5/31/11

Hesitance and Apprehension
By Rachel Rubinstein


On the edge
she stands and curls her toes over.
The crisp breeze penetrates her thin dress
that floats in the wind along with her thoughts .
gray skies match her emotions.
She inches back towards the past,
while the future overtakes her, beckons to her
from its depths.
Retrospect plays over and over in hear head,
a silent, colorless film.
Would she remake it if she could?
Clouds of trepidation loom on a distant horizon.
She again feels the pull and promise of impending bliss.
The young girl cannot make sense of conflicting ideas.
The too-close cliff invites her even closer.
An intimate run in with self against fate, she sits,
her feet precariously hanging over.
To jump would be simple.
She would slip away, new stories, new memories.
Right before the plunge into the future,
her past pushes her back with impeccable force.
The two opposites take their turns with the girl
then throw her back, limp and damaged.
She is left somewhere in the middle, inches away
from the boundary and the open space
empty, sobbing.
The sky turns dark but she does not budge.
Her breathing calms but she is not relaxed.
The girl wraps her arms around herself.
The breeze still blows but does not affect her now.
Opposing forces sway her
until she’s no longer near the edge or the open.
suspended in limbo,
waiting to break free.


- - -
I'm a high school girl still new to figuring out life and love. I'm a hopeless romantic that believes in the sanctity of passion and emotion. My journal is my safe haven, and I write what I cannot say out loud. My best ideas come to me when I'm running or when I need to get something off my chest. One day, I'd love to have something of mine published.

5/30/11

Freedom Haiku
By Wendy L. Schmidt


Real and lasting love,
Will come to me when I am,
Free to be myself.


- - -
Wendy Schmidt is a Wisconsin native who has been writing poetry and short stories for the last 10 years. She enjoys long walks, ghost stories and old movies. She lives with her daughter, Ava and her mewing muse, Lilly.

5/29/11

The Memory
By Sadie Tubbs


I ran out of his house. I swung softly around the door and into his arms laughing, so full of joy that neither one of us could stop smiling. Then my phone started ringing and I silenced him with the tip of my finger to his soft lips. It was my mother, I told her I was just leaving and I would be right home. We laughed together, we couldn't bring ourselves to stop. When the laughter finally subdued, he took my hand and led me barefoot into the middle of his grass laden yard. He wrapped his long arms around me and as I laid my head on his chest he led me in a slow dance. We stayed like this, suspended in this beautiful moment for what I wish was more than just a moment. And then it was over, our beautiful moment had left us. I ran to my car, opened the door, and sat in the driver's seat like I had done so many times before and waited for him to walk over to me and tell me goodnight. His head dropped into the car as he kissed me and told me goodbye. I grabbed his hand and he kissed me again... and again and I was so full of love and happiness that I felt I might burst, the way I always felt around him. Finally, the time came when we had to truly say goodbye. I let go of his hand as he gave me one final kiss and told me he loved me. I then shut the door and drove away.


- - -

5/28/11

Good Morning
By Rachel Rubinstein


The lazy midmorning sun
has barely kissed the waiting sky
when he reaches his fingertips of pink light
into our window.
Silently we sleep,
bodies intertwined and souls
sharing secrets in the faint,
vivid world that is dreamland.
The day summons me, and I awaken
next to your perfect form.
I run my fingertips over the soft skin
that covers your entire body.
I move closer to you and we become one,
two lovers, two friends, together.
Your eyes drift open and your hand finds mine.
We do not speak, words have no place.
I understand you and gazing into your eyes
I transfer my love with
a kiss.
The sun sits proudly now on his throne
in the sky.
Reluctantly, you rise from bed to start the day.
You smile at me,
lift me out of bed,
and carry me away.
Time melts into nothingness,
all that distracts my senses is you.
Countless, mindless moments
Coming back down from our elation
you whisper to me,
“good morning, beautiful.”


- - -
I'm a high school girl still new to figuring out life and love. I'm a hopeless romantic that believes in the sanctity of passion and emotion. My journal is my safe haven, and I write what I cannot say out loud. My best ideas come to me when I'm running or when I need to get something off my chest. One day, I'd love to have something of mine published.

5/27/11

If You Would Have Me
By Kelsie Hepburn


How could you
I was finally free, fresh, happy
Distracted with new love
Impossibly content

All it took was your name
The second it hit
It filled the room
Filled my head
How could you

You’ll be here soon
Here in my new life
My only question
Is the one I can’t ask;
Did you think of me,
When you chose this city

We both know what I did
How could I
Unspeakable
I don’t deserve to ask
But I have to;
Did you

It can’t be though
I couldn’t
He knows about you
He knows how you felt
How it ended
What he doesn’t know is
I felt too
I feel still

What he doesn’t know is
If I were to ask
And you were to say;
Of course I did,
Of course I thought of you
I would fall

How could I
I know how it sounds
I’m happy with him
He adores me
But I
I adore you
How could you
You would ask

The truth is,
I would say
If you would have me
How could I not


- - -
Kelsie is a grad student studying to be a therapist. Yes, that means she's a bit crazy herself. She loves pretending she can write, relaxing in small spaces and laughing at strangers.

5/26/11

Can You Count the Kiss?
By Alina Bernstein


You know it is special
When the kiss isn’t counted.
When there’s countless amounts,
And they’ve just amounted
To something just other than feeling or touch;
Overwhelming emotions that feel quite too much.
Or the beat in your mind and the thought in your heart,
That a kisses announcement has death do us part.
The sacred relation of one breathe to other,
Has the secret encryption of love for each other.
So thus, be prepared for an upcoming kiss;
Cause they are just simply not those to resist.


- - -
I am a thirteen year old woman who desperately fell in love at an inconvenient age. Ever since, my poetry has seemed to worry my parents, interest my friends, impress my teachers, and perfectly describe me. I no longer love him, but will never deny that I once did.

5/25/11

I Miss You
By Steven Barnes


I Miss You
No sun in my sky
No gravity to hold the world in place
No soil for the plants to grow
No heart in the human body to function

That’s what my life is when you’re not around

No happiness
No joy
Nothing to look forward to

Every time someone calls my name
My heart leaps off a cliff
When it’s not you I land in the river of sorrow

I don’t know what to do
Only darkness fills me
I long for your light to shine
It doesn’t ever seem to come

One minute without you is like three hours to my heart
Like a dove searching for its companion
I can only await your return

I can’t take much more
I start to hallucinate
See things that don’t exist
Old barriers don’t stand strong anymore

Everything that can go wrong has
The weather is too hot
Everyone around me fights
I don’t have the strength I use to

Knowing you’ll never leave comforts me
Not for long does it last
Cause thoughts of you can’t fill my void
The void that keeps getting bigger

I pray that you’ll shine your radiance
For now it’s in vain
I only have one feeling
A feeling that stings my soul
Like a blade in my ribs

I
Miss
You

- - -
My name is Steven Barnes, I live in Kentucky with my grandma and brother. I have a poem and a short story published.

5/24/11

A Daydream of Love
By Roydon Snelgar


I dream of you in your dress on a picnic blanket
Sparkling in the late sun of an early spring
Smiling in the breeze
Hair pinned carelessly hanging on

Leaves orange and yellow floating past your skin
Or daydreaming green in the trees
Seesawing back and forth
Like an ocean swell motioned to dream

I dream of you dreaming into the future
Dreaming on a picnic blanket
No notice of time but specs of dust
Dancing in rays of sunlight
Like new lovers set free by the stars

I dream of you in a summer breeze
Just the way you were back then
Just the way you are
Sparkling in the late sun of an early spring


- - -
I have always found writing to be the best form of therapy, self discovery and progress. The art of writing has unlimited potential for creativity.

5/23/11

Love Endures
By James Dye


Phenomenon,
Emotional primary,
One Absolute Value,
Intimate aura,

Intense attraction,
Aspect of caring,
Tempting wings,
Identity bearing,

Affection,
Best friends,
Passion
Without ends,

State
Of Sensuous excitement,
Valiant sweet leaf,
Righteous tyrant,

Nurturer,
Securer,
Romantic protector,
Passions' fuhrer,

Accelerating
Direction
In Hypnotic observation
With complexions of heaven

Like Chinese characters
Who breathe oceans heave earth
Filling hearts, a graceful rebirth,

Wit and Wisdom,
Soul our system,
Vigor and courage,
Heaven's mission,

Metaphysical
Unquantifiable sprites
Surviving death,
Your sentience conquers all.


- - -
James Dye is a college student working on his English major. He's appeared in a number of journals and anthologies since he started publishing in 2009. When he's not writing, he spends his free time catching meteorites and wooing his girlfriend Alicia.

5/22/11

When Lightening Strikes
By Jamie Rose Goldstein


My lighting struck down and left a mark,
One little hole easily patched up and ignored
Quickly forgotten and looked past
Because in that place within your chest where it struck, life quickly recovered
Nothing had to lie dead or bare for very long
New soil was packed into the tiny crevasse that was made
And reconstructed you to almost whole again
Nobody would ever know that my lightening left a minuscule scar
Buried just below the surface of your new lush foliage

Your lightening struck down on my Earth and left chaos
In newly dehydrated plains, so thirsty for the liquid of your soul
Having been steadily deprived of the nectar it needed for nourishment
In a vast field now vacant, standing with only begging to be revived brush
Your lightening struck
And how swiftly the dried up clutter caught on fire

So while your small hole is nice and mended
And kindly tended by this person you’ve befriended,
I was stricken while pushed to the side and left undefended
The wildfire has so rapidly spread through me
Every rolling hill between my head heart soul and body engulfed by the flames
The kind of inferno that is not effortlessly contained
With a couple of water-buckets full of half-hearted
“I’m sorries” and “I’m not trying to hurt yous”
Don’t you see what lightening can do?
I am on fire

And its wrath rages throughout me, igniting my veins
With every new advancement it continues to leave my insides burnt
Seared with the blackness of an unrelenting sorrow
In a place where I swear an abundance of flowers once grew

And from the charred pieces of my heart,
That creak, and crack, and cry in mourning its sudden loss of you,
The deep valley of my soul already knows,
The next phase… disintegration into ashes
The weaken, the loosen, the fall apart
The snowy melancholy drift that covers everything in its grey lifeless soot

And I can only pray
That when the fervor of the furry of these flames have been fatigued
And every piece of me has been torched and crisped
And each tear has been refined to nothing but residue
I can only pray
That Love will find me with her compass
The one that always point towards home
And from nothing but run-down faith and still warm embers
From these ashes, Your ashes
I will be reborn into the me I’ve always known.


- - -

I am Jamie Rose. I have loved words for as long as I can remember. While I know love can at times bring pain along with it, I believe in it with every fiber of my being, and know that it is the greatest thing any human can ever do; Love

5/21/11

I Wish This Were a Film
By Brittany Cravens


there are memories i have of us.

i remember when i was fourteen,
and i met you.
the way your voice was warm and playful.
i remember you hair.
it was curly,
and i liked the way you seemed to let it do what it wanted.
i wanted to know you.

i remember your gray and white knit hat;
you wore it the next time i saw you.
it'd been two years,
and i hadn't even thought about you.
i remember you called me awkward,
and the way your teeth were a little crooked when you smiled,
and i loved your smile.

i still do, very much.

i remember our first date,
the rain fell hard to splash across the ground in deep puddles or flow into the river nearby.
you were picking me up from work,
but you couldn't find it because my directions were so terrible.

so:
i walked to you.

you were parked at the convenience store.
i saw you,
and i didn't want it to be casual;
i wanted to know you.

we sat in the park by the river.
the clouds wept above us,
the streams flowed under us,
and your lips brushed my cheek.

i danced through the drops and you watched me
because you couldn't understand,
and i could see it in your eyes.

i remember the deep puddle we stood in,
and the gray sky above us.
i grabbed your shirt,
and we kissed there,
in the rain.

i'm forgetting, now..
and i wish i weren't.


- - -
My name is Brittany Cravens and I want to understand beauty. I write until my thoughts make sense, or until my eyes drip with exhaustion, and my hand cramps from excessive use. I write because I cannot fly.

5/20/11

I Miss You
By Anne Maven


I miss you
The day begins
Golden skies
Memories of tenderness
Long ago
Would you know me
If we crossed paths
On this earth
In this time
In this life?
Drive through the mountains
Memories of poetry
That you made up
Love deep as the ocean across
Every cell remembers
Drowning in that love
My heart remembers
Living in that warmth
Yet
Would I know you
If I saw you again?
Would eyes be blinded
By expectation?
Perhaps short, perhaps not
Blue eyes, black eyes
Brown hair, golden
Would the heart be fooled
By thoughtless dress
Artless speech?
Would the mind take over
Strike off points that don’t please?
Twilight now
Strange sinking
I’m not going to see you today
The first star
Silly romantic that I am
I cry out
To the universe to hear
My hope that we shall meet
That we shall know
You for me
I for you
And everything else
Would cease to be.
All this for a person
I know in my soul
In deep remembrance
Of such union
That at the time
It mattered not
That we would part
For the memory
Of togetherness
Would carry us through
Lifetimes apart.


- - -
Anne Maven is a writer, therapist, mom, wife and yoga junkie.

5/19/11

He Leaves Tea
By Melissa Chichester


She dips the scone in her chamomile tea, and the crumbs drown, tumbling to the bottom of the teacup, mingling with escaped leaves from the steep. Alma brings the scone to her lips, recognizing buttermilk, or is it sour cream? She pauses and furrows her brow, tasting her lipstick too. Ah, well, she thinks. Let me eat my lipstick.
It is raining outside, as it does in movies when something bad is happening. And something bad is happening. Alma sits at the window table of the cafe; the table with the checkered peach tablecloth, the fabric under a glass slab of tabletop. Her legs are crossed, her toenails manicured and clean, and her skin is smooth. Alma still has good legs, shapely and strong, at fifty and some change.
But I still love him, illogically. Alma exhales, as though she is blowing the words out of mind. She sits at this cafe to watch him, Luke, her construction worker who is standing tall on a height of scaffolding just across the street. He is wearing a gray t-shirt and a green hardhat. His figure is blurred due to distance, but Alma sees all she needs. The rest of his image is heavy, immovable dust, crowding her cranial folds like blindness. It has been four days since he changed the locks, yet Alma still regaled the key as diamonds, or the rare and valuable painite gemstone. He is a rare mineral too.
The rain makes me invisible, she decides, and this thought is a small victory in break-up recovery. Maybe this is a step. Be invisible in the rain. Discard keys. Eat until the plate is empty. Full stomach, empty mind. Alma bites hard into the scone again, a bite too large for her mouth. She chews, lips parted, still wet with tea. My tongue is dry. Alma nearly laughs at this average thought, and how quickly passion arrives and departs, not unlike the empty teacup and the plate, littered with crumbs.


- - -
Then type a little about you, a biography no longer than three lines. Melissa Chichester lives and writes in rural Michigan with her husband, three dogs, and three cats. Her work has been published in Red Weather, Animal Wellness, and the Pank magazine blog.

5/18/11

Things Forgotten
By Raeanne Theiss


I am not enough
I am unwholesome
missing parts, here and there
I am plenty in mass, size, and color
but I am still not enough.
I am an inadequate piece of
furniture in a home
that is not my own.
I am not enough,
enough to satisfy or suffice
enough to compensate for others
or
myself.
I am not enough to save or to grace.
Not enough to help or make sense.
I am not enough but plenty impure
unclean
and unholy.
I am not enough to curb the hunger
for I am just a morsel.
Picked up off the floor.
I am not enough to be anyone
not even me, or you
I am not enough to be worthy of
his love.
For he will never be whole again.
I am not enough to hate myself
or even by my own breed.
I am not enough to fill up a lifetime
wandering helplessly through the endless
corridors of time.
Of my life.
I am not enough to satisfy
myself.
Not even the lonely fly on the wall.
I am not enough, nor will I
ever be.
But you. You’re enough. of
You’re more than enough.
You are so much more than enough
and it pains me to see that you’re blind.
You will never know that you’re enough
for me.
You will never know my satisfaction
that only you could create.
You have always been enough to compensate
for my mistakes.
You are enough to enrich my life
to make it whole for once.
You are more than enough
you’re too much.
You overflow into my life,
knocking down boundaries,
flooding my veins
raising goose bumps and
igniting the light I lost.
And finally,
for one fleeting,
beautiful,
peaceful, moment in my life
I can say that
I
am
enough.


- - -
I'm 18, a student at Slippery Rock University. My thoughts on writing: Real writers don’t need anything to write about. They just write. Its like the soul talking, and its guiding the hand across the keys or moving the pen. It just happens. This just happened.

5/17/11

I Am Loved
By E.S. Wynn

*For Desiree*


Seeing you
I know I am home

Touching you
I know I am needed

Kissing you
I know I am blessed

Dancing with you
I know I am alive

Walking with you
I know I am trusted

Living with you
I know I am loved

With you
I am never lost
I am never without hope
I am never without perspective
I am never bored
I am never lonely

I am loved

And so are you.


- - -
E.S. Wynn is the author of over 20 novels, the founder of Thunderune Publishing, and the chief editor of Weirdyear, Yesteryear Fiction and Daily Love.

5/16/11

Untouchable
By Brittany Cravens


i am a woman of the earth,
taste my freckled skin so white and soft and fragile;
i am a butterfly's wings.
i live, here, in my palace under you,
i'm under all of you.
i can hear every bit and piece,
i can feel the tremors of your heartbeat,
it travels through the sand,
it soaks the places where i stand,
you'll never have a wisp of me.

i'll know every shard of you,
and they'll batter my body;
every whisper travels on the breeze,
pressing them to me,
i'll feel everything you ever do.

but you won't know the depths of me
because
my heart is a door wrapped in vines.
i am not a fool for you.


- - -
My name is Brittany Cravens and I want to understand beauty. I write until my thoughts make sense, or until my eyes drip with exhaustion, and my hand cramps from excessive use. I write because I cannot fly.

5/15/11

Crush
By Josh Sampson


I attended a Crush on the eve of summer. It was not my intent to go; nevertheless, my mother in all of her optimism thought I should. So, I went.

The weather was quite warm that night, and the feverish temperature in the hall attested to it. Upon entrance I saw the crowd as it was, prancing in circles with an air of fierce sophistication.

They were ensconced in the dim lighting of Basil Hall. Nevertheless, even without illumination they were all similar. The ladies wore dresses that exploded outward at the waist, while the men wore decadent suits that followed their posture in rigid, definite lines—all doppelgangers, save for one.

I conjectured he was only twenty-three, but I could tell he was tall, almost haunting in a fashion, and completely disparate.

He stood on a lofty balcony decorated with lush plants and stone ledges. He stood facing the moon which had risen just o'er a hill on the horizon on that fine evening in June.

I watched him surreptitiously, weaving through the crowd like a lion stalking its prey, yet I offered no enmity as such a truculent beast.

I came to him by the doors; the moon glowed on me, lighting the scenery with a milky atmosphere. I could see his black hair in the moonlight, and his astute posture gave way to some unforeseen intelligence I had yet to know. Even without knowing him he enthralled me, yet I knew not why; perhaps it was his disparity.

“Good evening,” I whispered as the crowd behind me moved like a body of water, breaking itself with the tide of music.

He turned toward me with such a sullen-eyed expression that I at first mistook him for a lurid creature. However, no emotion reached its fruition. His face was indeed beautiful. He had soft, yet pallid skin, and not even the slightest aberration touched his features. His dark hair was shoulder length and when he smiled he stole my heart.

“Good evening to you,” he said, in a voice so soft and clear my soul leapt fancifully like a blooming flower. “I am Elias Serling,” he said. “What is your name?”

“My name,” I said, and my mind erased in a frantic wave of hysteria.

My name is love, I thought, and I have found you.

“Daniel,” I spoke up. “Daniel Smith.”

He showed me a lithe smile, and I again felt the deviant tug of emotion at my heart.

“Daniel,” he said, appearing concerned. “Will you walk with me?” he held out his hand languidly, indicating a set of stone stairs to our right.

“I would be honored,” I replied brightly.

We walked down the stairs and followed an overgrown trail that stretched thinly to a grove beyond. The grove itself was decorated in randomly placed hedges of fine characteristics: flowers hung over vetch, which had grown so heavily that it hung lower by the weight of itself.

The grove was green, I remember, as green as the ripened husk of a watermelon, and it alluded to the sweet hidden fruit just under the surface. We strode by a lilac bush which assaulted me with a perfumed scent; a lovely smell I always thought.

I paused there to pick a lilac flower, smelled it, and handed it to my companion in a flirting jest. He obliged and placed the flower in his lapel; he kept it safe for me, so it would not end.

The trees were nearly in full bloom. They blew no air that night, but merely watched us walk nigh with their own special recognition. The grass was high, nearly to our ankles, and shined with a glassy coat of midnight dew. It was a lovely evening for a walk.

It was while in this grove I noticed what a precocious young man he was. I say this carefully but it was what I felt, for he spoke of such labored topics as true-love and heartache as though he'd lived through each one a thousand times.

When he looked to me, I could tell he wanted reassurance, and who was I to deny my fleeting love? However, I felt as though my empty expression did nothing to mend his obviously ailing heart. So, at each urge of reassurance I felt more perplexed, until I finally quieted him with a tender kiss.

We stood no longer as two separate entities, but as one, sharing a physical touch that was far more expressive than any word could describe; or, at least, more than any precocious young man could offer.

I felt his tremulous lips on mine, even as we parted, and I knew he was afraid. It was not of me, though, or even of a kiss, but he was scared of because. And, because was often the most frightening of all words, for there was no reason behind it, or logic for that matter. Now, I attest it was a dangerous time for such an encounter, and perhaps that was what frightened him. The courts did not smile lightly on our romance. However, I did not care, for I was in love, as silly as it was, and I felt no compunction on the matter.

He touched my hair and looked upon me with such regard my heart nearly burst. We stood a while longer in the grove, under the moonlight, waiting for the Crush to end. Yet, I don't think either of us wanted it to end, nor did we want to leave from our embrace.

But we did, and I have not seen him since.

It's been nearly a decade since that grove, and since that kiss. Some nights I go out alone to where it happened; especially on those moonlit nights when I can feel his heartbeat running with mine in our quivering arms. It is on those nights, with the moon glowing vibrantly, that I think of him—my crush.


- - -
Josh Sampson is a journalist and writer of short fiction in Northern Michigan.

5/14/11

To You
By Nora Wilson


Dear Boy,
So there you are. Grinning that understated smile of yours, sitting next to me in the car looking more beautiful than ever. We’re just driving around, looking at houses and exploring on a beautiful day, and I haven’t stopped smiling I’m so lucky to have landed a guy like you. You put up with so much. I constantly panic about nothing. I create problems that aren’t there in order to make things exciting. I don’t do it intentionally, I just have a tendency to sabotage relationships. I really don’t deserve you. I enjoy it when other boys flirt with me. It never used to happen. Boys didn’t used to like me. I was quiet. I was the goody goody. I was the studious one. And then all of a sudden I found who I was and got confident. So, I’m really eating it up not because I want to be with them, but because I’m still not used to the attention even four years after it started to be given to me. And now, being with you…you have shown me, taught me, what it’s like to be in love.
Feeling your weight on my body and your hands all over me is all it takes for me to forget the world. I constantly put up walls and hide my emotions and say mean things because I expect for the relationship to go badly anyways. Don’t get me wrong, I totally enjoy everything about us. Every sweet word you whisper in my ear, every time your finger traces lines on my arm, every time you breathe that soft breath of yours into my hair. I love it. I love you. I have such a hard time saying it. Not because I don’t think it all the time, just because it’s scary. What if something changes? What if something gets weird. I like us where we are. But here it is in black and white-I love you. I love you so much it scares me. I’m terrified that something will happen some day and it’ll be my fault, or you’ll finally realize you could find a girl far less complicated than me, or something else that typically goes wrong when I’m with a guy. I have issues, and I’m the first to admit it. I’ve got ninety nine problems but a bitch ain’t one. Or something like that.
You have given me everything I’ve ever wanted in a guy. Perfect for me, no one else. You bug the hell out of me sometimes. I hate that you have issues planning stuff(even when it doesn’t involve me), and I don’t like how messy your room is. I don’t like that you can not clean up after someone else so your kitchen smells like weeks of forgotten food. I dislike the way you don’t shave every day so your shadow scratches my cheek. I’m not a fan of your jealousy. You know that for sure. But I’m so in love with you. I feel like I’m living in the three minuets after two people get together in a romantic comedy. It’s a montage of happy and it’s weird. Today, when you told me that I’m worth everything, it made me shine inside and out. That’s never happened to me; at least not in a healthy relationship. I don’t do this. I break hearts. Get mine broken. And yet I’m fine being with you. More than fine. You’re showing me what’s been missing. You’re my piece of sky puzzle that got lost under the couch and I finally found it after I had forgotten about the puzzle all together. We are so imperfect that we fit together perfectly. So there-everything I’ve never been able to say, I’m finally saying.

Sincerely,
The complicated, twisted, pain in the ass girl you love-for some odd reason.


- - -
I’m really bad at saying what I mean, but I’m pretty good at writing it. Sometimes. I have a sassy horse that is my everything, and I like being in the sunshine. And puppies.

5/13/11

The Rain and Paul Armentrout
By Margret Phillips


Paul Armentrout was not happy.

The morning news had predicted a chance of showers and by late afternoon, pregnant gray clouds rolled in looking for a place to give birth. It wasn’t that he didn’t like rain. Lord knows the yard needed it. After Claire moved in last year, they spent countless hours landscaping the backyard, coddling and babying the plants through the endless winter cold. Only now, after a few days of warm weather, were the tender leaves and blossoms beginning to open.

No, Paul Armentrout loved the rain. He just didn’t want it tonight.

A light drizzle began to dampen the sidewalks as he and Claire made their way to her favorite restaurant for a late dinner. He gazed up at the sky before they ducked into the foyer, hoping for a sign that the heavens would clear. All he got for his trouble was a wet face and tie. Clare laughed.

“Why all the bother about the weather?” she asked, taking her place at the table Paul had reserved.

“It’s your first birthday as Mrs. Clare Armentrout and I want it to be something special. I had it all arranged but the weather is not cooperating.”

Claire’s smile was that of a young bride, contented but still excited. She placed a manicured hand on her husband’s thick fingers, allowing the light to play off new bracelet gracing her wrist.

“Flowers this morning, jewelry, beautiful lingerie, candlelight dinner tonight. You don’t miss a thing.” She paused. “You know, rain can be very romantic.”

“I know.” Paul studied the menu, feigning interest in the wine list to disguise his disappointment. He felt her gaze and looked up. “What?”

“So?”

“So, what?”

“So, are you going to tell what the rain is spoiling?”

“No. Because if I tell you and the rain stops, it won’t be a surprise. But if I don’t tell you and it stops, I still have a chance. Now what would you like to drink?”

“Sometimes you’re really impossible, you know that?”

Paul smiled smugly and felt himself relaxing. “I know. Aren’t you glad you married me?”

By the time Paul and Claire left some two hours later, a light rain had begun to fall. Raindrops danced gently on the large umbrella that sheltered them as they strolled through the neighborhood holding hands like new lovers, looking at store windows and enjoying each other’s company. The city’s night life buzzed all around them. Locals stood chatting in doorways or under awnings while others rushed in and out of clubs, hailed taxis, and cursed speeding cars that baptized them with run off from the streets. On their third lap around, Clare laid her head on Paul’s shoulder.

“Ready to go?”

“Yes. Can we work on the rest of my birthday surprise tomorrow when the rain quits? I’d like to go home and try on my new nightgown.”

Paul pulled her close and kissed the top of her head. “Whatever you want, birthday girl.”

And with that, they went home.

The clouds began to part grudgingly by the time they reached the house. Paul pointed overhead to the few stars that sparkled bravely while the storm grimaced from the far corner of the sky.

“It’s clearing!” he said excitedly as they walked up the back steps. “Now you can have the rest of your surprise. Remember all the fun we had in the hot tub in Mexico, looking at the stars and drinking champagne? The night I asked you to marry me? Go put on your robe and I’ll meet you out at the spa.”

Claire hurried in and returned just as quickly to the backyard. Paul had opened the tub and dimmed the lights so the deck was bathed in steaming mists and shadows. She began humming softly and untying her robe until a heavy raindrop rolled down her cheek. Another fell on her hand. And then another and another until the deck was wet. She glanced up at the house to see Paul walking towards her with the champagne bottle and glasses, a forlorn look on his face. He shrugged apologetically.

“I guess it’s just not meant to be,” he said. “I’m sorry, darling.”

She kissed him gently on the lips. “Come on,” she said, pulling him back to the house and into kitchen. “Wait here for me.”

Claire disappeared down the hall, returning minutes later with two small umbrellas that attached on beach chairs for shade. She stepped outside and popped opened one with loud yellow and orange stripes. “This will work nicely,” she said, looking pleased. “Let’s go drink some champagne.”

They dashed back to the deck under the shelter of the umbrella. With nimble fingers Claire stripped off Paul’s robe and settled him into the steaming hot water, propping the umbrella over his head and tucking him in with a glass of champagne. She stepped out of her robe and entered the tub across from him, carefully balancing a blue and yellow umbrella in one hand and her drink in the other. Paul watched raptly through the rising mist as she lowered herself in. When her body came to rest under the foam, he felt the familiar weight of her feet on his thighs. She began to giggle.

“What’s the matter?” asked Paul, joining in the merriment but not sure why.

“Well, look at us. Sitting in the hot tub at midnight while it rains, drinking champagne under striped umbrellas meant for beach chairs.”

Paul smiled and raised his glass in a toast. “Happy seventy third birthday, Mrs. Armentrout!”


- - -
Margaret Phillips specializes in writing short stories with quirky characters and unexpected endings. She divides her time between writing, working in healthcare and looking after her husband and three cats.

5/12/11

To Dislike
By Mina Tah


I don’t like you
I don’t like you at all
You pretend I don’t exist
Worse than that, it’s easy for you
And even worse, you expect me to do it too
I don’t like you
You abandoned me long ago
And held onto the last bit of goodness I had left
You give me a day every six months
A look out of every 10 run-ins
A blink in my direction, maybe
So you can understand why I don’t like you
You say the most hurtful things
How can I not dislike you
You change our past
Even what cant be changed,
Undone or unsaid
Like a broken time machine
It only works for you
Clearly I don’t like you
The nerve of you
To look me in the eyes
And see through me like no one can
But call it invisible
What gives you the right
To change, take my heart
Without permission.
Give it back
Cause I don’t like you
I don’t like you
I promise, I don’t like you
I wouldn’t change that
But I would do anything not to love you.


- - -
I am a freshman in college. I may be young but I believe with all my heart the existence of deep, passionate love. Writing is the only way I know to organize the chaos in my mind.

5/11/11

Late Night Streetlight
By FearnHouse



Cruising ‘round the streets at the darkest hour
It’s a slow ride, and I’ll take it easy
I just need a break from all the insanity
A cigarette frees my mind, impedes the pain
I’m driving on a directionless journey
and you make sure I don’t waste my time
waiting for the green…
Right when I pull up,
you give me the “Go”
and I’m back on my way
Back to intervening the thoughts
prolonging the heartache that will pounce
once I close my eyes, lying in bed
trying to dream
But for now I have my pack of Reds
half a tank of petrol
and the lights heeding my desires

I see you in the rear view
growing minuscule
scaled to a molecule
I just wish er’thing was as simple as you
Then just maybe I would be at her house
at this precise moment
Instead of tacking miles upon
this Lincoln TownCar’s odometer


- - -
I am 20 (almost 21) years old and am attending Harper College, working towards a degree in Mathematics Education. Writing is something that I have a passion for and enjoy thoroughly. I look forward to pursuing this quest.

5/10/11

Rain In Spring I
By jhm


april rain soothe my heart.
percussive droplets in rhythm
with strings plucked in joy,
in the blanket of clouds,
grey and tranquil,
memories of you arrive,
discontent's envoy.
i do not cringe, nor do i sigh,
you wash away with the rain.
cherry blossom petals on the wind,
my breath is light again.


- - -
figuring it all out, like everyone else

5/9/11

Our Time Has Passed
By Danielle Vessia



Here I lay on my silver platter
Layered with sheets of mistakes and regrets.
I am watching my life tear away
From the moving pictures reside
In my mind so warped and sly.
I stare at the blank white slab
That closes me shut within,
This four walled wasteland.
My confines closed off the world so bright,
So I shall never see myself beyond.
You, walk beyond the valleys of hope
Waiting for that dream, never to come.
It has already betrayed you, before you it.
I think for you my thoughts so warm
That which you die for, beyond your reach.
I cry for you tears so sweet; stained
With red despair down my sunken cheek.
You shall never place your hand there again,
With the intention to make it whole…
That glove shall remain forever more behind in your tracks.
You will never see the day where I transform.
The day will arrive; we’ll realize we were wrong.
The day we look back and realize, there is better…
For us.
It will never arrive to save us.

It is already too late.


- - -
Danielle Vessia is 18 years old. She's a long-time author/actor/artist that considers herself to be "damage goods"... but she still has lots of hope for her future.

5/8/11

Heartbeat, Lovely, Infallible
By Kortnee Tilson


This spring, we will handcraft our home.
We’ll start with a library. The shelves will be made from the wood of the dead trees in the backyard. The trees where the holes are deep and hollow, hiding owls and worms. Holes large enough to hide you if you wanted the solitude. You can saw them down tenderly, your apologies with every pull of the blade. We can leave flowers on the stumps, so they have company when their branches are bracing our books. And on the shelf, we’ll place the lions and wardrobes, a yellow-brick road. On the shelf, we’ll keep a wizard’s seven souls, a sleeping Mortimer. Literature of childhood.
I’ll sow a rug of mismatched socks to lie on. The ones that were found at the bottom of the basket with no mate. Lonely socks with no use for our feet. I’ll bond them together with yellow thread, you’re favourite color.
You’ll make snow globes out of the empty bottles of past celebrations and fill them with sea water from the pacific. Where you promised we’d go when we were greener, richer. I’ll shake the globes and they will rain eyelashes. Every wish we’d ever made.
We’ll lay the floor with your laminated notes. Things you swept under my desk in school. Post-it’s you stuck to the refrigerator in the mornings before work. Letters you mailed to me the months you were gone. Maybe- after she learns to crawl- she’ll learn to read by sticking to these floors. She’ll learn all the words her father said: especially, permanent, curses, lonesome, imperfect, heartbeat, lovely, infallible.
In the summertime , when the birds are finally singing and the flowers are making you sneeze, this house will be finished. Winter will have been long forgotten.


- - -
Kortnee Tilson is an occasional writer, frequent musician, seventeen year old in Canada.

5/7/11

Tell Me
By Alexis Intriago


So... Tell me…
Tell me how much you want me…
Tell me how much you want to feel me…
Tell me what you see when you look at me…
Tell me how to make you fall in love with me….
Tell me what you want to see and what you have seen…
Tell me the things you couldn’t utter to anyone else…
Tell me what you love…
Tell me how to you like to be held…
Tell me how you want to be loved…
Tell me how it hurts…
Tell me how it feels…
Tell me what you find beautiful…
Tell me how you connect with nature…
Tell me what makes you happy…
Tell me what you feel when you see a smile…
Tell me what you feel when you hear a laugh…
Tell me what your favorite scent is…
Tell me what your quirks are…
Tell me your greatest memories…
Tell me what music feels like for you…
Tell me what inspires you…
Tell me where you want to be…
Tell me what you find interesting about life…
Tell me what you think of me…
Tell me who you are…
Tell me everything you want to tell me…
Tell me about the side of you most people don’t know…
Tell me a secret…
Tell me about your favorite place…
Tell me where you’re going…
Tell me you want to be there…
Tell me if you long to be loved…
Tell me I can trust you…
Tell me I can hold you…
Tell me I can depend on you…
Tell me I can love you.


- - -
My name is Alexis Intriago. I live in South Florida. I'm a junior in High School. I'd love to pursue a career in writing and journalism.

5/6/11

Conception
By FearnHouse


It rushed down from the sky to penetrate my brain—
more like seep into (actually), akin to osmosis
Like a leak in the roof continuously battered by rain
these conquesting thoughts induce a minor psychosis
It’s atrocious to fathom the passage of time
it took for you to overthrow my susceptible mind

As weak as balsa wood in a subtle breeze
my inhibitions crumble to your seductive gait
Glutes of High-Definition drop me to my knees
because having a nice ass is a rather fascinating trait
Resuscitate my mind, for you’ve stolen its breath
Constricting my creative lungs with paralyzing tendrils
twisting to my depths…

My mental reception to this new impression
sent my life sprawling into a different direction
You’ve punctured a skull and relieved a pain
that my labored brain tried to keep astray
Tethered no more, I can grasp your overall beauty
and I’m ecstatic that you could do all this to me…

An infatuation spawned like spontaneous combustion
but in reality ‘twas borne when I felt this lust and
watched you use post-its as napkins,
or note-take with oddly coloured pens
This conception has since amazed me…
Damn, girl, you make my mind go crazy


- - -
I am 20 (almost 21) years old and am attending Harper College, working towards a degree in Mathematics Education. Writing is something that I have a passion for and enjoy thoroughly. I look forward to pursuing this quest.

5/5/11

An Invented Mirror
By A.J. Huffman


The glass was cleared.
Scrubbed.
Till it sparkled.
Like her smile.
Or the gilded stone
decorating her hand.
Polished.
Perfected.
And steadily consuming
the only reflection
she’ll never know.


- - -
A.J. Huffman is a poet and freelance writer in Daytona Beach, Florida. She has previously published her work in literary journals, in the U.K. as well as America, such as Avon Literary Intelligencer, Eastern Rainbow, Medicinal Purposes Literary Review, The Intercultural Writer's Review, Icon, Writer's Gazette, and The Penwood Review. Find A.J. Huffman, and additional information and links to her work at http://www.facebook.com/profile.php?id=100000191382454 .

5/4/11

STOP, KISS, THEN BACK TO WORK
By John Grey


You break away from the chair,
the stove, the refrigerator,
even the cloth in your hand -
all these lesser versions of you.

Your waist wills itself into my fingers,
your lips claim your better self,
face against face -
there's never been this kind of close.

Then up from your eyes,
faith cradles all reason,
while soft hand on hard cheek
encircles the heart.


- - -
I’ve been published recently in the Talking River, South Carolina Review and Karamu with work upcoming in Prism International, Poem and the Evansville Review.

5/3/11

The Untitled
By Santana Burton


As I tried to put pen to paper I forgot what to write

I really don’t know what she sees in me, I doubt I can be her “Mr right”.

To me her movements speak a thousand words.

She makes it out so only I can understand.

Sometimes she confuses me and has a hard time expressing her emotions. Passionate, ambitious and caring are among the qualities that she withholds.

Although she’s not perfect I consider her my perfect. Beautiful in every way and I wouldn’t dare settle for anyone else.

I'm scared to say it but I think I love her…


- - -
I am an 18 year old student. This is my second piece of work, funnily enough i wrote this piece whilst listening to some comforting gospel music. I hope you enjoy reading it as much as i have loved writing it.

5/2/11

Now That He's Gone
By Ciara T. McTarsney


I never really knew how
much he meant to me
until he was gone…

Until I realized that his
sly smirk was why I
got up in the morning.

Until I noticed that meals
tasted so bland without
the linger of his lips.

Until I figured out that
my hand didn’t fit with
anyone else’s except his.

Until I recognized that
I hadn’t been falling, I
had already landed.

Landed right where
I was supposed to be,
And I never really knew.


- - -
I am currently a junior in high school and recently discovered my love for writing.

5/1/11

The Corner of Cherry Street
By Shannon


There’s a place on the corner of Cherry Street where all I see is your face. The way you were begging me not to stay, while your eyes were saying don’t go away. And our feet were tangoing, their reflections in the glass, doing the back and forth shuffle of uncertain endings.

Your eyes are in the mirror squares of the door fronts, lips in all the roses, and when I look you’re screaming my name. Goodbye words drop from your lips, and poison my coffee here at this café. At this café where we seduced death to separate our paths, here where I felt your feathery fingers brush my knuckles as I went, but then only fern leaves next to prison bar fences. There was no whisper on the breeze, unlike now where our song lilts through the trees, swirling steam in lazy dance steps, and meeting the lips of street performers.

I am silent and alone in delusions, forgetting how your palms smacked against my chest like a drunken kiss when you pushed me away. Forgetting the way your eyes spat words foreign to us before, and clouded with shadows the same shade as those cast by the table umbrellas in the fading sunset.

My feet are rooted to the ground like they were by your kiss, my eyes are closing and opening, blinking ordinarily, and yet I do not fall. I am solid unlike our past, sturdy like your legs in that skirt, creating pale creamy rectangles between the fence bars. But sturdy is an unromantic word which you chastised me for with blushing cherry blossom cheeks.

Now the world is fading gray, darker and silent as the leaves from your tea. You hated coffee. You hated me, at least in that moment where you warred with yourself. I saw the battle on the ocean of your face, emotions churning like waves in a tempest, tides changing to whisk me away.

And I miss you; I carve it in the wood of our favorite table. I scrape my nails against the soft wood, clawing at a piece of our memories, but there’s nothing left but splinters. Splinters in my fingers, splinters in my heart. They ache; I ache with the sight of you in every place I go, here on Cherry Street. Here at the corner of Cherry Street where all I see is your face.


- - -
I still live on an island in the Chesapeake, but this one's not nearly so picturesque.