11/30/10

The Tinkle of Your Eye
By Troy Manning


According to my parents, I wasn’t exactly an “oops” and I wasn’t exactly planned. Much of my life has since been an exercise in trying to understand what they meant. But as each direct query to their meaning only met with even more cryptic responses, my tactics have become more experimental in nature. I recall one instance when my mother told me that I was once a Twinkie in my father’s eye. My father corrected her and said I was never his eye’s Twinkie but its apple with which he baked forbidden pie. On another occasion, he sat me down to tell me the story of the early birds and the busy bees. I remember squirming at the plight of the worms as the birds dug them up from their holes while the bees busily injected them with their poison. The worms swelled until they exploded like frenzied car-bombers, and aluminum shards littered the landscapes of unwitting lives like those of my parents. I felt just terrible.

After getting some integrative counseling, I again felt ready to face the world. I ceased to ask my parents for explanations of my origins and instead majored in cellular biology. I learned a lot in that program, about both my cells and yours. I remember, for instance, when we scraped some of the skin from your scalp and looked at it under the microscope. We observed the organisms that lived in your tissue and remarked at how well they all seemed to get on. You said it reminded you of your childhood home in St. Paul and the symbiosis of the relationships displayed therein. When, however, we scraped my head, it was an altogether different story. Do you remember the discord, the dissonance, the disarray? A tear fell from your eye, so we quickly scooped it onto the glass slide for examination. We observed with wonder at how everything seemed to coalesce so harmoniously. The fluid from your eye was like a cleansing flood that swept away the obstreperous players from the stage of my head-tissue, while a quiet, satisfying resolution pervaded the set. The smiles that ornamented the remaining organisms’ visages were something to behold. I took your hand and you didn’t withdraw it. We pledged even then we would never tell our children they were an “oops,” or an auto accident, or a Hostess product. To the contrary, they would be nothing less sublime than the tinkle from your eye.


- - -
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!

11/29/10

Hell Yes
By Amanda Firefox


I proposed to her three times. The first time, it was night. We were in bed. She was worried, scared. The words tumbled from my mouth. “I love you so much I can’t help but want to marry you.” Silence flooded into our minds, a tension. “Will you marry me?”
And her words: “Yes. Hell yes.”

The second time, it was mid day. I had a ring, too big for her but still meaningful. I got down on one knee. She blushed. The words tumbled from my mouth “Will you marry me?”
And her words: “Yes. Hell yes.”

The third time, it was morning. I had the ring, our ring, black hills gold with diamonds, an heirloom trubute to the women of my family. I kissed her, gently took her hand in mine and slipped the ring onto her finger. Tears played at the edges of her eyes as I smiled, met her gaze.

“I love you.” The words came firm, bright. “Marry me.”

Her words:
“Shut up, you stupid bastard, and kiss me.”

“Of course I’ll marry you.”


- - -
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.

11/28/10

Meat Market
By Kenneth Morris


Smoky Voice
Thighs like prime cuts
Of steak
Sweet Hams
Marbled
Rich and dark
Smooth
Her curves
Supple
Generous
She makes my mouth water
She makes me want
her.


- - -
Kenneth Morris lives life like a weekend.

11/27/10

Silence
By Ciara Livingston


Your silence draws me in
Bound to a tepid embrace
Urging your words
To boil over the surface
Burst into flame
Delicate and soft as the fabrics
Of a well worn blanket

We huddle in our comforts


- - -
Ciara is a 20 year old student who likes to write when her emotions are the strongest. She has been writing ever since she could hold a pen in her hand.

11/26/10

An Almond Flavoured Chance
By Ryan Avery


I vaulted up these stairs. Slipping and sliding to the top. Skinned knees and hasty apologies apparent upon first glance. Words came spilling out of me as fast as thoughts could flow. Your hard shell melted away. The door slowly changed from showing a crack to open wide. A smile and a hug later, you finally led me inside.
The coffee steamed in contrast to the snow out the window. We sat quietly listening to British radio in the kitchen. Truths dealt out on the table. No more secrets.
The white knuckles surrounding my cupful of sensibility slowly gained colour. Your voice flowed smooth and soon I had completely relaxed. Let's hope the second time around we'll do things right.


- - -
I live in the north woods of Michigan without any idea of who I am or where I'm going. I spend my days drinking hot chocolate, listening to music and watching the clouds sail overhead. When I have nothing better to do I attend classes for an engineering degree.

11/25/10

Time Passes
By Neeti Vashi


Time passes

But it doesn’t change a thing.

Your face is still vivid in my memory

Your voice, the sweetest melody

It’s a shame you don’t realize

That you’re all I need.

The feelings still present,

Though marked with scribbles of hate,

The penmanship deeply engraved.

Forgive me

For wanting you,

For believing the words that linger around your lips

Because it’s ending and it’s over

All at the same time

We grow and we lessen

In this exact routine

We’re in the same place we started

I know this because

I’m falling

And the only one I’ll allow to catch me is you

And I’ve been crawling

Through broken glass to get to you

And though the wounds on my palms may never heal,

I know that

Your arms are waiting to catch me.


- - -
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. Hope you enjoy this piece! :)

11/24/10

Madly In Love
By Janet Robinson


Dear Ida,
Last night was an incredible night.
The mothership came and whisked me away.
We made a pitstop at Pluto
And picked flowers with unicorns on Jupiter.
I met a much of little men with green skin.
(They told me they knew you and missed you as much as I do.)
But our meeting was cut short by socks
(Evil socks)
Bent on world domination.
Thank god for Gunter.
If it hadn’t been for his rainbow-shooting axe
We all surely would have died.
After that, we went back home and had tea in the bathtub
Of the eighth dimension.
It was a wonderful time.
Hugs and kisses,
(Wish you were here)
Love you always
- - John

P.S. Tell the guards at your asylum that I said “hi.”


- - -
Janet Robinson teaches special ed and campaigns for gay rights in her hometown of Loup City Nebraska.

11/23/10

Give and Take
By Harriet Levy


When I married him, I gave my heart to him. When I took him, carried his child, I gave my life to him. When I left my job, chained myself to the kitchen, I gave my soul to him. In the end, when he held everything I could give, he took it with him, left me empty, left me for a woman with eyes as cold as glaciers.

As cold as turned backs and fate.


- - -

11/22/10

The Perfect Couple
By Barry Uno


There is a picture on the wall of the perfect couple, two lovers smiling, surrounded by hearts. His eyes are half-lidded, satisfied and comfortable. Hers are open, wide, receptive, her smile gentle and giving. This is what love looks like their smiles say, even now, years after they have gone their separate ways and left the frame of hearts empty, vacant, alone.


- - -
I am the master of my fate. I am the master of my fate. I am the master of my. . . oof!

11/21/10

Paucity
By David Backer


Earlier that evening Mr. and Mrs. Michaels sat at opposite ends of a bar with their backs to each other. Mr. Michaels was having drinks with a woman that was not Mrs. Michaels, and Mrs. Michaels was having drinks with a man that was not Mr. Michaels. It just so happened that they both got up to go to the bathroom at the same time. They saw each other. Both of them shocked, they turned around and paid their respective bills and left together, each driving their own car back home.



Now Mr. and Mrs. Michaels are sitting on their living room couch staring at the wall above their television, which is turned off.



Mr. Michaels attempts communication.



"I'm going to go get some chips from the kitchen. Do you want any?"



Mrs. Michaels is silent.


Mr. Michaels leaves the room and comes back empty-handed and sits down, resting his hands on his knees.



"What do we do?"



Mrs. Michaels says nothing. Mr. Michaels tries to be specific.



"Do we talk about it?"



"I don't know if there's very much to say."



"Who was he?" he asks.



"Who was she?" she retorts.



They both lean back on the couch and look forward again at the blank television screen.



"How long?" he asks.



"Two years," she says, "and you?"



"Three," he says.



Then there is silence, long, definitive, muscular. It extends several minutes. Mr. and Mrs. Michaels sigh intermittently, trying not to see each other.



"Weren't you going to go get chips?" Mrs. Michaels asks in a whisper.



"There wasn't any left," Mr. Michaels says, "so I gave up on the idea."


- - -
David Backer was born in Danbury, CT in 1984. He's pursuing a PhD in philosophy and education and plays the banjo.

11/20/10

Heart Carving
By Wilda Morris


The heart

they carved

in the tree

with their initials

expanded each year

as the tree grew



Their love

did not


- - -
Wilda Morris's first book of poetry, Szechwan Shrimp and Fortune Cookies: Poems from a Chinese Restaurant, was published by Rockford Writers Guild Press. Her blog, wildamorris.blogspot.com provides other poets with a monthly challenge and opportunity for publication.

11/19/10

Desperate Promises
By Ryan Avery


I imagine us desperate for each other. Separated by thousands of yellow lines on a never ending road. Traveled and worn by an equal number of travelers. Both of us walking on the hot asphalt. Shoes falling apart, soles flapping with each step. Clothes threadbare, holes showing our true colour. Gasoline ceases to exist and cars are a long ago luxury. We walk the faded road with no other thought.
Disaster struck hard and fast. The quick phone calls, helicopters overhead. We knew our late night conversations would never last. A quick promise, words spewing quickly. We needed each other. When everything died away. The lights, the phones, the cars, I was lost. Modern nomads all around. People were drifting. Each with their own agenda.
Every face I pass is forlorn and lost. Wandering with hidden purpose. I check every one. Looking beneath the hoods, the scarves, and capes. Trying to settle my nerves. Trying to convince myself that each step brings us closer. Convincing myself that you are the same as me. Just facing the other way.
When you come for me, run. Come quickly, like never before. Come raging and violent, like shouting in the stairwell. Come with purpose, like banging on my door. Come angry and upset, like the worlds been lost. Come passionate and emotional, like nothing is left. Come desperate and helpless, like it’s all over. Come needy and seeking, like I’m your last chance.
I’ll hear your running feet. I’ll hear your shouts. I’ll hear the bangs of your fists. I’ll know the worlds been lost. I’ll know nothing is left. I’ll know it’s all over. I’ll know I’m your last chance.
When you come for me, run. Come quickly, I’ll be waiting. Come raging and violent, I’ll calm you down. Come with purpose, I’ll answer in kind. Come angry and upset, I’ll bring peace. Come passionate and emotional, I’ll hold you tight. Come desperate and helpless, I’ll keep you safe. Come needy and seeking, I’ll protect you.
When it happens I want ecstasy. I want your numb, dirt smudged, exhausted soul to leap. When I uncover your face and eyes connect with hope filled eyes, smile. Smile and shout and scream and feel safe. Feel like your troubles are over and the world will come together again. Feel total. Feel happy. And I promise I’ll do the same.


- - -
I live in the north woods of Michigan without any idea of who I am or where I'm going. I spend my days drinking hot chocolate, listening to music and watching the clouds sail overhead. When I have nothing better to do I attend classes for an engineering degree.

11/18/10

Excuses
By Ciara Livingston


I longed for freedom
(you were my first)
I craved to taste the flesh of another
(you were the love of my life)
To hold another girl’s hand
(yours was the only one I had ever felt)

When we made love,
(it was earth shattering)
I knew what would make you scream.
( the sweetness of your breath on my neck)
I was bored.
(I didn’t know how to handle the comfort)
I wanted every night to drown in passion
( we all have it in the beginning)

I let you go to find my way,
(oh how I regret it)
To find the love of another
(it only left me searching for you again)


- - -
Ciara is a 20 year old student who likes to write when her emotions are the strongest. She has been writing ever since she could hold a pen in her hand.

11/17/10

Reason
By Sander Blome


My brain speaks louder than my heart, thank God. It overrides

all those emotions that could interfere. With my reason the

beauty of my love is clear. The importance of my loyalty is

paramount. So when my love tells me not to analyze, God be with

me for only a moment, maybe two. Let my love’s heart carry her

away for it carries me with it. Perplexed, I find my life’s

purpose. I will focus on my love until the end.


- - -
Sander Blome (b. 1956), B.S.M.E., J.D., turned his attention to poetry and fiction only this decade. Born in Baltimore, Maryland into a family of racing sailboaters, Sander grew up in Toledo, Ohio on Western Lake Erie. Sander, now retired from sailing, finds the freedom of the water and waves shoreside in SW Florida, his home since 1987.

11/16/10

Before the Apple Fell
By Leah Rogin-Roper


Oh, man there she was, with her hair flowing out behind her in tight dark circlets, and the ripe little cherries on her chest, her ass with that round apple curve. I’d never seen anything like her before, she was perfect. She was sublime. Her skin was the soft texture of clay, her eyes were a color that has not yet been named. I will call it “midnight.” I have not yet decided what I will call her.

I glanced at my reflection and straightened myself. When she saw me walking her way, her cherries twitched and the first sound that came out of her mouth sounded something like “Hah,” and I couldn’t tell if it was a question or an exclamation so I just grabbed her hand to see if she would push away or pull me closer.

She squeezed my hand a little and I took her in. Man, she was more beautiful than a woodchuck’s golden head popping out of a hole, more lovely than the wispy delicate legs of an ant. Her eyes curved upwards so it looked like she was smiling even when her mouth was drawn in a line. And her mouth, can you imagine the crisp red delight of her lips? I tried to think of a good opening line, but I wasn’t sure if she’d understand me or not. She had the look of the exotic about her, like she’d fallen out of the sky or sprouted from some newly dreamed tree.

“How do you like it?” was the first thing out of my mouth, and I felt my hands start to get damp, I’d never felt that before. “I mean, how do you like it?” I stuttered again as I studied her face.

“Oh, I like it,” she replied.

“When did you get here?” I asked, watching the way breath moved her cherries up and down.

“I just got here. Just now.” She looked around here as if she weren’t quite sure where exactly she was.

“I’ve been waiting for you,” I answered, trying to regain some measure of cool. “Would you like me to show you around?”

“That sounds wonderful.” She lowered her eyes and those lips curved up into a smile. Her dark eyebrows looked like the Euphrates and Tigris rivers, slightly intersecting above the pools of her eyes. We walked together and I could smell a soft jasmine perfume drifting from her.

How could I resist?

I showed her the glistening water fall, the animals, the painted sky, the lush plants from all over the world. “It’s all very impressive,” she whispered.

I saved my lounge area for last. I was allowed to decorate this area, and chose only the most comfortable and elegant pieces. Here, a smooth river-worn stick; there, a heap of plucked dandelion fluff.

Since she arrived I had felt tight and hot, longing for her. When we entered the lounge, I pushed her down into the fluff and lowered my own body on top of her.

“What are you doing?” she asked, her eyes wide with surprise and a bit of fear.

“I’m not sure,” I admitted. All I could feel was the tight, hot desire and my mouth was at her cherries, licking and sucking them. They were slightly tangy and sweet, and as my lips moved down her body I felt my groin tighten and throb. I poked it toward her, unsure of how she would react. She looked down at it, her eyes still wide though I couldn’t tell if it was because of fear or something else. She reached down and touched me gently with her hand, and I throbbed and pulsed, throbbed and pulsed, suddenly releasing into her perplexed almond eyed face and I felt the expulsion to my core, my head drifting into the sky.

“All praise be to God!” I screamed, panting slightly.

Disgusted, touching her cheek gingerly, she looked at me as if I must be a bit deranged. “That wasn’t at all what I expected it to be,” she said.

“Me neither,” I replied. She sighed and those little cherries bobbled up and down once before she rolled away from me.


- - -
Leah Rogin-Roper writes flash fiction on purpose. She has been published in Fast Forward, The Mountain Gazette, and other places. She lives in the mountains west of Denver.

11/15/10

Jealousy
By Sam Pyrgo


Jealousy is a sword with many untrustworthy blades.
Cut with it
And ultimately
You’ll cut
Yourself.


- - -
Sam Pyrgo is currently stationed in the middle east.

11/14/10

Something
By John Ogden


What’s wrong? I ask.
Nothing. You say
But I know that there is something
Something
Something you’re not telling me.


- - -
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.

11/13/10

Kat
(All Dressed Up With Nowhere to Go)
By Davis Ridge


I sit in a corner
in a circle
with my dust of construction
the leavings of an urban life
sad and eaten by rats

nobody knows me
nobody knows me
plain Jane
only on the outside

so I bloom
I bloom
I bloom bright enough
to make people look
to make women jealous
and I hope
(just hope)
that eventually
a man will come
and I won’t be so lonely and hated
anymore.


- - -
Davis Ridge is the winner of several local poetry competitions. He has a dog named Butch and a one-eyed cat named Jack.

11/12/10

Kids
By Hannah Atwood


She said she wanted ten kids, fourteen if I was willing to start now.

I said no way. Two is the limit.

She told me to think of the tax credits.

I told her to think of the grocery bill.

She said it was our sacred duty.

I said that I was beholden to no one.

She told me to accept it or she would leave me.

I told her goodbye.


- - -
Hi, I’m Hannah Atwood, and I’ve always believed that love is for suckers.

11/11/10

Magic
By Sean Will


Every morning
When I look into your eyes
I fall in love with you anew
Even now
Even years after you fell into my arms
And I kissed you
As night turned to day
And day turned
To night.


- - -
Sean Will loves his sweetheart dearly.

11/10/10

Robert
By Tasha Nickels


I knew it was over
when I found him
in our bedroom
with my mother.


- - -
True story.

11/9/10

Blah Blah
By O. Leary


This is another love story.

You know the type. You know the tired rhythms like yesterday’s overplayed music. You know all the patterns, you know where it all comes from and where it goes. You’ve seen it all before, the falling in love, the poems of loss, denied love, crushes crashed and dashed and gone stale after marriages stopped (or unstopped) by desperate admirers. It’s all the same isn’t it? All the same story? Just love in all its forms expressed through repetition, experiences ground through the massive factory of literary humanity. Some say love is dead. I say love is pastiche’, passe’, cliche’. Love stories are the stories we all can tell. They’re the stories we all have read, and there isn’t a shred of uniqueness in them anymore.

Or. . .

Is there?


- - -
If you know anything about me, it is that you know nothing about me.

11/8/10

Not Meant To Be
By Laura Henna


he was so cute
I used to go there every day just to see him
but I was scared
he looked so good in his uniform
so confident
so strong
I wanted to picture myself on his arm
at his side
during those late night gaming parties
dungeon runs
but I knew it could never be

his toon was on another server
his alliance would have pwned my horde.


- - -
Yes I am a gamer chick. No you can not have my number.

11/7/10

A girl named Savannah
By Jack Charles Buck


Savannah used to have a fella who would come through her apartment door with an anxious to see you smile. They met at the university. The friends and families celebrated with the two at their summer wedding four years back. They were so excited about life, all the possibilities it had. They even bought a nice home on Elk Street to call their own. Her husband no longer greets her with the boyish smile of excitement when he steps through the door. The door slams shut at 5:21, unless he stops after work to purchase some milk- then it’s around 5:33; depending on who is working behind the cash register on that particular day. Men drive cars. Men watch television. Men drink beers instead of splitting red wine with their once adored wives. Men fuck 19-year-old Asian girls with their right hand in front of the glow of a computer screen. Men stay busy.


- - -
My three favorite things in life are baseball, summers in Michigan, and literature. Especially by a man with the last name Fitzgerald. I’m currently trying to figure out where to go next in the grand play of life. After attending Central Michigan University where I studied the art of greed and the illusion of democracy of Political Science, I realized thereafter the importance of not getting in a huff and puff about what you can't control. I say focus on your local community and try not to worry about what happens over in D.C. I hope all your five senses find my writing pleasurable. Cheers!

11/5/10

Mallory Square Reunion
By Sally York


Instead of buying a book, he set a bamboo bong on the counter and said to me, all shy and sweet, “I made this for you.” His opening line. I closed the shop at six and ran down Duvall to meet him at Mallory Square, arriving just in time to catch the cheers of tourists and hippies and transvestites as the orange ball splashed into the purple ocean.

As if the sun deserved praise for setting! As if it isn't harder to stay up in the sky than to fall.

It's been thirty-five years since Jeff and I said goodbye along a sand-kissed stretch of U.S. 1. I'm on a bench under the middle arch in Mallory Square, and I can almost taste the banana pancakes he cooked for us on that long-ago morning, their wild perfection.

The square is alive with costumed dancers and fire-eaters and craftsmen, and for one crazy moment I expect to see Jeff among them, cross-legged on a blanket, selling his bongs. Under the next arch, a woman with frizzy hair is studying a sailor's palm. I'm tempted to get a reading.

Will he recognize me? Will we find anything to say to each other? Are his eyes still the color of key lime pie?

I stay where I am. Jeff—a widowed English teacher at a college in upstate New York—and I agreed to meet here at sunset, reconnecting last month through the great and powerful Google god. I don't want to risk missing him.

So I take in the swelling crowd of tourists, much larger than in the old days. Wealthier, too, judging by their tailored white slacks, their gold bracelets, their soft leather sandals. The street people haven't changed: An old gator in a captain's cap just hit me up for spare change. “Sorry,” I said, smiling tightly, “I'm not carrying cash.” A stringy-haired girl on a bicycle, no older than eight, offers me a folded map of Key West for five dollars, the kind you can get for free in any local shop.

I politely say no. I must have walked every block, every brick alley and tucked-away neighborhood, on this tiny island during the year I lived here, right after high school. A couple sits down beside me on the bench. The man hands the woman a conch fritter in a paper pouch, tells her, “Try it, you'll like it.”

All at once it's 1975 and I'm with Jeff at an obscure cove on Little Torch Key, swimming with some of his friends. The girls aren't wearing tops, and he encourages me to take off mine, but I'm self-conscious. “Go ahead, it's okay,” he says gently, his crooked Irish grin disarming me.

I'm pulled back to the present when a passing tourist lifts his collar off his sweaty neck, a move that reminds me of my ex-husband. The thought of him reminds me that I'm not a young woman who could be coaxed into swimming topless anymore; I haven't been her for a long time. I resist an urge to dig my compact mirror out of my purse and check my makeup.

The crowd is cresting. People are jammed in a circle around housecats trained to walk a tightrope, around a woman juggling rolling pins on a unicycle. Above the spectators and the huskers, above us all, is the sun, the main attraction at Mallory Square. It's descending slowly, teasingly, as if it might change its mind about setting tonight. I glance at my watch and feel a stab of rejection.

Jeff's not coming, I'm suddenly sure of it. I remember how we ended, with him leaving for a job in San Francisco, and me hitchhiking back to Michigan to try college.

“I'll miss you,” I said as we stood next to the highway, our arms around each other, a duffel bag at my feet.

“Me too,” he said. “But I think we both know it's time.”

The ersatz captain walks up again, and I'm about to tell him to get lost when he says he cadged some change from somebody else and used it to buy a rose. Bowing lavishly, he presents it to me.

I look at him and see it now, there in the glitter of his lime-green eyes.

Just then the sun goes down, and everyone applauds.


- - -
Sally York is working on a collection of short fiction and lives in Michigan. Her work has appeared in Every Day Fiction, MicroHorror and Weirdyear (upcoming).

11/4/10

Someone Else
By Dara Eloise


When I smile at you
you turn away.
When I laugh with you
your laugh ends in a sneer
You don’t like me
but I like you.
I can’t help but like you
and you can’t help
liking someone else.


- - -
Dara believes there’s a god out there somewhere-ah!

11/3/10

Receding
By Wilda Morris


My feelings were diffuse

as the light that dusk cast

on the snow, turning

his footprints purple -

his footprints down

the path from my door.

I hardly knew whether

to be relieved or bitter,

to weep or celebrate.

I had not expected

to see him again.

He had come, he said,

to say hello, to ask

how things were for me.

But I knew this

would be the last time.

His hollow cheeks,

hacking cough, the distant look

in his eyes, told more

than his words. He had come

to say goodbye; he meant

I'm sorry—words he never

learned to say.


- - -
Wilda Morris's first book of poetry, Szechwan Shrimp and Fortune Cookies: Poems from a Chinese Restaurant, was published by Rockford Writers Guild Press. Her blog, wildamorris.blogspot.com provides other poets with a monthly challenge and opportunity for publication.

11/2/10

To Be Read From the Inside Out
By Paula Ray


My heart is an unopened love letter,

yellowing at the bottom of a rusty mailbox.

A slice of light moves through my prison like a sundial.

I dream of warm hands,

a face pushed against my back,

someone breathing me in,

ripping open this envelope I wear like a shroud,

and unfolding me,

spreading me naked,

eyes scanning every inch of me,

devouring what they see,

until liquid happiness falls from their eyes and lands on my name,

causing it to blur and bloom into something beyond language.


- - -
Paula Ray is a musician from North Carolina with a syncopated heart and an addiction to prose poetry. One of her poems has recently been nominated for a Pushcart Prize, which both surprises and delights her. Paula's work has appeared in numerous small press zines, such as: Weirdyear, elimae, Word Riot, Liebamour and Necrotic Tissue. Visit her blog: http//:musicalpencil.blogspot.com for more information.

11/1/10

HIS SHIRT
By Celeste M. Johnson


I lay down, breathing in the scent
of my husband.
The smell of his deodorant
lingering on the shirt he wore
the night it was ripped off
without any regard to how
the fabric would shred.

I watched his motionless body
laying on the floor
while the EMTs tried to restore life.

I watched as they tried
over and over
to restart his heart.
The words,
“Who wants to call it?”
still echo in my
heart
and mind.

So many times
on that kitchen floor
he and I played
with our kids…
Not knowing what fate
the linoleum held
for my sweetheart.

So tonight,
tomorrow,
the next night,
nights without end,
I lay in our bed.
A l o n e.
My fingers clutch
the last shirt he wore
before he died.

Seven years have now
sifted through the hourglass.
The shirt
smells no more.
But I see him in
our daughters’ faces.
Lasting longer
than
any scent.


- - -
Celeste lives in southern Utah with her new husband, two stepsons, and two daughters. She has been writing works of poetry and fiction since she was in the 4th grade. Celeste also enjoys waving at strangers to see how they react.