Socks
By Kelly Daniels
If my love for you were a pair of dirty socks
I would hold them up and say,
“So what am I supposed to do with these?”
You always seem to answer that I should wash them.
Why wash them when you only dirty them again?
Each time you say, “No, I’ve cleaned the floor!”
It will always be better the next time.
I always believe that you’ve put in hard work.
But the bottom of the socks only becomes blacker and blacker.
There’s no bleach strong enough anymore.
I won’t scrub them when you haven’t worked.
I’m so tired of cleaning; I spend so many more hours than you.
I always did.
They are black because of your floor.
I know you think I always put it all on you.
I guess it’s true. I’m sorry you do not like that.
I can only wash the socks. And I do, I always did.
But I cannot clean the floor. It belongs to you.
And if you will not clean the way you know you should, you must, to keep the socks clean.
I must stop washing.
I will stop washing.
I am throwing them out.
Eventually, I do not know when, the garbage man will take them.
Today, the socks are still in my trashcan, but soon the garbage man will take them.
And they will be gone.
- - -
I am a 21 year-old, female, junior in college. I believe my true writing talent is in journalistic writing but every once in a while I write a creative piece that I think my have something to offer someone else. I think this is fun and have no lofty creative writing aspirations.
Thursday, September 30, 2010
Wednesday, September 29, 2010
9/29/10
This is not a love poem
By Christina Rodriguez
I like you.
I like you and
in a perfect world,
I would just be able to say it.
I can't say that I wish I could get
to know you in new ways.
I can't say that I would love to
lay in your arms and see how your lips taste.
I can't find out your secrets.
In a perfect world,
I would be able to grab your
hand while walking down the street.
I would be able to say how cute you
are, be flirty and it wouldn't be a joke.
And in a perfect world,
I would be able to ask if there was a chance that
you would want to grab my hand, if
you would want to hold me in your arms, if
you would want to find my secrets on my lips.
In a perfect world,
I would be able to discover the truth behind
the softness of your skin and your heart.
This is not a perfect world.
I don't have the right to feel this way
to wonder.
I can't want you or want you to want me.
Because even though I have a love, there is
something about you that fills in the gaps he doesn't.
If I could blend you two into the nearly perfect man, I would.
Because my heart is selfish.
My curiosity is long and so are these nights,
where sometimes you stay on my mind till I
fall asleep because you were there to make me smile.
My heart is selfish and these nights are long.
And whenever he makes me unhappy,
you’re there...
Who am I kidding?
I can't confess.
I can't even write a poem to let you know how
I feel.
This is not a perfect world.
- - -
Christina Rodriguez wouldn't know a career choice if it hit her on the head with a wad of cash and health benefits. Living in Queens, New York in an attic with her mother as a recent college graduate, her days are filled with job hunting while her nights are filled with poetry and margaritas.
By Christina Rodriguez
I like you.
I like you and
in a perfect world,
I would just be able to say it.
I can't say that I wish I could get
to know you in new ways.
I can't say that I would love to
lay in your arms and see how your lips taste.
I can't find out your secrets.
In a perfect world,
I would be able to grab your
hand while walking down the street.
I would be able to say how cute you
are, be flirty and it wouldn't be a joke.
And in a perfect world,
I would be able to ask if there was a chance that
you would want to grab my hand, if
you would want to hold me in your arms, if
you would want to find my secrets on my lips.
In a perfect world,
I would be able to discover the truth behind
the softness of your skin and your heart.
This is not a perfect world.
I don't have the right to feel this way
to wonder.
I can't want you or want you to want me.
Because even though I have a love, there is
something about you that fills in the gaps he doesn't.
If I could blend you two into the nearly perfect man, I would.
Because my heart is selfish.
My curiosity is long and so are these nights,
where sometimes you stay on my mind till I
fall asleep because you were there to make me smile.
My heart is selfish and these nights are long.
And whenever he makes me unhappy,
you’re there...
Who am I kidding?
I can't confess.
I can't even write a poem to let you know how
I feel.
This is not a perfect world.
- - -
Christina Rodriguez wouldn't know a career choice if it hit her on the head with a wad of cash and health benefits. Living in Queens, New York in an attic with her mother as a recent college graduate, her days are filled with job hunting while her nights are filled with poetry and margaritas.
Tuesday, September 28, 2010
9/28/10
Silk Sheets
By Mike Berger
Bobbi was a tough girl.
She wasn't petite and demure.
Get out of line with her and she
would break your arm.
We became fast friends. I loved
her sarcastic quick wit. She was
the master of a well turned phrase.
We spent a lot of time together.
I told her that I wanted to kiss her.
She laughed and said, "If you have
to ask the answer is no." As we
talked the subject turned to love.
She said that she bet I would like
to make love to her under the old
sycamore tree.
"No," I replied. That is the last thing
I would ever do. "If we made love, it
would be in the finest room in the
town on silk sheets”. I told her that only
the best would do. I'll never really
understand that lady. All she could
do was squeeze my hand and cry.
- - -
Author of two books of short stories. Three humor pieces have won awards. Writing poetry for less than a year. Work has or will appear in forty-five journals. These include AIM, Still Crazy, First Edition, Stray Branch, and Mid West Quarterly, Evergreen and Krax. Published two chapbook, Raw and Lighten Up published by CC&D Press. Member of The Academy of American Poets.
By Mike Berger
Bobbi was a tough girl.
She wasn't petite and demure.
Get out of line with her and she
would break your arm.
We became fast friends. I loved
her sarcastic quick wit. She was
the master of a well turned phrase.
We spent a lot of time together.
I told her that I wanted to kiss her.
She laughed and said, "If you have
to ask the answer is no." As we
talked the subject turned to love.
She said that she bet I would like
to make love to her under the old
sycamore tree.
"No," I replied. That is the last thing
I would ever do. "If we made love, it
would be in the finest room in the
town on silk sheets”. I told her that only
the best would do. I'll never really
understand that lady. All she could
do was squeeze my hand and cry.
- - -
Author of two books of short stories. Three humor pieces have won awards. Writing poetry for less than a year. Work has or will appear in forty-five journals. These include AIM, Still Crazy, First Edition, Stray Branch, and Mid West Quarterly, Evergreen and Krax. Published two chapbook, Raw and Lighten Up published by CC&D Press. Member of The Academy of American Poets.
Monday, September 27, 2010
9/27/10
Between Us
By John Ogden
Life is full of games
but not with us
not between us
The jokesters tease, poke and sing
weave hoop after hoop
to leap through,
to dodge
to cry out against
when they catch you
in a loop
of legalese.
Roll the dice each day,
each moment
and move your piece from space to space
draw your cards,
read the text
feel the bite of failure
the cool wash
of success
But not here,
not with us,
not between us.
Between us,
All is love.
All is light.
- - -
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
Life is full of games
but not with us
not between us
The jokesters tease, poke and sing
weave hoop after hoop
to leap through,
to dodge
to cry out against
when they catch you
in a loop
of legalese.
Roll the dice each day,
each moment
and move your piece from space to space
draw your cards,
read the text
feel the bite of failure
the cool wash
of success
But not here,
not with us,
not between us.
Between us,
All is love.
All is light.
- - -
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.
Sunday, September 26, 2010
9/26/10
Alone
By Amanda Firefox
I cry when you call
Not because I love you
Not because I miss your voice
Not because I crave your touch
Not because you mean more to me than life
Than self
But because, when you call,
It is always to say:
I need time
I need space
I need to be alone
I need to be me
Without you.
I’ll never understand
The need to feel
What it is like
To miss someone.
- - -
Amanda Firefox is a fiery little brunette who spends as much time at the beach as she can manage. She doesn't write much, but when she writes, it's almost always about her favorite subject: boys.
By Amanda Firefox
I cry when you call
Not because I love you
Not because I miss your voice
Not because I crave your touch
Not because you mean more to me than life
Than self
But because, when you call,
It is always to say:
I need time
I need space
I need to be alone
I need to be me
Without you.
I’ll never understand
The need to feel
What it is like
To miss someone.
- - -
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.
Saturday, September 25, 2010
9/25/10
New Owner Lease, Abandoned
By Christina Rodriguez
Do you realize it's no longer mine?
I lost my heartbeat and it lives
under your eyelids, ignored like a stray
lash fallen on your cheek.
- - -
Christina Rodriguez wouldn't know a career choice if it hit her on the head with a wad of cash and health benefits. Living in Queens, New York in an attic with her mother as a recent college graduate, her days are filled with job hunting while her nights are filled with poetry and margaritas.
By Christina Rodriguez
Do you realize it's no longer mine?
I lost my heartbeat and it lives
under your eyelids, ignored like a stray
lash fallen on your cheek.
- - -
Christina Rodriguez wouldn't know a career choice if it hit her on the head with a wad of cash and health benefits. Living in Queens, New York in an attic with her mother as a recent college graduate, her days are filled with job hunting while her nights are filled with poetry and margaritas.
Friday, September 24, 2010
9/24/10
In You
By John Ogden
Dana,
The life which grows within you,
The creation, the spark
Nestled in your belly
Stirs living, stirs with the self
Stirs and stirs
Like stars in murky void,
As brilliant as your eyes,
As brilliant as the sun
We first kissed under
First worshiped as it rose
Rose and flowered against the blue
Against clouds
Rose and became us
Became you
And the life which grows
In you.
- - -
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
Dana,
The life which grows within you,
The creation, the spark
Nestled in your belly
Stirs living, stirs with the self
Stirs and stirs
Like stars in murky void,
As brilliant as your eyes,
As brilliant as the sun
We first kissed under
First worshiped as it rose
Rose and flowered against the blue
Against clouds
Rose and became us
Became you
And the life which grows
In you.
- - -
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.
Thursday, September 23, 2010
9/23/10
I Am The We Are
By Jerry Hadrick
“The only toolkit a magician ever needs is his soul.” The old man breathes. “Light of the mind and life, the burning in the veins, the burning which etches the soul and tree-branches outward along the backs of the eyes.”
“The Dance is your breath, your language.” A woman whispers, closes the space between herself and the old mage with the rush of lost winds. “We are, we are, we are, we are.”
“I am.” The old man whispers back.
“We are the I am, I am the we are.”
“We are, together.”
- - -
Biographies are for sissies.
By Jerry Hadrick
“The only toolkit a magician ever needs is his soul.” The old man breathes. “Light of the mind and life, the burning in the veins, the burning which etches the soul and tree-branches outward along the backs of the eyes.”
“The Dance is your breath, your language.” A woman whispers, closes the space between herself and the old mage with the rush of lost winds. “We are, we are, we are, we are.”
“I am.” The old man whispers back.
“We are the I am, I am the we are.”
“We are, together.”
- - -
Biographies are for sissies.
Wednesday, September 22, 2010
9/22/10
Love You-In-Haiku
By Christina Rodriguez
I.
Stories of a heart
in love, unrehearsed but ble-
mished by stars, his eyes.
II.
My heart wishes you.
You in arms. You in kiss. You
in love. You in me.
III.
I miss those nights when
you pretended to not know that
my heart was flirting
IV.
With danger, a fool in a backless gown that waits for you to
slip it off.
- - -
Christina Rodriguez wouldn't know a career choice if it hit her on the head with a wad of cash and health benefits. Living in Queens, New York in an attic with her mother as a recent college graduate, her days are filled with job hunting while her nights are filled with poetry and margaritas.
By Christina Rodriguez
I.
Stories of a heart
in love, unrehearsed but ble-
mished by stars, his eyes.
II.
My heart wishes you.
You in arms. You in kiss. You
in love. You in me.
III.
I miss those nights when
you pretended to not know that
my heart was flirting
IV.
With danger, a fool in a backless gown that waits for you to
slip it off.
- - -
Christina Rodriguez wouldn't know a career choice if it hit her on the head with a wad of cash and health benefits. Living in Queens, New York in an attic with her mother as a recent college graduate, her days are filled with job hunting while her nights are filled with poetry and margaritas.
Tuesday, September 21, 2010
9/21/10
Little Light, Little Dark
By E.S. Wynn
She
smiles
I
smile
morning light golden
honey
cinnamon
dusted skin
we welcome the morning
on wings of moonsilver
love
- - -
E.S. Wynn truly (and completely) believes that he is the luckiest man on earth. Hugs and kisses, Dez.
By E.S. Wynn
She
smiles
I
smile
morning light golden
honey
cinnamon
dusted skin
we welcome the morning
on wings of moonsilver
love
- - -
E.S. Wynn truly (and completely) believes that he is the luckiest man on earth. Hugs and kisses, Dez.
Monday, September 20, 2010
9/20/10
BRB..BBL..BYE
By Jeffrey Blaine
“I’ll be right back,” she said.
“I’ll be right here then,” he replied.
That was some time ago. The only thing keeping track was the waves and the stubble oh the young man’s face. He’s been waiting watching the tide as it rises, falls and repeats itself all over again all. His green gaze never faltering for a second, all he knew is that she would be coming back it was only a matter of time.
“Excuse me,” a young lady interrupted one day as the sun was just peeking out from behind a cloud, “excuse me,” she said announcing herself again. He finally looked up at the person who commanded his attention so. Gazing up he noticed her milk skin, her tight body frame and the casual sundress she was wearing, he noted how the yellow flowers on the white material accented her honey colored eyes.
“Yes?” he finally answered.
“I was just wondering if you were okay, I’ve noticed you always in this spot, with that same look; I know I’m being forward and you don’t really know me but I just wanted to know if you’re okay.”
He smiled; it was the first time someone he felt like someone had cared. “Yeah I’m okay, just waiting for someone to come back is all.”
“Are they going to be gone long? I could sit with you if you want?”
He looked at her for a minute, then decided; he shook his head no, “you know that’s kind of you. But it shouldn’t be that much longer, thank you though.”
A frown settled onto the young lady’s face, “are you sure,” she questioned with a wrinkle of disappointment growing in her forehead.
“Yeah I’ll be fine, thank you though.”
Defeated the girl wandered off, until someone else managed to find her, and stay with her. They are very happy now, all the while he waited.
Seagulls high overhead squawking and fighting bystanders for their food all around him. He continued to just sit there stoically, except for an occasional blink of his eyes. The deep roar of thunder was heard over the ocean. Then almost out of nowhere dark clouds carrying the wrath of the sea fell over the beach making all the families pack up the plastic pales and shovels in their minivans, forcing all the heart aching teenagers to find somewhere else to let their hormones rage. Everyone was leaving in a massive tidal wave except him, he just sat there. “It’s going to be a downpour, you’d better get out of here,” he heard behind him. Turning he witnessed a new young women, similar to the one before only in the flawless condition of the skin, but unlike the milky exterior this one had skin like hickory and deep brown almond shaped eyes.
“Yeah I know it’s probably going to be pretty bad from the sound of it,” he replied.
“Well aren’t you going to get going? At least get an umbrella if you’re going to be sitting here.”
“Nah, I think I’ll be fine,” he said as the first flash of lightening appeared with a tremendous smack in the sky above the two, causing the girl to fling her body into the young man for some sort of protection and just as they embraced the sky opened up and rain casted down onto them.
“Oh, I’ve got you,” he laughed as he held the girl shielding her from the rain.
“Wait, I’ve got an umbrella,” she cried and reached into the beach bag she was carrying and pulled out a very large black umbrella.
“Well that’s convenient,” he joked.
“Yeah I’m always prepared,” she smiled, fixing the umbrella over the both of them.
They were quiet for a long time, just let steady rhythm of the rain and occasional rumble of thunder and crack of lightening making up the noise between them until she spoke, “my names Megan,” she announced extended her small hand to him.
Gripping her hand tenderly, “well Emily, my name is Evan, very glad to make your acquaintance,” he replied in his usual gentlemen manner.
“Mind if I ask what you’re doing here in this rain,” she inquired frankly.
“I’m waiting for someone.”
“Wow even in this weather? You sure they’re coming back?”
“They have to come back sooner or later right?”
She winced at his reply, “what’s the face for,” he asked.
“Well what’s to say they don’t come back? You plan to wait here forever to find out?”
“Aren’t there some people you would wait for,” Evan asked, trying to reflect his situation onto his new companion.
She thought about her answer sensing it would be key, she looked at Evan’s face for a minute, she noticed the bags under his puppy dog eyes, big and brown, the stubble growing in on his chin and around his mouth, he looked so old, and tired. “I guess you were right, there are some people you wait for; but how long are you going to wait?”
“Well she said she would be right back,” Evan started to explain.
“Oh, it’s a girl. I had a feeling it would be a girl,” she said nodding.
“Does it make a difference?”
“Oh yeah, a big difference,” she laid heavy emphasis on the word big and began to nod some more.
The rain overhead started to slow down. Then it came to a halt, the thunder and lightning off somewhere else to do their wicked dance.
“Well,” Megan said patting Evan gently on the knee, “let me know how the wait goes,” she said smiling closing her umbrella jumping down from where she was previously perched with Evan she began walking towards the parking lot.
“Hey wait,” Evan shouted, “where you going?”
Turning back to Evan, “who knows? I just don’t want to just sit around,” she said, turning back around and going off into the parking lot, and Evan watched her go, wanting so bad to leave and to follow her, but he stayed because he thought he wanted the same old thing he thought he had coming back to him, he was scared that he might be able to handle something new.
“Wake up, wake up,” Evan heard someone start to say, shaking him awake, groggily he opens his eyes.
The first thing he sees are a long pair of cocoa colored legs, that lead to a very curvaceous waist, then ultimately up to a pair of eyes the same as him, big and brown. “Are you okay,” he stared at these perfectly developed lips as the formed the question to him.
“Uhm, ye- yeah,” he stammered in a half trance half awake stupor.
“Sorry to wake you, but you were shivering and thrashing in your sleep. Just how long have you been here?”
Evan shook his head, “don’t really know for sure.”
“I’m going to be honest with you; you look like you’ve seen better days.”
“I’ll be honest with you as well; I most certainly have,” he said getting himself into an upright position.
“You want some of my coffee, it might help warm you up,” she offered.
“That would be kind of you, thanks,” he accepted. As she handed him the cup they touched hands for a moment, and then the moment lingered on, until he finally put the paper cup to his lips. “Please sit,” he invited as he returned the cup to her.
She looked around the deserted beach for a second, before agreeing, “why not,” then sat next to him.
“My name is Evan,” he introduced to the girl.
“Nice to meet you, the name’s Claudia.”
“Before you even ask,” Evan interjected, “I bet you want to know what I’m doing here, huh?”
“Wow either you’re very sharp, or you’ve been getting that a lot.”
“As much as I’d like it to be the former, I give it up to the latter,” he confessed.
“Tough break,” she replied, “so just what are you doing out here?”
“I’m waiting for someone,” he said, just like every other time.
“They gonna be long,” she asked?
“I suppose they are, they’ve already been long enough,” he said getting up for the first time in ages, stretching his arms out high above his head, casting a great shadow over Claudia, as she looked him over, his skin were almost like hers except his slightly lighter, like someone had taken the cocoa from her skin and just added a splash of milk, maybe even honey; she was dying to know. He was large, but not intimidating something about him made you feel at ease, like nothing could possibly hurt you. Evan took look inhales of the salt air, holding it in for a long moment and then exhaling them.
“I know this is going to be weird, but what say we get out of here, I’ve been stuck in this place for longer than I’d like to admit,” Evan proposed.
“But what about your friend, they are going to wonder where you went.”
“That’s fine by me, I’ve been wondering for a while; it’s about time they took a turn at it.”
Claudia looked up at Evan as he towered over her with his hand outstretched and a smile wide across his face, shrugging she accepted, taking his hand he helped her to her feet.
Nothing is left of that spot now. No one ever sits there, not even the seagulls after a successful conquest of food retrieval. No one really knows just how long Evan waited, maybe the waves, the sun and moon; but if you ask them they’ll never tell.
- - -
My name is Jeffrey Blaine. I'm a college sophomore at a university on Long Island. I was born and raised in Connecticut. I've been doing creative writing for almost five years now. My favorite author is probably John Steinbeck.
By Jeffrey Blaine
“I’ll be right back,” she said.
“I’ll be right here then,” he replied.
That was some time ago. The only thing keeping track was the waves and the stubble oh the young man’s face. He’s been waiting watching the tide as it rises, falls and repeats itself all over again all. His green gaze never faltering for a second, all he knew is that she would be coming back it was only a matter of time.
“Excuse me,” a young lady interrupted one day as the sun was just peeking out from behind a cloud, “excuse me,” she said announcing herself again. He finally looked up at the person who commanded his attention so. Gazing up he noticed her milk skin, her tight body frame and the casual sundress she was wearing, he noted how the yellow flowers on the white material accented her honey colored eyes.
“Yes?” he finally answered.
“I was just wondering if you were okay, I’ve noticed you always in this spot, with that same look; I know I’m being forward and you don’t really know me but I just wanted to know if you’re okay.”
He smiled; it was the first time someone he felt like someone had cared. “Yeah I’m okay, just waiting for someone to come back is all.”
“Are they going to be gone long? I could sit with you if you want?”
He looked at her for a minute, then decided; he shook his head no, “you know that’s kind of you. But it shouldn’t be that much longer, thank you though.”
A frown settled onto the young lady’s face, “are you sure,” she questioned with a wrinkle of disappointment growing in her forehead.
“Yeah I’ll be fine, thank you though.”
Defeated the girl wandered off, until someone else managed to find her, and stay with her. They are very happy now, all the while he waited.
Seagulls high overhead squawking and fighting bystanders for their food all around him. He continued to just sit there stoically, except for an occasional blink of his eyes. The deep roar of thunder was heard over the ocean. Then almost out of nowhere dark clouds carrying the wrath of the sea fell over the beach making all the families pack up the plastic pales and shovels in their minivans, forcing all the heart aching teenagers to find somewhere else to let their hormones rage. Everyone was leaving in a massive tidal wave except him, he just sat there. “It’s going to be a downpour, you’d better get out of here,” he heard behind him. Turning he witnessed a new young women, similar to the one before only in the flawless condition of the skin, but unlike the milky exterior this one had skin like hickory and deep brown almond shaped eyes.
“Yeah I know it’s probably going to be pretty bad from the sound of it,” he replied.
“Well aren’t you going to get going? At least get an umbrella if you’re going to be sitting here.”
“Nah, I think I’ll be fine,” he said as the first flash of lightening appeared with a tremendous smack in the sky above the two, causing the girl to fling her body into the young man for some sort of protection and just as they embraced the sky opened up and rain casted down onto them.
“Oh, I’ve got you,” he laughed as he held the girl shielding her from the rain.
“Wait, I’ve got an umbrella,” she cried and reached into the beach bag she was carrying and pulled out a very large black umbrella.
“Well that’s convenient,” he joked.
“Yeah I’m always prepared,” she smiled, fixing the umbrella over the both of them.
They were quiet for a long time, just let steady rhythm of the rain and occasional rumble of thunder and crack of lightening making up the noise between them until she spoke, “my names Megan,” she announced extended her small hand to him.
Gripping her hand tenderly, “well Emily, my name is Evan, very glad to make your acquaintance,” he replied in his usual gentlemen manner.
“Mind if I ask what you’re doing here in this rain,” she inquired frankly.
“I’m waiting for someone.”
“Wow even in this weather? You sure they’re coming back?”
“They have to come back sooner or later right?”
She winced at his reply, “what’s the face for,” he asked.
“Well what’s to say they don’t come back? You plan to wait here forever to find out?”
“Aren’t there some people you would wait for,” Evan asked, trying to reflect his situation onto his new companion.
She thought about her answer sensing it would be key, she looked at Evan’s face for a minute, she noticed the bags under his puppy dog eyes, big and brown, the stubble growing in on his chin and around his mouth, he looked so old, and tired. “I guess you were right, there are some people you wait for; but how long are you going to wait?”
“Well she said she would be right back,” Evan started to explain.
“Oh, it’s a girl. I had a feeling it would be a girl,” she said nodding.
“Does it make a difference?”
“Oh yeah, a big difference,” she laid heavy emphasis on the word big and began to nod some more.
The rain overhead started to slow down. Then it came to a halt, the thunder and lightning off somewhere else to do their wicked dance.
“Well,” Megan said patting Evan gently on the knee, “let me know how the wait goes,” she said smiling closing her umbrella jumping down from where she was previously perched with Evan she began walking towards the parking lot.
“Hey wait,” Evan shouted, “where you going?”
Turning back to Evan, “who knows? I just don’t want to just sit around,” she said, turning back around and going off into the parking lot, and Evan watched her go, wanting so bad to leave and to follow her, but he stayed because he thought he wanted the same old thing he thought he had coming back to him, he was scared that he might be able to handle something new.
“Wake up, wake up,” Evan heard someone start to say, shaking him awake, groggily he opens his eyes.
The first thing he sees are a long pair of cocoa colored legs, that lead to a very curvaceous waist, then ultimately up to a pair of eyes the same as him, big and brown. “Are you okay,” he stared at these perfectly developed lips as the formed the question to him.
“Uhm, ye- yeah,” he stammered in a half trance half awake stupor.
“Sorry to wake you, but you were shivering and thrashing in your sleep. Just how long have you been here?”
Evan shook his head, “don’t really know for sure.”
“I’m going to be honest with you; you look like you’ve seen better days.”
“I’ll be honest with you as well; I most certainly have,” he said getting himself into an upright position.
“You want some of my coffee, it might help warm you up,” she offered.
“That would be kind of you, thanks,” he accepted. As she handed him the cup they touched hands for a moment, and then the moment lingered on, until he finally put the paper cup to his lips. “Please sit,” he invited as he returned the cup to her.
She looked around the deserted beach for a second, before agreeing, “why not,” then sat next to him.
“My name is Evan,” he introduced to the girl.
“Nice to meet you, the name’s Claudia.”
“Before you even ask,” Evan interjected, “I bet you want to know what I’m doing here, huh?”
“Wow either you’re very sharp, or you’ve been getting that a lot.”
“As much as I’d like it to be the former, I give it up to the latter,” he confessed.
“Tough break,” she replied, “so just what are you doing out here?”
“I’m waiting for someone,” he said, just like every other time.
“They gonna be long,” she asked?
“I suppose they are, they’ve already been long enough,” he said getting up for the first time in ages, stretching his arms out high above his head, casting a great shadow over Claudia, as she looked him over, his skin were almost like hers except his slightly lighter, like someone had taken the cocoa from her skin and just added a splash of milk, maybe even honey; she was dying to know. He was large, but not intimidating something about him made you feel at ease, like nothing could possibly hurt you. Evan took look inhales of the salt air, holding it in for a long moment and then exhaling them.
“I know this is going to be weird, but what say we get out of here, I’ve been stuck in this place for longer than I’d like to admit,” Evan proposed.
“But what about your friend, they are going to wonder where you went.”
“That’s fine by me, I’ve been wondering for a while; it’s about time they took a turn at it.”
Claudia looked up at Evan as he towered over her with his hand outstretched and a smile wide across his face, shrugging she accepted, taking his hand he helped her to her feet.
Nothing is left of that spot now. No one ever sits there, not even the seagulls after a successful conquest of food retrieval. No one really knows just how long Evan waited, maybe the waves, the sun and moon; but if you ask them they’ll never tell.
- - -
My name is Jeffrey Blaine. I'm a college sophomore at a university on Long Island. I was born and raised in Connecticut. I've been doing creative writing for almost five years now. My favorite author is probably John Steinbeck.
Sunday, September 19, 2010
9/19/10
DXO
By John Ogden
I taste you on my lips
Your picture smiles at me
From my desk
My car
I think about you
As often as I breathe,
Love pales as a label
For what I feel
For you
My Dreamgirl
- - -
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
I taste you on my lips
Your picture smiles at me
From my desk
My car
I think about you
As often as I breathe,
Love pales as a label
For what I feel
For you
My Dreamgirl
- - -
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.
Saturday, September 18, 2010
9/18/10
Retort
By Christina Rodriguez
"Thou art a fool," said my head to my heart...The heart is a fool indeed. The heart falls so easily. It can be the curve of a smile or the curl of a tempting lock. It can be the timbre of their voice or the melody of their laugh. The heart falls for the idea of a person. But the head, oh dear head. The head gives a name to the idea. The head turns swiftly to the beat of that name. The head blushes when the name says hi. The head smiles when the name gets close. The head loses itself in the name of that name because that name is love. It's spelled in a thousand ways, housed in a million of bodies. But in the end, that's the name of the idea of a person, love. Love could be anybody, anyone. Love can walk into the room or ride away in a subway car. Sometimes, we may not even get the name of its alias. Love lives in every being and the head is waiting to make its own special identification. But the heart is the one who tells the head when love is near. The head only gives a face to the name. The head and the heart are both foolish slaves to love.
- - -
Christina Rodriguez wouldn't know a career choice if it hit her on the head with a wad of cash and health benefits. Living in Queens, New York in an attic with her mother as a recent college graduate, her days are filled with job hunting while her nights are filled with poetry and margaritas.
By Christina Rodriguez
"Thou art a fool," said my head to my heart...The heart is a fool indeed. The heart falls so easily. It can be the curve of a smile or the curl of a tempting lock. It can be the timbre of their voice or the melody of their laugh. The heart falls for the idea of a person. But the head, oh dear head. The head gives a name to the idea. The head turns swiftly to the beat of that name. The head blushes when the name says hi. The head smiles when the name gets close. The head loses itself in the name of that name because that name is love. It's spelled in a thousand ways, housed in a million of bodies. But in the end, that's the name of the idea of a person, love. Love could be anybody, anyone. Love can walk into the room or ride away in a subway car. Sometimes, we may not even get the name of its alias. Love lives in every being and the head is waiting to make its own special identification. But the heart is the one who tells the head when love is near. The head only gives a face to the name. The head and the heart are both foolish slaves to love.
- - -
Christina Rodriguez wouldn't know a career choice if it hit her on the head with a wad of cash and health benefits. Living in Queens, New York in an attic with her mother as a recent college graduate, her days are filled with job hunting while her nights are filled with poetry and margaritas.
Friday, September 17, 2010
9/17/10
The Boy with His Heart on His Sleeve and the Girl Who Never Tried to Fix Him
by Max Andrew Dubinsky
I was born with my heart on my sleeve. When the doctor handed me over to my mother he told her to be careful. "He's fragile," he said.
Mom cried when she held me, overjoyed at the prospect of raising a son who would be so in touch with his emotions.
My father sat in the corner, shaking his head, already disappointed in me like I had any say in the matter, like I wanted to be born this way.
"It's not all that uncommon of an affliction," the doctor tried to reassure him. "Lot's of men carry their hearts on their sleeves."
"I think he's beautiful," mom said, tears still in her eyes.
When dad had his buddies over from work for the big game the following Sunday, they stood around my crib, shaking their heads and consoling my father with pats on the back, clinking beer bottles together.
One friend informs the men, "My wife says society deems it's okay for men to be this way, says the world would be a better place if more men were born like your boy here."
The men only stared.
"My wife," he shrugged, "she reads a lot. Is always getting these crazy ideas. But still…"
"The doctor," my dad told them, "said this isn't that uncommon of an affliction."
Mom hates when people use that word. Affliction.
I asked her how we should describe my condition then.
"You're just more vulnerable than most," she said with a smile one morning cooking eggs and cinnamon toast.
Just once I'd like to not cry when the sun sets.
I was taken advantage of in school. The kids knew I was different when I'd still show up to class in turtle neck sweaters at the end of May.
I cried every morning I got on the bus, leaving mom behind in the driveway like it was the last time I was ever going to see her.
In high school I had no problem dating, but none of the girls took my marriage proposals for serious affairs.
"What about college?" they'd ask.
"We've never even been to Europe," they'd say.
Forget Europe. I'm going to college wherever you're going.
My condition isn't for the meek or the weak of stomach. I've loved and lost and lost again, more times than any one man should. It's hard to find someone when you can't keep your cards close to your chest. What's the point of keeping anything close to your chest when the very thing you're trying to conceal is exposed and dirty and bruised for all to see? There's never been any element of surprise in any of my relationships. I meet someone, and she knows immediately how I feel.
But you, you were different. There was something so understanding about you in the beginning. The day we met you had your hair pulled back and wore that awful orange jacket you picked up at the Goodwill, and I was wearing a sweater that day. So you didn't know until it got too hot in that coffee shop and I pushed my sleeves up. And when you saw who I really was you said you were glad I wasn't like the rest, and I asked what you meant and you smiled and said normal is so boring.
But you were a machine, and I was a boy with his heart on his sleeve.
I was relentless and you were unresponsive.
“This has tragedy written all over it,” I used to say to you again and again.
And you would tell me to stop over-analyzing everything. "Just enjoy the moment."
After you left, I decided to try and see if I could live without it.
Without my heart on my sleeve.
So I cut it off.
And I put in a box.
A safe place.
And I hid the box.
Where no one could ever get to it.
No one but me.
Eventually, I forgot where I put the box.
Eventually, I stopped thinking about the box, or even wondering what life was like living with a heart.
Things were so much easier.
Then I saw you at the bar with his arm around your waist and your hands in his pockets and his lips on your ear, and I felt nothing but the place where my heart used to be.
I felt it tingle. I felt it crawl. Then I felt nothing at all.
And that felt nice.
Then she came along.
There was something about her. I couldn’t quite figure it out. Until she pushed her sleeves up and I saw the scars. The same scars I now have.
I asked her where she put it. Where did she put her heart? Did she throw it away or give it as a gift at Christmas?
"I put it in a safe place," she told me. "Where no one could ever get to it."
No one but her.
I wanted to tell her things I wouldn't normally say. I wanted to do things I'd never be caught dead doing.
And when she asked why I acted so strangely sometimes, I informed her that I couldn't remember where I put my heart. And for the first time in my life I finally found a use for it.
She smiled and offered me hers.
I shook my head and I pleaded with her to take it back.
“I can't accept that.”
“I won't know what to do with it.”
“It'll only end up bruised, hurt, and worse off then before you left it under my care.”
She said she was willing to take the risk.
I tore through my closets, my car, my pockets, but still, I could not remember my safe place. I had to give her something in return, but nothing other than my own heart seemed good enough.
Finally, one night when we were alone in her apartment, she told me it was okay.
“Your heart,” she said, “you gave it to me. I have it, and it is safe.”
I asked her how this was possible.
She looked at me like she couldn’t believe I’d even ask such a thing. A look that wanted my trust. She put her hand on my arm, where my heart used to be. She touched my chest where I now kept hers, and cared for it as though it were my own. “You still cry every time we watch the sun set.”
- - -
Max Andrew Dubinsky is a writer, and every now and again you will find him behind the camera if you're properly looking for him. He hates mayonnaise and drinks too much coffee, has tattoos, is a card player, general handyman, and has never killed a shark with his bare hands but it's on his To Do List. He blogs about life every Wednesday, lives in an unfurnished apartment, and spends his free time trying to win the affections of a woman who makes his heart stop every time she walks into the room.
by Max Andrew Dubinsky
I was born with my heart on my sleeve. When the doctor handed me over to my mother he told her to be careful. "He's fragile," he said.
Mom cried when she held me, overjoyed at the prospect of raising a son who would be so in touch with his emotions.
My father sat in the corner, shaking his head, already disappointed in me like I had any say in the matter, like I wanted to be born this way.
"It's not all that uncommon of an affliction," the doctor tried to reassure him. "Lot's of men carry their hearts on their sleeves."
"I think he's beautiful," mom said, tears still in her eyes.
When dad had his buddies over from work for the big game the following Sunday, they stood around my crib, shaking their heads and consoling my father with pats on the back, clinking beer bottles together.
One friend informs the men, "My wife says society deems it's okay for men to be this way, says the world would be a better place if more men were born like your boy here."
The men only stared.
"My wife," he shrugged, "she reads a lot. Is always getting these crazy ideas. But still…"
"The doctor," my dad told them, "said this isn't that uncommon of an affliction."
Mom hates when people use that word. Affliction.
I asked her how we should describe my condition then.
"You're just more vulnerable than most," she said with a smile one morning cooking eggs and cinnamon toast.
Just once I'd like to not cry when the sun sets.
I was taken advantage of in school. The kids knew I was different when I'd still show up to class in turtle neck sweaters at the end of May.
I cried every morning I got on the bus, leaving mom behind in the driveway like it was the last time I was ever going to see her.
In high school I had no problem dating, but none of the girls took my marriage proposals for serious affairs.
"What about college?" they'd ask.
"We've never even been to Europe," they'd say.
Forget Europe. I'm going to college wherever you're going.
My condition isn't for the meek or the weak of stomach. I've loved and lost and lost again, more times than any one man should. It's hard to find someone when you can't keep your cards close to your chest. What's the point of keeping anything close to your chest when the very thing you're trying to conceal is exposed and dirty and bruised for all to see? There's never been any element of surprise in any of my relationships. I meet someone, and she knows immediately how I feel.
But you, you were different. There was something so understanding about you in the beginning. The day we met you had your hair pulled back and wore that awful orange jacket you picked up at the Goodwill, and I was wearing a sweater that day. So you didn't know until it got too hot in that coffee shop and I pushed my sleeves up. And when you saw who I really was you said you were glad I wasn't like the rest, and I asked what you meant and you smiled and said normal is so boring.
But you were a machine, and I was a boy with his heart on his sleeve.
I was relentless and you were unresponsive.
“This has tragedy written all over it,” I used to say to you again and again.
And you would tell me to stop over-analyzing everything. "Just enjoy the moment."
After you left, I decided to try and see if I could live without it.
Without my heart on my sleeve.
So I cut it off.
And I put in a box.
A safe place.
And I hid the box.
Where no one could ever get to it.
No one but me.
Eventually, I forgot where I put the box.
Eventually, I stopped thinking about the box, or even wondering what life was like living with a heart.
Things were so much easier.
Then I saw you at the bar with his arm around your waist and your hands in his pockets and his lips on your ear, and I felt nothing but the place where my heart used to be.
I felt it tingle. I felt it crawl. Then I felt nothing at all.
And that felt nice.
Then she came along.
There was something about her. I couldn’t quite figure it out. Until she pushed her sleeves up and I saw the scars. The same scars I now have.
I asked her where she put it. Where did she put her heart? Did she throw it away or give it as a gift at Christmas?
"I put it in a safe place," she told me. "Where no one could ever get to it."
No one but her.
I wanted to tell her things I wouldn't normally say. I wanted to do things I'd never be caught dead doing.
And when she asked why I acted so strangely sometimes, I informed her that I couldn't remember where I put my heart. And for the first time in my life I finally found a use for it.
She smiled and offered me hers.
I shook my head and I pleaded with her to take it back.
“I can't accept that.”
“I won't know what to do with it.”
“It'll only end up bruised, hurt, and worse off then before you left it under my care.”
She said she was willing to take the risk.
I tore through my closets, my car, my pockets, but still, I could not remember my safe place. I had to give her something in return, but nothing other than my own heart seemed good enough.
Finally, one night when we were alone in her apartment, she told me it was okay.
“Your heart,” she said, “you gave it to me. I have it, and it is safe.”
I asked her how this was possible.
She looked at me like she couldn’t believe I’d even ask such a thing. A look that wanted my trust. She put her hand on my arm, where my heart used to be. She touched my chest where I now kept hers, and cared for it as though it were my own. “You still cry every time we watch the sun set.”
- - -
Max Andrew Dubinsky is a writer, and every now and again you will find him behind the camera if you're properly looking for him. He hates mayonnaise and drinks too much coffee, has tattoos, is a card player, general handyman, and has never killed a shark with his bare hands but it's on his To Do List. He blogs about life every Wednesday, lives in an unfurnished apartment, and spends his free time trying to win the affections of a woman who makes his heart stop every time she walks into the room.
Thursday, September 16, 2010
9/16/10
SYCAMORE TODAY
By Ramon Collins
Lawn mowers hesitated and living room curtains parted just enough for curious eyes to squint out. Police cars weren't seen on Sycamore Street often.
An officer got out and followed a girl up the sidewalk. The woman on the porch wiped hands on her apron, touched the girl's shoulder as she brushed by. After a brief conversation with the officer the woman shut the door and walked into the room.
"Two days with no word. Two days!"
Suzie clenched her fists. "Don't start on me. Okay?"
"I suppose you were shacked-up in some scumbag motel." Myrna folded her arms.
"No-o-o -- it happened to be a very cool summer cabin."
"Were you drinking?"
"A little rum and Coke."
"How `bout activity?"
Suzie's eyebrows shot up. "Activity?"
"S. E. X. Ever hear of it?"
"I'll be eighteen next week. You were married at eighteen."
"Ha! That's the magic word, married."
"What's so magic? Dad left four years ago."
"And what if you're pregnant?"
"Don't worry about it. I'm not pregnant."
"Oh? Did Doctor Donnie Smartass graduate in gynecology at eighteen?"
"Mom, I was with Lydia. Ever hear of it?"
- - -
By Ramon Collins
Lawn mowers hesitated and living room curtains parted just enough for curious eyes to squint out. Police cars weren't seen on Sycamore Street often.
An officer got out and followed a girl up the sidewalk. The woman on the porch wiped hands on her apron, touched the girl's shoulder as she brushed by. After a brief conversation with the officer the woman shut the door and walked into the room.
"Two days with no word. Two days!"
Suzie clenched her fists. "Don't start on me. Okay?"
"I suppose you were shacked-up in some scumbag motel." Myrna folded her arms.
"No-o-o -- it happened to be a very cool summer cabin."
"Were you drinking?"
"A little rum and Coke."
"How `bout activity?"
Suzie's eyebrows shot up. "Activity?"
"S. E. X. Ever hear of it?"
"I'll be eighteen next week. You were married at eighteen."
"Ha! That's the magic word, married."
"What's so magic? Dad left four years ago."
"And what if you're pregnant?"
"Don't worry about it. I'm not pregnant."
"Oh? Did Doctor Donnie Smartass graduate in gynecology at eighteen?"
"Mom, I was with Lydia. Ever hear of it?"
- - -
Wednesday, September 15, 2010
9/15/10
Questions
By Jessica Johnston
Have you:
awakened from a memory
kissing only air
reaching for the darkness
to find that no one's there
Do you:
think back to the whispers
loving words once said
now regretting the silence
which lingers in your bed
Are you:
holding on to nothing
and wishing it was real
damning your loneliness
and all it makes you feel
Will you:
be content to roll over
and fall back to sleep
forget your dreaming heart
and all within its keep
Can you:
go on like this forever
leaving love behind
just a memory of a dream
playing in your mind
By Jessica Johnston
Have you:
awakened from a memory
kissing only air
reaching for the darkness
to find that no one's there
Do you:
think back to the whispers
loving words once said
now regretting the silence
which lingers in your bed
Are you:
holding on to nothing
and wishing it was real
damning your loneliness
and all it makes you feel
Will you:
be content to roll over
and fall back to sleep
forget your dreaming heart
and all within its keep
Can you:
go on like this forever
leaving love behind
just a memory of a dream
playing in your mind
Tuesday, September 14, 2010
9/14/10
See You Soon, Sarah
By Michael A. Kechula
Sarah’s funeral was the first I had ever attended. I swore it would be the last.
I nearly blew my brains out so I could join her. I’m not sure what stopped me.
Tense, restless, despondent, I boarded a flight back to California. I tried to get comfortable in a seat that guaranteed discomfort. Placed next to a window, I glanced out once at the Eastern part of the continent in the grip of winter. Everything looked so bland, so dead. I couldn’t bear to look a second time.
A woman sat next to me, a man to her left. Glancing at her wedding band reminded me that I’d never get the chance to slide one on Sarah’s finger.
They talked loudly, and their pleasant conversation unnerved me. Fortunately, they didn’t try to include me.
Suspended in the middle of nowhere, sitting in that long tube called a cabin, I realized that all that stood between me and the hostile, freezing world were a couple inches of metal. The sudden realization of flying threw my mind back to the day when Sarah left the San Francisco airport—the last time I saw her alive. My imagination showed her plane lifting off the runway, and then coming apart. I shivered, trying to force from my mind the horrible image of the wing falling off.
A muscle twitched in my right calf, as if I should run to help her. Dammit! There was nothing I could’ve done. I cursed the plane that killed my future wife.
I dropped my head into my hands. Never did I feel so thoroughly depleted. A good night’s rest would help, but I was uncertain if rest would ever find me.
Something inside had changed. Nothing seemed certain, except the fact that I was trapped within a metal cylinder, hurtling through space at 600 miles an hour.
The attendant dropped a snack in front of me. Though I had no appetite, I tasted it, then wolfed it down. I couldn’t remember how long it had been since I’d eaten a decent meal.
The woman next to me noticed. Offering hers, she breached the gap that separated our shoulders. Nodding, I tried my best to smile, but failed miserably.
“Nice, smooth flight, isn’t it?” she asked.
I don’t know why I answered, “Yes, it’s very smooth.”
“Visiting relatives, were you?” The guy next to her asked.
“You might say that.”
“Oh, how nice. Visited your parents. For Christmas I’ll bet.”
“No, not my parents. They could’ve been though. I mean, they could have been my mother-in-law and father-in-law. But all that’s changed now.”
“Oh, what a shame,” the woman said. “Your fiancé broke up with you, and over the Holidays too. I’m so sorry to hear that. Isn’t that a shame, Harry?”
“Oh, yeah. Sorry to hear that.”
“Well, there’s lots of fish in the ocean,” she said. “Maybe you just had a spat, and soon you’ll be back together again.”
“It isn’t that simple. We buried her two days ago.”
Apologetic statements gushed forth. Then they shut up for the rest of the trip.
I looked out the window again. The ground looked dead. Why was everything so lifeless? Why did everything below die or go dormant for so long? Why did Sarah have to die and remain dormant for so long? Come Spring, the trees, the grass, the flowers would resurrect. But there’d be no resurrection for Sarah.
Entering clouds, I could no longer see the pallid earth. Pressing my cheek against the cold window, I thought of Sarah’s cheek pressed against the frozen satin lining of her casket below frozen ground. But just as quickly, I dismissed the horrid thought. She wasn’t even there. She was spared that. She’d melted in the intense heat. Nothing was left of her. Not even a bone fragment.
Nobody on the plane even knew she’d existed, much less that she existed no longer. What a sad thought. They’d never know her, hear her voice, see her face. But I’d seen her face, heard her voice, touched her lips. Those memories were forever branded on my brain.
I tried to visualize her face, her smile, but her image wouldn’t form. Hard as I tried, I couldn’t picture the details of her face. My God! Heart pounding, I flipped my wallet open. There she was, smiling. I stared at her photo, then closed my eyes to ensure I could see her clearly in my mind’s eye. I did. Thank God.
An awful truth dawned. I was separated from Sarah forever. Never again would she caress my hand, or press close to me. Never would we marry. Never...never...never!
I wanted to scream. I grabbed the Valium Sarah’s mom had given me. I was unsure if I could last long enough for it to take effect. Gripping the arms of my seat, I kept yelling in my head, “Take hold! Take hold!”
My mind became hazy. Closing my eyes, I saw Sarah running through fields of golden poppies, hair billowing in Spring breezes. She laughed as I tripped and rolled down part of the hill, getting muddy. She ran down the hill to kiss me.
Then I saw my hand reaching for a pistol. The thought was peaceful, comfortable, beautiful. I’d wait for Spring and the golden poppies. I’d roll down the hill and get muddy. Then I’d join Sarah to hear her laugh and watch her run down the hill to kiss me.
- - -
BIO: Michael A. Kechula's flash fiction has published by 126 magazines and 35 anthologies in 6 countries. He's authored two collections of flash fiction tales: "A Full Deck of Zombies - 61 Speculative Fiction Tales" and "The Area 51 Option and 70 More Speculative Fiction Tales."
By Michael A. Kechula
Sarah’s funeral was the first I had ever attended. I swore it would be the last.
I nearly blew my brains out so I could join her. I’m not sure what stopped me.
Tense, restless, despondent, I boarded a flight back to California. I tried to get comfortable in a seat that guaranteed discomfort. Placed next to a window, I glanced out once at the Eastern part of the continent in the grip of winter. Everything looked so bland, so dead. I couldn’t bear to look a second time.
A woman sat next to me, a man to her left. Glancing at her wedding band reminded me that I’d never get the chance to slide one on Sarah’s finger.
They talked loudly, and their pleasant conversation unnerved me. Fortunately, they didn’t try to include me.
Suspended in the middle of nowhere, sitting in that long tube called a cabin, I realized that all that stood between me and the hostile, freezing world were a couple inches of metal. The sudden realization of flying threw my mind back to the day when Sarah left the San Francisco airport—the last time I saw her alive. My imagination showed her plane lifting off the runway, and then coming apart. I shivered, trying to force from my mind the horrible image of the wing falling off.
A muscle twitched in my right calf, as if I should run to help her. Dammit! There was nothing I could’ve done. I cursed the plane that killed my future wife.
I dropped my head into my hands. Never did I feel so thoroughly depleted. A good night’s rest would help, but I was uncertain if rest would ever find me.
Something inside had changed. Nothing seemed certain, except the fact that I was trapped within a metal cylinder, hurtling through space at 600 miles an hour.
The attendant dropped a snack in front of me. Though I had no appetite, I tasted it, then wolfed it down. I couldn’t remember how long it had been since I’d eaten a decent meal.
The woman next to me noticed. Offering hers, she breached the gap that separated our shoulders. Nodding, I tried my best to smile, but failed miserably.
“Nice, smooth flight, isn’t it?” she asked.
I don’t know why I answered, “Yes, it’s very smooth.”
“Visiting relatives, were you?” The guy next to her asked.
“You might say that.”
“Oh, how nice. Visited your parents. For Christmas I’ll bet.”
“No, not my parents. They could’ve been though. I mean, they could have been my mother-in-law and father-in-law. But all that’s changed now.”
“Oh, what a shame,” the woman said. “Your fiancé broke up with you, and over the Holidays too. I’m so sorry to hear that. Isn’t that a shame, Harry?”
“Oh, yeah. Sorry to hear that.”
“Well, there’s lots of fish in the ocean,” she said. “Maybe you just had a spat, and soon you’ll be back together again.”
“It isn’t that simple. We buried her two days ago.”
Apologetic statements gushed forth. Then they shut up for the rest of the trip.
I looked out the window again. The ground looked dead. Why was everything so lifeless? Why did everything below die or go dormant for so long? Why did Sarah have to die and remain dormant for so long? Come Spring, the trees, the grass, the flowers would resurrect. But there’d be no resurrection for Sarah.
Entering clouds, I could no longer see the pallid earth. Pressing my cheek against the cold window, I thought of Sarah’s cheek pressed against the frozen satin lining of her casket below frozen ground. But just as quickly, I dismissed the horrid thought. She wasn’t even there. She was spared that. She’d melted in the intense heat. Nothing was left of her. Not even a bone fragment.
Nobody on the plane even knew she’d existed, much less that she existed no longer. What a sad thought. They’d never know her, hear her voice, see her face. But I’d seen her face, heard her voice, touched her lips. Those memories were forever branded on my brain.
I tried to visualize her face, her smile, but her image wouldn’t form. Hard as I tried, I couldn’t picture the details of her face. My God! Heart pounding, I flipped my wallet open. There she was, smiling. I stared at her photo, then closed my eyes to ensure I could see her clearly in my mind’s eye. I did. Thank God.
An awful truth dawned. I was separated from Sarah forever. Never again would she caress my hand, or press close to me. Never would we marry. Never...never...never!
I wanted to scream. I grabbed the Valium Sarah’s mom had given me. I was unsure if I could last long enough for it to take effect. Gripping the arms of my seat, I kept yelling in my head, “Take hold! Take hold!”
My mind became hazy. Closing my eyes, I saw Sarah running through fields of golden poppies, hair billowing in Spring breezes. She laughed as I tripped and rolled down part of the hill, getting muddy. She ran down the hill to kiss me.
Then I saw my hand reaching for a pistol. The thought was peaceful, comfortable, beautiful. I’d wait for Spring and the golden poppies. I’d roll down the hill and get muddy. Then I’d join Sarah to hear her laugh and watch her run down the hill to kiss me.
- - -
BIO: Michael A. Kechula's flash fiction has published by 126 magazines and 35 anthologies in 6 countries. He's authored two collections of flash fiction tales: "A Full Deck of Zombies - 61 Speculative Fiction Tales" and "The Area 51 Option and 70 More Speculative Fiction Tales."
Monday, September 13, 2010
9/13/10
Holding Out For A Hero
By Sarah Ashwood
Stephanie Rawlins had always dreamed of marrying a hero. From childhood, she devoured fairytales featuring bold knights and handsome princes. In junior high her tastes matured: handsome knights gave way to drawling cowboys who shot straight and carried their ladies off into the sunset. Reaching high school, even as “Holding Out For A Hero” became Steph’s personal theme song, disillusionment began to set in.
The medieval ages? Long expired.
The Wild West? Not so wild anymore.
In college, the plethora of losers Steph met convinced her real heroes were a thing of the past.
“Forget about it,” she told herself firmly. “There are no heroes anymore. Not like those of the past. Might as well settle for what you can get.”
What she got was Zak. Little about Zak smacked of precious past ideals, but he was sweet, quietly charming, and head over heels for Steph Rawlins. A few months of marriage, however, were enough to convince Stephanie that Zak was no chivalrous, undercover knight.
In bed, he snored. Loudly.
Home from work, he kicked off shoes and shucked off jacket, leaving them wherever they fell.
The sink stopped up; he didn’t even try to fix it. Just called the plumber instead.
Flat tires Steph had to change—a skill she’d learned from her mechanic father.
“Still, you could’ve done much worse,” her sister consoled.
Steph couldn’t disagree. After all, Zak was no drinker, no wife beater. The man was steady. Dependable. Honest. Nevertheless, in the little girl corner of her heart Steph couldn’t help remembering the princes, the knights, the cowboys of old and half wishing she had held out for a hero…
Three years later, finances tight and no much-wanted baby, their marriage was strained. Zak, deciding they both needed time to think, left, saying he’d return in a year. Steph refused to see him off.
“How can he do this to me?” she raged. “Leave me all alone like this? I don’t care if this new job will pay the bills and give us space. He has no right!”
The following months, Zak wrote. He didn’t say a lot about his doings—unwilling to scare her, she figured. Still, from his mother, from internet headlines and news stories, from newspapers and blogs, she kept abreast of his situation. She missed him, even as her concern for him grew, but was too proud to admit it. Until, that is, an image of Zak popped up on the internet, on television, in the newspapers, in magazines. Dressed in desert camouflage, face bleeding from flying shrapnel, he knelt in a dusty street. His glasses off, his helmet protected the head of the gaunt child he shielded with his own body.
Steph’s heart stopped. That’s—that’s my husband, she thought, mind reeling. My husband. My Zak. Since when did he become…
A hero? So the local and national news services labeled him. For the first time since he left, Steph finally wrote.
Dear Zak,
You make me so proud. Stay safe. Come home soon.
I miss you.
All my heart,
Steph
In fact, wounded in that strategic struggle in foreign streets, Zak was coming home. An excited crowd gathered at the airport to welcome their national hero. Among them was Steph, her mouth dry with anticipation.
But it’s just Zak, she kept thinking, stupefied by the crowd, the hullabaloo. My Zak. Just my Zak.
“Her” Zak was finally wheeled down the ramp. Flashes flared, people cheered. Desperate to see her husband, Steph tried to elbow her way forward. The crowd’s refusal to yield had her panicking, yelling Zak’s name.
Finally, someone saw, recognized her. “It’s his wife, let her through!”
Shockingly, the crowd acquiesced. An avenue opened amid the throng. Faces beamed as Steph raced through, stumbling out to see…
Zak. Pale beneath his tan, clenching his jaw to hide his pain. He wore no armor, no leather, no furs. Just a military uniform, a blanket over his knees. His formerly shaggy hair was cut short and square. His shoulders seemed broader, his carriage more upright, his stare more direct.
Or maybe that was all her imagination. She’d always had a good imagination. Now…well, maybe she didn’t need it anymore. Knights, cowboys, princes? Pshaw, what were they to this? He may not have been six foot six, ridiculously muscular, or carry a glittery sword. He may’ve been just her Zak, but that was it, wasn’t it?
He was hers.
Stooping before her soldier’s chair, Steph framed his face with her palms, bending to capture his mouth with hers. Cameras blazed. The cheers were deafening.
Tomorrow, captions in newspapers across the nation would read “A Hero’s Welcome” beneath a photo of a smiling Steph kissing the man she loved, the hero she’d always desired and finally found.
- - -
BIO: A genuine “Okie from Muskogee,” Sarah Ashwood is a full-time college student soon to obtain a B.A. in English from American Military University. During the course of her collegiate career she has gained entrance to three international honor societies: Phi Theta Kappa, The Golden Key, and Delta Epsilon Tau. Sarah’s prose and poetry have appeared in a wide variety of publications, while her first book, a volume of poetry titled A Minstrel's Musings, was published by Cyberwizard Productions in April 2009. In 2010, Sarah’s Young Adult fantasy novel, Knight’s Rebirth, will be published by the same. Along with her cousin and fellow author Dara England, Sarah is co-editor of the fantasy ezine, Moon Drenched Fables and the romance webzine, Moon Washed Kisses. For more information on Sarah and her writing, please visit www.sarahashwood.com.
By Sarah Ashwood
Stephanie Rawlins had always dreamed of marrying a hero. From childhood, she devoured fairytales featuring bold knights and handsome princes. In junior high her tastes matured: handsome knights gave way to drawling cowboys who shot straight and carried their ladies off into the sunset. Reaching high school, even as “Holding Out For A Hero” became Steph’s personal theme song, disillusionment began to set in.
The medieval ages? Long expired.
The Wild West? Not so wild anymore.
In college, the plethora of losers Steph met convinced her real heroes were a thing of the past.
“Forget about it,” she told herself firmly. “There are no heroes anymore. Not like those of the past. Might as well settle for what you can get.”
What she got was Zak. Little about Zak smacked of precious past ideals, but he was sweet, quietly charming, and head over heels for Steph Rawlins. A few months of marriage, however, were enough to convince Stephanie that Zak was no chivalrous, undercover knight.
In bed, he snored. Loudly.
Home from work, he kicked off shoes and shucked off jacket, leaving them wherever they fell.
The sink stopped up; he didn’t even try to fix it. Just called the plumber instead.
Flat tires Steph had to change—a skill she’d learned from her mechanic father.
“Still, you could’ve done much worse,” her sister consoled.
Steph couldn’t disagree. After all, Zak was no drinker, no wife beater. The man was steady. Dependable. Honest. Nevertheless, in the little girl corner of her heart Steph couldn’t help remembering the princes, the knights, the cowboys of old and half wishing she had held out for a hero…
Three years later, finances tight and no much-wanted baby, their marriage was strained. Zak, deciding they both needed time to think, left, saying he’d return in a year. Steph refused to see him off.
“How can he do this to me?” she raged. “Leave me all alone like this? I don’t care if this new job will pay the bills and give us space. He has no right!”
The following months, Zak wrote. He didn’t say a lot about his doings—unwilling to scare her, she figured. Still, from his mother, from internet headlines and news stories, from newspapers and blogs, she kept abreast of his situation. She missed him, even as her concern for him grew, but was too proud to admit it. Until, that is, an image of Zak popped up on the internet, on television, in the newspapers, in magazines. Dressed in desert camouflage, face bleeding from flying shrapnel, he knelt in a dusty street. His glasses off, his helmet protected the head of the gaunt child he shielded with his own body.
Steph’s heart stopped. That’s—that’s my husband, she thought, mind reeling. My husband. My Zak. Since when did he become…
A hero? So the local and national news services labeled him. For the first time since he left, Steph finally wrote.
Dear Zak,
You make me so proud. Stay safe. Come home soon.
I miss you.
All my heart,
Steph
In fact, wounded in that strategic struggle in foreign streets, Zak was coming home. An excited crowd gathered at the airport to welcome their national hero. Among them was Steph, her mouth dry with anticipation.
But it’s just Zak, she kept thinking, stupefied by the crowd, the hullabaloo. My Zak. Just my Zak.
“Her” Zak was finally wheeled down the ramp. Flashes flared, people cheered. Desperate to see her husband, Steph tried to elbow her way forward. The crowd’s refusal to yield had her panicking, yelling Zak’s name.
Finally, someone saw, recognized her. “It’s his wife, let her through!”
Shockingly, the crowd acquiesced. An avenue opened amid the throng. Faces beamed as Steph raced through, stumbling out to see…
Zak. Pale beneath his tan, clenching his jaw to hide his pain. He wore no armor, no leather, no furs. Just a military uniform, a blanket over his knees. His formerly shaggy hair was cut short and square. His shoulders seemed broader, his carriage more upright, his stare more direct.
Or maybe that was all her imagination. She’d always had a good imagination. Now…well, maybe she didn’t need it anymore. Knights, cowboys, princes? Pshaw, what were they to this? He may not have been six foot six, ridiculously muscular, or carry a glittery sword. He may’ve been just her Zak, but that was it, wasn’t it?
He was hers.
Stooping before her soldier’s chair, Steph framed his face with her palms, bending to capture his mouth with hers. Cameras blazed. The cheers were deafening.
Tomorrow, captions in newspapers across the nation would read “A Hero’s Welcome” beneath a photo of a smiling Steph kissing the man she loved, the hero she’d always desired and finally found.
- - -
BIO: A genuine “Okie from Muskogee,” Sarah Ashwood is a full-time college student soon to obtain a B.A. in English from American Military University. During the course of her collegiate career she has gained entrance to three international honor societies: Phi Theta Kappa, The Golden Key, and Delta Epsilon Tau. Sarah’s prose and poetry have appeared in a wide variety of publications, while her first book, a volume of poetry titled A Minstrel's Musings, was published by Cyberwizard Productions in April 2009. In 2010, Sarah’s Young Adult fantasy novel, Knight’s Rebirth, will be published by the same. Along with her cousin and fellow author Dara England, Sarah is co-editor of the fantasy ezine, Moon Drenched Fables and the romance webzine, Moon Washed Kisses. For more information on Sarah and her writing, please visit www.sarahashwood.com.
Sunday, September 12, 2010
9/12/10
I Must Make it Known
By Benjamin Kyle Conley
Sweet Rose, do
you believe that we have
a once in a
life-
time
chance?
This time we have
fleets and flees
our grasp faster than we notice. Those hands
always swing and circle back around.
This is our time to live. For the moment
this is our world. In- (which we have but one chance.)
carnate beings in the far
off reaches of space.
This time is mine (to give to you)
to take and hold for
never again will I have hands or heart enough
to stand before your beauty.
my breath is spent to say I love You.
- - -
Benjamin is a recent graduate of Fordham University. He is trying to make a name for himself as a writer and a poet. Even though he doesn't frequently write about love, he figured this is as good a place to start as any.
By Benjamin Kyle Conley
Sweet Rose, do
you believe that we have
a once in a
life-
time
chance?
This time we have
fleets and flees
our grasp faster than we notice. Those hands
always swing and circle back around.
This is our time to live. For the moment
this is our world. In- (which we have but one chance.)
carnate beings in the far
off reaches of space.
This time is mine (to give to you)
to take and hold for
never again will I have hands or heart enough
to stand before your beauty.
my breath is spent to say I love You.
- - -
Benjamin is a recent graduate of Fordham University. He is trying to make a name for himself as a writer and a poet. Even though he doesn't frequently write about love, he figured this is as good a place to start as any.
Saturday, September 11, 2010
9/11/10
A Little Risk
By Johanna Colbath
The room was full, and not one seat was left unoccupied. Everyone’s eyes were fixed
on the game below. There were yellow, green, red, black, and blue plastic men scattered
on the board, each representing the army of a different nation. I found myself trying to pay
attention as James conquered Spain and was advancing towards my property, but my mind
just couldn’t settle in one place. She was sitting there, right across the table from me.
Her army was small and standing right in the way of my conquest. I kept repeating to
the guys, “There are no emotions in this game—no sensitivities, no mercy. It’s a game, and
you’ve got to do what you’ve got to do.” My appeal to the nations started, because Steve kept
saying that he felt bad for his attempt to wipe players off the board. But maybe, just maybe, I
was reminding myself. I hadn’t even bothered with her countries, and honestly, I was hoping
somebody else would take care of it. She was new to the game, and though she picked it up
quickly, there’s a book full of technique that she hadn’t yet mastered. Inevitably, she was
going to be defeated at some point, but I wasn’t going to be the one to do it.
After a few rounds, I sighed when James finally lifted the duty from my shoulders.
She didn’t care in the least that her role in the game was over. The laughs and conversation
continued as I noticed the small goose-bumps rise all over her arms. I offered her my jacket
and was pleased that she readily took it.
As the prizes of land began to hold more worth for the remaining nations, each round
grew uncomfortably long. She made her way to the fire that my mother lit earlier, and as my
eyes followed her, somehow I knew that I wouldn’t conquer the world that night.
- - -
I am a senior in the creative writing concentration, literature major at Ramapo College. Publishing is my current goal. I hope you enjoy this piece. Thank you
By Johanna Colbath
The room was full, and not one seat was left unoccupied. Everyone’s eyes were fixed
on the game below. There were yellow, green, red, black, and blue plastic men scattered
on the board, each representing the army of a different nation. I found myself trying to pay
attention as James conquered Spain and was advancing towards my property, but my mind
just couldn’t settle in one place. She was sitting there, right across the table from me.
Her army was small and standing right in the way of my conquest. I kept repeating to
the guys, “There are no emotions in this game—no sensitivities, no mercy. It’s a game, and
you’ve got to do what you’ve got to do.” My appeal to the nations started, because Steve kept
saying that he felt bad for his attempt to wipe players off the board. But maybe, just maybe, I
was reminding myself. I hadn’t even bothered with her countries, and honestly, I was hoping
somebody else would take care of it. She was new to the game, and though she picked it up
quickly, there’s a book full of technique that she hadn’t yet mastered. Inevitably, she was
going to be defeated at some point, but I wasn’t going to be the one to do it.
After a few rounds, I sighed when James finally lifted the duty from my shoulders.
She didn’t care in the least that her role in the game was over. The laughs and conversation
continued as I noticed the small goose-bumps rise all over her arms. I offered her my jacket
and was pleased that she readily took it.
As the prizes of land began to hold more worth for the remaining nations, each round
grew uncomfortably long. She made her way to the fire that my mother lit earlier, and as my
eyes followed her, somehow I knew that I wouldn’t conquer the world that night.
- - -
I am a senior in the creative writing concentration, literature major at Ramapo College. Publishing is my current goal. I hope you enjoy this piece. Thank you
Friday, September 10, 2010
9/10/10
Our Seasons
By Lena Sutter
It began with a summertime swing set.
The rain fell so sweetly
drop
by
drop
but we refused to go inside.
As the leaves slowly transformed,
we lost all thoughts of “I,”
discovering
and
learning
the meaning of “we.”
The days of knee deep snow came suddenly,
and we held close; grasping
tighter
and
tighter
as they tried to destroy us.
In the end, barefoot in spring’s puddles,
we said our goodbye. We
broke
and
cried.
I realized I loved you.
And now, under life’s grey skies,
I try not to forget our
laughter
or
heartbreak.
I will always love you.
- - -
Lena's a 15 year old who writes just because it feels right. She figures love has a different meaning to a kid like her and someone has to be the one to get it out.
By Lena Sutter
It began with a summertime swing set.
The rain fell so sweetly
drop
by
drop
but we refused to go inside.
As the leaves slowly transformed,
we lost all thoughts of “I,”
discovering
and
learning
the meaning of “we.”
The days of knee deep snow came suddenly,
and we held close; grasping
tighter
and
tighter
as they tried to destroy us.
In the end, barefoot in spring’s puddles,
we said our goodbye. We
broke
and
cried.
I realized I loved you.
And now, under life’s grey skies,
I try not to forget our
laughter
or
heartbreak.
I will always love you.
- - -
Lena's a 15 year old who writes just because it feels right. She figures love has a different meaning to a kid like her and someone has to be the one to get it out.
Thursday, September 9, 2010
9/9/10
Sunday Night
By Johanna Colbath
Half the lights burnt out,
but the stage was ours,
carpeted and ill-set,
home for an hour.
Six microphones,
we only used two—
two guitars, one bass, drums,
my voice plus you.
We rehearsed;
it had been so long,
but the melodies still matched,
as if I’d never gone.
The bass banged funk;
the guitars hummed groove,
and as the drums crashed beats,
we melted in tune.
The set was half over;
your string snapped in two—
broken by passion,
you played right on through.
I didn’t look left,
though I wanted to see
you barefoot and smiling,
rhythmic memory.
- - -
I am a senior in the creative writing concentration, literature major at Ramapo College. Publishing is my current goal. I hope you enjoy this piece. Thank you
By Johanna Colbath
Half the lights burnt out,
but the stage was ours,
carpeted and ill-set,
home for an hour.
Six microphones,
we only used two—
two guitars, one bass, drums,
my voice plus you.
We rehearsed;
it had been so long,
but the melodies still matched,
as if I’d never gone.
The bass banged funk;
the guitars hummed groove,
and as the drums crashed beats,
we melted in tune.
The set was half over;
your string snapped in two—
broken by passion,
you played right on through.
I didn’t look left,
though I wanted to see
you barefoot and smiling,
rhythmic memory.
- - -
I am a senior in the creative writing concentration, literature major at Ramapo College. Publishing is my current goal. I hope you enjoy this piece. Thank you
Wednesday, September 8, 2010
9/8/10
My Love
By Eric Carl
Standing here, alone, at the edge of the future and the past,
I breathe the sweet air of loneliness,
Blink past the edges of tears
Buds of life,
And try to remind myself
That it is just one night.
One night apart
In a sea of nights
We spend together.
- - -
I am a writer who lives in Seattle. I was born in Anchorage, Alaska and have lived in both Arizona and California.
By Eric Carl
Standing here, alone, at the edge of the future and the past,
I breathe the sweet air of loneliness,
Blink past the edges of tears
Buds of life,
And try to remind myself
That it is just one night.
One night apart
In a sea of nights
We spend together.
- - -
I am a writer who lives in Seattle. I was born in Anchorage, Alaska and have lived in both Arizona and California.
Tuesday, September 7, 2010
9/7/10
MEETING MERLE
by Ramon Collins
When Mike entered Smitty's Back 40 Lounge he was greeted by the familiar aroma of secondhand smoke and Lysol. He stopped, squinted against the murk and rubbed his eyes -- Jolene perched on a stool at the end of the bar. Mike straddled a stool halfway down.
Jolene shot a sidelong glance. “How ya been?”
“Gets kinda lonely. Grubby motel room, TV movies and peanut butter sandwiches.”
She snubbed out a cigarette. “If I remember correct, you're the one that said you wanted to split the sheet -- it's damn well split.”
"I was half-hammered." He fidgeted on the bar stool. “Dammit, a man can change. If he gets a chance, that is.”
“I felt lucky when you changed your shorts.” Jolene smirked at his image in the back mirror.
Smitty came around the bar, b-e-l-c-hed, punched some buttons on the jukebox and Merle Haggard sang about love for his mother. Mike slid one stool closer to her and his brow furrowed as he studied a cracked tile on the floor.
“Tell me, Jo -- do I ever cross your mind?”
“For chrissake, you've only been gone three nights.”
- - -
Collins has had stories published and online. He lives on the NE edge of the Mojave Desert and is often seen howlin' at the moon with a pack of scruffy coyotes.
by Ramon Collins
When Mike entered Smitty's Back 40 Lounge he was greeted by the familiar aroma of secondhand smoke and Lysol. He stopped, squinted against the murk and rubbed his eyes -- Jolene perched on a stool at the end of the bar. Mike straddled a stool halfway down.
Jolene shot a sidelong glance. “How ya been?”
“Gets kinda lonely. Grubby motel room, TV movies and peanut butter sandwiches.”
She snubbed out a cigarette. “If I remember correct, you're the one that said you wanted to split the sheet -- it's damn well split.”
"I was half-hammered." He fidgeted on the bar stool. “Dammit, a man can change. If he gets a chance, that is.”
“I felt lucky when you changed your shorts.” Jolene smirked at his image in the back mirror.
Smitty came around the bar, b-e-l-c-hed, punched some buttons on the jukebox and Merle Haggard sang about love for his mother. Mike slid one stool closer to her and his brow furrowed as he studied a cracked tile on the floor.
“Tell me, Jo -- do I ever cross your mind?”
“For chrissake, you've only been gone three nights.”
- - -
Collins has had stories published and online. He lives on the NE edge of the Mojave Desert and is often seen howlin' at the moon with a pack of scruffy coyotes.
Monday, September 6, 2010
9/6/10
Grey November
By Lena Sutter
Grey November afternoon.
You are my shelter,
my safeguard from the bitter wind.
"I love you,"
I say, you respond
"I love you more."
I bury my head in you.
"Nope." I murmur
and you laugh,
making my heart smile.
Grey November afternoon,
but we glow like summer.
- - -
Lena's a 15 year old who writes just because it feels right. She figures love has a different meaning to a kid like her and someone has to be the one to get it out.
By Lena Sutter
Grey November afternoon.
You are my shelter,
my safeguard from the bitter wind.
"I love you,"
I say, you respond
"I love you more."
I bury my head in you.
"Nope." I murmur
and you laugh,
making my heart smile.
Grey November afternoon,
but we glow like summer.
- - -
Lena's a 15 year old who writes just because it feels right. She figures love has a different meaning to a kid like her and someone has to be the one to get it out.
Sunday, September 5, 2010
9/5/10
Air
By Johanna Colbath
Just one breath,
a sigh of contentment
falls warm from your lips,
landing on my arm.
With eyes closed,
your mouth slightly
turns up in the corners,
a blind smile.
House creaks become
a symphony
amongst silence—
no words necessary.
Just one breath,
your chest rises and falls.
My head follows;
I won’t move.
- - -
I am a senior in the creative writing concentration, literature major at Ramapo College. Publishing is my current goal. I hope you enjoy this piece. Thank you
By Johanna Colbath
Just one breath,
a sigh of contentment
falls warm from your lips,
landing on my arm.
With eyes closed,
your mouth slightly
turns up in the corners,
a blind smile.
House creaks become
a symphony
amongst silence—
no words necessary.
Just one breath,
your chest rises and falls.
My head follows;
I won’t move.
- - -
I am a senior in the creative writing concentration, literature major at Ramapo College. Publishing is my current goal. I hope you enjoy this piece. Thank you
Saturday, September 4, 2010
9/4/10
Love Between The Castes
By Dixa
Love between the castes
He.
Tall, majestic, powerful, rich.
She.
Tall, smart, beautiful, shy.
He teaches, he commands, he rules.
She works, she serves, she listens.
They meet—
teacher, student.
landlord, tenant.
speaker, listener.
A man of books, a woman of crafts.
He teaches her brothers, but they are untouched—they are not worthy.
She sews him dresses, but never looks at him—she is not lucky.
He speaks of scriptures, religion, of sins.
She asks for forgiveness, stoops and bends, thanks and prays.
He is young.
She is young.
They are young, and beautiful, and in love—with each other.
They are in love—
-- love—the forbidden fruit—
-- the forbidden fruit that cannot be shared.
Because
he is learned,
she serves. Him.
Because
she cannot be touched—dirty
he must not be touched— lofty.
But they touch. And the world sees—the world sees the touch, and the fruit--
--the fruit they ate, and the fruit they bore.
He is promptly wed,
and fruitful again.
She is chased, chastised.
uprooted, shred into pieces
and burnt like firewood, while men bask in the warmth
of her burning soul.
- - -
College graduate often too afraid to publish my work, but this time I got over my fear. Yay :)
And this work is loosely based on the lives of people in South Asia, where the caste system is still pretty strong :(
By Dixa
Love between the castes
He.
Tall, majestic, powerful, rich.
She.
Tall, smart, beautiful, shy.
He teaches, he commands, he rules.
She works, she serves, she listens.
They meet—
teacher, student.
landlord, tenant.
speaker, listener.
A man of books, a woman of crafts.
He teaches her brothers, but they are untouched—they are not worthy.
She sews him dresses, but never looks at him—she is not lucky.
He speaks of scriptures, religion, of sins.
She asks for forgiveness, stoops and bends, thanks and prays.
He is young.
She is young.
They are young, and beautiful, and in love—with each other.
They are in love—
-- love—the forbidden fruit—
-- the forbidden fruit that cannot be shared.
Because
he is learned,
she serves. Him.
Because
she cannot be touched—dirty
he must not be touched— lofty.
But they touch. And the world sees—the world sees the touch, and the fruit--
--the fruit they ate, and the fruit they bore.
He is promptly wed,
and fruitful again.
She is chased, chastised.
uprooted, shred into pieces
and burnt like firewood, while men bask in the warmth
of her burning soul.
- - -
College graduate often too afraid to publish my work, but this time I got over my fear. Yay :)
And this work is loosely based on the lives of people in South Asia, where the caste system is still pretty strong :(
Thursday, September 2, 2010
9/2/10
I Am Woman
By Amanda Firefox
You know the woman who was standing in the coffee shop last Sunday,
Watching you,
That was me.
Watching you, admiring you, your beauty, loving you, hoping you would notice, hoping you wouldn’t.
I love you, want you, need you.
How do I put this?
How do I not sound desperate?
I’m not desperate,
I just love you, love you. . .
And I’m too afraid to talk to you.
I guess that you’re just going to have to make the first move.
If I don’t just reach out and rip your clothes off first.
- - -
Amanda Firefox is a fiery little brunette who spends as much time at the beach as she can manage. She doesn't write much, but when she writes, it's almost always about her favorite subject: boys.
By Amanda Firefox
You know the woman who was standing in the coffee shop last Sunday,
That was me.
How do I put this?
How do I not sound desperate?
I’m not desperate,
And I’m too afraid to talk to you.
I guess that you’re just going to have to make the first move.
- - -
Amanda Firefox is a fiery little brunette who spends as much time at the beach as she can manage. She doesn't write much, but when she writes, it's almost always about her favorite subject: boys.
Wednesday, September 1, 2010
9/1/10
I Am Your Love
By Darren Holmitz
I am your love.
I am the one you have been seeking
I am the one you need
The one you love.
I am your love.
I am the one you dream about
I am the one you kiss when you sleep
The one you taste when you wake.
I am your love.
I am the one nested in your heart,
I am the one you have always missed
The one who will complete you.
- - -
Darren C. Holmitz loves cats. Probably too much.
By Darren Holmitz
I am your love.
I am the one you have been seeking
I am the one you need
The one you love.
I am your love.
I am the one you dream about
I am the one you kiss when you sleep
The one you taste when you wake.
I am your love.
I am the one nested in your heart,
I am the one you have always missed
The one who will complete you.
- - -
Darren C. Holmitz loves cats. Probably too much.
