Rewind
Elliot Richard Dorfman
The attendant adjusted the pillow behind Beatrice’s head as she sat her down on the armchair.
"Happy New Year, Ms.Turner. Have you made any special wishes for 2010?"
The eighty-five-old woman sighed. " Well, since I can’t rewind my life and start all over -just to still be around in 2011."
Recently, this elderly spinster had recently put herself into this senior residential care facility after having one of her dizzy spells at home and falling. Regretfully, she had no one to take care of her and it was obvious that living alone had become too dangerous.
The aid left and Beatrice began rummaging through a box of old photos in her lap. Her eyes filled with tears when noticing the faded image of a handsome young man. Tenderly, she put the picture to her cheek. "Oh my dear Jarred, please forgive me for being such a provincial fool."
It was twilight, and as the room grew dark, vivid memories of long ago came rushing back.
****
It was a Friday afternoon in November of 1947. Beatrice had just started teaching music in the local high school of Drumsville, a small historic town in Upstate New York. Originally from Manhattan, she enjoyed the spaciousness of the country and being far away from her interfering parents. Although all the students had been dismissed from school, the pretty brunette remained at her desk conscientiously doing next week’s lesson plans. Unnoticed, Jarred Froman, one of her bright twelfth grade students, silently walked to the back and picked up a notebook that was lying on the floor. The chimes of a nearby church clock struck five. Beatrice put away her work and became startled when she noticed the youngster.
"Jarred, why are you still in the school building? Is something the matter?"
The student slightly blushed. "No Miss Turner, I just returned to get a text book that I dropped here before dismissal. I need it to do my homework. Sorry to disturbed you."
Beatrice got up and began putting on her coat. "No problem. I was about to leave."
"Are you walking home from school?" the student inquired.
"Yes, why?"
"Well, it’s getting kind of dark and I figure it might be a good idea if I escorted you. After all, you never know who might be lurking in the streets."
Beatrice laughed. "That’s very sweet and chivalrous, but won’t your family worry that you’re not home yet?"
Jarred shook his head. "That won’t be a problem. I live just with my mom and she has full trust in me. Mom started working at the Main Street Restaurant a couple of years ago after my pop died, and won’t be home tonight until nine."
The wind picked up and it started raining heavily just as they reached her rented cottage, a few blocks away.
Beatrice opened the front door "You’d better come inside and wait out the storm. In the meantime, I’ll make something for us to eat. It’s already dinner time and you must be famished."
Pushing back his thick dirty-blond hair, He gave her a smile and looked at her with those clear marble-blue eyes that always turned on the girls in his class."Thanks, that’s really nice of you."
"Jarred is handsome enough to be a professional model," she inwardly observed.
When they entered, her student’s eyes lit up when he noticed the impressive Steinway mahogany grand piano standing in the living room.
"Wow, what a beauty!"
Recently acquired, Beatrice was able to afford this expensive piano when a next door neighbor sold the instrument for a fraction of its worth because he was moving into a small studio apartment and wanted to quickly get rid of it.
A meal of leftover roasted chicken and mashed potatoes was quickly consumed by the youthful guest. Then, after enjoying some homemade brownies and tea, he sat back with a contented look on his face. "That sure hit the spot, Miss Turner."
" I’m glad you liked it," she responded, putting the dirty dishes into the sink.
The teenager quickly got up and began helping her wash and dry them. She could feel his side against hers and felt a tinge of physical excitement.
Afterward, they went into the living room. He sat there entranced as Beatrice played "Dreams of Love" by Franz Liszt.
"It's said that Liszt wrote the piece for a girlfriend when he was only seventeen," she informed him.
"A good way to get her" Jarred replied. " Say, I was wondering, if you could give me some private piano lessons. I’ve got an old upright at home and would like to surprise Mom by being able to play for her; she really enjoys music. Unfortunately, I’m short of dough, but am willing to do any chores to make up for it."
Beatrice liked the youngster’s spunk. "I think that could be arranged. To start, I’ve got some things that have to be moved out of the attic. How about starting your lessons tomorrow morning at nine? I’ve got some free time then."
The boy was thrilled. "Fantastic, thanks. Well the rain has stopped, so I’ll be going. Have a good evening, Miss Turner."
She opened the front door and watched as he put on his coat and walked down the block.
"Some lucky gal will eventually get her hooks into him," she mused. "That boy’s got everything. Besides his looks and a sweet personality, he’s got intelligence. Such a combination is becoming rare nowadays. Too bad I’m not a few years younger."
***
On Saturday, Beatrice woke early, got dressed and had a cup of coffee. She was looking forward to giving Jarred lessons. At a quarter to nine, the doorbell rang. Jarred was very excited. "Hope that I’m not too early, Miss Turner, but I couldn’t wait to have my first piano lesson."
It didn’t take long for Beatrice to see that Jarred had talent and was quickly absorbing everything she taught like a sponge. This certainly was going to be a pleasure for her.
An hour later he rose from the bench and went to a small bag he had brought. "Well, I’m ready to start the chores, even brought some old work clothes along with me. Where can I change?"
"In the second bedroom to your left."
The door was left a bit ajar, and she could see his tall and muscular body as he undressed. Sexually aroused, the teacher embarrassingly turned away.
During the next few months, Jarred’s progress excelled to such a degree, that he was already able to play some pieces by Beethoven and Chopin. When offered free lessons, he proudly refused. "A bargain is a bargain."
At the end of one lesson, Jarred began playing a piece that Beatrice had not heard before.
"That’s nice. Who wrote it?"
Jarred laughed. "I did, Beatrice." (By now teacher and student had become close enough that she allowed him to call her by her first name when they weren’t in school.)
Beatrice was impressed. "We’ll have to add some extra time for your composing."
Eventually, Jarred was coming a few times a week, which increased his progress even more. Usually after completing his lessons and chores, she’d make something to eat and they’d sit a while discussing various topics, including his future.
"I’ve decided to major in music," he told her in March after applying and being accepted to Cornell University. "I would like to become a composer. If I don’t succeed at it, I can always fall back on teaching. Mom is very happy. She is grateful for the interest you’ve taken in me."
Beatrice took her protege’s hands. " I’m the one to be grateful for having the opportunity to teach such a gifted young man."
Suddenly, Jarred moved closer and gave her a passionate kiss. Without thinking she responded, but then quickly broke away.
"What’s wrong? Didn’t you like it?" the frustrated student asked.
Beatrice smiled. "Probably too much. Oh Jarred, go and find someone your own age."
"Come on Beatrice, I’m already eighteen, that’s only four years younger than you. What’s the big deal?"
"Four years make a big difference right now. Besides, what would people say if they found out that such a relationship existed between a teacher and her high school student? It would cause a lot of trouble. I’m sure you wouldn’t want that."
"Jarred took a big breath. "Well no, but . . . "
"If I am to continue these lessons, you must promise me you’ll never do such a thing again."
The amorous student was silent for a few minutes, then nodded. "Okay, but is there any chance I can try again in a few years? By then I will have finished college and . . . "
Beatrice sighed. "Let’s be practical, Jarred. A lot can happen in four years. Sorry, but I can’t make that promise. It isn’t fair to either of us. Take my word, you’ll forget about me once you’re away in college."
The rejected young man put his head down. "You’re wrong."
****
The lessons continued without any more problems. Occasionally, Beatrice would see a sad expression come over Jarred’s face.
"He’s still upset that I refused him," she thought, "but it was the only thing I could do."
In June, Jarred graduated high school with honors. The summer came and went, then the scholar was off to college. At first, Beatrice received a letter from him every week, then only occasionally - but they never completely stopped.
"I’ve gotten a few jobs after my classes to help pay for the tuition," he wrote, "so I’m too busy to come home, even on holidays."
Truthfully, the school teacher missed her protégé terribly, and not just platonically as she rationalized. Perhaps this was the reason, there was no long-lasting relationship with any man she met. But this was something she would never admit, not even to herself.
As the old saying goes, "tempus fugit." Four years later, Beatrice was invited to Jarred’s graduation.
He gave her a big hug after the ceremonies. "Thanks for coming, Beatrice. You’re the closet person I have since mom’s passing this winter."
Beatrice put her hand on his arm. Jarred looked worn out to her, probably the consequences of working a heavy load.
Yet, there was a mature appearance about him that made him even more handsome and appealing than before.
"I’m glad I got the chance to meet your mom a few times before her heart attack. I like her very much. "
Jarred smiled. "Mom felt the same about you."
They went into a restaurant that was nearby.
"Order whatever you want, it’s my treat," Beatrice said as they sat down at a booth near a window. "So what are your future plans?"
"Well, as I wrote to you, I ‘ve gotten a scholarship for my masters at Columbia. That should take about a year. Then with some luck, I hope to get some of my music published and performed."
His former teacher beamed with pride. " That’s wonderful."
"For this summer, though, I’m taking a break and returning home. Luckily, my house is all paid for and I saved up a few bucks, so there won’t be any financial problems. Do you mind if I’d hitch a ride back with you today?"
"Of course, " Beatrice responded. "Once you’re settled in, you must come for dinner."
"Will do. I’m eager for you to hear a few new things I composed."
****
The next evening, her former protégé arrived with a bottle of sparkling brut rosé wine and a bunch of yellow roses.
"My favorite flowers! How did you know that?"she asked putting the flowers in her finest crystal vase.
"I remember you once telling me," he said, blushing.
"The wine is perfect. You certainly have become sophisticated, "she commented while opening the bottle and pouring them a glass of the wine. He took a sip and went to the piano. His hands effortlessly glided over the keys. He had indeed progressed.
"That’s lovely," Beatrice remarked. "Is it one of yours?"
Jarred was pleased. "Yes. I call it ‘Inspiration.’ The piece is dedicated to you."
Since the evening was warm, they ate dinner out on the patio. The setting was like some a romantic movie. There was a full moon, and the stars shone brightly. Jarred became unusually silent. When the meal was through, he pulled her to him. This time there was no resistance from his "inspiration." Encouraged, the musician gently began removing Beatrice’s garments, sensuality kissing her shapely breasts as he stimulated the lower erogenous zone before completing the act. Never had she experienced such sensual pleasure.
Jarred did not go home that night. In the morning she awoke to the aroma of food. He came into the bedroom carrying a tray with an omelet, toast, and coffee. After putting it down, a yellow rose was put in her hair.
"Good morning, darling. Enjoy your breakfast while I make a few calls. I have some important changes to make. I figured that after last night, we should get engaged, then married in a few months. Assuming you’ll want to keep your job, I’ll hold off getting my masters for a while and apply for a teaching position that was offered at Mayfield high. That’s only about twenty minutes from here."
He turned toward the door, but Beatrice quickly got up and stopped him."Wait a moment. Aren’t you rushing it?"
The young man turned and stared at her. "I figured you’d want to. There’s nothing stopping us now."
"But you’ll be throwing away your scholarship. Columbia has such a good program. It will only take you about a year, and that will be sufficient time for people to accept our intentions and not start gossiping with all kind of nasty thoughts."
"I don’t give a damn about them or even the scholarship. You can’t imagine how hard it was to stay away from you these past four years. Truthfully, that’s why I never came back to visit. I knew if I did, I’d never be able to leave you again. Now there’s no reason to. What kind of a game are you playing?"
Jarred angrily stomped out of the room and left the house, slamming the front door behind him. Beatrice got dressed, hoping he was cool off his temper off on the porch.
Someone was calling to her. Disoriented for a moment, she didn’t know where she was. The attendant opened the door and walked in.
"Ms. Turner, are you all right? Everyone was worried when you didn’t show for dinner. I brought something up for you."
"Is it that late? I guess I lost track of time."
The attendant bent down and picked up something from the floor. "This just fell out of your hair. My gosh, where did you get this pretty, yellow rose?"
Beatrice gasped.
****
During the next week, the old spinster remained in her room, no matter how much the attendants tried coaxing her out.
"I don’t have the strength," she told them. "Just let me have some peace and privacy."
The doctor was summoned.
"I’ve prescribed some medicine for her heart. It’s a bit irregular," he said. "It might be a good idea to let Ms. Turner continue resting in her room for a while longer."
Left alone in her room, she sat in her armchair day after day.
"I must return back again to that last time I saw Jarred," she repeated to herself, but the attempts seemed futile.
"Oh, I hope it wasn’t just a fluke," she miserably cried out. "I want the chance to atone for my transgressions. Things could have worked out so well! Instead, for fifty-eight years I’ve been living with guilt."
Right or wrong, she had always blamed herself for the events that occurred when Jarred left that morning. Angry, he wasn’t paying attention when crossing the street. A speeding car banged into him, instantly snuffing out his life.
The only one close to him, Beatrice had to arrange for his funeral. A month later, the morning sickness came. Having no where else to turn, she went to her parents. They sat there listening without a sign of compassion.
"In your situation you have no choice but to abort," her father coldly advised.
Beatrice turned pale. "Oh, no, father."
Her mother agreed. " Better listen to your father, Beatrice. Face up to it, if anyone in that small, provincial town finds out your condition, your reputation will be ruined and you’ll be fired. I happen to have a friend whose daughter was in a similar situation and knows where you can safely and discretely alleviate the problem."
"I guess there’s no other choice then," Beatrice whispered.
Everything was quickly arranged and by the next day it was over.
"You must think ahead," Mr. Turner said. "Look for a nice guy, marry, and start a family. You’ll be too busy to think of the past."
" I’ll never be interested in another man as long as I live." She never saw her parents again after that.
****
It was three in the morning when Beatrice awoke with a start. Although it was difficult for her, she slowly got out of bed. Getting the photograph from the box, she sat down on the armchair and again gently put it to her cheek. "I wasn’t holding that precious photograph of Jarred next to me.
That’s why I haven’t been able to go back again."
She closed her eyes and concentrated so hard that her head hurt. Nothing happened for a moment than someone touched her hair. It was Jarred putting a yellow rose in her hair. Her eyes flooded with tears and she gave him a big kiss that almost made him tip over the tray.
The man was delighted."Good morning, darling. Enjoy your breakfast while I make a few calls. I have some important changes to make. Assuming you’ll want to keep your job, I’ll hold off getting my masters for a while and apply for a teaching position that was offered at Mayfield high. That’s only about twenty minutes from here."
Beatrice put her hand around his shoulders and embraced him again. "Perfect, darling!"
Yes, everything was going to be fine from now on. She’d see to that!
****
The attendant sat in the cafeteria looking very sad as she drank a cup of coffee. One of her colleagues came over.
"Why are you looking so gloomy?"
The attendant sighed. "Oh, I’m just thinking of Ms. Turner. That poor old lady had no family and was all alone. Early this morning she was found dead, sitting in an armchair and still holding some faded picture of a man tightly in her hand."
- - -
Elliot Richard Dorfman, retired teacher, theatre director & musician for over thirty-one years, has had over seventy-four short stories published in the past three years. For further detailed information go to elrite.webs.com
Saturday, July 31, 2010
Friday, July 30, 2010
7/30/10
Closer
By Ciara Livingston
Hands,
Pulling me closer.
The small of her back,
Cupped beneath my fingertips.
Taut,
Nails in skin.
Pulling your mouth in,
Teeth biting the rouge of my lips.
Velvet,
Our tongues dance.
My arched back fills the space.
Our breasts bound to one another.
Trembling.
Fingers fumbling.
Finding their ways to warm spaces,
Becoming slick with the fever of your love.
- - -
Ciara is a 19 year old nursing student who likes to write when her emotions are the strongest.
She has been writing ever since she could hold a pen in her hand.
By Ciara Livingston
Hands,
Pulling me closer.
The small of her back,
Cupped beneath my fingertips.
Taut,
Nails in skin.
Pulling your mouth in,
Teeth biting the rouge of my lips.
Velvet,
Our tongues dance.
My arched back fills the space.
Our breasts bound to one another.
Trembling.
Fingers fumbling.
Finding their ways to warm spaces,
Becoming slick with the fever of your love.
- - -
Ciara is a 19 year old nursing student who likes to write when her emotions are the strongest.
She has been writing ever since she could hold a pen in her hand.
Thursday, July 29, 2010
7/29/10
On the Birthday of My Beloved (5/29/10)
By Richard Cody
- - -
Richard Cody, a native Californian, is a writer of poetry and fiction. He believes in love at first sight, and that love is the answer to any question.
By Richard Cody
To think that you were born in a world such as this.
You, whose luminous eyes
shame the blue of Spring’s fairest skies;
whose blushing lips were made to speak of naught but love,
and to kiss.
You are too fine a thing –
too rare, too divine a human being
for this sordid time and place.
But is God not also here
in this world of man’s creation?
Let all scientific argument fall to the side,
the atheist has clearly never seen your face.
God is not a question with an answer to hide.
God is there in the lines of your bones,
the gleam of your eyes, the sweet elation
which even the thought of you imparts.
Your presence, a balm to this sore world,
is, I find, a vexation to the poet in me –
for your Holy beauty and grace of mind
surpass all my meager arts.
What a blessed man must I be
to love and be loved by thee.
- for Sarah -
You, whose luminous eyes
shame the blue of Spring’s fairest skies;
whose blushing lips were made to speak of naught but love,
and to kiss.
You are too fine a thing –
too rare, too divine a human being
for this sordid time and place.
But is God not also here
in this world of man’s creation?
Let all scientific argument fall to the side,
the atheist has clearly never seen your face.
God is not a question with an answer to hide.
God is there in the lines of your bones,
the gleam of your eyes, the sweet elation
which even the thought of you imparts.
Your presence, a balm to this sore world,
is, I find, a vexation to the poet in me –
for your Holy beauty and grace of mind
surpass all my meager arts.
What a blessed man must I be
to love and be loved by thee.
- for Sarah -
- - -
Richard Cody, a native Californian, is a writer of poetry and fiction. He believes in love at first sight, and that love is the answer to any question.
Wednesday, July 28, 2010
7/28/10
Derek + Elizabeth: In Between Days
By Jeremy Rhueger
Previously…
Meeting Elizabeth made me feel perfectly alive.
My girlfriend is going to kill me.
I was seventeen years old when I met Lynn. We met one summer afternoon while working at the local rec center. Work is the place to pick up chicks, apparently. In a way, you could say that I and Lynn should have never happened.
I had fallen under the spell of a girl named Tanya the previous school year. On the day of our final exam, I finally mustered up the courage to ask her to be my girlfriend. You have to put this in perspective: I wasn’t accustomed to the whole “two dates and then on the third you’re a couple” rule. I had never done this sort of thing before. So what did I do? Stupid me broke the first rule in picking up chicks: always get their phone number, and never give them yours.
She never called. You live and you learn.
Luckily I happened to meet Lynn about a month after I stopped sitting by the phone every day, waiting for Tanya to call.
Lynn was easy to notice. She had long dark locks of beautiful curly hair, even though she’ll argue with you to the death about “how bad it looks.” Personally I’m not a leg or thigh man, but she had gams from here to Kalamazoo let me tell you. To top it off, she had a rack of legendary proportions.
I’m a guy; this is how we talk about our ladies when they aren’t around.
But nine times out of ten, the pretty ones are generally the ones with the most baggage. Lynn was in the bottom 90% of that statistic. She was the kind of girl who was living in perpetual denial, especially when it came to her looks. Now at first, I just thought she was humble, maybe even modest. She was the hottest thing on two feet when we first started dating. If you ask her, however, she’ll tell you she’s a “monstrous cow with all the fat in the world.” It always puzzled me, and it still does to this day. Six years together, she’s still riding the waves of the Nile River.
But these days my attention has been paid elsewhere: Elizabeth Nepal.
I would always eagerly anticipate the days we got to work together at the store. We work at Milt’s, one of those “big box” retailers. You know, the giant warehouse where you can buy industrial-sized pallets of macaroni and cheese for you and your six bratty kids.
We quickly became the best “work friends” two people could be. We would always have fun and joke around during our downtime. She has a wonderful laugh; I don’t think I’ve heard it anywhere else.
On one of the slower days, we found ourselves hanging out in the back warehouse, where all of our shipments come in. I’ll never forget what she wore that day as we sat on the still conveyor belt high above the ground floor, swinging our feet as we passed the time together. She looked beautiful.
“I gotta say, I don’t think I’ve ever had this much fun at work,” I said.
“Me either,” she said as she swung her feet in unison. She also had gams from here to Kalamazoo, God bless ‘em.
“I just hope you don’t think I’m a weirdo.”
“No. I hope you don’t think I’m a weirdo,” she smiled.
Signed, sealed, and delivered: I’m yours.
- - -
Some people like to work hard, and some people don't give a fuck. And then there's Jeremy Rhueger
By Jeremy Rhueger
Previously…
Meeting Elizabeth made me feel perfectly alive.
My girlfriend is going to kill me.
I was seventeen years old when I met Lynn. We met one summer afternoon while working at the local rec center. Work is the place to pick up chicks, apparently. In a way, you could say that I and Lynn should have never happened.
I had fallen under the spell of a girl named Tanya the previous school year. On the day of our final exam, I finally mustered up the courage to ask her to be my girlfriend. You have to put this in perspective: I wasn’t accustomed to the whole “two dates and then on the third you’re a couple” rule. I had never done this sort of thing before. So what did I do? Stupid me broke the first rule in picking up chicks: always get their phone number, and never give them yours.
She never called. You live and you learn.
Luckily I happened to meet Lynn about a month after I stopped sitting by the phone every day, waiting for Tanya to call.
Lynn was easy to notice. She had long dark locks of beautiful curly hair, even though she’ll argue with you to the death about “how bad it looks.” Personally I’m not a leg or thigh man, but she had gams from here to Kalamazoo let me tell you. To top it off, she had a rack of legendary proportions.
I’m a guy; this is how we talk about our ladies when they aren’t around.
But nine times out of ten, the pretty ones are generally the ones with the most baggage. Lynn was in the bottom 90% of that statistic. She was the kind of girl who was living in perpetual denial, especially when it came to her looks. Now at first, I just thought she was humble, maybe even modest. She was the hottest thing on two feet when we first started dating. If you ask her, however, she’ll tell you she’s a “monstrous cow with all the fat in the world.” It always puzzled me, and it still does to this day. Six years together, she’s still riding the waves of the Nile River.
But these days my attention has been paid elsewhere: Elizabeth Nepal.
I would always eagerly anticipate the days we got to work together at the store. We work at Milt’s, one of those “big box” retailers. You know, the giant warehouse where you can buy industrial-sized pallets of macaroni and cheese for you and your six bratty kids.
We quickly became the best “work friends” two people could be. We would always have fun and joke around during our downtime. She has a wonderful laugh; I don’t think I’ve heard it anywhere else.
On one of the slower days, we found ourselves hanging out in the back warehouse, where all of our shipments come in. I’ll never forget what she wore that day as we sat on the still conveyor belt high above the ground floor, swinging our feet as we passed the time together. She looked beautiful.
“I gotta say, I don’t think I’ve ever had this much fun at work,” I said.
“Me either,” she said as she swung her feet in unison. She also had gams from here to Kalamazoo, God bless ‘em.
“I just hope you don’t think I’m a weirdo.”
“No. I hope you don’t think I’m a weirdo,” she smiled.
Signed, sealed, and delivered: I’m yours.
- - -
Some people like to work hard, and some people don't give a fuck. And then there's Jeremy Rhueger
Tuesday, July 27, 2010
7/27/10
Derek + Elizabeth
“Low Rising”
By Jeremy Rhueger
Elizabeth Meridian Nepal
Derek Mikhail Gregory
When I first met Elizabeth, I was far from the man I had wanted to be. I was young. She was younger than me, but she was already gifted with the grace and elegance that most women seem to lose as they age. Like Mary, there was something about Elizabeth Meridian Nepal that I couldn’t quite put my finger on, but it beckoned me to give it my best.
My attraction to her was anything but “merely physical” at the time of our first meeting; her golden brown hair glistened when the light hit it just right. Her eyes (when I wasn’t busy fixated elsewhere) were a deep sea of green that I wanted to drown my worries in. Her curves were as smooth as the finest silk on Earth. Her beauty was no moon; it was a full-fledged instantaneous knockout of a space station.
On any given day, there could be upwards of two hundred employees that come in and out of our part of the building. I’d say on a good day, the entire building houses a good five to ten thousand people maximum. To me, meeting Elizabeth was less of a coincidence and more of a golden opportunity. This was confirmed for me when I saw her midriff reveal a golden stud pierced into her belly button. The midsection of the female body has always been a massive turn-on for me. Ribs to hips, baby.
“I like that stud you got there,” I said to her, trying not to sound like a cheesy pick-up artist.
“Thanks, I got it a year ago for my birthday.”
“When’s your birthday?” I said preparing my mental notebook.
“July 8th, the best day of the year,” she joked. Date noted.
I don’t get to meet girls all that often. I’m not what you would call “suave” or “debonair.” I really can’t say that I have “game,” either. Mind you, I’m not desperate for human contact but I knew had to keep this alive.
“Elizabeth, if you could be any place in the world right now, where would you be?” I said, hoping maybe I could say that I had been there before, and would love to show her around some time.
“That’s a good question…I don’t know, where would you be?” she asked.
“Anywhere outside. I’m not the biggest fan of big huge cramped buildings.”
“Oh, well then do you want me to give you your space, keep a standard distance of at least five feet between us?” she smiled. Her smile wasn’t anything you’d see in an art museum because you couldn’t put a price on its sheer beauty.
“No, I think I’ll be okay, but thanks though. I think I can manage being closer than five feet next to you. It’ll be hard, but these are the times that try men’s souls” I joked. If she only knew how truly close I wanted to be to her.
The drive home from work that night was quiet. The kind of quiet where you just concentrate on the task at hand, and let everything else fade into its place among the stars. All I could focus on was Elizabeth, and all the things that I wanted to share with her. It was beautiful.
I will never forget our first moments together. It was like turning on the radio and hearing your favorite song over and over and over again.
Meeting Elizabeth made me feel perfectly alive.
My girlfriend is going to kill me.
- - -
Some people like to work hard, and some people don't give a fuck. And then there's Jeremy Rhueger
“Low Rising”
By Jeremy Rhueger
Elizabeth Meridian Nepal
Derek Mikhail Gregory
When I first met Elizabeth, I was far from the man I had wanted to be. I was young. She was younger than me, but she was already gifted with the grace and elegance that most women seem to lose as they age. Like Mary, there was something about Elizabeth Meridian Nepal that I couldn’t quite put my finger on, but it beckoned me to give it my best.
My attraction to her was anything but “merely physical” at the time of our first meeting; her golden brown hair glistened when the light hit it just right. Her eyes (when I wasn’t busy fixated elsewhere) were a deep sea of green that I wanted to drown my worries in. Her curves were as smooth as the finest silk on Earth. Her beauty was no moon; it was a full-fledged instantaneous knockout of a space station.
On any given day, there could be upwards of two hundred employees that come in and out of our part of the building. I’d say on a good day, the entire building houses a good five to ten thousand people maximum. To me, meeting Elizabeth was less of a coincidence and more of a golden opportunity. This was confirmed for me when I saw her midriff reveal a golden stud pierced into her belly button. The midsection of the female body has always been a massive turn-on for me. Ribs to hips, baby.
“I like that stud you got there,” I said to her, trying not to sound like a cheesy pick-up artist.
“Thanks, I got it a year ago for my birthday.”
“When’s your birthday?” I said preparing my mental notebook.
“July 8th, the best day of the year,” she joked. Date noted.
I don’t get to meet girls all that often. I’m not what you would call “suave” or “debonair.” I really can’t say that I have “game,” either. Mind you, I’m not desperate for human contact but I knew had to keep this alive.
“Elizabeth, if you could be any place in the world right now, where would you be?” I said, hoping maybe I could say that I had been there before, and would love to show her around some time.
“That’s a good question…I don’t know, where would you be?” she asked.
“Anywhere outside. I’m not the biggest fan of big huge cramped buildings.”
“Oh, well then do you want me to give you your space, keep a standard distance of at least five feet between us?” she smiled. Her smile wasn’t anything you’d see in an art museum because you couldn’t put a price on its sheer beauty.
“No, I think I’ll be okay, but thanks though. I think I can manage being closer than five feet next to you. It’ll be hard, but these are the times that try men’s souls” I joked. If she only knew how truly close I wanted to be to her.
The drive home from work that night was quiet. The kind of quiet where you just concentrate on the task at hand, and let everything else fade into its place among the stars. All I could focus on was Elizabeth, and all the things that I wanted to share with her. It was beautiful.
I will never forget our first moments together. It was like turning on the radio and hearing your favorite song over and over and over again.
Meeting Elizabeth made me feel perfectly alive.
My girlfriend is going to kill me.
- - -
Some people like to work hard, and some people don't give a fuck. And then there's Jeremy Rhueger
Monday, July 26, 2010
7/26/10
Love
By Amanda Firefox
“Have you ever tried chocolate mousse before?”
“No.”
“Lay down.”
- - -
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
“Have you ever tried chocolate mousse before?”
“No.”
“Lay down.”
- - -
Amanda Firefox is a fiery little brunette who spends as much time at the beach as she can manage. She doesn't write much, but when she writes, it's almost always about her favorite subject: boys.
Sunday, July 25, 2010
7/25/10
Coveted
By Lewis R. Humphries
Astride the Harbour Bridge, bright radiance
shimmers through an airless summer, and gilds
the passageways of stone and providence.
Were it not for these columns of light, and
their multifarious smoulder, he would
not have glimpsed the portends of her splendour.
Journeyed beneath the steeled arch, she is
heedless of her beauty, as she weaves the
indiscernible threads of time through her
fingers; and marvels at the neon blaze
of simulated day, its steeples
plunging through the course of cobalt torrents.
Her contemplations, imbued through mottled
rivulets, are not inflected by the
thrusts of his overt intentions. She is
sentient only to the malleable
melds of dark then light, his presence cast in
the consequent sheathes of far pitched shade.
- - -
Lewis Humphries resides in Birmingham, UK and has been writing in his spare time for over 3 years. He mainly writes poetry and short fiction, about anything and everything that moves him. His publishing credits include Twisted Tongue Magazine, Tales from the Moonlit Path, Conceit Magazine, Everyday Poets, Ghostlight, Foliate Oak Literary, Bare Back Magazine, Franklin Christoph and The Blinking Cursor. He as also been featured in several UK and USA anthologies including A Collection of work from Writers Wall.com, Gene Genii, a collection of Flash works sold through Amazon, and the Tacu May 2009 Anthology. He also has a website - www.withlovetoyou.com
By Lewis R. Humphries
Astride the Harbour Bridge, bright radiance
shimmers through an airless summer, and gilds
the passageways of stone and providence.
Were it not for these columns of light, and
their multifarious smoulder, he would
not have glimpsed the portends of her splendour.
Journeyed beneath the steeled arch, she is
heedless of her beauty, as she weaves the
indiscernible threads of time through her
fingers; and marvels at the neon blaze
of simulated day, its steeples
plunging through the course of cobalt torrents.
Her contemplations, imbued through mottled
rivulets, are not inflected by the
thrusts of his overt intentions. She is
sentient only to the malleable
melds of dark then light, his presence cast in
the consequent sheathes of far pitched shade.
- - -
Lewis Humphries resides in Birmingham, UK and has been writing in his spare time for over 3 years. He mainly writes poetry and short fiction, about anything and everything that moves him. His publishing credits include Twisted Tongue Magazine, Tales from the Moonlit Path, Conceit Magazine, Everyday Poets, Ghostlight, Foliate Oak Literary, Bare Back Magazine, Franklin Christoph and The Blinking Cursor. He as also been featured in several UK and USA anthologies including A Collection of work from Writers Wall.com, Gene Genii, a collection of Flash works sold through Amazon, and the Tacu May 2009 Anthology. He also has a website - www.withlovetoyou.com
Saturday, July 24, 2010
7/24/10
Unsent Letter to an Ex
Ashley Shaw
Matt-
Hey, so
I was walking today and
spring is spiraling in
green everything
it was mid-afternoon
maybe around 1-ish
I saw this man
playing Frisbee
with his dog
and remembered the day
we
took Ozzy straining against his leash
barking at the squirrels
down to that field
near your
old house in
Somerton
it was all
sunshine
yellow lemonade
sweet and sour
sunshine
we threw the AEROBIE for hours
and collapsed
on the springy
grass in
a fit of giggles
you held my hand
and
it was good
but I'm getting off track
that man and his dog weren't important
what I meant to say was
at 2:30 this afternoon
I ran into Chris Moore
at Home Depot
he's an air condition repairman now
he just bought a house
in case you were wondering
(aren't we all getting so old?)
I remembered that time you threw a party
back in high school
when your parents were gone
it was around the time
when I still
hated your friends
(but before I liked them more than you)
Chris came with his reassuring red hair and constant chatter
I started to feel comfortable
so you snuck into
your parents liquor cabinet
and made me
an apple martini
I spent the evening
pretending to be an artist
drawing a Celtic Cross on Chris' arm
the red pen exploded
and made a mess
all over your
mother's brand new purposely distressed
dining room table
she was so angry
lecturing in that haughty high-pitched
I'm-so-much-better-than-you
because-I-come-from-money
kind of tone
threatening to take your
car away
even though
we tried to clean it up
but you
held my hand
and it was good
there I go
getting off track again
it's just these memories have been attacking me
but I don't miss you
because
I keep remembering that night
I stayed at your house
and I got the phone call from my mom
telling me that my dad had died
I stared vacantly at the TV
clinging to each episode of Futurama
wishing my life
hadn't just changed
forever
you couldn't stay awake with me
couldn't calm or assure me
because
you had work the next morning
and absolutely could not take the day off
and I remember
every weekend
you partied with your friends
while I stayed home and cried
because I was so desperately afraid of becoming
an alcoholic like my father
(I still worry sometimes
but anyway...)
you wouldn't hold my hand anymore
you wouldn't understand
you told me you only loved me
70% of the time
(and the rest of the time you hated me)
it wasn't good anymore
but none of this is important
the real reason
behind this letter is
around 6:30 pm
I was stumbling on the Internet
and found an article telling me that
Eoin Colfer is writing
the next installment
in the Hitchhiker's Guide series
I don't know who he is
but he's not Douglas Adams
so I think it's going to ruin
everything
I just thought I should
let you know
since you're getting that “Don't Panic!” tattoo
on your back
anyway
sorry about
bringing up
all of the
pointless nostalgia
I am
much happier without you
hope the cats
and the
new girlfriend
are doing well
-Ashley
- - -
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.
Ashley Shaw
Matt-
Hey, so
I was walking today and
spring is spiraling in
green everything
it was mid-afternoon
maybe around 1-ish
I saw this man
playing Frisbee
with his dog
and remembered the day
we
took Ozzy straining against his leash
barking at the squirrels
down to that field
near your
old house in
Somerton
it was all
sunshine
yellow lemonade
sweet and sour
sunshine
we threw the AEROBIE for hours
and collapsed
on the springy
grass in
a fit of giggles
you held my hand
and
it was good
but I'm getting off track
that man and his dog weren't important
what I meant to say was
at 2:30 this afternoon
I ran into Chris Moore
at Home Depot
he's an air condition repairman now
he just bought a house
in case you were wondering
(aren't we all getting so old?)
I remembered that time you threw a party
back in high school
when your parents were gone
it was around the time
when I still
hated your friends
(but before I liked them more than you)
Chris came with his reassuring red hair and constant chatter
I started to feel comfortable
so you snuck into
your parents liquor cabinet
and made me
an apple martini
I spent the evening
pretending to be an artist
drawing a Celtic Cross on Chris' arm
the red pen exploded
and made a mess
all over your
mother's brand new purposely distressed
dining room table
she was so angry
lecturing in that haughty high-pitched
I'm-so-much-better-than-you
because-I-come-from-money
kind of tone
threatening to take your
car away
even though
we tried to clean it up
but you
held my hand
and it was good
there I go
getting off track again
it's just these memories have been attacking me
but I don't miss you
because
I keep remembering that night
I stayed at your house
and I got the phone call from my mom
telling me that my dad had died
I stared vacantly at the TV
clinging to each episode of Futurama
wishing my life
hadn't just changed
forever
you couldn't stay awake with me
couldn't calm or assure me
because
you had work the next morning
and absolutely could not take the day off
and I remember
every weekend
you partied with your friends
while I stayed home and cried
because I was so desperately afraid of becoming
an alcoholic like my father
(I still worry sometimes
but anyway...)
you wouldn't hold my hand anymore
you wouldn't understand
you told me you only loved me
70% of the time
(and the rest of the time you hated me)
it wasn't good anymore
but none of this is important
the real reason
behind this letter is
around 6:30 pm
I was stumbling on the Internet
and found an article telling me that
Eoin Colfer is writing
the next installment
in the Hitchhiker's Guide series
I don't know who he is
but he's not Douglas Adams
so I think it's going to ruin
everything
I just thought I should
let you know
since you're getting that “Don't Panic!” tattoo
on your back
anyway
sorry about
bringing up
all of the
pointless nostalgia
I am
much happier without you
hope the cats
and the
new girlfriend
are doing well
-Ashley
- - -
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.
Friday, July 23, 2010
7/23/10
The Fall of My Tower
By Zack Connors
When it rains, it pours.
she told me she loves me
and I said I didn’t care.
I had found someone else
someone more
compatible.
Now that someone is running away
my happiness snatched
jealous and greedy eyes
seeing in me all that they do not have
instead of being happy
instead of looking at themselves
instead of lifting themselves.
They hate and languish and mutter
and their curses wear down the tower
I have worked so long to build.
In the end
I am at the bottom again.
I am lost in the muck, the mud
trying to build a new tower
while even the radio conspires against me.
- - -
No bio
By Zack Connors
When it rains, it pours.
she told me she loves me
and I said I didn’t care.
I had found someone else
someone more
compatible.
Now that someone is running away
my happiness snatched
jealous and greedy eyes
seeing in me all that they do not have
instead of being happy
instead of looking at themselves
instead of lifting themselves.
They hate and languish and mutter
and their curses wear down the tower
I have worked so long to build.
In the end
I am at the bottom again.
I am lost in the muck, the mud
trying to build a new tower
while even the radio conspires against me.
- - -
No bio
Thursday, July 22, 2010
7/22/10
Grief
By Lewis R. Humphries
- - -
Lewis Humphries resides in Birmingham, UK and has been writing in his spare time for over 3 years. He mainly writes poetry and short fiction, about anything and everything that moves him. His publishing credits include Twisted Tongue Magazine, Tales from the Moonlit Path, Conceit Magazine, Everyday Poets, Ghostlight, Foliate Oak Literary, Bare Back Magazine, Franklin Christoph and The Blinking Cursor. He as also been featured in several UK and USA anthologies including A Collection of work from Writers Wall.com, Gene Genii, a collection of Flash works sold through Amazon, and the Tacu May 2009 Anthology. He also has a website - www.withlovetoyou.com
By Lewis R. Humphries
He
missed a
careworn touch,
and would often
knead the arid loam
at her tendered graveside.
From pursed fingertips, the wisps
of a fragmented land would neatly
garner in the furrows of his palm.
But
that was
not enough,
by any reach
of self assertion,
and so he made his bed
beneath the herald of autumn.
Where his hands unfurled from restfulness,
and seeped conduits of the tenebrous earth.
Until
immersed
in the surfeit,
and prone beneath
a swell of landslide,
his colour paled against
the mantle of russet brown.
Where the burden of contrition,
tempered to the beats of stifled breath.
missed a
careworn touch,
and would often
knead the arid loam
at her tendered graveside.
From pursed fingertips, the wisps
of a fragmented land would neatly
garner in the furrows of his palm.
But
that was
not enough,
by any reach
of self assertion,
and so he made his bed
beneath the herald of autumn.
Where his hands unfurled from restfulness,
and seeped conduits of the tenebrous earth.
Until
immersed
in the surfeit,
and prone beneath
a swell of landslide,
his colour paled against
the mantle of russet brown.
Where the burden of contrition,
tempered to the beats of stifled breath.
- - -
Lewis Humphries resides in Birmingham, UK and has been writing in his spare time for over 3 years. He mainly writes poetry and short fiction, about anything and everything that moves him. His publishing credits include Twisted Tongue Magazine, Tales from the Moonlit Path, Conceit Magazine, Everyday Poets, Ghostlight, Foliate Oak Literary, Bare Back Magazine, Franklin Christoph and The Blinking Cursor. He as also been featured in several UK and USA anthologies including A Collection of work from Writers Wall.com, Gene Genii, a collection of Flash works sold through Amazon, and the Tacu May 2009 Anthology. He also has a website - www.withlovetoyou.com
Wednesday, July 21, 2010
7/21/10
The Words You Say
By Jake David
I may be moving ahead without thinking,
as I've been known of myself to do.
I cannot deny what it is I've been thinking,
as I've been thinking of you
when traveling through a land
behind a young child la-ha-ughter,
beyond the involvement of time,
behind the young child feeling battered,
beyond the strangeness of time,
as we fall asleep to
the chords you play and the words you say--
the echo you exhale can always be heard.
In the image you portray and the painting you make--
taking me away from the existence I hear.
With the soul of your heart and the core of your pain--
delicately wound and spun inside a fragile breath.
- - -
Jake David lives near Massena, N.Y. His attitudes towards love changes with the months, June being something of a change into someone new. A lover of Bob Dylan, acoustic guitars, candle-flames, and air pianos. He's been published at Heavy Hands Ink and Sillymess.
By Jake David
I may be moving ahead without thinking,
as I've been known of myself to do.
I cannot deny what it is I've been thinking,
as I've been thinking of you
when traveling through a land
behind a young child la-ha-ughter,
beyond the involvement of time,
behind the young child feeling battered,
beyond the strangeness of time,
as we fall asleep to
the chords you play and the words you say--
the echo you exhale can always be heard.
In the image you portray and the painting you make--
taking me away from the existence I hear.
With the soul of your heart and the core of your pain--
delicately wound and spun inside a fragile breath.
- - -
Jake David lives near Massena, N.Y. His attitudes towards love changes with the months, June being something of a change into someone new. A lover of Bob Dylan, acoustic guitars, candle-flames, and air pianos. He's been published at Heavy Hands Ink and Sillymess.
Tuesday, July 20, 2010
7/20/10
About Love
By Jason Sturner
We do not need thoroughfares
when love seeks the heart
Such is the way of love—
always destined, never sought
We do not need gold coins
when love comes without cost
Such is the value of love—
always priceless, never bought
We do not need a wise man
when love speaks through art
Such is the beauty of love—
always instilled, never taught
And we do not need a ruse
when love surrenders to us all
Such is the enigma of love—
always mysterious, never caught
- - -
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
We do not need thoroughfares
when love seeks the heart
Such is the way of love—
always destined, never sought
We do not need gold coins
when love comes without cost
Such is the value of love—
always priceless, never bought
We do not need a wise man
when love speaks through art
Such is the beauty of love—
always instilled, never taught
And we do not need a ruse
when love surrenders to us all
Such is the enigma of love—
always mysterious, never caught
- - -
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
Monday, July 19, 2010
7/19/10
Bookmark
By Karen Kelsay
He was her bookmark, placed between
the linen pages, embroidered golden, rising
handsomely from a beloved story.
On rainy days when sorrow-soaked
olive trees peered through her bedroom
window and clouds wrung cold hands
over nearby hilltops, she removed
him from the leaves and read
about a calm so deep it glowed
like fairy hair in the garden--beyond
the blossom and seed of all comprehension,
of longings without end that scratch
like a bramble, sharp as a dog bite--
and whispers through an open window
that turn skies medieval blue, of midnight
fragments, a hurt bird’s complaint,
the edgeless regions of love and starlit
lonesomeness.
He was her bookmark, holding her captive
in another time--living in the purple twilight
of the weeping beech leaves.
- - -
Karen Kelsay is a native Californian who spent
most of her childhood weekends on a boat.
Her husband is British, and she travels to England
regularly to visit family and enjoy the countryside.
Twice nominated for the Pushcart Prize
and author of five chapbooks, Karen's poems
have appeared a variety of magazines including
The New Formalist, Boston Literary Magazine
and The Lyric.
By Karen Kelsay
He was her bookmark, placed between
the linen pages, embroidered golden, rising
handsomely from a beloved story.
On rainy days when sorrow-soaked
olive trees peered through her bedroom
window and clouds wrung cold hands
over nearby hilltops, she removed
him from the leaves and read
about a calm so deep it glowed
like fairy hair in the garden--beyond
the blossom and seed of all comprehension,
of longings without end that scratch
like a bramble, sharp as a dog bite--
and whispers through an open window
that turn skies medieval blue, of midnight
fragments, a hurt bird’s complaint,
the edgeless regions of love and starlit
lonesomeness.
He was her bookmark, holding her captive
in another time--living in the purple twilight
of the weeping beech leaves.
- - -
Karen Kelsay is a native Californian who spent
most of her childhood weekends on a boat.
Her husband is British, and she travels to England
regularly to visit family and enjoy the countryside.
Twice nominated for the Pushcart Prize
and author of five chapbooks, Karen's poems
have appeared a variety of magazines including
The New Formalist, Boston Literary Magazine
and The Lyric.
Sunday, July 18, 2010
7/18/10
In Passing
By Rachel V. Olivier
You caught my eye.
There.
You did it again.
Caught and held it;
carefully caressing it in
your warm brown pools
of caramel.
Then the light changed.
You were gone.
- - -
Most recently I have had a novella, The Holly and the Ivan, published through Drollerie Press, and short stories and/or poetry published in several publications including Aoife’s Kiss, Beyond Centauri, Electric Velocipede, Everyday Weirdness, and Mindflights. My Blog: www.puttputtproductions.com/blogetary
By Rachel V. Olivier
You caught my eye.
There.
You did it again.
Caught and held it;
carefully caressing it in
your warm brown pools
of caramel.
Then the light changed.
You were gone.
- - -
Most recently I have had a novella, The Holly and the Ivan, published through Drollerie Press, and short stories and/or poetry published in several publications including Aoife’s Kiss, Beyond Centauri, Electric Velocipede, Everyday Weirdness, and Mindflights. My Blog: www.puttputtproductions.com/blogetary
Saturday, July 17, 2010
7/17/10
The Existence of You
By Jason Sturner
Morning—delicate
thirsty
the sky yawns
earth stretches . . .
You near the ending of a peaceful, romantic dream.
The silence of night subsides, you open your eyes—
two emeralds shine beneath the sun.
Another day is born,
another morning blessed.
Such simple truths are easily told
by the existence of you.
Night—romantic
alive
the stars shine
earth sighs . . .
You smile and all things are curious—
a shooting star passes over your essence.
Another twilight has come,
another night takes the stage.
Standing ovations are easily understood
by the existence of you.
I hear them . . .
I hear them whenever I'm around you—
the subtle, graceful heartbeats of angels.
They surround you like butterflies gone mad.
And all my love for this world,
all my love for beauty, for nature;
all my love for life was awakened
by the existence of you.
- - -
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
Morning—delicate
thirsty
the sky yawns
earth stretches . . .
You near the ending of a peaceful, romantic dream.
The silence of night subsides, you open your eyes—
two emeralds shine beneath the sun.
Another day is born,
another morning blessed.
Such simple truths are easily told
by the existence of you.
Night—romantic
alive
the stars shine
earth sighs . . .
You smile and all things are curious—
a shooting star passes over your essence.
Another twilight has come,
another night takes the stage.
Standing ovations are easily understood
by the existence of you.
I hear them . . .
I hear them whenever I'm around you—
the subtle, graceful heartbeats of angels.
They surround you like butterflies gone mad.
And all my love for this world,
all my love for beauty, for nature;
all my love for life was awakened
by the existence of you.
- - -
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
Friday, July 16, 2010
7/16/10
A Mess of Freedom
By Karen Kelsay
I love you
but I like it when you're gone.
I eat that extra cookie
and play Tom Petty music
all day long. The cat gets
bits of food when she makes noise,
I stay up really late.
My covers twist into a knot,
unmade. Chores and projects
follow me around
like phantom children,
littering the ground.
I love you
but I guess you should
come home.
I seem to be a mess
when you are gone.
- - -
Karen Kelsay is a native Californian who spent
most of her childhood weekends on a boat.
Her husband is British, and she travels to England
regularly to visit family and enjoy the countryside.
Twice nominated for the Pushcart Prize
and author of five chapbooks, Karen's poems
have appeared a variety of magazines including
The New Formalist, Boston Literary Magazine
and The Lyric.
By Karen Kelsay
I love you
but I like it when you're gone.
I eat that extra cookie
and play Tom Petty music
all day long. The cat gets
bits of food when she makes noise,
I stay up really late.
My covers twist into a knot,
unmade. Chores and projects
follow me around
like phantom children,
littering the ground.
I love you
but I guess you should
come home.
I seem to be a mess
when you are gone.
- - -
Karen Kelsay is a native Californian who spent
most of her childhood weekends on a boat.
Her husband is British, and she travels to England
regularly to visit family and enjoy the countryside.
Twice nominated for the Pushcart Prize
and author of five chapbooks, Karen's poems
have appeared a variety of magazines including
The New Formalist, Boston Literary Magazine
and The Lyric.
Thursday, July 15, 2010
7/15/10
In Retirement
By David Macpherson
Now that retirement has fallen upon us like early frost, sex in the afternoon is not the forbidden act it once was, but we have the fortitude to still make it so. We are industrious old farts and screwing is in our blood.
There are peaks yet to climb, flagpoles to mount, water slides to barrel down and ridiculously obvious sexual innuendos to toss at each other like firecrackers. I only hope the fuse is long enough and does not go off too soon.
We are sex’s old vaudevillians with grease paint and floppy shoes. There will be no hook for us today. The house is SRO.
No. We are not going to do it standing up, darling. We will do it right here on the divan. These bones purr in the comfort of cushions and fine upholstery. It is a necessity now. You have become bald and fat. I, well, I am more than I recall myself ever being.
Why matter? This art of sex was not made for the starving and the skeletal but for the lively and robust. We can assume the roles of asteroids colliding into stars or we can be less celestial and play other parts.
We can be courtesan and king, or teenagers attacking each other with the firm belief that we discovered sex. Or put on the guise of pizza delivery guy and harem slave, getting lost and mixed in each other’s secret fantasies.
Or we might fall into our own names. Look just like the pictures on our driver’s licenses. You can say the same stupid jokes that make me giggle and I can twine my finger round the surviving tuft of hair ringing your head and pull hard enough to bring out your smile.
Settle in. Relax. Settle some more. I will keep the rose in my teeth and you should keep your glasses and socks on. It is five PM. Do you know where your lover is? She is right here. Where else?
- - -
David lives in Central Massachusetts with his wife Heather and son George.
By David Macpherson
Now that retirement has fallen upon us like early frost, sex in the afternoon is not the forbidden act it once was, but we have the fortitude to still make it so. We are industrious old farts and screwing is in our blood.
There are peaks yet to climb, flagpoles to mount, water slides to barrel down and ridiculously obvious sexual innuendos to toss at each other like firecrackers. I only hope the fuse is long enough and does not go off too soon.
We are sex’s old vaudevillians with grease paint and floppy shoes. There will be no hook for us today. The house is SRO.
No. We are not going to do it standing up, darling. We will do it right here on the divan. These bones purr in the comfort of cushions and fine upholstery. It is a necessity now. You have become bald and fat. I, well, I am more than I recall myself ever being.
Why matter? This art of sex was not made for the starving and the skeletal but for the lively and robust. We can assume the roles of asteroids colliding into stars or we can be less celestial and play other parts.
We can be courtesan and king, or teenagers attacking each other with the firm belief that we discovered sex. Or put on the guise of pizza delivery guy and harem slave, getting lost and mixed in each other’s secret fantasies.
Or we might fall into our own names. Look just like the pictures on our driver’s licenses. You can say the same stupid jokes that make me giggle and I can twine my finger round the surviving tuft of hair ringing your head and pull hard enough to bring out your smile.
Settle in. Relax. Settle some more. I will keep the rose in my teeth and you should keep your glasses and socks on. It is five PM. Do you know where your lover is? She is right here. Where else?
- - -
David lives in Central Massachusetts with his wife Heather and son George.
Wednesday, July 14, 2010
7/14/10
Luscious Eyes
By G David Schwartz
Luscious eyes bring surprise
To musicians and to poets
Luminous lips age with quips
So just go and grow lips
I keep thinking
And I really don’t know why
That tenderness bring on wisdom
And I still don’t know why
But I will be looking
In the form of just seeking
Why oh why and why is why
That luscious eyes do not lie
- - -
the former president of Seedhouse, the online interfaith committee. Schwartz is the author of A Jewish Appraisal of Dialogue. Currently a volunteer at Drake Hospital in Cincinnati, Schwartz continues to write. His new book, Midrash and Working Out Of The Book is now in stores or can be ordered. Check out my book on Midrash:
www.amazon.com/gp/product/1418489565/104-8454011-6722310?n=28315
By G David Schwartz
Luscious eyes bring surprise
To musicians and to poets
Luminous lips age with quips
So just go and grow lips
I keep thinking
And I really don’t know why
That tenderness bring on wisdom
And I still don’t know why
But I will be looking
In the form of just seeking
Why oh why and why is why
That luscious eyes do not lie
- - -
the former president of Seedhouse, the online interfaith committee. Schwartz is the author of A Jewish Appraisal of Dialogue. Currently a volunteer at Drake Hospital in Cincinnati, Schwartz continues to write. His new book, Midrash and Working Out Of The Book is now in stores or can be ordered. Check out my book on Midrash:
www.amazon.com/gp/product/1418489565/104-8454011-6722310?n=28315
Tuesday, July 13, 2010
7/13/10
My Love, My Dream
By Jason Sturner
It was surreal, now that I think back,
as if a dream had wandered over the boundaries
to deliver forth the shimmering light
that was you.
And for a time, time was lost.
A halcyon river became our guide.
Its tranquil flow, a symbol of perfection,
its reflection
casting wildly off our eyes.
Love sprang to life, life became love.
Every hue within this plane began to lighten.
Our hearts chased, our meaning held no lies;
our souls tingled with gentle electricity
beneath harlequin skies.
But we awoke one morning, heartsick to find,
pink mist off the river had turned gray.
Suddenly our angels were selectively blind—
Was divinity so busy that it left us behind?
I screamed into a shower of diamonds.
I'd lost you inside this sudden despair.
Through the downpour I heard no reply,
and soon discovered myself alone there.
No one ever told us
that the weather changes in paradise
or that the flowers can cry.
The voice in the clouds never confessed
that true love could die.
And so troubled waters made their way down the river;
somewhere far off the ocean tide had raged.
The dream cracked, then fell to pieces—
leaving us broken
and forever changed.
- - -
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
It was surreal, now that I think back,
as if a dream had wandered over the boundaries
to deliver forth the shimmering light
that was you.
And for a time, time was lost.
A halcyon river became our guide.
Its tranquil flow, a symbol of perfection,
its reflection
casting wildly off our eyes.
Love sprang to life, life became love.
Every hue within this plane began to lighten.
Our hearts chased, our meaning held no lies;
our souls tingled with gentle electricity
beneath harlequin skies.
But we awoke one morning, heartsick to find,
pink mist off the river had turned gray.
Suddenly our angels were selectively blind—
Was divinity so busy that it left us behind?
I screamed into a shower of diamonds.
I'd lost you inside this sudden despair.
Through the downpour I heard no reply,
and soon discovered myself alone there.
No one ever told us
that the weather changes in paradise
or that the flowers can cry.
The voice in the clouds never confessed
that true love could die.
And so troubled waters made their way down the river;
somewhere far off the ocean tide had raged.
The dream cracked, then fell to pieces—
leaving us broken
and forever changed.
- - -
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
Monday, July 12, 2010
7/12/10
As Before
By Karen Kelsay
You do not love me as before. Like clouds
that wear a ring of light around their heads
and dissipate into a purple dusk;
or waves, that slip beneath the weedy beds
when twilight pulls the tides; your quiet need
has sunk into another realm. And there,
it floats in solitude. One day, the gods
will snatch it by the wings and place it where
my hand will find it, in a canopy
of tangled limbs that grace the sycamore,
beside the sea. A hollow nest will keep
it warm--until you love me as before.
- - -
Karen Kelsay is a native Californian who spent
most of her childhood weekends on a boat.
Her husband is British, and she travels to England
regularly to visit family and enjoy the countryside.
Twice nominated for the Pushcart Prize
and author of five chapbooks, Karen's poems
have appeared a variety of magazines including
The New Formalist, Boston Literary Magazine
and The Lyric.
By Karen Kelsay
You do not love me as before. Like clouds
that wear a ring of light around their heads
and dissipate into a purple dusk;
or waves, that slip beneath the weedy beds
when twilight pulls the tides; your quiet need
has sunk into another realm. And there,
it floats in solitude. One day, the gods
will snatch it by the wings and place it where
my hand will find it, in a canopy
of tangled limbs that grace the sycamore,
beside the sea. A hollow nest will keep
it warm--until you love me as before.
- - -
Karen Kelsay is a native Californian who spent
most of her childhood weekends on a boat.
Her husband is British, and she travels to England
regularly to visit family and enjoy the countryside.
Twice nominated for the Pushcart Prize
and author of five chapbooks, Karen's poems
have appeared a variety of magazines including
The New Formalist, Boston Literary Magazine
and The Lyric.
Sunday, July 11, 2010
7/11/10
The Session
By Felicia Aguilar
The roses sat still and sad on the windowsill. They were already beginning to wither, and several petals had taken the plunge into the sink perched beneath. Soon they would only be mementos of a stolen Sunday with a man just as sad.
There was a nervous redness in his cheeks when her client came in to see her. He had a boyish smile, playful and shy. "I'm not sure why I bought them," he said, motioning towards the flowers. "They were beautiful, and so I thought a beautiful woman might want them."
Others weren't so nice when they walked in, ready to rip off their jackets and ties and get to the awful business.
"Thank you," she said. "You can have a seat, if you’d like."
Their session started with the usual banter. She had heard all the excuses and justifications for their behavior. For some, it wasn’t easy to get to this point. It took a lot of courage to walk into the room. For others, it was an everyday occurrence, something that was needed in order to make it through the week. The man sitting in front of her seemed just like the rest of them.
“So, tell me why you’re here.”
"Well, I've been married nearly thirty years." He was seated at the edge of the uncomfortable leather chair in the corner. After relaxing his tie, he began to rub his face in small circular motions. Though he was an older gentleman, he seemed aged beyond his years. She couldn't quite guess his age. Fifty-five, maybe sixty?
"What's your wife's name?"
"Cathy. Her full name is Catherine Alexandria.” He looked up, smiling. “It sounds like a queen's name, doesn't it? Like she’d belong to some kind of rich, noble family. I've always told her that. She'd laugh and say, 'I'm already rich with love for you'. It was our little on-going joke. That was during happier times, I guess."
"Is she beautiful?"
"Oh, god yes. She's always been very beautiful. I mean, even now...When I met her for the first time, I thought to myself how it was never going to happen. Guys like me, we don't get lucky like that. I wished that I could be with someone even half as beautiful as her. Then it happened. For some reason, she picked me. Me! I couldn't believe it. I never deserved her, or her beauty. Even after the accident..." The smile left his face, and he closed his eyes. "She doesn't love me anymore...I guess that's part of the reason why I'm here."
"Why do you think that?"
"Oh, it's just...after being with someone for so long, you begin to memorize them. You get inside their thoughts. Their thoughts become your own." A veil of sadness shadowed his face. "I believe she blames me for the accident."
"Would you like to tell me what happened?"
He put his head down and she noticed the tiny bald patch surrounded by wisps of graying hair. He shook his head and then, very quietly, the words began to trickle from his mouth. "It was dark out. I couldn't see. Day before I lost my glasses. She said they were probably on the night stand at home. Funny thing is that they were." He stopped, and took in a deep sigh. “I’m sorry – I don’t like to think about it. I need to talk about it, though. She never wants to talk about it.
“So we’re on our way back home. It’s starting to get bad outside, all kinds of snow and sleet. She turns on the radio and a song is playing. ‘So build me up, Buttercup, don’t break my heart’. She started singing and I couldn’t help but smile. She was always singing, and sometimes after a hard day of work it was the only thing that made me smile.” He began rubbing his forehead in those circular motions again. She figured it was something he did when he was nervous.
“Take your time, take as much time as you need.”
“So she’s singing and then this damn dog runs into the street. It was so dark out, I didn't even see the damned thing, and Cathy screams at me. I lost control...and pretty soon we’re spinning, and then we’re in the air.” He became silent for a few moments, and then began again in a voice barely above a whisper. “Then everything was quiet. So quiet. I looked over at her. I tried reaching for her, and she was alive and awake. She said my name - 'Jim, Jim are you okay?' - It was so cold out. Someone must have seen us because we heard sirens coming toward us a little while later.
"When I woke up at the hospital, two weeks had gone by. She was waiting for me by the bed. I saw her face, and the scars, and then the wheelchair. I didn’t recognize her. I thought I was having a nightmare. I began to scream. Can you imagine what that must have been like for her? And yet, all the while, she was caressing my face and telling me that everything would be okay. But there was this look in her eyes. Something shifted." He let out a long, unstable sigh. "It was this...look of complete betrayal."
He got up and began pacing the room. She saw his upper lip tremble. "You know what she loved before? She loved to dance. She took many classes as a little girl. Tap, Jazz, Ballet. She had just learned to Salsa, too. She'd wear these long, flowing red dresses to class, put on this bright cherry red lipstick and come home so excited. Always pestering me, always wanting me to go, but I was busy with work." His shoulders hunched over, and a sudden primal sob escaped him.
She went towards him for nothing more than a pat on the back, but then his arms encircled her waist.
"Will you dance with me?" he asked.
"You know I don't do things like this. It's unprofessional..."
"Please." There was a desperate need in his voice, a yearning for something that she could never give him.
She stood very still, as he ran his hands down the length of her back, up through her hair. He began to sway, back and forth. There was a hypnotic tenderness in his touch, though it wasn't at all sexual. Like a father's touch, something she had longed for all of her life. She began to sway with him, feeling something she had never felt before. Pity? No. She pitied many of the other people who walked into her life though this man was different. She wanted to erase his sadness, even if it was only temporarily.
"I haven't gotten this close to a woman in over five years," he whispered. "She won't let me get near her anymore. I sometimes wonder how I expect her to love me when I don't even love myself anymore."
She had never let a client embrace her in that way. It was against the rules. It was then that she looked up into the man's kind, sad eyes knowing that there was one thing she could give him in that moment that his wife couldn’t.
"You must be dying for a woman to touch you again. Here you don't have to worry about love."
A homesick feeling rose up inside of him. He suddenly wanted to be back in bed with his wife, instead of in the small hotel room. Looking down at the beautiful young prostitute, he thought how the girl could have been his daughter, or granddaughter for that matter. He gently wiped at the dark liner around her eyes, kissed her cheek, smiled. She reached for him, but he had already made his way across the room.
Grabbing his jacket, he pulled out a wad of money and left it on the small nightstand by the bed. "Thank you for the dance," he said, bowing his head, "and for listening."
Moments later, she stood alone, wiping her own tears away. She walked over to the full length mirror in the cramped bathroom and redid her make-up. Another client would be coming by to see her, and she had to look her best.
- - -
Felicia Aguilar has been writing stories all of her life. Her work has been published in The NW Drizzle, Postcard Shorts, and the Flash Fiction Offensive. She lives in Dallas, Texas and is the mother to two wild toddler children, and wife to a wonderful husband who supports all of her creative endeavors. More of her work can be seen at http://www.editred.com/whyshewrote.
By Felicia Aguilar
The roses sat still and sad on the windowsill. They were already beginning to wither, and several petals had taken the plunge into the sink perched beneath. Soon they would only be mementos of a stolen Sunday with a man just as sad.
There was a nervous redness in his cheeks when her client came in to see her. He had a boyish smile, playful and shy. "I'm not sure why I bought them," he said, motioning towards the flowers. "They were beautiful, and so I thought a beautiful woman might want them."
Others weren't so nice when they walked in, ready to rip off their jackets and ties and get to the awful business.
"Thank you," she said. "You can have a seat, if you’d like."
Their session started with the usual banter. She had heard all the excuses and justifications for their behavior. For some, it wasn’t easy to get to this point. It took a lot of courage to walk into the room. For others, it was an everyday occurrence, something that was needed in order to make it through the week. The man sitting in front of her seemed just like the rest of them.
“So, tell me why you’re here.”
"Well, I've been married nearly thirty years." He was seated at the edge of the uncomfortable leather chair in the corner. After relaxing his tie, he began to rub his face in small circular motions. Though he was an older gentleman, he seemed aged beyond his years. She couldn't quite guess his age. Fifty-five, maybe sixty?
"What's your wife's name?"
"Cathy. Her full name is Catherine Alexandria.” He looked up, smiling. “It sounds like a queen's name, doesn't it? Like she’d belong to some kind of rich, noble family. I've always told her that. She'd laugh and say, 'I'm already rich with love for you'. It was our little on-going joke. That was during happier times, I guess."
"Is she beautiful?"
"Oh, god yes. She's always been very beautiful. I mean, even now...When I met her for the first time, I thought to myself how it was never going to happen. Guys like me, we don't get lucky like that. I wished that I could be with someone even half as beautiful as her. Then it happened. For some reason, she picked me. Me! I couldn't believe it. I never deserved her, or her beauty. Even after the accident..." The smile left his face, and he closed his eyes. "She doesn't love me anymore...I guess that's part of the reason why I'm here."
"Why do you think that?"
"Oh, it's just...after being with someone for so long, you begin to memorize them. You get inside their thoughts. Their thoughts become your own." A veil of sadness shadowed his face. "I believe she blames me for the accident."
"Would you like to tell me what happened?"
He put his head down and she noticed the tiny bald patch surrounded by wisps of graying hair. He shook his head and then, very quietly, the words began to trickle from his mouth. "It was dark out. I couldn't see. Day before I lost my glasses. She said they were probably on the night stand at home. Funny thing is that they were." He stopped, and took in a deep sigh. “I’m sorry – I don’t like to think about it. I need to talk about it, though. She never wants to talk about it.
“So we’re on our way back home. It’s starting to get bad outside, all kinds of snow and sleet. She turns on the radio and a song is playing. ‘So build me up, Buttercup, don’t break my heart’. She started singing and I couldn’t help but smile. She was always singing, and sometimes after a hard day of work it was the only thing that made me smile.” He began rubbing his forehead in those circular motions again. She figured it was something he did when he was nervous.
“Take your time, take as much time as you need.”
“So she’s singing and then this damn dog runs into the street. It was so dark out, I didn't even see the damned thing, and Cathy screams at me. I lost control...and pretty soon we’re spinning, and then we’re in the air.” He became silent for a few moments, and then began again in a voice barely above a whisper. “Then everything was quiet. So quiet. I looked over at her. I tried reaching for her, and she was alive and awake. She said my name - 'Jim, Jim are you okay?' - It was so cold out. Someone must have seen us because we heard sirens coming toward us a little while later.
"When I woke up at the hospital, two weeks had gone by. She was waiting for me by the bed. I saw her face, and the scars, and then the wheelchair. I didn’t recognize her. I thought I was having a nightmare. I began to scream. Can you imagine what that must have been like for her? And yet, all the while, she was caressing my face and telling me that everything would be okay. But there was this look in her eyes. Something shifted." He let out a long, unstable sigh. "It was this...look of complete betrayal."
He got up and began pacing the room. She saw his upper lip tremble. "You know what she loved before? She loved to dance. She took many classes as a little girl. Tap, Jazz, Ballet. She had just learned to Salsa, too. She'd wear these long, flowing red dresses to class, put on this bright cherry red lipstick and come home so excited. Always pestering me, always wanting me to go, but I was busy with work." His shoulders hunched over, and a sudden primal sob escaped him.
She went towards him for nothing more than a pat on the back, but then his arms encircled her waist.
"Will you dance with me?" he asked.
"You know I don't do things like this. It's unprofessional..."
"Please." There was a desperate need in his voice, a yearning for something that she could never give him.
She stood very still, as he ran his hands down the length of her back, up through her hair. He began to sway, back and forth. There was a hypnotic tenderness in his touch, though it wasn't at all sexual. Like a father's touch, something she had longed for all of her life. She began to sway with him, feeling something she had never felt before. Pity? No. She pitied many of the other people who walked into her life though this man was different. She wanted to erase his sadness, even if it was only temporarily.
"I haven't gotten this close to a woman in over five years," he whispered. "She won't let me get near her anymore. I sometimes wonder how I expect her to love me when I don't even love myself anymore."
She had never let a client embrace her in that way. It was against the rules. It was then that she looked up into the man's kind, sad eyes knowing that there was one thing she could give him in that moment that his wife couldn’t.
"You must be dying for a woman to touch you again. Here you don't have to worry about love."
A homesick feeling rose up inside of him. He suddenly wanted to be back in bed with his wife, instead of in the small hotel room. Looking down at the beautiful young prostitute, he thought how the girl could have been his daughter, or granddaughter for that matter. He gently wiped at the dark liner around her eyes, kissed her cheek, smiled. She reached for him, but he had already made his way across the room.
Grabbing his jacket, he pulled out a wad of money and left it on the small nightstand by the bed. "Thank you for the dance," he said, bowing his head, "and for listening."
Moments later, she stood alone, wiping her own tears away. She walked over to the full length mirror in the cramped bathroom and redid her make-up. Another client would be coming by to see her, and she had to look her best.
- - -
Felicia Aguilar has been writing stories all of her life. Her work has been published in The NW Drizzle, Postcard Shorts, and the Flash Fiction Offensive. She lives in Dallas, Texas and is the mother to two wild toddler children, and wife to a wonderful husband who supports all of her creative endeavors. More of her work can be seen at http://www.editred.com/whyshewrote.
Saturday, July 10, 2010
7/10/10
Love Will Glue These Br-oken Pi–ece-s
By Jason Sturner
She was new again, like she’d been born again, but with the knowledge. Like she had walked down from a mountain: cool skin, fresh thought, light eyes, and a fire burning for life. The past was secondary now. All the old romances turned dust-worthy. All the doubt dispersed. She was ready to face the world with open arms; to follow every step she took into a forward, sun-splashed direction. Love would not shove her away, not anymore—it was her ambition to curl up in its silky arms. It was her walk towards paradise, her vintage wine longing for a taste—and she could taste it now, on the lips of her subconscious; it was bittersweet, like strawberries.
“I love myself. I love my life. Love surrounds me and love will follow me.”
She spoke those words at every corner of every day. They launched her over obstacles with painless effort. Mental wounds healed without scars. The moon, the stars, and the sun smiled down. If it stormed, the rains were pleasant, shimmering with twilight sky. Clouds floated overhead, shaping themselves into chivalries. She hoped all future days would follow such gestures. And they would, when her true love came to embellish them.
He awoke mid-night, mid-spring, midway through a dream. He dreamt of a girl. He recalled vividly: his hands shaking, his heart racing, his mind not sure if she was real or unreal. They were in a meadow radiant with dew. She held poems in her hands, had shooting stars in her hair. Her eyes were earths: blue and green, mixed with sky and gold sunlight. Pollen and strawberry stains covered her dress. She shimmered like a rainbow.
And he became nervous, for he knew he could love this girl, but he had loved once before and his heart had been turned shy. Yet he stood in her path, waiting for her kiss, longing to hold what he so rightly deserved. She was the angel atop his life’s tree, he knew it. So he waited, and as she came closer his eyes teared up and his heart beat with desperation. The world held its breath, destiny exhaled its mirage. Then came a whisper, “We’ll be together soon,” and the dream was over.
That’s when he woke up, feeling new again, like he’d been born again, but with the knowledge . . . . He opened the curtains, looked out the window and said, “I love myself. I love my life. Love surrounds me and love will follow me.”
- - -
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
She was new again, like she’d been born again, but with the knowledge. Like she had walked down from a mountain: cool skin, fresh thought, light eyes, and a fire burning for life. The past was secondary now. All the old romances turned dust-worthy. All the doubt dispersed. She was ready to face the world with open arms; to follow every step she took into a forward, sun-splashed direction. Love would not shove her away, not anymore—it was her ambition to curl up in its silky arms. It was her walk towards paradise, her vintage wine longing for a taste—and she could taste it now, on the lips of her subconscious; it was bittersweet, like strawberries.
“I love myself. I love my life. Love surrounds me and love will follow me.”
She spoke those words at every corner of every day. They launched her over obstacles with painless effort. Mental wounds healed without scars. The moon, the stars, and the sun smiled down. If it stormed, the rains were pleasant, shimmering with twilight sky. Clouds floated overhead, shaping themselves into chivalries. She hoped all future days would follow such gestures. And they would, when her true love came to embellish them.
He awoke mid-night, mid-spring, midway through a dream. He dreamt of a girl. He recalled vividly: his hands shaking, his heart racing, his mind not sure if she was real or unreal. They were in a meadow radiant with dew. She held poems in her hands, had shooting stars in her hair. Her eyes were earths: blue and green, mixed with sky and gold sunlight. Pollen and strawberry stains covered her dress. She shimmered like a rainbow.
And he became nervous, for he knew he could love this girl, but he had loved once before and his heart had been turned shy. Yet he stood in her path, waiting for her kiss, longing to hold what he so rightly deserved. She was the angel atop his life’s tree, he knew it. So he waited, and as she came closer his eyes teared up and his heart beat with desperation. The world held its breath, destiny exhaled its mirage. Then came a whisper, “We’ll be together soon,” and the dream was over.
That’s when he woke up, feeling new again, like he’d been born again, but with the knowledge . . . . He opened the curtains, looked out the window and said, “I love myself. I love my life. Love surrounds me and love will follow me.”
- - -
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
Friday, July 9, 2010
7/9/10
The First
By K.M. McElhinny
lips.
pink blooms
over mouth. lips
soft, velvet. full.
lips. electric sizzle.
moisture swells.
lips-marry, join. lips.
tongue's massage.
lips.
over mine. over
yours. shared
breath. ravaged
body. lips
kiss
- - -
Bio: K.M. McElhinny is writer and poet of the dark and the in between. She chased the white rabbit down the writing hole over a year ago and is not trying to find her way home. She has been published at Flashes in the Dark, Spilled Coffee, SNM Horror and Smidge. Upcoming publications include two poems at The Cynic Online.
By K.M. McElhinny
lips.
pink blooms
over mouth. lips
soft, velvet. full.
lips. electric sizzle.
moisture swells.
lips-marry, join. lips.
tongue's massage.
lips.
over mine. over
yours. shared
breath. ravaged
body. lips
kiss
- - -
Bio: K.M. McElhinny is writer and poet of the dark and the in between. She chased the white rabbit down the writing hole over a year ago and is not trying to find her way home. She has been published at Flashes in the Dark, Spilled Coffee, SNM Horror and Smidge. Upcoming publications include two poems at The Cynic Online.
Thursday, July 8, 2010
7/8/10
Golden
By Jeremy Rhueger
I stand next to you in these five hours
We sing and dance, but romance? This is a corporate setting
No public display of my affection, this is a corporate setting
We're both employed
Can't seem to climb that ladder, can't seem to get next to you
This is a corporate setting
- - -
Some people like to work hard, and some people just don't give a fuck. And then there's Jeremy Rhueger.
By Jeremy Rhueger
I stand next to you in these five hours
We sing and dance, but romance? This is a corporate setting
No public display of my affection, this is a corporate setting
We're both employed
Can't seem to climb that ladder, can't seem to get next to you
This is a corporate setting
- - -
Some people like to work hard, and some people just don't give a fuck. And then there's Jeremy Rhueger.
Wednesday, July 7, 2010
7/7/10
Denied
By Jason Sturner
She could kiss me
Swirl me into a daze
And awaken me
On a rosebud
She could taste me
Wrap her lips over me
And spit me out
As merlot
She could embrace me
Slide me inside a gift
And shout my name
Into history
But all she did was inhale me
Mold me into a breath
And sail me off
With a shhhhh
- - -
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
She could kiss me
Swirl me into a daze
And awaken me
On a rosebud
She could taste me
Wrap her lips over me
And spit me out
As merlot
She could embrace me
Slide me inside a gift
And shout my name
Into history
But all she did was inhale me
Mold me into a breath
And sail me off
With a shhhhh
- - -
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
Tuesday, July 6, 2010
7/6/10
Rich In Silk
by Erik Estabrook
We were rich in silk and satin, sin and sloth,
come back to bed was your favorite phrase,
and treading on my heart were your delicate ways,
Your love was silver and I never wanted gold,
I just wanted what we had with all of my soul.
- - -
I'm Erik Estabrook, author of Eternal Garden, A heart Cast in Verse, and Attesting to His Glory. My works have been in many magazines including Willows Wept Review, Mississippi Crow, Bright Light cafe, and TeenAge. My work is a summary of life experiences and lessons.
by Erik Estabrook
We were rich in silk and satin, sin and sloth,
come back to bed was your favorite phrase,
and treading on my heart were your delicate ways,
Your love was silver and I never wanted gold,
I just wanted what we had with all of my soul.
- - -
I'm Erik Estabrook, author of Eternal Garden, A heart Cast in Verse, and Attesting to His Glory. My works have been in many magazines including Willows Wept Review, Mississippi Crow, Bright Light cafe, and TeenAge. My work is a summary of life experiences and lessons.
Monday, July 5, 2010
7/5/10
When I AM Loved By You
By Jason Sturner
A silky aura
surrounds me
when I . . .
Lavender dreams
visit me sleeping
when I . . .
Golden extravagance
fills my every moment
when I am loved by you.
My nerves
come to ease
My tensions
are of no attention
My heart beats
with subtle integrity
when I am loved by you.
- - -
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
A silky aura
surrounds me
when I . . .
Lavender dreams
visit me sleeping
when I . . .
Golden extravagance
fills my every moment
when I am loved by you.
My nerves
come to ease
My tensions
are of no attention
My heart beats
with subtle integrity
when I am loved by you.
- - -
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
Saturday, July 3, 2010
7/3/10
Fever
By John Ogden
You are a fever that burns through my brain
Maddening, powerful, an arc of reality
That leaves me gibbering, throws me into seizures
Of activity, action, reaching out to grasp a better me.
Like a fever, the love burning through my body rises
Pushes me, burns, burns, leaves me sundered, a cinder.
Breaks finally, breaks to cool gray sky, the softness
Of cucumber on eyelids, a cool, gentle washcloth
Washing away the doubts, the pain, the need to be
More.
- - -
John Ogden was conceived of a government form and a passing mailbox. He lives somewhere out in the woods of a rural land more akin to the fantasy realms of literature than real life, and his favorite dirt bikes will always be the broken ones.
By John Ogden
You are a fever that burns through my brain
Maddening, powerful, an arc of reality
That leaves me gibbering, throws me into seizures
Of activity, action, reaching out to grasp a better me.
Like a fever, the love burning through my body rises
Pushes me, burns, burns, leaves me sundered, a cinder.
Breaks finally, breaks to cool gray sky, the softness
Of cucumber on eyelids, a cool, gentle washcloth
Washing away the doubts, the pain, the need to be
More.
- - -
John Ogden was conceived of a government form and a passing mailbox. He lives somewhere out in the woods of a rural land more akin to the fantasy realms of literature than real life, and his favorite dirt bikes will always be the broken ones.
Friday, July 2, 2010
7/2/10
Though Unseen, Her Soul Is Lucid
By Jason Sturner
And soft, like thoughts
on snowy evenings.
The amber fire inside of her
warms me.
She is filled with sympathy;
cries out when injustice
sets fire to the world.
She's a subtle understanding,
like Braille across the enigma
of wounds in the heart.
And though unseen, her soul is lucid.
A poetic ideal
I've always wished
to become.
And bright, like clouds
on snowy evenings.
The amber light inside of her
calms me.
She is filled with symphony;
sings out when justice
takes hold in the world.
She's my one true understanding.
A quiet hand reaching for mine
when my head is low, when I need love…
On a snowy evening.
In the amber glow.
- - -
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
And soft, like thoughts
on snowy evenings.
The amber fire inside of her
warms me.
She is filled with sympathy;
cries out when injustice
sets fire to the world.
She's a subtle understanding,
like Braille across the enigma
of wounds in the heart.
And though unseen, her soul is lucid.
A poetic ideal
I've always wished
to become.
And bright, like clouds
on snowy evenings.
The amber light inside of her
calms me.
She is filled with symphony;
sings out when justice
takes hold in the world.
She's my one true understanding.
A quiet hand reaching for mine
when my head is low, when I need love…
On a snowy evening.
In the amber glow.
- - -
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, July 1, 2010
7/1/10
Walking the Dog
By Elizabeth M. Thurmond
Caroline pulled her coat tighter around her and looped Fluffy’s leash
around her wrist. It was chilly for late September, at this time of
day especially. In the pale 6am light of an overcast day, the
neighborhood even looked cold, all washed out and grey. The building
on the corner with turrets and diamond-paned windows, grey on the very
brightest of days, squatted malevolently behind its landscaping; the
more colorful apartments up the street just looked tired. Much like
Caroline herself... it had been ages since she felt energized about
anything.
The weather wasn’t entirely to blame, although the recent lack of
sunlight was making it more difficult for her to drag herself out of
bed at Fluffy’s insistent barking. Walking the dog was good exercise,
though, and that was definitely something she needed with all the
hours she was logging behind a desk. Her steady stream of assignments
was definitely a good thing, but if she could take a break without
compromising her income, she would do it in a heartbeat.
There just wasn’t much interesting going on lately. She tried to
remember the last time she had had something exciting happen, and the
first thing that came to mind was coaxing her neighbor’s cat Howie out
of a tree. I live such a glamorous life, she thought, kneeling to do
her poop-scooping duty while Fluffy tugged insistently on the leash.
“Calm down,” she said, giving the leash a gentle tug as she rose.
“What do you...”
“...see?” died on her lips as she realized what Fluffy had spotted:
another dog, a great grey wolfhound, loping along ahead of a man
around her own age. She had never seen either man or dog before... she
definitely would have remembered him. He was about six-two, long and
lanky, with messy brown hair and – she gasped as he glanced up at her,
making eye contact for a fraction of a second – intense dark brown
eyes. A frisson ran up her spine; in that instant she imagined what it
would be like to be the recipient of his sustained gaze and felt her
neck and ears grow hot. Nodding politely as he passed, she redirected
Fluffy’s attention from a flowerbed and continued on her walk.
All day, when she got stuck on her work and allowed her mind to
wander, her thoughts wandered back to the man with the dog. Was he new
in the neighborhood? Straying from his usual route? Would he be out
again tomorrow? These persistent imaginings urged her from bed far
more willingly the next morning, and kept her out longer than Fluffy
usually needed. Her little Pomeranian was dragging a bit by the time
the wolfhound appeared, about ten feet ahead of his drowsy-eyed
master. The man was obviously only half awake, yawning loudly and
stumbling a little when the dog picked up speed. They were on the
opposite side of the street, and turned the corner just ahead, so
Caroline didn’t have a chance to speak. Not, she thought as she
scooped Fluffy up to carry him home, that she would know what to say.
This was her primary verbal failing; once you got her started she was
very talkative, but when faced with a sexy man, she was generally
reduced to monosyllables.
The next day, she managed to do her hair instead of pulling it into a
messy ponytail, and even put on lipstick, but Sexy Man was nowhere to
be found. Fluffy was panting by the time they returned home, and
Caroline kicked herself for not speaking that first day. Was Sexy Man
gone for good?
Apparently not; the next morning there he was, stumbling along behind
his dog. Again he was on the other side of the street, thus precluding
her saying hello – or saving her from it, she wasn’t sure which. What
was she supposed to say – “Nice dog!” “Come here often?”
As Caroline was staring – Fluffy, forgotten at the other end of the
leash, was happily digging in a flower bed – Sexy Man looked up and
smiled.
Uh-oh. Busted. Oh my God he has an amazing smile. Caroline suddenly
forgot how to breathe. It took her a full second to remember she
should smile back. Which she did, weakly, with Fluffy throwing up dirt
all around her unheeded.
Sexy Man continued on his way, and Caroline returned to her senses,
realizing what her dog had been doing. Heaving a sigh, she picked
Fluffy up, smoothed the dirt over with her foot, and moved on. A smile
wasn’t exactly “I love you, marry me,” but in her perpetually dateless
state it was the best she’d gotten in some time.
Halfway through the afternoon, the thought occurred to her that he
might have been smiling at Fluffy’s misbehavior, not out of
dog-walking camaraderie. She knew he couldn’t have been smiling out of
being struck by her beauty – she cleaned up very well, if she did say
so herself, but at 6am she looked like three miles of bad road.
Sighing, she tried to focus on her computer screen.
Three more mornings elicited no more than a couple of smiles. They
were up to acknowledging each other, that was something, she supposed.
But she had smiling-and-nodding relationships with neighbors she’d had
for three years. Something had to give, and it might as well be her to
break the ice. If he was new to the neighborhood he might welcome a
long-term resident telling him all the details and secrets of the
neighborhood. But how could she do that without it sounding like a
line? Which, she couldn’t kid herself, it totally was a line, but it
couldn’t seem that way. She had to think.
By the time it was time for Fluffy’s evening walk, she had mentally
scripted several possible conversations. As she strolled along in the
dark waiting for Fluffy to do his business, she rehearsed her possible
opening remarks in her head. “Nice dog... you guys new in town?” was
the best she’d come up with, so she had to make it sound natural.
She had progressed to speaking the lines out loud (though under her
breath) when she heard footsteps behind her and suddenly, WHUMP!
Something large knocked her over and into a bush.
Fumbling for her pepper spray and cursing her infatuation with Sexy
Man for compromising her ordinarily constant vigilance, she was
certain she was about to be mugged or worse when a voice said, “I’m so
sorry, are you okay?”
Caroline looked up into the eyes of Sexy Man, whose dog was sniffing
at a wary Fluffy. Sexy Man held out his hand. Dazed, she accepted the
help back to her feet. “I... um... thank you,” she said, dusting
herself off.
“Thor's really friendly, but he doesn’t know his own strength.”
Caroline looked down at the massive dog, who had decided Fluffy wasn’t
interesting enough to eat. “He’s a big fella.” A word with two
syllables. This was progress.
“Do you live around here? I see you every morning.”
“Yeah, just up the street.”
“I just moved one block down. Michael.” He held out a hand. She
blinked for a moment, processing this information, then shook it.
“Caroline. That’s Fluffy.”
“Is he the destroyer of worlds?”
She laughed; they knew the same internet memes, at least. “No, but
sofa cushions quake in fear.”
Their conversation was brief, but somehow – Caroline wasn't sure how,
she was operating on autopilot – ended with plans for a playdate for
the two dogs, who by now had moved on from sniffing warily to chasing
each other around their owners' legs. “Looks like Fluffy wants a
playmate,” Michael observed as Fluffy hopped gleefully around his
feet.
Caroline agreed; like dog, like owner, she thought, her heart
skipping a beat at the twinkle in Michael's eyes. As she turned to go,
she reached over, scratched Thor behind the ears, and whispered,
“Thanks, buddy.” Things were starting to look up.
- - -
Elizabeth M. Thurmond lives in Los Angeles with two roommates and more
books than are strictly necessary. Like most Angelenos, she has a
screenplay in the works, but she doesn't really want to direct. She
can be found on the Web at www.countmystars.com
By Elizabeth M. Thurmond
Caroline pulled her coat tighter around her and looped Fluffy’s leash
around her wrist. It was chilly for late September, at this time of
day especially. In the pale 6am light of an overcast day, the
neighborhood even looked cold, all washed out and grey. The building
on the corner with turrets and diamond-paned windows, grey on the very
brightest of days, squatted malevolently behind its landscaping; the
more colorful apartments up the street just looked tired. Much like
Caroline herself... it had been ages since she felt energized about
anything.
The weather wasn’t entirely to blame, although the recent lack of
sunlight was making it more difficult for her to drag herself out of
bed at Fluffy’s insistent barking. Walking the dog was good exercise,
though, and that was definitely something she needed with all the
hours she was logging behind a desk. Her steady stream of assignments
was definitely a good thing, but if she could take a break without
compromising her income, she would do it in a heartbeat.
There just wasn’t much interesting going on lately. She tried to
remember the last time she had had something exciting happen, and the
first thing that came to mind was coaxing her neighbor’s cat Howie out
of a tree. I live such a glamorous life, she thought, kneeling to do
her poop-scooping duty while Fluffy tugged insistently on the leash.
“Calm down,” she said, giving the leash a gentle tug as she rose.
“What do you...”
“...see?” died on her lips as she realized what Fluffy had spotted:
another dog, a great grey wolfhound, loping along ahead of a man
around her own age. She had never seen either man or dog before... she
definitely would have remembered him. He was about six-two, long and
lanky, with messy brown hair and – she gasped as he glanced up at her,
making eye contact for a fraction of a second – intense dark brown
eyes. A frisson ran up her spine; in that instant she imagined what it
would be like to be the recipient of his sustained gaze and felt her
neck and ears grow hot. Nodding politely as he passed, she redirected
Fluffy’s attention from a flowerbed and continued on her walk.
All day, when she got stuck on her work and allowed her mind to
wander, her thoughts wandered back to the man with the dog. Was he new
in the neighborhood? Straying from his usual route? Would he be out
again tomorrow? These persistent imaginings urged her from bed far
more willingly the next morning, and kept her out longer than Fluffy
usually needed. Her little Pomeranian was dragging a bit by the time
the wolfhound appeared, about ten feet ahead of his drowsy-eyed
master. The man was obviously only half awake, yawning loudly and
stumbling a little when the dog picked up speed. They were on the
opposite side of the street, and turned the corner just ahead, so
Caroline didn’t have a chance to speak. Not, she thought as she
scooped Fluffy up to carry him home, that she would know what to say.
This was her primary verbal failing; once you got her started she was
very talkative, but when faced with a sexy man, she was generally
reduced to monosyllables.
The next day, she managed to do her hair instead of pulling it into a
messy ponytail, and even put on lipstick, but Sexy Man was nowhere to
be found. Fluffy was panting by the time they returned home, and
Caroline kicked herself for not speaking that first day. Was Sexy Man
gone for good?
Apparently not; the next morning there he was, stumbling along behind
his dog. Again he was on the other side of the street, thus precluding
her saying hello – or saving her from it, she wasn’t sure which. What
was she supposed to say – “Nice dog!” “Come here often?”
As Caroline was staring – Fluffy, forgotten at the other end of the
leash, was happily digging in a flower bed – Sexy Man looked up and
smiled.
Uh-oh. Busted. Oh my God he has an amazing smile. Caroline suddenly
forgot how to breathe. It took her a full second to remember she
should smile back. Which she did, weakly, with Fluffy throwing up dirt
all around her unheeded.
Sexy Man continued on his way, and Caroline returned to her senses,
realizing what her dog had been doing. Heaving a sigh, she picked
Fluffy up, smoothed the dirt over with her foot, and moved on. A smile
wasn’t exactly “I love you, marry me,” but in her perpetually dateless
state it was the best she’d gotten in some time.
Halfway through the afternoon, the thought occurred to her that he
might have been smiling at Fluffy’s misbehavior, not out of
dog-walking camaraderie. She knew he couldn’t have been smiling out of
being struck by her beauty – she cleaned up very well, if she did say
so herself, but at 6am she looked like three miles of bad road.
Sighing, she tried to focus on her computer screen.
Three more mornings elicited no more than a couple of smiles. They
were up to acknowledging each other, that was something, she supposed.
But she had smiling-and-nodding relationships with neighbors she’d had
for three years. Something had to give, and it might as well be her to
break the ice. If he was new to the neighborhood he might welcome a
long-term resident telling him all the details and secrets of the
neighborhood. But how could she do that without it sounding like a
line? Which, she couldn’t kid herself, it totally was a line, but it
couldn’t seem that way. She had to think.
By the time it was time for Fluffy’s evening walk, she had mentally
scripted several possible conversations. As she strolled along in the
dark waiting for Fluffy to do his business, she rehearsed her possible
opening remarks in her head. “Nice dog... you guys new in town?” was
the best she’d come up with, so she had to make it sound natural.
She had progressed to speaking the lines out loud (though under her
breath) when she heard footsteps behind her and suddenly, WHUMP!
Something large knocked her over and into a bush.
Fumbling for her pepper spray and cursing her infatuation with Sexy
Man for compromising her ordinarily constant vigilance, she was
certain she was about to be mugged or worse when a voice said, “I’m so
sorry, are you okay?”
Caroline looked up into the eyes of Sexy Man, whose dog was sniffing
at a wary Fluffy. Sexy Man held out his hand. Dazed, she accepted the
help back to her feet. “I... um... thank you,” she said, dusting
herself off.
“Thor's really friendly, but he doesn’t know his own strength.”
Caroline looked down at the massive dog, who had decided Fluffy wasn’t
interesting enough to eat. “He’s a big fella.” A word with two
syllables. This was progress.
“Do you live around here? I see you every morning.”
“Yeah, just up the street.”
“I just moved one block down. Michael.” He held out a hand. She
blinked for a moment, processing this information, then shook it.
“Caroline. That’s Fluffy.”
“Is he the destroyer of worlds?”
She laughed; they knew the same internet memes, at least. “No, but
sofa cushions quake in fear.”
Their conversation was brief, but somehow – Caroline wasn't sure how,
she was operating on autopilot – ended with plans for a playdate for
the two dogs, who by now had moved on from sniffing warily to chasing
each other around their owners' legs. “Looks like Fluffy wants a
playmate,” Michael observed as Fluffy hopped gleefully around his
feet.
Caroline agreed; like dog, like owner, she thought, her heart
skipping a beat at the twinkle in Michael's eyes. As she turned to go,
she reached over, scratched Thor behind the ears, and whispered,
“Thanks, buddy.” Things were starting to look up.
- - -
Elizabeth M. Thurmond lives in Los Angeles with two roommates and more
books than are strictly necessary. Like most Angelenos, she has a
screenplay in the works, but she doesn't really want to direct. She
can be found on the Web at www.countmystars.com
