Giving
By Cara Neel
What I want to give you is not happiness
It is not the bleached light of summer,
Not the pale whispered promises
Nor the delicate petals of a rose
I do not want to love you softly.
What I want to give you is the salt of tears on your tongue
Cupped water in your hands when you swim at night
I want to give you the tang of crushed violets
And a pounding heart as we lay together
Watching the stars fall from the sky.
I want us not to exist in the slight dance
Of brushed hands and grazed lips
But for our bodies to be so close
That all distance would cease
And our skin would forget the prickle of loneliness
So that we would know only each other,
The world a vast, far-off entity, separate from us.
- - -
Cara Neel is a university student, aspiring music journalist, poet and possibilian.
Friday, September 30, 2011
Thursday, September 29, 2011
9/29/11
Julie and Mr Henderson
By Edoardo Albert
"Yes?"
Mr Henderson looked up from his desk to see Julie carefully closing the door to his office. He took off his glasses and placed them by his keyboard.
Turning back to her boss, Julie saw the spectacles, glinting squarely on the desk, their lenses throwing the light as if they were a pair of detachable eyes. She tried to speak but her mouth gaped and nothing came out.
"Julie, I can see you have something you want to tell me," said Mr Henderson. "I suggest you get it off your che..." Mr Henderson's eyes strayed downward, then jerked back up to Julie's face as he remembered the fate of other civil service managers who had spoken inappropriately. "Er, why don't you just tell me what's eating you?"
No sooner were the words said than, unseen by Julie, Mr Henderson kicked himself. He'd only gone from a level 2 violation – improper sexual reference – to a level 5 – explicit sexual proposition by senior manager to junior member of staff.
Luckily, Julie seemed not to have noticed.
"M-Mr Henderson. I-I have something to say to you."
Mr Henderson sat back in his chair, waited.
Julie gaped some more.
"Yes?"
"I-I-I love you and I want to marry you and have your babies," Julie finished off in a rush. The words themselves were spoken to a spot on the wall behind Mr Henderson, but as soon as she'd said the phrase she'd rehearsed so many times – well, the bit about babies was an unexpected addition – she fixed her gaze upon her boss.
Mr Henderson smiled.
"I am married, Julie," he began.
"Oh," said Julie, "I didn't know."
"To a Martian," he added.
Julie did a double take. "A Martian?"
Mr Henderson nodded. "Yep."
"So, so that's all right then. The more the merrier for Martians, right?"
"For most, yes. Sadly, being of the Solemna fraternity, my wife is strictly monogamous. So I must, unfortunately, decline your kind offer of marriage."
Julie opened her mouth, closed it again, went pink, purple and green, said, "Well, that's it then," and turned for the door.
"Babies, on the other hand..."
Julie – and, later, she was most proud of herself for this – didn't even turn round.
"I'm not that sort of girl, Mr Henderson," she said.
It was only then that she looked – her best side too. Mr Henderson was staring at her with the baffled expression of a spoilt child unexpectedly refused a treat.
Julie tapped her nose. "What was it, Mr H? A level 2 and a level 5 infraction in the course of one conversation? I'll keep mum if you will."
Now it was Mr Henderson's turn to colour: shifting bands of yellow and green.
"Good day, Mr H," said Julie.
She closed the door after her but, as she walked away down the office, she knew he was watching her and she knew she looked great. She didn't look back.
- - -
Edoardo Albert is a writer and editor, born and based in London. He's had stories published in Daily Science Fiction and On The Premises, and other places too! To find out where, go to www.edoardoalbert.com.
By Edoardo Albert
"Yes?"
Mr Henderson looked up from his desk to see Julie carefully closing the door to his office. He took off his glasses and placed them by his keyboard.
Turning back to her boss, Julie saw the spectacles, glinting squarely on the desk, their lenses throwing the light as if they were a pair of detachable eyes. She tried to speak but her mouth gaped and nothing came out.
"Julie, I can see you have something you want to tell me," said Mr Henderson. "I suggest you get it off your che..." Mr Henderson's eyes strayed downward, then jerked back up to Julie's face as he remembered the fate of other civil service managers who had spoken inappropriately. "Er, why don't you just tell me what's eating you?"
No sooner were the words said than, unseen by Julie, Mr Henderson kicked himself. He'd only gone from a level 2 violation – improper sexual reference – to a level 5 – explicit sexual proposition by senior manager to junior member of staff.
Luckily, Julie seemed not to have noticed.
"M-Mr Henderson. I-I have something to say to you."
Mr Henderson sat back in his chair, waited.
Julie gaped some more.
"Yes?"
"I-I-I love you and I want to marry you and have your babies," Julie finished off in a rush. The words themselves were spoken to a spot on the wall behind Mr Henderson, but as soon as she'd said the phrase she'd rehearsed so many times – well, the bit about babies was an unexpected addition – she fixed her gaze upon her boss.
Mr Henderson smiled.
"I am married, Julie," he began.
"Oh," said Julie, "I didn't know."
"To a Martian," he added.
Julie did a double take. "A Martian?"
Mr Henderson nodded. "Yep."
"So, so that's all right then. The more the merrier for Martians, right?"
"For most, yes. Sadly, being of the Solemna fraternity, my wife is strictly monogamous. So I must, unfortunately, decline your kind offer of marriage."
Julie opened her mouth, closed it again, went pink, purple and green, said, "Well, that's it then," and turned for the door.
"Babies, on the other hand..."
Julie – and, later, she was most proud of herself for this – didn't even turn round.
"I'm not that sort of girl, Mr Henderson," she said.
It was only then that she looked – her best side too. Mr Henderson was staring at her with the baffled expression of a spoilt child unexpectedly refused a treat.
Julie tapped her nose. "What was it, Mr H? A level 2 and a level 5 infraction in the course of one conversation? I'll keep mum if you will."
Now it was Mr Henderson's turn to colour: shifting bands of yellow and green.
"Good day, Mr H," said Julie.
She closed the door after her but, as she walked away down the office, she knew he was watching her and she knew she looked great. She didn't look back.
- - -
Edoardo Albert is a writer and editor, born and based in London. He's had stories published in Daily Science Fiction and On The Premises, and other places too! To find out where, go to www.edoardoalbert.com.
Wednesday, September 28, 2011
9/28/11
Second Chances
By Karishma Shetty
It didn't happen very often any more.
It had been 73 days since they'd been to the home by the country-side.
Unbrushed, unkempt, it seemed like one of those 8:00 mornings when she would walk straight to the patio, opening her eyes to lush verdant liveliness.
The roof alternated slats of solid mahogany with clear glass creating a piano-like shadow in front of her feet.
She stood there in her night shirt and soaked in the morning sun like a little child in the meadow. Dull gold rays highlighted her cheek bones, revealing hints of crusty mascara and patches of unremoved make-up from the evening before.
He squinted in her direction, rubbing traces of indulgent sleep from stubborn lids, and stared at her silhouette with no guilt.
She was prettier than he could remember.
He worked his way into the kitchen and came back with two cups of piping hot coffee - Hers, 2% milk fat and his, half-and-half. Accompanying them was a tray of her favourite dark brown biscuits with sugar crystals encrusted around every edge. He put them on the patio table and carried their cups to where she stood.
"I hope this isn't awkward..." he paused looking away towards the hills. She took two steps closer and curled her fingers around his arm.
They had married each other 9 years ago.
It had been 73 days since their divorce.
- - -
By Karishma Shetty
It didn't happen very often any more.
It had been 73 days since they'd been to the home by the country-side.
Unbrushed, unkempt, it seemed like one of those 8:00 mornings when she would walk straight to the patio, opening her eyes to lush verdant liveliness.
The roof alternated slats of solid mahogany with clear glass creating a piano-like shadow in front of her feet.
She stood there in her night shirt and soaked in the morning sun like a little child in the meadow. Dull gold rays highlighted her cheek bones, revealing hints of crusty mascara and patches of unremoved make-up from the evening before.
He squinted in her direction, rubbing traces of indulgent sleep from stubborn lids, and stared at her silhouette with no guilt.
She was prettier than he could remember.
He worked his way into the kitchen and came back with two cups of piping hot coffee - Hers, 2% milk fat and his, half-and-half. Accompanying them was a tray of her favourite dark brown biscuits with sugar crystals encrusted around every edge. He put them on the patio table and carried their cups to where she stood.
"I hope this isn't awkward..." he paused looking away towards the hills. She took two steps closer and curled her fingers around his arm.
They had married each other 9 years ago.
It had been 73 days since their divorce.
- - -
Tuesday, September 27, 2011
9/27/11
A Recollection
By Vanessa Chastain Rivas
Although it was not what either of us expected
When we met again that day,
Or when times before some stroke of fate
Had caused our paths to cross,
Still, again, again, you emerged,
A quiet presence
In my life,
That again, again reminded me
Of treasures I had lost
And somehow it came to be
That you carried a recollection
Of a girl no longer here,
The last record to remain
Of the person she once had been
For bringing to light
This collection of kindness
And anguish that in your eyes
Had only amounted to goodness,
Thank you for illuminating the
Path that I have struggled long
To follow
My world is now unrecognizable
With you in it
Gone is the endless
Rumination and the expectation that all will
Inevitably turn for the worst
It is only fitting that you would
Have been the first to show me
Where to seek happiness
And now I need not look
To find beauty in every scene:
Those colors that fill the sky,
Those grasses and shining leaves
Promise inspiration for the
Words that I will write
In the near future,
Their movements providing rhythm
To the tunes that I could sing
Because of you, I know what love is
It is a feeling that inspires us
To think the world
Of another human being,
Of all other human beings,
Regardless of whom they appear to be
Or what they actually do
It makes every action of theirs seem
More magical and
Leaves us with emotions of
Euphoria and sadness
Anger and gentle happiness...
Yet we want to experience it all
For the richness of our passions
Will never leave us
Bored
What sort of life would it have been
If you had died without experiencing
Heartbreak? Close deaths?
Apprehension? Imagine how repetitive
Those many years would have been
So blissful, but
So few lessons learned
Accept the pain
For what it is and embrace it
We can always count on returning
To that central location
Which holds us together
Our mutual concern
And a desire to see the world
Return to peace
- - -
I am a nineteen-year-old student at New College of Florida. I finished my first poetry collection in June 2010 and began my second poetry collection a few months later. My experimental essay "Perfectionist" is forthcoming in Hippocampus Magazine, due for release in October 2011.
By Vanessa Chastain Rivas
Although it was not what either of us expected
When we met again that day,
Or when times before some stroke of fate
Had caused our paths to cross,
Still, again, again, you emerged,
A quiet presence
In my life,
That again, again reminded me
Of treasures I had lost
And somehow it came to be
That you carried a recollection
Of a girl no longer here,
The last record to remain
Of the person she once had been
For bringing to light
This collection of kindness
And anguish that in your eyes
Had only amounted to goodness,
Thank you for illuminating the
Path that I have struggled long
To follow
My world is now unrecognizable
With you in it
Gone is the endless
Rumination and the expectation that all will
Inevitably turn for the worst
It is only fitting that you would
Have been the first to show me
Where to seek happiness
And now I need not look
To find beauty in every scene:
Those colors that fill the sky,
Those grasses and shining leaves
Promise inspiration for the
Words that I will write
In the near future,
Their movements providing rhythm
To the tunes that I could sing
Because of you, I know what love is
It is a feeling that inspires us
To think the world
Of another human being,
Of all other human beings,
Regardless of whom they appear to be
Or what they actually do
It makes every action of theirs seem
More magical and
Leaves us with emotions of
Euphoria and sadness
Anger and gentle happiness...
Yet we want to experience it all
For the richness of our passions
Will never leave us
Bored
What sort of life would it have been
If you had died without experiencing
Heartbreak? Close deaths?
Apprehension? Imagine how repetitive
Those many years would have been
So blissful, but
So few lessons learned
Accept the pain
For what it is and embrace it
We can always count on returning
To that central location
Which holds us together
Our mutual concern
And a desire to see the world
Return to peace
- - -
I am a nineteen-year-old student at New College of Florida. I finished my first poetry collection in June 2010 and began my second poetry collection a few months later. My experimental essay "Perfectionist" is forthcoming in Hippocampus Magazine, due for release in October 2011.
Monday, September 26, 2011
9/26/11
It All Became Nothing...
By Bad MediCyn
A romantic tragedy
A devastation that takes hold
A fire inside
That slowly dies
As I am left here in the cold
A turbulent forthcoming
As to my face you scold
Say I am nothing
And you aren't bluffing
As you walk away, the hurt hit tenfold
You spit in my direction
As you turned and walked away
Adding insult to what already suffered injury
Surely you had seen the tears I had displayed
The tears that glisten
As I try to listen
To myself to get a grip
The point I am missing
An hour ago we were kissing
As you gently tugged on my lip
Why the sudden change
Why can't I find the answer
To why you became so deranged
It will haunt me ever after
Will I hear from you again?
- - -
Bad MediCyn has been on DeviantArt.com as a lyrics writer for 7 years. She is an amateur writer, who plans to go back to school in the spring to master her talent.
She lives in Chicago, Illinois, and writes lyrics for friends for their bands.
By Bad MediCyn
A romantic tragedy
A devastation that takes hold
A fire inside
That slowly dies
As I am left here in the cold
A turbulent forthcoming
As to my face you scold
Say I am nothing
And you aren't bluffing
As you walk away, the hurt hit tenfold
You spit in my direction
As you turned and walked away
Adding insult to what already suffered injury
Surely you had seen the tears I had displayed
The tears that glisten
As I try to listen
To myself to get a grip
The point I am missing
An hour ago we were kissing
As you gently tugged on my lip
Why the sudden change
Why can't I find the answer
To why you became so deranged
It will haunt me ever after
Will I hear from you again?
- - -
Bad MediCyn has been on DeviantArt.com as a lyrics writer for 7 years. She is an amateur writer, who plans to go back to school in the spring to master her talent.
She lives in Chicago, Illinois, and writes lyrics for friends for their bands.
Sunday, September 25, 2011
9/25/11
June's Rock
By Sam Roberts
It was the last time I was to see June before I left to travel across Canada, so we decided to spend as much time as we had left together. We had taken the family paddle-boat without permission across the lake (a paddle boat is basically a two person bicycle that can tread water) to our “secret spot”, a slightly slanted bed of rock facing the most beautiful view in all of the Kawartha’s. The rustling leaves on the trees were turning into an intense array of reds oranges and yellows, the furry little animals were scurrying to collect refuge for the winter, water-skiers being pulled by motorboats were zooming across the water. The sound of people conversing, laughing, dancing on their decks and patios could be heard from miles away as the lake acted as nature’s natural microphone. June and I could hear basically everything: barbecues, parties, family reunions, fireworks. It also happened to be my birthday. It was paradise.
So, this unnamed island was the only undeveloped property in amongst our township, due to the fact that it was a kilometre long island in the middle of the lake we were on. On this island, is our “secret spot”, as only June and I knew about it. When we finally arrived, the sun was about to set in the distance, just as I had planned. I set up the rock face “picnic style”: chips, ginger ale, even going as far as making a makeshift bed with an old foam mattress and wool blankets. Unfortunately though, I had forgotten the pillows from home, but we didn’t care, we just used each other as pillows, it was cute to say the least. We laid on the bed together, munching chips while taking in as much nature as we could. The air around us felt cold and edgy, but being together made it seem warm and comforting. The smell of June’s auburn hair drove me mad. As it started to get colder, she cuddled up to me; our stiff wool blanket scratched us every time we squirmed about the foam mattress. The rock’s surface beneath us felt coarse even underneath the mattress, the smell of pine needles and burnt cedar filled our nostrils. I could feel her heart beating inside of her chest. Suspense filled our thoughts. Then suddenly, the sun rested over the valley. The hill we were sitting on was now filled with the radiance of the sun’s rays. The warmer air instantly made us feel more relaxed. She rolled on top of me. June looked into my eyes with a glow about her; the sun setting beyond the island eclipsed her head like an angel’s halo. It was one of the most stunning things either of us had ever seen, but we both knew it wasn’t the sunset in the distance. She just stared into my eyes and smiled. I had never wanted something so badly in my entire life.
The day after, I decided to nickname the rock that we spent on together “June’s Rock”, for obvious reasons. Since that day, as a couple we try to come out to our little spot in the Kawartha’s at least once every summer.
- - -
My real name is Samson Roberts, I am from Aurora Ontario and I just like writing when I'm not too busy.
By Sam Roberts
It was the last time I was to see June before I left to travel across Canada, so we decided to spend as much time as we had left together. We had taken the family paddle-boat without permission across the lake (a paddle boat is basically a two person bicycle that can tread water) to our “secret spot”, a slightly slanted bed of rock facing the most beautiful view in all of the Kawartha’s. The rustling leaves on the trees were turning into an intense array of reds oranges and yellows, the furry little animals were scurrying to collect refuge for the winter, water-skiers being pulled by motorboats were zooming across the water. The sound of people conversing, laughing, dancing on their decks and patios could be heard from miles away as the lake acted as nature’s natural microphone. June and I could hear basically everything: barbecues, parties, family reunions, fireworks. It also happened to be my birthday. It was paradise.
So, this unnamed island was the only undeveloped property in amongst our township, due to the fact that it was a kilometre long island in the middle of the lake we were on. On this island, is our “secret spot”, as only June and I knew about it. When we finally arrived, the sun was about to set in the distance, just as I had planned. I set up the rock face “picnic style”: chips, ginger ale, even going as far as making a makeshift bed with an old foam mattress and wool blankets. Unfortunately though, I had forgotten the pillows from home, but we didn’t care, we just used each other as pillows, it was cute to say the least. We laid on the bed together, munching chips while taking in as much nature as we could. The air around us felt cold and edgy, but being together made it seem warm and comforting. The smell of June’s auburn hair drove me mad. As it started to get colder, she cuddled up to me; our stiff wool blanket scratched us every time we squirmed about the foam mattress. The rock’s surface beneath us felt coarse even underneath the mattress, the smell of pine needles and burnt cedar filled our nostrils. I could feel her heart beating inside of her chest. Suspense filled our thoughts. Then suddenly, the sun rested over the valley. The hill we were sitting on was now filled with the radiance of the sun’s rays. The warmer air instantly made us feel more relaxed. She rolled on top of me. June looked into my eyes with a glow about her; the sun setting beyond the island eclipsed her head like an angel’s halo. It was one of the most stunning things either of us had ever seen, but we both knew it wasn’t the sunset in the distance. She just stared into my eyes and smiled. I had never wanted something so badly in my entire life.
The day after, I decided to nickname the rock that we spent on together “June’s Rock”, for obvious reasons. Since that day, as a couple we try to come out to our little spot in the Kawartha’s at least once every summer.
- - -
My real name is Samson Roberts, I am from Aurora Ontario and I just like writing when I'm not too busy.
Saturday, September 24, 2011
9/24/11
An REM Adventure
By Karishma Shetty
He was still in the restroom, rinsing the remains of his last meal with a minty mouthwash routine. With one last impatient gargle, he ran his tongue over the ridges of his teeth to see if he had missed a spot. Satisfied he stepped out, into the darkness of an undisturbed room.
She lay there on her left side, in the foetal position, with her toes pointing to the wrong side of the bed. Wrapping her arms around her knees she slipped into the second stage of deep sleep.
He stared at her lovingly, while her feet twitched at 30 second intervals. Her shiny black curls spread across the paisley-printed bedspread like the tangled branches of a weeping willow on a summery afternoon. Her crinkled nose and knitted eyebrows told him that she was contemplating something.
He kept his backpack at arm’s length and continued to look at her. With a quick glance over the items on his checklist, he noticed that the flashlight wasn't there. He walked towards the store-room and found an electric rechargeable torch and a can of bug spray on the table. Putting the new items into his haversack, he headed back to the bedroom, and saw her in the same crouched position.
He looked confident and was better prepared this time around.
The frequency of her twitches had increased. She jerked and winced from time to time, moving anti-clockwise again. The feet took charge while her other limbs moved slowly in perfect synchrony. She turned a whole 180 degrees around till the neck found its spot on the accustomed mound of her slightly firm pillow.
She was in the Rapid Eye Movement phase, and he knew he had to be quick. He slipped in right next to her on the mattress and clasped her hand. Effortlessly, he placed the tips of his fingers on her fluttering eyelids and lifted them with ease.
Holding hands they were suspended in mid air with no control over their being. He was tumbling across time and space, with his backpack flying freely behind him.
They'd committed to sharing a dream together.
The movie had just begun.
- - -
By Karishma Shetty
He was still in the restroom, rinsing the remains of his last meal with a minty mouthwash routine. With one last impatient gargle, he ran his tongue over the ridges of his teeth to see if he had missed a spot. Satisfied he stepped out, into the darkness of an undisturbed room.
She lay there on her left side, in the foetal position, with her toes pointing to the wrong side of the bed. Wrapping her arms around her knees she slipped into the second stage of deep sleep.
He stared at her lovingly, while her feet twitched at 30 second intervals. Her shiny black curls spread across the paisley-printed bedspread like the tangled branches of a weeping willow on a summery afternoon. Her crinkled nose and knitted eyebrows told him that she was contemplating something.
He kept his backpack at arm’s length and continued to look at her. With a quick glance over the items on his checklist, he noticed that the flashlight wasn't there. He walked towards the store-room and found an electric rechargeable torch and a can of bug spray on the table. Putting the new items into his haversack, he headed back to the bedroom, and saw her in the same crouched position.
He looked confident and was better prepared this time around.
The frequency of her twitches had increased. She jerked and winced from time to time, moving anti-clockwise again. The feet took charge while her other limbs moved slowly in perfect synchrony. She turned a whole 180 degrees around till the neck found its spot on the accustomed mound of her slightly firm pillow.
She was in the Rapid Eye Movement phase, and he knew he had to be quick. He slipped in right next to her on the mattress and clasped her hand. Effortlessly, he placed the tips of his fingers on her fluttering eyelids and lifted them with ease.
Holding hands they were suspended in mid air with no control over their being. He was tumbling across time and space, with his backpack flying freely behind him.
They'd committed to sharing a dream together.
The movie had just begun.
- - -
Friday, September 23, 2011
9/23/11
Love's Promise
By Rhea Mishra
I’m scared he said staring into my eyes.
It wasn’t easy for him to admit this but his brown eyes seemed to melt with the fear that throttled him.
The fear that was pleading with me – to say something, say anything.
It crushed me to the core. I had to make it stop.
Everything will be fine I told him.
I took his hand, mine trembling.
He looked drowned.
Lost.
How do you know? How can you be so sure?
It was getting to him.
Terror turning to anger.
Close your eyes I told him.
Widening at first but they closed alright.
My right hand moved to his chest lingering over the place where a few inches below was his heart.
I could feel its rhythm with his every breathe.
What did I do? I asked him.
You put your hand on my chest.
Simple enough.
But your eyes are closed, you cant see. Challenges are often good for a person.
I felt it he said.
My hand moved to his cheek, my fingers reaching into his hair.
The same way, I told him, I feel everything will be alright. As long as we are together.
I promise.
- - -
Just another 17-year old writing about things that may or may not be true. Is there a difference between lying and making stuff up? The answer is simple.
By Rhea Mishra
I’m scared he said staring into my eyes.
It wasn’t easy for him to admit this but his brown eyes seemed to melt with the fear that throttled him.
The fear that was pleading with me – to say something, say anything.
It crushed me to the core. I had to make it stop.
Everything will be fine I told him.
I took his hand, mine trembling.
He looked drowned.
Lost.
How do you know? How can you be so sure?
It was getting to him.
Terror turning to anger.
Close your eyes I told him.
Widening at first but they closed alright.
My right hand moved to his chest lingering over the place where a few inches below was his heart.
I could feel its rhythm with his every breathe.
What did I do? I asked him.
You put your hand on my chest.
Simple enough.
But your eyes are closed, you cant see. Challenges are often good for a person.
I felt it he said.
My hand moved to his cheek, my fingers reaching into his hair.
The same way, I told him, I feel everything will be alright. As long as we are together.
I promise.
- - -
Just another 17-year old writing about things that may or may not be true. Is there a difference between lying and making stuff up? The answer is simple.
Thursday, September 22, 2011
9/22/11
Not always a Happy Ending
By Bad MediCyn
I wanted to see you
But you're so far away
Though it's not by my choice
I tried to call you
All I got was your voice
On the answering machine
saying "Leave a message after the tone"
Baby, I just wanna say
That I thought of you today
Wishing you were here by me
I feel so alone
I don't wanna fight
I don't care who's wrong or right
I miss you baby
Please come back home
I hung up the phone. . .
When will you call back
I don't understand the fact
How you can hold out so long
From hearing my voice
Don't you love me at all
This tension is making my life stall
I picked up the phone and made another call
Baby, don't let it end this way
We can make it work out and be okay
There is so much hope
We just have to be strong
Let us stop this fight
Neither was in the wrong or right
I miss you baby
Come back home
I hung up the phone. . .
I guess I'm reaping
The seeds that I have sewn
Left out here on my own
If only this chance
I hadn't blown
I'd have you to call my own
And maybe I wouldn't be left here alone
I picked up the phone, made a call, and you say hello. . .
Baby, I just wanna say
That I'm thinking about you
I want you here by my side
I don't wanna be alone
Let us not fight
I'll take the blame, you're right
I miss you baby
Please come back home. . .
And you say "It's a little too late, I have to move on. . ."
- - -
Bad MediCyn has been on DeviantArt.com as a lyrics writer for 7 years. She is an amateur writer, who plans to go back to school in the spring to master her talent.
She lives in Chicago, Illinois, and writes lyrics for friends for their bands.
By Bad MediCyn
I wanted to see you
But you're so far away
Though it's not by my choice
I tried to call you
All I got was your voice
On the answering machine
saying "Leave a message after the tone"
Baby, I just wanna say
That I thought of you today
Wishing you were here by me
I feel so alone
I don't wanna fight
I don't care who's wrong or right
I miss you baby
Please come back home
I hung up the phone. . .
When will you call back
I don't understand the fact
How you can hold out so long
From hearing my voice
Don't you love me at all
This tension is making my life stall
I picked up the phone and made another call
Baby, don't let it end this way
We can make it work out and be okay
There is so much hope
We just have to be strong
Let us stop this fight
Neither was in the wrong or right
I miss you baby
Come back home
I hung up the phone. . .
I guess I'm reaping
The seeds that I have sewn
Left out here on my own
If only this chance
I hadn't blown
I'd have you to call my own
And maybe I wouldn't be left here alone
I picked up the phone, made a call, and you say hello. . .
Baby, I just wanna say
That I'm thinking about you
I want you here by my side
I don't wanna be alone
Let us not fight
I'll take the blame, you're right
I miss you baby
Please come back home. . .
And you say "It's a little too late, I have to move on. . ."
- - -
Bad MediCyn has been on DeviantArt.com as a lyrics writer for 7 years. She is an amateur writer, who plans to go back to school in the spring to master her talent.
She lives in Chicago, Illinois, and writes lyrics for friends for their bands.
Wednesday, September 21, 2011
9/21/11
The Paramour
By Melanie Browne
I took the empty bottle of Korbel Champagne and begged him to play spin the bottle with me.
I tried shedding a few tears. I posed suggestively with the cat, I licked my lips. I pulled my shirt down low around my shoulders.
Nothing was working. I knew what he worshiped, and it wasn't me. It was another woman, and her name was death. She was a seductress and kept pulling him away from me. She had long eyelashes, thick and black. Every time he moved close to me she would move closer.
There was nothing I could do. He worshiped her. I had to get rid of the bitch. I went to a spiritual adviser. I gave her my last one-hundred dollars, a couple of ones, and seventy-five cents. In other words, she took what was left of my wallet. I was prepared. I had brought a baggie full of his fingernail clippings, a picture of his elderly aunt, and I played her a couple of the voice messages he had left on my phone. She didn't seem too impressed, so I figured she must be an amateur.
She quickly proved me wrong when she wrote his phone number and address with a ball point pen on the back of my hand.
“Wow, you must be psychic, I told her."
“No", she said," I'm really good with Google."
She called his house a few times, and let me listen with rapt attention. He wasn't home. She said I would need to come back the next day with more money, and to bring some of my friends.
I eventually realized that I would have to be the one to tear death away from my beloved. I made a wish on a wish-bone with my cousin. I lost, and took this to be a bad sign.
I started listening to Albert King. That didn’t help either.
He called me to tell me he was watching Faces of Death Part Three. I tried to be enthusiastic.
“I heard that was the best of the series, " I said, but didn't mean it.
I was full of life. To me, life was one big party. Life was The Love Boat. Life was Love, American Style. My favorite scene in any movie was in Reality Bites, when they dance inside the Food Mart to My Sharona. Still, I knew that if I wanted him back I would need to come up with my A Game and so I suggested we watch inspirational Christmas movies such as It’s a wonderful Life and Hallmark movies about lonely women who have one night stands after they do a lot of Christmas shopping at Macy’s. It was all to no avail. He told me after the final scene of It’s a Wonderful Life that he liked the scene where no one recognizes George.
“That would be a relief,” he tells me.
“what are you talking about?” I scream. “George was lonesome, and he realized that having problems was better than being alone.”
He just stared at me. “Nah”, he said “I think that’s the way the director should have ended it.”
I looked at him with a mixture of pity and disgust.
We didn’t see each other much after that night. Our relationship slowly trickled to nothing. The last I heard he was filling out organ donation cards and dating gore models. On a side note, when Christmas finally rolls around this year, I plan to shop at Macy’s and have lots of one-night stands.
- - -
I live in Texas.
I write poetry and flash fiction.
I get hungry and eat a lot of tator tots.
By Melanie Browne
I took the empty bottle of Korbel Champagne and begged him to play spin the bottle with me.
I tried shedding a few tears. I posed suggestively with the cat, I licked my lips. I pulled my shirt down low around my shoulders.
Nothing was working. I knew what he worshiped, and it wasn't me. It was another woman, and her name was death. She was a seductress and kept pulling him away from me. She had long eyelashes, thick and black. Every time he moved close to me she would move closer.
There was nothing I could do. He worshiped her. I had to get rid of the bitch. I went to a spiritual adviser. I gave her my last one-hundred dollars, a couple of ones, and seventy-five cents. In other words, she took what was left of my wallet. I was prepared. I had brought a baggie full of his fingernail clippings, a picture of his elderly aunt, and I played her a couple of the voice messages he had left on my phone. She didn't seem too impressed, so I figured she must be an amateur.
She quickly proved me wrong when she wrote his phone number and address with a ball point pen on the back of my hand.
“Wow, you must be psychic, I told her."
“No", she said," I'm really good with Google."
She called his house a few times, and let me listen with rapt attention. He wasn't home. She said I would need to come back the next day with more money, and to bring some of my friends.
I eventually realized that I would have to be the one to tear death away from my beloved. I made a wish on a wish-bone with my cousin. I lost, and took this to be a bad sign.
I started listening to Albert King. That didn’t help either.
He called me to tell me he was watching Faces of Death Part Three. I tried to be enthusiastic.
“I heard that was the best of the series, " I said, but didn't mean it.
I was full of life. To me, life was one big party. Life was The Love Boat. Life was Love, American Style. My favorite scene in any movie was in Reality Bites, when they dance inside the Food Mart to My Sharona. Still, I knew that if I wanted him back I would need to come up with my A Game and so I suggested we watch inspirational Christmas movies such as It’s a wonderful Life and Hallmark movies about lonely women who have one night stands after they do a lot of Christmas shopping at Macy’s. It was all to no avail. He told me after the final scene of It’s a Wonderful Life that he liked the scene where no one recognizes George.
“That would be a relief,” he tells me.
“what are you talking about?” I scream. “George was lonesome, and he realized that having problems was better than being alone.”
He just stared at me. “Nah”, he said “I think that’s the way the director should have ended it.”
I looked at him with a mixture of pity and disgust.
We didn’t see each other much after that night. Our relationship slowly trickled to nothing. The last I heard he was filling out organ donation cards and dating gore models. On a side note, when Christmas finally rolls around this year, I plan to shop at Macy’s and have lots of one-night stands.
- - -
I live in Texas.
I write poetry and flash fiction.
I get hungry and eat a lot of tator tots.
Tuesday, September 20, 2011
9/20/11
She’s Feline
By Andrew J. Stone
Her purrs whisk reality. She strokes my chest with clawing paws, whispering words of another dimension. A dimension not only of sight and sound, but of exotic sex. She nibbles the lobes of my left ear and sticks her wet nose inside the drum. Suddenly she slashes me stiff. I grope her lean curves and she leaves my hand with balls of hair. I shout at her. Scream for the climax. It doesn’t come. I’m alone.
- - -
Andrew J. Stone lives and writes in Southern California with iced coffee and mint tea. His work has appeared or will appear in Phantom Kangaroo, Apocrypha and Abstractions, Disingenuous Twaddle, Dark Chaos, In Between Altered States, The Camel Saloon, Yesteryear Fiction, The Fringe, and Three Line Poetry among other places. He currently doesn't blog anywhere.
By Andrew J. Stone
Her purrs whisk reality. She strokes my chest with clawing paws, whispering words of another dimension. A dimension not only of sight and sound, but of exotic sex. She nibbles the lobes of my left ear and sticks her wet nose inside the drum. Suddenly she slashes me stiff. I grope her lean curves and she leaves my hand with balls of hair. I shout at her. Scream for the climax. It doesn’t come. I’m alone.
- - -
Andrew J. Stone lives and writes in Southern California with iced coffee and mint tea. His work has appeared or will appear in Phantom Kangaroo, Apocrypha and Abstractions, Disingenuous Twaddle, Dark Chaos, In Between Altered States, The Camel Saloon, Yesteryear Fiction, The Fringe, and Three Line Poetry among other places. He currently doesn't blog anywhere.
Monday, September 19, 2011
9/19/11
All I Want is for You to...
By Karishma Shetty
Surprise me with custard apples in April
and snowflakes in Bombay's November.
Find me a flawless orange maple leaf
and ink my back with a black sea horse.
Sing to me with made-up words
and recite about love in a foreign tongue.
Cajole me into wearing fuschia silk
and tie up my hair in an unkempt braid.
Touch me without touching me
I wish to bathe in your warmth.
Spoil me for I can be spoiled
by nothing and everything.
Hold me on the brink of life
and breathe harder when I miss my breath.
Take me back to that little girl
who believed in flying with gossamer wings.
- - -
By Karishma Shetty
Surprise me with custard apples in April
and snowflakes in Bombay's November.
Find me a flawless orange maple leaf
and ink my back with a black sea horse.
Sing to me with made-up words
and recite about love in a foreign tongue.
Cajole me into wearing fuschia silk
and tie up my hair in an unkempt braid.
Touch me without touching me
I wish to bathe in your warmth.
Spoil me for I can be spoiled
by nothing and everything.
Hold me on the brink of life
and breathe harder when I miss my breath.
Take me back to that little girl
who believed in flying with gossamer wings.
- - -
Sunday, September 18, 2011
9/18/11
IT'S BEAUTIFUL TO SEE THROUGH THE EYES OF THE SKY
By Walter William Safar
You know, my life, how hard it is to serve one's purpose in the dark.
Invisible to the stars
and always chased by shadows
- left behind by men –
I am escaping my own screams of solitude
into an even deeper, stranger darkness
(because wise men say that screams die in the dark).
And while the stars proudly march the skies,
like silver soldiers,
I am only looking for a place in the dark
and cowardly courting my own shadow
with the frantic hope
that it shall open your doors to me
and save me from the darkness,
but the light is still so far away,
shining high beyond the heavenly dome,
reaching its turquoise hands down
into my dark world,
as if it wants to tear all the darkness from my heart.
Lord, how beautiful it is to look into this light
up through the eyes of the sky,
and dream,
because when you watch through the eyes of the sky,
dreams cannot be dark.
And while the shadows silently march the paths of darkness down there
the silver soldiers march up the heavenly paths of light.
I want to be touched by their bright hand,
but all I feel is the touch of shadows, silence and darkness,
and I watch up to the sky through the eyes of a shadow,
but my star
(wise men say that each man has his star)
is scattering golden notes from a heavenly harp
along my dark paths,
so I might walk the path of light someday;
so I might take of my dark suit someday,
the suit that makes me so invisible in the eyes of the world,
and to voice myself as a man,
not like a shadow.
Perhaps I might become visible to the eyes of that woman,
the woman from the most beautiful love poems,
whose eyes are so close to my heart,
so familiar to my dreams,
so familiar
that I know them better than my own shadow.
Yes, life, she might become reality
if I keep on looking at you through the eyes of the sky,
yes, life, it's beautiful to see through the eyes of the sky.
- - -
WALTER WILLIAM SAFAR was born on August 6th 1958 Sherman-TEXAS- . 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
You know, my life, how hard it is to serve one's purpose in the dark.
Invisible to the stars
and always chased by shadows
- left behind by men –
I am escaping my own screams of solitude
into an even deeper, stranger darkness
(because wise men say that screams die in the dark).
And while the stars proudly march the skies,
like silver soldiers,
I am only looking for a place in the dark
and cowardly courting my own shadow
with the frantic hope
that it shall open your doors to me
and save me from the darkness,
but the light is still so far away,
shining high beyond the heavenly dome,
reaching its turquoise hands down
into my dark world,
as if it wants to tear all the darkness from my heart.
Lord, how beautiful it is to look into this light
up through the eyes of the sky,
and dream,
because when you watch through the eyes of the sky,
dreams cannot be dark.
And while the shadows silently march the paths of darkness down there
the silver soldiers march up the heavenly paths of light.
I want to be touched by their bright hand,
but all I feel is the touch of shadows, silence and darkness,
and I watch up to the sky through the eyes of a shadow,
but my star
(wise men say that each man has his star)
is scattering golden notes from a heavenly harp
along my dark paths,
so I might walk the path of light someday;
so I might take of my dark suit someday,
the suit that makes me so invisible in the eyes of the world,
and to voice myself as a man,
not like a shadow.
Perhaps I might become visible to the eyes of that woman,
the woman from the most beautiful love poems,
whose eyes are so close to my heart,
so familiar to my dreams,
so familiar
that I know them better than my own shadow.
Yes, life, she might become reality
if I keep on looking at you through the eyes of the sky,
yes, life, it's beautiful to see through the eyes of the sky.
- - -
WALTER WILLIAM SAFAR was born on August 6th 1958 Sherman-TEXAS- . 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".
Saturday, September 17, 2011
9/17/11
In the Headlights
By Hayley Graham
The headlights of her car illuminate the black pavement outside the boy’s house. The fog shrouds much of the road, and she slowly pulls up close to the curb. She only has her left hand to guide the car to a stop—the beautiful boy sitting next to her is clutching her right one closely. He releases his grip so that she can put the car in park and turn on the parking brake (one of the girl’s many quirky habits). Their eyes meet as they both reach for their doors, clicking the handle twice and forcing themselves out of the vehicle. This is the last time he will get out of her car—a car with so many memories and love enclosed in its silver metal shell. After all, this was the car that brought the two of them together, had he not driven it the night of the party so long ago they may never have realized how perfect they were for each other. The doors slam shut, and instantly they are caught in the embrace of a lifetime. He holds her as close as he can, promising her that it will all be okay as tears flow out of her blue eyes. She has been a wreck all night, oscillating between quiet tears and body-wrenching sobs—the emptiness of her departure slowly creeping up on her, a ghostly shadow coming to destroy the perfect sunny day of her love for him. She pushes away briefly to see his face, and to tell him, once again, how amazing he is. The words come out choked up, their beauty masked by the hideous sounds of desperate emotion in her voice. They kiss, they hug, they tell each other how special they are, how much they love each other, but its not enough—it is never enough. Enough would be to lie in his arms for the rest of forever, to abandon all else in life but their love for one another, to escape the reality of responsibility and logic. They are sensible people though, and realize the limitations of the world. They cannot be together after tonight; they won’t even be in the same time zone, it simply makes no sense. Despite the voice in the back of their heads saying, “it can work, just try” they fight on the side of rationality. Her heart is broken into a thousand pieces, the pain is unbearable—how could she be leaving tomorrow? Two months and one week is all it took for her to reach this point. Two months and one week of perfection, the happiest, most unforgettable time of her life, and now it is all over. She doesn’t want to let go, they lean against the car, still hugging, holding each other closer than ever before—bracing themselves for the tidal waves of pain that crash over their bodies. She remembers her letter for him, tucked safely in the backseat, as she retrieves it a whole new layer of reality hits her, making the situation even harder than it was before. Returning to his arms for a final goodbye she feels the throbbing of a wound deep inside her chest, the emptiness is simply unreal. As they slowly move apart, their hands linger, a touch lasting for that final second before the physical contact is lost. “Goodbye”, he says—the absolute end of her world, without him there is simply no reason to be happy. He makes his way down his driveway, partially disappearing in the darkness as he approaches the rear of his house, she puts the car in drive and swings around, stopping to watch him walk away for the final time. This is the end; she sobs uncontrollably for the entire drive home, her small body shaking with raw emotion. Thirty-six hours later she is sitting on the airplane, almost in Australia, and still crying. The tears simply will not stop, and she has lost all hope of preventing them from trailing down her cheeks for the rest of her life. She is convinced she will never be happy ever again; there is just no way for her to make it back from the devastation of leaving him, the love of her life.
- - -
Hayley Graham lives in Australia with her family during the summers and spends the school year at college in New Orleans. She is currently in a long distance relationship with the boy from the story-who lives in New Jersey. To take her mind off of the miles between then Hayley sips piping hot tea and writes down the most memorable experiences they shared.
By Hayley Graham
The headlights of her car illuminate the black pavement outside the boy’s house. The fog shrouds much of the road, and she slowly pulls up close to the curb. She only has her left hand to guide the car to a stop—the beautiful boy sitting next to her is clutching her right one closely. He releases his grip so that she can put the car in park and turn on the parking brake (one of the girl’s many quirky habits). Their eyes meet as they both reach for their doors, clicking the handle twice and forcing themselves out of the vehicle. This is the last time he will get out of her car—a car with so many memories and love enclosed in its silver metal shell. After all, this was the car that brought the two of them together, had he not driven it the night of the party so long ago they may never have realized how perfect they were for each other. The doors slam shut, and instantly they are caught in the embrace of a lifetime. He holds her as close as he can, promising her that it will all be okay as tears flow out of her blue eyes. She has been a wreck all night, oscillating between quiet tears and body-wrenching sobs—the emptiness of her departure slowly creeping up on her, a ghostly shadow coming to destroy the perfect sunny day of her love for him. She pushes away briefly to see his face, and to tell him, once again, how amazing he is. The words come out choked up, their beauty masked by the hideous sounds of desperate emotion in her voice. They kiss, they hug, they tell each other how special they are, how much they love each other, but its not enough—it is never enough. Enough would be to lie in his arms for the rest of forever, to abandon all else in life but their love for one another, to escape the reality of responsibility and logic. They are sensible people though, and realize the limitations of the world. They cannot be together after tonight; they won’t even be in the same time zone, it simply makes no sense. Despite the voice in the back of their heads saying, “it can work, just try” they fight on the side of rationality. Her heart is broken into a thousand pieces, the pain is unbearable—how could she be leaving tomorrow? Two months and one week is all it took for her to reach this point. Two months and one week of perfection, the happiest, most unforgettable time of her life, and now it is all over. She doesn’t want to let go, they lean against the car, still hugging, holding each other closer than ever before—bracing themselves for the tidal waves of pain that crash over their bodies. She remembers her letter for him, tucked safely in the backseat, as she retrieves it a whole new layer of reality hits her, making the situation even harder than it was before. Returning to his arms for a final goodbye she feels the throbbing of a wound deep inside her chest, the emptiness is simply unreal. As they slowly move apart, their hands linger, a touch lasting for that final second before the physical contact is lost. “Goodbye”, he says—the absolute end of her world, without him there is simply no reason to be happy. He makes his way down his driveway, partially disappearing in the darkness as he approaches the rear of his house, she puts the car in drive and swings around, stopping to watch him walk away for the final time. This is the end; she sobs uncontrollably for the entire drive home, her small body shaking with raw emotion. Thirty-six hours later she is sitting on the airplane, almost in Australia, and still crying. The tears simply will not stop, and she has lost all hope of preventing them from trailing down her cheeks for the rest of her life. She is convinced she will never be happy ever again; there is just no way for her to make it back from the devastation of leaving him, the love of her life.
- - -
Hayley Graham lives in Australia with her family during the summers and spends the school year at college in New Orleans. She is currently in a long distance relationship with the boy from the story-who lives in New Jersey. To take her mind off of the miles between then Hayley sips piping hot tea and writes down the most memorable experiences they shared.
Friday, September 16, 2011
9/16/11
Stars and Sparks
By Denise Wyant
- - -
Denise Wyant makes her home in Maryland with her Himalayan cat, Willow. She is a fan of caramel lattes and lazy Saturday mornings. When not crafting works of fiction, she enjoys ballroom dancing and a variety of outdoor pursuits.
By Denise Wyant
Nicca fretted all day over what to wear. Clothes were strewn haphazardly across her bed and on the floor. The only clue Channing had given her about the date was a casual dinner outdoors. When she pestered him for more information, he just smiled.
Finally, the perfect dress. “It’s about time,” Nicca muttered before allowing a wicked smile to grace her lips. The crinkly pale green sundress accentuated her full breasts and fell to just above the knee. It was a flirty yet conservative piece – perfect for a summer dinner al fresco.
The chime of the doorbell interrupted her last minute preening. She grabbed her sweater and purse, took a deep breath, and then headed down the stairs to greet her date.
Nicca opened the door to see a sexy man grinning at her. Her lips parted but no sound escaped. After a moment she remembered her manners, “Hey, how are you?” She was distracted by his white linen shirt unbuttoned just a bit too far revealing a smooth, tanned chest. Her eyes got stuck, wondering if the rest of him was as sexy.
Channing cleared his throat to bring her back to earth. Her eyes darted back to his, noting the smug expression on his face.
“I’m well, thanks. Are you all set?” Channing’s smile charmed her as his eyes glided over her body. She noticed that they lingered on her breasts longer than necessary before returning to her eyes. Now who’s the one with the smug look, huh?
“Yep. Sure am. Let me grab my keys, and we can be off.” Nicca turned to the antique armoire in her foyer and fished around in the basket for her house keys. Taking a deep breath, she tucked them into her purse. She turned back to Channing, all the while nibbling on her bottom lip. It should be illegal for a man to look that gorgeous in regular clothes. Lord, don’t let me screw this up.
Channing grabbed her hand in his, threading his fingers through hers, and led them down the front stairs to his car. Nicca froze when she caught sight of his black Shelby Mustang convertible.
“Is something wrong?” Channing shot her a concerned glance over his shoulder. “Did you forget something?”
Her free hand covered the “o” that her mouth now formed. “Is that an original Shelby?” she whispered reverently.
A deep masculine laugh left his lips. “Sure is. My friends and I restored her one summer when I was in college. I’ve always had a fascination with the early Mustangs. My dad found this one rusted out and barely running.”
“She sure is a beauty. I’ve always had a secret crush on the Shelby.” Nicca neglected to add that the favorite picture of her parents was the one taken along the Pacific Coast Highway when they were just dating. Her father had surprised her mother with the road trip, which they had taken in a borrowed red Shelby Mustang. Her father proposed to her mother at a special stop in Caramel-by-the-Sea. Nicca had never been able to imagine anything more romantic.
He opened the passenger side door for her. “Her name is Belle, and she’d be honored for you to have a seat.”
The interior was meticulous. Everything looked original and was polished to a glossy shine. She ran her hand over the dash as the throaty engine roared to life.
Channing looked over at her and winked. “Don’t let me interrupt your worship, but in case you’re curious, she’s a 1968 Cobra GT-500.”
Blushing, Nicca ducked her head. “Sorry, I don’t mean to be drooling over your car.”
A hearty laugh filled the interior of the car. Channing’s warm hand reached over and gave her knee a squeeze, sending a jolt of electricity up her leg and ending at her heart, which was now thrumming in her chest. “No worries. I’m happy that you are getting as much enjoyment out of her as I have.”
***
The drive was relaxing; Channing took every opportunity to tease Nicca. She thoroughly enjoyed the attention and managed some playful retorts of her own. The scenery along the winding back roads was gorgeous; it was nice to be away from the congestion and stagnant air of the city. Nicca shot Channing a questioning look as he slowed to turn onto a narrow, tree-lined lane. It was then she noticed the sign for Winthrop Vineyards. If the polished wood and stone sign, complete with elegant brass lettering, was any indication, this was going to be a fancy dinner.
“We’re having dinner here or just a tasting?” The curiosity was killing Nicca.
“No, we’re having dinner. One of my college friends bought the business a couple of years ago when it was failing. He’s turned it around quite nicely and has just hired a new chef. I figured we could give him an unbiased review.”
“So, what, do you know everybody?” Nicca had never met someone before who was so well-connected.
“Not really, I’ve kept in touch with a lot of my friends from school. We tend to barter and help each other out. I mediated a dispute for Evan, the owner, when he started revamping the business.”
Channing pulled the car into a parking place right up front. Nicca scanned the empty lot, wondering if they were going to have the place to themselves. Channing hurried around and opened her door, helping her out of the car. He wrapped his arm around her waist as they walked to the main entrance.
“Hey, Channing! Glad you guys could make it.” A thin, dark-haired male stepped out to greet them.
“Evan, it’s good to see you again.” Channing gave Nicca a squeeze. “I’d like you to meet Nicca Morelli.”
“It’s nice to meet such a lovely lady.” Evan gave her a broad smile. “Of course, Channing always did have good taste in women.” Evan held his hand out for a fist bump, which was denied.
“Behave yourself, Evan. Don’t make me tell her about your equally good taste in men.” Channing returned Evan’s broad grin.
“Ok, ok, you win! Don’t worry, though, I’ll be sure to tell Stefan what you said.” Evan held his hands up in mock surrender. He didn’t appear to be offended by Channing’s comment. “Please come in. Your table is ready on the terrace.”
Evan held the door for the couple. He led them through a posh, open tasting room complete with slate flooring and exposed wood beams. A set of French doors led to the terrace.
“Wow, Evan, this view is excellent. It’s the perfect place to watch the sunset.” Nicca noted that the building sat atop a hill, allowing them to overlook the rolling fields of grapes. Tonight’s sunset was magnificent. All hues of pinks and purples were spreading across the western sky.
“Thanks, Nicca. We remodeled and added the terrace to take advantage of the views. We’ve hosted several weddings out here.” Nicca could easily visualize a bride and groom exchanging vowels on the polished stone patio, which was sheltered by the overhead arbor and surrounded by Boston ferns in ornate planters.
Channing pulled out Nicca’s chair and helped her to get situated. He slid into his own seat right next to her. Evan had set the round table so that they could be close to each other and still enjoy the view of the stars rising as the sky darkened into deeper shades of purples and blues. Nicca enjoyed the twinkling white lights that were threaded through the arbor. This is going to be one romantic dinner!
“I’ll be right back with a bottle of our Summer White. I think you’ll find it light, but not too sweet. It should complement your meal nicely.” Evan slipped away, giving the pair a chance to indulge in each other.
Taking advantage of the moment, Channing grasped Nicca’s hand and laid it to rest on his thigh. He covered it with his hand before leaning over to press a kiss to her temple. “What do you think so far?” he murmured, his warm breath caressing her face.
“This is beautiful – more than I could have imagined.” Nicca brushed a kiss over his lips in return. “I love the intimacy and of course, the view.” Nipping his bottom lip, she continued in a husky voice, “The company’s not so bad either.”
“Huh, is that so?” Channing responded before taking her mouth in a sensuous kiss. His hand left hers and skated up her side, brushing her breast. Nicca’s gasp at the sensation had her opening, allowing his tongue to delve in and explore her mouth. She groaned as goose bumps covered her skin and as desire pooled deep inside her.
The sound of the patio door opening had them parting. “Don’t let me interrupt.” Evan teased as he filled their wine glasses. “I’ll be right back with your salads.”
“Guess we’re busted, huh?” Nicca giggled, her eyes drawn to the lust which shone in Channing’s eyes like a moth drawn to a flame.
“Nah, don’t worry about Evan.” Channing’s voice was deeper than normal as he leaned in and ran his thumb over her swollen bottom lip.
Lifting his glass, he said, “Let’s have a toast.” He paused to organize his thoughts. “To stars and sparks, music and dance, and to a beautiful woman who loves classic cars. Cheers.”
***
Nicca was so focused on Channing, their conversation, and their stolen kisses that she never noticed the jazz quartet setting up at the far end of the terrace.
Sitting back in her chair, she sighed and rested her hands on her overstuffed belly. “That was so good. Evan has himself a keeper of a chef.” Glancing at Channing she teased, “You may have to roll me out of here, though.”
“Don’t worry, I have plans for some of those calories.” His soft voice sent shivers up her spine. She could only imagine what he had in store for the rest of the evening.
The lilting notes of a trumpet caught her ear. “What the –” she looked around for the source of the sound.
“Rick Braun, right?” Channing asked Nicca.
“Oh my gosh, yes. I love his music. How did you know?” Nicca’s eyes were wide as she sat forward in her chair to get a better view of the trumpeter. The guy was young and very talented. If she hadn’t seen him, she would have guessed Rick was there in the flesh.
Channing actually looked sheepish. “I confess, I cornered Ellie and had her help me plan the date. She told me of your love of wineries and smooth jazz music.”
“You sneaky…” Nicca didn’t bother to finish the sentence as her lips took possession of Channing’s lips – a passionate kiss to express her thanks for the effort he put into making the perfect night. She hoped the kiss would more adequately convey what words couldn’t.
As he opened under her demands, she lost herself, moaning at the thought someone could care so much about making her happy. This man actually took the time to learn about her, even if it was through conspiring with Ellie. If that didn’t show his dedication to her, she didn’t know what would. Nicca nibbled and sampled, loving the taste of the wine on his tongue. She was forced to stop when she realized she needed air. Panting, she pulled away just enough to catching the matching look of desire in his eyes.
Not letting the moment fade, Channing grabbed her hand and led her out to the middle of the terrace. “Let’s dance.” The quartet struck up Kisses in the Rain as she stepped into Channing's arms.
This was definitely not the tango, but it was no less sensuous. Channing caressed her neck with the barest of his fingertips while his left hand rested at the small of her back. He pulled her closer when she started to tremble with desire. She wrapped her arms around his waist, enjoying the hard, muscular feel of his body. Her soft curves melded to him as though they were two puzzle pieces meant to fit together. Her breasts pushed against his chiseled chest. Her soft belly cradled his sizeable steel erection. She nuzzled her face closer to him, burying herself in the warmth of his scent. She didn’t know how the evening could get any better.
When the song ended, she opened her eyes and noticed a bright star rising in the western sky. He was dead-on when he toasted to stars and sparks, she mused to herself. The feelings and desire that had smoldered between them the night of the tango had caught and spread like a wildfire in the heat of a rainless summer.
Channing must have been reading her mind. As Corazon de Fuego started, Channing used a finger to lift her chin. His lips were on hers before she realized what was happening – plunging, devouring, tasting. The music and the wine took over where rational thought would normally prevail.
A throaty groan escaped Channing. “Good Lord, woman, we’ve got to stop. We’re putting on too much of a show!”
The puppy dog eyes Nicca gave Channing didn’t sway him. “I suppose I understand.” Her actions, however, were in contradiction to her words. She proceeded to devil him, skating her hands under his shirt. She nuzzled his neck placing a line of open-mouthed kisses down to his breastbone. Her hands attempted to undo the remainder of his shirt buttons.
“Bad girl.” Channing teased while stilling her hands. “Don’t make me take you over my knee.”
She couldn’t resist the comeback. “You never know, I might just like that.”
“You are terrible!” Channing laughed, his eyes twinkling like the stars now shining above them. Pressing a quick kiss to her lips, he said, “Let’s get out of here. Evan’s got more than enough ammunition to devil me with.”
His warm hand encompassed hers. As they walked through the tasting room, Channing shouted a good-bye to Evan. “If I know him, he’s lurking in the shadows.”
Evan’s laugh echoed through the empty room. “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do!”
***
What to say, what to say. Nicca was never very good with this part. They had spent the ride home in companionable silence, listening to more jazz on the radio. Do I invite him in for coffee and maybe a little somethin’ somethin’ extra?
Channing interrupted her internal debate when he leaned over and began massaging her neck. “I had a wonderful time tonight, Nicca. Thank you for the date.”
His eyes conveyed nothing but genuine enjoyment and a hint of desire. “Sit tight. I’ll be around to get your door.”
What a gentlemen! I could get spoiled very quickly, Nicca allowed herself a small smile. They walked hand-in-hand up to her front door. Channing pulled her close for what she guessed would be a dazzling good night kiss. She wasn’t disappointed. This one started gentle and slow, but quickly built to a resounding crescendo. Before either one realized what their bodies were doing, Channing wrapped Nicca around him like a flag wrapped around the flagpole on a windy day.
“Goodness, stop! If Mrs. Masterson next door sees us, she’ll have a heart attack on the spot.” Nicca pushed against Channing’s defined chest while frowning at her return to reality. Channing rested his forehead against hers as he apologized.
“I don’t know what got into me.” On a lighter note he teased, “Your body is like my own personal addiction.”
Channing didn’t step back from her body. Nicca felt the warmth radiating off of him. She couldn’t resist rubbing up against him like a cat in heat.
His lips captured hers again, not sweetly but aggressively. Nicca felt like she was being claimed. Channing was putting his stamp on her. As much as that should bother me, I like it.
“Ah, Nicca. You have the most exquisite lips.” Channing’s words were whispered. It was as though he hated to part with them.
“Would you…” Nicca hesitated. “Would you like to come in?” She crossed her fingers as she awaited his answer.
“I would love to, but I made a promise to myself that I would do this right.” His fingers stroked her cheek.
Did he really say that? No man is that perfect. Nicca couldn’t believe what she was hearing. She realized he was still speaking even though her mind had taken a brief detour.
“I look forward to finding out all there is to know about you. In time, our bodies will have the same opportunity. I’m sure.” He concluded his declaration with a playful kiss to the tip of her nose.
“Now, if you promise to be good, one more decadent kiss to make sure you won’t forget about me until next time.”
“Like that –” Her words were cut off by his invading lips and tongue.
Nicca sighed and melted into the warmth of his body and the taste of his mouth. This was the best date she ever had. She only hoped that there were many, many more to come.
- - -
Denise Wyant makes her home in Maryland with her Himalayan cat, Willow. She is a fan of caramel lattes and lazy Saturday mornings. When not crafting works of fiction, she enjoys ballroom dancing and a variety of outdoor pursuits.
Thursday, September 15, 2011
9/15/11
Peter's Pedestal
By Mike German
Hi, I'm Peter Tettrick. As far as life goes, I'm a pretty uninteresting character; I'm just trying to get by. A drunk once told me that my name fitted my face. Peter Tettrick was the best way to describe how I looked to her. It was nonsense, but somehow I understood what she meant. I have sharp features. A strong jaw line. A pointy nose. High cheek-bones. My name is quite sharp, too. It's those 't's that do it. Well, right now I find myself back in that same bar where the drunkard told me I resemble my own name. Here's to the foresight of my parents - I take a drink from my plastic container of flat beer, served at room temperature and cast my eyes towards the stage. A girl sits alone on a tall bar stool, guitar on lap and a harmonica hanging from her neck. I fell instantly. Her olive-skinned face was framed by a head of finely straightened long black hair and her eyes glimmered beneath the stage lights. I couldn't take my eyes off her. I watched her mouth intensely. The way her lips parted to reveal perfectly-straight white teeth and a smile. The words just fell out from between them in the form of a beautifully soulful voice. I was falling in love and growing hard. Watching her lips was causing me to stir. I had to snap out of it. I turned back to the bar to order another beer followed by a shot of tequila. I had to shake the thoughts that were dirtying my mind and dirtying the angel gracing the stage.
"Hey, nice watch." My attention was drawn to a pretty little red-head staring up at me.
"Pardon?"
Pointing to my wrist, she repeated herself, "nice watch".
She smiled and offered to pay for my drinks. She ordered a shot of dark rum for herself and drained it in one go, holding her mouth and swallowing hard to suppress the obvious burn. I felt for her. Who was she trying to impress? It couldn't be me, surely.
"So, what's your name, Sugar?" She wanted to continue the conversation further.
"Peter, it's Peter Tettrick."
"It suits you."
"Oh, not you too? What's with this place?"
"Huh?"
"Never mind"
I took a drink and turned my back to the bar and, quite rudely, tried to shut her out. I just wanted to listen to the music. More than that, I wanted to watch this mysterious guitar girl. I fantasised about what it would be like to be talking to her at the bar instead of this red-headed watch fanatic who seems to agree that my face matches my name. I'd just have to be patient and wait for her set to be over and offer to buy her a drink and commend her for her performance. I couldn't wait.
In the break between two songs, I heard the sound of footsteps walking away from me. It was the pretty red-head finally giving up. I didn't know what to think of that. Any other night I'd be heartbroken that she was gone. I would've adored her attention, but tonight was something else. I had my eyes on a higher prize. One that would've seemed all too unobtainable if it wasn't for the smiles she was aiming directly at me whenever she looked out into the audience and made eye-contact with me. My legs turned to jelly, but I put that down to the tequila. And then it was over. She stopped singing, packed up her guitar, walked off the stage and straight out of the front doors. It was shattering. She didn't hang around for any of the other acts. She didn't hang around for any praise. She didn't hang around for me. Such a self-righteous act, and with it she slipped straight off her pedestal. Now the throne is empty and even the red-head is gone. My name is Peter Tettrick, and I am a fool.
- - -
Mike German is a young writer living in London and trying to find his way in the world.
By Mike German
Hi, I'm Peter Tettrick. As far as life goes, I'm a pretty uninteresting character; I'm just trying to get by. A drunk once told me that my name fitted my face. Peter Tettrick was the best way to describe how I looked to her. It was nonsense, but somehow I understood what she meant. I have sharp features. A strong jaw line. A pointy nose. High cheek-bones. My name is quite sharp, too. It's those 't's that do it. Well, right now I find myself back in that same bar where the drunkard told me I resemble my own name. Here's to the foresight of my parents - I take a drink from my plastic container of flat beer, served at room temperature and cast my eyes towards the stage. A girl sits alone on a tall bar stool, guitar on lap and a harmonica hanging from her neck. I fell instantly. Her olive-skinned face was framed by a head of finely straightened long black hair and her eyes glimmered beneath the stage lights. I couldn't take my eyes off her. I watched her mouth intensely. The way her lips parted to reveal perfectly-straight white teeth and a smile. The words just fell out from between them in the form of a beautifully soulful voice. I was falling in love and growing hard. Watching her lips was causing me to stir. I had to snap out of it. I turned back to the bar to order another beer followed by a shot of tequila. I had to shake the thoughts that were dirtying my mind and dirtying the angel gracing the stage.
"Hey, nice watch." My attention was drawn to a pretty little red-head staring up at me.
"Pardon?"
Pointing to my wrist, she repeated herself, "nice watch".
She smiled and offered to pay for my drinks. She ordered a shot of dark rum for herself and drained it in one go, holding her mouth and swallowing hard to suppress the obvious burn. I felt for her. Who was she trying to impress? It couldn't be me, surely.
"So, what's your name, Sugar?" She wanted to continue the conversation further.
"Peter, it's Peter Tettrick."
"It suits you."
"Oh, not you too? What's with this place?"
"Huh?"
"Never mind"
I took a drink and turned my back to the bar and, quite rudely, tried to shut her out. I just wanted to listen to the music. More than that, I wanted to watch this mysterious guitar girl. I fantasised about what it would be like to be talking to her at the bar instead of this red-headed watch fanatic who seems to agree that my face matches my name. I'd just have to be patient and wait for her set to be over and offer to buy her a drink and commend her for her performance. I couldn't wait.
In the break between two songs, I heard the sound of footsteps walking away from me. It was the pretty red-head finally giving up. I didn't know what to think of that. Any other night I'd be heartbroken that she was gone. I would've adored her attention, but tonight was something else. I had my eyes on a higher prize. One that would've seemed all too unobtainable if it wasn't for the smiles she was aiming directly at me whenever she looked out into the audience and made eye-contact with me. My legs turned to jelly, but I put that down to the tequila. And then it was over. She stopped singing, packed up her guitar, walked off the stage and straight out of the front doors. It was shattering. She didn't hang around for any of the other acts. She didn't hang around for any praise. She didn't hang around for me. Such a self-righteous act, and with it she slipped straight off her pedestal. Now the throne is empty and even the red-head is gone. My name is Peter Tettrick, and I am a fool.
- - -
Mike German is a young writer living in London and trying to find his way in the world.
Wednesday, September 14, 2011
9/14/11
WILD ROSE
By Walter William Safar
The wind is quiet, wearily quiet this evening,
(and they say that winds do not age)
and I,
I am fondling the wild rose
with the inexplicable hope
that I shall find your tear on its petal.
Since you have gone, many a night has lost its brilliance,
and they tiredly walk my dark paths,
as if they grew old too,
just like our memories.
Those wonderful young nights
- in which we used to look at turquoise nets
woven by singing crickets during silky nights –
now they became completely tired and dark,
and they aimlessly wander my dark paths.
The wild rose's petals have long since stopped dancing,
because the wind no longer touches them.
They say that winds do not age,
perhaps not the desert winds,
but the cemetery winds certainly age and die
along with people and flowers.
It is so quiet and dark
in nights without you.
Everything died inside me
apart from the hope
that I shall see your tear on the trembling face of the wild rose,
the same tear
that was conceived in your dear, warm eyes
when I first kissed you.
How the night shone, how the wind was singing youthfully,
and the rose pensively sighed
when your tear slid onto it.
But now, everything is so quiet and dark,
and that wild rose
you used to fondle during storms,
like a lost child,
is perfectly quiet now,
perfectly abandoned.
Our wonderful young nights
grew old amidst our aimless wanderings,
just like I did.
The wind is so quiet this evening, so tiredly weak,
it pushes the night along my dark paths like a tired old man,
and I,
I am courting death like an aged old man,
because I know the end is near,
that our young nights shall become older with each new day,
and that your wild rose shall fade and completely disappear.
- - -
WALTER WILLIAM SAFAR was born on August 6th 1958 Sherman-TEXAS- . 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
The wind is quiet, wearily quiet this evening,
(and they say that winds do not age)
and I,
I am fondling the wild rose
with the inexplicable hope
that I shall find your tear on its petal.
Since you have gone, many a night has lost its brilliance,
and they tiredly walk my dark paths,
as if they grew old too,
just like our memories.
Those wonderful young nights
- in which we used to look at turquoise nets
woven by singing crickets during silky nights –
now they became completely tired and dark,
and they aimlessly wander my dark paths.
The wild rose's petals have long since stopped dancing,
because the wind no longer touches them.
They say that winds do not age,
perhaps not the desert winds,
but the cemetery winds certainly age and die
along with people and flowers.
It is so quiet and dark
in nights without you.
Everything died inside me
apart from the hope
that I shall see your tear on the trembling face of the wild rose,
the same tear
that was conceived in your dear, warm eyes
when I first kissed you.
How the night shone, how the wind was singing youthfully,
and the rose pensively sighed
when your tear slid onto it.
But now, everything is so quiet and dark,
and that wild rose
you used to fondle during storms,
like a lost child,
is perfectly quiet now,
perfectly abandoned.
Our wonderful young nights
grew old amidst our aimless wanderings,
just like I did.
The wind is so quiet this evening, so tiredly weak,
it pushes the night along my dark paths like a tired old man,
and I,
I am courting death like an aged old man,
because I know the end is near,
that our young nights shall become older with each new day,
and that your wild rose shall fade and completely disappear.
- - -
WALTER WILLIAM SAFAR was born on August 6th 1958 Sherman-TEXAS- . 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, September 13, 2011
9/13/11
Unexpected
By Anna Parish
The lights were dim. Crowds of people cluttered the ballroom. Emily stood in the corner, holding a glass of fruit punch. She took a sip, her eyes lingering on a group of people in the center of the dance floor. Tonight was supposed to be special, but here she was, in a corner.
On the first Friday of every month, the hospital she worked at hosted a dinner and dance at a hotel. Emily had attended those parties for as long as she could remember, and every time, someone announced their marriage, retirement, or pregnancy.
Emily sighed, and put her glass down on the table next to her. She continued to stare at that group at the center. They probably thought that she was looking at all of them, but truth was, she was focused on one person. That person was on the edge of the circle, laughing with his friends. How could he just stand there, and ignore her?
“Emily?” A voice said, snapping her out of her thoughts.
She blinked, and found her friend, Claire standing right next to her. “Yeah?”
“What are you do- Oh, Emily.” Claire looked at the group of people, and back at her.
“Are you really still thinking about that? He’ll come over eventually. He wouldn’t just let you stand here all by yourself.”
“But he’s all the way over there.” Emily gestured to the group. “He told me tonight would just be different for once.”
“And it might be! The night just began, Emily. Don’t assume anything yet.”
Emily crossed her arms, “Fine. He has an hour.”
Claire smiled, and led her to the dance floor.
* * *
“Okay. That’s it.”
Emily mumbled to herself, checking her watch. It had been over an hour since she had talked to Claire. He had plenty of time to go over and talk to her. But he didn’t. He was still with the same group of people, in the center of the floor.
Emily walked over to the edge of the dance floor, ready to leave. She crossed her arms over her chest, and waited.
“Where are you doing?” Claire asked, walking over from the side of the dance floor.
“Leaving.” Emily said, through her teeth.
“He’ll come over. Just give him a few more minutes.”
Emily threw a glance in Claire’s direction. What was she talking about?
“Why would I do that? He promised that this wouldn’t happen -”
Emily was caught off guard when he began to walk in her direction. He nodded to the people he had been talking to, and made his way to the edge of the dance floor. Before he had a chance to speak, Emily spoke.
“Justin! What were you doing this whole time? Do you think it’s okay to just make me wait here while you’re over there, talking to your friends? I mean, you didn’t even ask me to go over there and talk to them with you!”
Justin’s eyes went wide. “Wait...wait, Emily....”
“No! What was that for?”
“Emily, please, just calm down...”
Emily stomped her foot.
“Not until you tell me what was going on over there.”
Justin grabbed a hold of Emily’s hand. She stared at their hands, and shook her head.
“Stop!”
“Emily! You know why I was over there the whole time?”
Emily’s eyes narrowed. “Why?”
“Because, I was telling them about you.”
“What about me? That you wish you could get rid of me?” Emily tore her hand out of his grasp, and crossed her arms.
Justin’s eyebrows knitted together.
“What? Of course not, Emily. Just the opposite, actually...”
Emily’s shoulders sagged a little. She stared at him, her eyes slightly wider than they were.
“What do you mean?” she whispered.
Justin laughed. “I mean this...”
He got down on one knee, and looked up at Emily. The people around them fell silent. Emily’s hand flew to her mouth.
“What are you doing?”
“Emily,” he began, taking her hand. “you are the most spontaneous and authentic person I’ve ever met. Ever since I met you, it was like we were on a country road, just exploring the world together. I want to stay on this road, and explore more of the world together. Emily, will you marry me?”
Tears streamed down her face. She nodded, and kissed him. How could she have doubted his loyalty? Justin slid the ring on her finger, and wrapped his arms around her. She rested her head on his collarbone, her heart beating loudly in her ears. After all of this time, this was actually happening to her. She was actually going to get married.
“I love you,” Justin whispered.
“I love you, too.”
They kissed, and the rest of the world melted away.
- - -
Anna Parish is an aspiring novelist. She has been writing since she was seven, and plans to have her stories on a shelf one day.
By Anna Parish
The lights were dim. Crowds of people cluttered the ballroom. Emily stood in the corner, holding a glass of fruit punch. She took a sip, her eyes lingering on a group of people in the center of the dance floor. Tonight was supposed to be special, but here she was, in a corner.
On the first Friday of every month, the hospital she worked at hosted a dinner and dance at a hotel. Emily had attended those parties for as long as she could remember, and every time, someone announced their marriage, retirement, or pregnancy.
Emily sighed, and put her glass down on the table next to her. She continued to stare at that group at the center. They probably thought that she was looking at all of them, but truth was, she was focused on one person. That person was on the edge of the circle, laughing with his friends. How could he just stand there, and ignore her?
“Emily?” A voice said, snapping her out of her thoughts.
She blinked, and found her friend, Claire standing right next to her. “Yeah?”
“What are you do- Oh, Emily.” Claire looked at the group of people, and back at her.
“Are you really still thinking about that? He’ll come over eventually. He wouldn’t just let you stand here all by yourself.”
“But he’s all the way over there.” Emily gestured to the group. “He told me tonight would just be different for once.”
“And it might be! The night just began, Emily. Don’t assume anything yet.”
Emily crossed her arms, “Fine. He has an hour.”
Claire smiled, and led her to the dance floor.
* * *
“Okay. That’s it.”
Emily mumbled to herself, checking her watch. It had been over an hour since she had talked to Claire. He had plenty of time to go over and talk to her. But he didn’t. He was still with the same group of people, in the center of the floor.
Emily walked over to the edge of the dance floor, ready to leave. She crossed her arms over her chest, and waited.
“Where are you doing?” Claire asked, walking over from the side of the dance floor.
“Leaving.” Emily said, through her teeth.
“He’ll come over. Just give him a few more minutes.”
Emily threw a glance in Claire’s direction. What was she talking about?
“Why would I do that? He promised that this wouldn’t happen -”
Emily was caught off guard when he began to walk in her direction. He nodded to the people he had been talking to, and made his way to the edge of the dance floor. Before he had a chance to speak, Emily spoke.
“Justin! What were you doing this whole time? Do you think it’s okay to just make me wait here while you’re over there, talking to your friends? I mean, you didn’t even ask me to go over there and talk to them with you!”
Justin’s eyes went wide. “Wait...wait, Emily....”
“No! What was that for?”
“Emily, please, just calm down...”
Emily stomped her foot.
“Not until you tell me what was going on over there.”
Justin grabbed a hold of Emily’s hand. She stared at their hands, and shook her head.
“Stop!”
“Emily! You know why I was over there the whole time?”
Emily’s eyes narrowed. “Why?”
“Because, I was telling them about you.”
“What about me? That you wish you could get rid of me?” Emily tore her hand out of his grasp, and crossed her arms.
Justin’s eyebrows knitted together.
“What? Of course not, Emily. Just the opposite, actually...”
Emily’s shoulders sagged a little. She stared at him, her eyes slightly wider than they were.
“What do you mean?” she whispered.
Justin laughed. “I mean this...”
He got down on one knee, and looked up at Emily. The people around them fell silent. Emily’s hand flew to her mouth.
“What are you doing?”
“Emily,” he began, taking her hand. “you are the most spontaneous and authentic person I’ve ever met. Ever since I met you, it was like we were on a country road, just exploring the world together. I want to stay on this road, and explore more of the world together. Emily, will you marry me?”
Tears streamed down her face. She nodded, and kissed him. How could she have doubted his loyalty? Justin slid the ring on her finger, and wrapped his arms around her. She rested her head on his collarbone, her heart beating loudly in her ears. After all of this time, this was actually happening to her. She was actually going to get married.
“I love you,” Justin whispered.
“I love you, too.”
They kissed, and the rest of the world melted away.
- - -
Anna Parish is an aspiring novelist. She has been writing since she was seven, and plans to have her stories on a shelf one day.
Monday, September 12, 2011
9/12/11
my love
By Bashair Pasha
- - -
Bashair Pasha is a poet and writer...and no, thats not a towel on her head, its a scarf :)...she loves meditating and vacationing in Egypt with her extended family. Hobbies include walking,abusing her kindle, sleeping,thinking, showering in the rain and super-speed writing.Oh, and shes bad at math and expressing her feelings through talking and would rather everyone wrote more than they blabbed. Contact her at pasha.bashair@gmail.com :)
By Bashair Pasha
you think i dont understand your pain
ive seen through you the whole time
a past hidden in fog,
dont think your alone
standing on the edge,
waiting to fall
im already waiting at the bottom,
my hands held out, steady,
wating,to catch the hopeless heap that is --
you
its OK, take a deep breath,
ive caught you already
you can relax now
i wont let go...
ever gain
i already have
enough regret on my hands
so, now, i give you:
my love
- - -
Bashair Pasha is a poet and writer...and no, thats not a towel on her head, its a scarf :)...she loves meditating and vacationing in Egypt with her extended family. Hobbies include walking,abusing her kindle, sleeping,thinking, showering in the rain and super-speed writing.Oh, and shes bad at math and expressing her feelings through talking and would rather everyone wrote more than they blabbed. Contact her at pasha.bashair@gmail.com :)
Sunday, September 11, 2011
9/11/11
Reminiscent
By Glenda Grande
If only I could’ve kissed your lips before our final farewell,
I would savour the moment and lock it forever in my heart.
The times we loved, the times that we shared together;
A treasure that cannot be forgotten, no matter what happens.
I wonder, will you remember my smile, my voice and my touch?
I miss the moments we spent hand in hand, side by side:
Loving laughter resounding in the air, trapped in our own world,
Never wanting the moment to end; wishing time would stop for us.
We had our moments of perfection, erasing our surroundings,
Yet we never anticipated the heartbreak that would follow behind.
Goodbye was said without ever really saying “Goodbye” -
The love remained until we found a way to push it all aside.
I kept so many tears hidden inside, not wanting to give in,
But only now do I realize the extent that I truly loved you.
Seasons changed with spring passing into summer days
Where our flame still burned brightly, hidden inside our chests.
Why were we scared? What did we fear? Our future was unclear.
We did the right thing by our lives but wrong choice by our hearts.
Now almost a year has come to pass and we haven’t moved at all.
Even though we’re now apart, I’ll continue to smile and reminsce.
Sometimes I miss you. Sometimes I still long to be with you.
Just remember, we can’t look back and dwell on regrets of the past,
But if you wish for it, maybe someday we can meet once again -
I’ll call out your name, and you’ll whisper mine as you used to.
We can smile together once again, even if it’s just for a little while.
- - -
Emotions written from the heart, this young woman writes a collection of literature by telling the tales of life with artful words. Her aim is to make people remember that being emotion-filled is only human. You can find more of her literary works on her website www.angellusion.com
By Glenda Grande
If only I could’ve kissed your lips before our final farewell,
I would savour the moment and lock it forever in my heart.
The times we loved, the times that we shared together;
A treasure that cannot be forgotten, no matter what happens.
I wonder, will you remember my smile, my voice and my touch?
I miss the moments we spent hand in hand, side by side:
Loving laughter resounding in the air, trapped in our own world,
Never wanting the moment to end; wishing time would stop for us.
We had our moments of perfection, erasing our surroundings,
Yet we never anticipated the heartbreak that would follow behind.
Goodbye was said without ever really saying “Goodbye” -
The love remained until we found a way to push it all aside.
I kept so many tears hidden inside, not wanting to give in,
But only now do I realize the extent that I truly loved you.
Seasons changed with spring passing into summer days
Where our flame still burned brightly, hidden inside our chests.
Why were we scared? What did we fear? Our future was unclear.
We did the right thing by our lives but wrong choice by our hearts.
Now almost a year has come to pass and we haven’t moved at all.
Even though we’re now apart, I’ll continue to smile and reminsce.
Sometimes I miss you. Sometimes I still long to be with you.
Just remember, we can’t look back and dwell on regrets of the past,
But if you wish for it, maybe someday we can meet once again -
I’ll call out your name, and you’ll whisper mine as you used to.
We can smile together once again, even if it’s just for a little while.
- - -
Emotions written from the heart, this young woman writes a collection of literature by telling the tales of life with artful words. Her aim is to make people remember that being emotion-filled is only human. You can find more of her literary works on her website www.angellusion.com
Saturday, September 10, 2011
9/10/11
Science
By Colton James Mckay
I could write equations,
Postulate and quantify the reasons for which my molecules excite
When space and time sees fit to align your mass with mine,
Wonder at the quantum mechanics between us
And at how gravity is only an illusion when you're around
I could conduct experiments to determine why we might move freely in moments of absolute zero
Still feeling warmth and energy where science and machines cannot
Estimate the number of times I catch myself smiling like a fool
And guess at why you're the only cause.
I could theorize as to the size of a thought
Measure the space in my mind
And find that all it takes is you to fill it up
Count the days we're apart
And contemplate the distance between us
As we scour the stars seeking life and meaning
Only to return home and find it
I could waste my time trying to define exactly what happiness is
Or I could spend it with you.
- - -
My name is Colton. My curiosity is insatiable, I want to be a hero, and love is my greatest calling.
By Colton James Mckay
I could write equations,
Postulate and quantify the reasons for which my molecules excite
When space and time sees fit to align your mass with mine,
Wonder at the quantum mechanics between us
And at how gravity is only an illusion when you're around
I could conduct experiments to determine why we might move freely in moments of absolute zero
Still feeling warmth and energy where science and machines cannot
Estimate the number of times I catch myself smiling like a fool
And guess at why you're the only cause.
I could theorize as to the size of a thought
Measure the space in my mind
And find that all it takes is you to fill it up
Count the days we're apart
And contemplate the distance between us
As we scour the stars seeking life and meaning
Only to return home and find it
I could waste my time trying to define exactly what happiness is
Or I could spend it with you.
- - -
My name is Colton. My curiosity is insatiable, I want to be a hero, and love is my greatest calling.
Friday, September 9, 2011
9/9/11
ROCKET
By Devlin De La Chapa
I have a rocket inside of me. They put it inside me some odd years ago when I was young, maybe younger, or younger than youngest. The rocket is white or maybe black or maybe even red? The rocket does have a color only I’ve forgotten what that color is from years having passed. I figured the color of the rocket must’ve faded or maybe I must’ve smeared it like paint across a canvas due to water, rain, tears. I’ll just say for now the rocket is colorless. The rocket is big. It’s the length of my torso. The tip of the rocket peeks at the crest of my chest; the bowel of the rocket peeks at the base of my cervix. The rocket wants to fly, somewhere, anywhere. Perhaps to the end of the world and back? Perhaps to heaven and hell and back? Perhaps from the north end of the pole to the south end of the pole and back? Wherever the rocket can fly it wants to fly there. In a general store, I am fourteen. I am tall for fourteen. Kids at school call me names like "daddy long legs" and "Amazon woman". I don’t think it’s funny, but they do. Their adolescence pose jealousy because I can touch the sky and they can’t. In the store, my ash brown hair is split down the middle and braided in two. I’m chewing gum and browsing the magazine rack regarding anything on rockets. I want to be an astronaut woman but I don’t tell my mom. My mom wants me to be something but she’s not sure what because she thinks I’m not sure what. I pop my gum. Please don’t do that! the boy who had been standing at a near distance casing through muscle car magazines snaps at me. He doesn’t look at me as I look at him. He’s got messy hair. It’s blond. Looks dirty but smells clean. He looks eighteen. Black t-shirt worn down jeans vintage combat boots. I pop my gum louder and the guy, no longer the boy, purses sturdy lips and cringes in his athletically built body. I’m amused, and so I pop my gum again just to amuse myself some more. The guy furiously slams the magazine against the rack. I know I should be scared but the guy reminds me of my dead dad. He was always furious. He liked to slam things against things and call names just to call names. I finally turn away from the guy. I start to pop my gum again only this time I pop air. The guy, and to my amazement, shoved two fingers into my mouth and yanked out my gum and threw it on the floor. The guy has brownish-blue eyes. Once fierce are now serene. He studies my face for a moment and something within me sparks coercing my insides to flutter. I’m Darwin he says. I swallow air. You know he smirks like Darwinism? I choke on my air but I’m still breathing. You believe in Darwinism? I ask in my girly-girly tone. No. You? He asks. No I say I believe in rockets. Darwin is amused. His rough hands slip into both his front pockets. They move around and suddenly I’m intrigued to what lingers behind his button fly. I turn away, embarrassed. Seconds later I turn back to him to say something to him but there’s two sticks of gum being shoved gently into my mouth. Pop all you want Darwin says. I bite down on the gum; it’s minty. So you like to fly? Darwin assumes. I nod. I want to fly to the moon I concluded. We’re racing down a deserted road in the outer of the skirts of a small Texas town. Darwin has the pedal to the metal and my heart is racing a thousand miles per second like a rocket drunk on its fuel yet it can’t keep up with his Super Sport. It’s metallic blue. A crosswalk resides down the hood. The thrushers are cranked wide open. The sky is blue. The sun is brilliant. The air is hot. The scenery all around is a blur. I see nothing but the denim blue road ahead which reminds me of Darwin’s jeans. Suddenly the Super Sport fishtails to an abrupt halt. Both our bodies jerk forward hard then back. I have to catch my heart at the base of my throat. Darwin flips the gear in reverse and drives the Super Sport backwards a few yards on the road before he continues onto the fields of foxtails. I glance through the back window and the Super Sport is nearing a tree. I turn around in my seat and notice it’s the only tree visible from my vantage. The Super Sport parks beneath the tree. A swift breeze grazes the car the way cows graze fields. I like you Darwin says. I like you I tell him back. Good he says. I’m fourteen I say. So he says. I’m to young I say. Darwin has a spark in his eye, the same spark that caused my insides to flutter earlier. Fourteen is not young he says it’s the right age to fly to the moon. Darwin leans across the seat and puts his mouth over mine. His tongue fidgets with mine because I don’t know how to fidget with his; I’ve never kissed a guy before. Darwin wrestles with my tongue for awhile until my tongue finally gives up and gives in. For a moment with Darwin I feel like I’m eating a banana split. The ice cream is soft and creamy and feels velvety like Darwin’s tongue. The strawberry topping is delicately sweet like Darwin’s breath. The pineapple topping reminds me of a tropical island, like Gilligan’s. The chocolate topping is like sampling forbidden fruit. The whip cream reminds me of being on cloud 9. The nut topping feels like my feelings for Darwin. The banana reminds me of Darwin’s cock. The cherry reminds me of innocence lost. I enjoyed my banana split. I throw the container into the trash can and Darwin drives me home. How was your day? My mother asks. I flew to the moon I tell her. In a record store, I am fifteen. Darwin tells me to take my hair down after we raced to our make-out place to make-out. Instead of a banana split I have a sundae, and Darwin drives me home. You’re late! My mother gripes. Yea, but I’m home! I gripe back. In a clothing store, I am sixteen. Darwin tells me to take off my clothes after we raced to our make-out place to make-out and have sex. Instead of a sundae I have an ice cream cone, and Darwin drives me home. You’re passed your curfew! My mother bitches. So ground me! I bitch back. In a liquor store, I am seventeen. Darwin hands me a beer after we raced to our make-out place to make-out and drink and have sex. Instead of an ice cream cone, I eat a burger, and Darwin drives me home. That’s it, you’re grounded! My mother yells. Try and ground me! I yell back. In an Adult store, I am eighteen. Darwin sticks the DVD porno flick into the player after we raced to our make-out place, now his apartment, to make-out and drink and have sex. Instead of a burger, I eat some leftovers, and Darwin drives me home. I want you packed and out of this house! My mother screams. Whatever! I scream back. In a drug store, I am nineteen. Darwin hands me the stick and tells me to pee on it after we raced to our new apartment where we make-out, drink, and have sex regularly. How are you? My mother asks when she visits our new apartment. Pregnant I tell her. In a wedding store, I am twenty. Darwin places the wedding ring on my matrimonial finger which he forgot to do earlier because of his nerves after we raced to our new home where we don’t make-out, drink, or have sex. How is the pregnancy? My mother asks when she visits our new home. I’m overdue I tell her. In a grocery store, I am twenty-one. Darwin hands me the baby to take the groceries off the caravan after we raced to our home where we kiss, share quiet dinners, and make love. How is the baby? My mother asks when she visits the baby. It’s not a baby I tell her It’s a rocket.
- - -
Devlin De La Chapa feels she was born in the wrong era, and she’s not to content about it. Her work has appeared in magazines, showcased in anthologies from pop culture to horror, and have appeared or schedule to appear in other lit journals. She is the editor of her own lit journal, BoySlut, and is in pursuit of having her debut novel "The Girl" published.
By Devlin De La Chapa
I have a rocket inside of me. They put it inside me some odd years ago when I was young, maybe younger, or younger than youngest. The rocket is white or maybe black or maybe even red? The rocket does have a color only I’ve forgotten what that color is from years having passed. I figured the color of the rocket must’ve faded or maybe I must’ve smeared it like paint across a canvas due to water, rain, tears. I’ll just say for now the rocket is colorless. The rocket is big. It’s the length of my torso. The tip of the rocket peeks at the crest of my chest; the bowel of the rocket peeks at the base of my cervix. The rocket wants to fly, somewhere, anywhere. Perhaps to the end of the world and back? Perhaps to heaven and hell and back? Perhaps from the north end of the pole to the south end of the pole and back? Wherever the rocket can fly it wants to fly there. In a general store, I am fourteen. I am tall for fourteen. Kids at school call me names like "daddy long legs" and "Amazon woman". I don’t think it’s funny, but they do. Their adolescence pose jealousy because I can touch the sky and they can’t. In the store, my ash brown hair is split down the middle and braided in two. I’m chewing gum and browsing the magazine rack regarding anything on rockets. I want to be an astronaut woman but I don’t tell my mom. My mom wants me to be something but she’s not sure what because she thinks I’m not sure what. I pop my gum. Please don’t do that! the boy who had been standing at a near distance casing through muscle car magazines snaps at me. He doesn’t look at me as I look at him. He’s got messy hair. It’s blond. Looks dirty but smells clean. He looks eighteen. Black t-shirt worn down jeans vintage combat boots. I pop my gum louder and the guy, no longer the boy, purses sturdy lips and cringes in his athletically built body. I’m amused, and so I pop my gum again just to amuse myself some more. The guy furiously slams the magazine against the rack. I know I should be scared but the guy reminds me of my dead dad. He was always furious. He liked to slam things against things and call names just to call names. I finally turn away from the guy. I start to pop my gum again only this time I pop air. The guy, and to my amazement, shoved two fingers into my mouth and yanked out my gum and threw it on the floor. The guy has brownish-blue eyes. Once fierce are now serene. He studies my face for a moment and something within me sparks coercing my insides to flutter. I’m Darwin he says. I swallow air. You know he smirks like Darwinism? I choke on my air but I’m still breathing. You believe in Darwinism? I ask in my girly-girly tone. No. You? He asks. No I say I believe in rockets. Darwin is amused. His rough hands slip into both his front pockets. They move around and suddenly I’m intrigued to what lingers behind his button fly. I turn away, embarrassed. Seconds later I turn back to him to say something to him but there’s two sticks of gum being shoved gently into my mouth. Pop all you want Darwin says. I bite down on the gum; it’s minty. So you like to fly? Darwin assumes. I nod. I want to fly to the moon I concluded. We’re racing down a deserted road in the outer of the skirts of a small Texas town. Darwin has the pedal to the metal and my heart is racing a thousand miles per second like a rocket drunk on its fuel yet it can’t keep up with his Super Sport. It’s metallic blue. A crosswalk resides down the hood. The thrushers are cranked wide open. The sky is blue. The sun is brilliant. The air is hot. The scenery all around is a blur. I see nothing but the denim blue road ahead which reminds me of Darwin’s jeans. Suddenly the Super Sport fishtails to an abrupt halt. Both our bodies jerk forward hard then back. I have to catch my heart at the base of my throat. Darwin flips the gear in reverse and drives the Super Sport backwards a few yards on the road before he continues onto the fields of foxtails. I glance through the back window and the Super Sport is nearing a tree. I turn around in my seat and notice it’s the only tree visible from my vantage. The Super Sport parks beneath the tree. A swift breeze grazes the car the way cows graze fields. I like you Darwin says. I like you I tell him back. Good he says. I’m fourteen I say. So he says. I’m to young I say. Darwin has a spark in his eye, the same spark that caused my insides to flutter earlier. Fourteen is not young he says it’s the right age to fly to the moon. Darwin leans across the seat and puts his mouth over mine. His tongue fidgets with mine because I don’t know how to fidget with his; I’ve never kissed a guy before. Darwin wrestles with my tongue for awhile until my tongue finally gives up and gives in. For a moment with Darwin I feel like I’m eating a banana split. The ice cream is soft and creamy and feels velvety like Darwin’s tongue. The strawberry topping is delicately sweet like Darwin’s breath. The pineapple topping reminds me of a tropical island, like Gilligan’s. The chocolate topping is like sampling forbidden fruit. The whip cream reminds me of being on cloud 9. The nut topping feels like my feelings for Darwin. The banana reminds me of Darwin’s cock. The cherry reminds me of innocence lost. I enjoyed my banana split. I throw the container into the trash can and Darwin drives me home. How was your day? My mother asks. I flew to the moon I tell her. In a record store, I am fifteen. Darwin tells me to take my hair down after we raced to our make-out place to make-out. Instead of a banana split I have a sundae, and Darwin drives me home. You’re late! My mother gripes. Yea, but I’m home! I gripe back. In a clothing store, I am sixteen. Darwin tells me to take off my clothes after we raced to our make-out place to make-out and have sex. Instead of a sundae I have an ice cream cone, and Darwin drives me home. You’re passed your curfew! My mother bitches. So ground me! I bitch back. In a liquor store, I am seventeen. Darwin hands me a beer after we raced to our make-out place to make-out and drink and have sex. Instead of an ice cream cone, I eat a burger, and Darwin drives me home. That’s it, you’re grounded! My mother yells. Try and ground me! I yell back. In an Adult store, I am eighteen. Darwin sticks the DVD porno flick into the player after we raced to our make-out place, now his apartment, to make-out and drink and have sex. Instead of a burger, I eat some leftovers, and Darwin drives me home. I want you packed and out of this house! My mother screams. Whatever! I scream back. In a drug store, I am nineteen. Darwin hands me the stick and tells me to pee on it after we raced to our new apartment where we make-out, drink, and have sex regularly. How are you? My mother asks when she visits our new apartment. Pregnant I tell her. In a wedding store, I am twenty. Darwin places the wedding ring on my matrimonial finger which he forgot to do earlier because of his nerves after we raced to our new home where we don’t make-out, drink, or have sex. How is the pregnancy? My mother asks when she visits our new home. I’m overdue I tell her. In a grocery store, I am twenty-one. Darwin hands me the baby to take the groceries off the caravan after we raced to our home where we kiss, share quiet dinners, and make love. How is the baby? My mother asks when she visits the baby. It’s not a baby I tell her It’s a rocket.
- - -
Devlin De La Chapa feels she was born in the wrong era, and she’s not to content about it. Her work has appeared in magazines, showcased in anthologies from pop culture to horror, and have appeared or schedule to appear in other lit journals. She is the editor of her own lit journal, BoySlut, and is in pursuit of having her debut novel "The Girl" published.
Thursday, September 8, 2011
9/8/11
Three Little Words
By Jacob Kreutzer
A full moon above and a calm lake below
bring thousands of words to mind.
But none seem fully capable of
giving praise to this moment,
not because of the way that the ripples
on the water disappear into silvery nothingness,
or because of the silent breeze that
rustles the fabrics of nature all around.
Nor is it because of the luminous fireflies
that slowly dance to the ballad of the night
or the slight halo that’s cast off of the lake
by the reflection of the moon above.
No; though gorgeous, I can put all of
this beauty into poetic word.
Nature and all of its glory
are not indescribable.
The indescribable is you.
I can see the soft light in your eyes,
but I could never put the life
I also see there to words.
I can feel your breath on my skin,
but I could never explain
the sensation it causes in me.
I can hear your sweet voice
and even write what you say,
but I could never fully describe
the meaning of those three little words.
- - -
Jacob Kreutzer is an education student at Concordia University Chicago. He has been writing poetry for more than 7 years. His work can be found in a number of publications including Heavy Hands Ink, CC&D, and The Cynic.
By Jacob Kreutzer
A full moon above and a calm lake below
bring thousands of words to mind.
But none seem fully capable of
giving praise to this moment,
not because of the way that the ripples
on the water disappear into silvery nothingness,
or because of the silent breeze that
rustles the fabrics of nature all around.
Nor is it because of the luminous fireflies
that slowly dance to the ballad of the night
or the slight halo that’s cast off of the lake
by the reflection of the moon above.
No; though gorgeous, I can put all of
this beauty into poetic word.
Nature and all of its glory
are not indescribable.
The indescribable is you.
I can see the soft light in your eyes,
but I could never put the life
I also see there to words.
I can feel your breath on my skin,
but I could never explain
the sensation it causes in me.
I can hear your sweet voice
and even write what you say,
but I could never fully describe
the meaning of those three little words.
- - -
Jacob Kreutzer is an education student at Concordia University Chicago. He has been writing poetry for more than 7 years. His work can be found in a number of publications including Heavy Hands Ink, CC&D, and The Cynic.
Wednesday, September 7, 2011
9/7/11
La Voie
By Steve Baba
Show me the path to love,
I will follow eagerly.
Your heart glows in the
Darkness of my lament.
It lights the way
To you, the fire within.
I am trusting the truth,
My soul entwined with yours.
Ready to live again,
To love again.
With you.
- - -
Steve Baba is a 40 year old wanderer. Currently living in New York City, Steve is working on a poetry book of love poems about New York City.
By Steve Baba
Show me the path to love,
I will follow eagerly.
Your heart glows in the
Darkness of my lament.
It lights the way
To you, the fire within.
I am trusting the truth,
My soul entwined with yours.
Ready to live again,
To love again.
With you.
- - -
Steve Baba is a 40 year old wanderer. Currently living in New York City, Steve is working on a poetry book of love poems about New York City.
Tuesday, September 6, 2011
9/6/11
Your Choice > My Heart
By Vada
You told me about the war you are going to fight in.
Like many before you and many after it's for the “greater good”.
You told me about the position you want to play in this war.
The way you want to die in this war.
You asked me if I cared.
You told me not to.
You told me you were horrified.
When you saw my eyes tear.
You held me close and said, “everything will be okay.”
“It doesn't feel like it.” I said knowing that it hurt you just as
much as it hurt me to say it.
Here's to putting salt in the already stitch worthy wound.
You were silent.
This was all far to real for two idealistic kids.
I'll never learn to forget you.
- - -
Vada.
Artist.
A girl who is in love with the thought of being in love.
By Vada
You told me about the war you are going to fight in.
Like many before you and many after it's for the “greater good”.
You told me about the position you want to play in this war.
The way you want to die in this war.
You asked me if I cared.
You told me not to.
You told me you were horrified.
When you saw my eyes tear.
You held me close and said, “everything will be okay.”
“It doesn't feel like it.” I said knowing that it hurt you just as
much as it hurt me to say it.
Here's to putting salt in the already stitch worthy wound.
You were silent.
This was all far to real for two idealistic kids.
I'll never learn to forget you.
- - -
Vada.
Artist.
A girl who is in love with the thought of being in love.
Monday, September 5, 2011
9/5/11
Distance
By Geeta
- - -
I'm a girl from Bangalore, India. This poem is for one fantastic person, who is the reason that I sing, read and write.
By Geeta
The distance is hard on me.
I am the sea, and you are the moon, and my tides can’t come any nearer.
I was a fool to kiss that unworthy.
But I am a mere mortal,
And our love is divine.
You forgave me and my tears ran
like the sea.
Reaching towards the forgiveness of your moon.
Getting no closer over time,
Like I had hoped they would,
The distance is hard on me.
The dark blues of my seas threaten to drown me,
And the vacuum in space means you can’t hear me
From up there on the moon.
The distance is hard on me.
Not being able to hold you and kiss you
And tell you about my desperate need to burrow into the small of your back
Is as hard as asking me to walk on water.
Or build a ladder to the moon.
The distance is hard on me.
People have been apart
Across many more seas and for many moons more
Than you and I.
They laugh.
To them, our distance is insignificant.
But to me, my love.
The distance is hard on me.
And every day gets harder.
But I know,
At the end of the world,
The moon and the sea will be together once more.
And you and I may not live to see it,
but we would have lived just the same.
The distance is hard on me.
But you are worth the pain.
And some day, we’ll watch
The moon sink into a watery horizon
Together.
- - -
I'm a girl from Bangalore, India. This poem is for one fantastic person, who is the reason that I sing, read and write.
Sunday, September 4, 2011
9/4/11
Lies
By Jeremy Gironda
Before we go our separate ways she asks me if I think that we will be together again someday?
I tell her another lie. Everything I have told her has been a lie. I can't even tell if the feelings I thought I felt were real. I tell her maybe someday. I tell her I need time to get my life in order. Whatever that means. It gives her hope, it fills me with guilt.
She smiles and leaves. I have no idea if she can see through the bull shit or if she just wants to believe there is good in me. Unfortunately I have made her lie to herself. My lies have become a cancer and have now spread to her life.
She calls me a few days later, reminding me of another lie. I told her we can stay friends. I want nothing more to do with her so I let the voice mail get it. Soon after she is forgotten by me. I wish it were that easy for her. The lie has grown.
Its several months later. She is still holding on. I want her to let go. She won’t.
The room is dark and I want to leave. I some how convinced her that having sex would not complicate things. Another lie. I stay the night for her, or at least that is the lie I tell myself.
Another call is going to my voice mail. My guilt festers. Why did I let it get this bad? Why did I take the call when I was lonely and horny? Such a bad combination. She is asking me if what happened last night was just sex and I don't want to be with her at all.
I can no longer spare her feelings. I say nothing. Nothing some how washes away all my lies like a tidal wave. She wakes up and sees me for what I am. If only she had seen this before. My guilt becomes her regret.
She leaves in tears. Tears of joy? I hope so.
Time has passed and I get a text message. It’s her. She found someone and is happy. I can't help but feel jealousy. Not that he has her but that his lies are better. I lie to her again and tell her that I am happy she is happy. I never see her again. I tell myself it’s for the best. Another lie?
- - -
My name is Jeremy. I'm 24 years old. I have always enjoyed writing and usually my subject is romantic tragedy.
By Jeremy Gironda
Before we go our separate ways she asks me if I think that we will be together again someday?
I tell her another lie. Everything I have told her has been a lie. I can't even tell if the feelings I thought I felt were real. I tell her maybe someday. I tell her I need time to get my life in order. Whatever that means. It gives her hope, it fills me with guilt.
She smiles and leaves. I have no idea if she can see through the bull shit or if she just wants to believe there is good in me. Unfortunately I have made her lie to herself. My lies have become a cancer and have now spread to her life.
She calls me a few days later, reminding me of another lie. I told her we can stay friends. I want nothing more to do with her so I let the voice mail get it. Soon after she is forgotten by me. I wish it were that easy for her. The lie has grown.
Its several months later. She is still holding on. I want her to let go. She won’t.
The room is dark and I want to leave. I some how convinced her that having sex would not complicate things. Another lie. I stay the night for her, or at least that is the lie I tell myself.
Another call is going to my voice mail. My guilt festers. Why did I let it get this bad? Why did I take the call when I was lonely and horny? Such a bad combination. She is asking me if what happened last night was just sex and I don't want to be with her at all.
I can no longer spare her feelings. I say nothing. Nothing some how washes away all my lies like a tidal wave. She wakes up and sees me for what I am. If only she had seen this before. My guilt becomes her regret.
She leaves in tears. Tears of joy? I hope so.
Time has passed and I get a text message. It’s her. She found someone and is happy. I can't help but feel jealousy. Not that he has her but that his lies are better. I lie to her again and tell her that I am happy she is happy. I never see her again. I tell myself it’s for the best. Another lie?
- - -
My name is Jeremy. I'm 24 years old. I have always enjoyed writing and usually my subject is romantic tragedy.
Saturday, September 3, 2011
9/3/11
Bound
By Wendy L. Schmidt
My heart is failing,
Tired and torn,
Twisted and turned,
Abnormal rhythm, frail, fluttering,
Falling far away,
From a lover’s caress.
Desperate yearning,
Wounded need,
Unawake to wanton ways,
Cruel hunter’s ruthless pursuit,
Aimed to capture,
The fresh, fragile dove.
Tempting romantic ideals,
Seductive snare,
A fleet screaming bullet,
Swift and straight to my breast,
One more idle shot,
Through bent and broken wing,
.
Blinding, radiant descent,
Harrowing velocity,
Violent, vertigo,
Daring to take the plunge,
One more fearless dive,
One more lost Eden.
Is hope the catalyst,
Love’s clever ruse,
Last refuge for the lorn?
Take away this needy lie,
I can’t expose my heart again,
I can’t stop it from beating,
Bound by a fateful plan,
Like a mother’s promise,
Knowing her precious fledgling,
Will grow and take flight,
While in her careful keep,
She gives all she possesses,
Her patience, her love,
Her life if necessary,
Until at long last,
Spent and silent,
She is finally left,
With an empty embrace.
- - -
By Wendy L. Schmidt
My heart is failing,
Tired and torn,
Twisted and turned,
Abnormal rhythm, frail, fluttering,
Falling far away,
From a lover’s caress.
Desperate yearning,
Wounded need,
Unawake to wanton ways,
Cruel hunter’s ruthless pursuit,
Aimed to capture,
The fresh, fragile dove.
Tempting romantic ideals,
Seductive snare,
A fleet screaming bullet,
Swift and straight to my breast,
One more idle shot,
Through bent and broken wing,
.
Blinding, radiant descent,
Harrowing velocity,
Violent, vertigo,
Daring to take the plunge,
One more fearless dive,
One more lost Eden.
Is hope the catalyst,
Love’s clever ruse,
Last refuge for the lorn?
Take away this needy lie,
I can’t expose my heart again,
I can’t stop it from beating,
Bound by a fateful plan,
Like a mother’s promise,
Knowing her precious fledgling,
Will grow and take flight,
While in her careful keep,
She gives all she possesses,
Her patience, her love,
Her life if necessary,
Until at long last,
Spent and silent,
She is finally left,
With an empty embrace.
- - -
