11/30/11

Table for Two
By Nick Allen


The evening air was still warm and I cradled my second glass of lager while scanning the tables around the pool for a face I knew. She was not there so I looked again to the group of people at the bar, searching the crowd for, and not finding, Jill.

It had been exactly a year since I was last in Turkey, in this bar, chatting with her. We’d been on the same walking holiday. I’d booked on it alone, while Jill had come with a friend who twisted her ankle on the second day. On the walks I mixed with the other group members but found that Jill and I always gravitated towards one another at some point, spending most of the trek side by side. Our guides would always ensure the walks finished at a taverna where food and drinks awaited our weary group. Without thinking, we would save a place for each other so we could sit together for a few hours enjoying the sun, the drinks, and each other’s company.

We were both single and would often share stories of disastrous dates we’d had and the faux pas we had made. Somehow it just never occurred to me that Jill and I could be a couple; she was just someone whose company I enjoyed. It’s silly really, but looking back I think that was because, at 44, she was two years older than me.

And then came our last night together. We usually never saw each other in the evenings as Jill would spend the time with her friend who’d had to sit by the pool all day, alone. But the last night was different - the rep had got us all together for one last group drink.

This is the table I sat at that night with Jill and her friend, the moment when it dawned on me that after that evening, I’d never see her again.

I wanted to say something, but we were all laughing about all the ridiculous things we had done that week and I knew the moment wasn’t right, and to say something, especially in front of her friend, might embarrass her. Then before I knew it, the bar was empty and people were drifting off to bed. Jill and her friend got up to leave and I saw my last chance was slipping away – I had to do something.

“Tell you what Jill, if I’m still single this time next year, I’m coming back to this bar, sitting at this table. What about it?”

“Is that an invitation?” Jill was laughing.

“Sure is,” I said, “one year today.”

“Mmm, we’ll have to see,” she said disappearing into the gloom of the night with her friend.

So, was she serious? Did she think I was just joking around? Could she still be single?

Those were the thoughts, the doubts that were running through my mind as, through the crowd, I saw a smiling face I recognized.


- - -
I am a Nurse working in the south of England. I have written Flash Fiction for about five years and have recently started a creative writer's group called Dorset Scribblers. In my spare time I enjoy walking and photography.

11/29/11

Should You Come
By Fred E. Beaulieu


And should you come in springtime
When the honeysuckles bloom
I’ll make for you a garland
With a scent of sweet perfume

We’ll wander through the woodlands
Where the cherry blossom grows
Then lay amongst the heather
For our blissful sweet repose

And should you come in summer
Like the tepid Spanish tides
I’ll drape your bed with linens
Till the humid breeze subsides

I’ll lace your room with jasmine
From the market down below
Then trim the courtyard lanterns
When the evening shadows grow

Or should you come in autumn
As the winds of change take hold
I’ll tend the warming fires
While October days unfold

I’ll weave you tales of romance
‘Neath the crystal harvest moon
Then guard your ev’ning slumbers
Till the darkness turns to noon

But should you come in winter
May your nordic guides be strong
And lead you though the mountains
To my arms where you belong

I’ll keep a midnight vigil
For your torches from the north
And watch in prayerful silence
Till your caravans come forth


- - -
I am a lifelong resident of West Michigan, and have enjoyed a rewarding career in computer programming. My interests include music, reading, puzzles, old movies, and of course poetry. I enjoy writing poems which reflect the many faces of life and love.

11/28/11

Abandono
By Jan Aubrey

To be abandoned by you....

was everything

and nothing:

Those blackened wounds

fading with hours, days,

But especially blue nights,

when your blood mixes

with mine,

forging a beautiful

river of ink:

Those razored breaths

forgiven,

As I dive into an ocean,

A sea of pearls,

stringing together

a fresh,

necklaced being.

Take my hand

and bring me to you,

Because I know

no other way,

than to love you,

with

abandon.

1

- - -
Jan Aubrey studied Fine Arts at UW Milwaukee, Wisconsin and has been writing poetry for three years. She presently lives in the inner city of Milwaukee.

11/27/11

Girl In Search Of A Tree
By Gil C. Schmidt


    “Hello. Is this the path that leads to the lookout?”
    Benson whirled around, his heart thudding quickly. The voice here in the middle of nowhere belonged to… a child. About 8 years old. A girl.
    She smiled shyly. “I’m sorry if I startled you.”
    Benson decided honesty was the best policy. “You did, but that’s okay. Don’t get many people this deep in the woods.” He looked around. “Where are your folks?”
    The girl seemed to be trying not to laugh. “I don’t have ‘folks.’” Her emphasis on the word was odd. Benson stared. With a toss of her head, straight dark blonde hair rippling silently, the girl said “I belong to The People.”
    Uh-huh, thought Benson, those words are capitalized. “Uh, The People?”
    A series of nods that ended abruptly. “They won’t miss me for I’ll be back before they do.” She bit her lip, the first gesture she made like a child. “But I need to find the lookout.”
    Benson removed his ranger hat, sweat-stained and stiff, and rubbed his head. No hair got in the way. “Well, I don’t rightly know what you mean by ‘the lookout’… Are you sure your parents or kinfolk aren’t here with you?”
    A frown was chased away by a determined look. The girl said “You have to know where the lookout is. It’s still here, on this side, only I can’t see it because now I’m too small to climb the bigger trees to search for it.”
    Benson wanted to sit down, maybe with a frosted beer in one hand. He rolled the hat in his hands, rough hands that had led a serious life. “You came alone? Several miles into this mess of woods? By yourself?” His hands were showing a tiny tremor.
    The girl humphed. “I got here. Now I need to leave. But I need to find the lookout.” She put her hands on her hips and suddenly looked much older than eight. Much, much older.
    Benson swallowed, then cleared his throat. An idea popped into his mind. ‘What does this, um, lookout, look like?”
    The girl nodded, her child-like smile returning. Benson released a breath unknowingly held. “It’s a big oak, split near the top, with a huge set of branches spreading out wide.”
    Benson sighed. The tree was famous for its strange shape and size, product of deep loam in bottom land and a lightning strike before white men trod these woods. “That’s Ole Two Arms,” he said. “About two miles from here, that way.” He pointed. After a grunt, he said “You can get there in about an hour.”
    Her face fell into panic. “Oh no! I don’t have time for that! They’ll find out for sure!”
    Something in Benson made him forgo the obvious “They?” He noticed the girl now looked smaller, younger, 6 now instead of 8. Maybe even 5...Then she looked up at Benson and a slow…wicked…smile came over her face and leaped into her eyes. “Maybe you can help me…” she said, her voice a deep trill along Benson’s spine.
    He stood transfixed as the girl walked to him, seeming to grow with every step, her body taller, fuller, but misty, as if she were becoming transparent. With gentle stealth, she placed her hands on Benson’s face and as time stretched to eternity, she kissed him. His eyes closed of their own volition and the kiss, immeasurably sweet, infinitely warm, washed through him.
    The kiss ended and Benson opened his eyes. The girl was no longer a child. Benson’s mind said Eight going on eight hundred, while his eyes told him 18...and beautiful.
    With a giggle and a wink, the girl turned and ran away, impossibly fast, her giggle a musical trill amongst the whispering trees.
    Benson forever after hoped that The People didn’t find out that one of theirs had been lost.


- - -
Gil C. Schmidt has been a regular submitter to Yesteryear Fiction since the early days when it was a daily magazine. His story "Girl In Search Of A Tree" is also featured in his book "Thirty More Stories."

11/26/11

The Voiceover
By Karishma Shetty


From washing gravity-challenged curls in cold water and stepping out in the blazing sun, to applying curds on the scalp and sitting under the air conditioner. From eating unbranded hand packed sickeningly sweet fluorescent candy, to gorging on 4 germ laden ice shaved golas on Juhu beach. I'd done it all!

This wasn't an I-will-test-my-immunity (or stupidity??) contest that I was trying to win, or a suicide diet to look pretty at death. Nor was I getting paid to conduct research on popular ways of contracting pneumonia.

In my defense this was, in all earnestness, an attempt to retain a 'husky' voice.

As retarded as it sounds, do you have any idea what it means to get complimented on a borrowed voice tone? Especially when 'normal' means that the inherited vocal chords vibrate only within the soprano range, and being 'excited' means emitting ultrasonic sounds that can only be appreciated by cats, dogs, and screeching bats?!

Thanks to common cold, phlegm, and the entire army of waterworks, there was hope. Let alone the fact that I now looked like Rudolf on Prozac, carried three packs of Kleenex in my bag, and couldn’t tell the difference between nutri-wheat-crackers and cardboard - I sounded perfect!

The cell-phone was ringing. The hottie-with-the-long-sideburns had his name flashing across the touchscreen. Dashing for another Kleenex I went through a quick round of the sniff-snort-cough-cough routine. Stomach tucked in, chest pushed out, I looked like someone in dire need of the Heimlich maneuver.
But the hottie couldn't see all of that now, could he?

The phone was answered in under five seconds.

'Huh lo-oh...' I teased. The femme fatale had just walked into the voice box.

I breathed out a wry smile, and continued to look like death. But it didn't matter.

Cause Jessica Rabbit had finally agreed to do a little dubbing for Ms. Swan.


- - -

11/25/11

Evening In The Art Gallery After Two Weeks In Silence
By T. E. Hieatt


Sheets of rain whipped in the wind
like the particle waves of love passing through
this heart
Streaming symphony of drops
and our reflection in a window
I see us from the outside
looking in
and from our insides looking out

Écailles de Lune has been playing
for days, and it is the Western Scale
vibrations of exactly this longing and sweet
feeling

And now
in a temple room of color fixations
and random visions
we are a mixed media collage
Set against the clay and paper
the thread and stones
the apple orchard and dark puppets
and we are pulling our own strings
in tune with the others' harmonies


- - -
T. E. Hieatt is a graduate of history who loves conquering limitations by kicking at the walls between her writing, music, art, and entrepreneurship.

11/24/11

UNREAL LOVE
By K.Balachandran


A star
ten million light
years away
winked at her,
she fell in love
at that instance.

the sad star said:
'don't believe my wink
my love,
I am an illusion
dead and gone
long long ago,
you are late
at least by
ten million
light years'.


- - -
K.Balachandran who loves to explore the sensual and spiritual aspects of love, writes love poems and short fiction in English,Malayalam and Tamil and translates between.His poems have appeared in Daily love,short,fast and deadly,Asia writes, Kritya, Browncritique, and other poetry journals and anthologies.He had a long stint in daily news journalism, which he quit to retain his love and excitement in that craft.He lives in the magical city,Thiruvananthapuram, Kerala, India that shot in to prominence and won world headlines when a huge treasure worth $22 billion was found in the underground vaults below the Lord Sri Padmanabha Swamy temple dedicated to Hindu God Vishnu.

11/23/11

Only a Dream?
By Jason Sturner


As she closes her eyes
for the night
her lashes mingle
and dreams begin behind them.

Fireflies lead her across
a garden he has grown her
as a wind full of whimsy
lifts her hair down.

She steps out of a pink negligee,
igniting her skin with the goose bumps
he’ll conquer with an embrace.

And her beauty commands the killing of a flock of clocks:

Victor Hugo writes one last poem by coffin candlelight;
a blind man sees his wife while reading it in Braille—

The aurora borealis falls in love with a rainbow;
nature sends a new species of butterfly into the world—

Scarlet tanagers drop rose petals over the ocean;
hands of sunlight push lovers face to face—

But before that first kiss the locusts cause an eclipse.

As he tosses and turns
in white sheets
werewolves crawl in
from the shadows.

Fireflies explode
in the wilting garden
as a sky full of bats
pull her hair up.

But it’s only a dream,
Only a dream, she says
as she wakes him quietly
with an empathetic kiss.


- - -
Jason Sturner was born and raised in the western suburbs of Chicago, where he has worked as an elevator operator, rock n’ roll drummer, graphic designer, naturalist, and botanist. He has published four books of poetry and currently lives in Knoxville, Tennessee.

11/22/11

Faulty Connection
By Abigail Wyatt


I am hooked up
by telephone late at night
to someone who is not you.
A thankless task;
though I do not cry,
I talk myself in knots.

The ether invites me
to mouth your name;
a prayer, an act of defiance.
I wrap it in a thousand words
but I cannot talk myself free.

At the end of the line
my friend is sad. I know
what she is thinking.
The strength she sends
is not what I want;
I am looking for a lie.

There is no proper way
to end this call so I wait
for the broken connection.
It comes with a click.
The dial tone sounds.

I cannot say goodbye.


- - -
Abigail Wyatt writes for her life in the shadow of Carn Brea in Cornwall. Formerly a teacher, she now writes full-time and is grateful to be able to do so. Her poetry and short fiction and have been published in range of outlets and she would like to thank the editors of all of them. Her poetry collection, 'Moths in a Jar', (Palores) appeared in October, 2010.

11/20/11

Motherland
By Gale Acuff


I brought flowers to Miss Hooker today.
She's my Sunday School teacher. I love her
and want to marry her. She has red hair
and so will our babies, or one of them,
and green eyes, too. Mine are brown. So maybe
our baby will have red hair and one green
eye and one brown. I came early today
because I didn't want the other kids
to see me bringing Miss Hooker flowers.
Love should be private. I don't like to share,
not my girlfriend anyway, though she's not
yet, only by half, my half, because she
doesn't really know I love her, not like
I want to love her, which means marriage
and babies. And I don't care that she's old,
25 to my 10. I'm willing to
overlook that if she is and if she
is then I'll take my case to God in prayer,
which I'm doing already anyway,
every night before I go to sleep
when I say the Lord's Prayer, then one for
my dog, then one for my folks, then the last
one for Miss Hooker, that she'll wait until
I'm 16 and quit school to support her
when she's 31. Then we'll get married
and go on our honeymoon, maybe to
the Holiday Inn, and get all undressed
in the dark and wake up preg-nant, or she
will, and nine months later, lo and behold,
a son or daughter or maybe both or
two of each. Twins is what that is. And then
it won't be long before Miss Hooker dies,
God bless her, and I'll raise our children though
it won't be easy, and every night
when I put them down I'll tell them stories
about their mother, how beautiful she
is, an angel now, way up in Heaven,
waiting for us all when we die, too. And
they'll fall asleep and I'll tiptoe out. At
their door I'll take one last look before I
turn out the light and if I don't know no
better I'll say that they were dead, too, but
that's just sleep, you're just gone a few hours, then
you come back to life, like resurrection.
But one day even fake-death has to die

and then death's the real thing. Nobody wakes
except in Heaven or Hell. I turn out
the light and go back to my bedroom, where
Miss Hooker's picture's hanging on the wall.
Good night, Baby, I tell it, then salute,
I'm not sure why--I just love my country.
And then I hold her pillow close and dream
of the first time I ever brought her flowers,
and held them out to her, her face buried
in the Bible. When I cleared my throat
to get her attention, she looked up and
smiled. Why, hello Gale, she said. You scared me.


- - -
I have had poetry published in Ascent, Ohio Journal, Descant, Adirondack Review, Ottawa Arts Review, Worcester Review, Verse Wisconsin, Maryland Poetry Review, Florida Review, South Carolina Review, Carolina Quarterly, Poem, Amarillo Bay, South Dakota Review, Santa Barbara Review, Sequential Art Narrative in Education, and many other journals. I have authored three books of poetry: Buffalo Nickel (BrickHouse Press, 2004), The Weight of the World (BrickHouse, 2006), and The Story of My Lives (BrickHouse, 2008).

I have taught university English in the US, China, and the Palestinian West Bank.

11/19/11

A Fork in the Road
By Pat St.Pierre


As Gail Carleton walked on autumn she realized how much she loved this season. She usually walked with a bounce in her step but today she moved uncaringly.
Tomorrow, October 4th would be her birthday. She would be forty-five. Her husband, Tom, circled the calendar in red as a reminder. She knew he would plan some kind of a celebration.
Did romance and excitement fade away after 20 years of marriage? She hoped that wasn’t so. These days she took Tom for granted but she thought that’s what happened after being married for some time.
Tom looked much younger than his years. He kept his lean body in shape by jogging and his hair, although slightly receding remained blond.
Gail tried to let her mind think of other things but she seemed obsessed with her coming birthday.
As she opened the door at Jordan’s Department Shore a tall, distinguished man took hold of her arm. “Gail, Gail! Is it really you,” he said.
“Matt, oh Matt. I don’t believe it. It’s been so long since I’ve seen you.” As they hugged each other she noticed that his brown hair was streaked with gray and that he appeared much more muscular than when she last saw him. His almost perfect features were more appealing with age.
As he drew her away from the door he said with twinkle in his blue eyes, “You haven’t changed a bit.”
Her flustered face felt warm as she moved a curl away from her forehead.
“What are you doing in this area?” he asked.
“We live about thirty minutes from here,” And you?”
“I’ve been transferred here from Ohio. So, tell me about you,” he said.
“Oh, I’m the usual suburban housewife,” she said.
“I never married. Too busy with my career.” He blurted out.
“Why don’t we meet for lunch one day next week?” he asked.
She faltered “I….I’m not sure.”
“Why not?” he laughed.
She hesitated for a moment and then agreed. When they decided on a day for lunch Matt hugged her goodbye. He lingered longer than she expected and his lips pressed a little too hard as he kissed her.
With her spirits soaring she cooked Tom his favorite meal. At night when they made love she was eager and passionate. The thought that one man could excite that at the same she responds to another intrigued her.
She thought about telling Tom and seeing Matt but if she told him about the luncheon date she arranged, she wasn’t sure how he’d react. She felt a slight tinge of guilt. But she couldn’t deny her feeling of excitement.
When the day arrived for her luncheon with Matt, she applied her makeup as though she were entering a beauty contest and spent much time her hair. She arrived at the restaurant glowing. Her black hair fell softly against her well-tailored red suit. When Matt saw her he smiled brightly.
Matt plunged into talking about their past and the reason they’d drifted. It felt as though they’d never been apart. They’d gone together during college. After graduation Matt accepted a job in a city eight miles away. Not ready to settle down they’d eventually drifter apart. Gail had met Tom at work. He was attentive and loving. He brightened up her life with little notes and bouquets of wild flowers. He made each day seem special. Shortly after Matt’s move, Tom proposed and Gail accepted.
Before lunch ended Matt said, “Gail I’d like to see you again.”
Her eyes showed their uncertainty. “Oh, I don’t know. Perhaps we shouldn’t,” she faltered.
“Please, Gail. Surely, we can see each other and be friends, even if you’re married. This isn’t the dark ages.”
“No, of course it isn’t,” she said. “Certainly, we can.”
As the trees lost their vibrant color and a winter chill crept in the air, their dates continued. Forgotten feelings were rekindled.
Gail smiled to herself as she realized that here she was reliving a twenty-two year olds dream. Anxiety about her marriage with Tom began occupying her thoughts. It wasn’t as though she didn’t love Tom. She did. But with Matt it was different.
One afternoon as she was about to enter a boutique shop she stopped abruptly. A shiver of apprehension went through her body. Sitting near the window of the next door restaurant was her husband. Her Tom. But Tom wasn’t alone. Across from him sat an attractive blond-haired young woman with penetrating green eyes. Her face glowed with natural beauty. Tom, without restraint, reached across the table and took the woman’s hand. A loving look showed affection on her face.
Gail had to force her legs to walk away. She stumbled as she went to her car. Who was she? What was Tom doing with her?
So many unanswered questions. She drove home in bewilderment.
These last few weeks, Gail selfishly thought only of herself and she took Tom for granted. Perhaps Tom too felt the pangs of getting older. She hoped it wasn’t too late. After dinner Tom seemed to be in a playful mood. Gail decided that this was the time to try to talk to Tom about how she saw him at the restaurant. She gradually led up to situation after she told him how she had met Matt and had seen him a few times. Tom really didn’t seem at all upset. Eventually he hesitantly admitted that he was seeing someone and that it had turned serious. Gail was shocked and started crying. Finally she said that she wanted to save their marriage. Tom bowed his head and stood up from the chair.
“We both know that we haven’t been happy and we’ve been doing our own things for quite some time,” he said.
“It’s easy to take your spouse for granted when you’ve married for some time,” said Gail. “I’d like to try and rebuild what we once had.”
“It’s really too late,” answered Tom. “I’m sorry it turned out this way,” he said sadly. “I didn’t plan for this to happen. It’s just that I realize that we had lost what we once had a long time ago.”
“I’ll leave tonight. Over the next few days we can discuss what will happen next,” he said softly.
With that he kissed the top of her head and left Gail sitting there hurt and confused.


- - -

11/18/11

Here and Gone
By Steve Baba


She gave me a fake name
And so did I

We stole the bouquet
And a bottle of champagne

We sat at the piano
Eyes locked

Our lips were inches away

We danced slowly to the last song
I told her I was sexier in a
Beached stained t-shirt and sweats

She believed me

Close your eyes she said
And count to five

I did
And when I opened them

She was gone


- - -

11/17/11

Double Deception
By Deryn Pittar


Strong waves pounded the high tide line. Hidden by a grass covered dune, they embraced, relieved to finally escape their wedding guests. His poetic whispers suddenly ceased as he cupped her face in his hands, and said, "There's something I need to tell you, now that you’ve promised to love me forever. Something I’ve been hiding from you.”

Katherine’s eyes widened in surprise, her heart almost stopped. She felt it skip a beat. She sucked in her breath and held it, waiting. She nodded her head, indicating he should go on. He didn’t.

“And?.. she prompted, breathing out, The silence building.

Her mind raced back to when they’d met, just six weeks ago; still vivid; still fresh and bright in her memory. She knew it would be a lasting memory – the moment she fell over in the surf, and fell in love.

Her arms had thrashed in panic. Her throat filled with water. Strong arms enclosed her and a second later she gasped, above the surging froth, squinting through her salt stung eyes.

“You can stop struggling. You’re safe.” His voice had caressed her ears like melted chocolate, running into the crevices of her brain, sending tingling messages of delight down her spine. He’d lowered her slowly, holding her tight against his damp chest. Her toes curled into the sand and she looked up into his eyes; twin wells of desire; and from his eyelashes had hung a sprinkling of sunlit drops.

She remembered thinking ‘A God has arrived at the ‘Polar Swim’.

He’d smiled. His green eyes pierced her soul. Her heart raced with desire. Her knees went weak with passion.

“Lost your voice?” How could three words dissolve any sensible thought in her head? “A simple thank you will do.” His eyebrows arched, waiting for her to speak.

She couldn’t. Her hair hung in rat's tails. Her bikini was full of sand. She felt cold, wet and ugly. He’d saved her … and she looked a mess. Tears of frustration trickled down her cheeks.

“Don’t cry,” he coaxed, “I’ve got you.”

And that’s how it’d all begun; followed by a whirlwind courtship which spun them both out of control with its intensity. The advice of friends ‘to wait’; the reprimands of her parents ‘to wait’; even her boss had added his words of caution. Were they all going to be proved right?

Her heart felt like a rock, a block of ice in her chest. Fear built in her throat, choking her.

“Tell me” she pleaded her words sounding mangled as they slid out.

“I didn’t want to tell you before the wedding, in case you refused to marry me.” Jack’s voice trembled as he spoke. “I love you so much Katherine. I was scared I’d loose you.”

“What’s the problem? What do you have to tell me?” Her voice sounded shrill above the crash of the waves. At high tide the sea was wild.

She’d been in personal turmoil herself the last two weeks. The stress of organising the wedding, plus the build up to today, had caused her to vomit, daily, for the last two weeks.

She’d finally given in and gone to the Doctor, fearing that her family’s genetic trait of Cystic Fibrosis had developed. No, he’d assured her, it couldn’t be showing this late in her life. The Doctor had tested her to ease her fears. Yesterday she’d had the results of the blood tests.

She had news to share with Jack as well.

“I have a genetic disease” Jack said, his voice a mere mumble. She lent her head closer and wrapped her arms around him.

“What disease?”

“It’s a curse and I was frightened if you knew, you wouldn’t marry me.”

“What disease?” She wasn’t sure if she was shaking with frustration or fear, but her legs were beginning to weaken.

“Cystic Fibrosis. My sister died of it. It’s ghastly.”

Katherine inhaled deeply and held him tight, kissing the end of his nose and wiping the tears from his cheeks with her thumbs.

“Well I’ve got news as well.” She said. “Good news - and bad news.”

The noise of the sea eased. The tide had turned and the surf’s roar settled.

“The bad news is I carry the same gene.” Jack’s mouth opened in disappointment. She hurried on. “But the good news is I’m pregnant and our child will be fine… because you’re not the father.”

“What?” Jack stepped back from her embrace, shock on his face. “Who?”

“Only Larry, from Accounts.” Katherine giggled. “I had a hilarious time at the staff party a couple of months ago. Larry and I hooked up in the stationery cupboard.” She smiled at the memory. “Not that there was anything stationary about our activities.” Seeing his shocked face, she added, “but he’s not as good a lover as you are darling.”

She took him by the arm, missing his expression of disgust, and pulled him back towards their guests.

“Come on Jack, cheer up. At least the child will be good with figures. Larry may be socially challenged, but he’s got a good brain.” She stopped and standing on tip toes, whispered in his ear.

“Plus, he’s not a bit deceitful, like you and I.”


- - -
I write poetry, flash fiction and am currently working on a romantic paranormal novella. I like to experiment with a wide range of topics and have recently been challenged by writing romantic pieces.. It's a lot hard to write romance than it is to read it.

11/16/11

Love Translation
By Joan Cartwright

Music is the mastery of mind
It keeps you in a place of being
For moments at a time

Get caught up in its labyrinth
Leading through a thousand doors
To one simple end
LOVE translated as

LIFE translated as

LOVE translated as a

WOMAN translated as a

MAN translated as a

CHILD translated as a

TRIBE translated as a

NATION translated as a

COUNTRY translated as a

CONTINENT translated as a

WORLD translated as a

UNIVERSE translated as

LOVE. . .

- - -
See my bio at: www.joancartwright.com

11/15/11

You
By Stephanie Hart


It was quarter to nine,
On a summer's night,
The air was still,
The dark was light.

At the end of the road,
Beneath the tree,
There you stood,
You'd been waiting for me.

My heart beating, ten to one,
Thought I'd lost, with you I'd won,
Your smile,
Your eyes,
Your everything,
Our love everlasting.

Now we're nothing,
From a kiss to a glance,
How could we go from that,
You never gave us a chance.

I picked up the phone, out of the blue,
My fingers moved, they dialled you,
Your voice,
Your laugh,
Your everything,
I never did stop loving.

Can we go back to the beginning?
Can we start again?
Can we try something new?
Just us tonight,
Just me and you.



- - -
Stephanie is an 18 year old girl who loves to read, write and listen to music, she like many others has been burned by love but finds solace in writing - it gives the platform for fantasies to come true...

11/14/11

HER HONEY DEW ON MY LIPS
By K.Balachandran


The sudden blush,
makes her look
like a flower,bloomed
in the wrong season.
Isn't she slyly asking for a kiss?
Really, love is the flush
on the face of this beauty.
The lover of beauty in me
surrender before this candidness.

She slightly turns and
touches my fingers
as if still in the embrace
of sleep,in a lethargy sensual.
Her flowing hair has the fragrance
of newly ripened wheat
We both could hear
our hearts beat, a symphony together
we lost ourselves
in the elation of that moment

My fingers sweep her hair
like the breeze caresses
the grass in the valley.
She was overwhelmed
with an emotion
that couldn't be easily distinguished
My lips gently brush
the hot spot of her blush.
I was electrified,
heard the breeze
shaking leaves, whisper
endearments that tickle trees.
That moment demands,
I go out of control
and taste honey dew of her lips
with my quivering lips.


- - -
K.Balachandran has been writing news stories and features almost two decades for a mass selling newspaper(1.5 million copies in the last count) which brought him face to face with dramatic moments of human existence ranging from rare ecstasies to bitter disappointments;a roller coaster ride incomparable that helped to gain valuable insights.But what became a casualty in the bargain was creative expression and precision in the use of language, as language to a journo was a mere tool for basic communication.Now a penitent, writing poetry is his antidote which he does in English, Malayalam, his native tongue and Tamil.
He lives in the coastal town Thiruvananthapuram in Kerala, the lush and green State at the south west sea board of India, a prime tourist destination known for it's scenic beauty which incidentally is the original spice country sought by Greeks, Romans and Phoenician's from time immemorial.

11/13/11

Restaurant Wars
By Amy Tripp


She plucked one of the complimentary breadsticks from the basket and wagged it like a finger. "Some day my phone will interface with my oven."

"That's the best you can do? Really?" The game was stupid, but we always played. The rules were simple: one of us imagined an invention, the other topped it. "Why would anyone need that?"

"Because my oven takes forever to preheat. Most nights I just want to get home, throw in some tenders and tots, and watch reality TV. But my oven takes so long. I end up using the microwave, and then everything's soggy. If I could start my oven using the phone, it'd be hot when I need it. Problem solved." She nibbled the breadstick.

"Do adults actually eat tenders and tots?"

"I do."

"My point exactly."

She grinned and wadded her napkin, launching it at me. I threw it back. God knows, she'd need it soon enough. I may worship her, but even I can admit she has the table manners of Cookie Monster. "You do know most ovens have presets, right?"

She threatened another napkin assault, but didn't follow through. "The first invention's allowed to be lame."

"Fine. We start with dial-able ovens. Okay, so some day ovens will heat in seconds. No need for phoned-in preheat orders."

The waitress tossed our appetizer onto the table and stomped away. "Why do we even come here?"

She waved off the question. "Some day ovens will judge what a food is and cook it perfectly. And instantly."

"Even turkey?" It was the biggest thing I could think of.

"Even turkey."

I pulled off a chunk of onion bloom and popped it into my mouth, pretending it wasn't brimstone hot. "I've got tickets for the game next week."

"Yeah?" She scarfed some onion without batting an eyelash. "Who're you taking?"

"Har. Har."

Her face fell into its sorrowful look, the one with dewy eyes and pouty lips. It's sexy as hell, but she thinks it makes her look sad. "You know my rule."

"Yeah, yeah. No dating coworkers. Funny, the company doesn’t give a shit."

"Well, I do. We've been over this."

She didn't sound mad, yet, which meant I could push a little harder. "We go out to dinner every week. We might as well be dating." I should've used a breadstick to punctuate the point.

"That's just as friends. We even split the bill." It was always the same argument.

At least I had a new answer. "Yeah, but maybe all this time, I've been buying your meal."

"What?" She laughed and noshed another onion petal.

"We split the bill, so we don't know who's paying for what. Could be I've been buying your dinner all along."

She was supposed to come up with some barbed reply, but instead she looked like she'd kicked a puppy. This wasn't some conjured, faux-misery expression. Great. Now I was Pitiful Guy, the one doesn't know when to quit. "How long will you keep asking me out?" Her voice was almost too quiet, but she didn't sound irritated. Maybe regretful?

"Until I get sick of waiting."

"How long will that be?"

How the hell should I know? How long does it take to fall out of love? It sure didn't take long to fall into it. I shrugged and pushed the onion toward her. It suddenly smelled like rotting grease caught in a hair-clogged sink.

"Don't give up yet. Please?" She reached over and touched my hand.

I nodded. Hell if I knew what to say. We don't do serious.

She glanced around and then leaned forward, biting her lip. "You know how I took some personal time on Monday?"

"Yeah."

"I had a job interview."

"You did?"

"I got the job."

"Really? Are you taking it?"

She nodded. "In two weeks, we won't be coworkers."

When had I leaned forward? I settled back, resting my hands across my gut. Pitiful Guy had left the building. "Some day there'll be no need for ovens. We'll have heat-vision eye implants."

"Ouch! That sounds painful." She laughed and snagged more onion.


- - -
Amy is a full-time wife, mother & worker. Part-time dreamer, sometimes knitter. She crafts gnome trails in her woods & universes on paper.

11/12/11

Old Ground
By Abigail Wyatt


I thought I was over you,
healed at last,
or, at least, almost there;
but today, out walking
familiar paths,
all the world felt raw,
and life no more
than a well of tears,
and a grief

Today out walking
familiar paths,
the air was too sweet,
too clear;
where the gypsy horses
nuzzled their foals,
and arched their sturdy necks,
and gathered together,
flank to flank
as if in patient prayer.

For the air was so sweet
and so clear today –
I almost thought
to find you there;
today, out walking
familiar paths
where the horses
nuzzled their foals;
and where, out walking,
we lingered to kiss
as a breeze
stirred the curl
of your hair.

But it’s long, long
since ever we kissed
and our sighs stirred
the still morning air,
where the gypsy horses
nuzzled their foals
and the air was
clear and sweet,
for the spell unravelled
and the magic was done
when you spoke
your last words
to me there.


- - -
Abigail Wyatt writes for her life in the shadow of Carn Brea in Cornwall. Formerly a teacher, she now writes full-time and is grateful to be able to do so. Her poetry and short fiction and have been published in range of outlets and she would like to thank the editors of all of them. Her poetry collection, 'Moths in a Jar', (Palores) appeared in October, 2010.

11/11/11

Purple heart
By Virginie Colline


ouch! my heart
a deeper shade
of amethyst


- - -
Virginie Colline is a Parisian translator.

11/10/11

Advice
By J.Williams


Outside, the sky is forget-me-not blue,
Children play in the road.
But the curtains are drawn and the fire is lit.
You are letting yourself implode.

Open the window, let the light in,
Let the shadows retreat and depart.
It may not fade away right now,
But all that you need is that start.

Kites will soar through your heart once more;
The grip of ice will wane.
A smile shall return to your face, anew.
You will learn to love again.


- - -
I am currently an English Literature student in the UK and have a couple of small publishing credentials. I enjoy nothing more than writing, which makes even sleeping suffer.

11/9/11

He's With Me
By Wanda Morrow Clevenger


He's not the most polished
rock in the stream,
rough around the edges
a bad girl's secret dream;

doesn't pretend otherwise
got to commend him for that,
gives as good as he gets
taking it hard to the mat;

won't promise any more
than he can deliver,
his sly, confident smile
brings a lush, quick shiver;

I chose the coal
instead of the jewel,
struck my match into flame
ignited it to hot fuel;

just keep it moving
there's nothing here to see,
except for the obvious
the man's with me.


- - -
Wanda Morrow Clevenger lives in Hettick, IL - population 200, depending upon which way the wind is blowing. Seventy-four pieces of her nonfiction, fiction, and poetry appear in numerous online and print literary journals, magazines, quarterlies, and anthologies. Her first book This Same Small Town in Each of Us, a collection of pre-published this and that including a small selection of first reads, is forthcoming in mid-November.

11/8/11

My Clearest Day
By Jason Sturner


I went to question the angels
about their reason for tearing her heart from me
but the clouds, they closed their doors
and even the sun looked away—
that was my saddest day.

I pleaded with devils and gods
to obtain some solace in their reason
but they spoke thunder through storms
and left me drenched in rain—
that was my darkest day.

So I traveled across land and time
to find a wise man who knew the nature of love
but the sands of earth became giant pits
and I could not reach him—
that was my most frustrating day.

Then, I decided to look within myself
so that maybe there I'd find a better man
but I had grown so tired that it no longer mattered
and the idea drifted off on a forgotten dream—
that was my clearest day.


- - -
Jason Sturner was born and raised in the western suburbs of Chicago, where he has worked as an elevator operator, rock n’ roll drummer, graphic designer, naturalist, and botanist. He has published four books of poetry and currently lives in Knoxville, Tennessee.

11/7/11

A Bagful of Reminiscence
By Karishma Shetty



The brown satchel sat there, snugly tucked between her winter clothes and overcoats. She'd rummaged through this section of her wardrobe hoping to find something casual to sling along her left shoulder.

The tan leather looked raisin-creased in an unaired closet with faded impressions from over use. She loosened the contents hastily, with the glee of a child waiting to discover the trinkets in his mum's forbidden drawer.

Dried flowers. Lost perfume. Expired paracetamol tabs.
Gooey chocolate. Gandhian coins. Sticky change in between.
Deformed granola bars. Parched wet-wipes. Gunk.
Chipped sea shells. Two movie tickets. Cufflinks.
Duplicate keys. Pantyhose. An invitation card. Rust.
Sandy grime of time on things.
On photographs and filigree alike.

She recklessly overturned the forgotten fragments on the cold floor. And then swept the remains into a biodegradable bin.

Realizing, that every once in a while even old memories can do with some recycling.


- - -

11/6/11

Just a Man
By Fred E. Beaulieu


I’ve wanted to be chivalrous, a knight upon a steed
A gallant dashing stalwart who performs a noble deed
I’ve tried to be an intellect with words of depth sublime
Dispensing troves of wisdom which withstand the test of time

I strove for wealth and prominence, to woo you with success
Convinced a higher station would be certain to impress
Yet all of this was foolishness, which now at last I see
My quests were only fantasies of who I wished to be

I’m not a worldly voyager who’s travelled to Nepal
A brave and mighty conqueror who’ll answer when you call
A Byzantine crusader with a mission to pursue
I’m just a man who loves you with a simple heart that’s true


- - -
I am a lifelong resident of West Michigan, and have enjoyed a rewarding career in computer programming. My interests include music, reading, puzzles, old movies, and of course poetry. I enjoy writing poems which reflect the many faces of life and love.

11/5/11

Heart-shaped Cocoon
By Jason Sturner


-for Denise-


A folding of your wings;
home from gliding
across
the clouds.

You’re weeping—
you’ve discovered
that eternity
exists.

Now you understand
why we hurt so badly:

You saw love without its veil,
and the gossamer threads which lift you,
which pull you straight down;
which brought us together,
which tossed us apart.

But we’re still in love.
We always have been.
We’re only transforming our love
into something new,
into something better.

Hence our lonely days, our poetic hearts;
in separate beds, in perpetual dark.

I once had wings
and that same urge to fly.
And I did, and I stood at the edge,
and I wept your same tears.

Yes, I once had wings too—
who do you think gave them to you?


- - -
Jason Sturner was born and raised in the western suburbs of Chicago, where he has worked as an elevator operator, rock n’ roll drummer, graphic designer, naturalist, and botanist. He has published four books of poetry and currently lives in Knoxville, Tennessee.

11/4/11

Lets meet on a bus
By Niles Champeaux


Lets meet on a bus
I'll look at you, and you at me
I'll gather some confidence to sit by you
We'll introduce ourselves
We'll both joke about our jobs
We'll discover how we're similar
You'll laugh
I'll smile
And we'll be happy for those minutes
Till you have to leave
And I'll never see you again,
But think of you every day.


- - -
My name is Niles Champeaux. My work has appeared in Red River Review and The Camel Saloon.

11/3/11

Just For a Moment
By Olga Mladinov


Just for a moment, looking into you, I saw. The spark ignited; and just as fast, it was extinguished when you realized you let your guard down and allowed me to look inside. But just for that moment, I saw you. And you, you were looking into me.


- - -
I do not know whether I am a poet or a writer or a creative soul unleashing words or none of the above. I only know that I am merely a curious and confused mind, that attempts to dissect love down to the very electrons that spin my entity into existence.

11/2/11

My Love is Like the Rain
By Chris Pedersen


My love is like the rain, he said,
Here one day and gone the next;
Tender as a gentle mist,
Fierce as the raging storm.
No way to know which path I take,
No freedom of which to call my own;
I covet what they seek to take,
To praise and not to scorn.

The thunder! My beating heart when thou draw near;
And lightning! How can words describe?
The rain falls on unyielding glass,
To never be let inside.
A woe to one when light be shunned,
To dwell in darkness most complete;
The suffrage of mine broken heart,
To fulfill thou selfish need.

If love is true, then love is blind,
Yet love was nothing but a lie;
A connection sought but never won,
Thine devotion to be tried.
If faith to fail the test of time
What left but to resign my fate?
Through helping hand and healing word,
Fair warning be ignored.

My love is like the rain, he said,
Which falls upon unyielding glass;
To quickly rise and bless the day,
And quickly then to fade.
The time has come, for rising sun,
To chase away the cold and gray;
And leave the rain no other choice,
Than simply fade away.


- - -
Chris Pedersen is a young artist who is studying to become a Personal Trainer. He currently has no prior writing experience, yet still enjoys drawing and writing poetry. He often finds inspiration for his poetry through describing situations in which people often find themselves trapped,and in their subsequent struggle to break free.

11/1/11

A Poem To My Dead Love
By Jason Sturner


My tears have filled my hands for centuries
and for centuries more, I’ve cried.
A broom of misfortune swept you away
and there hasn’t been a day
I haven’t missed you.

The time between sunrise and sunset
is a region of despair, and my nights
are wretched with the silence of a dream;
a dream which dreams me alone.

I once was a man of polished marble,
strongest simply because you loved me.
Fortune had been my blessing, and you my bloom—
the world then was an answered question.

But my god, how quickly the puzzle drops and splits apart,
a million pieces lost in earth and time;

how in the blink of an eye
my eyes could matter no more;
how I’ve longed for more of death and less of life,
just to be closer to you, my love.


- - -
Jason Sturner was born and raised in the western suburbs of Chicago, where he has worked as an elevator operator, rock n’ roll drummer, graphic designer, naturalist, and botanist. He has published four books of poetry and currently lives in Knoxville, Tennessee.