You Know I Adore You
By German Alcala
You know I adore you, boy made of flesh
You know that I would lay down to you
Boy made of such warm flesh
I wish to hold you up against my chest
Filling your mouth with my loving tongue
Do not betray your eyes that cannot resist
Because I can oblige your stare of warmth
We can have a night filled with heat
In the winter we can create summer fire
Boy with short black hair, I want a kiss
You must earn my affection, you sly beast
Dress me in silk and I can bring about bliss
My body can be yours for a grand feast
You I adore you, you rising rock star
I could give you my heart so red
And let you sleep in my silken bed
But would you give me your head?
And all of your thoughts
So that you would think of nothing but me
Because you know I adore you, boy so flirty
- - -
My name is German Alcala. Little known little boy poet in the Indie-eBook world. My book Swing: A Psychopathy is currently #2 in Kindle's Free Horror section (gotta add that for the sake of looking semi-established.). I am sending this poem to you in hopes that you like it for your publication.
Wednesday, August 31, 2011
Tuesday, August 30, 2011
8/30/11
DESTINY
By Peter Pogany
(In memory of a handsome Parisian couple)
-- My poor, dear, unhappy baby. I lied and cheated, trampled on your good name.
-- I could say, Holy Mother, awaken the remorse in the heart of my adulterous wife! But I’m not a hypocrite. I had affairs myself and underhanded dealings serious enough to be locked up, as you well know . . .
-- Stop! Enough! Don’t say any more, snapped Madeleine, combatant and teary.
The Thai bar girl, who understood French, averted her eyes but observed the couple in a side mirror as she continued to wipe the endless row of glasses in the hotel’s deserted cocktail lounge.
Irritated by the transparent curiosity, Gerard paid and the couple walked out into the night, down to the edge of the Indian Ocean.
Khao Lak, Thailand, December 20, 2004.
They strolled on the beach, stopping for an occasional kiss, until dawn began to whiten the skies; then returned to their bungalow to the right side of the main building.
No one knew why they had left Paris for the holidays, why “Indochine,” and most of all, why together. Their marriage was on the rocks, divorce was taken for granted by family, friends, and colleagues.
Gerard worked for a private hedge fund as a stock market analyst and Madeleine was the supervisor of archives at a well-known international banking giant. Although there had been no formal charges or accusations, many suspected they were accessories to insider trading by violating conflict of interest laws and rules of confidentiality.
Their offices were fairly close on the Right Bank and the two of them were frequently seen together at lunch time. That would be “normal” as the French like to say, but why the serious, clipped exchanges? What else if not time-sensitive information could have been the subject between an estranged husband and wife, given that they still lived together?
Thailand was the last and longest stop of their tour. They water-skied and learned to scuba dive around the neighboring Similan Islands; they enthusiastically embraced the spirit of bonding among fellow vacationers of all nationalities.
Was Rousseau right to believe that human nature is congenitally good but civilization makes us corrupt, greedy, deceptive, envious, and excessively rational? As soon as we return to nature in a bathing suit, with the need to look out for each other while playing in deep waters, we become engulfed by the magic of tribal oneness and feel ourselves again.
The “Parisian couple” was the talk of the resort.
Madeleine, tall and lanky, without being athletic, had pale blue, laughing eyes; her short brownish-blond hair was parted in the middle, smoothened back. No one had ever seen her without a heavily beaded necklace. Gerard reminded everyone of a younger version of the French movie star Alain Delon. They were in their late 20s or early 30s.
Eye-catching as they were, their notoriety had another reason -- scenes.
They simply could not keep their arguments and acid repartees out of the earshot of others; they were unable to hide that they had brought heavy-duty marital discord to paradise. Most hotel guests along the strip and many locals in the small, close-knit vacation town saw what was going on.
A middle-aged businessman from L.A. generated merriment when he remarked to a small crowd of guests observing Madeleine and Gerard from the terrace bar: “Looks like the marriage of Heaven and Hell without knowing which is which.”
It was both sad and funny to see them stagger on the beach, drunk. That happened once and the occasion proved to be the turning point. From then on, to everybody’s delight, the relationship began to mend, gradually turning into a wild romance.
On Christmas Eve, a Belgian tourist, sitting on a sand dune in the dark, witnessed the following memorable scene:
Madeleine kneels down before Gerard:
-- I will forever be faithful to you. I want to bear your children.
-- How many? – asks Gerard playfully.
-- Four, in five years.
Gerard gently lifts her to her feet and goes down on his knees:
-- Allow me to consecrate my life to you.
After a short pause she says:
-- I failed you before. Aren’t you afraid that I’ll fail you again?
-- My father always said “only those who are not afraid to lose have any chance to win.”
-- But will you love me even after four children when my breasts will dangle over my belly and my belly will flop against my thighs?
Laughter again and long silence. The listener discreetly moved away.
Christmas Day fell on Saturday and the couple joined other guests for a festive dinner in the hotel’s banquet room. A former minister from Ohio offered comforting words and blessings.
The sun was already high on Sunday, December 26, when Madeleine and Gerard heard strange, excited noises. They came out of their bungalow, sensing that something unusual was happening. Something unusual, indeed; the water was gone.
Hundreds were running toward inland, yelling to others to do the same, but many remained motionless, staring awe-struck at the fuzzy horizon and at strange fish convulsing on dry land or in miniature pools.
Astonished silence, punctuated by frightened bird cries.
Then the ocean came back, roaring like a vengeful ogre, 33-feet high, washing people away along with beach chairs and umbrellas.
The couple vanished, officially declared victims of the tsunami.
The memorial service in Paris attracted a huge crowd. The in-laws, reunited in their anguish, asked the eulogizing priest to underscore the happiness and harmony of Madeleine’s and Gerard’s marriage despite the occasional frictions their dynamic life style caused.
“Beyond lights and shadows, sunsets and dreams, Madeleine and Gerard are now walking hand in hand -- as they should -- in a luminous ocean of heavenly harmony,” the priest said.
Of course, things would have been different if they had left before Christmas. Gerard’s cell kept chirping -- his office asking him to return before the end of his leave. “Urgent developments, requiring immediate attention!” He didn’t even answer. They decided to quit their jobs and leave the “financial industry” altogether. They had come to regard it as both corrupt and corrupting.
Anyway, why bother now with things that cannot be changed?
Fate makes no mistakes.
People looking from the hotel’s rooftop with binoculars later reported that they saw the couple in a tight embrace as the wave approached. Gerard said something and Madeleine answered with a smile that went so well with her surfer necklace.
What could they have possibly told each other in a moment like that?
When the infallible prescience of demise, already void of fear, made it clear to them that everything in our brief, rushed lives except our destiny is a lie -- knowing that certain Gallic flair -- those words must have been:
Merci ma petite!
Merci monpti!
- - -
As a career economics professional, Peter taught at the university level and worked in the international arena for many years.
By Peter Pogany
(In memory of a handsome Parisian couple)
-- My poor, dear, unhappy baby. I lied and cheated, trampled on your good name.
-- I could say, Holy Mother, awaken the remorse in the heart of my adulterous wife! But I’m not a hypocrite. I had affairs myself and underhanded dealings serious enough to be locked up, as you well know . . .
-- Stop! Enough! Don’t say any more, snapped Madeleine, combatant and teary.
The Thai bar girl, who understood French, averted her eyes but observed the couple in a side mirror as she continued to wipe the endless row of glasses in the hotel’s deserted cocktail lounge.
Irritated by the transparent curiosity, Gerard paid and the couple walked out into the night, down to the edge of the Indian Ocean.
Khao Lak, Thailand, December 20, 2004.
They strolled on the beach, stopping for an occasional kiss, until dawn began to whiten the skies; then returned to their bungalow to the right side of the main building.
No one knew why they had left Paris for the holidays, why “Indochine,” and most of all, why together. Their marriage was on the rocks, divorce was taken for granted by family, friends, and colleagues.
Gerard worked for a private hedge fund as a stock market analyst and Madeleine was the supervisor of archives at a well-known international banking giant. Although there had been no formal charges or accusations, many suspected they were accessories to insider trading by violating conflict of interest laws and rules of confidentiality.
Their offices were fairly close on the Right Bank and the two of them were frequently seen together at lunch time. That would be “normal” as the French like to say, but why the serious, clipped exchanges? What else if not time-sensitive information could have been the subject between an estranged husband and wife, given that they still lived together?
Thailand was the last and longest stop of their tour. They water-skied and learned to scuba dive around the neighboring Similan Islands; they enthusiastically embraced the spirit of bonding among fellow vacationers of all nationalities.
Was Rousseau right to believe that human nature is congenitally good but civilization makes us corrupt, greedy, deceptive, envious, and excessively rational? As soon as we return to nature in a bathing suit, with the need to look out for each other while playing in deep waters, we become engulfed by the magic of tribal oneness and feel ourselves again.
The “Parisian couple” was the talk of the resort.
Madeleine, tall and lanky, without being athletic, had pale blue, laughing eyes; her short brownish-blond hair was parted in the middle, smoothened back. No one had ever seen her without a heavily beaded necklace. Gerard reminded everyone of a younger version of the French movie star Alain Delon. They were in their late 20s or early 30s.
Eye-catching as they were, their notoriety had another reason -- scenes.
They simply could not keep their arguments and acid repartees out of the earshot of others; they were unable to hide that they had brought heavy-duty marital discord to paradise. Most hotel guests along the strip and many locals in the small, close-knit vacation town saw what was going on.
A middle-aged businessman from L.A. generated merriment when he remarked to a small crowd of guests observing Madeleine and Gerard from the terrace bar: “Looks like the marriage of Heaven and Hell without knowing which is which.”
It was both sad and funny to see them stagger on the beach, drunk. That happened once and the occasion proved to be the turning point. From then on, to everybody’s delight, the relationship began to mend, gradually turning into a wild romance.
On Christmas Eve, a Belgian tourist, sitting on a sand dune in the dark, witnessed the following memorable scene:
Madeleine kneels down before Gerard:
-- I will forever be faithful to you. I want to bear your children.
-- How many? – asks Gerard playfully.
-- Four, in five years.
Gerard gently lifts her to her feet and goes down on his knees:
-- Allow me to consecrate my life to you.
After a short pause she says:
-- I failed you before. Aren’t you afraid that I’ll fail you again?
-- My father always said “only those who are not afraid to lose have any chance to win.”
-- But will you love me even after four children when my breasts will dangle over my belly and my belly will flop against my thighs?
Laughter again and long silence. The listener discreetly moved away.
Christmas Day fell on Saturday and the couple joined other guests for a festive dinner in the hotel’s banquet room. A former minister from Ohio offered comforting words and blessings.
The sun was already high on Sunday, December 26, when Madeleine and Gerard heard strange, excited noises. They came out of their bungalow, sensing that something unusual was happening. Something unusual, indeed; the water was gone.
Hundreds were running toward inland, yelling to others to do the same, but many remained motionless, staring awe-struck at the fuzzy horizon and at strange fish convulsing on dry land or in miniature pools.
Astonished silence, punctuated by frightened bird cries.
Then the ocean came back, roaring like a vengeful ogre, 33-feet high, washing people away along with beach chairs and umbrellas.
The couple vanished, officially declared victims of the tsunami.
The memorial service in Paris attracted a huge crowd. The in-laws, reunited in their anguish, asked the eulogizing priest to underscore the happiness and harmony of Madeleine’s and Gerard’s marriage despite the occasional frictions their dynamic life style caused.
“Beyond lights and shadows, sunsets and dreams, Madeleine and Gerard are now walking hand in hand -- as they should -- in a luminous ocean of heavenly harmony,” the priest said.
Of course, things would have been different if they had left before Christmas. Gerard’s cell kept chirping -- his office asking him to return before the end of his leave. “Urgent developments, requiring immediate attention!” He didn’t even answer. They decided to quit their jobs and leave the “financial industry” altogether. They had come to regard it as both corrupt and corrupting.
Anyway, why bother now with things that cannot be changed?
Fate makes no mistakes.
People looking from the hotel’s rooftop with binoculars later reported that they saw the couple in a tight embrace as the wave approached. Gerard said something and Madeleine answered with a smile that went so well with her surfer necklace.
What could they have possibly told each other in a moment like that?
When the infallible prescience of demise, already void of fear, made it clear to them that everything in our brief, rushed lives except our destiny is a lie -- knowing that certain Gallic flair -- those words must have been:
Merci ma petite!
Merci monpti!
- - -
As a career economics professional, Peter taught at the university level and worked in the international arena for many years.
Monday, August 29, 2011
8/29/11
Love Is An Hour Away
By Steve Baba
My head hurts
But not as bad as my heart
She's a state away
Only an hour by air
I can't be there
But I hope she's thinking of me
As I sit here in front of the
Living room looking at
A picture of us
In happier times
No beer
No wine
No liquor
Can extinguish these feelings
In my mind it repeats over and over
I miss you
I miss you
I miss you
I'll be going to bed now
Remembering how she shared a bed
And it was the soundest sleep
That I ever had
- - -
Steve Baba is a 40 year old wanderer. He is currently writing poems for a new poetry book about his time living in New York City.
By Steve Baba
My head hurts
But not as bad as my heart
She's a state away
Only an hour by air
I can't be there
But I hope she's thinking of me
As I sit here in front of the
Living room looking at
A picture of us
In happier times
No beer
No wine
No liquor
Can extinguish these feelings
In my mind it repeats over and over
I miss you
I miss you
I miss you
I'll be going to bed now
Remembering how she shared a bed
And it was the soundest sleep
That I ever had
- - -
Steve Baba is a 40 year old wanderer. He is currently writing poems for a new poetry book about his time living in New York City.
Sunday, August 28, 2011
8/28/11
Vermilion
By Ron C. Nieto
The feeling of being observed nagged at the back of her head and she struggled to open her eyes, swimming towards consciousness, trying to focus on something through the remaining cobwebs of sleep that clouded her mind.
His chocolate eyes drew her disoriented gaze and held on to it.
He stood like a shadow in the doorway to the cabin with his arms crossed over his chest and he was grinning like a gentle, tame wolf. She had rarely seen such gesture gracing his features before and she found that, at first, she could not fit the smiling, energetic image into the grim and determined person she had known prior to their escapade.
“Come on, Sleeping Beauty.”
She stirred and stood, stretching the cramps from her limbs, and sent him a drowsy smile in turn. She still needed to recover from the terrifying aftermath of the war and it was taking its toll on her, but still she padded the cabin and negotiated her way to the deck.
When she tripped over, he was right there to hold her steady and guide her upwards with a gentleness she would not have expected from his strong, capable hands.
Once up, she realized she must have napped for quite a while. The ship was already surrounded by liquid darkness and the sky overhead was black velvet, impossible to distinguish from the sea where they floated.
However, the shadows were far from absolute. Unable to trust her senses, she rubbed her eyes in a childish way that made him chuckle behind her and blinked a few times.
“I thought you’d like it.”
And she did.
The sea was as calm as a mirror, and no waves rose to rock the sailing vessel into their loving waltz. The heavens had long forgotten the brilliance of the sunset and no clouds hung afire anywhere. No stars littered the sky just yet.
Only a resplendent orb hung low, barely an inch above the horizon line, all-consuming in its solitude.
She could only stare in awe at the full, vermilion moon shattering the nothingness and bleeding into the silence that enveloped them. She did not feel him moving away from her because, for a few heartbeats that stretched eternal, she knew nothing but the view. She wished for a way to record the feeling of grandeur, of insignificance, of belonging that came unbidden to her core. She wished for anything to make that moment in time last forever.
But forever was much too long a time to ask for and she could just hug herself against the cold and loneliness of the night aboard.
As if sensing the chilling turn her thoughts had taken and refusing to allow her to wallow in them, he rejoined her and moved into view, calling her back to the present. He had two Styrofoam cups in his hands, the smell of hot cocoa sneaking into her head mixed with salt, cedar, and him.
“Beautiful, isn’t it? Ever seen it like this before?”
His expression did not change but she could hear the smile in his voice and see the twinkle in the depths of his dark eyes.
“It feels like it’s part of a fairytale,” she whispered, not wanting to disturb the still air with her words.
He understood.
Not only the four inane words she uttered, but the many emotions it evoked, the longing and how grateful she was because he had shared that perfect moment, that perfect moon with her.
He handed her one of the cups, any other words unnecessary between them, and they sat overlooking the rising moon, side by side, with their backs resting against the quarter deck.
They began to talk when it turned a deep shade of amber, their eyes always riveted to the spectacle.
Little by little, as it crawled towards the zenith, the moon faded to gold and she dared to look at him.
He stared out at the endless sea while he spoke about his home, his father and his dream of the very ship they sailed. The stubble smoothed the plains and sharp angles in his face and the relaxed smile softened his otherwise harsh features. He was at ease in his reminiscing: for once, he didn’t give the impression of a powerful panther coiled tight to jump into deadly action without incitement, but that of a young man.
Nothing more, nothing less than that.
A man unknown to her, despite all the time they had spent together.
But no, she corrected herself, that one had been Captain Vareda whereas this other one was merely Logan. An unknown man with whom she felt no awkwardness.
She took a tentative sip from her Styrofoam cup. She was not tired anymore. She was not scared. She leaned her head to the side, resting her temple against his shoulder. She felt him reaching out and wrapping his arm around her. Protecting her.
She never noticed when the golden moon merged into silver.
- - -
Ron C. Nieto is a fantasy and romance author who has been writing in her secluded fortress for the longest time. Recently, she had a talk with her cat and decided that she should share her creations, because it was selfish to hoard them all for herself.
By Ron C. Nieto
The feeling of being observed nagged at the back of her head and she struggled to open her eyes, swimming towards consciousness, trying to focus on something through the remaining cobwebs of sleep that clouded her mind.
His chocolate eyes drew her disoriented gaze and held on to it.
He stood like a shadow in the doorway to the cabin with his arms crossed over his chest and he was grinning like a gentle, tame wolf. She had rarely seen such gesture gracing his features before and she found that, at first, she could not fit the smiling, energetic image into the grim and determined person she had known prior to their escapade.
“Come on, Sleeping Beauty.”
She stirred and stood, stretching the cramps from her limbs, and sent him a drowsy smile in turn. She still needed to recover from the terrifying aftermath of the war and it was taking its toll on her, but still she padded the cabin and negotiated her way to the deck.
When she tripped over, he was right there to hold her steady and guide her upwards with a gentleness she would not have expected from his strong, capable hands.
Once up, she realized she must have napped for quite a while. The ship was already surrounded by liquid darkness and the sky overhead was black velvet, impossible to distinguish from the sea where they floated.
However, the shadows were far from absolute. Unable to trust her senses, she rubbed her eyes in a childish way that made him chuckle behind her and blinked a few times.
“I thought you’d like it.”
And she did.
The sea was as calm as a mirror, and no waves rose to rock the sailing vessel into their loving waltz. The heavens had long forgotten the brilliance of the sunset and no clouds hung afire anywhere. No stars littered the sky just yet.
Only a resplendent orb hung low, barely an inch above the horizon line, all-consuming in its solitude.
She could only stare in awe at the full, vermilion moon shattering the nothingness and bleeding into the silence that enveloped them. She did not feel him moving away from her because, for a few heartbeats that stretched eternal, she knew nothing but the view. She wished for a way to record the feeling of grandeur, of insignificance, of belonging that came unbidden to her core. She wished for anything to make that moment in time last forever.
But forever was much too long a time to ask for and she could just hug herself against the cold and loneliness of the night aboard.
As if sensing the chilling turn her thoughts had taken and refusing to allow her to wallow in them, he rejoined her and moved into view, calling her back to the present. He had two Styrofoam cups in his hands, the smell of hot cocoa sneaking into her head mixed with salt, cedar, and him.
“Beautiful, isn’t it? Ever seen it like this before?”
His expression did not change but she could hear the smile in his voice and see the twinkle in the depths of his dark eyes.
“It feels like it’s part of a fairytale,” she whispered, not wanting to disturb the still air with her words.
He understood.
Not only the four inane words she uttered, but the many emotions it evoked, the longing and how grateful she was because he had shared that perfect moment, that perfect moon with her.
He handed her one of the cups, any other words unnecessary between them, and they sat overlooking the rising moon, side by side, with their backs resting against the quarter deck.
They began to talk when it turned a deep shade of amber, their eyes always riveted to the spectacle.
Little by little, as it crawled towards the zenith, the moon faded to gold and she dared to look at him.
He stared out at the endless sea while he spoke about his home, his father and his dream of the very ship they sailed. The stubble smoothed the plains and sharp angles in his face and the relaxed smile softened his otherwise harsh features. He was at ease in his reminiscing: for once, he didn’t give the impression of a powerful panther coiled tight to jump into deadly action without incitement, but that of a young man.
Nothing more, nothing less than that.
A man unknown to her, despite all the time they had spent together.
But no, she corrected herself, that one had been Captain Vareda whereas this other one was merely Logan. An unknown man with whom she felt no awkwardness.
She took a tentative sip from her Styrofoam cup. She was not tired anymore. She was not scared. She leaned her head to the side, resting her temple against his shoulder. She felt him reaching out and wrapping his arm around her. Protecting her.
She never noticed when the golden moon merged into silver.
- - -
Ron C. Nieto is a fantasy and romance author who has been writing in her secluded fortress for the longest time. Recently, she had a talk with her cat and decided that she should share her creations, because it was selfish to hoard them all for herself.
Saturday, August 27, 2011
8/27/11
List for Love
By Krista Bunskoek
Gillian was turning 30 this year. She had a few items left on her list before the ominous turning of her decade.
The daunting one which never went right was to find Mr. Right.
So she made a list for her list of how to find this elusive soul mate. She had systematically gone through her plan. None had given her the results she wanted to achieve.
She was now down to number 10. The last on her list. If this did not work, she knew she would be a spinster for life.
This was ok, as she was succeeding in her career path. But she yearned for the romance. Her heart, she felt, was full of passion. Why could she never seem to share this with a man?
Number 10 on the list: ballroom dance lessons.
Well, here she was - standing on the makeshift dance floor of an old school gym. This was her last hope at making her desires of the heart come true.
Other students were arriving, many in couples. Some arrived together in a foursome or more.
Her heart filled with dismay. Perhaps this was not a good idea. What was she thinking - taking a ballroom dance class in the hopes of meeting a man? What kind of Cinderella fairy tale was she trying to live out?
The dance instructors arrived. Even they were a twosome. Her heart sank a little more.
"Is everyone paired up?" clapped the male dance teacher. "We are doing the Tango tonight. American Style."
She looked squeamishly towards the floor. She had no pair. Was she searching too hard for her own Prince Charming?
Someone approached her from behind.
"Excuse me. Do you have a partner tonight?" asked a confident, rugged voice.
She turned, to find a most handsome, well chiseled face speaking to her.
"No" she managed to say.
They coupled up. Clearly having been to dance lessons before, he placed her arm confidently on his arm and shoulder, tango style. She shuddered slightly at his gentle touch; his arms were so strong and muscular.
"Slow, slow, quick, quick, slow, quick, quick, slow" sung the dance teacher.
They began - his leg making a long slow forward glide, directing her leg in a backward direction.
With the touch of his limbs, she felt a sensation in her body she had not felt in a very long time. It was wonderful.
They kept practicing the steps, over and over.
The instructors started the music. "Tango De Amor" they said.
His grip tightened. He held her firm as they swung into the taut tempo of the music. She felt secure and safe.
As they swept through the gym floor, she was entranced by the faint smell of his aftershave. It reminded her of a beach somewhere. She determined it was a far away romantic beach in the south of France.
She wanted nothing more than the music - and the man - to carry her away.
Charmed by the fantasy of it all, and her resolve to make it happen, she knew this was it. He was her prince. She achieved success.
And he could ballroom dance - Tango to boot!
When the music stopped, she was awed with the beauty of this man. His dark hair, tanned complexion and brilliantly outstanding blue eyes.
They spoke for a while, the man thanking her for being his partner.
She said she hoped to see him at the next class.
"Yes," the man said, "and perhaps my wife will be feeling better by then."
Crushed. Destroyed. Mortified.
Gillian ran from the building, tearing up her list for her list, throwing the pieces like wedding confetti into the stormy night.
Weeks passed. The devastation still stung like a poisoned cherub arrow.
She would be 30 the day after tomorrow. Would she be confined to the life of a nunnery, with her to-do lists her only sanctuary?
The thought of her shredded list of list for love haunted her. She had nothing now. No plan. No agenda. No man.
Wallowing in sorrow, and facing the very real prospects of being a lost lone soul for eternity, she stood in line at her favorite coffee shop.
The man in front of her had dark hair. He ordered with a confident, rugged voice.
It couldn't be.
He turned.
It wasn't.
Their eyes caught momentarily. A glimmer of confidence and strange assuredness came over her.
This was not on her list of things to do today.
Could she do this? How could she do this? She had meetings and agenda items. She had no time for this today.
That odd calmness persisted, egging her on.
She smiled and said hello.
Then asked "I know this may sound odd, but," she took a deep breath, and somehow the vision of herself again ripping up her list for love bolted through her mind, "Do you dance?"
"No," he said, then paused and added, "But I've always wanted to learn the Tango."
- - -
New to flash fiction, but not to love, Krista has also appeared in 365 tomorrows. She is currently taking time off from the daily love for lists.
By Krista Bunskoek
Gillian was turning 30 this year. She had a few items left on her list before the ominous turning of her decade.
The daunting one which never went right was to find Mr. Right.
So she made a list for her list of how to find this elusive soul mate. She had systematically gone through her plan. None had given her the results she wanted to achieve.
She was now down to number 10. The last on her list. If this did not work, she knew she would be a spinster for life.
This was ok, as she was succeeding in her career path. But she yearned for the romance. Her heart, she felt, was full of passion. Why could she never seem to share this with a man?
Number 10 on the list: ballroom dance lessons.
Well, here she was - standing on the makeshift dance floor of an old school gym. This was her last hope at making her desires of the heart come true.
Other students were arriving, many in couples. Some arrived together in a foursome or more.
Her heart filled with dismay. Perhaps this was not a good idea. What was she thinking - taking a ballroom dance class in the hopes of meeting a man? What kind of Cinderella fairy tale was she trying to live out?
The dance instructors arrived. Even they were a twosome. Her heart sank a little more.
"Is everyone paired up?" clapped the male dance teacher. "We are doing the Tango tonight. American Style."
She looked squeamishly towards the floor. She had no pair. Was she searching too hard for her own Prince Charming?
Someone approached her from behind.
"Excuse me. Do you have a partner tonight?" asked a confident, rugged voice.
She turned, to find a most handsome, well chiseled face speaking to her.
"No" she managed to say.
They coupled up. Clearly having been to dance lessons before, he placed her arm confidently on his arm and shoulder, tango style. She shuddered slightly at his gentle touch; his arms were so strong and muscular.
"Slow, slow, quick, quick, slow, quick, quick, slow" sung the dance teacher.
They began - his leg making a long slow forward glide, directing her leg in a backward direction.
With the touch of his limbs, she felt a sensation in her body she had not felt in a very long time. It was wonderful.
They kept practicing the steps, over and over.
The instructors started the music. "Tango De Amor" they said.
His grip tightened. He held her firm as they swung into the taut tempo of the music. She felt secure and safe.
As they swept through the gym floor, she was entranced by the faint smell of his aftershave. It reminded her of a beach somewhere. She determined it was a far away romantic beach in the south of France.
She wanted nothing more than the music - and the man - to carry her away.
Charmed by the fantasy of it all, and her resolve to make it happen, she knew this was it. He was her prince. She achieved success.
And he could ballroom dance - Tango to boot!
When the music stopped, she was awed with the beauty of this man. His dark hair, tanned complexion and brilliantly outstanding blue eyes.
They spoke for a while, the man thanking her for being his partner.
She said she hoped to see him at the next class.
"Yes," the man said, "and perhaps my wife will be feeling better by then."
Crushed. Destroyed. Mortified.
Gillian ran from the building, tearing up her list for her list, throwing the pieces like wedding confetti into the stormy night.
***
Weeks passed. The devastation still stung like a poisoned cherub arrow.
She would be 30 the day after tomorrow. Would she be confined to the life of a nunnery, with her to-do lists her only sanctuary?
The thought of her shredded list of list for love haunted her. She had nothing now. No plan. No agenda. No man.
Wallowing in sorrow, and facing the very real prospects of being a lost lone soul for eternity, she stood in line at her favorite coffee shop.
The man in front of her had dark hair. He ordered with a confident, rugged voice.
It couldn't be.
He turned.
It wasn't.
Their eyes caught momentarily. A glimmer of confidence and strange assuredness came over her.
This was not on her list of things to do today.
Could she do this? How could she do this? She had meetings and agenda items. She had no time for this today.
That odd calmness persisted, egging her on.
She smiled and said hello.
Then asked "I know this may sound odd, but," she took a deep breath, and somehow the vision of herself again ripping up her list for love bolted through her mind, "Do you dance?"
"No," he said, then paused and added, "But I've always wanted to learn the Tango."
- - -
New to flash fiction, but not to love, Krista has also appeared in 365 tomorrows. She is currently taking time off from the daily love for lists.
Friday, August 26, 2011
8/26/11
Mr Weber
By Jack Bristow
- - -
Jack Bristow is a short story writer from Albuquerque, New Mexico. His work has appeared in several online print publications including, The New Flesh, visatergo, Magnolia Press and Death Head Grin.
By Jack Bristow
The man, Daryl Weber, woke at o'clock pm. To the right of him lay a woman—older, blonde, snoring loudly. Instinctively, he reached for the beer that he had known would be on the nightstand, that was always on the nightstand. It had tasted like half-warm piss water, but that was okay—he needed it to think straight. And then he had started to remember this woman. The bar. She had been drinking there pretty heavily, with a group of friends, all younger than her. She approached the man's table, saying, “Excuse me—did anybody ever tell you you looked like Tom Hanks? I mean, a young Tom
Hanks. Like, circa the '80s. Big, The Burbs, Bosom Buddies.”
The man was young—twenty-five, had only heard of The Burbs—and had mistakenly thought it had come out in the '90s. But he didn't correct her; instead, coyly, he said, “Ah, thank you very much; I'm a huge fan.” Really, he wasn't. But what the hell—a woman was a woman, and here was one standing in front of him. Older. Early forties, maybe.
But she had looked a good forty, like she had taken care of herself all her life. A real cougar, if the man had ever seen one. Capitalizing on what she had thought to be his coyness, she sat opposite him on the booth. The older lioness about to single out her prey and attack.
“I'm here to celebrate with my friends and daughter. It's my birthday.” The woman clapped both hands above her head to congratulate herself, lamely.
“Oh, happy birthday,” he said. And then he had thought—isn't it funny how things turn out? Just last year he was happily married to Sadie. Sadie, beautiful with blonde eyes and brown hair. Unassumingly optimistic, she helped counterbalance the man's cynicism perfectly; they had gone together like yin and yang, tomatoes and jelly. Something so wrong it had almost seemed right. But then something happened, during their fifth and final year together. The man had started to notice how other men-- waiters, passersby in grocery stores and even people at church-- would look at her, flirt with her. This had resulted in too many arguments which would eventually result in Daryl smacking her a few times across the face—not because he had hated but, rather, loved, her; abnormally.
“You don't say much, huh?” The woman had asked Daryl. He smiled again bashfully at her, and that was just enough to keep her around. “Well, I guess I'll give the introductions. My name is Mary-Lu, and I'm a real estate agent. When I'm not helping sell real estate I like to get out as much as possible—hiking, biking, go to the gym. Etc.... How about you, who are you and what do you do—for a living, for fun?” She sipped the big, salt-rimmed Margarita glass she had brought over from her table.
Daryl glared into his own glass—of La Grappa wine—intensely, almost hypnotically. And then he finally spoke. “Daryl Weber. I'm a stuntman, for the movies. Death Head. Hearts of Fury. Beach Cop. My latest work was on a film called The Pedantic Heart. It was a scene where Tom Cruise's character drives his Porsche into a brick wall and then jumps out before the actual explosion. Good gig. Good pay. Not much work—the way I like it.” There was a pause, and then he sipped from his glass, the more he sipped, the more he had seemed to come to life to the woman. Now he was almost animatedly discussing his interests. His life. When Mary-lu again mentioned her daughter Daryl opened his wallet and handed her the picture of his little girl.
“Oh. She's so cute—she's yours?”
“Yeah. She's Adriana. The love of my life—the main reason I got married. I knew I had to have her.”
Mary-lu frowned. “Your wife. Oh, I didn't mean to—I mean. I--”
“No. It's okay—she flew the coop, a year ago.” There was an uncomfortable pause, until the man resumed talking, it was almost as if he did not want to elaborate but there was some type of force—a compulsion—secretly goading him along. “Adriana doesn't want anything to do with me anymore. My ex has totally turned her against me. And I love that girl. It's so fucking painful.”
The man was sick, probably clinically depressed; she could see it as he chugged down the rest of the wine and called out to the waiter for another. But that didn't matter—what had really mattered was the man's mental state. He was vulnerable. Weak. He would need a big chest like hers to cry into tonight. And a nice, fleshy pouch to lose his face in.
“Forget about that other drink. You look like you've had enough.” She splayed her fingertips on top of his, the man felt his back and entire body go erect. “Let's go back to your place, and I'll take care of you—run you a little bath, give you a nice message.”
And what a night it was! The man was starting to remember it as he brushed his teeth and peered at his face in the mirror.
The things that woman could do, the experience. She would put a twenty-year-old to shame.
And then he had planned out this day—this day he had been planning secretly all year, since the two most important people in his life had left and abandoned him. He was to reshoot the scene from The Pedantic Heart he had told Mary-Lu about the night before—the one where he is to drive the car into the brick-wall but jumps out of it expertly, deftly before impact. Today, however, he would do it slightly different—instead of leaping out to relative safety on the cushioned tinsel town streets, he would stay inside, going out in an all-out blaze of glory.
It was the wise thing to do, the only thing to do. He was sure of it. But he had wished it could be different--that Kim and Adriana would be there to see him off.
Oh well, the man had thought miserably. That is life for you-- nothing's ever perfect.
- - -
Jack Bristow is a short story writer from Albuquerque, New Mexico. His work has appeared in several online print publications including, The New Flesh, visatergo, Magnolia Press and Death Head Grin.
Thursday, August 25, 2011
8/25/11
Empty Sounds
By Vada
I don't understand how you screamed the word love to me. Loud enough to make my ears bleed, breaking a hole in my patched and used wall that guarded everything; yet, somehow that sound meant nothing to you. That sound is what I held on to. What I feel asleep with. What I kept in my heart and mind when everything seemed, wrong. I can't be the one to listen anymore.
- - -
Vada.
Artist.
A girl who is in love with the thought of being in love.
By Vada
I don't understand how you screamed the word love to me. Loud enough to make my ears bleed, breaking a hole in my patched and used wall that guarded everything; yet, somehow that sound meant nothing to you. That sound is what I held on to. What I feel asleep with. What I kept in my heart and mind when everything seemed, wrong. I can't be the one to listen anymore.
- - -
Vada.
Artist.
A girl who is in love with the thought of being in love.
Wednesday, August 24, 2011
8/24/11
Voyage Of Love
By Jason E. Hodges
Sick from love is the kindest sickness of all
To share a piece of your heart is the greatest gift of getting
For love is truly a flutter of the heart
Like a butterfly unbalanced from nectar
Intoxicated from the sweetest of flowers
It’s wings rhythmically moving in a soft symphony of sound
So quiet it’s only heard by the hearing
Only seen by the seeing
So large in the eyes of just two
Trying to make sense of it all
All of my senses are trying
To understand why they’re swirling around
Like a perfect timepiece my heart just keeps beating
Beating the breath right out of me
Making me feel lightheaded with joy and happiness filling my life
Making me not able to sleep for your words ring in my mind
Your face clear in the darkness
Clear as a photo developed before me
I wonder how your lips must taste
Your skin must feel
Your hair must smell
Heat radiating from your half dressed body
Heat slowly burning and tingling inside
Like steamed windows dripping wet with sweat from the soft touch of your hand
Now a thousand whirlwinds are spinning inside me
As the ship of hearts, keeps bearing its course
- - -
I began writing in 1989. Shortly after I began, I saw the movie Drugstore Cowboy with William S. Burroughs. After reading his books, I was hooked. I would go on to discover Charles Bukowski, Harry Crews, Anne Rice, and Anne Sexton. My most recent work can be found at The Fringe Magazine, The Camel Saloon, Indigo Rising Magazine, Raven Images, The Dirt Worker’s Journal, CrossTIME Science Fiction Anthologies Volume VIII and IX, as well as an article based on an interview he did with Harry Crews that appeared in Our Town Gainesville Edition, Spring 2011.
By Jason E. Hodges
Sick from love is the kindest sickness of all
To share a piece of your heart is the greatest gift of getting
For love is truly a flutter of the heart
Like a butterfly unbalanced from nectar
Intoxicated from the sweetest of flowers
It’s wings rhythmically moving in a soft symphony of sound
So quiet it’s only heard by the hearing
Only seen by the seeing
So large in the eyes of just two
Trying to make sense of it all
All of my senses are trying
To understand why they’re swirling around
Like a perfect timepiece my heart just keeps beating
Beating the breath right out of me
Making me feel lightheaded with joy and happiness filling my life
Making me not able to sleep for your words ring in my mind
Your face clear in the darkness
Clear as a photo developed before me
I wonder how your lips must taste
Your skin must feel
Your hair must smell
Heat radiating from your half dressed body
Heat slowly burning and tingling inside
Like steamed windows dripping wet with sweat from the soft touch of your hand
Now a thousand whirlwinds are spinning inside me
As the ship of hearts, keeps bearing its course
- - -
I began writing in 1989. Shortly after I began, I saw the movie Drugstore Cowboy with William S. Burroughs. After reading his books, I was hooked. I would go on to discover Charles Bukowski, Harry Crews, Anne Rice, and Anne Sexton. My most recent work can be found at The Fringe Magazine, The Camel Saloon, Indigo Rising Magazine, Raven Images, The Dirt Worker’s Journal, CrossTIME Science Fiction Anthologies Volume VIII and IX, as well as an article based on an interview he did with Harry Crews that appeared in Our Town Gainesville Edition, Spring 2011.
Tuesday, August 23, 2011
8/23/11
Dusty Memory
By Caty McCall
There's something about the way
your hair twists violently
around your face
in the faintest of breezes.
I love how
your petal-pink lips
curl faintly,
fragile
into a smile
whenever your eyes meet mine.
Your voice,
smooth and subtle
drifts lazily to my awaiting ears.
Your smell,
of cinnamon.
Lingers while you hold me.
If only I could pause this moment
Never to fade away.
Blinking,
its already fled.
and fading quickly into
another
Dusty memory.
Lost in the haze of
age and time.
Sometimes I wish
you could still
be
mine.
- - -
I love people and poetry. they are my purpose and my passion.
By Caty McCall
There's something about the way
your hair twists violently
around your face
in the faintest of breezes.
I love how
your petal-pink lips
curl faintly,
fragile
into a smile
whenever your eyes meet mine.
Your voice,
smooth and subtle
drifts lazily to my awaiting ears.
Your smell,
of cinnamon.
Lingers while you hold me.
If only I could pause this moment
Never to fade away.
Blinking,
its already fled.
and fading quickly into
another
Dusty memory.
Lost in the haze of
age and time.
Sometimes I wish
you could still
be
mine.
- - -
I love people and poetry. they are my purpose and my passion.
Monday, August 22, 2011
8/22/11
11:11
By Shane Crabtree
- - -
I'm Shane. I'm currently a Senior at East Tennessee State University. I love writing and hope to eventually make a career of it.
By Shane Crabtree
11:11 haunts me,
Just like the smile that won't reach your eyes
Step by step, you're leaving me behind.
11:11 finds me,
Your pictures on the wall
The diamonds of your eyes, turned back to coal
Matching the darkness you hid deep within your soul.
11:11 screams,
The past that won't let me be
Our memories play on and on
A silent film with a definitive ending.
11:11 blazes neon in the distance,
Walking down this dust-filled road
Keeping time to a broken heart cadence,
Blood-stained hands reaching, but nothing to hold.
11:11 strikes,
My rosary begins to fray.
Love as sweet as wine, turned to vinegar with age.
11:11 never letting go,
The clock fails as we stay frozen in time.
You say that love isn't enough,
But you've been known to lie.
- - -
I'm Shane. I'm currently a Senior at East Tennessee State University. I love writing and hope to eventually make a career of it.
Sunday, August 21, 2011
8/21/11
To the Morning Star
By Ailill
Oh Venus, bright morning star
Glimmer of the dawn radiant
Diamond seen from afar,
Your light I look upon
To still the troubles of the night.
Through these shadows
I see into your majesty bright.
The smoke that rises from the flame
Signifies the sun shining through the rain.
It is the thorns that bring forth
The glory of the rose
And the spring that is born
Out of the well of winters woes.
Discord raises awareness of melody
As ugliness traces beauty.
You are a garden oasis that rises
From the dust of this wilderness.
The valleys of this life
Allow me to gaze upon
Your mountain heights.
Star of vision and power
Give me hope, in this my dark hour.
- - -
By Ailill
Oh Venus, bright morning star
Glimmer of the dawn radiant
Diamond seen from afar,
Your light I look upon
To still the troubles of the night.
Through these shadows
I see into your majesty bright.
The smoke that rises from the flame
Signifies the sun shining through the rain.
It is the thorns that bring forth
The glory of the rose
And the spring that is born
Out of the well of winters woes.
Discord raises awareness of melody
As ugliness traces beauty.
You are a garden oasis that rises
From the dust of this wilderness.
The valleys of this life
Allow me to gaze upon
Your mountain heights.
Star of vision and power
Give me hope, in this my dark hour.
- - -
Saturday, August 20, 2011
8/20/11
Knowing Sara
By Donald McCarthy
- - -
By Donald McCarthy
I will admit up front that I omitted and exaggerated a couple of things on my online dating profile. For one, I touched up my pictures in Photoshop. I didn’t change anything drastic; I just made the pictures look a little cleaner. I also boosted my height by a few inches and listed myself at 6’3”.
And I left out that I’m not entirely human.
Don’t get any ideas. I’m not an alien or some sort of monstrous creature of the night. It’s just that something went wrong along the way. Maybe in the womb, maybe before that even, how would I know? Back in school I ran faster than everyone I met and thought faster than even those with the highest of IQs. I puzzled my doctor when he took my blood pressure. I think he went outside for a couple of cigarettes after he wrapped up with me. I also have an extraordinary ability to read others’ feelings. They leak out of them and if I’m paying attention I can understand what they’re feeling. I don’t experience it, that’d be intolerable, but I can sense them well enough.
But what makes me stand out most, the reason I tend to be avoided by most people, is my fingers. They’re long. About seven inches each. Not only that, if I’m not careful they wiggle like seaweed and I have to straighten them out. I left that off my profile, too.
One of the women I met online wrote well and seemed interested in me. We agreed to meet in a diner after messaging back and forth for a while. The diner wasn’t the most glamorous of locations but I think she wanted someplace close by and public. I had my hopes really high with her. She seemed so perfect even though we hadn’t actually met yet. It’d been years since I’d dated someone. Or maybe, if I’m being honest, I’d never really dated someone.
When I went to the diner I took a seat in the third booth from the door. I wore a button down shirt and a pair of black khakis that looked more expensive than they really were. I placed my hands on my lap so they wouldn’t be the first thing my date sees. I prayed she wasn’t planning on shaking hands.
I knew her when she walked in. She wore a red fedora and a black sweater like she said she would in our last email. I smiled instead of waved for obvious reasons.
“Hello,” she said tentatively, removing her hat and placing it on the seat. “I’m Sara.”
“I’m Zach,” I said. “It’s great to finally meet you. I’ve loved talking with you online but I’ve been really looking forward to talking to you in person.” I worried I might sound too eager but damn it I was eager.
“Same here,” she said. “How’d that night on the town go that you mentioned to me?”
Okay, so sometimes I lie, too, but they’re white lies. “Oh, great,” I said, hoping she wouldn’t ask for details. I’d have to start thinking ones up quickly, making sure they didn’t contradict each other. “Lots of fun, I guess. But I’ve been looking forward to this more.”
Sara had black hair that went just below her shoulders and a cute face with very deeply set dark brown eyes that looked almost black. “I’ve been thinking about it all week. It’s been a while since I’ve been out on a date. I hope it doesn’t show.”
“It doesn’t,” I said. But it sure as hell did. She kept pulling on the right side of her hair like an on the loose mental patient. Not that I cared, though. Like I said, she seemed pretty much perfect to me. “So how has your week been?”
“Good enough,” she said. “Nothing too exciting.”
The waiter brought us a pair of menus. I began to browse through mine but barely noticed anything in it. I only snuck part of my hand up so she wouldn’t notice my fingers. “So what made you sign up to a dating site?” I asked.
She shrugged as she paged through her menu. “I don’t know. It’s tough to find people who I’m not only interested in but who are also interested in me.”
I could relate. “Yeah, it’s a common problem.” I flipped the menu closed with only the tip of my finger.
The waiter returned and asked, “Are you ready to order?”
I ordered a hamburger and she ordered a grilled chicken sandwich. I almost asked if she liked chicken but what a stupid question that would’ve been. I had to be on top of my game. I couldn’t let her slip out of my grasp.
“What made you join the site?” she asked.
“Same as you. It’s tough to meet people nowadays. I work from home so there’s not much going on there.” My foot tapped nervously on the floor and I had to make a conscious effort to stop it. “I told you I edit an online journal but did I tell you I’ve sold a couple paintings?”
“Wow, that’s impressive. I wish I had that kind of talent.”
“I’m sure you do. You just haven’t found it yet.”
“Maybe.”
A feeling of mournfulness came off her but why she felt that I couldn’t tell. “Everyone has a talent. You ever consider writing? I think you might be good at it.”
“What makes you say that?”
“You wrote your emails well.”
She laughed. “Is that right?”
“Compared to some of the others I talked to online, absolutely.”
She winced when I mentioned I talked to others and I immediately regretted it. Jealously didn’t come off her; hurt did, as if I’d slapped her. “I talked to others but you were my favorite,” I said. “I just found you late.”
“I know. I’m being silly.”
“It’s fine.”
“Thanks.”
The waiter came with our food and I knew she’d have to see my fingers now. A small, stupid part of me hoped she wouldn’t see them but I knew that was ridiculous. I very slowly took my hamburger in my hands as she took a healthy bite out of her sandwich. “This is good,” she said.
I took a bite of my own. “So is this,” I said.
She noticed then. She hid it well but I saw it. She let off surprise but thankfully no repulsion, at least not yet.
“I know,” I said. “They’re weird. I’m sorry.”
“You don’t need to be sorry.”
“They’re weird like that.”
“That’s okay. I’m weird in some ways, too.”
“Not to me.”
“I appreciate that. Did your parents have hands like that, too?”
“No. Just me.”
“I’m not asking too much, am I?”
I shook my head. “Not at all. So long as you don’t leave the table screaming it’s fine.” I half expected her to do that. I don’t even want to think about how I’d feel if that happened. I’d probably just sit there and sob.
“I’m not going to leave the table screaming. That’d be horrible. Have people done that to you?”
“Not exactly but close to it.”
“Hey, you know what they say about people with big hands, right?”
“Big gloves?”
She smiled. “Touché.” She lifted her sandwich again and the sleeve of her sweater fell back a little. I saw a scar on her wrist for just a second. She knew I noticed. “Like I said, I’m weird, too.”
I didn’t say anything for a moment and realized that was a mistake. Sitting there in silence sent the wrong message. “It’s okay. I’m not going to run away screaming either.”
“I’m glad,” she said. She gave off intense anxiety. So intense that I started to get anxious which was an unusual reaction to another person’s feelings. My heart beat slightly faster and I worried she might see a bead of sweat trickle down my forehead.
“It was a mistake,” she said. “I learned.”
“Great,” I said. What else could I say?
“You don’t think I’m crazy, do you?”
I shook my head. I didn’t think she was crazy, I’ve thought about ending it a few times myself. “I think you’re perfect,” I said. Okay, now that was probably a little too strong but she didn’t seem to mind.
I didn’t finish my whole hamburger because of nerves and she didn’t finish her chicken for presumably the same reason. Or at least I hoped.
We talked a little more and I kept my hands once again under the table. I sensed her mood lightning and watched her open up a little more. When the check came she insisted on paying for her own meal.
“I’m quite the feminist in that regard,” she said.
“Do you want to take a walk?” I asked her.
“Sounds great.”
It was chilly outside but not that nasty cold where you can’t even walk around the block. I guided us to the park nearby while she talked a little about her family. To be honest, I only caught half of it because I desperately thought of things I could say that might be witty or interesting. I reached that moment where my brain was frozen after being anxious for a while. Not good, to say the least.
“You okay?” Sara asked me.
“I’m fine.” I clasped my hands behind my back because I didn’t want her to see my fingers getting tangled up as they moved about thanks to my nerves. “So how’s work?”
“It’s good, I guess,” she said. She gave a sad smile from underneath her fedora.
“Do you have a lot of friends there?”
“Not really. Not too many friends in general.”
“Why not?” I asked. Probably too personal a question for the first date but I sensed nothing close to offense from her.
“I don’t know,” she said softly. “I wish I did, I guess. I just don’t. Do you?”
“No,” I said.
“Why not?”
“Because either I freak others out or they freak me out. It’s a tough situation to be in. I’m judged by most everyone I meet and, if I’m being honest, I’m a bit judgmental myself.”
“It’s not always bad to be judgmental,” she said.
“God, I hope not.” We laughed together and my anxiety dripped away.
We reached the park at twilight and chose a bench to sit on near the lake. The leaves were colored and drooping, preparing to soon depart their branches. One fell on my head and I brushed it off, still not liking her seeing my hands. “Your fingers really don’t bother me,” she said.
“Just a habit to hide them,” I replied.
“I’m going to ask you a question and it’s going to sound rude but I don’t mean it like that at all. Okay?”
“Go ahead.”
“What, uh, what are you, exactly?” She put her hand through her hair and I caught a glimpse of scars yet again. “I mean you’re not quite the same as other people. You operate differently. I can tell that having only met you an hour ago. Physically, too, and I don’t just mean your fingers. You’re just so different.”
“Does that bother you?” I asked.
“No,” she said. “It intrigues me.”
I chuckled and smiled. “Really? First time someone has said that about me.”
“You don’t think you’re intriguing?”
“Well, I think I’m intriguing but no one else has told me that before. But I suppose you want an answer to your original question.”
“Yeah, kind of.”
I sighed, searching for a decent answer but I’d never found one so far in my life and had little hope I’d find one now. “I’m not sure. I’m not an alien or something. I’m just not exactly human, you know? Sometimes there’s just not an explanation for things.” I debated reaching over, putting my arm on the bench and just touching her shoulder. I wanted to, I really, really wanted. She was just so perfect and after years of having no one to be with I felt an overwhelming need to hug her and thank her for being alive. But I have enough self-awareness to know that anything more than putting my arm around her would be odd. I almost chickened out but I did it. My hand briefly touched the back of her neck and something very horrible happened.
I saw Sara try to commit suicide.
I saw her in her empty apartment with a knife, slicing into her wrists, blood squirting out. This wasn’t a call for help suicide; this was the action of a woman who wanted out of life. The feeling came more intensely than anything I’ve experienced before then and since. My own wrists ached, as if they had been cut. After dissecting her wrists, Sara fell to the floor, bleeding out.
On the bench beside me she met my gaze. She knew what I saw.
“How’d you survive?” I asked her.
“I was talking to a friend on the phone beforehand and she thought I sounded suicidal so called the police. A good thing, I suppose.”
“Wow, I’m glad you survived,” I said. I realized I’d pulled my arm back so I put it around her again. The vision returned. The knife, the slicing, the blood and the pain. It was so real, so vivid that I almost jumped up.
“What’s going on?” she asked.
“I’m not sure,” I said. But I knew what this meant. I didn’t want to because this was supposed to be perfect. This date was supposed to go perfect. We were supposed to be perfect together. We’d make each other happy and finally I’d have someone.
Yet it’d be impossible for me to see this woman again. I knew that. The feelings she brought to me were so painfully vivid and self-destructive. She was different from everyone else. She affected me on a level I didn’t know anyone had the ability to reach.
“You saw it all, didn’t you?” she asked.
“Yes,” I said.
“I’m sorry. Will you see it whenever you touch me?”
“I think so.”
Her face shivered in despair. “God. I…”
“I know.”
“I don’t think about it anymore. I’m not suicidal.”
“You came close to dying,” I said to her. “Maybe you were almost dead and that left an imprint on you. I’m glad you’re feeling better.”
“Me, too,” she said. “I think you don’t want to see me again, though.”
“I want to but I can’t.”
She tilted her head to the side and her eyes closed. “I wanted you to fall in love with me.”
“You don’t even know me.” But I wanted her to.
“It’s not really rational, is it?”
“No. But I understand why you feel like that.” I paused and then said, “I wanted to fall in love with you, too.”
I thought she might cry but she didn’t. I thought I might cry but I didn’t. She said, “I’m still glad I met you. I had a really nice time.”
“So did I,” I said. “You’re a great person. You’ll find someone spectacular.”
“So will you,” she said.
We both stood up, uncertain who should walk away first. Eventually, I decided it should be me but before I did I grabbed her wrist and placed my fingers on her scars. The images came back to me again, made me feel ill but I did my best to ignore them and said, “Never do this to yourself again.”
“I won’t,” she said. “So long as you won’t.”
At the time I was confused by that but said, “I won’t either.”
“Bye,” she said.
“Bye,” I said. I walked away and didn’t look back. That would’ve been too painful.
I hoped she looked back, though.
The walk to my car was not fun. At first I tried to say to myself that everything was okay. Then, my eyes started to water even though I begged them not to. My throat tightened and my nose ran. “Shit,” I muttered as I walked, wiping at my eyes.
When I got into my car I knew I couldn’t drive yet; my eyes were too moist. I’d built those hopes up way too high. I should’ve known better. I shouldn’t have been so stupid.
I slammed my fist into the dashboard. “I wanted this!” I screamed. “Why won’t you let me have it?!” I have no idea who I screamed to. Finally, I just sobbed, covering my face with my hands in case anyone walked by my car. I went on for quite some time but eventually I just didn’t have any strength left.
Driving home, I wondered if Sara felt like this, too. Had she thought we’d be perfect together? Did she think I was perfect? Did she go back to her car and cry? She walked in the opposite direction so maybe she went further into the park to ruminate. I hoped I didn’t make her do anything stupid.
I still hope that. I’ve never seen her again. It’d be too painful for the both of us. I continue to use the dating site but with much more of a cynical eye. None of the women last beyond a date or two. None of them have been like Sara but I hold out hope that someone soon will be. It seems so stupid that a woman I spent only one night with would affect me like this and yet I find her cropping up in my mind seemingly at random. I just hope I can meet someone like her again. Someone so perfect.
But I shouldn’t say that. I’ve learned to not use the word perfect again. A worthy lesson, I suppose. But not one worth the pain of knowing and leaving Sara.- - -
Friday, August 19, 2011
8/19/11
Secret Admirer
By Daquan Johnson
Queen
You know you deserve the finer things
In life
But you’ll never give me a chance
So I just stand idly by
Contemplating ways
That I can get your attention
Scorn by a lovers past and scarlet winds
Wishing I can search within your heart
To repair
The broken menagerie that is your love
To allow you to see
That happiness is something you can find
When you let your guard down
You telling the world that you’re free
But I can see your invisible wall
So I just stand aside
And watch you walk by
Because I can see beyond the surface of your eyes
And though that you shield called pride
But for now, I’ll let destiny decide
Whether we’re meant to be
Because regardless of what I do
Only the man above can see you thru
But Still… You are the one I desire
Truly yours my secret admirer.
- - -
My name is Daquan Johnson I’m a poet from Washington DC . I was raised in a low income neighborhood but that doesn't define me or my craft. My poetry is a realistic perspective of society as I see it as a 22 year old black man. I like to rhyme in my poetry in order to convey my message to the ordinary listeners and as a tribute to the poets of yesterday. In all I feel that you will be pleasantly surprised by the perspective that I put in every poem
By Daquan Johnson
Queen
You know you deserve the finer things
In life
But you’ll never give me a chance
So I just stand idly by
Contemplating ways
That I can get your attention
Scorn by a lovers past and scarlet winds
Wishing I can search within your heart
To repair
The broken menagerie that is your love
To allow you to see
That happiness is something you can find
When you let your guard down
You telling the world that you’re free
But I can see your invisible wall
So I just stand aside
And watch you walk by
Because I can see beyond the surface of your eyes
And though that you shield called pride
But for now, I’ll let destiny decide
Whether we’re meant to be
Because regardless of what I do
Only the man above can see you thru
But Still… You are the one I desire
Truly yours my secret admirer.
- - -
My name is Daquan Johnson I’m a poet from Washington DC . I was raised in a low income neighborhood but that doesn't define me or my craft. My poetry is a realistic perspective of society as I see it as a 22 year old black man. I like to rhyme in my poetry in order to convey my message to the ordinary listeners and as a tribute to the poets of yesterday. In all I feel that you will be pleasantly surprised by the perspective that I put in every poem
Thursday, August 18, 2011
8/18/11
Lost At Sea
By jhm
Your tendrils slip 'round me
And drown me again
Anchors and memories
In darkness descend
Hands trembling as my
last breath becomes free
Lungs filling with water
Heart lost at sea
- - -
Figuring it all out, like everyone else
By jhm
Your tendrils slip 'round me
And drown me again
Anchors and memories
In darkness descend
Hands trembling as my
last breath becomes free
Lungs filling with water
Heart lost at sea
- - -
Figuring it all out, like everyone else
Wednesday, August 17, 2011
8/17/11
A LETTER TO MY BELOVED
By Walter William Safar
While I am writing this letter to You, my one and only,
the mute wind,
utterly silent and stealthy,
has opened the doors of the old church,
and carried away the prayers
along the white heavenly fields.
The mute wind never opens my door,
because he knows that my prayers ran dry
long since, just like my tears.
While the eternally faithful solitude
carries my passions
across the face of the bloody horizon,
my memories are slowly dying
on the bonfire of the demonic fire of oblivion.
My one and only, I am not afraid of my own death,
I am afraid of the death of our memories.
You remember, my one and only,
the cheerful song of the golden bird
on the red rose’s petal,
when You used to bestow me with kisses,
moist and reverberant,
warm and dreamy.
My pen is trembling in my hand,
just like that red rose,
where Your gentle gaze is no longer present.
You know, my one and only,
one of the rose’s petals shivers in the wind
more than all the others.
It is the same petal
you used to fondle
at the break of day.
Its face is perfectly human
yearning and lonely
like mine.
Up there, the golden bird is singing,
while down here solitude is following my steps.
Why won’t it be killed?
Because its grave
lies down there along with many souls,
because human laws do not apply to it.
And when the mute wind
started wistfully humming
in the tired night’s embrace,
I continued wandering the world
with the inexplicable hope
that I might, perchance,
walk into You.
Days, months and years
were carried away by the capricious wind of destiny,
and You still remained but a memory.
There is no pain in my defunct heart,
everything is so distant and meaningless without You,
and You are so far,
and me,
I never took part in anything again.
And when that golden bird,
amidst its cheerful song,
would casually look into my eyes,
I would be stricken with indescribable memories.
And while the April sky
rose above its
quivering golden head,
I knew that its song
travels towards a borderline,
invisible world,
just like all our memories do.
Do not worry, my one and only,
the day will come,
our day,
when the golden bird shall sing
for us only,
and when that rose petal shall once again
tremble in Your hand,
just like my hand shall tremble
in Your hand.
- - -
WALTER WILLIAM SAFAR was born on August 6th 1958 Texas-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
While I am writing this letter to You, my one and only,
the mute wind,
utterly silent and stealthy,
has opened the doors of the old church,
and carried away the prayers
along the white heavenly fields.
The mute wind never opens my door,
because he knows that my prayers ran dry
long since, just like my tears.
While the eternally faithful solitude
carries my passions
across the face of the bloody horizon,
my memories are slowly dying
on the bonfire of the demonic fire of oblivion.
My one and only, I am not afraid of my own death,
I am afraid of the death of our memories.
You remember, my one and only,
the cheerful song of the golden bird
on the red rose’s petal,
when You used to bestow me with kisses,
moist and reverberant,
warm and dreamy.
My pen is trembling in my hand,
just like that red rose,
where Your gentle gaze is no longer present.
You know, my one and only,
one of the rose’s petals shivers in the wind
more than all the others.
It is the same petal
you used to fondle
at the break of day.
Its face is perfectly human
yearning and lonely
like mine.
Up there, the golden bird is singing,
while down here solitude is following my steps.
Why won’t it be killed?
Because its grave
lies down there along with many souls,
because human laws do not apply to it.
And when the mute wind
started wistfully humming
in the tired night’s embrace,
I continued wandering the world
with the inexplicable hope
that I might, perchance,
walk into You.
Days, months and years
were carried away by the capricious wind of destiny,
and You still remained but a memory.
There is no pain in my defunct heart,
everything is so distant and meaningless without You,
and You are so far,
and me,
I never took part in anything again.
And when that golden bird,
amidst its cheerful song,
would casually look into my eyes,
I would be stricken with indescribable memories.
And while the April sky
rose above its
quivering golden head,
I knew that its song
travels towards a borderline,
invisible world,
just like all our memories do.
Do not worry, my one and only,
the day will come,
our day,
when the golden bird shall sing
for us only,
and when that rose petal shall once again
tremble in Your hand,
just like my hand shall tremble
in Your hand.
- - -
WALTER WILLIAM SAFAR was born on August 6th 1958 Texas-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".
Tuesday, August 16, 2011
8/16/11
Love Hills
By Amit Parmessur
- - -
Aged 28, Amit Parmessur is from Mauritius. He has been published in around 75 magazines since starting to submit his poems late 2010. Dead Snakes, Heavy Hands Ink, Leaf Garden Press and The Houston Literary Review are some of the places where he has appeared. He currently edits The Rainbow Rose at http://therainbowroseezine.blogspot.com/.
By Amit Parmessur
We scratched the skin of our pasts
and the hills of love erupted.
Pine trees grew on the hill slopes
and their needle leaves were like
the words we used to sew differences.
Our old tears met, inventing an ocean
of future stories and childhood joy.
I once tried to learn needlework
and you Hindi. I could only thread—
you could only swear.
Let’s scratch our hill skins into mountains.
I hope you teach me some needle
magic and how to make the guitar talk,
and we’ll learn a bit more
about the dangers of being loved again. - - -
Aged 28, Amit Parmessur is from Mauritius. He has been published in around 75 magazines since starting to submit his poems late 2010. Dead Snakes, Heavy Hands Ink, Leaf Garden Press and The Houston Literary Review are some of the places where he has appeared. He currently edits The Rainbow Rose at http://therainbowroseezine.blogspot.com/.
Monday, August 15, 2011
8/15/11
Manic Confessions in a Stained Notebook
By Xavier Ulises Navarro
- - -
Xavier Navarro was born and raised in Puerto Rico. He holds a B.A. in English from Iowa State University and his works have appeared in ISU's undergraduate literary journal Sketch. He has two short stories forthcoming in Newport Review's Summer 2011 edition and has completed two collections of poetry pending publication.
By Xavier Ulises Navarro
May 30
A,
I’m haunted by that image—your soft lips plastered on someone else’s and you probably smiling and enjoying every second of it. Then probably getting their phone number and them texting you days on. I don’t even know if he probably grabbed you on your beautiful curves and touched you like I used too. It’s making me cry just thinking about it. And maybe you slept with him or you will start sleeping with people since you’re single. It’s in your right—you’re single. But you’re not a slut, that’s not what I’m trying to get at. You’re 21 and single. It’s painful. I can’t get the image out of my head that maybe you dirty danced with someone else. I’m dwelling though. And you said you don’t love me anymore. I think that’s what hurts the most. Because I do love you. Dearly. I wouldn’t have given up the life I had if I didn’t. I guess I’m just desperate and want to see you happy again. If happy is without me, then maybe it is best I disappear out of your life for good. That would blow. That would really hurt. Rightfully so. Whatever I guess. I don’t know if you’ll ever read these—I probably will send them to you when the time is right.
-x
June 22
Dear A,
So I’m using the name A because I hope that I will have the chance to be with you again. I’ve never done this but I’m pursing therapy through writing. I have set out on an expedition to write to you every day we don’t talk as a way of coping and passing time in your absence. Where to begin…Well I guess the best place to start would be that I am truly sorry. I hope that I am given a chance to make things right and show you all the P.S. I Love You romance you deserve. Today has been routine for me, like most of my days in P.R. It’s been two weeks now since I got here and the island breeze is coarse and dry. The heat suffocates at times and the bed I lay in is the same one you laid on when you came to visit. I think of you every other second. There are nights where I’ll cry myself to sleep like a little school girl thinking about how I could have been better. I should have been better. And I know, in life, there aren’t always second chances. But I do hope you find it somewhere in your heart to grant me a clean slate—a fresh start. What you’ve done to me is more than I could ever thank you for. You’ve shown me kindest unconditional love throughout squalls of bad storms I caused. And most importantly, even at your worst times, you were probably better than me at my best. You’re an angel. I don’t know where I’m going with this and I do hope that, with time, you will miss me for me and not the relationship.
How are the dogs? I miss them too and waking up every day without them has been hell. I’ve written a lot of poetry you know. Some centered on the heartbreak and others obnoxious—you know the type you never liked. My mom has asked me to go out and about with her, driving around the island without purpose. But I’ve turned into a scrooge. She says I’m angry with the world. I think I am. I think I’m angry with myself. Has that ever happened to you? I bet it’s happened to everyone. There is one thing I do miss, that I took for granted and even though I hated it, now I miss it, the noise of the bedroom when we went to bed. You’d always fall asleep first. And then your heavy breathing would always let me know that you were fast asleep. You always looked so peaceful—with your tiny cute nose and your mouth slightly ajar. Just now you texted me and I was happy. Until I found out that the apartment we got together is gone…forever. That’s the sign. That’s the sign that we will never be together and I am crying a storm writing this. Because I want to talk to you so badly. Because I wish I could convince you. But there aren’t any words Shakespeare could say that will change your mind. I’m so sorry dear, sweetie. Well, I guess I’ll wrap it up for today since I feel I could go on forever. I’ll save some for tomorrow.
-x
June 23
A,
I woke up today with that same crap feeling. I hope you’re waking up better than me. I pray every night that this will go away. Every night I go to bed, I cry like a bitch. I never thought I’d sink so low. I’m wondering when I’ll man up—I guess when it finally hits me that life has continued.
You know I’ve fantasized my return. That you’d pick me up at the airport and we’d cry in each other’s arms. And I would come to your apartment and you’d welcome me back etc. movie like. The more I think about it, the more I know it won’t happen. That life isn’t a movie cliché.
I’ve lost 16 lbs since we broke up. I guess that’s good right. 197 yesterday and still counting down. I’m working out my frustrations on the road. I guess it’s better than inflicting adolescent pains on myself. And I guess I’ve grown. I’m happy about that. You said it was coming off you too like water. I bet you’re as beautiful as ever. I didn’t say it enough and I wish I had and I wish I hadn’t gotten so comfortable to say all those horrific things about you and your weight. I was so terrible…
I don’t think things will ever be the same. From my perspective, the reason why you want three weeks is so you can get over me. I think this because we’ve been broken up for over a month and I don’t text or call you every day. And you have plenty of distractions to take your mind off me—going out and getting drunk with your single friends, flirting again with cute boys, school work, work, and the dogs. And that still is not enough space? You don’t ever have to worry about running into me or seeing me. And all you have to do to never really speak to me again is put the nail in the coffin—change your number. I wouldn’t understand why, again I don’t call or text you every day and that too shall pass and you will never hear from me again.
Have you stopped and wondered what it would be like for you to start over like you’ve imposed me to do. I know you’d say that you didn’t ask me to give up all that stuff or to move back, or even give both dogs back. But really, what did you expect was going to happen. That I stay in Ames and try to be single…in a town of 50,000 people where going out to have fun is almost certain I’d run into you. And what, to see you with guys making out or in the future, a boyfriend, and I stuck in the past? How did you expect it to go—that we’d split the dogs (one of us would have ended up unsatisfied either way). You know what I’ve been praying for these past couple of days? That I wish I would never have gotten those dogs. I regret that decision because I don’t think there is such a thing as getting over them. And I lose both ways. Yeah, it’s about time right? Or again it’s about me. You’d been losing for a while giving me chances and wishing I would change so I guess now we are even…
But you couldn’t even step back and see that your decisions were rash too. That if the relationship meant something to you at some point, that all you had to do was say you wanted a break. But I guess when you’ve had enough you’ve had enough. It’s funny that it seems like I am the only one who lost everything. Is that selfish of me, or if you step back and look around—look at your situation and mine, can you truly tell yourself that you lost much? Yes you lost company at night and a “best friend” and a relationship. I ask of you to step back and put yourself in my shoes because I’m not sure you’ve done that yet. I’ve done it for you. God knows I have. That’s why I had to make those tough decisions of leaving and never coming back. But have you? Be sympathetic. I think if you would set aside your anger and hatred you’d realize that maybe the one who lost everything here wasn’t you.
I’m not sure if at this point you probably want to keep reading. To you, it’ll be a rant and a “wow is me” thing but I just want you to see it in print, no more mind games of guessing.
I lost all the friends I’d built solid relationships with for four years. I lost two dear dogs that I raised (yes you helped but you weren’t there because your job wouldn’t let you—someone had to make money) I had to leave an environment I called home and return to one where life moved on and old friends did too and there is no such thing as going back and picking up where you left off. And I lost you without having any say to it—that all my fighting for you is in vain because you made the hard decision to end it, not me.
And I wonder if you get satisfaction from seeing me finally chase after you, seeing as how you did for me for such a long time.
Can I outline where you stand now? (At least from my perspective so please correct me if I’m wrong.)
You get to still be in school distracted day to day and work with people night and day that you like and flirt with guys you now can flirt with because you’re single. And now you can waste money solely on yourself. No one to check in with and you can spend your nights dancing with complete strangers and making out with them because you can (and sleep with them if you wanted to) and walk back to your close apartment because you got out of ours so easily (but regrettably with a lot of wasted money). You get to have those two precious dogs every day and night and since you’re social you can easily find another man to like because you’re very likable and beautiful. You don’t have to worry about moving to places you don’t want to and you still have family nearby and everyday is an adventure. Is that right? Or am I completely off. Honestly I want to know if I am because the more I think about it, the more painful it is.
And I lost my strength. I’m here crying like a baby every night and you are out numbing your feelings with booze and friends. It makes me feel like you never cared. Because if you did, you wouldn’t be reacting to the break up like that. I know, here he goes again with a stupid rant about selfishness. I guess I am that evil that you can’t even care to say you miss me or that you still love me (Because you probably don’t). That falling out of love was that simple or that you couldn’t be honest with me months ago, or better yet, that you’d let a sociology class solidify your anger and resentment for me instead of looking into your compassionate heart and realize that when I said I would change, and that I wanted to show you I wasn’t that guy that I meant it with all my heart and mind.
How many times have you seen me cry in the two+ years you’ve known me? How many times have you seen me cry since you said it was over?
I think that’s a good sign of how much I fucking care about you. God damn it what else do you need if not someone who is willing to be that perfect man.
Yes, I had a chance to change but sometimes things don’t happen when you’d like, and sometimes it takes shattering someone’s heart to realize you can’t live without them. You finally did it to me. I guess I should thank you. But I don’t move on easily because I do dwell on the good stuff and not the bad, even if the bad outweighed the good. Because to me, the good times always outweigh the bad, and my happiest memories in my life thus far are those with you laughing to death, or holding you at night when you slept. But none of that means anything I guess. Or I guess it would have been better for me to just cheat on you because I guess that’s more forgivable than making honest, immature mistakes on how to handle living with someone for the first time. I’m so sorry I wasted your time and that you wasted your secrets on me as you so eloquently expressed it. I love you so much but to you, that is not enough.
-x
July 11
Dearest,
This is it. The 3 week deadline. I don’t want to call you because I’m afraid I know the answer to all my questions. And I guess I’ll wait a little bit and pray you’ll call me first. But that won’t happen. So I’ll be sending you these soon. You’ll read them, acknowledge them, and then move on without a whisper left. And these notes will disappear into the circuits of electricity and they will wither. And I guess this will be the last concrete evidence I’ll leave you. Here you’ll find the expression of how you were loved at least once in your life by someone else. But you will be loved again. And you will be happy again and love again. And our short time together would have been a speck of dirt in a white canvas. I will miss you. I will love you until that too flickers out. And I don’t know when that will be, or if it will come. I hope it does. I hope it does because it’ll eat at me. And I wish it could have worked out. God only knows I did. But I guess sometimes, we don’t know what’s best for us. And even though in my head, I fantasized that if I won a few writing competitions, that if things looked up for the better, if we’d gotten better together, that I’d ask you to marry me. Because I knew that if we could have gotten through this that anything was possible. So I guess I just wanted you to know that you were loved that much and that I would have given anything to buy you that blue diamond you loved so much with the money I earned from those competitions, anything for you.
And I’ll probably never see or speak to you again and I’m losing another best friend and I’m sorry you also had to lose one too. I’d never wish that kind of pain on anyone because I think that’s a pain that can consume you. So I hope it doesn’t because I’m working on it not taking me. I’m confident that life will move on and that all your (and maybe my) dreams will come true but sometimes you just never know how long or short your life can be—3000 miles away and the dangers of living can end in one swift movement. So live your life to the fullest because no one knows how long we have and the brittleness—the frailty of humanity can bend and break like those picture frames we used to have of us happy, together. You’re left wondering if the mistakes of the past can mend in the future and if given a chance, would the flowers of prosperity flourish under the heat of the summer, or would the long dark of winter snap the twigs into small pieces. And a poet is poet until his death and as someone once said “if you love something let it go. If it comes back to you then it’s truly yours, and if it doesn’t, it never was.” And with this I end a chapter in a short, ongoing life. A beautiful chapter where I became a man. My only wish is that I could have been one sooner. But I guess you can’t choose when to grow up, sometimes it just gets thrust onto you in the most painful ways. Thank you for letting me feel again because for once in my life, I’m not afraid of crying and I’ve cried all I could and it’s been years since that’s happened so I am truly grateful. I’ll leave you with final words that have gotten me through—words I’ll spontaneously write now that I’ve been juggling in my head for a month. Here they are—
It’s not that we are afraid of living or seeing it through to the end. And realizing that maybe we took a wrong turn in a long road that cannot be revisited. It’s that we’ve learned to heal with the medicine of our surroundings and that the scars are all able to fade with the youth of the skin, and the only remembrance we hold, until the light behind those tired grey eyes goes out, are the little fragile figments of laughter that were sung sporadically on rainy days.
And with that I bow to you, I bid you good bye. Another love lost. And I am neither bitter nor angry because I know what we had was very real. And I know these letters can neither console or mend or heal. But I know they will last. Maybe in a journal, maybe in your heart or mine. Or maybe they will float away like passing clouds shaping figures and as quickly as they formed, they leave, never again to return the same way.
Love always,
-x
- - -
Xavier Navarro was born and raised in Puerto Rico. He holds a B.A. in English from Iowa State University and his works have appeared in ISU's undergraduate literary journal Sketch. He has two short stories forthcoming in Newport Review's Summer 2011 edition and has completed two collections of poetry pending publication.
