Amelia
By John Ogden
She smelled of weed and beer, that slight dull tone of muskiness clinging to checkered flannel five sizes too big. Sixteen, blond hair, eyes like deep blue pools, wet and endless, the sky merge surf of Carribean sea washing across the pure white sands of her skin. I knew her boyfriend. He was a beast, black and brown, low shorts, prison tattoos, a sad stereotype pretending a macho twenty when he was probably slouching closer to thirty. Her parents hated him. I hated him, instantly, the moment I saw him and the first angry drawl spilled from his mouth. I knew she deserved better. The black eye and bruised arms told me she needed something better, someone better.
What a crime it is that the world is full of so many women in need of someone better.
- - -
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, October 30, 2010
Friday, October 29, 2010
10/29/10
Over the Sea
By Karrie Anika
“I love you,” he said.
“I can’t,” she said.
“It can be easy,” he tried.
“It was never easy,” she tried.
“Here,” he breathed as he took her hand. Her lips pursed, parted for the edge of unspoken words. “It’s okay. Trust me.”
She swallowed as she looked at the sky, forced herself to believe.
One jump and they would be free.
One jump and the sea would wrap them up and carry them away together.
Forever.
- - -
I am a writer living in Alameda.
By Karrie Anika
“I love you,” he said.
“I can’t,” she said.
“It can be easy,” he tried.
“It was never easy,” she tried.
“Here,” he breathed as he took her hand. Her lips pursed, parted for the edge of unspoken words. “It’s okay. Trust me.”
She swallowed as she looked at the sky, forced herself to believe.
One jump and they would be free.
One jump and the sea would wrap them up and carry them away together.
Forever.
- - -
I am a writer living in Alameda.
Thursday, October 28, 2010
10/28/10
The Sound of a Closing Door
By Janet M. Aldrich
By Janet M. Aldrich
The evening had lasted longer than he had expected; for her, he knew, it wasn’t nearly long enough. It ended just as the clock in the corner of the ballroom struck one. Finally, they were free to leave and she took the arm he offered her.
They stopped in front of the largest copy of the poster created by his publisher: ‘Tonight -- Paul Lebarre, on the 50th anniversary of the publication of his landmark novel, The Tarnished Apple.’
“Would you like to take it with us? To decorate your apartment?” She grinned wickedly.
“Hardly.” I would like you to decorate my apartment, chère. But I cannot.
“It’s not a bad night for October. Let us walk by the Seine.” For the past few years, he had avoided the river, not least because watching it flow by was a too-obvious metaphor for the passage of what time he had left. His mind echoed with the sound of closing doors. So few remained, and tonight he would close another one himself.
They sat on a bench that faced away from the water, talking quietly of inconsequentials as Orion cartwheeled over their heads and the hours passed.
“Chère, I am so tired.” He put his arm around her and pulled her to him. He allowed himself to enjoy her warmth and closeness. For a moment, he pressed his face against her silky hair.
“Well, we have been up almost all night,” she noted practically, leaning her head on his shoulder.
He shook his head.
“Don’t look so sad, mon coeur. What’s wrong?”
“It’s not that I’m physically tired, so much. Just – perhaps of life? It takes so much effort to get through the day any more. Look at this evening, wasted on a book I wrote to get tenure and was tired of before it was published. There is little about this world to make me wish to continue in it.” He inhaled her perfume, warm with florals, and tried to memorize her scent. Ah, bien-aimée … He wavered, his lips hovering over her throat to kiss her, and then hardened his heart. Oh, no. No.
She caught her breath, shocked. “I’ve never heard you say anything like that before. I’ve always felt you celebrated life.” She brushed her hand down his face, then placed a gentle kiss on his cheek. “Paul, if you can’t rejoice in your world, be part of mine. It would be a great deal emptier if you weren’t in it. I love you so.” She sat up abruptly and clapped her hand over her mouth.
He took her hand and kissed it softly. “Ma chère, that was no surprise. It is in your correspondence – you say much more than I think you mean to say. And your face is an open book – a pleasant read – but quite transparent as to emotion.” Unlike mine. You mustn’t see the love in my eyes. What if you realized that I was too old for you? If we were together and you left me, I couldn’t bear it.
“Did it ever occur to you why our correspondence has meant so much to me? Or why I invited you to be here tonight?” He pulled away from her carefully, held himself aloof from her.
“No. I suppose I tried not to. I was just so glad to have a chance to meet you in person. To spend time with you.”
“It was because you were you. Someone unlike nearly all the people who hovered around me at the reception tonight. Someone who knew I was interested in English history, liked Matisse and Rodin and had read Ray Bradbury. Someone who could talk about something besides my book and the mountains I had climbed.” He gently brushed her cheek. “Do you have any idea how tired I am of people who want to tell me what I meant by the last scene between André and Martine? Or who ask about the symbolism of the knife stabbed into the apple? You would think that all my life consisted of one thing – writing that damned book – and the other years meant nothing. Five years out of all of my life. No one seems to care about the rest of it, except you.”
“I don’t understand why I came to love you, but I did. I turned over the book and there you were -- thick black hair brushed back from your handsome face, and those lovely clear hazel eyes like sunlight through brook water or autumn leaves.”
“Such poetry,” he teased. “As I was then, yes.”
“Yes, but – God bless the Internet – I found out so much more. And the more I learned …” She stopped trying to control her tears.
“And then you found this old wreck, non?” His eyes twinkled.
“No! No … to me you are still handsome.” She turned to him, her voice strong with passion. His heart clenched for a moment. “All the men you ever were are still there, inside you. I found a film they made of you demonstrating how to climb. They called you maître-alpinist Paul Lebarre. He’s there, and the writer and all you have been. None of it is gone away. You may not be ‘that force which in old days moved earth and heaven’, but …”
“’... that which I am, I am’”, he paraphrased. Oh, chère. You mustn’t say these things. I don’t have time to heal my heart, should it break.
He closed his eyes. “Tonight I feel every one of my eighty-four years. I certainly must look each one.”
“Not to me you don’t. Some people are timeless, and you’re one of them.”
His eyes widened and he smiled broadly. “I’m not sure ‘timeless’ is le mot juste in this case, but I thank you. You, on the other hand, are still young enough not to be touched by time. Except, perhaps, your vision --”
“Monsieur, my eyes work just fine! I see you as you are – and you are beautiful. You always will be.
“Oh, my dear …” The love and humor in her voice brought him near tears. “I wish that were so.” I don’t want … oh, after Marisa died … and what if you went first? I would die, too.
“Oh, don’t. Ne pleure pas – oh, please don’t cry, Paul.”
“I am fine.” He gathered himself and withdrew from her again. “We should go back and rest. You have so little time, and there is much I would like you to see here.”
“Paul? Is that all there is? Is that all we have? Tourist attractions? Le Tour Eiffel? The Bastille arrondissement? I think I need a Michelin Green Guide, all right – to our relationship!”
He gave her his best quizzical look. “As I said, our correspondence has meant a great deal to me. And I’ve enjoyed having you here these past few days. I’m not sure that’s enough to base a relationship on, not in the sense I’m sure you mean it.”
“My dear, remember, I’m an old man. Age attenuates emotions. I do not feel things as I once would have.” If I believed in God, I would be very afraid. Lie upon lie upon lie. If you are there, God, please forgive me for breaking her heart. He put his hand under her chin and lifted her face gently. Their eyes met. “Chère, out there somewhere, there is someone who needs you very much.”
“Pardon me if I don’t find that very consoling at the moment,” she retorted.
“Probably not. But it doesn’t make it any less true. The worst thing you could do is to let all the love you are capable of die inside you. It would be a terrible waste.” There. The first true thing I have said to you all night, ma amour.
She said something he didn’t catch. “Pardon?”
“I said it’s too bad you can’t take your own advice, Paul.”
“But it’s not me who loves, is it?” She had no answer, and the silence stretched between them uncomfortably. “Perhaps if we could have met sooner.” He sighed. “Ah, well. Missed connections are the human condition.”
He reached out and turned her to face him. “I think we should stop our correspondence. When you leave Paris, we’ll never meet again. You need to find that other man and be to him what you cannot be to me, have with him what time will not allow us to have.” That I will not allow us to have. I should at least be honest with myself.
For a moment, she was silent. “If that’s what you want,” she whispered. For a moment, she looked far older than her fifty years. “Do you want me to leave now?”
“Of course not. This is Paris and I want you to see it.” No. Oh, no. I don’t want you to leave at all. It took all the self-control he had to keep his resolve. I must be strong. Of course, now I am not certain how much I have left to be strong for… I believe I have just heard the sound of a door closing. Maybe it was the last one – before the very last one -- and I didn’t realize it.
He linked his arm in hers, and they walked away together, just as the October sun rose and painted them with its gold.
- - -
I am a relatively new writer, and I began by writing fanfiction which I post on another site I have (tec4.co.cc). I am very interested in the Cajun culture and have a novel planned that I would like to write in that area.
Wednesday, October 27, 2010
10/27/10
NOODLE SOUP
By Michael B. Tager
“Noodle soup,” she says, breathing into his mouth, smile slow and full of dreams. Her smile is porcelain; her eyes are pale green. In the shadows they blend and disappear. Staring into them feels like coming home.
“Noodle soup,” she says again. She is reading something in his face. A tightness. A drawing of breath. She senses the confusion – a weather sense, a trick knee - and reaches out one small-boned hand. It shakes when it touches his cheek, rough with a week’s worth of dark stubble. His breath is sour.
“What’s wrong?” Her smile fades, just a touch bending the corners of her mouth. Not a full smile, no, but the light he warms himself by is still there.
“Noodle soup?” he asks. His voice is rough from lack of use. The light between them casts bars on the royal sheets.
Her eyes narrow and with slender fingers, she pinches, ever so gently, that skin above his waist. That bit of belly she lays her head on that he’s so shy of. He jumps and swats at her hands, as if it were a bug. “You aren’t hearing me, are you?” She pinches him again, her lip caught between ever so slightly crooked teeth. The front tooth has a tiny chip. This time he feels a sharp prick and he squirms, his eyes opening from half-lids and twilight escaping.
“I said,” she repeats, laughing, turning over and stretching her arms above her head. The sun shines through fine hair on her wrist, bleached by the sun. He can see each individual strand. Sometimes, he traces a slow finger down a path, carving a route. Her voice is like bells. “I love you, too.”
- - -
Mike Tager hails from Baltimore, MD. He likes Buffy, Justin Timberlake and writing.
By Michael B. Tager
“Noodle soup,” she says, breathing into his mouth, smile slow and full of dreams. Her smile is porcelain; her eyes are pale green. In the shadows they blend and disappear. Staring into them feels like coming home.
“Noodle soup,” she says again. She is reading something in his face. A tightness. A drawing of breath. She senses the confusion – a weather sense, a trick knee - and reaches out one small-boned hand. It shakes when it touches his cheek, rough with a week’s worth of dark stubble. His breath is sour.
“What’s wrong?” Her smile fades, just a touch bending the corners of her mouth. Not a full smile, no, but the light he warms himself by is still there.
“Noodle soup?” he asks. His voice is rough from lack of use. The light between them casts bars on the royal sheets.
Her eyes narrow and with slender fingers, she pinches, ever so gently, that skin above his waist. That bit of belly she lays her head on that he’s so shy of. He jumps and swats at her hands, as if it were a bug. “You aren’t hearing me, are you?” She pinches him again, her lip caught between ever so slightly crooked teeth. The front tooth has a tiny chip. This time he feels a sharp prick and he squirms, his eyes opening from half-lids and twilight escaping.
“I said,” she repeats, laughing, turning over and stretching her arms above her head. The sun shines through fine hair on her wrist, bleached by the sun. He can see each individual strand. Sometimes, he traces a slow finger down a path, carving a route. Her voice is like bells. “I love you, too.”
- - -
Mike Tager hails from Baltimore, MD. He likes Buffy, Justin Timberlake and writing.
Tuesday, October 26, 2010
10/26/10
Mystery
By Peter Thorington
There’s a mystery in all of us
A locked box that always requires a key
The desire to find that key is all knowing
Like an infants desire to find out all new things in life
But at times, one needs to accept that a mystery will remain a mystery
Why is someone the way he or she is?
Why does someone’s world feel as though it could revolve around someone else’s?
New mysteries are stumbled upon as the boy stumbled on his
Your life is different than his
There are aspects that he will envy that you have
Like the wish to change ones life
But this was a want of more than just an aspect
It was stronger, overriding all power to think, concentrate or control some motions of my
Life
It was a wish that held the chances of winning the powerball
It was wanting you and the wish for the ability to have it
Your mystery involved a high
A happiness of rare quality but longed to maintain once obtained
In your smile, he saw himself and every shining object that came from it
If you love something, you need to love it for what it is
For everything that it is
The flaws and mistakes must be overlooked or else your conclusion of your emotions is
Flawed in itself
Sneaking into your room at five in the morning
When all else could have come to mind, you were lost in his mind
The mystery about what he didn’t know and what he could
The feeling struck to his stomach of wonder and chill when he looked at you
A passion and endearment when he kissed you
Your life, he saw in his and on came another mystery of how to get it that way
The strength and will to show you how he feels is a mystery in a box with the
Impulse of you unearthing the key to it
Found but what lie inside was a new life, one possibly better or worse
Than what you had
Life can always change; it can always be in someone else’s eyes
His life changed, it was in your eyes
An opportunity that would not be sacrificed for anything in the world
You acquired a heart that someone else somewhere might love
But he chose you, his heart remains your, stays yours
It was a lighthouse waiting for the vessel to return from its excursion at sea
Unhappy? No. Mad? No. His feelings lie where you left them.
Lost in waters of interaction, waiting for his vessel to return.
Much can be discovered in waiting, like finding something new as your waiting for your
“High”, your love
But until then, until that moment, his heart is where you left it.
What do you find in life? Who do you find? Waiting doesn’t mean you stop
You just simple go on with life with hope that something lost will return
- - -
By Peter Thorington
There’s a mystery in all of us
A locked box that always requires a key
The desire to find that key is all knowing
Like an infants desire to find out all new things in life
But at times, one needs to accept that a mystery will remain a mystery
Why is someone the way he or she is?
Why does someone’s world feel as though it could revolve around someone else’s?
New mysteries are stumbled upon as the boy stumbled on his
Your life is different than his
There are aspects that he will envy that you have
Like the wish to change ones life
But this was a want of more than just an aspect
It was stronger, overriding all power to think, concentrate or control some motions of my
Life
It was a wish that held the chances of winning the powerball
It was wanting you and the wish for the ability to have it
Your mystery involved a high
A happiness of rare quality but longed to maintain once obtained
In your smile, he saw himself and every shining object that came from it
If you love something, you need to love it for what it is
For everything that it is
The flaws and mistakes must be overlooked or else your conclusion of your emotions is
Flawed in itself
Sneaking into your room at five in the morning
When all else could have come to mind, you were lost in his mind
The mystery about what he didn’t know and what he could
The feeling struck to his stomach of wonder and chill when he looked at you
A passion and endearment when he kissed you
Your life, he saw in his and on came another mystery of how to get it that way
The strength and will to show you how he feels is a mystery in a box with the
Impulse of you unearthing the key to it
Found but what lie inside was a new life, one possibly better or worse
Than what you had
Life can always change; it can always be in someone else’s eyes
His life changed, it was in your eyes
An opportunity that would not be sacrificed for anything in the world
You acquired a heart that someone else somewhere might love
But he chose you, his heart remains your, stays yours
It was a lighthouse waiting for the vessel to return from its excursion at sea
Unhappy? No. Mad? No. His feelings lie where you left them.
Lost in waters of interaction, waiting for his vessel to return.
Much can be discovered in waiting, like finding something new as your waiting for your
“High”, your love
But until then, until that moment, his heart is where you left it.
What do you find in life? Who do you find? Waiting doesn’t mean you stop
You just simple go on with life with hope that something lost will return
- - -
Monday, October 25, 2010
10/25/10
The Visitor
By Kortnee Tilson
You’ve run away from home and showed up at my door. Wearing a sad grin, a top hat, and a pair old, battered boots. Somehow, I feel like I’ve been here before.
“Come in, goddamn it.”
“No need to curse.”
It’s late, your poor mother must be up the wall with worry. She must miss you, I always do when you’re gone.
Now, I’ve offered you tea, but you politely decline and you’re still smiling in that way that makes me want to cry. I also notice that your eyes aren’t nearly as blue at night time and your speech is not as sharp. You’ve begun to talk about the circumstances that brought you here, in the middle of this night. The dense, delicate, white, December night.
I must admit, I’m no longer in love with your stories, they’ve quickly turned into mundane complaints. I used to listen to you tell these tales like you were orchestrating a symphony. Now, you drawl like a sad, old country song. So for lack of tolerance, I cut you off.
“Where’d you get that top hat from?”
“It was my great-grandfather’s.”
You lean over the table and pucker your lips, they are cracked and blue from the cold. You walked here, didn’t you? I kiss you for exactly two and a half minutes. Then I stand up and take two cigarettes from my open pack and hand them to you. You stow them away inside your breast pocket, where I know you also keep a matchbook. I tell you that you should get home, it’s late, it’s cold.
When you leave, I will blow you a soft kiss from the palm of my hand, it will float along with you in the winter wind and keep there, in the air until the night is wet, fresh, and full of the new Spring.
- - -
I'm a high school senior from Ontario, I have been writing for a few years, and work mostly with flash fiction. I have one other story published on Daily Love.
By Kortnee Tilson
You’ve run away from home and showed up at my door. Wearing a sad grin, a top hat, and a pair old, battered boots. Somehow, I feel like I’ve been here before.
“Come in, goddamn it.”
“No need to curse.”
It’s late, your poor mother must be up the wall with worry. She must miss you, I always do when you’re gone.
Now, I’ve offered you tea, but you politely decline and you’re still smiling in that way that makes me want to cry. I also notice that your eyes aren’t nearly as blue at night time and your speech is not as sharp. You’ve begun to talk about the circumstances that brought you here, in the middle of this night. The dense, delicate, white, December night.
I must admit, I’m no longer in love with your stories, they’ve quickly turned into mundane complaints. I used to listen to you tell these tales like you were orchestrating a symphony. Now, you drawl like a sad, old country song. So for lack of tolerance, I cut you off.
“Where’d you get that top hat from?”
“It was my great-grandfather’s.”
You lean over the table and pucker your lips, they are cracked and blue from the cold. You walked here, didn’t you? I kiss you for exactly two and a half minutes. Then I stand up and take two cigarettes from my open pack and hand them to you. You stow them away inside your breast pocket, where I know you also keep a matchbook. I tell you that you should get home, it’s late, it’s cold.
When you leave, I will blow you a soft kiss from the palm of my hand, it will float along with you in the winter wind and keep there, in the air until the night is wet, fresh, and full of the new Spring.
- - -
I'm a high school senior from Ontario, I have been writing for a few years, and work mostly with flash fiction. I have one other story published on Daily Love.
Sunday, October 24, 2010
10/24/10
He had to laugh at something
By Chris Sharp
“But you’ll have to leave in three days. Here, I have a legal notice for you. Three days or quit, it says. That’s all there is to mention. If you come up with the rent in the three days, you get another month. Then I want you out of my house in any case.”
His landlady left him before he could answer. She had taped the “three days or quit” notice on the wall, above his chair were his cat sat. It didn’t look that much like a legal notice. It looked more like something she bought at Office Depot. But his cat had total faith in him and paid no attention to the flimsy paper note hanging over her.
He stepped out of the house and took his 23-year-old good health with him. For a moment he wished for a car so he could escape somewhere. But he had sold the car three months ago to release some money for rent. He had wished also he hadn’t had a fight over a year ago with his mother, that they had at least spoken some sentences together – even just a “hi mom, lo son.”
Finally he wanted some other kind of family member around – like a father or someone. Outside his window was a man with a belt wrapped around him and the crown of a neighborhood ponderosa pine. The guy probably made a decent income. But this man was no father. He was no brother.
He thought for a few minutes about what options he had left, with no money and no place to move. His mother wouldn’t take him in, based on how she talked. There were no other car dealerships for him to work. The one dealership to hire him promised that a person with no talent, no training and no aptitude for any skill had a real chance to sell cars. But then they released him before he had a chance to sell even one.
Regardless of how hopeless everything looked, his cat continued to have confidence in him. She rubbed against him as he sat on his bed, thinking about everything. “Do you realize,” he said, “if I go homeless, so will you?”
Since he always at least had a roof over his head, he stepped out into the town to prospect for the new homeless culture. It would just take a day. One day you would just stop and sit down in the back of some store. That was how you started being called a bum by everyone until you atrophied into the elements. It would be a little like being removed from your comfortable bed and moving that night into the Dachau concentration camp.
He saw two other homeless men sitting in the back wall of a bank. At one time they were probably lively, maybe even happy kids in school. Now they looked like they were outdoors collecting all the soot in the neighborhood.
It was all too easy to lose heart in this kind of prospecting. After a few minutes he turned into the public library, where he had been spending several hours of each blank day.
To get through the day, he had been watching the earliest movies ever made on the library computers. The movies reminded him of a supernatural experience as everyone in these flickering, gray and white films had died so many decades ago. These were computers where ghosts lingered.
At first when he came to the Thomas Edison movie “What Happened on West Twenty-Third Street, New York City (1901),” he thought it was so pedestrian that he almost turned it off for something sounding more exciting. A few people in the film from the Gibson Girl era walked on a scarce West 23rd street ---- on a sidewalk that looked overly optimistic in its width – while some horse driven carriages dominated what looked like a clay street.
An air vent on the sidewalk near the camera was carefully avoided by all the pedestrians. But a young man in a straw hat and a young woman in a floor- length Gibson Girl gown came walking right at the air vent from far back in the street.
The air picked up the gown so it sprayed above the girl’s knees. She wore black stockings that caught the curved muscles moving out from her ankles and then segueing in toward her knees. Her legs erupted from among all the 1901 fabric like gold breaking out from dust around Sutter’s Mill.
The second time he saw the movie, he noticed something new. The young woman was laughing after she had wrapped her gown into control and stepped forward off the vent. The young man was laughing, too.
Walking up his stairs, he realized how comforting it was to walk into his own home. Just having a home, and something to eat, made the day good.
The next day at the library, in front of the same computer, he had a more personal experience in 1901 on New York City’s West 23rd Street. He found himself greeting under his breath some of the people walking the streets. When the Gibson Girl came back, he gave his greeting all of his breath.
His room had been abandoned by him and his cat when the landlady checked on him. His clothes had been left there. In a couple of weeks, the landlady threw the clothes into bags and put up a sign.
After six months, his mother concluded he had abandoned her, too.
But more than two years later, the logo of “What Happened on West Twenty-Third Street, New York City (1901)” had been left on a computer at Elk City’s public library. Two high school girls waiting for computers thought they might as well play the movie while they waited. They laughed as they watched. They especially enjoyed the laughing man to the right of the Gibson Girl for walking alongside his two giggling friends with the cat in his arms.
- - -
Chris Sharp has had short fiction in Aphelion@webzine.com, Kalkion.com, Revista/Review InterAmericana, West Ranch Beacon.com and Crimestalkers. He is a 1997 Fresno State graduate and winner of the 2003 West 35st Street Award for best new American private-investigator short fiction.
By Chris Sharp
“But you’ll have to leave in three days. Here, I have a legal notice for you. Three days or quit, it says. That’s all there is to mention. If you come up with the rent in the three days, you get another month. Then I want you out of my house in any case.”
His landlady left him before he could answer. She had taped the “three days or quit” notice on the wall, above his chair were his cat sat. It didn’t look that much like a legal notice. It looked more like something she bought at Office Depot. But his cat had total faith in him and paid no attention to the flimsy paper note hanging over her.
He stepped out of the house and took his 23-year-old good health with him. For a moment he wished for a car so he could escape somewhere. But he had sold the car three months ago to release some money for rent. He had wished also he hadn’t had a fight over a year ago with his mother, that they had at least spoken some sentences together – even just a “hi mom, lo son.”
Finally he wanted some other kind of family member around – like a father or someone. Outside his window was a man with a belt wrapped around him and the crown of a neighborhood ponderosa pine. The guy probably made a decent income. But this man was no father. He was no brother.
He thought for a few minutes about what options he had left, with no money and no place to move. His mother wouldn’t take him in, based on how she talked. There were no other car dealerships for him to work. The one dealership to hire him promised that a person with no talent, no training and no aptitude for any skill had a real chance to sell cars. But then they released him before he had a chance to sell even one.
Regardless of how hopeless everything looked, his cat continued to have confidence in him. She rubbed against him as he sat on his bed, thinking about everything. “Do you realize,” he said, “if I go homeless, so will you?”
Since he always at least had a roof over his head, he stepped out into the town to prospect for the new homeless culture. It would just take a day. One day you would just stop and sit down in the back of some store. That was how you started being called a bum by everyone until you atrophied into the elements. It would be a little like being removed from your comfortable bed and moving that night into the Dachau concentration camp.
He saw two other homeless men sitting in the back wall of a bank. At one time they were probably lively, maybe even happy kids in school. Now they looked like they were outdoors collecting all the soot in the neighborhood.
It was all too easy to lose heart in this kind of prospecting. After a few minutes he turned into the public library, where he had been spending several hours of each blank day.
To get through the day, he had been watching the earliest movies ever made on the library computers. The movies reminded him of a supernatural experience as everyone in these flickering, gray and white films had died so many decades ago. These were computers where ghosts lingered.
At first when he came to the Thomas Edison movie “What Happened on West Twenty-Third Street, New York City (1901),” he thought it was so pedestrian that he almost turned it off for something sounding more exciting. A few people in the film from the Gibson Girl era walked on a scarce West 23rd street ---- on a sidewalk that looked overly optimistic in its width – while some horse driven carriages dominated what looked like a clay street.
An air vent on the sidewalk near the camera was carefully avoided by all the pedestrians. But a young man in a straw hat and a young woman in a floor- length Gibson Girl gown came walking right at the air vent from far back in the street.
The air picked up the gown so it sprayed above the girl’s knees. She wore black stockings that caught the curved muscles moving out from her ankles and then segueing in toward her knees. Her legs erupted from among all the 1901 fabric like gold breaking out from dust around Sutter’s Mill.
The second time he saw the movie, he noticed something new. The young woman was laughing after she had wrapped her gown into control and stepped forward off the vent. The young man was laughing, too.
Walking up his stairs, he realized how comforting it was to walk into his own home. Just having a home, and something to eat, made the day good.
The next day at the library, in front of the same computer, he had a more personal experience in 1901 on New York City’s West 23rd Street. He found himself greeting under his breath some of the people walking the streets. When the Gibson Girl came back, he gave his greeting all of his breath.
His room had been abandoned by him and his cat when the landlady checked on him. His clothes had been left there. In a couple of weeks, the landlady threw the clothes into bags and put up a sign.
After six months, his mother concluded he had abandoned her, too.
But more than two years later, the logo of “What Happened on West Twenty-Third Street, New York City (1901)” had been left on a computer at Elk City’s public library. Two high school girls waiting for computers thought they might as well play the movie while they waited. They laughed as they watched. They especially enjoyed the laughing man to the right of the Gibson Girl for walking alongside his two giggling friends with the cat in his arms.
- - -
Chris Sharp has had short fiction in Aphelion@webzine.com, Kalkion.com, Revista/Review InterAmericana, West Ranch Beacon.com and Crimestalkers. He is a 1997 Fresno State graduate and winner of the 2003 West 35st Street Award for best new American private-investigator short fiction.
Saturday, October 23, 2010
10/23/10
Tongue Dance
By Joseph Gyson
You speak my language, baby.
With your lips
Your eyes
Your moves.
You know my language, baby
And it’s making me
Want to get to know
You.
- - -
By Joseph Gyson
You speak my language, baby.
With your lips
Your eyes
Your moves.
You know my language, baby
And it’s making me
Want to get to know
You.
- - -
Friday, October 22, 2010
10/22/10
Sexy Thing
By John Ogden
I wanted her the moment I heard her speak.
I couldn’t help it. It was something about the way her lips moved, the shape of her eyes, the way her voice reminded me of a pornstar I’d had the hots for since I was a teen. She had the same body, the same mannerisms, the same shade of tan in her soft and smooth skin. The instant she spoke, the instant I looked into her eyes, I wanted her. I wanted to possess her, carry her away to a dark office corner and fill her until we both lay quiet and sated.
My wedding ring weighs heavy on my eager finger.
I wonder if hers is itching to come off too.
- - -
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 wanted her the moment I heard her speak.
I couldn’t help it. It was something about the way her lips moved, the shape of her eyes, the way her voice reminded me of a pornstar I’d had the hots for since I was a teen. She had the same body, the same mannerisms, the same shade of tan in her soft and smooth skin. The instant she spoke, the instant I looked into her eyes, I wanted her. I wanted to possess her, carry her away to a dark office corner and fill her until we both lay quiet and sated.
My wedding ring weighs heavy on my eager finger.
I wonder if hers is itching to come off too.
- - -
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, October 21, 2010
10/21/10
Seasons of Life
By Germaine Hughes
Our love is just a chapter in my life.
Like the spring I spent selling hats
Like the summer I came to term with our son
Like the autumn I lived on the street
Like the winter I mourned my mother’s death.
Our love is just a chapter in my life.
But the story is one
I’ll never forget.
- - -
I work from home writing poetry for fun.
By Germaine Hughes
Our love is just a chapter in my life.
Like the spring I spent selling hats
Like the summer I came to term with our son
Like the autumn I lived on the street
Like the winter I mourned my mother’s death.
Our love is just a chapter in my life.
But the story is one
I’ll never forget.
- - -
I work from home writing poetry for fun.
Wednesday, October 20, 2010
10/20/10
Loving Care
By Bruce Israel
For me, love is like a car.
Treat it right,
Give it the attention it deserves
And it will take you places.
It will take you anywhere you need to go.
- - -
Bruce writes poetry for his wife while he works in his garage. Bruce hopes you enjoy this piece. Bruce only talks in the third person when he’s writing his biography.
By Bruce Israel
For me, love is like a car.
Treat it right,
Give it the attention it deserves
And it will take you places.
It will take you anywhere you need to go.
- - -
Bruce writes poetry for his wife while he works in his garage. Bruce hopes you enjoy this piece. Bruce only talks in the third person when he’s writing his biography.
Tuesday, October 19, 2010
10/19/10
Sweet
By Amanda Firefox
If you give them something sweet, they’ll always want more.
Love is sweet, sticky honey dripped from fingers onto outstretched, wanting tongues. When it’s thickest, that’s when it’s sweetest, but too thick and you’ll drown in it. Tell anyone that at their first taste, and they’ll laugh, but they always want more. “Pour it on me!” They’ll shout greedily, mouths open. It’s like a drug, you want to bathe in it, let in sink in through your pores, soak yourself to the soul in it, but eventually you always take too much, always go too deep. You start to feel that cold dread, the oblivion of sinking, and no matter how much you try to claw your way back to the light for just one quick breath, you can’t get to it. You’re stuck, drunk on love, drowning. Faces pass by, curious, wonderstruck, honey-amber. Eventually, if you try hard enough, if you rip yourself out of that drug-bath, you’ll escape. You’ll taste sweet air, but the relief that comes fades quick, is passing.
You see, love is addictive.
No matter how close to death it carries you, you’ll always find yourself going back for more.
- - -
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
If you give them something sweet, they’ll always want more.
Love is sweet, sticky honey dripped from fingers onto outstretched, wanting tongues. When it’s thickest, that’s when it’s sweetest, but too thick and you’ll drown in it. Tell anyone that at their first taste, and they’ll laugh, but they always want more. “Pour it on me!” They’ll shout greedily, mouths open. It’s like a drug, you want to bathe in it, let in sink in through your pores, soak yourself to the soul in it, but eventually you always take too much, always go too deep. You start to feel that cold dread, the oblivion of sinking, and no matter how much you try to claw your way back to the light for just one quick breath, you can’t get to it. You’re stuck, drunk on love, drowning. Faces pass by, curious, wonderstruck, honey-amber. Eventually, if you try hard enough, if you rip yourself out of that drug-bath, you’ll escape. You’ll taste sweet air, but the relief that comes fades quick, is passing.
You see, love is addictive.
No matter how close to death it carries you, you’ll always find yourself going back for more.
- - -
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.
Monday, October 18, 2010
10/18/10
To Tina
By Derek Morales
I’ve never been
very good at poetry
but
I’m willing to try
in order to ask
you this
question:
Tina, will you marry me?
- - -
Derek Morales wrote this on one knee with an engagement ring on his desk.
Tina, I love you. Join me for dinner tonight at Alfredo’s at 7PM.
Please say yes.
By Derek Morales
I’ve never been
very good at poetry
but
I’m willing to try
in order to ask
you this
question:
Tina, will you marry me?
- - -
Derek Morales wrote this on one knee with an engagement ring on his desk.
Tina, I love you. Join me for dinner tonight at Alfredo’s at 7PM.
Please say yes.
Sunday, October 17, 2010
10/17/10
Grand Design
By J. F. Georges
When we watched our first sunrise together, I knew it was destiny. It was written in the stars as they faded into the pastel sky. Our hands knit together like the squares of a quilt, meant to be, sewn for each other from the cosmic cloth with a skill that gave away God’s handiwork. Our meeting was far more than chance; it had to have been planned. Too much fit together too easily. There was too much synchronicity to ignore. It was planned. It was meant to be. It was design.
- - -
Te amo, mi corazon.
By J. F. Georges
When we watched our first sunrise together, I knew it was destiny. It was written in the stars as they faded into the pastel sky. Our hands knit together like the squares of a quilt, meant to be, sewn for each other from the cosmic cloth with a skill that gave away God’s handiwork. Our meeting was far more than chance; it had to have been planned. Too much fit together too easily. There was too much synchronicity to ignore. It was planned. It was meant to be. It was design.
- - -
Te amo, mi corazon.
Saturday, October 16, 2010
10/16/10
For the Love of a Woman
By Wayne Scheer
Adam Lasgow had been writing poems with pencil and paper for nearly forty years. He loved the scratching sound, the smell of graphite, the smudge of the erasure as he shaped his thoughts. He used the pencil to accent certain syllables by pressing down harder, giving him a visual image of the sounds in his head. To others, his drafts looked like a schoolboy's smeary mess; to him it represented the beauty of the creative process.
He'd write and rewrite a single poem, often filling an entire oversized legal pad. He had tried writing on standard-sized paper, but he didn't feel comfortable. Something about the feel of the oversized pad on his lap as he leaned back from his desk stimulated his muse.
His wife claimed there was something sexual about the way he composed with the pad on his lap, rocking gently at first and more actively as he entered the rhythm of the poem. He smiled at his wife's observation, readily admitting the connection between sexual and creative energy.
He trusted her to type his poems once he completed them, since even the editor of three of his books, a close friend, refused to accept his handcrafted scribbles and scratches. For nearly four decades, Evelyn did so happily, honored to be part of her husband's work.
However, arthritis made it difficult for her to continue typing for him, especially since he preferred she use an ancient Smith-Corona. She wanted to switch to a computer but he refused, although he admitted that his own arthritis was making writing by hand painful.
Adam feared technology, worrying he couldn't experience the joy of the creative process in a mechanized world. But it pained him to grasp a pencil and it hurt more to watch his wife grimace as she pushed down on the typewriter keys.
Despite his fear, Evelyn and his editor friend, Lucus Malroy, decided to present Adam with a present of a computer. While he was out, they pushed aside a stack of yellow legal pads, and set it up on his desk.
When Adam saw what they had done, his heart pounded with fear. The sight of the impersonal screen, speakers and printer on his desk turned his stomach. But Evelyn urged him to try.
Feeling like the original Adam, he took the first byte.
He never wrote another poem again. Instead, he twittered away his time in an online writing group.
- - -
Wayne Scheer has locked himself in a room with his computer and turtle since his retirement. (Wayne's, not the turtle's.) To keep from going back to work, he's published hundreds of short stories, essays and poems, including, Revealing Moments, a collection of twenty-four flash stories, available at http://www.pearnoir.com/thumbscrews.htm. He's been nominated for four Pushcart Prizes and a Best of the Net. Wayne lives in Atlanta with his wife, and can be contacted at wvscheer@aol.co
By Wayne Scheer
Adam Lasgow had been writing poems with pencil and paper for nearly forty years. He loved the scratching sound, the smell of graphite, the smudge of the erasure as he shaped his thoughts. He used the pencil to accent certain syllables by pressing down harder, giving him a visual image of the sounds in his head. To others, his drafts looked like a schoolboy's smeary mess; to him it represented the beauty of the creative process.
He'd write and rewrite a single poem, often filling an entire oversized legal pad. He had tried writing on standard-sized paper, but he didn't feel comfortable. Something about the feel of the oversized pad on his lap as he leaned back from his desk stimulated his muse.
His wife claimed there was something sexual about the way he composed with the pad on his lap, rocking gently at first and more actively as he entered the rhythm of the poem. He smiled at his wife's observation, readily admitting the connection between sexual and creative energy.
He trusted her to type his poems once he completed them, since even the editor of three of his books, a close friend, refused to accept his handcrafted scribbles and scratches. For nearly four decades, Evelyn did so happily, honored to be part of her husband's work.
However, arthritis made it difficult for her to continue typing for him, especially since he preferred she use an ancient Smith-Corona. She wanted to switch to a computer but he refused, although he admitted that his own arthritis was making writing by hand painful.
Adam feared technology, worrying he couldn't experience the joy of the creative process in a mechanized world. But it pained him to grasp a pencil and it hurt more to watch his wife grimace as she pushed down on the typewriter keys.
Despite his fear, Evelyn and his editor friend, Lucus Malroy, decided to present Adam with a present of a computer. While he was out, they pushed aside a stack of yellow legal pads, and set it up on his desk.
When Adam saw what they had done, his heart pounded with fear. The sight of the impersonal screen, speakers and printer on his desk turned his stomach. But Evelyn urged him to try.
Feeling like the original Adam, he took the first byte.
He never wrote another poem again. Instead, he twittered away his time in an online writing group.
- - -
Wayne Scheer has locked himself in a room with his computer and turtle since his retirement. (Wayne's, not the turtle's.) To keep from going back to work, he's published hundreds of short stories, essays and poems, including, Revealing Moments, a collection of twenty-four flash stories, available at http://www.pearnoir.com/thumbscrews.htm. He's been nominated for four Pushcart Prizes and a Best of the Net. Wayne lives in Atlanta with his wife, and can be contacted at wvscheer@aol.co
Friday, October 15, 2010
10/15/10
Years In Days
By Peter Thorington
Such crisp pulses of time grew the most desired, prepossessing of roses
A shoot strong and treacherous enabling just few to ascend
For once the excursion had been completely, all that stood ahead was beauty
A beauty of the richest crimson, and the deepest and most exquisite redolence
A journey of intimacy and desire
One of length? The duration…insignificant
Two smiles met each other, and as blood rushed
Their desires met, through a battle nonetheless, but one worth a thousand days
Each day passing after struck one as thirty
Yet every thirty felt like a year
In three years, one could date, marry, or even bear a child
A boy had fallen and his heart was sold
To such a lyrical voice with beats of warmth in every appellation she speaks to him
Her heart, full and immense. She took him in
Yes, when he needed it most, but like a dove in morning
One longs to remain
Her hymn places endlessly through his body
Night and day he holds repeat for it is in his best of interests
In ninety days, his love that he had misplaced was found in the arms of another
Another of such beauty within and such elegance lingering on the surface
His heart skipped a beat the first instance his eyes caught sight of her
But it has never stopped beating so fast since
But a distance remains burdensome,
Something fights strenuously and infinitely
Above anything, it manages to overpower all
An uncertainty stared him in the eyes until
His lips inevitably spoke softly I love you
- - -
By Peter Thorington
Such crisp pulses of time grew the most desired, prepossessing of roses
A shoot strong and treacherous enabling just few to ascend
For once the excursion had been completely, all that stood ahead was beauty
A beauty of the richest crimson, and the deepest and most exquisite redolence
A journey of intimacy and desire
One of length? The duration…insignificant
Two smiles met each other, and as blood rushed
Their desires met, through a battle nonetheless, but one worth a thousand days
Each day passing after struck one as thirty
Yet every thirty felt like a year
In three years, one could date, marry, or even bear a child
A boy had fallen and his heart was sold
To such a lyrical voice with beats of warmth in every appellation she speaks to him
Her heart, full and immense. She took him in
Yes, when he needed it most, but like a dove in morning
One longs to remain
Her hymn places endlessly through his body
Night and day he holds repeat for it is in his best of interests
In ninety days, his love that he had misplaced was found in the arms of another
Another of such beauty within and such elegance lingering on the surface
His heart skipped a beat the first instance his eyes caught sight of her
But it has never stopped beating so fast since
But a distance remains burdensome,
Something fights strenuously and infinitely
Above anything, it manages to overpower all
An uncertainty stared him in the eyes until
His lips inevitably spoke softly I love you
- - -
Thursday, October 14, 2010
10/14/10
Master Key
By Neeti Vashi
They said I had a master key
Because I could open up just about anyone
Blame it on my manipulation,
Or my ability to make them feel comfortable,
Somehow, they’d end up in my palm much too often.
Their bolts were too easily broken,
And they were telling me things they swore they never would
But when they’d turn and ask me to reciprocate
I would get out as fast as I could.
But I felt no guilt; I could get up and leave,
No remorse for seeing them undone and on the floor
It didn’t matter anyway
Because I knew my own was secure.
Others would try; they would pick at me
Hoping to get as much as a glance inside
And I would watch them persist with a smile on my face
Eager to watch the defeat steal their pride.
This became routine for me, occurred almost every day
I had them wishing I would be unlocked in that same way
And then, disastrously, that wish came true
The day I found that boy who had a master key too.
- - -
I'm an 18 year old university student studying science. I love writing - have been doing it for as long as I can remember - and use it as an outlet for the emotions that don't carry out as well through speech. :)
By Neeti Vashi
They said I had a master key
Because I could open up just about anyone
Blame it on my manipulation,
Or my ability to make them feel comfortable,
Somehow, they’d end up in my palm much too often.
Their bolts were too easily broken,
And they were telling me things they swore they never would
But when they’d turn and ask me to reciprocate
I would get out as fast as I could.
But I felt no guilt; I could get up and leave,
No remorse for seeing them undone and on the floor
It didn’t matter anyway
Because I knew my own was secure.
Others would try; they would pick at me
Hoping to get as much as a glance inside
And I would watch them persist with a smile on my face
Eager to watch the defeat steal their pride.
This became routine for me, occurred almost every day
I had them wishing I would be unlocked in that same way
And then, disastrously, that wish came true
The day I found that boy who had a master key too.
- - -
I'm an 18 year old university student studying science. I love writing - have been doing it for as long as I can remember - and use it as an outlet for the emotions that don't carry out as well through speech. :)
Wednesday, October 13, 2010
10/13/10
The Butterfly
By Wayne Scheer
Richard and Marcie met at a group therapy session for single parents whose mates had died.
Neither had wanted to attend the session, but their therapist--they had been seeing the same shrink after the death of their spouses--urged them to do so. He said it would be good to talk about their situations and vent their emotions with people who shared a similar experience. The doctor even arranged daycare since his patients were single parents. The meeting took place in a conference room near the therapist's office.
Tears flowed. A box of tissues was passed around like a joint at a Grateful Dead concert. Marcie managed a smile when Richard suggested she not Bogart the tissues.
Most group members spoke of love, of missing the shared moments that make a life complete--waking beside a loved one, washing and drying the dishes together, laughing at an innocent comment made by a child. Richard confessed to mixed feelings. His wife of four years and mother of their three year-old son, Billy, was killed in an automobile accident while with her lover. She had left a note saying she was leaving Richard, not even mentioning little Billy.
But in her haste to escape, she and her lover tried passing a slow-moving car and hit a 1998 Ford pick-up head-on.
Marcie, lost in the details of her own unhappy marriage, only half listened to Richard's story until he mentioned the year and model of the pick-up truck.
"When did this happen?"
"About four months ago."
"The fourth of March?"
"How did you know?"
She had married a man who reminded her of her father. Unfortunately, like her dad, he turned out to be an abusive drunk. His life ended when his truck was blindsided by the car driven by Richard's wife and her lover.
When they realized the grim coincidence of what had happened, they did something totally unexpected in group therapy. They laughed. Uncontrollably. First him, then her. They laughed so hard, they hurt. Then they excused themselves and walked out of the meeting, their arms around each other's waist, unsure which one was holding up the other.
Together, they picked up the kids, bought snacks, and took the children to a nearby park where there was an open field and picnic benches. It was a beautiful summer day and they needed to talk.
Conversation strained at first because the children, who had been playing together earlier in the day, suddenly grew bashful and held on to their parent. Plying them with Cracker Jacks and lemonade helped ease the tension.
Marcie dug into her purse and pulled out toys--a small rag doll, a tiny metal airplane, a flag and a rubber duck. She laid them out on the grass nearby and successfully distracted the children.
"That's the difference between a mother and a father," Richard observed. "All I have in my pockets are car keys."
With the proverbial ice broken, they spoke freely of their marriages and their children. Richard told Marcie how he had destroyed the note his wife had left, so Billy would never see it. Marcie spoke of how she had hidden the bruises left during her husband's alcoholic rages.
Marcie admitted that when the police came to her house to tell her about the accident, her immediate reaction after the initial shock was relief. Richard confessed to a similar feeling.
They moved closer together and held each other's hand under the picnic table, sharing an unstated need to continue sheltering their children.
Just then, as if on call, a brightly-colored butterfly floated by and landed on a nearby flower. Without a word, the children dashed to where the butterfly landed. But the insect fluttered in the wind, and the laughing toddlers took chase, flailing arms and spindly legs.
Richard and Marcie watched that the children didn't run far. And then, for the second time in what seemed like a long, long while, they laughed. This time their laughter offered gentle relief and a hint of rejuvenation.
- - -
Wayne Scheer has locked himself in a room with his computer and turtle since his retirement. (Wayne's, not the turtle's.) To keep from going back to work, he's published hundreds of short stories, essays and poems, including, Revealing Moments, a collection of twenty-four flash stories, available at http://www.pearnoir.com/thumbscrews.htm. He's been nominated for four Pushcart Prizes and a Best of the Net. Wayne lives in Atlanta with his wife, and can be contacted at wvscheer@aol.com.
By Wayne Scheer
Richard and Marcie met at a group therapy session for single parents whose mates had died.
Neither had wanted to attend the session, but their therapist--they had been seeing the same shrink after the death of their spouses--urged them to do so. He said it would be good to talk about their situations and vent their emotions with people who shared a similar experience. The doctor even arranged daycare since his patients were single parents. The meeting took place in a conference room near the therapist's office.
Tears flowed. A box of tissues was passed around like a joint at a Grateful Dead concert. Marcie managed a smile when Richard suggested she not Bogart the tissues.
Most group members spoke of love, of missing the shared moments that make a life complete--waking beside a loved one, washing and drying the dishes together, laughing at an innocent comment made by a child. Richard confessed to mixed feelings. His wife of four years and mother of their three year-old son, Billy, was killed in an automobile accident while with her lover. She had left a note saying she was leaving Richard, not even mentioning little Billy.
But in her haste to escape, she and her lover tried passing a slow-moving car and hit a 1998 Ford pick-up head-on.
Marcie, lost in the details of her own unhappy marriage, only half listened to Richard's story until he mentioned the year and model of the pick-up truck.
"When did this happen?"
"About four months ago."
"The fourth of March?"
"How did you know?"
She had married a man who reminded her of her father. Unfortunately, like her dad, he turned out to be an abusive drunk. His life ended when his truck was blindsided by the car driven by Richard's wife and her lover.
When they realized the grim coincidence of what had happened, they did something totally unexpected in group therapy. They laughed. Uncontrollably. First him, then her. They laughed so hard, they hurt. Then they excused themselves and walked out of the meeting, their arms around each other's waist, unsure which one was holding up the other.
Together, they picked up the kids, bought snacks, and took the children to a nearby park where there was an open field and picnic benches. It was a beautiful summer day and they needed to talk.
Conversation strained at first because the children, who had been playing together earlier in the day, suddenly grew bashful and held on to their parent. Plying them with Cracker Jacks and lemonade helped ease the tension.
Marcie dug into her purse and pulled out toys--a small rag doll, a tiny metal airplane, a flag and a rubber duck. She laid them out on the grass nearby and successfully distracted the children.
"That's the difference between a mother and a father," Richard observed. "All I have in my pockets are car keys."
With the proverbial ice broken, they spoke freely of their marriages and their children. Richard told Marcie how he had destroyed the note his wife had left, so Billy would never see it. Marcie spoke of how she had hidden the bruises left during her husband's alcoholic rages.
Marcie admitted that when the police came to her house to tell her about the accident, her immediate reaction after the initial shock was relief. Richard confessed to a similar feeling.
They moved closer together and held each other's hand under the picnic table, sharing an unstated need to continue sheltering their children.
Just then, as if on call, a brightly-colored butterfly floated by and landed on a nearby flower. Without a word, the children dashed to where the butterfly landed. But the insect fluttered in the wind, and the laughing toddlers took chase, flailing arms and spindly legs.
Richard and Marcie watched that the children didn't run far. And then, for the second time in what seemed like a long, long while, they laughed. This time their laughter offered gentle relief and a hint of rejuvenation.
- - -
Wayne Scheer has locked himself in a room with his computer and turtle since his retirement. (Wayne's, not the turtle's.) To keep from going back to work, he's published hundreds of short stories, essays and poems, including, Revealing Moments, a collection of twenty-four flash stories, available at http://www.pearnoir.com/thumbscrews.htm. He's been nominated for four Pushcart Prizes and a Best of the Net. Wayne lives in Atlanta with his wife, and can be contacted at wvscheer@aol.com.
Tuesday, October 12, 2010
10/12/10
Sweet Baptisms
By Ron Koppelberger
Amusing, delicious perfumes of perfect
Bloom, of fine silken affections, in sweet
Baptisms of innocence and wonting embrace,
The love of a virgin confessor and a beauty in
Arrayed symptoms of desire, the gentle flow of a sated kiss,
A smooth smile in secret knowledge
Of passion
And romance.
- - -
I am aspiring to become established as a poet and a short story writer. I have written 96 books of poetry over the past several years and 16 novels: I have been submitting my work for the past year and am thrilled by acceptance. I am always looking for an audience. I have published 305 poems and 133 short stories in a variety of periodicals. I have been published in The Storyteller, Ceremony, Write On!!! (Poetry Magazette), Freshly Baked Fiction and Necrology Shorts. Also I recently won the People’s Choice Award for poetry In The Storyteller for a poem titled Secret Sash. I have been accepted in England, Australia and Thailand. I love to write and offer an experience to the reader. I am a member of The American Poet’s Society as well as The Isles Poetry Association. I hope you enjoy my work.
By Ron Koppelberger
Amusing, delicious perfumes of perfect
Bloom, of fine silken affections, in sweet
Baptisms of innocence and wonting embrace,
The love of a virgin confessor and a beauty in
Arrayed symptoms of desire, the gentle flow of a sated kiss,
A smooth smile in secret knowledge
Of passion
And romance.
- - -
I am aspiring to become established as a poet and a short story writer. I have written 96 books of poetry over the past several years and 16 novels: I have been submitting my work for the past year and am thrilled by acceptance. I am always looking for an audience. I have published 305 poems and 133 short stories in a variety of periodicals. I have been published in The Storyteller, Ceremony, Write On!!! (Poetry Magazette), Freshly Baked Fiction and Necrology Shorts. Also I recently won the People’s Choice Award for poetry In The Storyteller for a poem titled Secret Sash. I have been accepted in England, Australia and Thailand. I love to write and offer an experience to the reader. I am a member of The American Poet’s Society as well as The Isles Poetry Association. I hope you enjoy my work.
Monday, October 11, 2010
10/11/10
Inception of an Intuition
By Peter Thorington
They speak much of it, some know but never tell
Of a mind rushed emotion that would spark the match to a thousand questions never
answered
Why does she desire this but do the opposite
Bothersome, but why?
What once could one-eighty upon the flick of a switch, now was broken
Teach and learn the ability to what once kept me alone
For now is driving me straight to insanity
The urge for a strong good heart to go crazed and careless
Is flooded with love for one who lacks a passionate meaning of the topic
Don’t teach or attempt to alter something not of yours
To adapt to your ways
She speaks of him acting on every trait she desires
Except the trait to not care
Upon a time in the beginning, that trait which once
Saved him for a duration of time, now deteriorates
And ignites him with dementia
But what is one to do?
This was not the severity of affection he had once asked for
However, he supposes he did not know, in fact was very
Ignorant of such a desired sentiment
If the two of one work at each others move, the
Bond set on fire will engulf their hearts to
Break the chains holding back their freedom
Like tight bearings
But occasionally, two of opposites evolve into a stronger
Set than what one would predict is the perfect fit
Errors, however, can corrupt the bridge stronger to all but one,
Conflict
For under conflict, a bridge’s hold will wear and weaken
A knowledged fact that will disease an overwhelming
Fear into the innocent
Like daggers, it will drain its piercing knife into the
Skin of adoration
Motivation and a desire to better the position can
Nonetheless, annihilate this weed
A motivation of a wave that I am battling to keep my
Balance on
It will happen. Determination. Head up. Optimism. Resolution.
A mind set with the heat and power of the stars
When the storm has passed and the sun shines
This love blooms with inseparable infatuation
Only to stay until the next storm. But like
Nature, it is a day worth cherishing and in face, a day
Worth remaining for
The midnight stars, lost in her eyes
Birds of alluring resonance, tranquil waves, and calming breeze
Ease from her lips to slow a rushed
Beat
A genuine smile arises, like the sun. First from her
And inevitably from him
Chills, a light head from flight is saved from
The warm wind
A feeling lost in the souls of many, of most…the young
Has knocked on his wall asking for an entrance
Once found, the pair must march, guns high
And prepped for the battle they did not ask for
But is now desired more than ever
The endurance of their hands and the build of their
Feet is the factor only to determine their destination
That lies ahead
How strong are your knife, shield and your bravery
For to get out alive will require a toughness of stone
And a heart of the pure
Place test to your belief. What option is yours to have left?
- - -
By Peter Thorington
They speak much of it, some know but never tell
Of a mind rushed emotion that would spark the match to a thousand questions never
answered
Why does she desire this but do the opposite
Bothersome, but why?
What once could one-eighty upon the flick of a switch, now was broken
Teach and learn the ability to what once kept me alone
For now is driving me straight to insanity
The urge for a strong good heart to go crazed and careless
Is flooded with love for one who lacks a passionate meaning of the topic
Don’t teach or attempt to alter something not of yours
To adapt to your ways
She speaks of him acting on every trait she desires
Except the trait to not care
Upon a time in the beginning, that trait which once
Saved him for a duration of time, now deteriorates
And ignites him with dementia
But what is one to do?
This was not the severity of affection he had once asked for
However, he supposes he did not know, in fact was very
Ignorant of such a desired sentiment
If the two of one work at each others move, the
Bond set on fire will engulf their hearts to
Break the chains holding back their freedom
Like tight bearings
But occasionally, two of opposites evolve into a stronger
Set than what one would predict is the perfect fit
Errors, however, can corrupt the bridge stronger to all but one,
Conflict
For under conflict, a bridge’s hold will wear and weaken
A knowledged fact that will disease an overwhelming
Fear into the innocent
Like daggers, it will drain its piercing knife into the
Skin of adoration
Motivation and a desire to better the position can
Nonetheless, annihilate this weed
A motivation of a wave that I am battling to keep my
Balance on
It will happen. Determination. Head up. Optimism. Resolution.
A mind set with the heat and power of the stars
When the storm has passed and the sun shines
This love blooms with inseparable infatuation
Only to stay until the next storm. But like
Nature, it is a day worth cherishing and in face, a day
Worth remaining for
The midnight stars, lost in her eyes
Birds of alluring resonance, tranquil waves, and calming breeze
Ease from her lips to slow a rushed
Beat
A genuine smile arises, like the sun. First from her
And inevitably from him
Chills, a light head from flight is saved from
The warm wind
A feeling lost in the souls of many, of most…the young
Has knocked on his wall asking for an entrance
Once found, the pair must march, guns high
And prepped for the battle they did not ask for
But is now desired more than ever
The endurance of their hands and the build of their
Feet is the factor only to determine their destination
That lies ahead
How strong are your knife, shield and your bravery
For to get out alive will require a toughness of stone
And a heart of the pure
Place test to your belief. What option is yours to have left?
- - -
Sunday, October 10, 2010
10/10/10
Suitcases
By Neeti Vashi
I came home to suitcases,
Packed and waiting at the door.
You sat with your head in your hands.
I can’t go on, you said,
I can’t do this anymore.
And so I watched you,
Walk down the front steps,
Trailing your bags like a burden behind you.
I stood there, watching you start your car
Waiting for a glance in your rearview mirror,
But none came.
Your mind was made up.
And as much as I could have tried
To convince you to stay,
Nobody likes to unpack.
- - -
I'm an 18 year old university student studying science. I love writing - have been doing it for as long as I can remember - and use it as an outlet for the emotions that don't carry out as well through speech. :)
By Neeti Vashi
I came home to suitcases,
Packed and waiting at the door.
You sat with your head in your hands.
I can’t go on, you said,
I can’t do this anymore.
And so I watched you,
Walk down the front steps,
Trailing your bags like a burden behind you.
I stood there, watching you start your car
Waiting for a glance in your rearview mirror,
But none came.
Your mind was made up.
And as much as I could have tried
To convince you to stay,
Nobody likes to unpack.
- - -
I'm an 18 year old university student studying science. I love writing - have been doing it for as long as I can remember - and use it as an outlet for the emotions that don't carry out as well through speech. :)
Saturday, October 9, 2010
10/9/10
Rectify
by Elliot Richard Dorfman
It was a warm June day. Zena wiped her brow as she took the rib roast out of the oven and meticulously cut the meat into thin slices just the way her husband Gordon liked it. If it wasn’t done to his satisfaction, he would become enraged and throw the entire meal on the floor. Afterward finishing the task, she seasoned the mashed potatoes, made a salad, then set the table and called out to Gordon that dinner was ready. She waited ten minutes, but the television in the den kept blasting away, so she went in to fetch him.
" Gordon, dinner is ready."
"Oh shut the hell up," he answered, glaring at her from the sofa and shutting off the television. "I’m sick and tired of your constant naggin’! I’m goin’ out for some fresh air before I lose my temper. It’s women like you that cause their husbands to become violent."
Zena felt miserable. "But all I asked was for you to come and eat."
The man grunted. "Take the food and shove it. I’ll pick up somethin’ later at the diner."
Stomping out, Gordon slammed the front door so hard, it almost fell off its hinges.
The twenty-four year old woman glanced at herself in the hall mirror and frowned. While still pretty, Zena was getting a haggard look that came from living such a tense life for the past year. Gordon hadn’t been like this when she first met him. He seemed so loving and attentive then. However right after they married, he began steadily drinking which made him dark and mean. He would humiliate her, taking pleasure in finding all kinds of faults with whatever was done for him. There never seemed to be a let up to his criticism.
"Gordon never had such a bad temper before he started drinking," she sadly thought. Her arm still hurt after he had bruised it when pushing her against the wall the other night after she simply asked him why he had come home so late.
Zena sighed and put on the radio. Her own appetite gone, she wrapped up the food and put it in the refrigerator. Suddenly, a hallowed voice spoke over the music. " Zena, leave the house before Gordon returns."
"What’s going on with this radio?" she nervously asked herself and quickly shut it off.
Falling asleep at midnight, she was awakened by her husband bellowing outside. It was extremely embarrassing. He was shouting loud enough to wake up all the neighbors.
" Unlock this frigin’ door before I break it open, you bitch."
A moment later there was a shattering of glass from a side window.
"Wait ‘til I get in. I’m goin’ to smash your skull in. You’re nothin’ but a worthless hag."
Fearing physical harm, Zena hastily dressed and left the house through the side door.
The streets looked deserted and gloomy at this time of night. Taking a path up the hill, she stopped at the entrance to the local cemetery and pulled out a cigarette from her bag. Smoking was a bad habit, but how could she stop? Not now when there was so much pressure at home!
A dense fog swirled in the wind. Becoming chilled, Zena bundled up.
"Well it’s no use standing here and catching a cold. I’d better return home," she thought. "Gordon must have calmed down by now and is probably sleeping it off. He won’t remember anything in the morning anyway. "
A shadowy figure stepped out of the shadows near the old wrought iron gates."You’re wrong, Zena. You’re in terrible danger."
Zena almost fell over when she recognized the man as he moved closer to her. "Vaughn, how can it be you!"
She and Vaughn Benson had once been engaged. The woman still regretted their break up over something so senseless she couldn’t even remember it anymore. This handsome, intelligent, vivacious man immediately enlisted in the army and was sent off to Afghanistan. Six months ago while on patrol, a bomb was thrown at his platoon by some taliban insurgents hiding in a vacant building. The only way the army could identify him was by the college ring he always wore.
She could actually feel Vaughn’s touch as he tenderly put his hands on her shoulders.
"I have come to help you."
She was not in the least afraid. In fact, somehow the specter made her feel secure. "Was it you that I heard on the radio?"
"It was. I just had to get through to you." He sighed. "Oh, my dear, how silly we were to part from each other. We were meant to be together."
Zena lowered her head, trying to hide the tears in her eyes. "I realize that now, but it’s too late."
The phantom looked concerned. " You need immediate help and I’m here for that reason. If someone doesn’t intercede, that lunatic is going to kill you tonight. His drinking has turned him into a heartless fiend. There’s not an ounce of decency in him. Couldn’t you see his problem before you married him?"
She shrugged. "I guess he hid it well enough to fool me. I was so naive."
Vaughn lifted her chin. " Zena, do you have somewhere else that you can stay tonight?"
She nodded. " Yes, but why?"
"Don’t ask questions. Do what I ask. Tomorrow you can safely go back home."
The figure kissed her and disappeared.
For a moment she thought the whole incident had been imagined, but she still felt his kiss on her lips. A few minutes later she was at a friend place down the block.
****
At home, Gordon was laying on the bed. In his hand was a strap that he intended using on his wife when finding that Zena was not at home.
"Where the hell is that woman," he had mumbled in a drunken stupor. "Probably ran out of the house like a scared rabbit. Wait till she gets back. I’ll teach her a thing or two!" A moment later he was asleep.
Suddenly someone roughly shook Gordon awake. A luminescent face stared down at him. At first he didn’t recognize who it was, but then he somehow remembered a photo that Zena kept in her bottom draw. It was of a man she had once been engaged to before they met. But according to her, that guy was . . .
He jumped out of bed. "What’s goin’ on?" he screamed. "You were blown to smithereens in Afghanistan six months ago!"
The figure ignored his outburst. "You’d better keep your hands off Zena. In fact I think it would be best if you packed up and left for good."
Gordon laughed. " Am I supposed to listen to some figment of my imagination? Some people see pink elephants when they drink too much; I get to see my wife’s dead ex-lover."
The figure of Vaughn became angry. "I’m giving you one more warning to pack and leave."
Gordon stumbled to the bureau and took a long drink from a bottle of whiskey. "And whatcha’ gonna’ do? Even if you are some kind of ghost, you’re nothing but a thin layer of floating vapor. When Zena returns, I’m gonna’ give her a lickin’ twice as badly as I first planned."
He grabbed his belt and swished it at the ghost and laughed sadistically.
The spirit of Vaughn pointed his figure at him. "How many times have you beaten up Zena and gotten away with it? Well, not anymore. You’re a man who the world would be better off without. Get ready to feel all the physical pain you inflected on her."
At first Gordon felt nothing, then the pain began to spread throughout his body like molten led. As it intensified, he double up and let out a scream. Five grueling minutes later, his heart gave way and he lay still on the floor.
Gordon’s death certificate said he had died of a heart attack that was induced by his heavy drinking, but Zena knew that Vaughn definitely had something to do with it.
*****
After Gordon’s passing, Zena started getting her life back in order. She got a decent job as a manager at a local supermarket in the mall, moved into a more pleasant apartment in town, and began taking more care of her personal appearance. Soon there were plenty of suitors, but after her experience with Gordon, she was mentally scared and could not get herself to date again.
"I’ll probably become a lonely old widow," she miserably said to herself.
September was a rainy month, so on the first nice day, Zena decided to take a long walk and enjoy the sun. Something drew her to the cemetery on the hill. The leaves had begun to change and it was so all picturesque and dreamy. Behind, a soft voice called her name and she turned. There stood Vaughn Benson in an army uniform. He ran up to her and gave her a kiss that made her tingle. This certainly was no dead man!
"Vaughn, you’re alive!" she shouted.
The soldier laughed. "I am. You see, when the insurgents threw a bomb at my crew, I was just wounded. In the aftermath, the inspectors saw my dog tag lying on the ground near the gruesome sight and assumed I was among those blown up. Actually I was taken a prisoner and placed in the enemies compound somewhere in the desert. For over a year they kept trying to brainwash me into become a suicide fighter to show up and disgrace the Americans. I don’t have words to describe the torture. Giving me just enough food to exist, at night I was thrown into a small hole where I could hardly move. It was during these times I would start thinking about you to maintain my sanity. Then a few months ago, I suddenly began having dreams of what Gordon was doing to you, I knew he was going to kill you and wished with all my might to return home so that I could help you. I guess my determination was so strong that it created a miracle."
Zena nodded. "It certainly did, except you looked like some sort of transparent ghost when you transported yourself back here. Still, I could feel your deep love and wasn’t afraid."
Vaughn took a big breath. " I had to make sure that your lousy husband would never harm you again. Once I accomplished that mission, I was zapped back to my miserable hole. I was thankful for that miracle since I knew I wouldn’t be able to hold out with the insurgents for too much longer. Fortunately, the Americans discovered the compound a month later and freed me after waging a fierce battle. After a stay in the hospital and debriefing, I was flown back to the States this past week." He paused, "Well, let’s forget the past and talk about our future. I am back and here to rectify our mistake."
From his pocket the soldier took out an engagement ring. "Zena, would you wear this again?"
Of course we all know what the answer was. And as most romantic fairy tales end, "They got married and lived happily ever after."
- - -
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
by Elliot Richard Dorfman
It was a warm June day. Zena wiped her brow as she took the rib roast out of the oven and meticulously cut the meat into thin slices just the way her husband Gordon liked it. If it wasn’t done to his satisfaction, he would become enraged and throw the entire meal on the floor. Afterward finishing the task, she seasoned the mashed potatoes, made a salad, then set the table and called out to Gordon that dinner was ready. She waited ten minutes, but the television in the den kept blasting away, so she went in to fetch him.
" Gordon, dinner is ready."
"Oh shut the hell up," he answered, glaring at her from the sofa and shutting off the television. "I’m sick and tired of your constant naggin’! I’m goin’ out for some fresh air before I lose my temper. It’s women like you that cause their husbands to become violent."
Zena felt miserable. "But all I asked was for you to come and eat."
The man grunted. "Take the food and shove it. I’ll pick up somethin’ later at the diner."
Stomping out, Gordon slammed the front door so hard, it almost fell off its hinges.
The twenty-four year old woman glanced at herself in the hall mirror and frowned. While still pretty, Zena was getting a haggard look that came from living such a tense life for the past year. Gordon hadn’t been like this when she first met him. He seemed so loving and attentive then. However right after they married, he began steadily drinking which made him dark and mean. He would humiliate her, taking pleasure in finding all kinds of faults with whatever was done for him. There never seemed to be a let up to his criticism.
"Gordon never had such a bad temper before he started drinking," she sadly thought. Her arm still hurt after he had bruised it when pushing her against the wall the other night after she simply asked him why he had come home so late.
Zena sighed and put on the radio. Her own appetite gone, she wrapped up the food and put it in the refrigerator. Suddenly, a hallowed voice spoke over the music. " Zena, leave the house before Gordon returns."
"What’s going on with this radio?" she nervously asked herself and quickly shut it off.
Falling asleep at midnight, she was awakened by her husband bellowing outside. It was extremely embarrassing. He was shouting loud enough to wake up all the neighbors.
" Unlock this frigin’ door before I break it open, you bitch."
A moment later there was a shattering of glass from a side window.
"Wait ‘til I get in. I’m goin’ to smash your skull in. You’re nothin’ but a worthless hag."
Fearing physical harm, Zena hastily dressed and left the house through the side door.
The streets looked deserted and gloomy at this time of night. Taking a path up the hill, she stopped at the entrance to the local cemetery and pulled out a cigarette from her bag. Smoking was a bad habit, but how could she stop? Not now when there was so much pressure at home!
A dense fog swirled in the wind. Becoming chilled, Zena bundled up.
"Well it’s no use standing here and catching a cold. I’d better return home," she thought. "Gordon must have calmed down by now and is probably sleeping it off. He won’t remember anything in the morning anyway. "
A shadowy figure stepped out of the shadows near the old wrought iron gates."You’re wrong, Zena. You’re in terrible danger."
Zena almost fell over when she recognized the man as he moved closer to her. "Vaughn, how can it be you!"
She and Vaughn Benson had once been engaged. The woman still regretted their break up over something so senseless she couldn’t even remember it anymore. This handsome, intelligent, vivacious man immediately enlisted in the army and was sent off to Afghanistan. Six months ago while on patrol, a bomb was thrown at his platoon by some taliban insurgents hiding in a vacant building. The only way the army could identify him was by the college ring he always wore.
She could actually feel Vaughn’s touch as he tenderly put his hands on her shoulders.
"I have come to help you."
She was not in the least afraid. In fact, somehow the specter made her feel secure. "Was it you that I heard on the radio?"
"It was. I just had to get through to you." He sighed. "Oh, my dear, how silly we were to part from each other. We were meant to be together."
Zena lowered her head, trying to hide the tears in her eyes. "I realize that now, but it’s too late."
The phantom looked concerned. " You need immediate help and I’m here for that reason. If someone doesn’t intercede, that lunatic is going to kill you tonight. His drinking has turned him into a heartless fiend. There’s not an ounce of decency in him. Couldn’t you see his problem before you married him?"
She shrugged. "I guess he hid it well enough to fool me. I was so naive."
Vaughn lifted her chin. " Zena, do you have somewhere else that you can stay tonight?"
She nodded. " Yes, but why?"
"Don’t ask questions. Do what I ask. Tomorrow you can safely go back home."
The figure kissed her and disappeared.
For a moment she thought the whole incident had been imagined, but she still felt his kiss on her lips. A few minutes later she was at a friend place down the block.
****
At home, Gordon was laying on the bed. In his hand was a strap that he intended using on his wife when finding that Zena was not at home.
"Where the hell is that woman," he had mumbled in a drunken stupor. "Probably ran out of the house like a scared rabbit. Wait till she gets back. I’ll teach her a thing or two!" A moment later he was asleep.
Suddenly someone roughly shook Gordon awake. A luminescent face stared down at him. At first he didn’t recognize who it was, but then he somehow remembered a photo that Zena kept in her bottom draw. It was of a man she had once been engaged to before they met. But according to her, that guy was . . .
He jumped out of bed. "What’s goin’ on?" he screamed. "You were blown to smithereens in Afghanistan six months ago!"
The figure ignored his outburst. "You’d better keep your hands off Zena. In fact I think it would be best if you packed up and left for good."
Gordon laughed. " Am I supposed to listen to some figment of my imagination? Some people see pink elephants when they drink too much; I get to see my wife’s dead ex-lover."
The figure of Vaughn became angry. "I’m giving you one more warning to pack and leave."
Gordon stumbled to the bureau and took a long drink from a bottle of whiskey. "And whatcha’ gonna’ do? Even if you are some kind of ghost, you’re nothing but a thin layer of floating vapor. When Zena returns, I’m gonna’ give her a lickin’ twice as badly as I first planned."
He grabbed his belt and swished it at the ghost and laughed sadistically.
The spirit of Vaughn pointed his figure at him. "How many times have you beaten up Zena and gotten away with it? Well, not anymore. You’re a man who the world would be better off without. Get ready to feel all the physical pain you inflected on her."
At first Gordon felt nothing, then the pain began to spread throughout his body like molten led. As it intensified, he double up and let out a scream. Five grueling minutes later, his heart gave way and he lay still on the floor.
Gordon’s death certificate said he had died of a heart attack that was induced by his heavy drinking, but Zena knew that Vaughn definitely had something to do with it.
*****
After Gordon’s passing, Zena started getting her life back in order. She got a decent job as a manager at a local supermarket in the mall, moved into a more pleasant apartment in town, and began taking more care of her personal appearance. Soon there were plenty of suitors, but after her experience with Gordon, she was mentally scared and could not get herself to date again.
"I’ll probably become a lonely old widow," she miserably said to herself.
September was a rainy month, so on the first nice day, Zena decided to take a long walk and enjoy the sun. Something drew her to the cemetery on the hill. The leaves had begun to change and it was so all picturesque and dreamy. Behind, a soft voice called her name and she turned. There stood Vaughn Benson in an army uniform. He ran up to her and gave her a kiss that made her tingle. This certainly was no dead man!
"Vaughn, you’re alive!" she shouted.
The soldier laughed. "I am. You see, when the insurgents threw a bomb at my crew, I was just wounded. In the aftermath, the inspectors saw my dog tag lying on the ground near the gruesome sight and assumed I was among those blown up. Actually I was taken a prisoner and placed in the enemies compound somewhere in the desert. For over a year they kept trying to brainwash me into become a suicide fighter to show up and disgrace the Americans. I don’t have words to describe the torture. Giving me just enough food to exist, at night I was thrown into a small hole where I could hardly move. It was during these times I would start thinking about you to maintain my sanity. Then a few months ago, I suddenly began having dreams of what Gordon was doing to you, I knew he was going to kill you and wished with all my might to return home so that I could help you. I guess my determination was so strong that it created a miracle."
Zena nodded. "It certainly did, except you looked like some sort of transparent ghost when you transported yourself back here. Still, I could feel your deep love and wasn’t afraid."
Vaughn took a big breath. " I had to make sure that your lousy husband would never harm you again. Once I accomplished that mission, I was zapped back to my miserable hole. I was thankful for that miracle since I knew I wouldn’t be able to hold out with the insurgents for too much longer. Fortunately, the Americans discovered the compound a month later and freed me after waging a fierce battle. After a stay in the hospital and debriefing, I was flown back to the States this past week." He paused, "Well, let’s forget the past and talk about our future. I am back and here to rectify our mistake."
From his pocket the soldier took out an engagement ring. "Zena, would you wear this again?"
Of course we all know what the answer was. And as most romantic fairy tales end, "They got married and lived happily ever after."
- - -
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
Friday, October 8, 2010
10/8/10
To That Shy Butterfly Maya at the Last Poetry Reading
By Lee Minh Sloca
1 – one-thousand 2 – two-thousand 3 – three-thousand
As you breathe in to speed greet me,
I’ll earn my turn for five minutes
to recite what fires this talking heart;
so lighten your eyes, even if slightly,
for I’ve quested my dictions to sing you these:
I could’ve mapped out the trapping to writings,
but I wouldn’t find the dearness in your goodness.
I could’ve lounged on mounts of paperwork,
but I wouldn’t find a scent to your candor.
I could’ve shouted beyond a doubt about poetry,
but I wouldn’t find the symphony in your simple smile.
Now that I have infused you with such musings,
I hope, not this reading, but the re-listening,
will I stir you with the pearls of my purring:
the spectrum of best, worst, and everything in between.
Till at last, time and fine rhyme will bind us:
First word, first sentence: sunrise prizes -
I will strum your hair and sum them on pages.
Second word, second paragraph: midday frays -
I will catch your eyelashes and latch them into verses.
Third word, third chapter: evening lingers -
I will trace your lips and race home for kisses.
Only then, can we embrace each others’ space
and grit the speed of this searching earth.
4 – four-thousand 5 – five-thousand 6 – six-thousand
- - -
Lee Minh Sloca escaped Vietnam two weeks prior to its collapse. After college, he worked for 14 years with special needs children. After campaigning for Obama in the ’08 election, he is currently seeking works that will align with the President’s philosophy of community. Lee lives in Los Angeles, CA.
By Lee Minh Sloca
1 – one-thousand 2 – two-thousand 3 – three-thousand
As you breathe in to speed greet me,
I’ll earn my turn for five minutes
to recite what fires this talking heart;
so lighten your eyes, even if slightly,
for I’ve quested my dictions to sing you these:
I could’ve mapped out the trapping to writings,
but I wouldn’t find the dearness in your goodness.
I could’ve lounged on mounts of paperwork,
but I wouldn’t find a scent to your candor.
I could’ve shouted beyond a doubt about poetry,
but I wouldn’t find the symphony in your simple smile.
Now that I have infused you with such musings,
I hope, not this reading, but the re-listening,
will I stir you with the pearls of my purring:
the spectrum of best, worst, and everything in between.
Till at last, time and fine rhyme will bind us:
First word, first sentence: sunrise prizes -
I will strum your hair and sum them on pages.
Second word, second paragraph: midday frays -
I will catch your eyelashes and latch them into verses.
Third word, third chapter: evening lingers -
I will trace your lips and race home for kisses.
Only then, can we embrace each others’ space
and grit the speed of this searching earth.
4 – four-thousand 5 – five-thousand 6 – six-thousand
- - -
Lee Minh Sloca escaped Vietnam two weeks prior to its collapse. After college, he worked for 14 years with special needs children. After campaigning for Obama in the ’08 election, he is currently seeking works that will align with the President’s philosophy of community. Lee lives in Los Angeles, CA.
Thursday, October 7, 2010
10/7/10
Heartbeats and Rhythms
By Ron Koppelberger
Natural, frequently concealed in secret by shy
Grins and flirting promenades of
Concern, the need for sentimental
Discourse and sustenance in heartbeats and rhythms
Of blushing birth, a love borne of
Necessary fruit and the shadows in
Coy dance.
- - -
I am aspiring to become established as a poet and a short story writer. I have written 96 books of poetry over the past several years and 16 novels: I have been submitting my work for the past year and am thrilled by acceptance. I am always looking for an audience. I have published 305 poems and 133 short stories in a variety of periodicals. I have been published in The Storyteller, Ceremony, Write On!!! (Poetry Magazette), Freshly Baked Fiction and Necrology Shorts. Also I recently won the People’s Choice Award for poetry In The Storyteller for a poem titled Secret Sash. I have been accepted in England, Australia and Thailand. I love to write and offer an experience to the reader. I am a member of The American Poet’s Society as well as The Isles Poetry Association. I hope you enjoy my work.
By Ron Koppelberger
Natural, frequently concealed in secret by shy
Grins and flirting promenades of
Concern, the need for sentimental
Discourse and sustenance in heartbeats and rhythms
Of blushing birth, a love borne of
Necessary fruit and the shadows in
Coy dance.
- - -
I am aspiring to become established as a poet and a short story writer. I have written 96 books of poetry over the past several years and 16 novels: I have been submitting my work for the past year and am thrilled by acceptance. I am always looking for an audience. I have published 305 poems and 133 short stories in a variety of periodicals. I have been published in The Storyteller, Ceremony, Write On!!! (Poetry Magazette), Freshly Baked Fiction and Necrology Shorts. Also I recently won the People’s Choice Award for poetry In The Storyteller for a poem titled Secret Sash. I have been accepted in England, Australia and Thailand. I love to write and offer an experience to the reader. I am a member of The American Poet’s Society as well as The Isles Poetry Association. I hope you enjoy my work.
Wednesday, October 6, 2010
10/6/10
Echoes
By John Ogden
Lotus jewel
I love you
Love you I
You I love
My simple hope
Is that we’ll have this
Love
Perfect
As perfect
Forever
Lotus jewel.
Woman of my dreams
of my dreams woman
dreams woman of mine.
- - -
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
Lotus jewel
I love you
Love you I
You I love
My simple hope
Is that we’ll have this
Love
Perfect
As perfect
Forever
Lotus jewel.
Woman of my dreams
of my dreams woman
dreams woman of mine.
- - -
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.
Tuesday, October 5, 2010
10/5/10
The Voice of Reason
By Troy Manning
Jolie Haliburton’s aardvark McSweeney was rather unaccommodating today. Watching them on the wildlife channel little prepares one for the extremes in disposition such creatures may assume when once introduced into the humdrum of human affairs.
Rainer the mailman stood outside the fence hoping McSweeney would permit a wide enough berth for him to make it to the mail-slot and back unscathed. It was common knowledge that Jolie was going to lose McSweeney soon due to a particular species of grub that was protected in northeastern Kentucky. Addison, the Davis family’s anteater, had already been carted off for this very reason. Rainer could easily have expedited the process by filing an official complaint about McSweeney, but didn’t since Jolie had only recently been forsaken by her fiancé. So Rainer endured this disdainful and daily haranguing, thinking that by it he might be able to spark in Jolie an interest in himself.
Jolie indeed took an interest in the routine. Unbeknownst to Rainer, she sat near her bedroom window watching him and making sketches of his frightened profile in her journal. She found Rainer very attractive but was too timid to begin a conversation with him. While she sometimes felt ashamed of enjoying their exchange, she knew McSweeney, since his teeth were set so far back his his jaws, could not maul Rainer like Donna, her late Irish Setter, did a previous postman. Even when McSweeney was particularly excited, he seldom broke skin.
“Don’t even think about setting foot on this property,” said McSweeney. “I’ll scratch you so bad your skin won’t even be able to crawl.”
“Aardvarks run seven maybe eight miles an hour tops,” Rainer replied. It wasn’t as though Rainer wasn’t afraid. He was. He simply didn’t want Jolie to think she didn’t receive her mail due to his cowardice. “Besides, if you scratch me I’ll kick your hide so hard all over there’ll be nothing left for the sun to tan.”
Obviously this exchange all took place in Rainer’s head since even a cursory viewing of the wildlife channel would reveal aardvark vocabulary to be profoundly limited. Regardless, McSweeney did have an uncanny knack for interpreting heartbeats and he sensed Rainer’s fear rising with each passing moment. McSweeney counted the beats like a young girl timing the swings of a jump rope before charging in.
Some difficulties in getting the mail into the slot gave McSweeney more than adequate time to reach Rainer and work his ankle to the back of his mouth. Rainer’s ankle probably wouldn’t even have begun to bleed if he didn’t attempt to extricate it through shaking his leg. McSweeney’s hold tightened and Rainer nearly screamed out.
Jolie moved closer to the window with a look of increasing concern. She wanted to open it and call out, but then Rainer might suspect she had been observing him all this time.
Rainer removed a small sample bottle of shampoo from Jolie’s junk mail and emptied it into McSweeney’s eyes. Realizing it was of the “no more tears” variety and consequently ineffective, he pounded on the door and shouted, “Miss Haliburton!”
As she sketched the blood pooling at Rainer’s feet, Jolie realized the situation was becoming more serious. “Oh!” she said, picking up the phone. She called Ishiguro McSweeney, who had sold her McSweeney, to ask him what to do. Ishiguro told her to put the phone to McSweeney’s ear and he would try and talk some sense into him.
With McSweeney still clinging fast to his left ankle, Rainer turned in frenetic circles as he tried to use his right foot to stomp on the aardvark’s tail.
Jolie opened the door and the chemical reaction that overtook them both was too acute to ignore. Jolie dropped the phone and all but McSweeney were oblivious to the voice emanating from it.
Rainer having gathered Jolie into his embrace, was unaware McSweeney had relinquished his grip and had moved on in search of rare grubs. The cries of passion flowing into the receiver ruthlessly assaulted Ishiguro’s five senses of humor. And when he realized there would be no talking sense into the two of them, he hung up the phone.
- - -
Troy Manning is a graduate of Westminster Seminary California. He has recently been taking literature classes at Cal State University, San Marcos where his stories "Edgar's Telegram" and "Head Knowledge" have been published in the creative writing program's Cat Ate My Chapbook and the Spring 2010 issue of Oh, Cat!
By Troy Manning
Jolie Haliburton’s aardvark McSweeney was rather unaccommodating today. Watching them on the wildlife channel little prepares one for the extremes in disposition such creatures may assume when once introduced into the humdrum of human affairs.
Rainer the mailman stood outside the fence hoping McSweeney would permit a wide enough berth for him to make it to the mail-slot and back unscathed. It was common knowledge that Jolie was going to lose McSweeney soon due to a particular species of grub that was protected in northeastern Kentucky. Addison, the Davis family’s anteater, had already been carted off for this very reason. Rainer could easily have expedited the process by filing an official complaint about McSweeney, but didn’t since Jolie had only recently been forsaken by her fiancé. So Rainer endured this disdainful and daily haranguing, thinking that by it he might be able to spark in Jolie an interest in himself.
Jolie indeed took an interest in the routine. Unbeknownst to Rainer, she sat near her bedroom window watching him and making sketches of his frightened profile in her journal. She found Rainer very attractive but was too timid to begin a conversation with him. While she sometimes felt ashamed of enjoying their exchange, she knew McSweeney, since his teeth were set so far back his his jaws, could not maul Rainer like Donna, her late Irish Setter, did a previous postman. Even when McSweeney was particularly excited, he seldom broke skin.
“Don’t even think about setting foot on this property,” said McSweeney. “I’ll scratch you so bad your skin won’t even be able to crawl.”
“Aardvarks run seven maybe eight miles an hour tops,” Rainer replied. It wasn’t as though Rainer wasn’t afraid. He was. He simply didn’t want Jolie to think she didn’t receive her mail due to his cowardice. “Besides, if you scratch me I’ll kick your hide so hard all over there’ll be nothing left for the sun to tan.”
Obviously this exchange all took place in Rainer’s head since even a cursory viewing of the wildlife channel would reveal aardvark vocabulary to be profoundly limited. Regardless, McSweeney did have an uncanny knack for interpreting heartbeats and he sensed Rainer’s fear rising with each passing moment. McSweeney counted the beats like a young girl timing the swings of a jump rope before charging in.
Some difficulties in getting the mail into the slot gave McSweeney more than adequate time to reach Rainer and work his ankle to the back of his mouth. Rainer’s ankle probably wouldn’t even have begun to bleed if he didn’t attempt to extricate it through shaking his leg. McSweeney’s hold tightened and Rainer nearly screamed out.
Jolie moved closer to the window with a look of increasing concern. She wanted to open it and call out, but then Rainer might suspect she had been observing him all this time.
Rainer removed a small sample bottle of shampoo from Jolie’s junk mail and emptied it into McSweeney’s eyes. Realizing it was of the “no more tears” variety and consequently ineffective, he pounded on the door and shouted, “Miss Haliburton!”
As she sketched the blood pooling at Rainer’s feet, Jolie realized the situation was becoming more serious. “Oh!” she said, picking up the phone. She called Ishiguro McSweeney, who had sold her McSweeney, to ask him what to do. Ishiguro told her to put the phone to McSweeney’s ear and he would try and talk some sense into him.
With McSweeney still clinging fast to his left ankle, Rainer turned in frenetic circles as he tried to use his right foot to stomp on the aardvark’s tail.
Jolie opened the door and the chemical reaction that overtook them both was too acute to ignore. Jolie dropped the phone and all but McSweeney were oblivious to the voice emanating from it.
Rainer having gathered Jolie into his embrace, was unaware McSweeney had relinquished his grip and had moved on in search of rare grubs. The cries of passion flowing into the receiver ruthlessly assaulted Ishiguro’s five senses of humor. And when he realized there would be no talking sense into the two of them, he hung up the phone.
- - -
Troy Manning is a graduate of Westminster Seminary California. He has recently been taking literature classes at Cal State University, San Marcos where his stories "Edgar's Telegram" and "Head Knowledge" have been published in the creative writing program's Cat Ate My Chapbook and the Spring 2010 issue of Oh, Cat!
Monday, October 4, 2010
10/4/10
Dreaming II
By E.S. Wynn
“Hey,” She says, and I can see the smile in her eyes, the light in the depths of a gaze the color of gray green beaches and earth. It is morning, and as we wake up, we kiss, smile, gently trace fingers across shoulders, cheeks and skin in loving motions. There is no worry here, no discomfort, no fear, only love, gentleness, sweetness.
It is pleasantly early when we wake. We feel refreshed, happy, and when we are ready, we rise and make coffee together, craft breakfast and kiss, smile, whisper sweetly and say “my love.” Each day has the joy, ease and possibility of a weekend now, but there is still work to be done, a schedule which just happens to fit us perfectly. Her job is something that she loves doing, something that pays well and gives her all the benefits, structure and paid time off she desires. My job is writing, creating, photographing, and pushing the boundaries of art in whatever ways come to me. Each day she asks me what I’m going to work on next and I have an answer that excites me as I tell her about it. I am never bored, and what I create always sells. Given time, a matter of days or weeks, everything I create rises exponentially in popularity, brings more and more people to my sites, sells so quickly, so readily and easily that it seems almost unbelievable, almost driven by miracle or magic. But it is real, and I find myself grateful for each day that I wake up and know that every ounce of work I do will yield a bountiful harvest before the week is out.
My computer warms up slow, but not too slow, only taking enough time for me to take a long leisurely sip of my coffee and make a few notes to myself about projects I want to immerse myself in. I check my sales, my pageviews and clicks– all increasing like the roll of a snowball in a way that makes me smile, pleasantly surprised, knowing that all my expenses are paid, all my needs and debts already satisfied. I’ll be able to make another big deposit into the savings account this month, put money toward another friend or relative’s education, another cause, another new business or band. Hundreds of thousands of people move across my network of websites every day, soaking in all that I produce, smiling at the pictures, reciting the poetry, the stories, and passing on all that they find to other friends, to massive engines of social networking that expose more and more people to my work. My email box is full of fan mail and contracts, people who want to option pieces of my writing for television or film, people who want to pay me to write forwards and reviews to their books, speak at their conventions, their school rallies, their meetings. The ads on my pages are popular– thousands of people see exactly what they are looking for and click through to pages that delight them, and they remember that my page is where they saw those ads, visit each of my pages again and again. My account grows and grows, becomes so sweet and fat that I never worry, never fear, only smile.
Later, my love and I are singing opera in the shower, a little piece we remember specifically in this moment, something that makes us both laugh as we finish. We laugh as we sing, both forgetting parts here and there, key sequences, picking up the lines that the other blurs through. Time passes as we move from song to song, old favorites, things and bits from movies and games and memory that linger on in our minds and hearts. Holding each other here, enshrined in the cool cascade of water, there is no fear, no inhibition– the outside world no longer exists for us, only a body and soul that blurs vaguely into two. Beyond the work that we do, there is plenty of room to breathe, to be, and to forget everything that is outside of each moment we share together, just us.
That night, as I stare at a half finished page, fingers tapping across well worn keys, I think of her and my thoughts rise above the quiet, ambient strains tumbling from the radio. I pause, smiling, lingering on the rise and fall of mind and smile as my fingers find the knob and silence the radio, leave only the sound of silence, breeze and life to hang softly in the night. I smile at the sound of a pen scratching poetry, the turn of a page, the passion she has for her art, and as I stand and push aside the chair, she whispers lines of something gentler, something that reminds me of rain.
The boards of the house creak beneath my feet as I cross to her, sit silently behind her and wrap my arms around her waist as she reads. The lines of her poetry rise, become stronger and more complex as she leans into me again, back against my chest, head coming to rest on my shoulder. I smile again, gently kiss her hair as she finishes.
“Hey,” She says, curling into me, smiling contentedly. “What do you think?”
“It’s beautiful.” I smile, and gently move an edge of hair out of her eyes. “Your poetry is as beautiful and lyrical as you are.”
- - -
By E.S. Wynn
“Hey,” She says, and I can see the smile in her eyes, the light in the depths of a gaze the color of gray green beaches and earth. It is morning, and as we wake up, we kiss, smile, gently trace fingers across shoulders, cheeks and skin in loving motions. There is no worry here, no discomfort, no fear, only love, gentleness, sweetness.
It is pleasantly early when we wake. We feel refreshed, happy, and when we are ready, we rise and make coffee together, craft breakfast and kiss, smile, whisper sweetly and say “my love.” Each day has the joy, ease and possibility of a weekend now, but there is still work to be done, a schedule which just happens to fit us perfectly. Her job is something that she loves doing, something that pays well and gives her all the benefits, structure and paid time off she desires. My job is writing, creating, photographing, and pushing the boundaries of art in whatever ways come to me. Each day she asks me what I’m going to work on next and I have an answer that excites me as I tell her about it. I am never bored, and what I create always sells. Given time, a matter of days or weeks, everything I create rises exponentially in popularity, brings more and more people to my sites, sells so quickly, so readily and easily that it seems almost unbelievable, almost driven by miracle or magic. But it is real, and I find myself grateful for each day that I wake up and know that every ounce of work I do will yield a bountiful harvest before the week is out.
My computer warms up slow, but not too slow, only taking enough time for me to take a long leisurely sip of my coffee and make a few notes to myself about projects I want to immerse myself in. I check my sales, my pageviews and clicks– all increasing like the roll of a snowball in a way that makes me smile, pleasantly surprised, knowing that all my expenses are paid, all my needs and debts already satisfied. I’ll be able to make another big deposit into the savings account this month, put money toward another friend or relative’s education, another cause, another new business or band. Hundreds of thousands of people move across my network of websites every day, soaking in all that I produce, smiling at the pictures, reciting the poetry, the stories, and passing on all that they find to other friends, to massive engines of social networking that expose more and more people to my work. My email box is full of fan mail and contracts, people who want to option pieces of my writing for television or film, people who want to pay me to write forwards and reviews to their books, speak at their conventions, their school rallies, their meetings. The ads on my pages are popular– thousands of people see exactly what they are looking for and click through to pages that delight them, and they remember that my page is where they saw those ads, visit each of my pages again and again. My account grows and grows, becomes so sweet and fat that I never worry, never fear, only smile.
Later, my love and I are singing opera in the shower, a little piece we remember specifically in this moment, something that makes us both laugh as we finish. We laugh as we sing, both forgetting parts here and there, key sequences, picking up the lines that the other blurs through. Time passes as we move from song to song, old favorites, things and bits from movies and games and memory that linger on in our minds and hearts. Holding each other here, enshrined in the cool cascade of water, there is no fear, no inhibition– the outside world no longer exists for us, only a body and soul that blurs vaguely into two. Beyond the work that we do, there is plenty of room to breathe, to be, and to forget everything that is outside of each moment we share together, just us.
That night, as I stare at a half finished page, fingers tapping across well worn keys, I think of her and my thoughts rise above the quiet, ambient strains tumbling from the radio. I pause, smiling, lingering on the rise and fall of mind and smile as my fingers find the knob and silence the radio, leave only the sound of silence, breeze and life to hang softly in the night. I smile at the sound of a pen scratching poetry, the turn of a page, the passion she has for her art, and as I stand and push aside the chair, she whispers lines of something gentler, something that reminds me of rain.
The boards of the house creak beneath my feet as I cross to her, sit silently behind her and wrap my arms around her waist as she reads. The lines of her poetry rise, become stronger and more complex as she leans into me again, back against my chest, head coming to rest on my shoulder. I smile again, gently kiss her hair as she finishes.
“Hey,” She says, curling into me, smiling contentedly. “What do you think?”
“It’s beautiful.” I smile, and gently move an edge of hair out of her eyes. “Your poetry is as beautiful and lyrical as you are.”
- - -
Sunday, October 3, 2010
10/3/10
Kindred Soul
By Ron Koppelberger
Each and every whisper of a bidden spirit,
By the fire in love's hearth and the unclouded substance
Of passion, the love and nearness of
Kindred souls, of similar sensations in spring
Seasons of sparrow sashay and sunshine
Affections of
Passion.
- - -
I am aspiring to become established as a poet and a short story writer. I have written 96 books of poetry over the past several years and 16 novels: I have been submitting my work for the past year and am thrilled by acceptance. I am always looking for an audience. I have published 305 poems and 133 short stories in a variety of periodicals. I have been published in The Storyteller, Ceremony, Write On!!! (Poetry Magazette), Freshly Baked Fiction and Necrology Shorts. Also I recently won the People’s Choice Award for poetry In The Storyteller for a poem titled Secret Sash. I have been accepted in England, Australia and Thailand. I love to write and offer an experience to the reader. I am a member of The American Poet’s Society as well as The Isles Poetry Association. I hope you enjoy my work.
By Ron Koppelberger
Each and every whisper of a bidden spirit,
By the fire in love's hearth and the unclouded substance
Of passion, the love and nearness of
Kindred souls, of similar sensations in spring
Seasons of sparrow sashay and sunshine
Affections of
Passion.
- - -
I am aspiring to become established as a poet and a short story writer. I have written 96 books of poetry over the past several years and 16 novels: I have been submitting my work for the past year and am thrilled by acceptance. I am always looking for an audience. I have published 305 poems and 133 short stories in a variety of periodicals. I have been published in The Storyteller, Ceremony, Write On!!! (Poetry Magazette), Freshly Baked Fiction and Necrology Shorts. Also I recently won the People’s Choice Award for poetry In The Storyteller for a poem titled Secret Sash. I have been accepted in England, Australia and Thailand. I love to write and offer an experience to the reader. I am a member of The American Poet’s Society as well as The Isles Poetry Association. I hope you enjoy my work.
Saturday, October 2, 2010
10/2/10
I Wrote This For You
By Kennedy Kanagawa
I am weaving the fabric of myself onto your body
with the rattling threads of a teacup heart
and the stitches are yes, every, and always
your eyes, the color of hold-you-in-the
-rain
-ocean
-middle of the night
see the beauty in a sidewalk dragonfly death
I am weaving the fabric of myself onto your body
along with the forgotten ladies from beyond the wardrobe:
MarieDianaStella(for star!)Remy
(they’re here they’re real they’re alive)
and I wrap my thoughts around you
like ribbons of graffiti lacing familiar brick
just above the wrought-iron stairs where
only the moon remembers the secret of our Chinatown kiss
I am weaving the fabric of myself onto your body
with bones made of porcelain cogs
and veins filled with heavy cream
your alchemist smile transmutes me at once
kite flyer
fire breather
exquisite corpse
I am lost in the city
of your body against mine, which is
everything we want (and nothing we don’t)
as long as
you’re here.
you’re real.
you’re alive.
- - -
My name is Kennedy. I like to write things sometimes.
By Kennedy Kanagawa
I am weaving the fabric of myself onto your body
with the rattling threads of a teacup heart
and the stitches are yes, every, and always
your eyes, the color of hold-you-in-the
-rain
-ocean
-middle of the night
see the beauty in a sidewalk dragonfly death
I am weaving the fabric of myself onto your body
along with the forgotten ladies from beyond the wardrobe:
MarieDianaStella(for star!)Remy
(they’re here they’re real they’re alive)
and I wrap my thoughts around you
like ribbons of graffiti lacing familiar brick
just above the wrought-iron stairs where
only the moon remembers the secret of our Chinatown kiss
I am weaving the fabric of myself onto your body
with bones made of porcelain cogs
and veins filled with heavy cream
your alchemist smile transmutes me at once
kite flyer
fire breather
exquisite corpse
I am lost in the city
of your body against mine, which is
everything we want (and nothing we don’t)
as long as
you’re here.
you’re real.
you’re alive.
- - -
My name is Kennedy. I like to write things sometimes.
Friday, October 1, 2010
10/1/10
You Are
By Jasob Bobkins
You are the stars
That light my sky
You are the queen
That gives birth to my night
You are the soft
That cures my petrify
You are the dance
That carries my feet
And you are the script
That fills my heart with lines.
Breathe with me, baby
Let us be,
Let us dance,
And as the waves cry our names,
We’ll make love in the surf,
Breathe the motions of the sea
And be,
Just be,
You and me.
- - -
Jasob L. Bobkins believes in a satan, but not a god. Bring the light, brothers. Lets be poetry and sound in the wake of the needy.
By Jasob Bobkins
You are the stars
That light my sky
You are the queen
That gives birth to my night
You are the soft
That cures my petrify
You are the dance
That carries my feet
And you are the script
That fills my heart with lines.
Breathe with me, baby
Let us be,
Let us dance,
And as the waves cry our names,
We’ll make love in the surf,
Breathe the motions of the sea
And be,
Just be,
You and me.
- - -
Jasob L. Bobkins believes in a satan, but not a god. Bring the light, brothers. Lets be poetry and sound in the wake of the needy.
