Fragile Love
By Caty
“In Love.”
This seemingly simple phrase brought a whirlwind of thoughts, a tidal wave of emotions, and a calm-before-the-storm affect that caused my heart to pound like the hammer of an early-morning roofer and my skin to tingle like seductively sipped champagne.
“I. am . . . in love”
I toyed with this thought; let it slip smoothly off the polished white enamel of my fresh morning teeth and out my chapping cranberry lips.
Slowly I warm up to the idea. Having been hurt, trampled, misused and battered from past infatuations, I was hesitant to admit it to myself, knowing that once I let myself get a hold of this cancerous thought, it would be the end of me.
Love is such a fragile state. Like hatching chicks, or the moment before you step into a hot-air balloon. You know what should happen, you have expectations, but you also have fear. Fear of things you convince yourself (from years of pain) are immanent. Knowing your shell might not crack and your balloon might crash, but continuing on likewise.
That is foolish.
That is risky.
That is painful.
That is glorious.
That is beautiful.
That is twisted.
That is cherished.
That…
Is
Love.
- - -
I'm in the summer of my Junior year and I've been writing since age 9, hidden in the depths of my closet. I decided, the hell with it! time to let others enjoy. I don't think or create, i am no artist. it is simply my stream of consciousness, my soul, spelled out. I'd love feedback!
Sunday, July 31, 2011
Saturday, July 30, 2011
7/30/11
Space
By Wendy L. Schmidt
Space.
We always fought,
Over territorial rights.
Sock drawer dramas,
Closet space spats,
Don’t leave your dirty undies,
On my clean floor,
Why is the freaking remote,
Under the couch,
Small annoyances,
Silly arguments,
Seemingly harmless,
But the last time,
I asked for some space,
You left me,
Now that everything is in,
It’s proper place,
What I wouldn’t give,
For one misplaced sock.
- - -
By Wendy L. Schmidt
Space.
We always fought,
Over territorial rights.
Sock drawer dramas,
Closet space spats,
Don’t leave your dirty undies,
On my clean floor,
Why is the freaking remote,
Under the couch,
Small annoyances,
Silly arguments,
Seemingly harmless,
But the last time,
I asked for some space,
You left me,
Now that everything is in,
It’s proper place,
What I wouldn’t give,
For one misplaced sock.
- - -
Friday, July 29, 2011
7/29/11
An Intoxicating Interlude
By Denise Wyant
- - -
Denise Wyant is a fledging author who makes her home in Maryland with her Himalayan cat, Willow. When not crafting works of fiction or writing technically for work, she enjoys caramel lattes, dark beer, and lazy Saturday mornings.
By Denise Wyant
“So. . . who do you think is going to get the big promotion?” Nicca toyed with the diamond pendant around her neck, nervously awaiting her best friend’s answer.
“Girl friend, my bet’s on you!” Ellie shot her a sideways glance. “Not like you needed to ask, though.”
Nicca grinned and released the necklace. “It better be; otherwise, I’d have to disown you as my BFF!” Nicca’s fingers had been crossed ever since she heard the rumor that Xavier Drake, chief counsel for the firm, was going to retire. Her body hummed with nervous anticipation despite Ellie’s confidence in her abilities. What an achievement to finally be rewarded for all of her long hours and all of those demeaning coffee runs when she was just an intern!
“Come on, girl! You graduated top ten in your law class at Princeton. Have some faith!”
“That’s easy for you to say,” Nicca grumbled, her hazel eyes focused on the floor.
“Look at this place – crystal chandeliers, marble columns, sculptures of naked Greek gods, hand painted murals – it’s not every day the boss throws a gala in his sprawling posh estate.” Ellie’s Robin Leach impersonation was beyond horrific, but it served its purpose – it got Nicca to let loose with a laugh.
Her chuckles morphed into a most unladylike snort. “You got it – back in the day, his mansion would have been featured on Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous.”
Now relaxed, Nicca decided to embrace the party spirit. She shimmied her hips and grabbed her best friend’s hand to haul her onto the dance floor. However, it was Ellie who halted their progress. Not so surreptitiously, she pointed to a tall, dark-haired man standing on the far side of the room. His hands were animated as he conversed with CEO Jacobson.
Ellie gave Nicca a pointed look. “Wonder who he is? The better question is if he’s single.”
“Would you please stop trying to find me a man!” Nicca had explained this multiple times to Ellie: she wasn’t interested in a relationship because her career is her passion. Despite that, her friend always tried to fix her up with any and all available bachelors. Nicca often joked that Ellie had made it her mission in life.
“Oooh, girl, he is dashing. Just look at those striking eyes and full lips; I bet they can do sinful things to a woman’s body.” Ellie made a point of licking her lips and then rolling her hips seductively.
Before Nicca could muster a snappy retort about Ellie’s mind being in the gutter, CEO Jacobson stepped behind the podium and cleared his throat. He addressed the quieting crowd. “I know this isn’t protocol, but I have no doubt my announcement will enhance Counselor Drake’s retirement celebration.” Pausing for effect, he continued in a booming voice, “I would like to introduce his eldest son, Xavier III. He will be following in his father’s footsteps as our new chief counsel. Congratulations!” As the crowd erupted into applause, Nicca froze her body in shock.
Severe disappointment coursed like acid through her veins as she looked at Ellie in horror. Nicca’s stomach churned as she realized the job of her dreams was lost to someone else. Ellie reached to console her, but Nicca just waved her off and stalked towards the bar in search of a drink. Her mind was reeling, trying to rationalize what she had just heard.
Grabbing a glass of champagne, Nicca stormed out onto the terrace in hopes that the night air would cool off her raging emotions. She downed the champagne in two swallows. Nicca had to get control of herself – she could feel the tears pooling in her eyes, threatening to escape and ruin her mascara. Leaning against the stone railing, she took several deep breaths and concentrated on the calming sounds of the night.
When she felt under control, she headed inside for another drink, something stronger if at all possible. Her timing couldn’t have been worse as one of her male colleagues turned abruptly and collided with her. Of course it had to be a tall, dark, and handsome one.
His warm strong hands reached out and latched onto her bare arms to steady her. She ducked her head and mumbled, “Excuse me.” Her goal became avoiding eye contact and making a hasty exit. Her tears were threatening another appearance, and she refused to show that kind of weakness in front of her coworkers. When he didn’t release her arm, she looked up into his amused gaze. The man holding onto her was the one she was checking out earlier in the evening; the same one who stole her promotion - Drake III.
“I do believe I owe you an apology, Ms . . . ” his deep voice resonated while those now smiling lips parted to reveal perfectly straight, white teeth.
“Morelli. Nicca Morelli,” she seethed. If she could have breathed fire then and there, she would have.
Drake’s eyes, the color of stormy seas, narrowed in thought. “Ah, yes, I know that name. You work for my father; he has spoken highly of your work. However, he failed to mention how stunning you are.”
Nicca was in no mood for compliments. She couldn’t be curt since Drake III was evidently now her new boss, but she could be succinct. “Thank you, but I really must be going.”
“Miss Morelli, give me the honor of a dance. It’s the least I can do after nearly knocking you off your feet.” Drake then paused to take in her silver spaghetti-strapped sheath. “You do realize in that dress all eyes will be on you instead of me.”
Nicca couldn’t figure out if he was being serious, facetious, or just plain dense. She was furious with this man! There was no way she was going to give him the honor of a dance. She caught the quirk of his mouth and the glint of lust in his eye and decided that he had some sort of ulterior motive. Well, more likely, he was thinking with the wrong head. This dress was known to have that effect on men. It accentuated her full, rounded breasts and her narrow waist; it was also nearly see-through.
Nicca composed her face and decided that two could play this game. However, she would have to be very careful. The perfectly tailored tuxedo did nothing to mask his muscular physique. In fact, it barely contained his broad shoulders. She could already feel a flush starting to spread across her cheeks and down her neck.
“Fine, Mr. Drake—,”
Smoothly, he interrupted Nicca, “Please, I go by Channing. There is no need to be so formal.”
Nicca paused, eyebrows raised, making sure he was finished. “As I was about to say, I accept your offer.” She lifted her chin and met his eyes. What a perfect way to get a piece of revenge – flaunt her dancing ability and her feminine allure. Nicca was an accomplished dancer; she was just as at home doing the jive as she was the Viennese waltz. He may be the new king of the castle so to speak, but she would reign on the dance floor tonight.
Taking her hand, he led her onto the parquet dance floor just as the orchestra struck up a sultry tango piece. Sexual prowess poured off Channing as he spun her into his body, her muscles tensing at the hard feel of him. “Relax,” he purred, his breath hot against her ear. He dropped his left hand and pushed his pelvis against her backside to prod her forward in the rhythm of the tango – slow, slow, quick, quick, slow.
Goose bumps covered her body while her pulse sky-rocketed. This is not good, Nicca thought, as her body betrayed her.
Once again Channing spun her and tucked her tightly against his body to begin the seductive affair. This dance is meant to be sexy, she sternly reminded herself. Nicca caught his determined gaze and let her feisty spirit shine through. She was so focused on her partner that she never noticed the other dancers had stopped to watch.
Their bodies glided across the floor, their steps crisp and synchronized. The beat of the music faded to the background as they focused on each other. Every move was flawless and precise. Channing was a strong leader; Nicca had no problem following his cues. Their legs intertwined with low kicks. Nicca’s hips twirled and undulated in time with the music. They stalked passionately around the floor, taking advantage of the large space. Nicca had never danced with someone who appreciated the dance, from both the technical and the emotional viewpoint, as much as what she did.
The two paused, breathing as though they had just completed a marathon. The exertion of the dance, however, had nothing to do with it. Nicca’s body was flushed and heated. Her mind was shrouded in a haze of lust. What is he doing to my body? She bit her bottom lip as she teased her hands over his abs and up his chest. Her hands continued, skimming his shoulders and lodging in his mussed mahogany waves. A predatory growl rose from deep within his chest. The sexual tension was evident in his heated gaze as he dislodged her hands. Before he could grab her, she was sashaying away from him. Channing was spellbound, his eyes focused on the swaying motion of her hips.
The magic of the tryst was soon to be broken. Channing held her as she bent over backwards, her midnight black ringlets nearly brushing the floor. She grasped his corded thighs and slid into a modified split as her dress rose precariously high on her thighs. Nicca glanced at the exceptional male holding her. He was staring point-blank at her breasts, which were in grave danger of escaping her dress. Her body trembled at the desire evident in his face, his eyes half-lidded. At that moment, she had no doubt the man could please a woman for hours on end; it made her wonder what that would be like. Channing’s hands tightened around her waist and pulled her from her musings. He gracefully helped her to her feet. With her body so close to his, the move pressed her breasts into his firm chest. It was all she could do to keep from rubbing against him like a cat in heat. Their faces were so close together that their lips were millimeters apart. A soft whimper escaped from Nicca’s parted lips without her permission. When Channing didn’t take the initiative to kiss her, she took a deep breath, inhaling a scent that was all male and completely mesmerizing.
Seeming to come to his senses, Channing turned her to face the crowd. She tried to smile but was embarrassed by what had just taken place between them. As he pulled her securely against his body, she felt his large erection press against her hip. She was relieved that he was as affected as she was.
As the applause thinned, Channing took Nicca’s hand and escorted her off the floor. Nicca caught Ellie’s eye. Her best friend’s wink and Cheshire grin had Nicca shaking her head. She took advantage of a shadowed alcove and pulled Channing to her, wrapping her arms around his neck. She brushed her lips over his in a light, teasing kiss. His hand landed at the base of her neck. He tilted her head to allow him better access. Nipping at her bottom lip, he demanded she open for him. Nicca complied without hesitation. Their tongues dueled as their bodies had dueled on the dance floor. What started as a chaste kiss deepened in seconds as Channing devoured Nicca’s mouth. She groaned at the decadent, spicy taste of him. Nicca had never experienced such a kiss before, one that affected her body and soul. Is this what she had been missing out on by focusing solely on her career? Maybe there was more to life than work?
Panting, Nicca ended the kiss. She buried her face against his neck, holding on for dear life as her legs felt like they had just stepped off a ship after being at sea for days. He caressed her back, pressing a light kiss to the top of her head. Nicca could feel his pulse hammering against her forehead. The heat coming off his body rivaled her own. She hoped that their sparks of wantonness wouldn’t set them aflame. After a moment, she stepped back from his hold. She covered her red, kiss-swollen lips with a trembling hand. Channing’s unfocused eyes reflected disappointment at the loss of contact with her curves. Stealing a glance at this tented trousers; Nicca noted that he was still very much aroused. She was happy to know she held that kind of power over her new supervisor.
Her breath caressed his ear as she leaned in and whispered, “Thank you for the dance. I hope to see you soon.” She truly hoped that she would be seeing him soon, just outside of the office, maybe in the bedroom in fact. The promotion was now a distant memory. Her mind was occupied with imagining what it would be like to have those sinful lips exploring the rest of her body.
Nicca turned on wobbly legs to head for the exit. She paused and shot Channing a scorching glance over her shoulder. Reaching the door, she couldn’t help the wide grin that now was plastered on her face, so much for not falling for the boss.
- - -
Denise Wyant is a fledging author who makes her home in Maryland with her Himalayan cat, Willow. When not crafting works of fiction or writing technically for work, she enjoys caramel lattes, dark beer, and lazy Saturday mornings.
Thursday, July 28, 2011
7/28/11
The Final Letter
By Gil C. Schmidt
Dear Rebecca,
I’m sorry. I never meant to hurt you. I know these words sound trite, but they are true, as true as anything I have ever told you.
Time and time again I have tried to write this letter, to ask you to forgive me, and I end up so angry at myself for not finding the right words that I rip up the paper and start again. So I won’t try to find more words than necessary: Please forgive me. If you can, please do it whenever your heart tells you to. I can wait because I’d rather let you heal than force some empty arrangement to salve my conscience.
Whenever you wish to see me, or speak to me, you know where to find me. I love you, please believe that I do. I don’t ever want to lose you, but I know I must wait. I will. And I hope that someday we can be together again, for the rest of our lives. Love, Andy.
Marcia looked up from the letter, her eyes bright. “Wow. He seems to be feeling pretty strongly about this.”
Rebecca brought her eyes back from the street scene outside the tiny Deluxe Cup café, the passersby clutching coats tightly against the harsh wind, cars fluffing white contrails in the dry frigid air. “He seems to be. Yes.”
“You’re not sure?”
Rebecca glanced at her mug of chai, the spicy aroma now faint. “Are you?”
Marcia blinked twice, very fast. “You’re asking me?”
A long look at the street, taking in the sudden plunge into darkness as the clouds swallowed up what little cheer was left in the day. She looked back at Marcia. “Yes.”
Marcia’s hands fluttered, the letter waving up and down and around. “I don’t know.” She read it again quickly. “I think he is.”
Rebecca nodded, her mouth a tight line. “Do you hope he is?” She sipped from her mug, the chai tepid and flat.
More fluttering, eyes darting from table to letter to cups to street and back to the table. “Well, yeah, I do hope he’s honest here.” A few seconds later. ‘For your sake.”
A grunt, an ugly harsh grunt was Rebecca’s only response. Marcia stared at her friend until Rebecca’s eyes met hers, then she looked away. “Andy’s boss called me today to tell me he’d requested a transfer to San Diego.”
Marcia turned her head slowly. “San Diego? That’s what you wanted, right?”
Rebecca shrugged. “Andy never liked it there.”
“He’s trying--he’s trying to get you back.”
‘’Get me back’?” The words were clipped.
“Uh, yes, of course. He’s saying he wants to be with you, wherever you want to be.”
Rebecca drained her mug and set it down softly. A car slipped and slid on the icy street, narrowly avoiding a FedEx truck and a pedestrian. “And you want what I want, right?”
Marcia was taken aback. “Becky! Of course I do! What are best friends for?”
Rebecca took the letter from Marcia’s hand, folded it neatly and tucked it into her purse. “Best friends… Marcia, best friends share everything, that’s true.” She slapped Marcia so hard that her head thudded off the wall, the cheek blushing crimson immediately.
“Except husbands.” And Rebecca walked away, her mind on San Diego. And solitude.
- - -
His recent marriage has given Gil two powerful insights: he is very much a happily-married man and the reboot of "Star Trek" was handled with deftness. Okay, maybe the second one does not qualify as "powerful."
By Gil C. Schmidt
Dear Rebecca,
I’m sorry. I never meant to hurt you. I know these words sound trite, but they are true, as true as anything I have ever told you.
Time and time again I have tried to write this letter, to ask you to forgive me, and I end up so angry at myself for not finding the right words that I rip up the paper and start again. So I won’t try to find more words than necessary: Please forgive me. If you can, please do it whenever your heart tells you to. I can wait because I’d rather let you heal than force some empty arrangement to salve my conscience.
Whenever you wish to see me, or speak to me, you know where to find me. I love you, please believe that I do. I don’t ever want to lose you, but I know I must wait. I will. And I hope that someday we can be together again, for the rest of our lives. Love, Andy.
Marcia looked up from the letter, her eyes bright. “Wow. He seems to be feeling pretty strongly about this.”
Rebecca brought her eyes back from the street scene outside the tiny Deluxe Cup café, the passersby clutching coats tightly against the harsh wind, cars fluffing white contrails in the dry frigid air. “He seems to be. Yes.”
“You’re not sure?”
Rebecca glanced at her mug of chai, the spicy aroma now faint. “Are you?”
Marcia blinked twice, very fast. “You’re asking me?”
A long look at the street, taking in the sudden plunge into darkness as the clouds swallowed up what little cheer was left in the day. She looked back at Marcia. “Yes.”
Marcia’s hands fluttered, the letter waving up and down and around. “I don’t know.” She read it again quickly. “I think he is.”
Rebecca nodded, her mouth a tight line. “Do you hope he is?” She sipped from her mug, the chai tepid and flat.
More fluttering, eyes darting from table to letter to cups to street and back to the table. “Well, yeah, I do hope he’s honest here.” A few seconds later. ‘For your sake.”
A grunt, an ugly harsh grunt was Rebecca’s only response. Marcia stared at her friend until Rebecca’s eyes met hers, then she looked away. “Andy’s boss called me today to tell me he’d requested a transfer to San Diego.”
Marcia turned her head slowly. “San Diego? That’s what you wanted, right?”
Rebecca shrugged. “Andy never liked it there.”
“He’s trying--he’s trying to get you back.”
‘’Get me back’?” The words were clipped.
“Uh, yes, of course. He’s saying he wants to be with you, wherever you want to be.”
Rebecca drained her mug and set it down softly. A car slipped and slid on the icy street, narrowly avoiding a FedEx truck and a pedestrian. “And you want what I want, right?”
Marcia was taken aback. “Becky! Of course I do! What are best friends for?”
Rebecca took the letter from Marcia’s hand, folded it neatly and tucked it into her purse. “Best friends… Marcia, best friends share everything, that’s true.” She slapped Marcia so hard that her head thudded off the wall, the cheek blushing crimson immediately.
“Except husbands.” And Rebecca walked away, her mind on San Diego. And solitude.
- - -
His recent marriage has given Gil two powerful insights: he is very much a happily-married man and the reboot of "Star Trek" was handled with deftness. Okay, maybe the second one does not qualify as "powerful."
Wednesday, July 27, 2011
7/27/11
A Letter to My Muse
By Nick Javy
Dear Meghan,
Do not apologize for being busy with your life in the States - I'm just glad to be hearing from you now. I've been wretchedly worried that something ridiculous had happened in your life. Like tornadoes, hurricanes, or jail time. Although any of these things would have been terrible for you, imagine my end of our little international tète-à-tète - I can't stand the idea of any other disasters rolling through your life that are more beautiful in their scope and magnitude than myself.
I am glad to hear from you. And I don't know the genus or species. I don’t have a name for it at all, but there is a flower here that I've pinched from a number of privately owned flower beds every morning along the walk to my bus stop. It has a deep purple center, and slender soft-white petals. I suspect that it's an exotic version of America's daisy. Mornings, I pluck the petals one at a time and think "She'll contact me. She'll contact me not. She'll contact me. She'll contact me not."
I would like to point out that picking flowers is practically a felony, and that incorporating the thought of you into the start of my days has placed me neatly along the label of "Outlaw."
And this flower - the petals seem to be lounging delicately and gracefully like the dainty arms of royalty on invisible cushions of crisp, unspoilt air - pure white on top, but underneath there is a harsh pink, subtle purple, or defiant blue depending on what kind of light you turn the thing around in.
And I've never been so entrapted by a flower. And I'm not sure the genus. And I hold one in my hands for an hour every morning, in Australia, as the sun reveals another optomistic day to the sailboats in Rose Bay. And I'm not sure the species, but I've been calling them "Meghans" because they remind me of you.
And maybe this is too much to tell you; maybe you don't want to know one bit about this at all. Perhaps I've chosen the wrong words. But whether you wanted to hear all this or not - I've said it, and you've read it, and I don't regret a single key-stroke because I'm perfectly happy, per the vindication of the label of “Outlaw.”
-Mr. J
- - -
Nick Javy is a yes, not a maybe. He writes film, television, and short fiction. Also, the occasional letter to his muse as he tries to find approval through words. He is briefly living in Australia and pretends that he is a heartbroken expatriate during the days of McCarthyism. He pretends he did not name names.
By Nick Javy
Dear Meghan,
Do not apologize for being busy with your life in the States - I'm just glad to be hearing from you now. I've been wretchedly worried that something ridiculous had happened in your life. Like tornadoes, hurricanes, or jail time. Although any of these things would have been terrible for you, imagine my end of our little international tète-à-tète - I can't stand the idea of any other disasters rolling through your life that are more beautiful in their scope and magnitude than myself.
I am glad to hear from you. And I don't know the genus or species. I don’t have a name for it at all, but there is a flower here that I've pinched from a number of privately owned flower beds every morning along the walk to my bus stop. It has a deep purple center, and slender soft-white petals. I suspect that it's an exotic version of America's daisy. Mornings, I pluck the petals one at a time and think "She'll contact me. She'll contact me not. She'll contact me. She'll contact me not."
I would like to point out that picking flowers is practically a felony, and that incorporating the thought of you into the start of my days has placed me neatly along the label of "Outlaw."
And this flower - the petals seem to be lounging delicately and gracefully like the dainty arms of royalty on invisible cushions of crisp, unspoilt air - pure white on top, but underneath there is a harsh pink, subtle purple, or defiant blue depending on what kind of light you turn the thing around in.
And I've never been so entrapted by a flower. And I'm not sure the genus. And I hold one in my hands for an hour every morning, in Australia, as the sun reveals another optomistic day to the sailboats in Rose Bay. And I'm not sure the species, but I've been calling them "Meghans" because they remind me of you.
And maybe this is too much to tell you; maybe you don't want to know one bit about this at all. Perhaps I've chosen the wrong words. But whether you wanted to hear all this or not - I've said it, and you've read it, and I don't regret a single key-stroke because I'm perfectly happy, per the vindication of the label of “Outlaw.”
-Mr. J
- - -
Nick Javy is a yes, not a maybe. He writes film, television, and short fiction. Also, the occasional letter to his muse as he tries to find approval through words. He is briefly living in Australia and pretends that he is a heartbroken expatriate during the days of McCarthyism. He pretends he did not name names.
Tuesday, July 26, 2011
7/26/11
She Lied
By Divenita
His once strong body, now fragile,
His chemo-ed body, frail and agile
She look at him from the glass opening,
before she could get in,
She wiped her tears,
and cremated her fears
As she sat beside him, in a chair close to his bed,
He looked away, pretending to be dead
..........
finally he looked and faked a smile
and as he would ask every day,
“how do I look today” he asked
“As lovely as ever “ she lied
“LIAR!!” He shouted as tears pinched his withered cheek
but she stopped her tears, so that she wouldn’t go weak
she continued
"No, Bismil, Your eyes as magnificent as ever
Comforting me that we would live together forever"
"Your hands," gingerly placing her fingers between gaps of his
"remind me of our times, together, Isn’t that bliss?"
"your golden soul! the happiness within your heart you share"
she pointed to a little boy, wrapped in an expensive t-shirt that he gave
“You are beautiful” she said and smiled
Still holding his hand,
together, they cried in joy for a while
- - -
Im Divenita or Nivedita. A freelance reporter at The Hindu, an Indian NewsPaper and a full-time publishing specialist with Thomson Reuters. Apart from that, I like writing, to learn new facets of writing, social service, table tennis, dancing.
By Divenita
His once strong body, now fragile,
His chemo-ed body, frail and agile
She look at him from the glass opening,
before she could get in,
She wiped her tears,
and cremated her fears
As she sat beside him, in a chair close to his bed,
He looked away, pretending to be dead
..........
finally he looked and faked a smile
and as he would ask every day,
“how do I look today” he asked
“As lovely as ever “ she lied
“LIAR!!” He shouted as tears pinched his withered cheek
but she stopped her tears, so that she wouldn’t go weak
she continued
"No, Bismil, Your eyes as magnificent as ever
Comforting me that we would live together forever"
"Your hands," gingerly placing her fingers between gaps of his
"remind me of our times, together, Isn’t that bliss?"
"your golden soul! the happiness within your heart you share"
she pointed to a little boy, wrapped in an expensive t-shirt that he gave
“You are beautiful” she said and smiled
Still holding his hand,
together, they cried in joy for a while
- - -
Im Divenita or Nivedita. A freelance reporter at The Hindu, an Indian NewsPaper and a full-time publishing specialist with Thomson Reuters. Apart from that, I like writing, to learn new facets of writing, social service, table tennis, dancing.
Monday, July 25, 2011
7/25/11
Your Musical Anthologies
By Ian Davis
Your musical anthologies
are arranged with precise care
in alphabetical order.
But twilight brings discord.
Careful calculations rendered,
senseless
In the dying light of an august sun.
The wind sighs your lover's retort.
A bite against my ear,
soft breath a scratched recording
in silence, you draw me.
But.
Little else here, in this lost kingdom.
No valley of broken jaws, but of lost freedoms,
given freely in quiet soliloquy,
a silent speech given to one in grasping,
passing,
dark.
- - -
I am an anthropology major at Purdue University going into my sophomore year. I am an avid reader of all kinds of poetry and stories, as well as a writer of my own short stories and poetry.
By Ian Davis
Your musical anthologies
are arranged with precise care
in alphabetical order.
But twilight brings discord.
Careful calculations rendered,
senseless
In the dying light of an august sun.
The wind sighs your lover's retort.
A bite against my ear,
soft breath a scratched recording
in silence, you draw me.
But.
Little else here, in this lost kingdom.
No valley of broken jaws, but of lost freedoms,
given freely in quiet soliloquy,
a silent speech given to one in grasping,
passing,
dark.
- - -
I am an anthropology major at Purdue University going into my sophomore year. I am an avid reader of all kinds of poetry and stories, as well as a writer of my own short stories and poetry.
Sunday, July 24, 2011
7/24/11
Cherries
By Janet Aldrich
- - -
I'm active as a writer in FridayFlash and ThreeWord Wednesday, and I'm also a fanfic writer for the 1960s tv show Combat!. I previously had a story on Daily Love ("The Sound of a Closing Door", 10/28/2010). You can read more of my work at http://demonesprit.wordpress.com and http://tec4.co.cc.
By Janet Aldrich
Lisa loved the atmosphere of the charming, erratic street, populated with non-matching little stores, many of them in the same family for generations. She passed the fromagerie and smiled at the elderly man who was placing cheeses in the window. As she approached the boulangerie/pâtisserie, she sighed. Philippe, the owner of the shop, and a respected master baker and pâtissier, was leaning against the doorjamb, arms crossed, with a smile on his face.
“Bonjour, Lisa.” His luminous eyes sparkled with mischief.
“Bonjour, Philippe.” She bit back a smile of her own and braced herself for the newest onslaught. “What is it today?”
“Just a little thing – a very little thing.” Philippe walked out to stand beside her on the sidewalk. He put an arm around her and pointed at the display.
Lisa peered at the assembled sweets. Sure enough, he’d paid attention to her slip of the tongue the week before. I just had to tell him I liked cherries. This week’s temptation was a cute, tiny cheesecake, covered with miniature cherries he had to have charmed out of one of the vendors at the marché.
She bent closer– it was a piece of artistry to look at, regardless of what it tasted like – and sighed again. “Philippe, you know how hard I worked to lose weight. I can’t give in and eat sweets again or I’ll get fat.” She puffed her cheeks out and held her arms away from her side for emphasis.
“Fat! One little tiny cheesecake is not going to make you fat.” He shot her a sideways glance.
Lisa pondered for a moment. As she did, a man walked by wearing an HNIC t-shirt with a picture of Don Cherry on it.
Philippe saw that she noticed it and leaned in. “That’s an omen, you know,” he said, sotto voce.
She smiled, and then chuckled and the two of them burst into laughter at the same time.
“I might have put “Don Cherry” and “omen” in the same sentence, but not that way.” They shared another laugh, and finally, she reached out to touch him gently on the arm. “Merci, Philippe, for thinking of me. I’ll take it.”
He led her back into the shop and carefully took the little delicacy from the window, placing it in a small box.
She took it from him. “Now I’ll have to do an extra workout, you know,” she said, teasing.
“No, you won’t.” He brushed a stray lock of hair from her forehead. “You’re perfect just the way you are.”
- - -
I'm active as a writer in FridayFlash and ThreeWord Wednesday, and I'm also a fanfic writer for the 1960s tv show Combat!. I previously had a story on Daily Love ("The Sound of a Closing Door", 10/28/2010). You can read more of my work at http://demonesprit.wordpress.com and http://tec4.co.cc.
Saturday, July 23, 2011
7/23/11
The Music is Gone
By Emily Martinez
I used to dance.
But when you came here
The music stopped.
I no longer dance
To hold my reflection still
and perfect in your eyes.
When you came here
We would sleep all day,
Exhausted from gazing
at each other amazed.
And it was quiet
As a vacuum.
I only feel rhythm in you.
My heart dances to
the shy pulse in your neck,
But the music has stopped.
I just don't hear it.
I only hear you.
Your words tickle my ears,
Your voice melts honey in my soul,
And in this moment,
To hold my smile in bliss
And carelessness,
I want to dance with you.
I would move slowly to the silence
But you begin to hum.
When you started humming dear,
I'd hoped that the music was gone forever.
I would sway to your sound forever,
for all other sound has
lost its fervor,
And for music,
my passion is gone.
I do not miss it. I shall not long for it.
All the breath in me is gone to sighs,
My energy, turned to heat.
The music is gone
but I will not long again.
As long as
you are here.
- - -
I am a sophomore at Binghamton University, and I write poetry, particularly about love. I would like to be a fiction novelist in the future, but for now, as an English major I enjoy reading and studying the classics.
By Emily Martinez
I used to dance.
But when you came here
The music stopped.
I no longer dance
To hold my reflection still
and perfect in your eyes.
When you came here
We would sleep all day,
Exhausted from gazing
at each other amazed.
And it was quiet
As a vacuum.
I only feel rhythm in you.
My heart dances to
the shy pulse in your neck,
But the music has stopped.
I just don't hear it.
I only hear you.
Your words tickle my ears,
Your voice melts honey in my soul,
And in this moment,
To hold my smile in bliss
And carelessness,
I want to dance with you.
I would move slowly to the silence
But you begin to hum.
When you started humming dear,
I'd hoped that the music was gone forever.
I would sway to your sound forever,
for all other sound has
lost its fervor,
And for music,
my passion is gone.
I do not miss it. I shall not long for it.
All the breath in me is gone to sighs,
My energy, turned to heat.
The music is gone
but I will not long again.
As long as
you are here.
- - -
I am a sophomore at Binghamton University, and I write poetry, particularly about love. I would like to be a fiction novelist in the future, but for now, as an English major I enjoy reading and studying the classics.
Friday, July 22, 2011
7/22/11
Shadow
By Brianna Alwine
Today you weren't in my mind like a song with no lyrics
I could breathe freely without catching the scent of your skin
I could see clearly without your eyes hypnotizing my view
Your gaze no longer pierced through me like a knife of steel
Your compelling features were kept away from my mind
Your touch no longer lingered on my skin like the warm breeze going over me
I laughed and did not hear yours
And I smiled without you
No longer did the memories haunt my every moment of existence
And no longer did they follow me around like a lost shadow
Your soul no longer lived within me
Today your voice didn't chime in through my ears like a soft lullaby
Your smile didn't shine through my eyes and mind as it does every waking moment
But today I missed your touch
and I missed the song that your voice would sing to my heart
Today, I missed you.
- - -
By Brianna Alwine
Today you weren't in my mind like a song with no lyrics
I could breathe freely without catching the scent of your skin
I could see clearly without your eyes hypnotizing my view
Your gaze no longer pierced through me like a knife of steel
Your compelling features were kept away from my mind
Your touch no longer lingered on my skin like the warm breeze going over me
I laughed and did not hear yours
And I smiled without you
No longer did the memories haunt my every moment of existence
And no longer did they follow me around like a lost shadow
Your soul no longer lived within me
Today your voice didn't chime in through my ears like a soft lullaby
Your smile didn't shine through my eyes and mind as it does every waking moment
But today I missed your touch
and I missed the song that your voice would sing to my heart
Today, I missed you.
- - -
Thursday, July 21, 2011
7/21/11
Rumba For An Absent Dancer
By Frank Joussen
- - -
Frank Joussen is a German school teacher. He has published two collections of poems and a number of poems, short stories, flash fiction pieces and reviews in print and online journals worldwide.
By Frank Joussen
I take the steps
but I don´t care
they´re only right
when you are there
well, as it is
it´s emptiness
whirled round the room
by sweating hands
and shuffling feet
I only see
your smiling face
before me
my partner moves
but the rhythm
is elsewhere
the dancing teacher
frowns and stares
straight at me
when you are there
we are the perfect pair
a dance begins
it´s rumba time
the dance of love
but she´s not mine
I´m practicing
just practicing
to show you soon
what we have learnt
and how it´s done
I only see
your glowing eyes
before me
the music plays
but the lyrics
don´t seem true
I´d never thought
those love songs
could have meaning
just come again
I´ll show you
that they do.
- - -
Frank Joussen is a German school teacher. He has published two collections of poems and a number of poems, short stories, flash fiction pieces and reviews in print and online journals worldwide.
Wednesday, July 20, 2011
7/20/11
Cutest
By J
- - -
I am a college student blessed or cursed by my existence as a hopeless romantic. I secretly despise those around me who act out of lust rather than love, but am sometimes jealous of their ability to let go and to live free of regret. I often write when my emotions build up and need to lash out in a fury of ink.
By J
The room around me is basked in a dim, blue light,
faces paling one by one as the laughter and clutter die out.
Nothing matters besides you
And across the room, I spot you…
Just the top of your head, peeking out.
And you’re radiating light and we lock eyes!
In the instant,
I know you, and you know me
And we know we’re desperately in love.
In the halls I pass you
The two of you
He holds you, he strokes your back.
It’s all futile, I tell myself, because that’s her boyfriend, and I am nothing.
But then your head turns.
You glance once more and understand the pain in my heart.
Ever so slightly, your ice-cold grip loosens from his spine and you blush.
The color in your cheeks is all I need.
I get you, and you get me.
And maybe he’s the nothing.
It’s what pulls us together, you know.
It’s the correlation of our heartstrings when one of ours tugs on the other’s and when a slight smile expounds upon itself to form hours of laughter.
It’s what keeps me thinking I want to marry you hours after we say goodbye.
It’s the desire to smile when I’m around you even when I’m sad.
It’s the feeling that without you I would go mad.
It’s what makes me say, “I love you.”
Sometimes, we are alone.
Best friends have no reason to hide from each other, they say.
As our fingers interlock, I stare into the depths of your eyes.
Is this happening?
I think so, I reply in my thoughts.
This isn’t allowed, you scream out to me. This can’t be happening.
I know it isn’t, love. But it is.
Our bodies and our minds pick through the contradictions and the rubbish every day.
And when we are together, they align.
This is right, we both know.
My hands reach. Gently, your hair flows in luscious waves. I brush it back. It obliges. Of course it would. Your warmth covers me. And mine reciprocates. Our noses touch gingerly. We whisper without words. Our lips close in. We kiss.
Hours later, I drive home.
The highway glitters with the sherbet colors dripping from the waking sun.
The air is gentle, yet chilled without you.
A single sound resonates in our ears.
It echoes from the depths of our souls,
years apart from each other when we know we are meant to be.
It is watery, indistinguishable to those around us.
But for you, love, and for me, it rings clear.
I do.
- - -
I am a college student blessed or cursed by my existence as a hopeless romantic. I secretly despise those around me who act out of lust rather than love, but am sometimes jealous of their ability to let go and to live free of regret. I often write when my emotions build up and need to lash out in a fury of ink.
Tuesday, July 19, 2011
7/19/11
Butt Stuck Penny
By Acquanetta M. Sproule
Roses.
Three dozen.
Actually, three dozen and one, long stemmed peach colored roses.
Penny’s favorite.
Professor Isaac Figg hoped that the blossoms’ delicate fragrances blending with the light floral scent of the six strategically placed floating candles would quickly mask the odors of overworked electrical insulation and of musty, dusty basement in the laboratory he shared with Dr. Penelope Pendleton. The lab’s odors seemed determined to linger in spite of the formerly-content-at-being-a-middle-aged-bachelor's best efforts to eliminate them.
He wanted the atmosphere to be perfect. Or, at least as close to perfect as could be expected in the lower levels of the Science and Engineering Building, sealed tight against another patented Michigan ice storm.
Penny hated ice storms. So, Figg had nearly killed himself adventuring out in search of just the right thing to brighten her Step-Through.
During Figg’s last shopping stop, the surprised florist had commented that the single peach colored rose must be for someone very special, for Figg to brave this kind of deep freeze.
At first, Figg scoffed away such nonsense, informing the clerk that this was just a little something to cheer away the winter blahs from a long-time and well-respected colleague.
The clerk had smiled condescendingly. Since things, he’d explained, were likely to be slow today anyway, he offered to let such a kind hearted gentleman as Figg obviously was to get as many roses as he wanted at half price.
Figg, warmly astonished by the clerk’s generous offer, agreed and requested the three dozen in addition to the one. Choosing to ignore the clerk’s pocketing of the money, Prof. Figg bundled up these final items and slid to his Lexus. By the time he’d safely navigated back to the lab, Figg admitted that he had to agree with that enterprising young fellow.
Only a fool would put himself through the changes he’d just had.
A fool...or a fool In Love.
Well, Figg decided, no need to put matters off.
If he was in love with the good Professor Pendleton, might as well ‘fess up and get on with things.
Problem was, how to get her to take him seriously; especially, when Figg, himself, had found the realization to be quite astounding.
The flowers, candles, gourmet lunch for two, soft mellow jazz and lace linen table cloth would probably surprise Penny, probably start her to seeing him in a different light — but, being a dedicated Man of Science, Figg preferred to have all the possibilities considered and covered.
How best to assure his caramel-Amazon companion’s undivided attention, while minimizing the very probable danger to him from her mercenary temperament and skills?
How best to assure, as much as statistically possible, a favorable outcome?
A nice problem, indeed.
As the moments ticked down, the answer trickled up.
Such a simple solution! Easily executed!
As soon as she Stepped-Through the shimmering transfer field returning from this latest scavenger expedition, he would cycle the field closed just enough to hold her securely halfway between this place and that, just long enough to express his affection and, safely, await her response.
Congratulating himself for his solution, Figg speculated as to what her possible reactions might be...
* * *
Watching his gauges, Figg quickly - but gently - cycled closed the undulating silver field. Penelope, rainbows flaring where she pressed through the field, was caught mid-stride.
"What are you doing?" she demanded as she struggled to free herself.
"I needed for you to listen and to take what I had to say seriously."
Dangerous brown eyes searched, measured pleading ice-blue ones.
"O.K.," she drawled, "I’m listening...seriously."
Figg drew a quick breath, released it — plunged.
"I’m in love with you."
Penny’s jaw dropped. He cycled open the field, shutting it down as she stumbled clear.
Figg waited, trying not to fidget.
"No man, in my entire life, has ever told me that before! Ever!" She knelt before him, gazing up as she kissed his hands. Figg felt his stomach roiling and struggled to extract himself before it erupted.
He didn’t make it.
"Don’t worry, my darling. I’ll clean that up for you."
She led him to the table, plunked him down before he fell. The stink of the roses aggravated his nausea, but he managed to keep his traitorous belly under control this time. Buried beneath Penny’s ministrations, he contemplated which of his messes would be more easily cleaned up.
* * *
No! No!! NO!!! Figg chided himself, gulping several quick, deep breaths in an effort to calm his jingle-jangling nerves. To reduce such a gloriously powerful woman down to geisha status would be completely, totally, absolutely unacceptable! Besides, someday he might decide to investigate other romantic avenues while maintaining his and Penny’s very lucrative entrepreneurial alliance. And, he wasn’t fool enough to believe that he, or any man for that matter, could long survive the attentions of a discarded Dr. Pendleton. As unlikely as it seemed that someone like Penny would melt adoringly into a disgusting puddle of cloying lovesick ooze and relentlessly suck him down into a miasma of emotional muck...it was always better to be prepared for any and all possibilities.
At the first sign of something like this happening, Figg promised himself, he would randomize the transfer field’s controls, leap through and run!
Figg laughed aloud at himself, for even entertaining such an unPenny-like scenario. Penny was as likely to behave that way as he was to wake up forty pounds lighter and sporting a full head of hair!
No, Penny wouldn’t swoon, wouldn’t faint, wouldn’t melt.
That just wasn’t her style ...
* *
Watching his gauges, Figg quickly — but gently — cycled closed the field, catching Penny in mid stride.
"What are you doing?" she demanded, trying to wrench herself free.
Figg’s mouth went dry, all the fluid seemingly racing to his armpits and palms.
Perhaps this wasn’t such a good idea, after all ...
"I just wanted to make sure you’d listen, and take me seriously," Figg stammered.
"All right, Figgy," she said, obviously humoring him. Her eyes narrowed, fists clenched and, slowly, unclenched: "I’m listening. What is it you wanted to tell me?"
"I think that I’m in love with you."
She didn’t laugh, didn’t smile, but he saw the determination settle in.
She knew he knew that if he freed her, now, that she’d do her best to catch and kill him where ever he fled.
He knew that she knew that he wasn’t cruel enough to leave her trapped there.
One other option occurred to both, simultaneously.
They’d been together a very long time.
Now, she did smile — as though perversely pleased to realize that some of her baser traits had finally rubbed off on her sophisticated old friend.
Figg’s hands hovered over the controls.
To open the field...or snap it completely shut?
Their gazes met, held.
He dropped his, first.
Heartsick, but resigned, Figg adjusted the field’s controls...closed.
* *
Figg rubbed away the sweat streaming into his eyes.
Best not to think about it too much ...
But...Penny had occasionally told tales of some of the strange creatures she’d encountered during her Step-Throughs. Knowing her to be an accomplished prankster, he generally took Penny’s tales with an entire mine load of salt.
Still, what if...what if...?
*
Watching his gages, Figg quickly — but gently — cycled closed the field, catching her in mid stride.
Instead of the annoyance he’d expected, her eyes went wide with pleading and...terror?
Perplexed, Figg debated the wisdom of his plan.
Penny shrieked! She writhed in agony as her eyes rolled up and blood gushed from both mouth and nose!
Figg snapped open the transfer field!
Something rammed Penny from behind, sprawling her body across the floor!
He jumped back, horrified, as a red and silver-striped feline leapt out through the field and pounced protectively over its prize!
Figg hefted an oscilloscope, the first loose thing he laid hands on and, nearly matching Penny’s scream, lunged at the feeding Beast!
It flicked a clawed paw, tossing Figg’s ripped and tattered body across the room, bowling over the lace-covered table!
Figg raised one bloody hand in trembling supplication to the Beast feasting on Penny’s steaming innards!
Others sniffed him disdainfully before striding past and up the stairs, mashing long-stemmed peach-colored roses into Figg’s spreading blood puddles!
With a triumphant howl, another Beast missiled against the lab door, blasting it open!
It hooked and hauled in Dr. Wilson’s obnoxious teaching assistant!
Never did like that arrogant...
Professor Figg found his last thought highly amusing.
And, might have laughed...had his throat not right then been torn out...
*
Figg jerked at the warning chime announcing that Penny had begun re-entry. He slumped against the console until his pounding heart slowed closer to normal — and wondered at his own reactions. Being of small stature and a, generally, non-aggressively natured man, Figg had lifelong experience of what fear felt like. Question was, if this fear was for Penny or of Penny?
The transfer field’s normal standby mode appearance — much like a giant, shimmering, summer heat-curtain — changed to something like molten silver.
The places pushed by Penny stretching out into concentric blue-shifting rainbows going black where she passed through. Figg always marveled at the two rainbow-ringed black eyes proceeding Penny’s high breasts...which were coming through now!
Figg’s hands leapt to the controls, but froze.
He frowned at her unusual haste, memories of fur and teeth and pain still frighteningly fresh. Suddenly, Penny flicked her arm up! He flinched back, flinging both arms up to protect his face from the fist-sized projectile. With quick reflex, he caught the crystal.
Then, Penny’s lovely smirk.
Figg turned his attention back to the multi-faceted sphere. Once word was discreetly passed around to discerning and unspeakably wealthy potential buyers of the diamond’s existence and availability, the only Step-Throughs either he or Penny would ever have to take, again, would be for just the fun of it!
Penny?
Penny!
Her long strides had taken her completely away from the now quiescent transfer field over to the table. She laid her knapsack gently on the floor and, with an almost girlish delight, sat savoring the fragrances from the three dozen and one roses.
"What’s the occasion?" Penny asked, in her blood-boiling contralto.
Figg, still reeling from the size of this trip’s main prize, couldn’t come up with anything better than: "Because you like them."
Oh well, he consoled himself as he resumed admiring the stone, a good business partner is probably better than a romantic interest, anyhow.
"Thank you. They’re lovely."
Perplexed by her un-Penny-like purr, he glanced over to see him smiling, warmly, at him.
Being a dedicated Man of Science, Professor Isaac Figg automatically began calculating that smile’s possibilities.
Nice. Nice, indeed...
- - -
"I'd just gotten out of my morning bath and, while putting on my clothes, sat down on my bed. I felt something odd on my butt. I stood up and it was still there, so I brushed it off onto the carpet. It was a penny that had been stuck on my butt. I have a Hyper-Active imagination."
By Acquanetta M. Sproule
Roses.
Three dozen.
Actually, three dozen and one, long stemmed peach colored roses.
Penny’s favorite.
Professor Isaac Figg hoped that the blossoms’ delicate fragrances blending with the light floral scent of the six strategically placed floating candles would quickly mask the odors of overworked electrical insulation and of musty, dusty basement in the laboratory he shared with Dr. Penelope Pendleton. The lab’s odors seemed determined to linger in spite of the formerly-content-at-being-a-middle-aged-bachelor's best efforts to eliminate them.
He wanted the atmosphere to be perfect. Or, at least as close to perfect as could be expected in the lower levels of the Science and Engineering Building, sealed tight against another patented Michigan ice storm.
Penny hated ice storms. So, Figg had nearly killed himself adventuring out in search of just the right thing to brighten her Step-Through.
During Figg’s last shopping stop, the surprised florist had commented that the single peach colored rose must be for someone very special, for Figg to brave this kind of deep freeze.
At first, Figg scoffed away such nonsense, informing the clerk that this was just a little something to cheer away the winter blahs from a long-time and well-respected colleague.
The clerk had smiled condescendingly. Since things, he’d explained, were likely to be slow today anyway, he offered to let such a kind hearted gentleman as Figg obviously was to get as many roses as he wanted at half price.
Figg, warmly astonished by the clerk’s generous offer, agreed and requested the three dozen in addition to the one. Choosing to ignore the clerk’s pocketing of the money, Prof. Figg bundled up these final items and slid to his Lexus. By the time he’d safely navigated back to the lab, Figg admitted that he had to agree with that enterprising young fellow.
Only a fool would put himself through the changes he’d just had.
A fool...or a fool In Love.
Well, Figg decided, no need to put matters off.
If he was in love with the good Professor Pendleton, might as well ‘fess up and get on with things.
Problem was, how to get her to take him seriously; especially, when Figg, himself, had found the realization to be quite astounding.
The flowers, candles, gourmet lunch for two, soft mellow jazz and lace linen table cloth would probably surprise Penny, probably start her to seeing him in a different light — but, being a dedicated Man of Science, Figg preferred to have all the possibilities considered and covered.
How best to assure his caramel-Amazon companion’s undivided attention, while minimizing the very probable danger to him from her mercenary temperament and skills?
How best to assure, as much as statistically possible, a favorable outcome?
A nice problem, indeed.
As the moments ticked down, the answer trickled up.
Such a simple solution! Easily executed!
As soon as she Stepped-Through the shimmering transfer field returning from this latest scavenger expedition, he would cycle the field closed just enough to hold her securely halfway between this place and that, just long enough to express his affection and, safely, await her response.
Congratulating himself for his solution, Figg speculated as to what her possible reactions might be...
* * *
Watching his gauges, Figg quickly - but gently - cycled closed the undulating silver field. Penelope, rainbows flaring where she pressed through the field, was caught mid-stride.
"What are you doing?" she demanded as she struggled to free herself.
"I needed for you to listen and to take what I had to say seriously."
Dangerous brown eyes searched, measured pleading ice-blue ones.
"O.K.," she drawled, "I’m listening...seriously."
Figg drew a quick breath, released it — plunged.
"I’m in love with you."
Penny’s jaw dropped. He cycled open the field, shutting it down as she stumbled clear.
Figg waited, trying not to fidget.
"No man, in my entire life, has ever told me that before! Ever!" She knelt before him, gazing up as she kissed his hands. Figg felt his stomach roiling and struggled to extract himself before it erupted.
He didn’t make it.
"Don’t worry, my darling. I’ll clean that up for you."
She led him to the table, plunked him down before he fell. The stink of the roses aggravated his nausea, but he managed to keep his traitorous belly under control this time. Buried beneath Penny’s ministrations, he contemplated which of his messes would be more easily cleaned up.
* * *
No! No!! NO!!! Figg chided himself, gulping several quick, deep breaths in an effort to calm his jingle-jangling nerves. To reduce such a gloriously powerful woman down to geisha status would be completely, totally, absolutely unacceptable! Besides, someday he might decide to investigate other romantic avenues while maintaining his and Penny’s very lucrative entrepreneurial alliance. And, he wasn’t fool enough to believe that he, or any man for that matter, could long survive the attentions of a discarded Dr. Pendleton. As unlikely as it seemed that someone like Penny would melt adoringly into a disgusting puddle of cloying lovesick ooze and relentlessly suck him down into a miasma of emotional muck...it was always better to be prepared for any and all possibilities.
At the first sign of something like this happening, Figg promised himself, he would randomize the transfer field’s controls, leap through and run!
Figg laughed aloud at himself, for even entertaining such an unPenny-like scenario. Penny was as likely to behave that way as he was to wake up forty pounds lighter and sporting a full head of hair!
No, Penny wouldn’t swoon, wouldn’t faint, wouldn’t melt.
That just wasn’t her style ...
* *
Watching his gauges, Figg quickly — but gently — cycled closed the field, catching Penny in mid stride.
"What are you doing?" she demanded, trying to wrench herself free.
Figg’s mouth went dry, all the fluid seemingly racing to his armpits and palms.
Perhaps this wasn’t such a good idea, after all ...
"I just wanted to make sure you’d listen, and take me seriously," Figg stammered.
"All right, Figgy," she said, obviously humoring him. Her eyes narrowed, fists clenched and, slowly, unclenched: "I’m listening. What is it you wanted to tell me?"
"I think that I’m in love with you."
She didn’t laugh, didn’t smile, but he saw the determination settle in.
She knew he knew that if he freed her, now, that she’d do her best to catch and kill him where ever he fled.
He knew that she knew that he wasn’t cruel enough to leave her trapped there.
One other option occurred to both, simultaneously.
They’d been together a very long time.
Now, she did smile — as though perversely pleased to realize that some of her baser traits had finally rubbed off on her sophisticated old friend.
Figg’s hands hovered over the controls.
To open the field...or snap it completely shut?
Their gazes met, held.
He dropped his, first.
Heartsick, but resigned, Figg adjusted the field’s controls...closed.
* *
Figg rubbed away the sweat streaming into his eyes.
Best not to think about it too much ...
But...Penny had occasionally told tales of some of the strange creatures she’d encountered during her Step-Throughs. Knowing her to be an accomplished prankster, he generally took Penny’s tales with an entire mine load of salt.
Still, what if...what if...?
*
Watching his gages, Figg quickly — but gently — cycled closed the field, catching her in mid stride.
Instead of the annoyance he’d expected, her eyes went wide with pleading and...terror?
Perplexed, Figg debated the wisdom of his plan.
Penny shrieked! She writhed in agony as her eyes rolled up and blood gushed from both mouth and nose!
Figg snapped open the transfer field!
Something rammed Penny from behind, sprawling her body across the floor!
He jumped back, horrified, as a red and silver-striped feline leapt out through the field and pounced protectively over its prize!
Figg hefted an oscilloscope, the first loose thing he laid hands on and, nearly matching Penny’s scream, lunged at the feeding Beast!
It flicked a clawed paw, tossing Figg’s ripped and tattered body across the room, bowling over the lace-covered table!
Figg raised one bloody hand in trembling supplication to the Beast feasting on Penny’s steaming innards!
Others sniffed him disdainfully before striding past and up the stairs, mashing long-stemmed peach-colored roses into Figg’s spreading blood puddles!
With a triumphant howl, another Beast missiled against the lab door, blasting it open!
It hooked and hauled in Dr. Wilson’s obnoxious teaching assistant!
Never did like that arrogant...
Professor Figg found his last thought highly amusing.
And, might have laughed...had his throat not right then been torn out...
*
Figg jerked at the warning chime announcing that Penny had begun re-entry. He slumped against the console until his pounding heart slowed closer to normal — and wondered at his own reactions. Being of small stature and a, generally, non-aggressively natured man, Figg had lifelong experience of what fear felt like. Question was, if this fear was for Penny or of Penny?
The transfer field’s normal standby mode appearance — much like a giant, shimmering, summer heat-curtain — changed to something like molten silver.
The places pushed by Penny stretching out into concentric blue-shifting rainbows going black where she passed through. Figg always marveled at the two rainbow-ringed black eyes proceeding Penny’s high breasts...which were coming through now!
Figg’s hands leapt to the controls, but froze.
He frowned at her unusual haste, memories of fur and teeth and pain still frighteningly fresh. Suddenly, Penny flicked her arm up! He flinched back, flinging both arms up to protect his face from the fist-sized projectile. With quick reflex, he caught the crystal.
Then, Penny’s lovely smirk.
Figg turned his attention back to the multi-faceted sphere. Once word was discreetly passed around to discerning and unspeakably wealthy potential buyers of the diamond’s existence and availability, the only Step-Throughs either he or Penny would ever have to take, again, would be for just the fun of it!
Penny?
Penny!
Her long strides had taken her completely away from the now quiescent transfer field over to the table. She laid her knapsack gently on the floor and, with an almost girlish delight, sat savoring the fragrances from the three dozen and one roses.
"What’s the occasion?" Penny asked, in her blood-boiling contralto.
Figg, still reeling from the size of this trip’s main prize, couldn’t come up with anything better than: "Because you like them."
Oh well, he consoled himself as he resumed admiring the stone, a good business partner is probably better than a romantic interest, anyhow.
"Thank you. They’re lovely."
Perplexed by her un-Penny-like purr, he glanced over to see him smiling, warmly, at him.
Being a dedicated Man of Science, Professor Isaac Figg automatically began calculating that smile’s possibilities.
Nice. Nice, indeed...
- - -
"I'd just gotten out of my morning bath and, while putting on my clothes, sat down on my bed. I felt something odd on my butt. I stood up and it was still there, so I brushed it off onto the carpet. It was a penny that had been stuck on my butt. I have a Hyper-Active imagination."
Monday, July 18, 2011
7/18/11
THE MOMENT
By K.Balachandran
The hint of mint
on her lips had an offer
to which my tongue
quickly said 'yes'
The scent of an
unknown flower
on her flowing hair
took me from there
to the mountain slope
in my mindscape
beside which
I had painted her
picture to make it
perfect, against
gentle foaming light.
The moment was
tender,pulsating,
her hands were
creepers coiling
my trunk,in a flurry
not to swoon so soon.
Isn't it the moment
described always
as the feeling of
wafting above
the fluffy clouds?
But hay,I never
thought I could be
swayed so easily
like this,made
of sterner stuff
could withstand the
onslaught of
such moments
I thought of myself
but eyes don't
see,ears can't hear
nose loose it's
sense of smell
I feel a thrill beyond
the prompting
of five senses
to get in to the
flow of the nature's
immense will
to find the reason
of my existence
and vanquish the
fear of all fears
and be immortal
liberate both of us
from the mortal coil
with the oracular
power love fills
in our beings
in such moments.
- - -
K.Balachandran writes poems and short fiction in English, Malayalam and Tamil
His poems have appeared in Daily love,Short,fast and deadly, Asiawrites, Kritya and many other journals. He lives in quaint,historic city Thiruvananthapuram capital of the tropical paradise Kerala in South India.He loves to explore the territory of love from a different approach each time and with wonder find out it's "oracular powers".
By K.Balachandran
The hint of mint
on her lips had an offer
to which my tongue
quickly said 'yes'
The scent of an
unknown flower
on her flowing hair
took me from there
to the mountain slope
in my mindscape
beside which
I had painted her
picture to make it
perfect, against
gentle foaming light.
The moment was
tender,pulsating,
her hands were
creepers coiling
my trunk,in a flurry
not to swoon so soon.
Isn't it the moment
described always
as the feeling of
wafting above
the fluffy clouds?
But hay,I never
thought I could be
swayed so easily
like this,made
of sterner stuff
could withstand the
onslaught of
such moments
I thought of myself
but eyes don't
see,ears can't hear
nose loose it's
sense of smell
I feel a thrill beyond
the prompting
of five senses
to get in to the
flow of the nature's
immense will
to find the reason
of my existence
and vanquish the
fear of all fears
and be immortal
liberate both of us
from the mortal coil
with the oracular
power love fills
in our beings
in such moments.
- - -
K.Balachandran writes poems and short fiction in English, Malayalam and Tamil
His poems have appeared in Daily love,Short,fast and deadly, Asiawrites, Kritya and many other journals. He lives in quaint,historic city Thiruvananthapuram capital of the tropical paradise Kerala in South India.He loves to explore the territory of love from a different approach each time and with wonder find out it's "oracular powers".
Sunday, July 17, 2011
7/17/11
That Girl
By Nivedita
Through the shimmering braces, your dazzling smile
And those kohl-ed eyes, hidden under the burden of your spectacles,
Often gorging on books, you hardly look away for a while
Gazing at you, as you turn one page to another,
Perhaps you are aware of my presence
Else, none, while reading physics would shiver
Ah! the first time you wore a jazzy dress
Like a sunflower with white spots,
You looked in your polka-dot mess
Oiling your hair, tying a long plait,
For the tuition teacher, oft together we’d wait
Gathering all the courage,
I asked you a question on a subject once
You took my book to solve but saw my solved answer
Bewildered! You never spoke hence.
That first touch
Faking there’s some dirt on your cheek,
I wiped it intermittently
You blushed throughout
Perhaps, you guessed, it was done intentionally
Wonder what happened when you blossomed,
Like a chiseled caricature, your features sharp
Your fingers long, and mine, as they touched yours, shivered
Your hair long and the oil performed its perfumed miracles.
Like a scene of a movie,
dressed to perfection,
You stood in my vacant balcony
Like a flash of scenes, I reminisced the braces-smeared teeth,
Your nose, with a little bump cos of the weight of your spectacles
And your lips, always smiling and
……many a times, shivering
Like now, as mine touch yours
Testimony for your longing
and mine…
- - -
I am Nivedita (or divenita). Work with Thomson Reuters and a Freelancer with The Hindu, a Indian newspaper. I write poetry, short stories. I write at nivuuuuu.blogspot.com.
By Nivedita
Through the shimmering braces, your dazzling smile
And those kohl-ed eyes, hidden under the burden of your spectacles,
Often gorging on books, you hardly look away for a while
Gazing at you, as you turn one page to another,
Perhaps you are aware of my presence
Else, none, while reading physics would shiver
Ah! the first time you wore a jazzy dress
Like a sunflower with white spots,
You looked in your polka-dot mess
Oiling your hair, tying a long plait,
For the tuition teacher, oft together we’d wait
Gathering all the courage,
I asked you a question on a subject once
You took my book to solve but saw my solved answer
Bewildered! You never spoke hence.
That first touch
Faking there’s some dirt on your cheek,
I wiped it intermittently
You blushed throughout
Perhaps, you guessed, it was done intentionally
Wonder what happened when you blossomed,
Like a chiseled caricature, your features sharp
Your fingers long, and mine, as they touched yours, shivered
Your hair long and the oil performed its perfumed miracles.
Like a scene of a movie,
dressed to perfection,
You stood in my vacant balcony
Like a flash of scenes, I reminisced the braces-smeared teeth,
Your nose, with a little bump cos of the weight of your spectacles
And your lips, always smiling and
……many a times, shivering
Like now, as mine touch yours
Testimony for your longing
and mine…
- - -
I am Nivedita (or divenita). Work with Thomson Reuters and a Freelancer with The Hindu, a Indian newspaper. I write poetry, short stories. I write at nivuuuuu.blogspot.com.
Saturday, July 16, 2011
7/16/11
Crazy Love
By T. L. Sherwood
It starts by my wanting to show you this flower, but then you take my hand and say you want to kiss me under the trees, then in the bushes where we scare the rabbits away and a pheasant takes flight. We embrace and tear at each other’s clothing, nearly hoping to hear the shot of a hunter so we can make love in the wilderness under the added threat of being discovered by an armed gunman looking for his kill.
Later on, I imagine we sit talking softly on the porch steps while we pull out the burrs from the each other’s shoe laces, burrs that embedded themselves into the nylon at some point between when I first thought if you had been around, I would have wanted you to see this flower and the time it took to consider that if you were around, would showing you this flower be the foremost thing I’d want to do while in your presence.
This leads me to believe that the simple is rarely as simple as it appears and that the complex must be so much more vastly complicated than it already looks, that I can’t possibly begin to have another simple fantasy about you ever again. Which, for me is fine. There is no reason why I can’t accomplish this change of thought patterns. So, from now on, the fantasies I have about you will have to be so convoluted and improbable that I’ll never be able to derive pleasure from them because they will have to be so highfalutin, bizarre and down right strange that I’ll barely be able to understand them myself.
Something like, we are working on a space station when a fuel line clogs and I have to hold the pipe while you clean it with a bottle brush. Then a directive from Earth comes in on the teletype saying space cowboys are entering our vector and we have to hurry and prepare to defend our ship and you go faster and faster and…
See, I can handle this. I just don’t know how long I’ll be able to continue to make up bizarre situations that top the last in complexity because it might turn out to be just like drinking yourself sober, and the most bizarre, improbable, convoluted fantasy I could ever have would be of wanting to share with you the beauty of this single flower.
- - -
T. L. Sherwood lives besides Eighteen Mile Creek in western New York with her second husband. Her writing has appeared in Vestal Review, Inkspill and the Boston Literary Magazine. She is currently working on revising the novel she wrote for National Novel Writing Month last year.
By T. L. Sherwood
It starts by my wanting to show you this flower, but then you take my hand and say you want to kiss me under the trees, then in the bushes where we scare the rabbits away and a pheasant takes flight. We embrace and tear at each other’s clothing, nearly hoping to hear the shot of a hunter so we can make love in the wilderness under the added threat of being discovered by an armed gunman looking for his kill.
Later on, I imagine we sit talking softly on the porch steps while we pull out the burrs from the each other’s shoe laces, burrs that embedded themselves into the nylon at some point between when I first thought if you had been around, I would have wanted you to see this flower and the time it took to consider that if you were around, would showing you this flower be the foremost thing I’d want to do while in your presence.
This leads me to believe that the simple is rarely as simple as it appears and that the complex must be so much more vastly complicated than it already looks, that I can’t possibly begin to have another simple fantasy about you ever again. Which, for me is fine. There is no reason why I can’t accomplish this change of thought patterns. So, from now on, the fantasies I have about you will have to be so convoluted and improbable that I’ll never be able to derive pleasure from them because they will have to be so highfalutin, bizarre and down right strange that I’ll barely be able to understand them myself.
Something like, we are working on a space station when a fuel line clogs and I have to hold the pipe while you clean it with a bottle brush. Then a directive from Earth comes in on the teletype saying space cowboys are entering our vector and we have to hurry and prepare to defend our ship and you go faster and faster and…
See, I can handle this. I just don’t know how long I’ll be able to continue to make up bizarre situations that top the last in complexity because it might turn out to be just like drinking yourself sober, and the most bizarre, improbable, convoluted fantasy I could ever have would be of wanting to share with you the beauty of this single flower.
- - -
T. L. Sherwood lives besides Eighteen Mile Creek in western New York with her second husband. Her writing has appeared in Vestal Review, Inkspill and the Boston Literary Magazine. She is currently working on revising the novel she wrote for National Novel Writing Month last year.
Friday, July 15, 2011
7/15/11
DARK STREET
By Walter William Safar
It is dark all around me,
and the capricious winds of destiny
push me and chase me on
into even more frightening darkness,
where solitude rules,
as if it was the honest truth
that there is no place for me neither here nor there,
nor anywhere, and still,
that the thought haunts me
that I am here somehow for her sake.
This darkness can only be lightened by Your gaze,
oh, my dear, I am begging you
to show me your eyes,
so I can finally see how the sun shines
and how the most vivid flowers grow
in the great cathedral of nature.
You are dark, my street!
How many, many shadows, how much solitude
you bury into your hungry mouth.
I want to escape, I want to implore the shadows of solitude
to leave me alone, if I could only ever see
the source of my happiness, her eyes.
Step by step I am threading along my dark street
like the black earth of my grave,
I leave my capricious and gloomy moods
to the weather and the wind,
but I can't seem to escape the shadows of solitude,
the faithful muses of my destiny.
The wind passes my street and plays,
that blue shadow is listening, the stray dog
is also listening, as is his old faithful companion
in good and bad times – hunger-.
Now I understand them too,
I understand their anger and their bitterness,
it's horrible when they tell you
that you are no human being, that you watch
the wind and the fog pass you by,
and that you feel
that your solitude makes you their company.
Tell me, dear wind,
how is it to go to Africa, China, Burma,
like a heavenly physician,
to cure many poor
and be a wonder of purity and gentleness
in that work?
You are dark, my street!
You must be the darkest
and most glorious street in the world,
because you are the street of many poets,
and wherever I may go, I promise you
that I will always remember my glorious ancestors,
and those beautiful eyes
in which each days is wonderfully fair,
and the skies are blue
just like the day I opened my eyes for the first time.
- - -
WALTER WILLIAM SAFAR was born on August 6th 1958 in Sherman(U.S.A.). He is the author of a number of a significant number of prose works and novels, including "Leaden fog", "Chastity on sale", "In the falmes of passion", "The price of life", "Above the clouds", "The infernal circle", "The scream", "The negotiator", "Queen Elizabeth II", as well as a book of poems, titled "The angel and the demon".
By Walter William Safar
It is dark all around me,
and the capricious winds of destiny
push me and chase me on
into even more frightening darkness,
where solitude rules,
as if it was the honest truth
that there is no place for me neither here nor there,
nor anywhere, and still,
that the thought haunts me
that I am here somehow for her sake.
This darkness can only be lightened by Your gaze,
oh, my dear, I am begging you
to show me your eyes,
so I can finally see how the sun shines
and how the most vivid flowers grow
in the great cathedral of nature.
You are dark, my street!
How many, many shadows, how much solitude
you bury into your hungry mouth.
I want to escape, I want to implore the shadows of solitude
to leave me alone, if I could only ever see
the source of my happiness, her eyes.
Step by step I am threading along my dark street
like the black earth of my grave,
I leave my capricious and gloomy moods
to the weather and the wind,
but I can't seem to escape the shadows of solitude,
the faithful muses of my destiny.
The wind passes my street and plays,
that blue shadow is listening, the stray dog
is also listening, as is his old faithful companion
in good and bad times – hunger-.
Now I understand them too,
I understand their anger and their bitterness,
it's horrible when they tell you
that you are no human being, that you watch
the wind and the fog pass you by,
and that you feel
that your solitude makes you their company.
Tell me, dear wind,
how is it to go to Africa, China, Burma,
like a heavenly physician,
to cure many poor
and be a wonder of purity and gentleness
in that work?
You are dark, my street!
You must be the darkest
and most glorious street in the world,
because you are the street of many poets,
and wherever I may go, I promise you
that I will always remember my glorious ancestors,
and those beautiful eyes
in which each days is wonderfully fair,
and the skies are blue
just like the day I opened my eyes for the first time.
- - -
WALTER WILLIAM SAFAR was born on August 6th 1958 in Sherman(U.S.A.). He is the author of a number of a significant number of prose works and novels, including "Leaden fog", "Chastity on sale", "In the falmes of passion", "The price of life", "Above the clouds", "The infernal circle", "The scream", "The negotiator", "Queen Elizabeth II", as well as a book of poems, titled "The angel and the demon".
Thursday, July 14, 2011
7/14/11
Between the Sheets
By M. R. Miller
There we lay between the sheets, staring at the ceiling, not talking about anything. It's not that we had nothing to talk about. It's not that we didn't like talking. It's that we didn't need to talk.
There we lay between the sheets, staring at the ceiling, not moving. It's not that we couldn't move. It's not that we were tired, staying up all night. It's that we didn't need to move.
There we lay between the sheets, staring at the ceiling, not making any noise at all. It's not that we were trying to respect the neighbors. It's not that we were asleep and trying to not wake each other up. It's that we didn't need to make any noise.
There we lay between the sheets, each staring into the eyes of the one we loved, talking the night away. We didn't need to talk. We didn't have anything to talk about. We just loved to hear the voice of the one we loved.
There we lay between the sheets, each staring into the eyes of the one we loved, rolling around on the bed. We didn't need to move. We didn't even have a reason. We just loved to feel every inch of the one we loved.
There we lay between the sheets, each staring into the eyes of the one we loved, being loud and not caring. We didn't need to make any noise. We didn't even have a reason to be loud. We just loved laughing with the one we loved.
There we lay between the sheets, staring into eyes, talking, moving, laughing. But that was last night. Last night is over, ended by the sun and the screech of the alarm.
But tonight we'll lay between the sheets. Tonight we'll talk. Tonight we'll move. Tonight we'll laugh.
Tonight, like every night, we'll be in love.
- - -
M. R. Miller is a first time writer to Daily Love but has been doing personal writing for years. Miller has lived in Massachusetts since birth. Miller is a music lover, a lover of the outdoors, and a lover.
By M. R. Miller
There we lay between the sheets, staring at the ceiling, not talking about anything. It's not that we had nothing to talk about. It's not that we didn't like talking. It's that we didn't need to talk.
There we lay between the sheets, staring at the ceiling, not moving. It's not that we couldn't move. It's not that we were tired, staying up all night. It's that we didn't need to move.
There we lay between the sheets, staring at the ceiling, not making any noise at all. It's not that we were trying to respect the neighbors. It's not that we were asleep and trying to not wake each other up. It's that we didn't need to make any noise.
There we lay between the sheets, each staring into the eyes of the one we loved, talking the night away. We didn't need to talk. We didn't have anything to talk about. We just loved to hear the voice of the one we loved.
There we lay between the sheets, each staring into the eyes of the one we loved, rolling around on the bed. We didn't need to move. We didn't even have a reason. We just loved to feel every inch of the one we loved.
There we lay between the sheets, each staring into the eyes of the one we loved, being loud and not caring. We didn't need to make any noise. We didn't even have a reason to be loud. We just loved laughing with the one we loved.
There we lay between the sheets, staring into eyes, talking, moving, laughing. But that was last night. Last night is over, ended by the sun and the screech of the alarm.
But tonight we'll lay between the sheets. Tonight we'll talk. Tonight we'll move. Tonight we'll laugh.
Tonight, like every night, we'll be in love.
- - -
M. R. Miller is a first time writer to Daily Love but has been doing personal writing for years. Miller has lived in Massachusetts since birth. Miller is a music lover, a lover of the outdoors, and a lover.
Wednesday, July 13, 2011
7/13/11
Dream
By Ethan Zhao
when the stars gleam in the cradle of the moon
is when my words shed their three-piece skin
and sleep frozen on the white page
words
some screaming
some beaming
all streaming
waiting for the embrace
of dawn
to awake unto their meaning
I am hundreds of years old
but I do not know how many hundreds
I ask that heralded night;
latching to the shoulders of the sky
how earthly the convenience of time
that perpetual verse and tangerine rhyme
sometimes
words are everything
as if the moon was sitting in my left hand
kissing the paper with her cool placid lips
and the sun standing in my right hand
smiling splendidly towards my left
watching her blush from his canopied blue
from here
it is easy to see that
the sun is chasing the moon
they say it’s called gravitational force
but everything
the wise stars
wind-blown peaks
wild animals
knew it was
love
sleeping to it
dreaming to it
waking to it
living to it
they are the mirror for your soul to see itself
be bad sometimes, lady
and then be really good
and then
just be
and when everything settles
and you think that all is lost in darkness
your beauty
having reached the most isolated shore
will come rippling back to you
- - -
When I met you, I forgot what language I spoke. then, slowly, you helped me remember.
By Ethan Zhao
when the stars gleam in the cradle of the moon
is when my words shed their three-piece skin
and sleep frozen on the white page
words
some screaming
some beaming
all streaming
waiting for the embrace
of dawn
to awake unto their meaning
I am hundreds of years old
but I do not know how many hundreds
I ask that heralded night;
latching to the shoulders of the sky
how earthly the convenience of time
that perpetual verse and tangerine rhyme
sometimes
words are everything
as if the moon was sitting in my left hand
kissing the paper with her cool placid lips
and the sun standing in my right hand
smiling splendidly towards my left
watching her blush from his canopied blue
from here
it is easy to see that
the sun is chasing the moon
they say it’s called gravitational force
but everything
the wise stars
wind-blown peaks
wild animals
knew it was
love
sleeping to it
dreaming to it
waking to it
living to it
they are the mirror for your soul to see itself
be bad sometimes, lady
and then be really good
and then
just be
and when everything settles
and you think that all is lost in darkness
your beauty
having reached the most isolated shore
will come rippling back to you
- - -
When I met you, I forgot what language I spoke. then, slowly, you helped me remember.
Tuesday, July 12, 2011
7/12/11
Dream
By Ethan Zhao
I dreamt a dream last night;
that I sat in solitude on a distant shore, at noon.
I remember the rolling tides,
as they guarded the stories and tales
of centuries-old galleons.
my isolation lengthened and deepened,
like the dimensions of the ocean,
and I thought,
what if it was possible
to bring this dream to you?
it was then I soared,
along with the orange sky,
as we both raced away from our fates.
there we went,
myself and the world,
laughing in the atmosphere,
beside the coastline of
burnished gold and fine silver.
you see,
we were surrounded,
not only by the mountains and the vast sea,
but the immense horizon, encompassing my world.
purple dusk swept the skies,
I was only fixated upon
the majestic sea, glowing with the hues of
the rainbow,
and as I closed my eyes, I thought,
what if you had loved me?
then we'd be here together.
- - -
When I met you, I forgot what language I spoke. then, slowly, you helped me remember.
By Ethan Zhao
I dreamt a dream last night;
that I sat in solitude on a distant shore, at noon.
I remember the rolling tides,
as they guarded the stories and tales
of centuries-old galleons.
my isolation lengthened and deepened,
like the dimensions of the ocean,
and I thought,
what if it was possible
to bring this dream to you?
it was then I soared,
along with the orange sky,
as we both raced away from our fates.
there we went,
myself and the world,
laughing in the atmosphere,
beside the coastline of
burnished gold and fine silver.
you see,
we were surrounded,
not only by the mountains and the vast sea,
but the immense horizon, encompassing my world.
purple dusk swept the skies,
I was only fixated upon
the majestic sea, glowing with the hues of
the rainbow,
and as I closed my eyes, I thought,
what if you had loved me?
then we'd be here together.
- - -
When I met you, I forgot what language I spoke. then, slowly, you helped me remember.
Monday, July 11, 2011
7/11/11
37 Days
By Vada
I just wanted to say goodnight to you.
I want to say goodnight to you cause I love you.
You were in training when I feel in love with you.
You were lonely.
As was I.
It all started as a joke to make us feel better.
To mend your heart and keep mine busy.
But when you said you love me it was different.
I didn't want to say it back cause you said it so soon and you were so sure about it.
I was scared.
You saw this as a game.
As did I.
We never sat next to each other ever.
We never got to hold each others hand.
But yet, you said I love you.
I became ill, so did you.
We never got to watch bad movies sick on a couch.
We did see a 2D flat screen version of each other every night.
It made it harder.
All I wanted to know was how you smelt after training.
How your hair feels.
You planned to surprise me.
I knew.
You said I love you every night.
I said I miss you every night.
I didn't want you to feel dumb.
I just wasn't sure about you.
Your intent.
Your love.
You missed your flight to surprise me.
I told you, I love you.
But this is all yesterday.
Yesterday that should be forgotten.
Now.
Now I need your voice at the end of the day as my sleep aid.
I need to know your okay to be okay.
My love is invested in you.
My mind is constantly on you.
My love is yours and you can't seem to hold it anymore.
We never got to hold each other.
We talked about everything.
You tried to scare me away.
It didn't work.
I see the good in you.
I wish you did too.
I know I scared you.
I know.
No more 2D flat screen reminders of what we can't have.
I can't seem to hold a thought with out you in it.
Your letting fear take you.
But.
In 37days we can hug.
In 37days you can look me in the eye and tell me you love me.
37Days until I can know your scent.
37days I will know.
You kept me alive when I needed it.
I kept you alive when you needed it.
We are still here for each other but we don't need it.
I never knew what love was until you didn't have it for me any more.
Guess I was late.
37days.
- - -
By Vada
I just wanted to say goodnight to you.
I want to say goodnight to you cause I love you.
You were in training when I feel in love with you.
You were lonely.
As was I.
It all started as a joke to make us feel better.
To mend your heart and keep mine busy.
But when you said you love me it was different.
I didn't want to say it back cause you said it so soon and you were so sure about it.
I was scared.
You saw this as a game.
As did I.
We never sat next to each other ever.
We never got to hold each others hand.
But yet, you said I love you.
I became ill, so did you.
We never got to watch bad movies sick on a couch.
We did see a 2D flat screen version of each other every night.
It made it harder.
All I wanted to know was how you smelt after training.
How your hair feels.
You planned to surprise me.
I knew.
You said I love you every night.
I said I miss you every night.
I didn't want you to feel dumb.
I just wasn't sure about you.
Your intent.
Your love.
You missed your flight to surprise me.
I told you, I love you.
But this is all yesterday.
Yesterday that should be forgotten.
Now.
Now I need your voice at the end of the day as my sleep aid.
I need to know your okay to be okay.
My love is invested in you.
My mind is constantly on you.
My love is yours and you can't seem to hold it anymore.
We never got to hold each other.
We talked about everything.
You tried to scare me away.
It didn't work.
I see the good in you.
I wish you did too.
I know I scared you.
I know.
No more 2D flat screen reminders of what we can't have.
I can't seem to hold a thought with out you in it.
Your letting fear take you.
But.
In 37days we can hug.
In 37days you can look me in the eye and tell me you love me.
37Days until I can know your scent.
37days I will know.
You kept me alive when I needed it.
I kept you alive when you needed it.
We are still here for each other but we don't need it.
I never knew what love was until you didn't have it for me any more.
Guess I was late.
37days.
- - -
Sunday, July 10, 2011
7/10/11
Little love bugs
By Josie Havens
secrets at night,
silly 'missing you' fights.
my heart slowing healing,
and you give me this feeling.
simles all around;
I'm so glad that I've found
someone like you
to always help me through.
you're perfect to me
and you always will be.
kisses and hugs;
like little love bugs.
- - -
I'm a seventeen year old girl that fell in love and then got her heart broken. I'm from Maryland. I like to write because it gets all the feelings I can't say out loud, out from inside me.
By Josie Havens
secrets at night,
silly 'missing you' fights.
my heart slowing healing,
and you give me this feeling.
simles all around;
I'm so glad that I've found
someone like you
to always help me through.
you're perfect to me
and you always will be.
kisses and hugs;
like little love bugs.
- - -
I'm a seventeen year old girl that fell in love and then got her heart broken. I'm from Maryland. I like to write because it gets all the feelings I can't say out loud, out from inside me.
Saturday, July 9, 2011
7/9/11
When You're Away
By Emily Martinez
When you’re away
I want to sleep all day to see your face, sleep in your embrace.
I smell my pillow, search for your scent, hope it still lingers when you’re absent.
I slip into something big, pretend it’s your body around me
You’re a misty mirage, a ghost that stalks me, and I too am empty
Awake here, but hollow, living through my dreams, expressionless, solemn.
Just trying to remember the taste of your lips, when our faces are close, the feel of your kiss.
Now hearing your voice is breathtaking, like the sea whispers your breath to the beach,
As if the rising sun was speaking to me, you leave me shaking.
If the silent moon had something to say, she’d borrow your voice, just for one day.
And while you’re away, she comes back to me,
Sheds your caress upon my face,
While I dream, while I’m awake.
- - -
I am a sophomore at Binghamton University, and I write poetry, particularly about love. I would like to be a fiction novelist in the future, but for now, as an English major I enjoy reading and studying the classics.
By Emily Martinez
When you’re away
I want to sleep all day to see your face, sleep in your embrace.
I smell my pillow, search for your scent, hope it still lingers when you’re absent.
I slip into something big, pretend it’s your body around me
You’re a misty mirage, a ghost that stalks me, and I too am empty
Awake here, but hollow, living through my dreams, expressionless, solemn.
Just trying to remember the taste of your lips, when our faces are close, the feel of your kiss.
Now hearing your voice is breathtaking, like the sea whispers your breath to the beach,
As if the rising sun was speaking to me, you leave me shaking.
If the silent moon had something to say, she’d borrow your voice, just for one day.
And while you’re away, she comes back to me,
Sheds your caress upon my face,
While I dream, while I’m awake.
- - -
I am a sophomore at Binghamton University, and I write poetry, particularly about love. I would like to be a fiction novelist in the future, but for now, as an English major I enjoy reading and studying the classics.
Friday, July 8, 2011
7/8/11
Touch
By Wendy L. Schmidt
Pick up the pieces,
Of my bruised and battered heart,
With your gentle touch.
- - -
Wendy L. Schmidt is from Wisconsin. She has been writing poetry and short stories for the last 10 years.
Her work has been published in Strange, Weird and Wonderful, 3 Line Poetry, Howls and Pushy Cats.
By Wendy L. Schmidt
Pick up the pieces,
Of my bruised and battered heart,
With your gentle touch.
- - -
Wendy L. Schmidt is from Wisconsin. She has been writing poetry and short stories for the last 10 years.
Her work has been published in Strange, Weird and Wonderful, 3 Line Poetry, Howls and Pushy Cats.
Thursday, July 7, 2011
7/7/11
Little Boy Blue
By Beth Callahan
Trapped, the waves
beat down on my body while you
stand, watching, in a world of rock-a-bye
babies and nursery rhymes. “Let’s make cat’s cradles,” I hear
you say to me from across the sand, but I am drowning. I need
air, but you only hold string – string, to twist into a nest where
we can live: a modest home. The perfect place to wear
the ring you gave me. (I remember waving
away a cockroach that sat, kneading
the lapel of your
tuxedo, right before I heard
myself answer “I do” and say good - bye
to my name and my virginity. You bought
me easily – I didn’t fight, was wary
of nothing. “Here
is happiness,” I remember thinking. Finally.) Wave
after wave and I am continuously smothered beneath you –
suffocating, exhausted. Needing
to be needed,
but never able to satisfy. Hurry, time is passing by.
Maybe it’s not too late for the twisted world that you
have wrapped around your fingers – where
Curly Locks washes dishes and feeds the swine – to rescue me from the waves.
Maybe it’s not too late for you to begin hearing
the way my heart (among other things) breaks every time you leave me here
alone and bruised, in desperate need.
Maybe Humpty Dumpty can be put back together again, and wave
good - bye
to all the king’s horses and all the king’s men, as they march away in procession to where
the wild things are. Maybe you
love me, and maybe the cow jumped over the moon. Your
words are empty promises. I hear
nothing in your voice, feel nothing in your kiss, see nothing in your eyes... Where
are you? I cannot wait. There is no need
for any further suffering – I died long ago. Good - bye,
beautiful boy. Watch the waves
until you no longer need to. I will be in a place where I can breathe.
Here, now, one last wave, and I am no longer your burden.
“Good - bye, because I love you.”
- - -
"Weeping may endure for the night, but in the morning comes a shout of joy." - a verse I live by. At my young age I have experienced times that fall into both categories, sorrow and joy. Both deserve to be acknowledged and recorded for others to relate to. So that's what I do, I tell stories that I feel others will feel they have experienced themselves. You are not alone in whatever you are feeling.
By Beth Callahan
Trapped, the waves
beat down on my body while you
stand, watching, in a world of rock-a-bye
babies and nursery rhymes. “Let’s make cat’s cradles,” I hear
you say to me from across the sand, but I am drowning. I need
air, but you only hold string – string, to twist into a nest where
we can live: a modest home. The perfect place to wear
the ring you gave me. (I remember waving
away a cockroach that sat, kneading
the lapel of your
tuxedo, right before I heard
myself answer “I do” and say good - bye
to my name and my virginity. You bought
me easily – I didn’t fight, was wary
of nothing. “Here
is happiness,” I remember thinking. Finally.) Wave
after wave and I am continuously smothered beneath you –
suffocating, exhausted. Needing
to be needed,
but never able to satisfy. Hurry, time is passing by.
Maybe it’s not too late for the twisted world that you
have wrapped around your fingers – where
Curly Locks washes dishes and feeds the swine – to rescue me from the waves.
Maybe it’s not too late for you to begin hearing
the way my heart (among other things) breaks every time you leave me here
alone and bruised, in desperate need.
Maybe Humpty Dumpty can be put back together again, and wave
good - bye
to all the king’s horses and all the king’s men, as they march away in procession to where
the wild things are. Maybe you
love me, and maybe the cow jumped over the moon. Your
words are empty promises. I hear
nothing in your voice, feel nothing in your kiss, see nothing in your eyes... Where
are you? I cannot wait. There is no need
for any further suffering – I died long ago. Good - bye,
beautiful boy. Watch the waves
until you no longer need to. I will be in a place where I can breathe.
Here, now, one last wave, and I am no longer your burden.
“Good - bye, because I love you.”
- - -
"Weeping may endure for the night, but in the morning comes a shout of joy." - a verse I live by. At my young age I have experienced times that fall into both categories, sorrow and joy. Both deserve to be acknowledged and recorded for others to relate to. So that's what I do, I tell stories that I feel others will feel they have experienced themselves. You are not alone in whatever you are feeling.
Wednesday, July 6, 2011
7/6/11
Not Ready For Love
By Edward M. DeFranco
I smelled the ocean air and saw the sun setting in the distance on my drive home from work. I had moved back to my hometown a year ago, after Nettie died. Cool weather and being close to friends all helped me step past losing my wife. Too late, I realized how much I'd loved her and depended on her, but she'd died in an accident a few weeks before our third wedding anniversary.
- - -
I have a BA and an MA and live in California. My fiction has appeared in anthologies, literary journals, and romance magazines.
By Edward M. DeFranco
I smelled the ocean air and saw the sun setting in the distance on my drive home from work. I had moved back to my hometown a year ago, after Nettie died. Cool weather and being close to friends all helped me step past losing my wife. Too late, I realized how much I'd loved her and depended on her, but she'd died in an accident a few weeks before our third wedding anniversary.
My new home was a fixer-upper, and I enjoyed my frequent trips to the hardware store. I needed the work at this time in my life. Using my hands somehow kept my mind occupied—away from my great loss. Nettie had always had such confidence in me, but now that was something I was lacking. I just didn't know where my life was going—not like I had when she was alive.
The next day after work I went to Keegan's Hardware Store to buy some stain I needed to redo my kitchen cabinets. When I walked down one of the aisles, I saw a lady helping another customer. She had a familiar face.
I glanced at her and realized it was Kathy Jarron. We had dated in high school. She had the most beautiful golden-brown hair. Now it hung in a pert ponytail with a green scarf tied around it. I could see she had kept her figure, and even in her overalls she looked wonderfully feminine. I smiled at the thought of a girly-girl working in a hardware store. She still had the most gorgeous green eyes I’d ever seen. They always reminded me of the ocean. We’d stopped dating after high school, but stayed friends. Then Kathy had moved to go to college and with our busy young lives, we’d lost touch.
I smiled at her and listened to her describe the benefits of one type of paint as opposed to another. She sounded very knowledgeable. Clearly, she knew her business. She was not just some part-time clerk, but an intelligent and well-informed salesperson. Little Kathy Jarron. Who could have guessed she'd end up selling paint? When she finished talking to the customer, she smiled at me.
“Are you finding everything you need, sir?” she asked.
I nodded. Before I could speak, someone hollered for her help and she dashed to the other end of the store. I watched her retreating figure with regret. I couldn’t believe she didn’t remember me. Had I changed that much since high school? Besides the sideburns, I had recently grown as a change after turning thirty, did I look that much different? Okay, I thought , I didn't have that goofy high school haircut, but my face was the same. I felt hurt that she hadn't recognized me.
Two days later, I was off work and back at Keegan's Hardware. I was definitely getting to be a regular. This time I needed some nails and other supplies to fix the shelves in the living room. I searched for the right sized nails, but some part of me looked for Kathy. As I turned the corner on one of the aisles, someone touched my arm and said, “Don’t you need a hammer to go with those nails?”
It was Kathy. “When I saw your face the other day,” she said, “I recognized you from somewhere, but it wasn’t until I got called up front that I realized who you were.”
She hugged me. Then I embraced her, and I remembered how good she'd felt in my arms, all those years ago. How had I let this prize get away?
“I wondered if I’d changed that much since high school,” I said.
“You look a bit taller . . . and you still have the same wonderful eyes.”
When we had been dating, she used to comment on how she liked the way my eyes seemed a different color depending on what I wore. Sometimes brown, sometimes hazel. But they were nothing compared to her stunning ocean eyes.
“And the same baseball build.”
I smiled. “I try and keep in shape. You look great too.”
“I’ve just come back to the area. This is only the second week I've worked at the store. I’m staying at the mobile home park in the Heights part of town with my sister.”
“I’ve come back to the area recently too,” I said. Could it all be coincidence, or was fate trying to tell me something?
“I’m glad to be home. It rained too much up north—rain, rain, rain, day after day. I couldn't take it anymore . . . and since my divorce, I felt well . . . alone.”
“I moved to be close to friends again after Nettie died. Quickly changing the subject, I said, “Guess you’re going to see a lot of me here in the store. I bought a place that needs repairs.” The idea of having an excuse to see Kathy often put a smile on my face.
“I’ve been quite involved in remodeling houses,” Kathy said. “That’s why I got a job here. Maybe I could look at yours sometime and give you my ideas.”
“I’d like that. You know there’s this club in the foothills that plays decent new music.” I stopped myself. Was I ready to ask Kathy out? I couldn’t believe it, but talking to her felt so natural. “Would you like to go with me sometime?”
She smiled and touched my arm again. “I’d love to, JJ. We always had such a great time together.”
I breathed a sigh of relief. I thought about the school dances and the times we’d gone to movies. “I hear a band is playing at the club tonight.” I grinned at her and held her hand. “What time do you get off work?”
“At five. I could be ready by six.”
I smiled again. I couldn’t conceal how happy I felt.
- - -
I have a BA and an MA and live in California. My fiction has appeared in anthologies, literary journals, and romance magazines.
