Darjeeling Tea
by Dave Aichele
Dear girl,
the innocence of my adoration
flows with the gales of my
eager breath, curling
in sync with the amber swirl
dancing in our teacups.
We laugh, we converse;
the chatter of new
acquaintanceship
fluttering alongside the last
orange and brown confetti strands,
that welcome the gentle
white faeries of
pure winter.
Chipped ceramic holding
a heaven with honey and lemon
the brew itself keeping hold
a spirit of its own, simple and
free.
Dear girl,
let the suave aroma
of my Darjeeling tea
soothe, warm you
the liquid tranquility
radiating though yet simple,
I find in its taste
with fond familiarity,
having brewed the tea
with you in mind.
- - -
Born in South Philadelphia, Dave Aichele is a poet of the inner city, a muse of the streets and a student of psychology. He is currently working on a compilation of poems about urban life and all its challenges.
Wednesday, June 30, 2010
Tuesday, June 29, 2010
6/29/10
Perfection
By E.S. Wynn
In the morning half-light, I trace lines across your golden skin, kiss your warm shoulder. Your hair is like a stream of midnight, cascading across the smooth curves of your face, past eyes that smile as you sleep. Through the night, we hold each other with silent smiles, relax into arms that comfort, support. This is heaven. This is perfection. My hands intertwine silently with yours.
- - -
For my one and only. :)
By E.S. Wynn
In the morning half-light, I trace lines across your golden skin, kiss your warm shoulder. Your hair is like a stream of midnight, cascading across the smooth curves of your face, past eyes that smile as you sleep. Through the night, we hold each other with silent smiles, relax into arms that comfort, support. This is heaven. This is perfection. My hands intertwine silently with yours.
- - -
For my one and only. :)
Monday, June 28, 2010
6/28/10
Broken Hearts in Paris
By Jason Sturner
I dreamt last night
Of the last night I saw you,
All covered in deadweight gold
And tarnished by its light.
You stood at the window,
An angel with burnt wings
And a soul tired of dancing.
"It's never easy backing out," you said.
"I know," I replied,
Our backs facing each other
And the voice not quite my own.
"Sometimes it isn't what we imagine."
You breathed against the window
And made a heart with your fingertip.
I closed my eyes
And put my forehead to the door.
When moonlight fell across the bed
You turned to me and said, "Paris, we
Should've gone to Paris. They have stars
And paintings, all the romance you can take."
I fumbled for my keys and opened the door.
"And broken hearts," I said.
Plenty of broken hearts.
- - -
Jason Sturner was born in Harvey, Illinois, and raised in the western suburbs of Chicago. He has published three books of poetry: Kairos, 10 Love Poems, and Selected Poems 2004-2007 (all available as free downloads; see website). He resides in Wheaton, Illinois and works as a botanist at the Morton Arboretum in Lisle. Website: www.jasonsturner.blogspot.com
By Jason Sturner
I dreamt last night
Of the last night I saw you,
All covered in deadweight gold
And tarnished by its light.
You stood at the window,
An angel with burnt wings
And a soul tired of dancing.
"It's never easy backing out," you said.
"I know," I replied,
Our backs facing each other
And the voice not quite my own.
"Sometimes it isn't what we imagine."
You breathed against the window
And made a heart with your fingertip.
I closed my eyes
And put my forehead to the door.
When moonlight fell across the bed
You turned to me and said, "Paris, we
Should've gone to Paris. They have stars
And paintings, all the romance you can take."
I fumbled for my keys and opened the door.
"And broken hearts," I said.
Plenty of broken hearts.
- - -
Jason Sturner was born in Harvey, Illinois, and raised in the western suburbs of Chicago. He has published three books of poetry: Kairos, 10 Love Poems, and Selected Poems 2004-2007 (all available as free downloads; see website). He resides in Wheaton, Illinois and works as a botanist at the Morton Arboretum in Lisle. Website: www.jasonsturner.blogspot.com
Sunday, June 27, 2010
6/27/10
At The Vineyard
W.J. Nunnery
As they stomped the grapes, feet warm in would-to-be-wine, their laughter refused to stop.
Hers is a trainset, he thinks, snapped together the day after Christmas.
On their legs, the liquid is stained purple and it extends to just below her knees and right above his and the sun is a canary faded from the afternoon’s one colored sky.
Slowly, she steps closer to him.
“Look,” she says.
He follows her finger.
“Make a wish.”
He remembers Mr. Conti, her grandfather, a rich old man, frail looking with age and hunched over in stature and his boss—although he really didn’t consider him such—saying when they were back at the house, “one bucket will be enough.”
Mr. Conti was friends with his grandfather because when his grandfather was a boy he had worked for Mr. Conti’s father; they were the same age and during his grandfathers breaks they would sit together laughing at same things.
But grandpa don’t even smile anymore and grandpa don’t sing along about feeling good and birds flying high and new dawns when the lady with the loud soul-voice do, and like Mr. Conti do, like he don’t got a care. I would sing too if I knew the words.
Through the side of his left eye he takes a quick glance at the splintering wooden bucket. It’s less than a drop from overflowing; feels lifetimes ago since they first brought it down. Then, he takes what he hopes will seem like an inadvertent step forward, like a clumsy slip, maybe, or something.
“Hurry.”
He feels her breath glance against the inside of his ear; it expands in the darkening wind all over the side of his neck, sweeping. It sort of tingles through his entire body. Like goosebumps.
“Make a wish,” she says. “Before the next one comes.”
- - -
I'm a student at Concordia in St. Paul Minnesota. However, where my passion resides is in my hometown Madison Wisconsin. Recently, my work has appeared in Xenith Online, Powder Burn Flash and North College Central Review.
W.J. Nunnery
As they stomped the grapes, feet warm in would-to-be-wine, their laughter refused to stop.
Hers is a trainset, he thinks, snapped together the day after Christmas.
On their legs, the liquid is stained purple and it extends to just below her knees and right above his and the sun is a canary faded from the afternoon’s one colored sky.
Slowly, she steps closer to him.
“Look,” she says.
He follows her finger.
“Make a wish.”
He remembers Mr. Conti, her grandfather, a rich old man, frail looking with age and hunched over in stature and his boss—although he really didn’t consider him such—saying when they were back at the house, “one bucket will be enough.”
Mr. Conti was friends with his grandfather because when his grandfather was a boy he had worked for Mr. Conti’s father; they were the same age and during his grandfathers breaks they would sit together laughing at same things.
But grandpa don’t even smile anymore and grandpa don’t sing along about feeling good and birds flying high and new dawns when the lady with the loud soul-voice do, and like Mr. Conti do, like he don’t got a care. I would sing too if I knew the words.
Through the side of his left eye he takes a quick glance at the splintering wooden bucket. It’s less than a drop from overflowing; feels lifetimes ago since they first brought it down. Then, he takes what he hopes will seem like an inadvertent step forward, like a clumsy slip, maybe, or something.
“Hurry.”
He feels her breath glance against the inside of his ear; it expands in the darkening wind all over the side of his neck, sweeping. It sort of tingles through his entire body. Like goosebumps.
“Make a wish,” she says. “Before the next one comes.”
- - -
I'm a student at Concordia in St. Paul Minnesota. However, where my passion resides is in my hometown Madison Wisconsin. Recently, my work has appeared in Xenith Online, Powder Burn Flash and North College Central Review.
Saturday, June 26, 2010
6/26/10
The Truth Is
By Amanda Firefox
There’s something I need to tell you.
I want you.
Something you should know.
I want you, now.
I really. . . like you and. . .
I want to rip your clothes off.
And, I would like to see more of you.
I want you to pull my hair and growl in my ear.
We could go out to dinner or a movie... sometime
Then I’ll wrap my legs around you and grind, just grind
Maybe, you know, um, if that’s your thing.
I’ll lick your ears, your chest, move further down, down
I don’t know how you feel about movies. Anyway, um
I want you all to myself. I want you and no one else.
I’m um, looking forward to seeing you again.
I want you on me, in me. I want to be you, wear you like a skin
I hope you’re having a good day. Hope everything is. . . awesome and all.
I want to taste you, drink you, swallow every inch of you.
See, the truth is. . . I um.
I love you
I’m smitten– I like . . . I feel like there’s something, a connection . . .
I love you.
Um. Never mind. Forget. . . forget I said anything.
Damn.
- - -
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
There’s something I need to tell you.
Something you should know.
I really. . . like you and. . .
And, I would like to see more of you.
We could go out to dinner or a movie... sometime
Maybe, you know, um, if that’s your thing.
I don’t know how you feel about movies. Anyway, um
I’m um, looking forward to seeing you again.
I hope you’re having a good day. Hope everything is. . . awesome and all.
See, the truth is. . . I um.
I’m smitten– I like . . . I feel like there’s something, a connection . . .
Um. Never mind. Forget. . . forget I said anything.
- - -
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, June 25, 2010
6/25/10
I Love You
By Jason Sturner
I see more than you know
about all you are,
and through my observations
and from my analysis
I've concluded that
I love you.
Not a theory
quite simply a fact—
I love you,
and that's that.
- - -
Jason Sturner was born in Harvey, Illinois, and raised in the western suburbs of Chicago. He has published three books of poetry: Kairos, 10 Love Poems, and Selected Poems 2004-2007 (all available as free downloads; see website). He resides in Wheaton, Illinois and works as a botanist at the Morton Arboretum in Lisle. Website: www.jasonsturner.blogspot.com
By Jason Sturner
I see more than you know
about all you are,
and through my observations
and from my analysis
I've concluded that
I love you.
Not a theory
quite simply a fact—
I love you,
and that's that.
- - -
Jason Sturner was born in Harvey, Illinois, and raised in the western suburbs of Chicago. He has published three books of poetry: Kairos, 10 Love Poems, and Selected Poems 2004-2007 (all available as free downloads; see website). He resides in Wheaton, Illinois and works as a botanist at the Morton Arboretum in Lisle. Website: www.jasonsturner.blogspot.com
Thursday, June 24, 2010
6/24/10
Illusion Doubts
By Walter K. Richards
“What is wrong with me?” I ask, chin in my hand. She looks back at me, gives the barest quirk of her lips.
“I told you it was going too fast.” She picks up her cup, looks inside, doesn’t take a drink. “Nothing is wrong, really. You’re just suddenly realizing you don’t know her as well as you thought you did.”
“Well I do, I just. . .” I sigh, gesture. “We’ve spent hours talking– things are amazing! We click like I’ve never clicked with anyone before.”
“Then what are you afraid of?” She asks.
“What if she’s hiding something?” The table is an endless sea of doubt. “What if she isn’t as perfect as she seems to be?”
“Then she isn’t.” She shakes her head. “Look, no one is perfect.” She shifts to face me fully, eyes piercing mine to the quick. “What’s the absolute worst thing that she might be hiding? Give me the worst scenario.”
“I. . .” I hesitate, unable to speak.
“Disease? Debt? A felony or something like that in her past?” She pushes it. “You think maybe she’s a man?”
“She’s not a man.” I swallow, shake my head. “And there’s no way she has any kind of disease or a criminal record.” I take a breath, feel eternity stretch into the pause. “If there’s debt. . . I don’t care.”
“Then what do you have to be afraid of?”
“What if she’s. . . y’know. . . cut.” I gesture. “What if things get serious and we can’t have a family?”
“Will that change the way you feel about her?” She asks me pointedly.
“No.” I shake my head.
“Then you’ve got nothing to worry about, do you?”
I open my mouth, but before I can speak, she smiles softly, picks up her tea and leaves.
- - -
Walter K. Richards believes in sin, but only enough to get himself into trouble.
By Walter K. Richards
“What is wrong with me?” I ask, chin in my hand. She looks back at me, gives the barest quirk of her lips.
“I told you it was going too fast.” She picks up her cup, looks inside, doesn’t take a drink. “Nothing is wrong, really. You’re just suddenly realizing you don’t know her as well as you thought you did.”
“Well I do, I just. . .” I sigh, gesture. “We’ve spent hours talking– things are amazing! We click like I’ve never clicked with anyone before.”
“Then what are you afraid of?” She asks.
“What if she’s hiding something?” The table is an endless sea of doubt. “What if she isn’t as perfect as she seems to be?”
“Then she isn’t.” She shakes her head. “Look, no one is perfect.” She shifts to face me fully, eyes piercing mine to the quick. “What’s the absolute worst thing that she might be hiding? Give me the worst scenario.”
“I. . .” I hesitate, unable to speak.
“Disease? Debt? A felony or something like that in her past?” She pushes it. “You think maybe she’s a man?”
“She’s not a man.” I swallow, shake my head. “And there’s no way she has any kind of disease or a criminal record.” I take a breath, feel eternity stretch into the pause. “If there’s debt. . . I don’t care.”
“Then what do you have to be afraid of?”
“What if she’s. . . y’know. . . cut.” I gesture. “What if things get serious and we can’t have a family?”
“Will that change the way you feel about her?” She asks me pointedly.
“No.” I shake my head.
“Then you’ve got nothing to worry about, do you?”
I open my mouth, but before I can speak, she smiles softly, picks up her tea and leaves.
- - -
Walter K. Richards believes in sin, but only enough to get himself into trouble.
Wednesday, June 23, 2010
6/23/10
Letters Between Lovers
(The Things We Leave Unsaid)
By Ashley Shaw
Danny,
It is sunny here,
But not as warm as expected.
Dusty yellow rays bounce off
The shiny red paint
On my car,
But I still shiver.
I never realized how
Cold it could be
In Florida
-Leslie
Leslie,
I, too, am cold.
But for a different reason.
I miss you.
I wish you would come home.
I can still hear your tentative footsteps
Walking through our bedroom.
It still smells like gardenia,
Even though all of the flowers
Have died.
It is brisk here.
Love,
-Danny
Danny,
Yes, I am aware of your brisk temperatures.
Like the cold tone of your letter.
I made it to the beach today
And let my toes drift lazily
Against the water's edge.
I wore my black bikini.
The one we picked out together
In one of those little stores on the
Jersey boardwalk.
I caught men staring at my
Rounded bottom.
I don't know why I'm telling you this.
I chased the seagulls
Into the foaming surf.
It's so beautiful here.
But I still long for home.
I hope you are keeping occupied.
-Leslie
Leslie,
I am keeping busy.
To distract myself from
Thoughts of your hair
And toes and skin and shoulders
And scent.
I feel your ghost in each
Breath I take, and
I keep thinking I see you
Out of the corner of my eye,
Your lips stretched into a smile.
It was so rare to see you smile
During the past few months.
I wish you were here.
Yes, I'm very busy.
-Danny
Danny,
I'm having my lawyer send up the papers.
Please sign them at your earliest convenience.
Why couldn't you just talk to me?
We could have resolved this.
I'm sorry it worked out this way.
Why didn't you just
Love me?
-Leslie
Leslie,
The papers are signed.
I'm sorry.
I wish I could have fixed this,
But I know
I could never be what you need.
I wish I could tell you
How much I love you,
How much I long for you,
How late I stay awake each night
Just thinking of your eyes,
But some things are
Better left
Unsaid.
-Danny
- - -
I am a twenty-one year old student at Arcadia University. I have many strange phobias (including peanut-butter), but writing is not one of them. So this is one of my first attempts to get my work published. Thank you for any and all consideration.
Tuesday, June 22, 2010
6/22/10
To A Girl I Could Have Loved if I had the Chance
By Hal H Allen
We connect like no two have connected before
It would seem that you should have been my girlfriend.
But I am too late.
About eight months too late.
You already have a boyfriend.
It would seem as though he already loves you and you love him.
I wish I could have been there eight months ago.
When we are together, time slips away without a fight.
We have fun, fun that a couple should have.
Your boyfriend is one lucky guy.
I understand why he proposed.
I would want you as my wife as quickly as possible too.
I would want to keep you forever too.
But you can understand why I'm jealous right ?
A beautiful, smart, funny girl like you does not come along all the time.
A diamond does not come along everyday.
I just hope his feelings are real.
Because you can't turn a bad girl good,
Once a good girl has gone bad she is gone forever.
I hope you have a good and happy life.
From a too late admirer
- - -
I have been writing forever. I write comic books, but there are times with my romantic imagination goes wild.
By Hal H Allen
We connect like no two have connected before
It would seem that you should have been my girlfriend.
But I am too late.
About eight months too late.
You already have a boyfriend.
It would seem as though he already loves you and you love him.
I wish I could have been there eight months ago.
When we are together, time slips away without a fight.
We have fun, fun that a couple should have.
Your boyfriend is one lucky guy.
I understand why he proposed.
I would want you as my wife as quickly as possible too.
I would want to keep you forever too.
But you can understand why I'm jealous right ?
A beautiful, smart, funny girl like you does not come along all the time.
A diamond does not come along everyday.
I just hope his feelings are real.
Because you can't turn a bad girl good,
Once a good girl has gone bad she is gone forever.
I hope you have a good and happy life.
From a too late admirer
- - -
I have been writing forever. I write comic books, but there are times with my romantic imagination goes wild.
Monday, June 21, 2010
6/21/10
Letters
by Randal Schmidt
I got your letter today. It was sticking out of the mailbox when I got back to the apartment building. The mailman never puts it in right. Lazy bastard. The envelope was wrinkled and stained. It was a sad and beaten little thing. I almost didn’t want to open it. I didn’t want to see the words. I didn’t know what they would be, but I still didn’t want to see them. Black and white. Just staring at me. Your voice in every one.
I don’t know why you still write me. I never answer. Some misplaced hope makes you send me a letter, I guess. Like a bottle in the ocean, hoping that it reaches someone somewhere. Each one stings a little. I wish I could really disappear. How did you get my address anyway?
The trees in the park have begun to change colors. My apartment gets really cold this time of year. I think I may be moving. I don’t care where.
- - -
Randal Schmidt is a proud member of the Fightin' Texas Aggie Class of 2011 and a writer for a local publication, Maroon Weekly. He loves reading and writing almost as much as he loves his fiancee.
by Randal Schmidt
I got your letter today. It was sticking out of the mailbox when I got back to the apartment building. The mailman never puts it in right. Lazy bastard. The envelope was wrinkled and stained. It was a sad and beaten little thing. I almost didn’t want to open it. I didn’t want to see the words. I didn’t know what they would be, but I still didn’t want to see them. Black and white. Just staring at me. Your voice in every one.
I don’t know why you still write me. I never answer. Some misplaced hope makes you send me a letter, I guess. Like a bottle in the ocean, hoping that it reaches someone somewhere. Each one stings a little. I wish I could really disappear. How did you get my address anyway?
The trees in the park have begun to change colors. My apartment gets really cold this time of year. I think I may be moving. I don’t care where.
- - -
Randal Schmidt is a proud member of the Fightin' Texas Aggie Class of 2011 and a writer for a local publication, Maroon Weekly. He loves reading and writing almost as much as he loves his fiancee.
Sunday, June 20, 2010
6/20/10
Perfect Desire
Ron Koppelberger
- - -
I have been writing since I was eight years old. I have published in a variety of magazines and I love to see my work in print, especially if i can influence the reader to a moment in time, a thought, a feeling, perhaps a distant memory of something pleasant or inspiring. I hope you enjoy my work.
Ron Koppelberger
Believing in the suns cadent aura,
An amazing halo of perfect desire reflected by the
Mirrored glass of passionate eyes and tender smiles,
The enticing allure of a love borne in the cradle
Of a deeper dream, by dizzy deliriums in gasping need
And the slow passage of a moment in sweet embrace.
An amazing halo of perfect desire reflected by the
Mirrored glass of passionate eyes and tender smiles,
The enticing allure of a love borne in the cradle
Of a deeper dream, by dizzy deliriums in gasping need
And the slow passage of a moment in sweet embrace.
- - -
I have been writing since I was eight years old. I have published in a variety of magazines and I love to see my work in print, especially if i can influence the reader to a moment in time, a thought, a feeling, perhaps a distant memory of something pleasant or inspiring. I hope you enjoy my work.
Saturday, June 19, 2010
6/19/10
Heart Locket
By Glenda Grande
A hollow heart, like a golden locket without a memory,
Is worn upon my chest; how can I fill this emptiness?
Words become void and emotions slowly fading away -
If I close my eyes and cry, will you catch my sapphire tears?
Let me tell you a story of how my heart was broken in two,
In two and in two again; scattered on the floor like rose petals.
I once fell in love with a shooting star whose love shone down:
A magnificent thing to behold; beautiful and everything I dreamed.
Bright as the purest truth, I wished to reach out for a touch;
But the night changed to day all too quick, in the season of autumn.
My heart locket fell from my chain and split itself upon a silver rock.
The shining stream of light, no longer visible in the the clarity of day;
The golden moment was lost – for how long, time can only tell.
A hollow heart, locked in a cage in the guise of this locket,
I hold it close to me in fear that it will break yet again. Again.
Tonight, I’ll lay upon these grassy plains and resume to stargaze.
My hand around the locket, I’ll hold it tightly with utmost care;
Close my eyes for a moment, take a deep breath of fresh air
And remember, that you are out there somewhere under this sky.
- - -
Emotions written from the heart, this young woman writes a collection of literature by telling the tales of life with artful words. Her aim is to make people remember that being emotion-filled is only human. You can find more of her literary works on her website www.angellusion.com
By Glenda Grande
A hollow heart, like a golden locket without a memory,
Is worn upon my chest; how can I fill this emptiness?
Words become void and emotions slowly fading away -
If I close my eyes and cry, will you catch my sapphire tears?
Let me tell you a story of how my heart was broken in two,
In two and in two again; scattered on the floor like rose petals.
I once fell in love with a shooting star whose love shone down:
A magnificent thing to behold; beautiful and everything I dreamed.
Bright as the purest truth, I wished to reach out for a touch;
But the night changed to day all too quick, in the season of autumn.
My heart locket fell from my chain and split itself upon a silver rock.
The shining stream of light, no longer visible in the the clarity of day;
The golden moment was lost – for how long, time can only tell.
A hollow heart, locked in a cage in the guise of this locket,
I hold it close to me in fear that it will break yet again. Again.
Tonight, I’ll lay upon these grassy plains and resume to stargaze.
My hand around the locket, I’ll hold it tightly with utmost care;
Close my eyes for a moment, take a deep breath of fresh air
And remember, that you are out there somewhere under this sky.
- - -
Emotions written from the heart, this young woman writes a collection of literature by telling the tales of life with artful words. Her aim is to make people remember that being emotion-filled is only human. You can find more of her literary works on her website www.angellusion.com
Thursday, June 17, 2010
6/17/10
How to Fly
By J.S. Cohen
I found her lying in the grit and yellow flowers by the side of the road. Babies danced in her eyes, the patterns in her dress. Overhead, clouds hung heavy, fertile with rain.
The baby wasn’t mine, but I took her home with me anyway, built her a nest.
Together, we taught the little dove how to fly.
- - -
Cohen works with dogs in Southern California.
By J.S. Cohen
I found her lying in the grit and yellow flowers by the side of the road. Babies danced in her eyes, the patterns in her dress. Overhead, clouds hung heavy, fertile with rain.
The baby wasn’t mine, but I took her home with me anyway, built her a nest.
Together, we taught the little dove how to fly.
- - -
Cohen works with dogs in Southern California.
Wednesday, June 16, 2010
6/16/10
Haunting Afflictions of Love
Ron Koppelberger
The coquette of a burning glance back
Toward the dreaming silence of a heated intention
To betrothal, whispered in accord and oblique
Lines of shadow, the mystery of a silhouette together with the sustenance
Of a better shadow, shameless by the
Obliging love of a divine adage given substance
By lights in vaguely haunting afflictions
Of love.
- - -
I have been writing since I was eight years old. I have published in a variety of magazines and I love to see my work in print, especially if i can influence the reader to a moment in time, a thought, a feeling, perhaps a distant memory of something pleasant or inspiring. I hope you enjoy my work.
Ron Koppelberger
The coquette of a burning glance back
Toward the dreaming silence of a heated intention
To betrothal, whispered in accord and oblique
Lines of shadow, the mystery of a silhouette together with the sustenance
Of a better shadow, shameless by the
Obliging love of a divine adage given substance
By lights in vaguely haunting afflictions
Of love.
- - -
I have been writing since I was eight years old. I have published in a variety of magazines and I love to see my work in print, especially if i can influence the reader to a moment in time, a thought, a feeling, perhaps a distant memory of something pleasant or inspiring. I hope you enjoy my work.
Tuesday, June 15, 2010
6/15/10
Phoenix
By Julie Colombo
Hair like scarlet tinged flames, unkempt,
untamed, swayed in rhythm to
his fiery gait, licking breezes
tickling ears and nape.
Feathered arms fluttered her sheets. Two
dissonant heartbeats danced
in symphony, teasing immortality.
To meld into one flame
To burn in Heliopolis heat
Hesitation, then one last kiss –
all that was left behind, myth
melancholy, moon ash and egg.
- - -
Water Tiger
By Julie Colombo
Hair like scarlet tinged flames, unkempt,
untamed, swayed in rhythm to
his fiery gait, licking breezes
tickling ears and nape.
Feathered arms fluttered her sheets. Two
dissonant heartbeats danced
in symphony, teasing immortality.
To meld into one flame
To burn in Heliopolis heat
Hesitation, then one last kiss –
all that was left behind, myth
melancholy, moon ash and egg.
- - -
Water Tiger
Monday, June 14, 2010
6/14/10
Winter Call
By Glenda Grande
In the midst of my confusion, I call your name.
What is becoming of me? These things I feel
I’ve been pushing it away for so long. Silently.
I don’t want to repeat the same mistakes again
Because once was enough. Two hearts in ruin -
I cannot add you into this chaotic equation.
I’m not running, but doing what I think is best.
Even if I knew this could work, right now it won’t.
Prevention is the best cure they say. So they say.
I assure you I mean well, but I can’t allow this love;
Let it hide beneath the snowflakes of winter, in wait.
Now is not the time to for this rosebud to bloom.
Treading on thin ice; the winter has only just begun.
“Be patient. Be patient.” I repeat those words to myself.
One day my prayers will be answered, without a doubt.
But for now, there are things that still need to be done.
In the haze of the winter mist, I’ll call your name.
For the thought of you keeps my heart warm inside.
- - -
Emotions written from the heart, this young woman writes a collection of literature by telling the tales of life with artful words. Her aim is to make people remember that being emotion-filled is only human. You can find more of her literary works on her website www.angellusion.com
By Glenda Grande
In the midst of my confusion, I call your name.
What is becoming of me? These things I feel
I’ve been pushing it away for so long. Silently.
I don’t want to repeat the same mistakes again
Because once was enough. Two hearts in ruin -
I cannot add you into this chaotic equation.
I’m not running, but doing what I think is best.
Even if I knew this could work, right now it won’t.
Prevention is the best cure they say. So they say.
I assure you I mean well, but I can’t allow this love;
Let it hide beneath the snowflakes of winter, in wait.
Now is not the time to for this rosebud to bloom.
Treading on thin ice; the winter has only just begun.
“Be patient. Be patient.” I repeat those words to myself.
One day my prayers will be answered, without a doubt.
But for now, there are things that still need to be done.
In the haze of the winter mist, I’ll call your name.
For the thought of you keeps my heart warm inside.
- - -
Emotions written from the heart, this young woman writes a collection of literature by telling the tales of life with artful words. Her aim is to make people remember that being emotion-filled is only human. You can find more of her literary works on her website www.angellusion.com
Sunday, June 13, 2010
6/13/10
Feet
By Victoria Vasterling
The box is full now; she picks it up and takes it to her car. She writes him a note and places it inside. The drive to the post office is long, and gives her time to think about him. When she gets there, she waits in line for over half an hour. Then the man behind the counter hassles her with forms to fill out. “I just want to send a package to my husband. Why does that have to be SO difficult? They should make it easier, he’s serving our country for Christ’s sake!” she thinks to herself. But, to the man she is polite. She lets him tell her what all she did wrong with her package.
When he was home she would buy his socks for him and put them away in the drawer, she could show him her new slippers instead of sending him a picture. They would eat candy together, instead of watching each other on a webcam. When he was home, she could do his laundry for him and rub his feet. Now he tells her he is constantly covered with the grit and sand of his country. Now her shoulders ache from lack of his hands kneading her knots. Suddenly she feels lost without him.
If it weren’t for the war, she would buy her own socks that would keep her warm at night, instead of spending money on socks for him. Socks he needs because his feet are destroyed by sand and heat and sweat. But if he were home, he would be keeping her warm. And his feet would be fine. She wants to put herself in the package. Instead, she smiles at the man behind the counter, who has not a clue what an irritation he has started.
- - -
My name is Victoria Vasterling. I am currently going to school at Concordia University,St. Paul MN, studying to major in English and minor in writing.
By Victoria Vasterling
The box is full now; she picks it up and takes it to her car. She writes him a note and places it inside. The drive to the post office is long, and gives her time to think about him. When she gets there, she waits in line for over half an hour. Then the man behind the counter hassles her with forms to fill out. “I just want to send a package to my husband. Why does that have to be SO difficult? They should make it easier, he’s serving our country for Christ’s sake!” she thinks to herself. But, to the man she is polite. She lets him tell her what all she did wrong with her package.
When he was home she would buy his socks for him and put them away in the drawer, she could show him her new slippers instead of sending him a picture. They would eat candy together, instead of watching each other on a webcam. When he was home, she could do his laundry for him and rub his feet. Now he tells her he is constantly covered with the grit and sand of his country. Now her shoulders ache from lack of his hands kneading her knots. Suddenly she feels lost without him.
If it weren’t for the war, she would buy her own socks that would keep her warm at night, instead of spending money on socks for him. Socks he needs because his feet are destroyed by sand and heat and sweat. But if he were home, he would be keeping her warm. And his feet would be fine. She wants to put herself in the package. Instead, she smiles at the man behind the counter, who has not a clue what an irritation he has started.
- - -
My name is Victoria Vasterling. I am currently going to school at Concordia University,St. Paul MN, studying to major in English and minor in writing.
Saturday, June 12, 2010
6/12/10
Misted Desire
Ron Koppelberger
- - -
I have been writing since I was eight years old. I have published in a variety of magazines and I love to see my work in print, especially if i can influence the reader to a moment in time, a thought, a feeling, perhaps a distant memory of something pleasant or inspiring. I hope you enjoy my work.
Ron Koppelberger
Captivated by careful struggles, suave styles of
Ornamented device, desiring the sweet revolution
Of what becomes the breath of a misted rain, by
Devouring lines of what rests in the hold
Of a breeched calm, the passion of a forgotten obsession,
A love in hours of contrite delivery and prayers of youthful
Affection, an arousing seduction allayed by the dust of an
Ancient allure.
Ornamented device, desiring the sweet revolution
Of what becomes the breath of a misted rain, by
Devouring lines of what rests in the hold
Of a breeched calm, the passion of a forgotten obsession,
A love in hours of contrite delivery and prayers of youthful
Affection, an arousing seduction allayed by the dust of an
Ancient allure.
- - -
I have been writing since I was eight years old. I have published in a variety of magazines and I love to see my work in print, especially if i can influence the reader to a moment in time, a thought, a feeling, perhaps a distant memory of something pleasant or inspiring. I hope you enjoy my work.
Friday, June 11, 2010
6/11/10
Fissure
By Julie Colombo
She packed. He paced.
Silent words eclipsed speech
left, the door ajar.
Heart sounds echoed off walls
refusing to retreat.
Counting moons, fate waited
like a déjà vu stranger
at the crossroads.
- - -
Water Tiger
By Julie Colombo
She packed. He paced.
Silent words eclipsed speech
left, the door ajar.
Heart sounds echoed off walls
refusing to retreat.
Counting moons, fate waited
like a déjà vu stranger
at the crossroads.
- - -
Water Tiger
Thursday, June 10, 2010
6/10/10
Touch Life
By Amanda Firefox
The power of touch is the power of life.
A baby shrills, breathes wet and silent at Mother’s breast.
A lover keens, cheek wet and silent at Mother’s breast.
A soul flickers, flashes from fleshy loss,
Breathes itself back into the whole
Becomes a single string
In the endless loom
Of stellar fabric.
- - -
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
The power of touch is the power of life.
A baby shrills, breathes wet and silent at Mother’s breast.
A lover keens, cheek wet and silent at Mother’s breast.
A soul flickers, flashes from fleshy loss,
Breathes itself back into the whole
Becomes a single string
In the endless loom
Of stellar fabric.
- - -
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.
Wednesday, June 9, 2010
6/9/10
Love and Truth
By Karen Didio
Drunk with pleasure, we pick the sweet grapes from the ancient vines and feed them to each other. Here, in the vineyard of our ancestors, in this second Eden set aside, away from the toilings and strife of man, we find life more and more, hinges on love.
And we find, more and more, that love is the only things that truly has any meaning.
Anymore.
- - -
Karen Didio leads a writing group in Phoenix, Arizona.
By Karen Didio
Drunk with pleasure, we pick the sweet grapes from the ancient vines and feed them to each other. Here, in the vineyard of our ancestors, in this second Eden set aside, away from the toilings and strife of man, we find life more and more, hinges on love.
And we find, more and more, that love is the only things that truly has any meaning.
Anymore.
- - -
Karen Didio leads a writing group in Phoenix, Arizona.
Tuesday, June 8, 2010
6/8/10
Two Words
By Jacob J. Allan
we met on the dance floor.
there were no words
only the music
only the movements
only us.
And even since
there has been only us
only the movements
the music
two words
“I do.”
- - -
Jacob J. Allan is the winner of the third annual Pogawasampa poetry match and is currently writing a book of poetry that is looking for a publisher.
By Jacob J. Allan
we met on the dance floor.
there were no words
only the music
only the movements
only us.
And even since
there has been only us
only the movements
the music
two words
“I do.”
- - -
Jacob J. Allan is the winner of the third annual Pogawasampa poetry match and is currently writing a book of poetry that is looking for a publisher.
Monday, June 7, 2010
6/7/10
JOE AND THE TEN MISTERS
By Michael A. Kechula
Mr. Sensible asked, “Do you need a woman at school who barely talks to you, when you already have one at home who acts the same way? Do you need more punishment? Why don’t you just quit chasing Sandra and walk away?”
Mr. Sensible had some good points. I didn’t know how to answer.
Then, Mr. Unconditional spoke up. “Are you supposed to get good feelings out of this? Didn’t you decide to love Sandra regardless of her reactions to you?”
I answered him, stumbling over my words.
He continued. “So what if she’s tired. She won’t always be that way. Remember her charm when she’s rested? Don’t forget how tired she was when you gave her a book for her birthday, and she reached out as if to shake your hand. Then a few days later, she was all smiles and charm and riding in your car. So, don’t be so impatient. Hang in there. Otherwise, forget this unconditional stuff.”
I told Mr. Unconditional he was right. I’d love her unconditionally for a while longer.
Come to think of it, she said something the other day I thought particularly uplifting. On the way to the parking garage, she remarked, “There’s a beautiful tree in bloom near my apartment. It made me think of you, Joe, and how much you’d appreciate seeing it.”
“You saw blooms and thought of me?” I asked.
“Yes.”
It was nice how she thought of me in relation to blooms. I’m certain Mr. Analysis will do some interesting free association and speculation over that. Things in bloom. Things growing. Things coming to fruition. Things blossoming out into something really beautiful. Is that what will happen between Sandra and me? No doubt I’ll hear from Mr. Analysis when he’s finished mulling over the implications of her statement.
While walking her to the next class, I mentioned I’d go to the movies on Wednesday. She said a new sci-fi movie was coming out, and she’d get Ed to take her. She hadn’t mentioned Ed in a long time.
“Ed? Oh. So how is he?”
“Boring. He has no smarts in English, whatsoever,” she said. “Not like you, Joe.”
She downplayed him again. Who and what does she really want?
Mr. Jealously wondered aloud how I might manage to expunge Ed from Sandra’s thoughts, forever.
Mr. Stoic reminded me not to expect too much from Sandra. That way I won’t get disappointed. I’m usually like that anyway. Lately though, I’ve thrown away all my common sense and practical knowledge when it comes to her. I feel like a stupid kid at times, though I’m twenty years her senior.
Mr. Practical insisted I was trying too hard. He told me to relax a bit and go with the flow. I said I would. But the moment I saw Sandra at school, I went nuts and forgot my resolve.
Mr. Caution asked, “What the hell is the hurry? Give it time.”
I practiced an answer in case he’d ever ask. I lied, insisting there was no hurry.
Mr. Deprivation knows exactly what the hurry is. He knows about my intense daydreams and X-rated night dreams. They’re always about Sandra, Sandra, Sandra. He knows about my miserable, unfulfilled existence, and my desperate physical needs. I wish I could banish him, forever. He makes me face harsh reality. But I tell him he’s wrong, and that everything he says is drivel.
Lately, somebody new has stopped by to express opinions: Mr. Darkside. He tells me there are ways to eliminate Ed. With Ed gone, I’d have clear sailing with Sandra.
Mr. Darkside also reminds me at least once an hour how wonderful life would be if my wife disappeared.
The more my spouse ignores me, hates me, the more Mr. Darkside nags me to take action. His ideas are peculiar, crude, often amusing. Sometimes he makes me laugh out loud during classes.
I like the plan he suggested the other day. About switching my wife's drugged, comatose body for somebody else’s, after the deceased’s coffin is loaded into a hearse. It’s a complicated plan, but I know I can pull it off. Not only will I stuff her into that coffin, but I’ll also include Ed. I’ve done the math and know exactly how I’ll have to dismember him to make him fit.
The plan is set. Mr. Darkside and I are waiting, but posed for immediate action like a SWAT team.
The next time I see Sandra, and she doesn’t talk to me enough, and if my spouse acts the same way, that’ll be the signal to take action. It’s a matter of synchronicity and auspicious linking events. However, if Mars is in retrograde, I won’t execute the plan. Nor will I make a move if the Chairman of the Federal Reserve increases interest rates a quarter of a point. If, however, they find Elvis Presley’s hiding place, and where Jimmy Hoffa has been hanging out for the past thirty-five years, I’ll implement the plan immediately.
Then for sure Sandra will sleep with me. She may not say much, but she’ll sleep with me. Mr. Ego assured it will definitely happen. And he’s ALWAYS right.
- - -
BIO: Michael A. Kechula's flash fiction has published by 126 magazines and 35 anthologies in 6 countries. He's authored two collections of flash fiction tales: "A Full Deck of Zombies - 61 Speculative Fiction Tales" and "The Area 51 Option and 70 More Speculative Fiction Tales."
By Michael A. Kechula
Mr. Sensible asked, “Do you need a woman at school who barely talks to you, when you already have one at home who acts the same way? Do you need more punishment? Why don’t you just quit chasing Sandra and walk away?”
Mr. Sensible had some good points. I didn’t know how to answer.
Then, Mr. Unconditional spoke up. “Are you supposed to get good feelings out of this? Didn’t you decide to love Sandra regardless of her reactions to you?”
I answered him, stumbling over my words.
He continued. “So what if she’s tired. She won’t always be that way. Remember her charm when she’s rested? Don’t forget how tired she was when you gave her a book for her birthday, and she reached out as if to shake your hand. Then a few days later, she was all smiles and charm and riding in your car. So, don’t be so impatient. Hang in there. Otherwise, forget this unconditional stuff.”
I told Mr. Unconditional he was right. I’d love her unconditionally for a while longer.
Come to think of it, she said something the other day I thought particularly uplifting. On the way to the parking garage, she remarked, “There’s a beautiful tree in bloom near my apartment. It made me think of you, Joe, and how much you’d appreciate seeing it.”
“You saw blooms and thought of me?” I asked.
“Yes.”
It was nice how she thought of me in relation to blooms. I’m certain Mr. Analysis will do some interesting free association and speculation over that. Things in bloom. Things growing. Things coming to fruition. Things blossoming out into something really beautiful. Is that what will happen between Sandra and me? No doubt I’ll hear from Mr. Analysis when he’s finished mulling over the implications of her statement.
While walking her to the next class, I mentioned I’d go to the movies on Wednesday. She said a new sci-fi movie was coming out, and she’d get Ed to take her. She hadn’t mentioned Ed in a long time.
“Ed? Oh. So how is he?”
“Boring. He has no smarts in English, whatsoever,” she said. “Not like you, Joe.”
She downplayed him again. Who and what does she really want?
Mr. Jealously wondered aloud how I might manage to expunge Ed from Sandra’s thoughts, forever.
Mr. Stoic reminded me not to expect too much from Sandra. That way I won’t get disappointed. I’m usually like that anyway. Lately though, I’ve thrown away all my common sense and practical knowledge when it comes to her. I feel like a stupid kid at times, though I’m twenty years her senior.
Mr. Practical insisted I was trying too hard. He told me to relax a bit and go with the flow. I said I would. But the moment I saw Sandra at school, I went nuts and forgot my resolve.
Mr. Caution asked, “What the hell is the hurry? Give it time.”
I practiced an answer in case he’d ever ask. I lied, insisting there was no hurry.
Mr. Deprivation knows exactly what the hurry is. He knows about my intense daydreams and X-rated night dreams. They’re always about Sandra, Sandra, Sandra. He knows about my miserable, unfulfilled existence, and my desperate physical needs. I wish I could banish him, forever. He makes me face harsh reality. But I tell him he’s wrong, and that everything he says is drivel.
Lately, somebody new has stopped by to express opinions: Mr. Darkside. He tells me there are ways to eliminate Ed. With Ed gone, I’d have clear sailing with Sandra.
Mr. Darkside also reminds me at least once an hour how wonderful life would be if my wife disappeared.
The more my spouse ignores me, hates me, the more Mr. Darkside nags me to take action. His ideas are peculiar, crude, often amusing. Sometimes he makes me laugh out loud during classes.
I like the plan he suggested the other day. About switching my wife's drugged, comatose body for somebody else’s, after the deceased’s coffin is loaded into a hearse. It’s a complicated plan, but I know I can pull it off. Not only will I stuff her into that coffin, but I’ll also include Ed. I’ve done the math and know exactly how I’ll have to dismember him to make him fit.
The plan is set. Mr. Darkside and I are waiting, but posed for immediate action like a SWAT team.
The next time I see Sandra, and she doesn’t talk to me enough, and if my spouse acts the same way, that’ll be the signal to take action. It’s a matter of synchronicity and auspicious linking events. However, if Mars is in retrograde, I won’t execute the plan. Nor will I make a move if the Chairman of the Federal Reserve increases interest rates a quarter of a point. If, however, they find Elvis Presley’s hiding place, and where Jimmy Hoffa has been hanging out for the past thirty-five years, I’ll implement the plan immediately.
Then for sure Sandra will sleep with me. She may not say much, but she’ll sleep with me. Mr. Ego assured it will definitely happen. And he’s ALWAYS right.
- - -
BIO: Michael A. Kechula's flash fiction has published by 126 magazines and 35 anthologies in 6 countries. He's authored two collections of flash fiction tales: "A Full Deck of Zombies - 61 Speculative Fiction Tales" and "The Area 51 Option and 70 More Speculative Fiction Tales."
Saturday, June 5, 2010
6/5/10
Beyond Humanity
By E.S. Wynn
The touch of life, of rain that lingers on your fingers as we make love in the ruins of civilization is like a sweet promise running across my cheeks. You breathe my name, and in your breath I taste flowers, jasmine and lotus. Sweat mixes with dust, and as we move, the earth embraces us, feeds us with her life, her touch. Nature reacts in turn, and suddenly the ruins, the dust and the desert of humanity’s folly falls away, swallowed into a sea of rainwet green. Reality contracts as we slip into the in-between together, and then we are stars, points of light riding the wash of the ether deeper and deeper into the womb of creation– one soul, one star, one light bringing life back into the dead world that those who lived before have left us.
- - -
When humanity finally goes the way of the dinosaurs, it will be the posthumans, Homo Superior, who will make love on the ruins of their fallen ancestors.
By E.S. Wynn
The touch of life, of rain that lingers on your fingers as we make love in the ruins of civilization is like a sweet promise running across my cheeks. You breathe my name, and in your breath I taste flowers, jasmine and lotus. Sweat mixes with dust, and as we move, the earth embraces us, feeds us with her life, her touch. Nature reacts in turn, and suddenly the ruins, the dust and the desert of humanity’s folly falls away, swallowed into a sea of rainwet green. Reality contracts as we slip into the in-between together, and then we are stars, points of light riding the wash of the ether deeper and deeper into the womb of creation– one soul, one star, one light bringing life back into the dead world that those who lived before have left us.
- - -
When humanity finally goes the way of the dinosaurs, it will be the posthumans, Homo Superior, who will make love on the ruins of their fallen ancestors.
Friday, June 4, 2010
6/4/10
Our Weekends
By Jerry Halifax
When the weekend starts, I always find myself in your arms. When the weekend starts, and the phone rings, I always hear your mother asking, voice still quivering after all this time:
“Is Jeff there?”
Even your response hangs unchanging:
“Yes he is, mother.” You look at me, that smile, that playful grin I love. “Would you like to talk to him?”
And then, that soft, sudden pause, like the expected silence between rhythms in a favorite song.
“No, that’s okay, dear.” She says. “I won’t keep you. You boys enjoy your weekend.”
I smile. We’re in love.
We can’t help but enjoy our weekends together.
- - -
Jerry Halifax resides in Hoboken, NJ, but has lived in Hong Kong, Missouri, Nevada, and Adelaide.
By Jerry Halifax
When the weekend starts, I always find myself in your arms. When the weekend starts, and the phone rings, I always hear your mother asking, voice still quivering after all this time:
“Is Jeff there?”
Even your response hangs unchanging:
“Yes he is, mother.” You look at me, that smile, that playful grin I love. “Would you like to talk to him?”
And then, that soft, sudden pause, like the expected silence between rhythms in a favorite song.
“No, that’s okay, dear.” She says. “I won’t keep you. You boys enjoy your weekend.”
I smile. We’re in love.
We can’t help but enjoy our weekends together.
- - -
Jerry Halifax resides in Hoboken, NJ, but has lived in Hong Kong, Missouri, Nevada, and Adelaide.
Thursday, June 3, 2010
6/3/10
Love Lost
Fred E. Beaulieu
There are times when I sit by my window at night
Where I gaze at the moon and the mist of its light
There are times when I ponder on what might have been
As I wonder if ever I’ll see you again
Through many a rainfall and fierce summer storms
I cling to those memories which comfort and warm
Through many a snowfall and winter’s cold blast
My heart remains captive in seasons long passed
There were times when I walked through the woods as a boy
When the dreams of my youth overwhelmed me with joy
There were times I believed all my dreams had come true
In the days of enchantment, when first I met you
When autumns and springtimes all pass in their turn
When stars lose their splendor my love will still burn
Should meadows and mountains no longer endure
I promise you always a love strong and sure
There are times when I’m bold, even reckless and wild
There are times all alone when I weep as a child
There are times when it’s hard to be strong as I should
Like the times I’m reminded you’re absent for good
When heavens and earth become shadow and sand
When the time for an end to all things is at hand
One light shall remain which can ne’er fade away
From the fire which rages inside me this day
There are times when I sit by my window at night
Where I gaze at the moon and the mist of its light
There are times of reflection on all I’ve come through
But the times I miss most are my moments with you
- - -
Fred is a lifelong resident of West Michigan, whose interests include computers, music, reading, puzzles, movies, and writing. He enjoys composing poems which reflect the many faces of life and love.
Fred E. Beaulieu
There are times when I sit by my window at night
Where I gaze at the moon and the mist of its light
There are times when I ponder on what might have been
As I wonder if ever I’ll see you again
Through many a rainfall and fierce summer storms
I cling to those memories which comfort and warm
Through many a snowfall and winter’s cold blast
My heart remains captive in seasons long passed
There were times when I walked through the woods as a boy
When the dreams of my youth overwhelmed me with joy
There were times I believed all my dreams had come true
In the days of enchantment, when first I met you
When autumns and springtimes all pass in their turn
When stars lose their splendor my love will still burn
Should meadows and mountains no longer endure
I promise you always a love strong and sure
There are times when I’m bold, even reckless and wild
There are times all alone when I weep as a child
There are times when it’s hard to be strong as I should
Like the times I’m reminded you’re absent for good
When heavens and earth become shadow and sand
When the time for an end to all things is at hand
One light shall remain which can ne’er fade away
From the fire which rages inside me this day
There are times when I sit by my window at night
Where I gaze at the moon and the mist of its light
There are times of reflection on all I’ve come through
But the times I miss most are my moments with you
- - -
Fred is a lifelong resident of West Michigan, whose interests include computers, music, reading, puzzles, movies, and writing. He enjoys composing poems which reflect the many faces of life and love.
Wednesday, June 2, 2010
6/2/10
Life
By Amanda Firefox
“I loved another woman once.”
“Yeah.”
“Life. Her name was Life.”
“It was beautiful.”
“It still is.”
- - -
Amanda Firefox is a fiery little brunette who spends as much time at the beach as she can manage. She doesn't write much, but when she writes, it's almost always about her favorite subject: boys.
By Amanda Firefox
“I loved another woman once.”
“Yeah.”
“Life. Her name was Life.”
“It was beautiful.”
“It still is.”
- - -
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.
Tuesday, June 1, 2010
6/1/10
Women and Emotions
By Jen Prex
“Come on, come on,” Tom chanted under his breath. He sat in front of his computer, playing his favorite game. His gun clad character floated down through the canyon with its parachute. Enemies fired from all around. His character had only 10/360 health points left. Tom inched further and further forward on his seat. He kept hitting the left mouse button, firing shots of his own. One final blast hit his character. Game over. He slumped back in his chair. All of the tension drained away as he further relaxed. He was no longer in the game. This was reality.
The high scores list lit the screen. Tom appeared at number three. Not his personal best, but he had been close. Only a few more shots and he would have exceeded his previous high score.
Just as he was about to start a new game, his stomach grumbled. Time for lunch. If he recalled correctly, there was some Chinese food left from dinner the previous night. He stood up and closed his laptop before heading out of his room and downstairs.
He passed by the guest bedroom. The door was closed, but he didn’t need to see inside to know she was in there. Sarah really was something. She was an old friend of his from college. They kept in touch after they graduated, but unfortunately work separated them. She moved to New York while he settled in Chicago. This week, she decided to take some vacation time so that she could visit him.
He never knew he could miss someone so much. He didn’t even fully realize it until she had shown up on his doorstep the day before yesterday. It felt as if he was only moments away from giving a presentation on his latest discovery at a biology conference. The excitement and nerves were battling within him. She was a friend. Why did he feel that way?
Video games and science were his specialty. He was a genius, but aside from analytical looks at video game characters or scientific explanations about them, he was clueless when it came to women and emotions…especially when the two are combined. Add him into the equation, and, well . . . . Pluto will not only be declared a planet once more, it will be declared the largest planet in the universe before any of it would ever make sense to him.
His stomach’s protest pulled him out of his musings. He knocked on her door. “I’m gonna get some lunch now. I’ll be downstairs if you want to join me.” He had started to turn away when the door opened.
“I was about to go eat anyways. Perfect timing,” she said.
Tom just nodded. He stood staring at her for a moment until she raised an eyebrow. Oh, right. It felt as if the temperature jumped up 50 degrees in that moment. He stepped aside to let her pass and then followed behind her.
This week is going to be interesting.
- - -
Bio: Jen Prex is a senior creative writing major and music theory minor at Seton Hill University. She was published twice in the school’s award-winning literary-art magazine Eye Contact, for which she is also a literary editor. She lives in Bethel Park, PA when off campus.
By Jen Prex
“Come on, come on,” Tom chanted under his breath. He sat in front of his computer, playing his favorite game. His gun clad character floated down through the canyon with its parachute. Enemies fired from all around. His character had only 10/360 health points left. Tom inched further and further forward on his seat. He kept hitting the left mouse button, firing shots of his own. One final blast hit his character. Game over. He slumped back in his chair. All of the tension drained away as he further relaxed. He was no longer in the game. This was reality.
The high scores list lit the screen. Tom appeared at number three. Not his personal best, but he had been close. Only a few more shots and he would have exceeded his previous high score.
Just as he was about to start a new game, his stomach grumbled. Time for lunch. If he recalled correctly, there was some Chinese food left from dinner the previous night. He stood up and closed his laptop before heading out of his room and downstairs.
He passed by the guest bedroom. The door was closed, but he didn’t need to see inside to know she was in there. Sarah really was something. She was an old friend of his from college. They kept in touch after they graduated, but unfortunately work separated them. She moved to New York while he settled in Chicago. This week, she decided to take some vacation time so that she could visit him.
He never knew he could miss someone so much. He didn’t even fully realize it until she had shown up on his doorstep the day before yesterday. It felt as if he was only moments away from giving a presentation on his latest discovery at a biology conference. The excitement and nerves were battling within him. She was a friend. Why did he feel that way?
Video games and science were his specialty. He was a genius, but aside from analytical looks at video game characters or scientific explanations about them, he was clueless when it came to women and emotions…especially when the two are combined. Add him into the equation, and, well . . . . Pluto will not only be declared a planet once more, it will be declared the largest planet in the universe before any of it would ever make sense to him.
His stomach’s protest pulled him out of his musings. He knocked on her door. “I’m gonna get some lunch now. I’ll be downstairs if you want to join me.” He had started to turn away when the door opened.
“I was about to go eat anyways. Perfect timing,” she said.
Tom just nodded. He stood staring at her for a moment until she raised an eyebrow. Oh, right. It felt as if the temperature jumped up 50 degrees in that moment. He stepped aside to let her pass and then followed behind her.
This week is going to be interesting.
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Bio: Jen Prex is a senior creative writing major and music theory minor at Seton Hill University. She was published twice in the school’s award-winning literary-art magazine Eye Contact, for which she is also a literary editor. She lives in Bethel Park, PA when off campus.
