Through the eye of a needle held by a demon seamstress--you pulled me: a silk red thread of a dream. Taught was the muslin fabric clamped in an embroidery loop resting on the demon’s lap.
She has horns for a crown and a womb where evil is born from fertilized eggs of lust. She is life and I was afraid of her and had curled myself around a spool so tightly no one wanted to bother unraveling me. I thought being knotted was safe.
You picked and picked at my edge until a single strand lifted away from the nest I had become.
As the seamstress used me to create rose petals on a table cloth reserved for special occasions, I felt a rush--piercing through the white cloth and leaving my scarlet stitch. To live is to sin and to not live is also a sin. I could not see this before you forced me through the metal spike and held my end so I couldn’t escape.
This demon used me up and I panicked as she tied my tail so I couldn’t come loose from her fabric, but then something beautiful happened: you looked at me with eyes I’d never felt before—the way they softly studied my shape and shadows, the artistry of my new form against the white fabric. I felt beautiful and admired, even cherished.
You knew who I was meant to be, but I didn’t. Was it wrong to become a rose by the hands of a demon? Yes, but was it right to remain a noose wrapped around a spool, a waste, unseen?
Look at me again, Love. Then, place your plate on top of me and feast. I am amaranthine because of you, for you and in my eyes you are a god.
Stain me with your wine. Hide me beneath your overflowing platter. I will still be there, underneath it all, the same rose--forever blooming on a cloth of celebration woven from sin and the whiteness of innocence.
- - -
Paula Ray is a musician with a syncopated heartbeat. She takes pills for this in the form of poems. She swallows them whole then has hallucinations and pretends she can fly.
By Paula Ray
Through the eye of a needle held by a demon seamstress--you pulled me: a silk red thread of a dream. Taught was the muslin fabric clamped in an embroidery loop resting on the demon’s lap.
She has horns for a crown and a womb where evil is born from fertilized eggs of lust. She is life and I was afraid of her and had curled myself around a spool so tightly no one wanted to bother unraveling me. I thought being knotted was safe.
You picked and picked at my edge until a single strand lifted away from the nest I had become.
As the seamstress used me to create rose petals on a table cloth reserved for special occasions, I felt a rush--piercing through the white cloth and leaving my scarlet stitch. To live is to sin and to not live is also a sin. I could not see this before you forced me through the metal spike and held my end so I couldn’t escape.
This demon used me up and I panicked as she tied my tail so I couldn’t come loose from her fabric, but then something beautiful happened: you looked at me with eyes I’d never felt before—the way they softly studied my shape and shadows, the artistry of my new form against the white fabric. I felt beautiful and admired, even cherished.
You knew who I was meant to be, but I didn’t. Was it wrong to become a rose by the hands of a demon? Yes, but was it right to remain a noose wrapped around a spool, a waste, unseen?
Look at me again, Love. Then, place your plate on top of me and feast. I am amaranthine because of you, for you and in my eyes you are a god.
Stain me with your wine. Hide me beneath your overflowing platter. I will still be there, underneath it all, the same rose--forever blooming on a cloth of celebration woven from sin and the whiteness of innocence.
- - -
Paula Ray is a musician with a syncopated heartbeat. She takes pills for this in the form of poems. She swallows them whole then has hallucinations and pretends she can fly.
Thursday, May 27, 2010
5/27/10
Dreams of Sand and Solace
By E.S. Wynn
The rhythm of her feet in the sand is what keeps me alive. The cinnamon rise and fall, the darkness veiled in every shift and shiver. The rose of her lips whispers sweet, waterless words, fills my dreams with the scent of rain, haunts me as I make my way through the medina to see her. Like a mirage, her veil falls away in my mind, and on our wedding night, I press her into golden sheets as soft as layered honey, taste the nectar of desert flowers. In my dreams, there is nothing between us, and I often wonder, when she catches my eye in the throes of the dance, if she has the same dreams that I do.
- - -
E.S. Wynn is a simple man. He doesn't like complications. The same in music. He likes what is natural. Weave what the music demands, and he’ll try to do his best.
By E.S. Wynn
The rhythm of her feet in the sand is what keeps me alive. The cinnamon rise and fall, the darkness veiled in every shift and shiver. The rose of her lips whispers sweet, waterless words, fills my dreams with the scent of rain, haunts me as I make my way through the medina to see her. Like a mirage, her veil falls away in my mind, and on our wedding night, I press her into golden sheets as soft as layered honey, taste the nectar of desert flowers. In my dreams, there is nothing between us, and I often wonder, when she catches my eye in the throes of the dance, if she has the same dreams that I do.
- - -
E.S. Wynn is a simple man. He doesn't like complications. The same in music. He likes what is natural. Weave what the music demands, and he’ll try to do his best.
Wednesday, May 26, 2010
5/26/10
Let Me Lie
By Fred E. Beaulieu
Let me lie in your arms till this madness subsides
When the torrents of tempests assail from all sides
Let your tender embrace be my refuge at night
When my barricades falter and courage takes flight
Like a fortress that promises safety’s rewards
So I long for the peace that your bosom affords
Keep me sheltered from torments that ravage my mind
In my wretched exposure, defenseless and blind
Through my desperate sobs, I will whisper your name
As the one who absolves all my weakness and shame
Through my tear flooded eyes I will search for your face
In my quest for salvation, bestowed by your grace
I will cling to your love in my times of distress
As a child to his blanket when nightmares transgress
In the light of your comfort all shadows retreat
And dark dreams that oppress me succumb to defeat
In the day when my eyes shall awaken no more
When the angels escort me to Heaven’s sweet shore
I will carry a solace throughout those blest lands
From the succor and love I received at your hands
- - -
I am a lifelong resident of West Michigan, and have enjoyed a rewarding career in computer programming. My interests include music, reading, puzzles, old movies, and of course poetry. I enjoy writing poems which reflect the many faces of life and love.
By Fred E. Beaulieu
Let me lie in your arms till this madness subsides
When the torrents of tempests assail from all sides
Let your tender embrace be my refuge at night
When my barricades falter and courage takes flight
Like a fortress that promises safety’s rewards
So I long for the peace that your bosom affords
Keep me sheltered from torments that ravage my mind
In my wretched exposure, defenseless and blind
Through my desperate sobs, I will whisper your name
As the one who absolves all my weakness and shame
Through my tear flooded eyes I will search for your face
In my quest for salvation, bestowed by your grace
I will cling to your love in my times of distress
As a child to his blanket when nightmares transgress
In the light of your comfort all shadows retreat
And dark dreams that oppress me succumb to defeat
In the day when my eyes shall awaken no more
When the angels escort me to Heaven’s sweet shore
I will carry a solace throughout those blest lands
From the succor and love I received at your hands
- - -
I am a lifelong resident of West Michigan, and have enjoyed a rewarding career in computer programming. My interests include music, reading, puzzles, old movies, and of course poetry. I enjoy writing poems which reflect the many faces of life and love.
Tuesday, May 25, 2010
5/25/10
This Rose
By Michael Lee Johnson
So
simple
yet so
small
this
yellow rose
I place
beneath
your door.
-1973-
- - -
Michael Lee Johnson is a poet and freelance writer from Itasca, Illinois. His new poetry chapbook with pictures, titled From Which Place the Morning Rises, and his new photo version of The Lost American: from Exile to Freedom are available at: http://stores.lulu.com/promomanusa.
By Michael Lee Johnson
So
simple
yet so
small
this
yellow rose
I place
beneath
your door.
-1973-
- - -
Michael Lee Johnson is a poet and freelance writer from Itasca, Illinois. His new poetry chapbook with pictures, titled From Which Place the Morning Rises, and his new photo version of The Lost American: from Exile to Freedom are available at: http://stores.lulu.com/promomanusa.
Monday, May 24, 2010
5/24/10
Down in the Dirt
By Vela Damon
"Listen, we’re either in this together, or we’re not. I can’t hold them off anymore, Benni. I need an answer."
"Dave, I’m a little busy right now. Can we talk about this later?"
"Now or never, Benben. What’s it gonna be?"
Benni sighed, picked up her shears, fantasized of stabbing Dave just to shut him up once and for all. But she wasn’t homicidal; just tired of the same old conversation. So she slashed out her frustration on a sheet of cellophane wrapping for her next order: a dozen purple roses with six white calla lilies.
Dave never brought her flowers. “Well, you’re around them all day. That’d be like you giving me a radiator,” he’d said, like it made perfect sense, even though nobody ever gives anybody a radiator. Just an excuse for being a cheapo. He’d say the same thing about buying jewelry if Benni worked at a jewelry store, or thumb tacks if she worked at Staples.
Benni met Dave while she was going through what she liked to call “a rough patch”. Really it was a straight-up, Sahara-worthy drought. Otherwise Dave would’ve been out on his ass months ago.
Okay, weeks ago.
Okay, let’s just say he’d be out. Probably.
No guy would ever measure up to Steve anyway, so what difference did it make?
Steve...just mention his name and suddenly Benni’s back in high school, wearing his letter jacket and making out in the backseat of his IROC. Not at the same time. Usually. But there was the one time when the heater went out and....
See? Benni’s whole life was a game of Six Degrees of Separation from Steve. And now Dave wanted her to stop playing on her home turf.
“Come on, Benni. You know what an opportunity this is for me. For us. The money’s huge. You won’t have to work some crappy job you hate. You can just go to school full time.”
Benni stopped making needless adjustments to the bouquet, boxed it and put it in the walk-in cooler with the day’s other orders. Dave followed her inside, snuck his arm around her waist, pulled her close. “Hmmm...why don’t you put out the ‘back in an hour’ sign? We could....”
“A whole hour, huh? You’re proud of yourself.”
“I earned it. Quantity and quality, baby.”
Good lord, what a cheeseball. But he wasn’t stingy in the bedroom; Benni had to give him that.
She pulled away. “I can’t. Gladys might come back.”
Dave held on. “So? Then you can tell her you quit because you’re moving with me.”
Benni pushed out of his embrace, turned to face him. “Would you stop pestering me about it already? Jesus! Do I have to spell it out? I don’t want to go, okay? I don’t want to go WITH YOU. There! Do you get it now?”
Dave rubbed a hand over his face, let out a long breath, turned toward the door. “Yeah. I get it.”
The door whooshed shut after him. Benni wanted to run out and apologize. She hadn’t meant to be so harsh, but he’d just kept on and on and on about it, for weeks now. He’d call her later, anyway, start bugging her again like he always did after a fight. She could say she was sorry then, explain her reasons for not wanting to go.
He deserved that, at least. It wasn’t like he was a total jerk or anything. Just not The One, aka Steve.
She peeked out to make sure he’d gone, spotted a mess on the floor. Great. Hopefully it was just one arrangement and not a whole shelf. Legal or not, Gladys would take Dave’s blowup out of Benni’s pay.
She grabbed a broom and dustpan from the back room, held her breath as she approached the mess.
Just one, thank goodness. Ceramic pot—not a glass vase—so fewer shards. Live plant—dirt instead of water—so easier to clean. And maybe she could even save the plant.
Gladys would never have to know about the vase, or the tiny cards and envelopes knocked from their display, ruined now by all the dirt. Benni gathered them and only noticed the one with writing on it after she’d thrown it in the trash.
You’ve taken ROOT in my heart. Dave.
Her Dave?
No, just a coincidence. Somebody decided the cheesy sentiment sucked and didn’t use it; people left the cards lying around all the time. Once she’d seen a guy go through 14 of them before getting it right.
Benni gathered the shards. The pot had been pretty: deep blue with a silver sun, moon and stars motif, the same theme as her bedroom. The plant was one of her favorites, too: night-blooming jasmine, already starting to bloom even though it was still daylight.
She picked up the plant and let out a little shriek.
The diamond lying in the dirt was huge, three carats at least. Dave couldn’t afford something like that. Could he? Would he? For her?
She scooped up the ring, dusted it off, slipped it on her finger. Perfect fit.
In the storeroom, she found the plant a nice, neutral-toned home.
She stepped over the rest of the mess on the floor, switched the Open sign to Closed, and set out to find Dave.
- - -
Vela has been writing ever since she could form sentences. Whether or not she ever learned to form them correctly is yet to be determined.
By Vela Damon
"Listen, we’re either in this together, or we’re not. I can’t hold them off anymore, Benni. I need an answer."
"Dave, I’m a little busy right now. Can we talk about this later?"
"Now or never, Benben. What’s it gonna be?"
Benni sighed, picked up her shears, fantasized of stabbing Dave just to shut him up once and for all. But she wasn’t homicidal; just tired of the same old conversation. So she slashed out her frustration on a sheet of cellophane wrapping for her next order: a dozen purple roses with six white calla lilies.
Dave never brought her flowers. “Well, you’re around them all day. That’d be like you giving me a radiator,” he’d said, like it made perfect sense, even though nobody ever gives anybody a radiator. Just an excuse for being a cheapo. He’d say the same thing about buying jewelry if Benni worked at a jewelry store, or thumb tacks if she worked at Staples.
Benni met Dave while she was going through what she liked to call “a rough patch”. Really it was a straight-up, Sahara-worthy drought. Otherwise Dave would’ve been out on his ass months ago.
Okay, weeks ago.
Okay, let’s just say he’d be out. Probably.
No guy would ever measure up to Steve anyway, so what difference did it make?
Steve...just mention his name and suddenly Benni’s back in high school, wearing his letter jacket and making out in the backseat of his IROC. Not at the same time. Usually. But there was the one time when the heater went out and....
See? Benni’s whole life was a game of Six Degrees of Separation from Steve. And now Dave wanted her to stop playing on her home turf.
“Come on, Benni. You know what an opportunity this is for me. For us. The money’s huge. You won’t have to work some crappy job you hate. You can just go to school full time.”
Benni stopped making needless adjustments to the bouquet, boxed it and put it in the walk-in cooler with the day’s other orders. Dave followed her inside, snuck his arm around her waist, pulled her close. “Hmmm...why don’t you put out the ‘back in an hour’ sign? We could....”
“A whole hour, huh? You’re proud of yourself.”
“I earned it. Quantity and quality, baby.”
Good lord, what a cheeseball. But he wasn’t stingy in the bedroom; Benni had to give him that.
She pulled away. “I can’t. Gladys might come back.”
Dave held on. “So? Then you can tell her you quit because you’re moving with me.”
Benni pushed out of his embrace, turned to face him. “Would you stop pestering me about it already? Jesus! Do I have to spell it out? I don’t want to go, okay? I don’t want to go WITH YOU. There! Do you get it now?”
Dave rubbed a hand over his face, let out a long breath, turned toward the door. “Yeah. I get it.”
The door whooshed shut after him. Benni wanted to run out and apologize. She hadn’t meant to be so harsh, but he’d just kept on and on and on about it, for weeks now. He’d call her later, anyway, start bugging her again like he always did after a fight. She could say she was sorry then, explain her reasons for not wanting to go.
He deserved that, at least. It wasn’t like he was a total jerk or anything. Just not The One, aka Steve.
She peeked out to make sure he’d gone, spotted a mess on the floor. Great. Hopefully it was just one arrangement and not a whole shelf. Legal or not, Gladys would take Dave’s blowup out of Benni’s pay.
She grabbed a broom and dustpan from the back room, held her breath as she approached the mess.
Just one, thank goodness. Ceramic pot—not a glass vase—so fewer shards. Live plant—dirt instead of water—so easier to clean. And maybe she could even save the plant.
Gladys would never have to know about the vase, or the tiny cards and envelopes knocked from their display, ruined now by all the dirt. Benni gathered them and only noticed the one with writing on it after she’d thrown it in the trash.
You’ve taken ROOT in my heart. Dave.
Her Dave?
No, just a coincidence. Somebody decided the cheesy sentiment sucked and didn’t use it; people left the cards lying around all the time. Once she’d seen a guy go through 14 of them before getting it right.
Benni gathered the shards. The pot had been pretty: deep blue with a silver sun, moon and stars motif, the same theme as her bedroom. The plant was one of her favorites, too: night-blooming jasmine, already starting to bloom even though it was still daylight.
She picked up the plant and let out a little shriek.
The diamond lying in the dirt was huge, three carats at least. Dave couldn’t afford something like that. Could he? Would he? For her?
She scooped up the ring, dusted it off, slipped it on her finger. Perfect fit.
In the storeroom, she found the plant a nice, neutral-toned home.
She stepped over the rest of the mess on the floor, switched the Open sign to Closed, and set out to find Dave.
- - -
Vela has been writing ever since she could form sentences. Whether or not she ever learned to form them correctly is yet to be determined.
Sunday, May 23, 2010
5/23/10
Golden Eyes
By Miriam H. Harrison
It’s been a while since I’ve shared a bed with another human being. A bed, a shower, a kitchen table – the particulars don’t matter. All that I know is that it has been a long time. The last man I made love to had golden eyes; I have forgotten a lot, but I remember that much. I remember because that was the reason I took in Patches, a stray, meowing at the window. I had been ready to chase him away, until he looked up at me with his yellow eyes, and I remembered what it felt like to have another body beside mine. Patches is gone now, dead from old age. The same can be said for my love life, I suppose. My time has passed, and with it, all memories of gazing into golden eyes.
- - -
Miriam is a writer of fiction and poetry living in Sudbury, Ontario, Canada. In addition to her publications, she has been a panelist at Toronto's Ad Astra convention and is currently the Sudbury Branch Manager of The Ontario Poetry Society, Vice-President of the Sudbury Writers' Guild and Vice-President of the Sudbury Hypergraphic Society, a networking and promotions group for writers.
By Miriam H. Harrison
It’s been a while since I’ve shared a bed with another human being. A bed, a shower, a kitchen table – the particulars don’t matter. All that I know is that it has been a long time. The last man I made love to had golden eyes; I have forgotten a lot, but I remember that much. I remember because that was the reason I took in Patches, a stray, meowing at the window. I had been ready to chase him away, until he looked up at me with his yellow eyes, and I remembered what it felt like to have another body beside mine. Patches is gone now, dead from old age. The same can be said for my love life, I suppose. My time has passed, and with it, all memories of gazing into golden eyes.
- - -
Miriam is a writer of fiction and poetry living in Sudbury, Ontario, Canada. In addition to her publications, she has been a panelist at Toronto's Ad Astra convention and is currently the Sudbury Branch Manager of The Ontario Poetry Society, Vice-President of the Sudbury Writers' Guild and Vice-President of the Sudbury Hypergraphic Society, a networking and promotions group for writers.
Saturday, May 22, 2010
5/22/10
A Loving Embrace
by Ron Alfano
They are entwined by their arms
around each other.
They gaze into each other’s eyes,
for a look that neither of them
needs to speak aloud about.
She gazes into his eyes
and sees a tranquil paradise
that is theirs to share.
Her eyes reflect the same.
She caresses his beard and sees
that his face, hair and beard
make a beautiful symmetry.
He caresses the softness of her back.
He knows the soft silkiness of
her skin and face.
They look at each other
with loving smiles.
They have never met before,
but have known each other
for an eternity.
They kiss with meaning.
Then he holds her head
against his body.
For they are one in mind and heart,
just as their love make them one.
- - -
Ron Alfano is a Chicago area native with a B. A. in Humanities, emphasis in Theatre Arts. He earned his degree from a George Williams College, where he started in his writing interest, beginning in Poetry. He has already had one poem, of 53 total poems, already published in a U.K. magazine, First Edition, June 2009.
by Ron Alfano
They are entwined by their arms
around each other.
They gaze into each other’s eyes,
for a look that neither of them
needs to speak aloud about.
She gazes into his eyes
and sees a tranquil paradise
that is theirs to share.
Her eyes reflect the same.
She caresses his beard and sees
that his face, hair and beard
make a beautiful symmetry.
He caresses the softness of her back.
He knows the soft silkiness of
her skin and face.
They look at each other
with loving smiles.
They have never met before,
but have known each other
for an eternity.
They kiss with meaning.
Then he holds her head
against his body.
For they are one in mind and heart,
just as their love make them one.
- - -
Ron Alfano is a Chicago area native with a B. A. in Humanities, emphasis in Theatre Arts. He earned his degree from a George Williams College, where he started in his writing interest, beginning in Poetry. He has already had one poem, of 53 total poems, already published in a U.K. magazine, First Edition, June 2009.
Friday, May 21, 2010
5/21/10
Distant Rapture
By Ron Koppelberger
Distant rapture and loves unbidden breath.
- - -
Dear Reader
I love to write and nothing thrills me more than seeing my work in print. The creative process is a thrill for me as is influencing the reader in a positive way, in a thought provoking way. One of my primary goals involves touching the reader and giving them a gift, the gift of a long forgotten memory or perhaps a special insight that may not have been apparent.
By Ron Koppelberger
The intimate warmth of primitive sands and layers of ancient soil,
What nervous seas find first an enduring current of fanciful
Spray and churning maelstrom, the sated beginnings of human faith, in cleaver trials of existence and latitudes of hope, in trial and regrets unsaid, in wishes soaring by waves of
Revelation , near the edge of
What nervous seas find first an enduring current of fanciful
Spray and churning maelstrom, the sated beginnings of human faith, in cleaver trials of existence and latitudes of hope, in trial and regrets unsaid, in wishes soaring by waves of
Revelation , near the edge of
Distant rapture and loves unbidden breath.
- - -
Dear Reader
I love to write and nothing thrills me more than seeing my work in print. The creative process is a thrill for me as is influencing the reader in a positive way, in a thought provoking way. One of my primary goals involves touching the reader and giving them a gift, the gift of a long forgotten memory or perhaps a special insight that may not have been apparent.
Thursday, May 20, 2010
5/20/10
Assert the Truth
By Khurshid Alam
Should you come to meet me
And ask: how I am?
I’m fine. But to tell it
In answer is sweeter than sweet.
Should you come to greet me
And welcome: how sure I am?
I am full of confidence
But to assert it in answer.
Is to be more confident.
Should you but come to me
And propose: if I love you?
I do, should you but ask!
For, to accept is more
Beautiful than I do love you.
---
For Shez
- - -
I am a Technical Writer by profession, and write poetry, stories etc. My writings have been published widely in India and abroad. Currently, I run Contemporary Literary Review: India and am writing a chapbook and a novel.
By Khurshid Alam
Should you come to meet me
And ask: how I am?
I’m fine. But to tell it
In answer is sweeter than sweet.
Should you come to greet me
And welcome: how sure I am?
I am full of confidence
But to assert it in answer.
Is to be more confident.
Should you but come to me
And propose: if I love you?
I do, should you but ask!
For, to accept is more
Beautiful than I do love you.
---
For Shez
- - -
I am a Technical Writer by profession, and write poetry, stories etc. My writings have been published widely in India and abroad. Currently, I run Contemporary Literary Review: India and am writing a chapbook and a novel.
Wednesday, May 19, 2010
5/19/10
Marriage
by Ron Alfano
The white carpet is rolled out,
leading a white path up to the altar,
where God will soon
be a co-witness.
The bride –in her long, flowing gown,
is a perfect, angelic sight.
The groom—a prince in his handsome
attire. Soon to be a new husband.
The wedding party, and the other
customary frills, all dressed up
in beautiful formality.
“Do you take this man…?”
“I do.”
“Do you take this woman…?”
“I do.”
This ring is for the lover in you.
This ring means I’ll always be true.
“…I now pronounce you
husband and wife.
Thank you God for all this.
You have given marriage to life
so that we may have
one of the best ideas for a celebration.
a celebration that lets us commemorate,
in glorious formality, one of the
best expressions of emotion
in all of human nature—
Love.
- - -
Ron Alfano is a Chicago area native with a B. A. in Humanities, emphasis in Theatre Arts. He earned his degree from a George Williams College, where he started in his writing interest, beginning in Poetry. He has already had one poem, of 53 total poems, already published in a U.K. magazine, First Edition, June 2009.
by Ron Alfano
The white carpet is rolled out,
leading a white path up to the altar,
where God will soon
be a co-witness.
The bride –in her long, flowing gown,
is a perfect, angelic sight.
The groom—a prince in his handsome
attire. Soon to be a new husband.
The wedding party, and the other
customary frills, all dressed up
in beautiful formality.
“Do you take this man…?”
“I do.”
“Do you take this woman…?”
“I do.”
This ring is for the lover in you.
This ring means I’ll always be true.
“…I now pronounce you
husband and wife.
Thank you God for all this.
You have given marriage to life
so that we may have
one of the best ideas for a celebration.
a celebration that lets us commemorate,
in glorious formality, one of the
best expressions of emotion
in all of human nature—
Love.
- - -
Ron Alfano is a Chicago area native with a B. A. in Humanities, emphasis in Theatre Arts. He earned his degree from a George Williams College, where he started in his writing interest, beginning in Poetry. He has already had one poem, of 53 total poems, already published in a U.K. magazine, First Edition, June 2009.
Tuesday, May 18, 2010
5/18/10
Passions in Scarlet
By Ron Koppelberger
Scarlet.
- - -
Dear Reader
I love to write and nothing thrills me more than seeing my work in print. The creative process is a thrill for me as is influencing the reader in a positive way, in a thought provoking way. One of my primary goals involves touching the reader and giving them a gift, the gift of a long forgotten memory or perhaps a special insight that may not have been apparent.
By Ron Koppelberger
Hazy aspirations of confusion and gentle suspicions
Of desire,
A unity in perfect ascension and
Commingled essence,
A breath and an exhalation in sighs of
Mysterious allure, a mortal halo of soul defined
By the love of emblazoned dreams
And emanating passions in
Of desire,
A unity in perfect ascension and
Commingled essence,
A breath and an exhalation in sighs of
Mysterious allure, a mortal halo of soul defined
By the love of emblazoned dreams
And emanating passions in
Scarlet.
- - -
Dear Reader
I love to write and nothing thrills me more than seeing my work in print. The creative process is a thrill for me as is influencing the reader in a positive way, in a thought provoking way. One of my primary goals involves touching the reader and giving them a gift, the gift of a long forgotten memory or perhaps a special insight that may not have been apparent.
Monday, May 17, 2010
5/17/10
Just Like in the Movies
By Amanda Firefox
“I can’t.”
“You can.”
“No, I. . .”
“Yes.”
“Baby, I. . .”
“I know you can do it.”
“How?”
“I believe in you.”
“And if. . .”
“Then I’ll be waiting, here. I’ll run to you.”
“Just like in the movies?”
“Just like in the movies.”
- - -
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.
By Amanda Firefox
“I can’t.”
“You can.”
“No, I. . .”
“Yes.”
“Baby, I. . .”
“I know you can do it.”
“How?”
“I believe in you.”
“And if. . .”
“Then I’ll be waiting, here. I’ll run to you.”
“Just like in the movies?”
“Just like in the movies.”
- - -
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.
Sunday, May 16, 2010
5/16/10
Meditative State
By Theresa C. Newbill
In the early morning hours, the memory, the possibility
of you is within me, releasing a creativity that enables
balance in the day's mission with broader perspective;
a liaison between simple thoughts and destiny.
I read the words of the song you wrote in my honor,
My Angel's Smile, feeling a slight constriction in my chest,
as emotions begin welling up; lots of joyful tears and some
deep breathing, every cell in my body focused.
Falling away from consciousness I am neither asleep nor
awake, yet there are energy releases that bring the essence
of two souls in sync with one another. Insight comes almost
immediately, like a vivid dream adjusted.
Life cycles and rhythms bring a sense of renewal important
to my well being, and I listen as small bits of glass and sand
rain down on me, the bulbs of the hourglass shattering in a
violent wave that encompasses time with a light electricity,
of enormous exhilaration. Water recedes into an ocean as
opposing forces are met in a vortex of power, my heart a
witness to the waves, excited and loud. There's a little cottage
by the edge of a rocky cliff and you and I are there,
personal areas of our past life together run through my veins
and I look for the opportunity to retell the story of us. There's
a functioning radio you like to listen to in our kitchen, a warm
fire we like to sit by in our living room, hours of solitude,
and bliss in our bedroom, making love; a man understanding
the complexity of his woman, a woman capable of appreciating
and understanding her man. The fire of Spirit has previously
taught us that the paradox, is love itself must be sacrificed,
before one can rise to the next level of enlightenment. But the
devotion and attachment I have always felt for you throughout
the ages refuses to let you go. Instead I choose to lay little
bricks at one time, the quality of the process allows me
to build the framework of us once again with truth and honesty,
as we are once again among the living. In this meditative state, I
regress back to you, back to us. You're my soul mate,
and I love you, just as I've always loved you.
The hand fasting string that binds us twinkles purple on the tree
of life, carefully placing us from one world to the next world
out as we do the whole thing over again. The thoughts in my head
are now safe, floating downstream as they start surfacing.
I collect myself enough to watch the water flow evaluating it with
serious consideration. I've outlined our challenges, which we will
meet together, learning from the experiences, grounding us with
matter and soul fusion.
Nature has organized us, created our forms, placed me here and you
there to test the larger, personal state of balance; our relationship
depending on the closeness of distance, on the connection of motion,
on the depth of unconditional love and the dynamics of overall reality.
- - -
Theresa C. Newbill is a is a self described free spirit and former elementary school teacher turned writer. Her work has been widely published in various print and online magazines and she has received numerous awards for her writing.
By Theresa C. Newbill
In the early morning hours, the memory, the possibility
of you is within me, releasing a creativity that enables
balance in the day's mission with broader perspective;
a liaison between simple thoughts and destiny.
I read the words of the song you wrote in my honor,
My Angel's Smile, feeling a slight constriction in my chest,
as emotions begin welling up; lots of joyful tears and some
deep breathing, every cell in my body focused.
Falling away from consciousness I am neither asleep nor
awake, yet there are energy releases that bring the essence
of two souls in sync with one another. Insight comes almost
immediately, like a vivid dream adjusted.
Life cycles and rhythms bring a sense of renewal important
to my well being, and I listen as small bits of glass and sand
rain down on me, the bulbs of the hourglass shattering in a
violent wave that encompasses time with a light electricity,
of enormous exhilaration. Water recedes into an ocean as
opposing forces are met in a vortex of power, my heart a
witness to the waves, excited and loud. There's a little cottage
by the edge of a rocky cliff and you and I are there,
personal areas of our past life together run through my veins
and I look for the opportunity to retell the story of us. There's
a functioning radio you like to listen to in our kitchen, a warm
fire we like to sit by in our living room, hours of solitude,
and bliss in our bedroom, making love; a man understanding
the complexity of his woman, a woman capable of appreciating
and understanding her man. The fire of Spirit has previously
taught us that the paradox, is love itself must be sacrificed,
before one can rise to the next level of enlightenment. But the
devotion and attachment I have always felt for you throughout
the ages refuses to let you go. Instead I choose to lay little
bricks at one time, the quality of the process allows me
to build the framework of us once again with truth and honesty,
as we are once again among the living. In this meditative state, I
regress back to you, back to us. You're my soul mate,
and I love you, just as I've always loved you.
The hand fasting string that binds us twinkles purple on the tree
of life, carefully placing us from one world to the next world
out as we do the whole thing over again. The thoughts in my head
are now safe, floating downstream as they start surfacing.
I collect myself enough to watch the water flow evaluating it with
serious consideration. I've outlined our challenges, which we will
meet together, learning from the experiences, grounding us with
matter and soul fusion.
Nature has organized us, created our forms, placed me here and you
there to test the larger, personal state of balance; our relationship
depending on the closeness of distance, on the connection of motion,
on the depth of unconditional love and the dynamics of overall reality.
- - -
Theresa C. Newbill is a is a self described free spirit and former elementary school teacher turned writer. Her work has been widely published in various print and online magazines and she has received numerous awards for her writing.
Saturday, May 15, 2010
5/15/10
Loves’ Host
By Ron Koppelberger
True.
- - -
Dear Reader
I love to write and nothing thrills me more than seeing my work in print. The creative process is a thrill for me as is influencing the reader in a positive way, in a thought provoking way. One of my primary goals involves touching the reader and giving them a gift, the gift of a long forgotten memory or perhaps a special insight that may not have been apparent.
By Ron Koppelberger
Climaxes in sinless baths of wedded ascent, a tender
Eyed beauty in quiet sighs of satisfaction,
The delicate arousal of songs
And sash, in love and in fashions of
Furtive desire,
A pinnacle in precipice diversions, in divine
Need and want, in the abandon of communion,
In indulgences of soul and spirit, loves’
Host and the blood of blissful
Blooms, in secret
Seasons
Misty
Eyed beauty in quiet sighs of satisfaction,
The delicate arousal of songs
And sash, in love and in fashions of
Furtive desire,
A pinnacle in precipice diversions, in divine
Need and want, in the abandon of communion,
In indulgences of soul and spirit, loves’
Host and the blood of blissful
Blooms, in secret
Seasons
Misty
True.
- - -
Dear Reader
I love to write and nothing thrills me more than seeing my work in print. The creative process is a thrill for me as is influencing the reader in a positive way, in a thought provoking way. One of my primary goals involves touching the reader and giving them a gift, the gift of a long forgotten memory or perhaps a special insight that may not have been apparent.
Thursday, May 13, 2010
5/13/10
Lost Lady
By Theresa C. Newbill
The sidewalk is strewn with bits of glass,
there's a shy ghost that walks with rose in
hand, pausing before a mirror in her favorite
shop window. She likes the practicality of
things, the way a cyclist can pedal slowly,
watching the sunset even when it's downright
cold outside. The poncho she wears flaps in
the breeze, and to her it's the most natural
thing in the world; the way everything collides
in mid-stride.
There are sparks of individual light all around
her, in the vitality of her consciousness. The
essential part of her is gone but there's
something that exists far away from the human
body. It's her intellectual capacity, her emotional
makeup, and the soul beyond its basic form that
manifests itself through daily routine. The sounds
of church chiming remind her of a sweet angel's
laughter and the way flakes of snow affix themselves
on spruce twigs, left at the mercy of weather.
She doesn't speak about recriminations, even when
her thoughts return to him, the man who dwells in
her heart's innermost haven, where scavengers of
music, dance, underneath mistletoe. Clouds of
incense quicken their pace, retelling the story of
the young woman that died in a car accident, on the
eve of her wedding day. Broken windshield, a mini gown,
swing back and forth across a line of vision where
vital discoveries call up words as melodies begin.
Sing; thrown in a heap of crash and clatter, something
amazing unites the whole, away from the mortal blow
of the heavens and earth, where the debt of death
is paid by blood, with a fatal kiss upon a brow.
Forever flows with rivers of passion, and in her long
procession she still searches for him. The burden of
sorrow a bridge they both shall cross, when twilight
throws its shadows over ebbing tide; and still she
dreams, heart young, hot and restless, in the wavering
image here, where both remain as strangers unto you.
- - -
Theresa C. Newbill is a is a self described free spirit and former elementary school teacher turned writer. Her work has been widely published in various print and online magazines and she has received numerous awards for her writing.
By Theresa C. Newbill
The sidewalk is strewn with bits of glass,
there's a shy ghost that walks with rose in
hand, pausing before a mirror in her favorite
shop window. She likes the practicality of
things, the way a cyclist can pedal slowly,
watching the sunset even when it's downright
cold outside. The poncho she wears flaps in
the breeze, and to her it's the most natural
thing in the world; the way everything collides
in mid-stride.
There are sparks of individual light all around
her, in the vitality of her consciousness. The
essential part of her is gone but there's
something that exists far away from the human
body. It's her intellectual capacity, her emotional
makeup, and the soul beyond its basic form that
manifests itself through daily routine. The sounds
of church chiming remind her of a sweet angel's
laughter and the way flakes of snow affix themselves
on spruce twigs, left at the mercy of weather.
She doesn't speak about recriminations, even when
her thoughts return to him, the man who dwells in
her heart's innermost haven, where scavengers of
music, dance, underneath mistletoe. Clouds of
incense quicken their pace, retelling the story of
the young woman that died in a car accident, on the
eve of her wedding day. Broken windshield, a mini gown,
swing back and forth across a line of vision where
vital discoveries call up words as melodies begin.
Sing; thrown in a heap of crash and clatter, something
amazing unites the whole, away from the mortal blow
of the heavens and earth, where the debt of death
is paid by blood, with a fatal kiss upon a brow.
Forever flows with rivers of passion, and in her long
procession she still searches for him. The burden of
sorrow a bridge they both shall cross, when twilight
throws its shadows over ebbing tide; and still she
dreams, heart young, hot and restless, in the wavering
image here, where both remain as strangers unto you.
- - -
Theresa C. Newbill is a is a self described free spirit and former elementary school teacher turned writer. Her work has been widely published in various print and online magazines and she has received numerous awards for her writing.
Wednesday, May 12, 2010
5/12/10
Different From All Others
By Sherri Collins
She thought Roberto was so exotic, so intriguing with the accent that trickled off his tongue, the heavy-lidded eyes, and the confident swagger. She listened to the sound of his stories; she watched the graceful arc of his gestures. When he left, she sobbed for a loss that could never be filled.
To mend her heart, her friend fixed her up with a man named Roberto. When he arrived, she gaped at his lean, lithe body. His lips touched her cheek, her hands. "Muy bonita," he whispered, and her breath caught. Such a man, different from all others. When he bid her a permanent farewell, she wailed hopelessly.
While mailing a letter, she bumped into a man and dropped the envelope. He retrieved it and caught her hand. "I am Roberto," he said, and she smiled. At the supermarket, Roberto bagged her groceries. At the pharmacy, Roberto filled her prescription. As he handed her the bags, he touched the small of her back lightly and whispered in her ear, "mi querida." When she returned to both places the next day, she asked for Roberto only to hear that he no longer worked there.
Slumping onto a park bench, she wiped at her wet eyes. "Are you alright, miss?" came a voice, not lyrical, but strangely rich with comfort. "Oh, leave me alone, Roberto!" she sobbed. No more, she thought. No more. The man sat down next to her and slipped a tissue into her hand.
"I'm John," he said.
- - -
Bio: Sherri Collins lives in the foothills of Tennessee with her love. Her work can be found in Bartleby Snopes, Writers' Bloc, and The Oddville Press, among others.
By Sherri Collins
She thought Roberto was so exotic, so intriguing with the accent that trickled off his tongue, the heavy-lidded eyes, and the confident swagger. She listened to the sound of his stories; she watched the graceful arc of his gestures. When he left, she sobbed for a loss that could never be filled.
To mend her heart, her friend fixed her up with a man named Roberto. When he arrived, she gaped at his lean, lithe body. His lips touched her cheek, her hands. "Muy bonita," he whispered, and her breath caught. Such a man, different from all others. When he bid her a permanent farewell, she wailed hopelessly.
While mailing a letter, she bumped into a man and dropped the envelope. He retrieved it and caught her hand. "I am Roberto," he said, and she smiled. At the supermarket, Roberto bagged her groceries. At the pharmacy, Roberto filled her prescription. As he handed her the bags, he touched the small of her back lightly and whispered in her ear, "mi querida." When she returned to both places the next day, she asked for Roberto only to hear that he no longer worked there.
Slumping onto a park bench, she wiped at her wet eyes. "Are you alright, miss?" came a voice, not lyrical, but strangely rich with comfort. "Oh, leave me alone, Roberto!" she sobbed. No more, she thought. No more. The man sat down next to her and slipped a tissue into her hand.
"I'm John," he said.
- - -
Bio: Sherri Collins lives in the foothills of Tennessee with her love. Her work can be found in Bartleby Snopes, Writers' Bloc, and The Oddville Press, among others.
Tuesday, May 11, 2010
5/11/10
Stride
By Theresa C. Newbill
..love is not shown in the broadcasting of feelings,
but in shouting them silently to the fading moon.
If for a few still moments love bubbles in its own universe,
let me become addicted to the moon’s faraway tragedy.
I am tired of pretending, it’s true, but tell me anyway,
if words plume in lingering raindrops, then sleep in tragedy.
- - -
Theresa C. Newbill is a is a self described free spirit and former elementary school teacher turned writer. Her work has been widely published in various print and online magazines and she has received numerous awards for her writing.
By Theresa C. Newbill
..love is not shown in the broadcasting of feelings,
but in shouting them silently to the fading moon.
If for a few still moments love bubbles in its own universe,
let me become addicted to the moon’s faraway tragedy.
I am tired of pretending, it’s true, but tell me anyway,
if words plume in lingering raindrops, then sleep in tragedy.
- - -
Theresa C. Newbill is a is a self described free spirit and former elementary school teacher turned writer. Her work has been widely published in various print and online magazines and she has received numerous awards for her writing.
Monday, May 10, 2010
5/10/10
AN INSTANT CURE
Michael A. Kechula
Andrea yawned, stretched, opened her eyes. “What time is it?”
“Five after six,” I said.
“My God, what happened?”
“You fell asleep.”
“Oh, I’m so sorry.”
“It’s OK. Your medication must have caused it.”
“I’m so embarrassed. I invite you here, then fall asleep. I’ve ruined your Christmas.”
“No,” I said. “It’s been a wonderful day.”
More apologies. She was getting upset. I didn’t want her working up negative emotions. She was already emotionally ill. I reassured her again.
“I don’t remember laying down or putting this afghan on,” she said.
“I moved you so you could stretch out, put the afghan over you, and got a pillow for you from your, uh, bedroom. I hope you don’t mind.”
“No. It’s OK. Geez, Tom, you did all that for me? Nobody ever did anything like that for me.”
Nobody ever loved you unconditionally, I thought. But I said, “I wanted you to be comfortable.”
“You’re such a caring man. I can’t believe someone hasn’t latched on to you.”
I didn’t answer. Having left the seminary six months before ordination, I had no recent experience with female relationships. I’d retained my celibacy. Andrea knew nothing about this, because our conversations were always about her.
She rose, straightened her dress, fluffed her hair. “I can’t get over how you just stayed here. Another man would’ve been insulted and left.”
Changing the subject, I asked if she was going to wait until next Christmas to open my gift.
She read the card first, saying the wording was true—we were friends. Then she added, “I wish I’d met you sooner. My life would’ve been so different.”
She implied more than I wanted to ponder.
Fussing over the candle I’d given her, she lit it. A delicious vanilla aroma filled the room. Then she switched off the lights in the apartment, except for the Christmas tree.
She came to the sofa and sat close. “I almost slept this whole day away. I’m such a lousy hostess.”
I assured she wasn’t.
“Wanna see something other than Scrooge movies?” she asked.
“Doesn’t matter.”
Surfing channels, she stopped at a movie in which Ginger Rogers and Fred Astaire were dancing. Suddenly, Fred kissed Ginger.
Andrea leaned against me and put her head on my shoulder. Her pressure and warmth felt wonderful. I’d forgotten the magnificence of a woman’s physical closeness.
“Tom…would you hold me? Just hold me?”
For the first time in the months I’d known Andrea, I reached for her. She pressed her chest against mine, and slid her body down the sofa. I felt shock when we came together. She—or was it me?—let out a sound, a mixture of need, gratification, surprise, heightened tension.
I dampened the surge of pleasure, because I knew this was nothing more than her cry for help. She was emotionally ill, frightened, lonely. She needed the reassurance touch could give. She needed someone noble, understanding, who’d hold her with compassion. She needed me, Tom the comforter who knew the difference between an erotic advance and the need for consolation through an embrace.
I won’t lie and say I’m Saint Tom, and wasn’t tempted. We were alone and single. But, wanting that which should not be had, is easily controlled when you want to control it. And in Andrea’s case, it was vital not to seduce. Tampering with somebody already sick could have devastating results.
Had she been emotionally healthy, she wouldn’t have given me the time of day, much less asked me to hold her. I was out of her league. She was stunning, seven years younger, sexually experienced. She could’ve had any man in a flash. But at this moment, she needed me.
I’d convinced her to see a psychiatrist the day I stopped her from cutting her wrist more deeply. What a way to meet. In a few months, I’d assumed a unique, supportive role in her life. Perhaps she perceived me as brother, uncle, or even father. But never lover.
Through Andrea, I learned things I never knew about altruism and sympathy. I discovered how my deep sympathy for a beautiful woman could transform into love. When it happened, I was shocked. I hadn’t meant to fall for her. All I meant to do was give compassion, advice. Then suddenly, I felt lost. I couldn’t sleep. I couldn’t eat. I felt as if I were dying for love of Andrea.
The sense of being lost got stronger, because I knew it was a one-way street. My heart was torn, my emotions shattered. I suffered the unrelenting agony of unrequited love. I knew I was liked and appreciated, but I wasn’t loved.
As we held each other, I heard her breath, felt her heart beating against my chest. I felt a sudden rush of raging passion. But I fought the urge. This was a platonic, friendly embrace, and the only reason she was so close was for my emotional comfort and reassurance. I didn’t want to do anything to corrupt her trust.
“Tom.” she whispered.
“Yes?”
“Do you believe what Oscar Wilde said?”
“He said a lot of things. Which one are you referring to?”
“He said celibacy is the most unusual of man’s perversions. Are you unusually perverted, Tom?”
“We shouldn’t be talking about me,” I said. “My situation isn’t important. Your life is more important.”
“You give so much and never ask for anything. Let me give to you, for once. I have an instant cure for your perversion.”
All my defenses collapsed.
* * *
Once she cured me, all the altruism, and unconditional love I’d showered on Andrea to keep her afloat, disappeared.
Passionate love does not conquer all, like the poets say. Passion dies. So did Andrea. By her own hand when we broke up.
I puke whenever I hear Oscar Wilde’s name and his convoluted bullshit.
- - -
Michael A. Kechula's fiction has been published in 123 magazines and 33 anthologies. He’s authored 2 books of flash fiction stories: “The Area 51 Option and 70 More Speculative Fiction Tales,” and “A Full Deck of Zombies--61 Speculative Fiction Tales.” Both eBooks available at www.BooksForABuck.com. Paperbacks available at www.amazon.com.
Michael A. Kechula
Andrea yawned, stretched, opened her eyes. “What time is it?”
“Five after six,” I said.
“My God, what happened?”
“You fell asleep.”
“Oh, I’m so sorry.”
“It’s OK. Your medication must have caused it.”
“I’m so embarrassed. I invite you here, then fall asleep. I’ve ruined your Christmas.”
“No,” I said. “It’s been a wonderful day.”
More apologies. She was getting upset. I didn’t want her working up negative emotions. She was already emotionally ill. I reassured her again.
“I don’t remember laying down or putting this afghan on,” she said.
“I moved you so you could stretch out, put the afghan over you, and got a pillow for you from your, uh, bedroom. I hope you don’t mind.”
“No. It’s OK. Geez, Tom, you did all that for me? Nobody ever did anything like that for me.”
Nobody ever loved you unconditionally, I thought. But I said, “I wanted you to be comfortable.”
“You’re such a caring man. I can’t believe someone hasn’t latched on to you.”
I didn’t answer. Having left the seminary six months before ordination, I had no recent experience with female relationships. I’d retained my celibacy. Andrea knew nothing about this, because our conversations were always about her.
She rose, straightened her dress, fluffed her hair. “I can’t get over how you just stayed here. Another man would’ve been insulted and left.”
Changing the subject, I asked if she was going to wait until next Christmas to open my gift.
She read the card first, saying the wording was true—we were friends. Then she added, “I wish I’d met you sooner. My life would’ve been so different.”
She implied more than I wanted to ponder.
Fussing over the candle I’d given her, she lit it. A delicious vanilla aroma filled the room. Then she switched off the lights in the apartment, except for the Christmas tree.
She came to the sofa and sat close. “I almost slept this whole day away. I’m such a lousy hostess.”
I assured she wasn’t.
“Wanna see something other than Scrooge movies?” she asked.
“Doesn’t matter.”
Surfing channels, she stopped at a movie in which Ginger Rogers and Fred Astaire were dancing. Suddenly, Fred kissed Ginger.
Andrea leaned against me and put her head on my shoulder. Her pressure and warmth felt wonderful. I’d forgotten the magnificence of a woman’s physical closeness.
“Tom…would you hold me? Just hold me?”
For the first time in the months I’d known Andrea, I reached for her. She pressed her chest against mine, and slid her body down the sofa. I felt shock when we came together. She—or was it me?—let out a sound, a mixture of need, gratification, surprise, heightened tension.
I dampened the surge of pleasure, because I knew this was nothing more than her cry for help. She was emotionally ill, frightened, lonely. She needed the reassurance touch could give. She needed someone noble, understanding, who’d hold her with compassion. She needed me, Tom the comforter who knew the difference between an erotic advance and the need for consolation through an embrace.
I won’t lie and say I’m Saint Tom, and wasn’t tempted. We were alone and single. But, wanting that which should not be had, is easily controlled when you want to control it. And in Andrea’s case, it was vital not to seduce. Tampering with somebody already sick could have devastating results.
Had she been emotionally healthy, she wouldn’t have given me the time of day, much less asked me to hold her. I was out of her league. She was stunning, seven years younger, sexually experienced. She could’ve had any man in a flash. But at this moment, she needed me.
I’d convinced her to see a psychiatrist the day I stopped her from cutting her wrist more deeply. What a way to meet. In a few months, I’d assumed a unique, supportive role in her life. Perhaps she perceived me as brother, uncle, or even father. But never lover.
Through Andrea, I learned things I never knew about altruism and sympathy. I discovered how my deep sympathy for a beautiful woman could transform into love. When it happened, I was shocked. I hadn’t meant to fall for her. All I meant to do was give compassion, advice. Then suddenly, I felt lost. I couldn’t sleep. I couldn’t eat. I felt as if I were dying for love of Andrea.
The sense of being lost got stronger, because I knew it was a one-way street. My heart was torn, my emotions shattered. I suffered the unrelenting agony of unrequited love. I knew I was liked and appreciated, but I wasn’t loved.
As we held each other, I heard her breath, felt her heart beating against my chest. I felt a sudden rush of raging passion. But I fought the urge. This was a platonic, friendly embrace, and the only reason she was so close was for my emotional comfort and reassurance. I didn’t want to do anything to corrupt her trust.
“Tom.” she whispered.
“Yes?”
“Do you believe what Oscar Wilde said?”
“He said a lot of things. Which one are you referring to?”
“He said celibacy is the most unusual of man’s perversions. Are you unusually perverted, Tom?”
“We shouldn’t be talking about me,” I said. “My situation isn’t important. Your life is more important.”
“You give so much and never ask for anything. Let me give to you, for once. I have an instant cure for your perversion.”
All my defenses collapsed.
* * *
Once she cured me, all the altruism, and unconditional love I’d showered on Andrea to keep her afloat, disappeared.
Passionate love does not conquer all, like the poets say. Passion dies. So did Andrea. By her own hand when we broke up.
I puke whenever I hear Oscar Wilde’s name and his convoluted bullshit.
- - -
Michael A. Kechula's fiction has been published in 123 magazines and 33 anthologies. He’s authored 2 books of flash fiction stories: “The Area 51 Option and 70 More Speculative Fiction Tales,” and “A Full Deck of Zombies--61 Speculative Fiction Tales.” Both eBooks available at www.BooksForABuck.com. Paperbacks available at www.amazon.com.
Sunday, May 9, 2010
5/9/10
The Retrofit
By Douglas Campbell
Nondescript and aging,
my house gave shelter, nothing more.
The rain found ways inside the roof,
dripped and pooled in pots and pans.
The windows let in wasps and wind,
a cold draft carpeted my floor.
The walls and ceilings bulged and leaned,
dropping plaster, losing heat.
Beautiful and dream-ripe,
you filled my rooms with plans and heart.
With brand new tools we went to work,
laughter, lumber, caulk and dreams.
We stripped the walls to dust and bone,
tore the windows and the roof apart.
The house laid open, healed and cleansed,
we sealed the wounds, moved in again.
Luxurious, a haven now,
this house stands sanctified and new.
You've brought the colors that surround me,
the warmth that keeps my blood alive.
You're the light I do my reading by,
your voice the music in these rooms.
I'm happy here, and still surprised
at how love can retrofit old lives.
- - -
Douglas Campbell lives in southwestern Pennsylvania. His fiction and poetry has appeared online and in print, in publications such as Literary Potpourri, Flash Me Magazine, Every Day Fiction, Slow Trains Literary Journal, and Jabberwocky. Sometimes his writing wins prizes. His flash fiction, "Accidents," for instance, won the 2007 flash fiction contest held by Many Mountains Moving magazine. He's won other honors and has more writing credits, but doesn't like to bore people to sleep by listing them. Bottom line is he can't seem to resist telling stories, and just tries to do that as best he can.
By Douglas Campbell
Nondescript and aging,
my house gave shelter, nothing more.
The rain found ways inside the roof,
dripped and pooled in pots and pans.
The windows let in wasps and wind,
a cold draft carpeted my floor.
The walls and ceilings bulged and leaned,
dropping plaster, losing heat.
Beautiful and dream-ripe,
you filled my rooms with plans and heart.
With brand new tools we went to work,
laughter, lumber, caulk and dreams.
We stripped the walls to dust and bone,
tore the windows and the roof apart.
The house laid open, healed and cleansed,
we sealed the wounds, moved in again.
Luxurious, a haven now,
this house stands sanctified and new.
You've brought the colors that surround me,
the warmth that keeps my blood alive.
You're the light I do my reading by,
your voice the music in these rooms.
I'm happy here, and still surprised
at how love can retrofit old lives.
- - -
Douglas Campbell lives in southwestern Pennsylvania. His fiction and poetry has appeared online and in print, in publications such as Literary Potpourri, Flash Me Magazine, Every Day Fiction, Slow Trains Literary Journal, and Jabberwocky. Sometimes his writing wins prizes. His flash fiction, "Accidents," for instance, won the 2007 flash fiction contest held by Many Mountains Moving magazine. He's won other honors and has more writing credits, but doesn't like to bore people to sleep by listing them. Bottom line is he can't seem to resist telling stories, and just tries to do that as best he can.
Saturday, May 8, 2010
5/8/10
Jilt
By Amanda Firefox
You never told me why.
I miss you.
Did you like the fire?
I still have a key to your apartment.
I stole your deodorant while I was there.
I like having your smell all over my body.
I dreamed I fucked your brother last night.
I could smell you, and it made me wild for him.
Are you jealous?
Your parents still like me.
They think I’m a nice girl.
You should be with a nice girl.
- - -
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
You never told me why.
I miss you.
Did you like the fire?
I still have a key to your apartment.
I stole your deodorant while I was there.
I like having your smell all over my body.
I dreamed I fucked your brother last night.
I could smell you, and it made me wild for him.
Are you jealous?
Your parents still like me.
They think I’m a nice girl.
You should be with a nice girl.
- - -
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.
Friday, May 7, 2010
5/7/10
Cherry Blossom Rain
By Paula Ray
Last night my skin was thin:
translucent, smooth, and veined,
iridescent dragonfly wings--
my fragile shield.
There was no fear of ripping,
tearing chiffon overlay
he gently bathed:
lathered with a cashmere-tongue.
Out of my mouth they flew--
snowflakes of powered lace,
dancing with condensation--
heated vows stretched
the length of my body and beyond.
Cherry blossoms fell from his lips:
pink promises landed in steams
flowing from my happy dark eyes
shining--I knew, I knew.
- - -
Paula Ray chews words and blows them like bubbles. Sometimes they pop in her face and get embedded in her hair. Other times, they splatter on the screen in front of her and litter literary zines. When she isn't pushing letters around, she plays instruments and attempts to bring the dead ones back to life and find good homes for them in area schools with low budgets and high student populations. Her poetry and fiction has appeared in: Weirdyear, Word Riot, elimae, and many other wordy places. Visit her blog: http://musicalpencil.blogspot.com/
By Paula Ray
Last night my skin was thin:
translucent, smooth, and veined,
iridescent dragonfly wings--
my fragile shield.
There was no fear of ripping,
tearing chiffon overlay
he gently bathed:
lathered with a cashmere-tongue.
Out of my mouth they flew--
snowflakes of powered lace,
dancing with condensation--
heated vows stretched
the length of my body and beyond.
Cherry blossoms fell from his lips:
pink promises landed in steams
flowing from my happy dark eyes
shining--I knew, I knew.
- - -
Paula Ray chews words and blows them like bubbles. Sometimes they pop in her face and get embedded in her hair. Other times, they splatter on the screen in front of her and litter literary zines. When she isn't pushing letters around, she plays instruments and attempts to bring the dead ones back to life and find good homes for them in area schools with low budgets and high student populations. Her poetry and fiction has appeared in: Weirdyear, Word Riot, elimae, and many other wordy places. Visit her blog: http://musicalpencil.blogspot.com/
Thursday, May 6, 2010
5/6/10
Maggot and Piranha – A Fiery Tale
By Bernardo Bolt Gregori
The volume knob of the yellowish radio sitting on the vanity table had been ripped off before it really got that old. Yet a buzzing, ashen tune, reminding a Portishead groove, escaped through the speaker gridirons.
The first time I saw you I encountered me for the first time The first time I heard your voice I listened to me for the first time
“What attracted you to me?” Heath asked in a careless way, while tying up his shoelace. He almost wasn’t interested in the answer, but he almost freaked out at her hesitation.
“Ah, well, the smell of your feet.” Clara said.
“What?”
“You asked me.”
The first time your eyes met mine, mine meant something for the first time
“Ok. What else?” He started tying the second shoe.
“The way you smile with joy when you eat your snot.”
Heath defied her with a gluttonous stare.
“Is it the smile you like or do you feel like trying it, too, sometime?”
“Nay. It’s the joy of enjoying a treat.”
“What else?” He almost drew back the question and stopped tying the lace, repented.
“Your fart.”
“Oh my god! Do you love me or do you hate me?”
“I do love you, can’t you tell?”
He was over with his shoes, got up and was heading for the door when Clara shot a question.
“What about you?”
He paid attention to the faint song for a while.
The first time I kissed you, I missed you already, au rutti, all lite The first time I was inside of you, we were inside of you as mite
“What about?”
“What made you attracted to me?”
“Your tampons.” He, smirked, snickered, guffawed.
Sui generis sui side earth regenerates a soony cyke
“Seriously! I answered all your questions.”
“Seriously! I like the way they smell.”
“What do they smell like?”
“Like cinnamon.”
“C’m’on!”
“I’m not lying.”
“They do?” she widened a magical smile.
“Yeah, they sure do. Like when you sprinkle cinnamon on a cod.”
We’re together to bother the bladder that weeps wasps, hasps hearts with stingy tongues
“You maggot! Not fair!”
Free ways, open doors, herein dece deuce, meanings obtuse.
The song was over, the radio dead.
“All right, all right! My goldilocks, instead of neurotically trying to manipulate my actions, you horse-whisper my most intimate dreams like angelical stars enlighten our instincts to, on a dark night, do the right thing.”
“Why didn’t you say so? It’s so beautiful, Heath.”
“I’s ‘fraid I’s gonna sound sissy.”
“You did.”
- - -
Although Bernardo Bolt Gregori mostly writes both in English and in Portuguese, his drive is to create such a unique style which will culminate in another language. BBG believes writers are mysterious vessels; true meanings reside in each reader.
By Bernardo Bolt Gregori
The volume knob of the yellowish radio sitting on the vanity table had been ripped off before it really got that old. Yet a buzzing, ashen tune, reminding a Portishead groove, escaped through the speaker gridirons.
The first time I saw you I encountered me for the first time The first time I heard your voice I listened to me for the first time
“What attracted you to me?” Heath asked in a careless way, while tying up his shoelace. He almost wasn’t interested in the answer, but he almost freaked out at her hesitation.
“Ah, well, the smell of your feet.” Clara said.
“What?”
“You asked me.”
The first time your eyes met mine, mine meant something for the first time
“Ok. What else?” He started tying the second shoe.
“The way you smile with joy when you eat your snot.”
Heath defied her with a gluttonous stare.
“Is it the smile you like or do you feel like trying it, too, sometime?”
“Nay. It’s the joy of enjoying a treat.”
“What else?” He almost drew back the question and stopped tying the lace, repented.
“Your fart.”
“Oh my god! Do you love me or do you hate me?”
“I do love you, can’t you tell?”
He was over with his shoes, got up and was heading for the door when Clara shot a question.
“What about you?”
He paid attention to the faint song for a while.
The first time I kissed you, I missed you already, au rutti, all lite The first time I was inside of you, we were inside of you as mite
“What about?”
“What made you attracted to me?”
“Your tampons.” He, smirked, snickered, guffawed.
Sui generis sui side earth regenerates a soony cyke
“Seriously! I answered all your questions.”
“Seriously! I like the way they smell.”
“What do they smell like?”
“Like cinnamon.”
“C’m’on!”
“I’m not lying.”
“They do?” she widened a magical smile.
“Yeah, they sure do. Like when you sprinkle cinnamon on a cod.”
We’re together to bother the bladder that weeps wasps, hasps hearts with stingy tongues
“You maggot! Not fair!”
Free ways, open doors, herein dece deuce, meanings obtuse.
The song was over, the radio dead.
“All right, all right! My goldilocks, instead of neurotically trying to manipulate my actions, you horse-whisper my most intimate dreams like angelical stars enlighten our instincts to, on a dark night, do the right thing.”
“Why didn’t you say so? It’s so beautiful, Heath.”
“I’s ‘fraid I’s gonna sound sissy.”
“You did.”
- - -
Although Bernardo Bolt Gregori mostly writes both in English and in Portuguese, his drive is to create such a unique style which will culminate in another language. BBG believes writers are mysterious vessels; true meanings reside in each reader.
Wednesday, May 5, 2010
5/5/10
A REMINDER
By John Lambremont, Sr.
Don't get a boob lift,
and don't get a tummy tuck;
you are such a gift,
and I am still dumb-struck.
Don't color your hair,
those colors are nowhere;
I see you out there,
in the lake's open air;
you're now and forever
my lovely lady fair.
- - -
John Lambremont, Sr. is a poet living in Baton Rouge, Louisiana. His poems have appeared most recently in A Hudson View (2010 Pushcart Prize nomination), Boston Literary Magazine, Notes from the Gean, Foundling Review, Poetry Quarterly, and Raleigh Review.
By John Lambremont, Sr.
Don't get a boob lift,
and don't get a tummy tuck;
you are such a gift,
and I am still dumb-struck.
Don't color your hair,
those colors are nowhere;
I see you out there,
in the lake's open air;
you're now and forever
my lovely lady fair.
- - -
John Lambremont, Sr. is a poet living in Baton Rouge, Louisiana. His poems have appeared most recently in A Hudson View (2010 Pushcart Prize nomination), Boston Literary Magazine, Notes from the Gean, Foundling Review, Poetry Quarterly, and Raleigh Review.
Tuesday, May 4, 2010
5/4/10
ME AND HEMINGWAY IN BELGIUM
Michael A. Kechula
Two days after Christmas, I experienced a scene right out of a Hemingway novel. Only this was in a café in Belgium. Hemingway would have preferred it happen in Spain, preferably during the Spanish Civil War.
Six of us were around the table: Rene, the woman I’ve loved all my life, and her husband; Jana, her younger sister, the woman I’ve also loved all of my life, and her husband. Finally there was Adolpho, father of the two sisters.
Twenty years had passed since I’d seen any of them. We met for lunch in Brussels. Hemingway might have shifted the scene to Havana on a scorching, humid day with renegade police randomly checking passports.
Rene was in her mid-forties and plump. Jana, four years younger, was just as matronly. Hemingway would’ve painted both women as maturely magnificent, still shapely and lustful, with one or both barren. He would’ve had one or the other, or perhaps both, creep into my tent on a hot African night at the base of Mount Kilamanjaro.
Their father hadn’t changed a bit. He was a short man, part Italian, part Portuguese. Hemingway would’ve put a snowy beard on him and made him a towering, exceedingly-robust, elephant hunter.
As to the husbands, I’d never met either. Rene’s husband, who’d occupied my place in her bed for twenty-odd years, was a stick and the spitting image of the guy who’d hosted the 1970s, wacky, TV series, The Gong Show.
I asked myself, How can I be angry with somebody who looks so comical although he stole the love of my life? Hemingway would have given him a flask from which he swigged continuously while he sized me up for a bloody street fight.
The other husband was all spit and polish. Career military officer. He had the no-nonsense look of a warrior. I didn’t begrudge his place in Jana’s bed for the past twenty-three years, as I’d never expected to occupy it anyway. Not to say I didn’t pine for the opportunity. Hemingway would have given him binoculars and a knapsack crammed with dynamite to blow a bridge during Spain’s Civil War.
Rene arranged for me to sit next to her. I didn’t expect to be so stirred by her nearness. I glanced across the table at Jana. I didn’t expect to get so wound up at the sight of her blonde hair slipping down over her forehead. Jana never knew I loved her so deeply from afar. She couldn’t have guessed I’d picked her as Rene’s successor, once Rene threw me away for the host of the Gong Show. No way Hemingway could have improved on this potentially explosive, middle-aged, double-triangle.
I couldn’t believe what Rene did during that a lull in the conversation. She told everyone about the time my drunken, raging dad lunged at her, and I had to pick up a chair to fend him off, while she escaped. She sounded very wistful about that.
That was not the time and place to bring it up, as it showed how extremely protective of her and how heroic I was. Hemingway would have appreciated the drunkenness of my dad and my gallantry. And how Rene cleverly found a way to pit me against her husband, who looked like he’d run and hide if anybody threatened his wife.
She seemed to be saying, “Look at Harry, he protected me from his father who was in a drunken, unprovoked rage. You, my husband, are so complacent...you’ve never had to risk danger on my behalf. But next to me sits Harry, who as a boy of 16, stood his ground and was ready to whack his dad with a heavy, chrome kitchen chair to save me.
Later I thought, Why did you leave me, Rene? I put my life on the line for you, and that wasn't even good enough to make you mine forever? I couldn’t even go home that night I stood up to my dad. He would’ve taken me apart. I slept outside in the cold, fearing for my life. Didn’t that even come to your thoughts when you were evaluating if you would marry Gong Show or me?
I wondered how far I'd have to go for a woman in order to have her not leave me for another. What would I have to do to keep the affections of a woman who’d care for me in a steady, sustained, and predictable way?
I couldn’t come up with any answers.
I decided that when I finally saw the Almighty, I'd ask Him about the creatures he named woman. Especially the woman named Rene. And her sister, Jana.
As I ate my dessert, I pondered how Hemingway might have described that celestial confrontation.
- - -
Michael A. Kechula's fiction has been published in 123 magazines and 33 anthologies. He’s authored 2 books of flash fiction stories: “The Area 51 Option and 70 More Speculative Fiction Tales,” and “A Full Deck of Zombies--61 Speculative Fiction Tales.” Both eBooks available at www.BooksForABuck.com. Paperbacks available at www.amazon.com.
Michael A. Kechula
Two days after Christmas, I experienced a scene right out of a Hemingway novel. Only this was in a café in Belgium. Hemingway would have preferred it happen in Spain, preferably during the Spanish Civil War.
Six of us were around the table: Rene, the woman I’ve loved all my life, and her husband; Jana, her younger sister, the woman I’ve also loved all of my life, and her husband. Finally there was Adolpho, father of the two sisters.
Twenty years had passed since I’d seen any of them. We met for lunch in Brussels. Hemingway might have shifted the scene to Havana on a scorching, humid day with renegade police randomly checking passports.
Rene was in her mid-forties and plump. Jana, four years younger, was just as matronly. Hemingway would’ve painted both women as maturely magnificent, still shapely and lustful, with one or both barren. He would’ve had one or the other, or perhaps both, creep into my tent on a hot African night at the base of Mount Kilamanjaro.
Their father hadn’t changed a bit. He was a short man, part Italian, part Portuguese. Hemingway would’ve put a snowy beard on him and made him a towering, exceedingly-robust, elephant hunter.
As to the husbands, I’d never met either. Rene’s husband, who’d occupied my place in her bed for twenty-odd years, was a stick and the spitting image of the guy who’d hosted the 1970s, wacky, TV series, The Gong Show.
I asked myself, How can I be angry with somebody who looks so comical although he stole the love of my life? Hemingway would have given him a flask from which he swigged continuously while he sized me up for a bloody street fight.
The other husband was all spit and polish. Career military officer. He had the no-nonsense look of a warrior. I didn’t begrudge his place in Jana’s bed for the past twenty-three years, as I’d never expected to occupy it anyway. Not to say I didn’t pine for the opportunity. Hemingway would have given him binoculars and a knapsack crammed with dynamite to blow a bridge during Spain’s Civil War.
Rene arranged for me to sit next to her. I didn’t expect to be so stirred by her nearness. I glanced across the table at Jana. I didn’t expect to get so wound up at the sight of her blonde hair slipping down over her forehead. Jana never knew I loved her so deeply from afar. She couldn’t have guessed I’d picked her as Rene’s successor, once Rene threw me away for the host of the Gong Show. No way Hemingway could have improved on this potentially explosive, middle-aged, double-triangle.
I couldn’t believe what Rene did during that a lull in the conversation. She told everyone about the time my drunken, raging dad lunged at her, and I had to pick up a chair to fend him off, while she escaped. She sounded very wistful about that.
That was not the time and place to bring it up, as it showed how extremely protective of her and how heroic I was. Hemingway would have appreciated the drunkenness of my dad and my gallantry. And how Rene cleverly found a way to pit me against her husband, who looked like he’d run and hide if anybody threatened his wife.
She seemed to be saying, “Look at Harry, he protected me from his father who was in a drunken, unprovoked rage. You, my husband, are so complacent...you’ve never had to risk danger on my behalf. But next to me sits Harry, who as a boy of 16, stood his ground and was ready to whack his dad with a heavy, chrome kitchen chair to save me.
Later I thought, Why did you leave me, Rene? I put my life on the line for you, and that wasn't even good enough to make you mine forever? I couldn’t even go home that night I stood up to my dad. He would’ve taken me apart. I slept outside in the cold, fearing for my life. Didn’t that even come to your thoughts when you were evaluating if you would marry Gong Show or me?
I wondered how far I'd have to go for a woman in order to have her not leave me for another. What would I have to do to keep the affections of a woman who’d care for me in a steady, sustained, and predictable way?
I couldn’t come up with any answers.
I decided that when I finally saw the Almighty, I'd ask Him about the creatures he named woman. Especially the woman named Rene. And her sister, Jana.
As I ate my dessert, I pondered how Hemingway might have described that celestial confrontation.
- - -
Michael A. Kechula's fiction has been published in 123 magazines and 33 anthologies. He’s authored 2 books of flash fiction stories: “The Area 51 Option and 70 More Speculative Fiction Tales,” and “A Full Deck of Zombies--61 Speculative Fiction Tales.” Both eBooks available at www.BooksForABuck.com. Paperbacks available at www.amazon.com.
Monday, May 3, 2010
5/3/10
The One I loved
By Sergio A. Ortiz
is the table pocket
for all her stripes,
one she never bothers
to touch.
He softens her perm
pretending
to be the country hard boy
knowing all the snooker rules,
implausible reporter of dancers
and gongs,
barbarous journey
of a comb so genteel
there is no other consequence possible
than the alteration of life.
- - -
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).
By Sergio A. Ortiz
is the table pocket
for all her stripes,
one she never bothers
to touch.
He softens her perm
pretending
to be the country hard boy
knowing all the snooker rules,
implausible reporter of dancers
and gongs,
barbarous journey
of a comb so genteel
there is no other consequence possible
than the alteration of life.
- - -
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).
Sunday, May 2, 2010
5/2/10
Pronouns
by Lena Judith Drake
I fold ragged towels, washcloths with finger holes,
and fading, bleached cartoon faces,
place them in the empty spaces
in the hallway shelves.
I remember you singing in front of me,
not changing the lyrics from she to he like I always have,
except as much as I stared, you wouldn't look at me.
I match corner to corner on the cloth, displaced threads
and sing your song under my breath,
not changing the lyrics
for once, because I'm singing about you
(she once was a true love of mine)
- - -
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.
by Lena Judith Drake
I fold ragged towels, washcloths with finger holes,
and fading, bleached cartoon faces,
place them in the empty spaces
in the hallway shelves.
I remember you singing in front of me,
not changing the lyrics from she to he like I always have,
except as much as I stared, you wouldn't look at me.
I match corner to corner on the cloth, displaced threads
and sing your song under my breath,
not changing the lyrics
for once, because I'm singing about you
(she once was a true love of mine)
- - -
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.
Saturday, May 1, 2010
5/1/10
Now That I Desire
By Michael Lee Johnson
Now that I desire to be close to you
like two occupants sharing a twin bed
sensing the warmth of sweating shoulders,
hungering for your flesh like a wild wolf
leaning over empty carcass,
you’re off searching unexplored cliffs,
climbing dangerous mountain tops,
capturing bumblebees in broken beer bottles for biology class,
pleasing plants, parachuting from clouds for fun.
In clouds you’re closer to life, nonsense,
a princess of absurdity, collector of dreams
and silent sounds.
In clouds you build your own fantasy, share it with select celebrities.
But till this captive discovers a cure for caring, a way of rescuing insatiable insanity,
or lives long enough to be patient in longing for you--you must be vigilant,
for with time snow will surely
blanket this warm desire.
-1975-
- - -
Michael Lee Johnson is a poet and freelance writer from Itasca, Illinois. His new poetry chapbook with pictures, titled From Which Place the Morning Rises, and his new photo version of The Lost American: from Exile to Freedom are available at: http://stores.lulu.com/promomanusa.
By Michael Lee Johnson
Now that I desire to be close to you
like two occupants sharing a twin bed
sensing the warmth of sweating shoulders,
hungering for your flesh like a wild wolf
leaning over empty carcass,
you’re off searching unexplored cliffs,
climbing dangerous mountain tops,
capturing bumblebees in broken beer bottles for biology class,
pleasing plants, parachuting from clouds for fun.
In clouds you’re closer to life, nonsense,
a princess of absurdity, collector of dreams
and silent sounds.
In clouds you build your own fantasy, share it with select celebrities.
But till this captive discovers a cure for caring, a way of rescuing insatiable insanity,
or lives long enough to be patient in longing for you--you must be vigilant,
for with time snow will surely
blanket this warm desire.
-1975-
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Michael Lee Johnson is a poet and freelance writer from Itasca, Illinois. His new poetry chapbook with pictures, titled From Which Place the Morning Rises, and his new photo version of The Lost American: from Exile to Freedom are available at: http://stores.lulu.com/promomanusa.
