3/31/12

Want of Heat, Absence of Light
By Jennifer E. Lee


When I do not see you
I suffer inside
Like a heavy weight
Upon my heart
Chains tighten
Impossible to avoid
That internal aching
The feel of your skin
Against mine
Your warmth exuding
Pressed
To my precious curves
A desire
A wanting
A pain unlike any other
I want to push you away
My anguish overwhelms me
For when I cannot be close
It is like a little death
A part of me missing
I look different in the mirror
Tears grace my cheeks
Replacing tender fingertips.


- - -
A native of Los Angeles, California, Jennifer E. Lee earned a Bachelor of Arts in Journalism from California State University and a Master of Arts in English from Northern Arizona University. She previously taught writing at Pennsylvania State University and currently teaches at Misericordia University in North East Pennsylvania, where she is also the Coordinator of Writing. Her poetry has appeared in selected literary magazines and anthologies.

3/30/12

The Wish
By Sarah Terzo


Ms. Claire August leaned forward on her cane and carefully stepped around the junk that was piled on the floor. She was unfamiliar with the layout of the antique store, having never been in it before. She couldn't get around as easily as she used to, but her vision was still sharp, her mind was clear, and she was grateful to be alive. Every Monday, she took the senior citizens’ bus into the center of town and walked around, going in and out of the little shops there. The bus schedule only allowed for an hour's worth of time on each trip, so she usually just had time for a little window shopping and a nice lunch at one of the cafés with her best friend Melanie. Today Melanie hadn't been feeling well. Claire had not wanted to go on her own, but Melanie had insisted.

“You need to go," she had said." Just because my old bones are tired today and I have a nasty cold doesn't mean you should miss the outing. I know how much you enjoy it. Maybe you can strike up a friendship with one of the men in the group. You know Albert Hampton has been asking me about you. Maybe you could have lunch with him."

“Melanie," Claire replied. "You know I'm not interested in him."

“Claire, I know we've talked about this a million times. I know how much you loved Michael. I know how special he was. But that was so long ago! How old were you – thirty-five? You're over seventy years old. He's been dead for 40 years! And all this time, you haven't even looked at another man. Do you really think he would want you to spend the rest of your life alone?"

“I don't expect you to understand," said Claire. "No one does. It's not that I'm deliberately holding myself back. I just never found anyone like him. He was everything to me. When he died, it broke my heart. He gave me fifteen wonderful years – the best years of my life. Every day I miss him. And I know he would be perfectly fine with me finding someone new. But no one will ever take his place. Not now, not ever.”

"Well, I know by now I can’t change your mind. You are honestly the most stubborn person I've ever known. Still, you should go into town. You know you would enjoy a nice lunch and a change of scenery. I really want you to go."

Claire had finally given in. And now she was walking slowly around an antique store that she had walked past many times but never entered before. She wasn't really hungry, and did not relish eating alone, so she had decided to kill time looking at antiques. She really didn't plan on buying anything, but as she wandered through the narrow aisles packed with everything from old furniture, hardbound books, boxes of memorabilia, and old photographs, something caught her eye.

It was a golden bracelet with a charm on it. The charm was in the shape of an angel, wings outstretched. It was thrown in a large box of filled with looked like costume jewelry. The charm didn't look valuable, but Claire was drawn to it as soon as she saw it. There was something about it that appealed to her. She wasn't sure exactly what. When she picked it up, it felt somehow comforting. She slipped it on her wrist. She immediately felt a sense of peace. It felt like this little bracelet had been destined for her. She had such a strong desire to bring it home. She smiled to herself. "What a silly thing," she thought. "I must be getting funny in the head. It’s just a piece of junk." She put the bracelet down and prepared to leave the store. But as she was walking out the door, she thought again about the bracelet. She went back and picked it up. She didn't have much money, but there was no harm in asking how much it cost.

She walked up to the girl behind the counter, who was reading a magazine and looking bored. She looked up as Claire approached the register.

“How much is this bracelet?" Claire asked.

“Everything in that box is two dollars. Cash or credit?”

Claire fumbled in her pocketbook and pulled out her wallet. She paid for the bracelet and the girl asked her if she wanted it wrapped.

“No,” she said. "I'll just wear it home."

While riding back on the bus, she fiddled with the bracelet. It was obviously not a valuable piece of jewelry, but she liked it very much. She was looking forward to showing it to Melanie.

When she got home, she sat in an armchair and rested, picking up a book from the end table. As she read, she absentmindedly rubbed the angel charm.

All of a sudden, she noticed the smell of roses. She looked up, confused, to see that a cloud of mist had appeared in the center of the room. As she watched, the mist slowly solidified into a figure. A beautiful woman stood before her.

“I've gone crazy," she thought. “I've gone absolutely batty.” But when she blinked her eyes, the figure was still there.

The woman was dressed in a beautiful flowing robe decorated with various shapes and colors. She had long flowing black hair and looked Middle Eastern.

”I am Gia. She said. I am the spirit who is bound to the bracelet you are wearing. I can grant you one wish.”

Claire shook her head. She must be dreaming. But she felt wide-awake. Or was this some kind of joke? But there was no way a person could've gotten in without her noticing, and how could she explain the mist? She glanced around the room, almost expecting someone to be hiding behind a piece of furniture with a camera. But there was no one there but her and the mysterious woman.

Gia smiled a sweet smile. Her eyes were kind. “Only certain people have the power to summon me," she said. “Only a person with a pure and innocent heart can call me forth. I can grant you any one wish. Think about it carefully, because it cannot be undone."

Claire didn't have to think about it. “I want my husband back," she said. “I want Michael back, happy and alive, the way he was the last day that I saw him. That is what I want. That is the only thing I want."

Gia looked sad. “I'm afraid I can't do that," she said. "The bracelet is powerful, but it cannot reverse the passage of time. It cannot bring back the dead."

“Then I want nothing. I'll give the bracelet away to someone who needs it more. Some person who is poor, or sick, or who has a serious need.”

Gia spoke again. "Hold onto the bracelet. It is not within my power to grant your wish. But I will return from where I came from and petition on your behalf."

The figure of Gia dissolved. Claire was left sitting alone in her small living room. She shook her head and wondered if it had all really happened. Maybe she should talk to a doctor. Maybe she was starting to become senile. Troubled, she took off the bracelet off and placed it on the end table, then started making lunch.

* * *

Several hours later, just as she was getting ready to go to bed, there was a knock at the door. She was surprised. She wasn't expecting company. Maybe Melanie had dropped over to say hello. But that was unusual – it seemed odd that she would come without calling first.

She opened the door looked into Michael's eyes. He looked exactly as he had the day he left home, an hour before he was fatally struck by a car. He smiled. His smile was just is beautiful as she’d remembered. She stared for a minute, frozen. Then he reached out and she was in his arms. She held him tightly. She cried. She thanked God for bringing them back to her. For a while, they held onto each other, neither one wanting to let go.

“I've missed you so much," she said. "So very very much."

“I am so glad to be back," he whispered.

She started to lead him into the house, but then she stopped. She looked at him, his young, unlined face. She looked down at her hands, liver spotted and arthritic. A feeling of terrible sadness welled up within her.

“You can’t stay with me," she said.

“What do you mean? I came back for you.”

“I know. But you can’t stay with me. You’re a young man. You have your whole life ahead of you. I'm an old woman. You can't be with me. It wouldn't be fair to you. I can't keep you here. Go. Go make a new life for yourself and find someone you can love.”

“I'm not leaving," he said. “I don't want someone else. I don't care."

“I'm asking you to go. I don't want you to stay. Please, if you care about me, go on your way and take care of yourself. Here. Take this as a gift. It's a very special bracelet.”

She put it in his hand. He kept refusing to leave, but she was insistent. She ushered him out the door, closed it, and locked it. He knocked on the door for over a minute. She sat down and put her head in her hands, weeping. Finally the knocking stopped.

The long, dismal night passed. She missed him, she cried, but she knew she had done the right thing. She felt joy that he was alive, that he had a second chance at life, a chance that been denied him. That made her grateful, that alone was worth it. She would know that he was out there somewhere, living life, being happy. At least that was a comfort.

In the morning, she heard a knock on the door. She sighed. She decided not to get the door. She didn't want to talk to anyone. And what it was if it was him, what if he was back? She couldn't let him in.

But the person knocking did not go away. They knocked and knocked, and finally she realized whoever it was did not intend to leave. With a deep sigh, she opened the door.

On the threshold stood an elderly man. His hair was white, and he was stooped a little. But she knew his face.

Michael looked into her eyes. He took her hand in his, and slipped the bracelet back on her wrist.

“I had one wish," he said. “I wished for us to be together."

They walked together into the house, with the future spread out before them, full of promise.


- - -
Sarah Terzo is a poet and writer whose science fiction and fantasy stories have appeared in publications such as Anotherealm and Cemetery Moon. She lives in New Jersey and enjoys reading from her collection of over 3000 books, raising and breeding tropical fish,and writing.

3/29/12

First Date
By Emma Ambos


How nervous we are,
blushes blooming,
blood pooling.
How did this come about?

How cold we are,
phrases bumping,
hellos high-pitching.
Weren't you a friend once?

How separate we are,
never touching,
barely glancing.
We were fine yesterday.

How in love we are,
eyes laughing,
mouths smiling.
Can I kiss you now?


- - -

3/28/12

Sparrow & Io, In Love in all Lives
By T. Fox Dunham

Jennifer eased down her old bulk on the computer chair and docked at the desk. She flipped on her PC and adorned her other world. She typed in her login name and password. The ache in her knobby fingers eased away. The screen ignited in prismatic nuance, detail painted of a new world, one built on pixel and prim. She put on her second body, her true self, if the Creator of the material world had been kind enough to structure her flesh and bone based on her soul. Jennifer Raven, her real life name, owned a soul of willow tree buds and bucolic meadows, but flabby hills and awkward knees buried it. Now even the youth had spent and gone long and old. Her avatar presence animated. She put her on like a glove—long limb, milky white flesh, long hair like never-ending night. She’d built this body, purchased digital hair and clothing, designed herself as she felt, as she should have been seen. Jennifer became Sparrow Nightheart, and she stepped into her Second Life.

First, she played with her outfit. She’d go shopping later with friends on some of the new commercial sims. Designers spent their best energies working pixel and prim, creating new clothing. She put on a pair of jeans, fixed the legs a bit so they matched her body, and a white sweater. She had little time. She hosted James Welsh at 7AM Second Life time, a folk singer from Wales with wind-hollow and dulcet voice.

She pondered if the quiet dancer would be there again, the tall avatar with ashy hair who spoke so little, who asked her to dance with few words. He had attended three live performances this week, and they’d danced straight through the hour. She’d nearly forgotten her hosting duties, imagining his arms around her back, dancing in another world, this mask of a man worn by any real human somewhere in the world where wire could reach. She fantasized about him the night before, her Io.

With a selection of the landmark in her inventory, she teleported to The Crystal Gardens—a sim of flowing waterfalls and ringing wind chimes. They walked on crystal pools. James Welsh set up on stage, and she readied her preprogrammed messages: asking for tips, requesting visitors to join his group, welcoming members of the group. James Welsh plucked at his guitar, playing an old folk song.

Fox, her adopted son, teleported in. She’d not seen him much since his heart had been swatted by the German Alyah. Love vanished in this world. The heart stopped abruptly like a smashed pocket watch. She’d kept away from love, and she’d wanted to warn her beloved, adopted lad often to shield his heart; though, still she hoped it might work for him, and perhaps, it would work for her.

“Mum!” he messaged in local chat. “Darling.”

The usual crowd chatted their greetings. Fox could ignite a room.

“Hi son!”

They hugged.

Still she searched the radar for Io, watching for the announcement of his teleportation. The pang of his absence stung her stomach, a wasp sting she’d denied the last few days. She didn’t want to be one of those silly old women, lost in a dream, but then, all she had left now was the dream, this lucid dream.

“How you doing, Fox?” she sent in private message, only her adopted son would see. This is how they now spoke to each other.

“Continuing my battle. I’m thinking about getting a Samhain event going, raise some money for Make-A-Wish-Foundation.”

Her fingers tingled.

“Oh good. That’s very good. I’m glad to see you’re not getting buried.”

“I’m a wily Fox,” he messaged. “Thank you Mum. How about you?”

“Well . . . there’s this guy I met.”

“Oh Mum! Can it be love at last?”

“Sigh . . . Every time I’ve tried it before, it’s kicked me in the ass,” Sparrow messaged.

“Promise me this?” he messaged back. “No matter what happens, will you try to be happy?”

“Promise,” she messaged.

Her radar alerted several new arrivals to the sim. The last one was her Io. She sucked at the air, couldn’t quite catch it. Her fingers missed the keys. She waited, to see if his interests still included her. People in this digital world could be capricious. The majority came to use others. She’d seen so many friends fall into that pit, led on by loneliness, need, imagining intimacy.

“Hello Sparrow,” Io messaged. “Dance mit me?”

“Of course,” she messaged.

They found a clear spot on the dance floor. He summoned dance spheres, and they both joined in a slow sway, their avatars spinning and twirling on the waterfalls to the gentle song of Wales.

“Can I ask you something in real life?” Io messaged.

She dithered. Perhaps she should keep this all Second Life, a fantasy, at least attempt to do so. Once he learned her old age, her appearance, he would surely be off for fresher game.

“You can ask,” she messaged.

“When is your birthday? You do not have to tell me the year. Only the month and day.”

“Sigh . . . It’s March 13.”

“!!!!!” he messaged. “Must be destiny. This is my birthday too.”

*          *            *

Five months later, they’d gotten their own land together, Io & Sparrow. They’d spoken casually of their real lives, though the term was considered taboo in the Second Life realm. Io worked partly as a graphic designer. She told him she was a retired school teacher. She felt them moving closer together, their love emerging into the real world.

She’d gone to her adopted son, Fox, for his usual concise, mad wisdom:

            Find out at the start what he wants and what you want. These Second Life romances only work if you both share the same goals.

Jennifer knew it would come up one day. They already spoke with real voices over microphones. It had taken her weeks to build up to it. From what she’d learned, Io lived a poor life, a young man in Amsterdam. Sometimes they battled over her right-wing, Bush-loving, Texas politics, but it just made it all the sweeter when their avatars climbed into bed at night. She’d take him with her when she shutoff the monitor. She orbited Io like a moon. And he too had loved her in only the real way. Love was love, contrary to the many justifications on Second Life by avatar pilots who excused or denied. She knew this love was real. It warmed her. It sung her. It wounded her. And she feared its loss, a fire in the dry fields at the edge of the forest.

Io sent her a photo one day. She’d dithered over accepting it—perhaps better to stop this now, to keep their life together static, frozen—but her curiosity compelled her hand to the mouse and the mouse to the download button. A skinny, mousy man materialized on her screen wearing wide cheeks and needle eyes. His wild, red hair sown through his scalp like a doll’s. He looked starved, contrary to her weight. His smooth face, honey eyes promised a man in his late twenties. She had known his face, recognized it instinctively like a child knowing the rising sun. She had found at the last chapter the great love of her life. He’d become her Second Life Partner, her mate, and this was a sincere marriage of love and life, even in this funny expression that the Divine had designed for them.

Then the vacuum came, the expectations, the quid pro quo. He had not asked, but she knew he desired, desperate to know. In her appearance ran the next question: could they be compatible in reality? Was it possible? Could their love be transferred into this world? No one in Second Life knew a love in completion, and anyone who denied wanting such a thing in their online relationship deceived themselves.

“Would you like to see me?” she messaged.

“Why not? If you are fine mit it.”

She could send a younger photograph, but then she had nothing scanned and the grainy quality would be detected. She had photographs of her nieces, all lovely and full of life, but then it would be the first lie made to her husband. From then, it would crack and dig and rip into their love. It would be the end. They had come to this gate in their relationship, and she knew better than to trust true love. Fantastic expectation burned hotter. Still, she decided if it was to end, let it end as it always had been. Then she could be alone to drink and eat herself into the ground.

She sent him a recent photo taken with her mother. Her hands trembled at the keys. It transferred. She began to type several messages of consolation, telling Io she understood whatever he wanted to do. She nearly turned the computer off, but she had to wait, had to see, a little bit of hope still lingering. Perhaps there were true men out there.

Finally, he messaged back:

“Lovely, woody eyes.”

She wept, tears blurring the screen. She wiped her eyes on her sleeve, feeling like a silly child. She knew he’d been a bit charitable, shocked a bit, probably disappointed, but he loved her still and focused on those beautiful parts that still remained. Isn’t that what love was? He saw only her beauty, the fire in her eyes, the spirit in her soul.

They made love on new animations, tender and real. She ran her finger down the flat screen monitor, static pricking her skin, tracing the curves of his avatar’s body as they joined.

*          *            *

Three months later, they laid out on the roof of their new mansion, gazing up at the stars Io had hung in the sky for her. Fox had just popped over, coming to see his Mum. She worried for her Son, his health, his battle with cancer and its aftermath. She felt him slipping away in spirit, resigned to a new sad truth.

“Beloved,” Io said. “Think that we could be together in real life?”

“Madness,” she said.

“Why so madness? Do you not love me? As I love you?”

“You should forget me,” she messaged. “I’m holding you back from finding someone closer to your age, closer to you. You could have a good life. I believe in you, the work you do. You just need to believe more in yourself. You could have a good family, be a good father. Darling, you don’t need me. I’m old and used up.”

His avatar stood up, ripping his arms from her. He paced along the roof.

“This is not true,” he messaged. “You are beautiful and ripe grapes. You are wine tasty to drink, rich on my lips. My love for you is real. It is you I want.”

“Sigh . . . How would we do it then?”

“Next year. On our mutual birthday. Seven months from now. We both fly somewhere neutral, between our worlds. London. Heathrow Airport. There is a small, Indian café in one of the terminal buildings. We will meet there on our birthday at noon. We will be happy forever.”

“Fine then,” she messaged. “March 13. Happy forever.”

They embraced on the couple’s chair. He activated the kissing animations. It progressed into lovemaking.

*          *            *

As the weeks passed, she found less and less time to be online. He also saw her less, going out with friends, working projects. His life got busier. She visited her doctors, and they warned her of failing health, her lungs. The teams of white-coats insisted she resign her tobacco habit, toss out her bags of pork rinds, sacrifice cheeseburgers. She had few comforts left to her.

Two months passed, and they still saw each other on weekends. She considered getting a smaller parcel of land, paying less rent each week. Io had nothing to offer on the matter, so she moved them to a smaller sim. He missed their dates. She spent more time with her sisters and nieces. On occasion they eclipsed each other like two solar bodies.

Seasons in both realities passed. Life burned inward. Their shared birthday approached, and Jennifer could still feel the longing, the need, buried deep like a smoldering ember beneath compost. Their withdraw had been mutual, both accepted and ratified, but this didn’t make the absence any less painful, just more tolerable.

And then on March eleventh, a day before flying out west to see her distant sister, to share her birthday, she heard news about an absent friend: Fox’s cancer had returned. He’d died in both worlds just a few days before.

She ripped her keyboard from the desk, tearing it from the computer, and she threw it into her front window. It set off her security alarm, which shrilled through the house. The phone rang, her security company probably. She let it ring.

She knew something was terribly wrong with the world. Fox was a sweet soul, a good wind. God had to be told. She’d see Him soon enough and admonish him. No wonder humans built universes like Second Life; there was so much malfunctioning in their first.

She left for her trip the next day, took a cab to Dallas Airport. She waited in the ticket line, panting from lugging her bag behind her. When she queued up, a young woman in a blue uniform grinned at her.

“Can I help you?”

“Sure can,” Jennifer said. “First, my name is really Sparrow. Jennifer is just what my mother named me.”

The young woman nodded.

“And second. I’ve got the wrong ticket. I’m such a hummingbird head. Can you believe it? I’m supposed to be flying to Heathrow Airport in jolly old England. For my birthday in a day. I promised my friend Fox I’d try to be happy, and then I go and completely forget!”

The young woman typed madly on her terminal, fixing Sparrow’s complaint.

“Here’s your boarding pass, in the name of Sparrow.”

She left her old name on U.S. soil. She adorned Sparrow’s wings when her jet abandoned the earth. The sky gave birth to the old woman anew. This would be her time.

Would Io be waiting for her, also struck by this madness, longing and missing his wife on their mutual birthday? Sparrow downed two vodka tonics to make the flight go easier and laid her head to sleep. In the clouds, her eyes closing, she thought she saw a fox running through the white fields.

*          *            *

The plane landed on the afternoon of her birthday. She searched out the terminals, following the rank spice of Indian cuisine. Her eyes watered. She gagged on the stench, knew she was close. She walked through the glass doors, heard the tinkle of Hindi music in the café.

She knew Io would be there, nibbling on his fourth Vindaloo, pacing back and forth between the tables. Their eyes met at once. At first, their legs froze, muscles dead, tendons refusing to fire. They couldn’t break through the glass shield that had always separated them. Then she remembered Fox, and her legs worked again. They embraced. His skinny, scarecrow body rolled in her lumps and hills. He bent down to share her lips with his, their warmth, their real blood only distanced by a dielectric of membrane and skin. Though his body so young and her body so old, their spirits joined at the right median.

“Beloved,” Io said. “Where do we go from here?”

“We’ll need some place to sleep tonight. We’ll work it out.”

“And how about tomorrow? What shall we do then?”

She kissed him again then whispered at his neck:

“You will rise with the moon, and I’ll sing at the dawn. Io and Sparrow.”

- - -
T. Fox Dunham resides outside of Philadelphia PA. He’s published in over seventy international journals and anthologies and was a finalist in the Copper Nickel Annual Short Story Contest for his story, The Lady Comes in the Night. He’s a cancer survivor. His friends call him fox, being his totem animal, and his motto is: Wrecking civilization one story at a time. http://www.facebook.com/tfoxdunham

3/27/12

Love Interlude
By Patricia Crandall

Hattie leaned forward on her elbows. Being in high spirits, she said, "I never dreamed I would be playing opposite you at an upscale summer stock theater, Lee.”

Lee Jonas turned on his famous grin. “One month ago you were an extra at the Woodshole Playhouse in Tarton, Massachusetts, playing a munchkin in 'The Wizard of Oz." Hattie mocked a pout. "I had to begin somewhere, like you …, once upon a time.” She frowned. "Why don't you call me by my stage name?"

"Tia Gayle." Lee shook his head. "I like the sound of Hattie Perkins. Do you know what my real name is?"

Hattie tightened her fingers around the stem of a crystal goblet. "What is it?” She smiled.

“Only my mother and sister know and they've been warned never to tell. It's that bad."

“Let's see… William Jefferson Clinton?”

Lee suddenly pushed back against the chair. "I warned you we might have to dash out of here. Those four ladies sitting beneath the Casablanca fan are getting ready to pounce on our table.” He waved his fingers at Hattie. “Are you ready… like we practiced…one, two, three…”

They rose and dodged linen covered tables, going down an aisle past the podium monitored by the hostess. As they hurried through the front door, Lee called out, "we're forfeiting dinner, Bryna. We'll take a rain check when it's not so busy.”

"Take care, Mr. Jonas," the hostess saluted.

Outside, in the lovely summer's eve, a light flashed. Lee made a grab for a camera clutched in a sprinting woman's hand.

"Don't print that picture, Roxy!"

"Sorry, but you're news, Lee." A tall, athletic woman climbing into a news van shouted. After the door closed, the vehicle sped down the road.

The red taillights disappeared around a corner. Adjusting his eyes to the dark, Lee shoved his hands into the deep pockets of his trousers. “Let's get a burger at the Burger Den. Stanley will set us up at a table in his kitchen.”

“Will this table have candlelight and fine linen?” Hattie made a face.

“Cool chick.” Lee took her arm and they strode along two dimly lit blocks to a shabby restaurant. They went through a creaky back door and entered a well-lit, bustling kitchen.

A burly man spreading pizza dough on a dented pan nodded at Lee. “Your regular, Mr. Jonas? What will the lady have?”

“A small antipasti,” Hattie called out. She sat down at a worn table against a stained wall. She turned to Lee and asked, “What can that newswoman possibly print?”

Lee's eyes became hostile. “Hattie, you haven't been in this business long enough to know what drivel that paparazzi bitch will print in tomorrow's news.”

*

Early the next morning, Hattie rapped on the stage door displaying four gold stars and the bold-printed type, Lee Jonas. She held a cardboard carrier containing two cups of black coffee and muffins. “Lee, it's Hattie.” She knocked again and pressed her ear to the door. There were rustling sounds inside. “Coffee,” she announced. The door swung open and she took two steps backwards as Lee passed her wearing a murderous expression on his face. “Sorry, I don't need java right now. Check out the newspapers in the lounge.” He strolled across the stage and took his place for rehearsal.

Hattie looked down at the coffee and muffins. “Hattie, psst…over here.” Hub Pinkster waved to her from the middle row in the small, opulent theater. Hattie and Hub were raised in the same village, went to the same rural school and their parents were best friends. They were fledgling actors at the Theater Barn and shared a unique friendship.

Hattie skittered past others seated in the audience and dropped into the saved seat. She shared the coffee and muffins with Hub. They kept each other company until it was their turn to be called onstage.

Hattie watched Lee become the stalking ghost hunter, Jake Krall. After the final scene was rehearsed, Lee flung a jacket over his shoulders and exited the building without a word to anyone.

*

Hattie walked doggedly to her apartment after enduring a long day of voice lessons, memorizing lines and rejection from Lee.

“Oh no,” she sighed. “I don't need to sort through these.” But she did and she squinted as she read sixteen phone messages taped to her apartment door. Two messages were offers to star in pornographic films. She shredded those requests. Eight messages were from her mom. Now was not the time to return those calls. Her mom and dad would most likely be playing bingo in the church hall. She checked the big noisy clock on the wall. It was 7:15 P.M.

In the morning, Hattie called home on her cell phone. She stood in line behind tenant number four, holding a towel and facecloth over her arm. Hattie and the tenant shared a tiny bathroom with other roomers living at the boardinghouse.

Hattie could not shake the numbness which had come over her after she saw a photo of her and Lee on the front page of the Loud Mouth tabloid. She braced herself for the wrath that was sure to come.

"How could you do this to your family?" Connie Perkins shrilled into the phone. "Lee Jonas is an evil, self-centered man. He dumped the mother of his children to take up with you.”

The sleepy-eyed tenant glanced over her shoulder and cringed at the maternal voice peeling through the phone. Hattie gripped her terry robe tightly and said with as much calm as she could muster, "Mom, relax; you're making too much out of this.”

"Don't be belligerent," her mother shouted. "This news has upset your father. I had to take him to the emergency room for oxygen. When he read the article about you and Lee Jonas, he had an anxiety attack."

Hattie imagined her father was more upset about her mother carrying on than the newspaper article focusing on her and Lee exiting the Amber Glow Inn.

"Why did you wear a low-cut dress?"

"It was 89 degrees. I was hot."

Hub Pinkster strolled into the room looking relaxed and well rested. He handed Hattie a new tabloid as he walked by with a toothbrush in his hand. An insert photo on Page 2 depicted Lee's former live-in girlfriend, Marilee Hemmings sailing with their two children on an idyllic mountain lake.

"Thanks," Hattie mouthed to the tall young man flopped against the wall, waiting his turn to enter the lavatory. With the phone to her ear, she stared fixedly at the photos of her and Lee clinging to each other. Blushing, and feeling guilty as sin, she caught Hub's eye. He winked reassuringly. Good ol' Hub, she exhaled. He was always there for her.

"Your bleached hair clipped to one side makes you look older,” her mother ranted. “Your Grandmother said I should remind you of Aids in case you and this fast actor are having sex."

Hattie retorted, "It's none of your or Gram's business as to what Lee and I are doing, mom. I say my prayers; go to 4:30 Saturday evening Mass at the college chapel every week and I make a good confession every six months. I eat regular meals... "

"Come home and be a nurse," Connie pleaded.

Hattie snapped the phone shut.

*

The evening was marred by a torrential rain. While napping on the living room couch plumped with Grandma Perkins' crocheted pillows, Hattie was awakened by the ringing of the doorbell. She arose disoriented and weaved to the door through scripts piled on the rug.       "Who's  there?" She yawned.       

"Open the door. I'm soaked to the skin."  

Hattie slid the chain lock on the door and peered through a narrow opening. A man wearing a Burger Den cap and a white uniform stood on the landing. He was holding a large pizza box nearly covering his face.

"I didn't order a pizza. Vamoose."

"Hattie, it's Lee. I'm in this get-up to duck the press. Stanley put a pizza in a box to make the disguise look authentic.” He shifted his weight impatiently. “Will you please open the door?” 

Hattie released the chain and stood back as Lee rushed past her dripping wet. She took the warm pizza box out of his hands and set it on the counter. She opened the cover, slid a spatula beneath a slice, and slid it on a paper plate. "Go into the bathroom. You'll find towels to dry yourself."

“The Press has invaded Leighton-Woods,” he said in a muffled voice.

Stripped down to boxer shorts, Lee returned to the living room towel-drying his hair. He chomped into the slice of pizza, the topping oozing down his chin onto the paper plate.  Hattie looked at him unsmiling, and handed him a napkin. “You're taking a lot for granted coming here after you gave me and everyone else at rehearsal the big chill. It's because of the choices you've made the press is hunting you down and printing your dark secrets.”

Lee thrust his hand into the waistband of his shorts and pulled out a pack of cigarettes. He lit one and exhaled. Hattie pushed a chipped dish toward him. "The choices I've made are my business. And I should've known that dining at an upscale Leighton-Woods restaurant wouldn't work out. Next time, I'll have dinner catered at my place.” He tossed his head back. “I was in a bad mood after that paparazzi bitch snapped our pictures. USA Today, The Times, The Sentinel and Globe are saturated with our photos.”

Hattie nodded. “The havoc that so-called reporter's caused is despicable. My parents are frantic. One photo makes you look indecent, and I hate to admit my mother's right - I look like a hooker.”

Lee paced back and forth. “My kids think I've dumped them. I've called New York three times today to reassure them I'm still their Daddy. Marilee's flipped-out. I'm pressed to give details of my every move to her lawyer even though we've mutually agreed our co-habitation is a dead issue and we share equal rights with the kids.”

Hattie eyed him. "It is over with Marilee?”

Lee said unflinching. "Yes."

Hattie's heart pounded. "Blast that reporter. It makes me look like a home wrecker.”

"And another blast!" Lee picked up a pillow and punched it. “I'm off to New York for six weeks. Trent Studio has requested changes in scenes from my latest film due out in January." He dropped his voice to a whisper. "During that time, I want you to consider moving in with me when I come back to star in a new film." He rubbed his hands together. “I'm done performing in summer stock theater. I've paid my debt to Ernie Bilk.”

Hattie said incredulously, "“What's wrong with summer stock theater? It made you what you are today, Lee. And, what's wrong with our relationship the way it is?” She bit down on her lip.

“I want something more from you.” He pulled her down on the rug and nuzzled her ear. She disregarded the pulsation in her neck and put him at arm's length. “If you're serious and want to take our relationship a step further, then co-habitation is out and a commitment is in.”

A funny look came over him. "I didn't say 'marry me.' I want to enter a meaningful relationship with you. I'm as much in love with you as I can be with anyone. We're alike, you and me. It'd be the perfect interlude.”

Hattie suddenly realized there were tears in her eyes.

Lee stood up and pulled on his trousers. He buckled his belt. "I'm not used to this hard to get stuff, Hattie.” He turned and went straight to the door, stopping with his hand on the doorknob. “Give it time. You'll come around.” He looked at her levelly.  “I'll call you.” He blew her a kiss.

After he had gone, Hattie wrapped her arms around herself and shook.           *

On a perfect July evening, after the final curtain fell on the last act of Caesar's Folly, Tia Gayle aka Hattie Perkins and Guy Hiller aka Hub Pinkster were congratulated by Ernie Bilk as they cut through the stagehands and worked their way toward the rear of the theater.

The grotesquely large, impeccably dressed producer gushed, "Since the two of you've paired onstage, the reaction of the audience has been incredible. Night after night the devotion is there." He waved his large, ringed hands in the air. "The last time we had an audience of this caliber, Hugh Jackman and Kathy Griffin were teamed together." Ernie moved his cumbersome form aside as fans rushed toward Gayle/Hiller, pressing upon them flowers, boxes of candy and regalia of praise. When the excitement was over, tired but deliriously happy, Hattie and Hub were chauffeured in a limousine to the low-rent district. Exhausted, they high-fived each other at the front door and shuffled to their respective apartments.

*

It was finally the night that Lee Jonas was scheduled to return from New York. At 10 P.M., Hattie's cell phone chimed. She answered in a soft voice, “Hello.”

There was an intake of breath at the other end. "Is that greeting for me?" Hub Pinkster asked.

Hattie was taken off guard. She expected Lee's voice. He had left a message he would call at 10:00 P.M. She cleared her throat, "Hub, how are you?" There was an awkward pause. "Well, that shows what a state I'm in. You're fine. I just saw you half an hour ago. If you're calling to rehearse those troublesome lines in the play, it's too late. Can we do it tomorrow?"

“That'll be fine,” Hub said.

“Say, is anything wrong?”

"I couldn't settle down; went out for a walk in the fresh air to clear my mind. Can I see you for a few minutes?"

Hattie ran fingers through her loosened French braid she had worn onstage. "I've a headache.”

"I promise to take a second of your time."

Hattie looked at the clock on the wall. It was five after ten. She searched for a plausible excuse to put off Hub. There was none.

"Five minutes." She drummed her fingers on the table. Blast Hub's timing. She felt certain Lee would call at any minute. She closed her eyes and squeezed them tightly shut. 'Does it matter?'

When Hub appeared at her door Hattie was sitting on the couch casting repeated glances at the phone laying on an end table.

"I'm no good at this," Hub collapsed on the couch beside her. "Your mother asked me to check on you. She's worried you may do something foolish. She knows Lee Jonas is due back tonight after a six week hiatus."

"How appalling!" Hattie said loudly.

Hub said defensively, "Your Mother loves you and cares about your welfare, Hattie."

"My mother should've had a brood of Perkins and then she wouldn't focus all her concerns on me. Exactly what is on mom's mind?" Hattie became a little less angry, knowing Hub was a nice guy doing her mother's bidding.

Hub looked at the ceiling, then at the floor. "Connie wants me to ask you to marry me."

Hattie's face drained of all color. "Your five minutes are up!" She hissed.

Hub retreated to the door. "I love you, Hattie. I always have. Will you marry me?"

"Go away!" Hattie shivered. "I need to be alone."

She heard the door close softly followed by a rechecking of the lock. She closed her eyes and imagined she was standing at twilight on Sunset Beach, Cape May, New Jersey. Darkness follows a flash on the horizon, and a spark enters her heart. She crossed her arms and hugged herself. When did friendship convert to love?

*

At the final cast party of the Theater Barn's summer season at The Amber Glow Inn, Ernie Bilk took both of Hattie's hands in his and gently squeezed them. He said in a concerned voice, "I thought we were going to have a faux pas on stage this evening, mon cherie. I'm impressed you took control of your audience while being in a difficult position.” He smiled benevolently and gazed fixedly into her large, green eyes. “That shows exceptional stage presence.” He nodded his head up and down.

During the evening's performance, Lee Jonas and Marilee Hemmings sat in the front row of the small, crowded theater. There was no mistaking the famous model whose face and body graced magazine covers. She was dressed in a red leather mini-skirt and a black sequined tube top with a champagne-lace shawl draped over her shoulders. When Hattie's eyes locked with Lee's, she forgot her lines, recouping when Hub prompted her from his vantage point onstage.

Hub came up behind Hattie and gripped her elbow. "Great acting job, Hattie." Ernie excused himself, and Hub steered Hattie into the packed reception room.

"I'd like to go to the table now," Hattie drew a deep breath and went forward.

They crossed the jam-packed room, receiving congratulations along the way. They went to a long, festive table filling fast with producers, reporters, Hollywood, and New York elite, including Lee Jonas and Marilee Hemmings. Ernie made a toast to the success of the summer season and the new sweetheart couple, Tia Gale and Guy Hiller. He announced that Guy was to replace Lee Jonas in an autumn production co-starring Tia Gale. He explained Lee Jonas had signed a contract to star in three movies, the first, a comedy, to begin late fall in Italy with Reese Witherspoon.

As glasses tinkled, Hattie was aware of Lee observing her from the far end of the table. She arose. "I need to refresh myself, Hub. I won't be long." She dropped her napkin on the seat and hastened to the ladies room.

Inside the potpourri-scented room, Hattie brushed her long brown, golden highlighted hair so it fell in wispy layers over her shoulders. She outlined her eyes with mascara and adjusted the straps to her pale blue slip dress. She appraised her image in the full-length mirror. Satisfied, she entered the hall off the lounge and stopped abruptly as a deep voice said, "Hattie...baby!"

She regarded Lee with cool interest.

"Hey, didn't you miss me?" He asked, moving close to her.

She took a step backwards.

Lee frowned. "I thought we had something going...how can you discount how we felt for each other a short time ago?" His Johnny Depp eyes smoldered. “I thought we could get together. I'm in town for a few days.”

Hattie marveled at how calm she felt. “You and Marilee have reconciled?”

Lee waved his manicured hand. “We've settled on an open- relationship.” He drew near to her again and she slipped past him.

"Break a leg in Italy, Lee."

When she returned to the table and sat down across from Hub, he cleared his throat. "You and Lee were gone at the same time. I couldn't help noticing.

Hattie looked into Hub's keen eyes. "Lee and I met by accident in the lounge hall."

"I would've liked to have been a bee around that conversation." Hub picked up a dinner knife and fiddled with it, his fingers constantly moving.

Hattie smiled a trifle ruefully.

"Did you talk about anything in particular?" Hub looked at her, waiting.

"Mundane," Hattie reached across the table and took Hub's hand in hers, gently massaging his fingers. She said in a low voice, “You know, Hub, love must be sincere. It took a while”… she paused. “I had to get the wrong man out of my system. Plus, I had to get past the fact you and I were in the Tiddly-Wink Daycare Center together. How unromantic is that?” She gave a snuffling laugh. “How about a latte and a cinnamon bun at Starbucks tomorrow morning. Just like old times, only it'll be a new beginning.”

Hub had the most disarming smile. Deep in his jacket pocket, he grasped a pink diamond ring in a blue velvet box. “Let's see where it takes us.”

- - -
I have published numerous articles and short stories in various magazines and newspapers. I have four books in print, Melrose, Then And Now, a historical volume, I Passed This Way, a poetry collection, The Dog Men, a thriller, and Tales of an Upstate New York Bottle Miner, non-fiction. I live with my husband, Art, at Babcock Lake in the Grafton Mountains near Petersburgh, New York. Visit me at authorpcrandall.blogspot.com

3/26/12

Cowboy Kisses
By John Laneri


It was a Saturday night. A group of us from the Double R were celebrating at the Dead Horse, a saloon on the outskirts of Lubbock. We had just ordered beers when a cute little lady wearing jeans and a red tank top started circling our table.

“I’m selling kisses for five dollars”, she said in a friendly voice.

I tossed her a smile. “Cowboys don’t kiss. It ain’t’ natural.”

“And, why not?” she asked, as she settled onto my lap and draped an arm about my neck. “I bet cowboys are good kissers.”

“We are, but we only kiss when we have good reason.”

She fluffed her hair and offered me another friendly smile. “I’ve always liked rugged men with smiling faces.” She paused to look me over, her eyes going from my curly hair to my freshly polished boots. “You're exactly my type.”

“That’s good enough for me,” I said, as I pulled five from my pocket and proceeded to lay a big one on her lips. She sighed deeply, her softness pressing me close.

Coming up for air, I said, “Wow… that was great.”

“Was it your best ever?" she asked, playfully.

“I need another kiss before sayin' for sure. But, you’re better than Mildred.”

Her eyes searched mine. “Who’s Mildred, your wife?”

“No ma’am,” I replied laughing. “I’m not married. Mildred’s my horse.”

She smiled politely, as if she had expected to hear something more lasting, then she came to her feet and headed toward Charlie, one of my friends.

I settled back to work my beer, watching as she moved around the table, going from person to person presenting them her lips. By then, I was beginning see her in a different light, and I liked what I saw.

From time to time, I noticed her look my way, and soon, we were communicating something special between us. It was almost as if we had known each other forever.

Finally, she returned to my lap and quietly settled her head against my shoulder, her eyes going to mine. “I've never known a man like you. I could fall in love so easy. Tell me this is not a dream.”

Whispering, I replied, “It's no dream. What we feel is real.”

I sought her lips. She responded eagerly, the warmth of her caress overwhelming me with joy – that is, until the thud of boots stopped beside us.

“What the hell are you doing with my girl?”

Suddenly, she went flying off my lap like someone shot from a cannon. I came to my feet trying to explain her little game and found myself confronting fiery eyes and a bull neck. It wasn’t long before I was on the floor kissing a size twelve boot.

“Don’t hurt him, Big Jake…please. He's a good man. I was only selling kisses.” She reached into her pocket and shoved a hand full of money toward him. “See, I’ve already turned fifteen dollars, just what you wanted.”

He eased off the boot and reached for the money. “Fifteen dollars… that ain’t enough. I told you to charge these yahoos ten bucks.” He returned to me. “The lady’s worth more. How much you got, cowboy?”

I mumbled something unintelligible.

He gave the boot another nudge and growled, “I asked you a question, and I don’t have time to stand around.”

“Probably about twenty,” I replied quickly, using the side of my mouth to talk.

“Then, hand it to her – you underpaid.”

I did as he asked and felt the boot ease away. Soon, I watched him stomp out the door with her in tow. At one point, she looked back in my direction, her eyes begging me to save her.

Feeling a bit dazed from the ruckus, I stumbled about then turned to my friends, “What are you fellows looking at? She liked me.”

Charlie slapped his leg in laughter. “I've never seen a girl jump so high. I’m bettin’ you kiss like Mildred.”

“Maybe so,” I replied, “But, something special just happened between us, and I don't intend to lose it.”

With that said, I headed for the door to find her, even if it meant tangling with Big Jake and his size twelve boots.


- - -
John is a native born Texan living near Houston. His writing focuses on short stories and flash. Publications to his credit can be found on the internet and in several print edition periodicals.

3/25/12

Standing in a Doorway
By Daniel J. Pool


He clutched the handle, turned it, and started to go in. She stopped him before he even made it in the door; letting herself weep into his shirt. He stood there for just a moment, hesitating, wondering what to do.

He wanted to be happy, but did not know what she wanted.

She wanted to be strong, but did not know how.

“Don’t be scared. We can do this,” he said.

“But what will my parents say?” she replied.

A breeze swept the fumes of mowed grass and chlorine through the front door and around the couple. Something with wings hummed over the flower bed. The clouds slowed to a crawl. For that minute, the world stopped for two huddled in the entrance.

“Hey, it’s going to be ok,” he told her, wiping a tear off her cheek.

She replied with a nod and a choke as more tears burned rings around her eyes.

“I know.”

“I have to go back to work. Text me after you go to the doctor.” Squeezing her he kissed her forehead and said, “And tell your dad I’m not leaving town, not even if he threatens me. I’m here for you. “

Silence. The tears slowed, then stopped.

“I’ll see you after work?”

“Yes dear. “ Turning to walk away, he stopped, “I love you.”

“I love you too.”

Without every stepping inside, they took their first steps. Edging forward into life, the couple decided theirs.

On a rainy day in November they became a couple. In the back of a sedan in February they became lovers. And on a sunny day in October they became parents.


- - -
Daniel J. Pool is an IT consultant, writer, and part-time funny man from the Southern Mid-West. His works has appeared in Weird Year, Indigo Rising, and the Fringe Magazines respectfully. In his spare time he edits Larks Fiction Magazine.

3/24/12

Distraction
By Linda M. Crate


you’re my distraction —
I think of you at work, at home,
when I should be doing other
things than wasting my time
daydreaming about the topography
of your face, the exact shade of
your eyes, the way you make me
smile just by being you; you’ve
never tried to be anyone but you,
and your honesty is refreshing —
it washes over me in waves, and
makes me believe that perhaps
all those preconceived notions I had
about the whispers of love were
wrong because you are the best
personification of her I’ve ever had,
and you haven’t shattered me.


- - -
Linda Crate is a Pennsylvanian native born in Pittsburgh yet raised in the rural town of Conneautville. She has a Bachelor's in English-Literature from Edinboro University. Her poetry and short stories have been published in several magazines.

3/23/12

7:49
By David L Major

She has a magical smile.

It’s not meant for him,

but he intercepts the odd one

like a sneak thief.

When she laughs,

there is a tilt of the head

that is quite intoxicating.

She doesn’t know that she does it.

Sometimes, he works for these;

sometimes, it’s just a matter of waiting —

either way, they always come.

Then, he is happy.

- - -
David L Major was born in 1957, in Wanganui, New Zealand. After graduating with a B.A. in Regional Planning from Massey University in Palmerston North, he spent several years touring New Zealand in bands. He emigrated to Australia in 1990, and in 1994 received a B.A. in Fine Art (Painting) from Prahran College in Melbourne. More recently, he has gained a Diploma in Professional Writing from BRIT in Bendigo, Victoria. He is the author of "The Day of the Nefilim", an SF novel, and "The Secret Weapon", a collection of short stories and poetry created during 2011. He has three daughters; Isobel, Sian, and Carys.

3/22/12

Away
By Mel K. F. (and) Megan Bufford (Credits for creation, Aunorn)


Forbidden fruit tastes the best whenever new love arises. Eyes of sapphire stared deep into emeralds as lust beckoned them. Curls of midnight outlined an oval face of pure beauty. Long, pointed ears told the story of what the elf was. Pale skin shone under the moonlight; her mysterious, dark aura gave a certain chill to those who imposed. Pink-colored lips briefly touched his own, but she paused in further exploitation due to his frail mortality. She was a tainted demon that belonged to every nightfall and sunrise. She hid within society, like most of her kind. Hope was hesitant. Her gaze trembled from within as fear began to surface.

Warm hands slowly wandered down his hardened chest, being felt through the thin fabric that concealed many scars which came from many battles. Long, blond bangs were blown back as his lips demanded so from the slight irritation that they were simply in the way. He peered down at her once more, then stepped back.

“Lady Lorais, I serve you…and your husband, Vladysia. We dare not do this.”

“I do know of what I desire, dear Aunorn. My husband harms me, ye knows this. My passion grows daily. Do not deny me.”

The mortal man moved forward once more. His hands on her shoulders as he leaned into her to speak whispers of what she did, indeed, desire. “My lovely, Hope, when the timing is right I will take you away. That monster does not deserve your compassion.” he finished, and peered back at his beauty. The woman that treated him like a person right from the beginning, never a servant as he was so.

Hope forced a smile, one he grew confused over. Aunorn listened as she spoke words that called out. “Take me away?” her voice was soft. It barely stood over a whisper. “I will await that day, but remember, I am a monster as well.”

She turned, shaken by his simple words. The bottom of her crimson dress flowed past her feet. It brushed along the cobblestone path with each step she made away from Aunorn. Its color mimicked the roses that grew wildly within the gardens.

Hope paused at the mansion gates her husband owned. She smiled at the thought to be away one day just like Aunorn stated. Reluctantly, she proceeded inside to retire for the night.

Aunorn watched her wanting to follow, but knew he could not. He was nothing more to the others then a mere servant; a bodyguard. A sigh parted his lips as he grasped the side of his belt. He brought out a twisted dagger. The moonlight peered down into it’s cold steel just as his emerald eyes did the same.

‘One day,’ he thought, ‘One day I will take you away from all of this.’


- - -
She is new to the writing world, but enjoys anything artistic. Her favorite things to do is anything from a simple read to a silly play through of a video game.

3/21/12

ENCORE!
By T.C. Stevenson

Dedicated to Holly Massard

When the bombs fell in Dublin, they danced the Charleston. When Big Ben buckled and fell during the air raids in London, they waltzed in the ballroom. When Berlin was overrun, they salsa danced. The world was ending all around them, but dancing was all they knew how to do. It was all they could do. While the television blared on in the living room, narrating the end of the world, they would turn on the stereo and dance until their legs turned to jelly. Such was their only escape; it was the only thing left living for.

They met in college at Temple University’s school of music and dance in Philadelphia. During many productions, the two had been paired together in leading roles. Within a month of recitals, they were best friends. By the end of their first performance, they were in love. At the end of their college careers, they were engaged to be married.

That had been nearly two years ago and neither Leon Proscue nor Holly Massard would have ever guessed that time could go by so fast. After their marriage, Leon and Holly went on to become two of the most successful and renowned dancers of their time. Together they opened the biggest dancing studio on the east coast and taught everything from classical ballet to swing to break dancing. They choreographed dance routines with the biggest and brightest stars of the music industry. Their productions drew in the wealthiest and most refined men and women in the world. The success of their professions had bought them a lavish lifestyle of splendor and a loft in Manhattan, half of which they had transformed into a dance studio.

Leon and Holly Proscue were two of those rare and blessed individuals whose lives revolved around their passions. Their luck was further compounded by the fact that their love was as genuine as it was profound. They never grew tired of each others’ company, they shared nearly identical interests, and their arguments, if they could even be described as such, were always resolved in a compromise that resulted in mutual contentment and growth. In short, theirs was a love that few believe in, but everyone seeks.

However, their fate was not to be in the company of a world as peaceful and compassionate as they. During the summer of their first anniversary together, war broke out in the world once more. Intricate ties of alliances dragged country after country into the throes of conflict. With the majority of the world’s nations involved, there was no hope for diplomacy. Within five years’ time, World War Three threatened to destroy humanity in its entirety.

From the rooftop of his apartment building in New York City, Leon smoked a cigarette and contemplated the chaos that had begun to unfold below him. Military vehicles flooded the streets to prevent the looting that had begun shortly after the simultaneous invasion on the western coast of the United States and the occupation of Canada. The country was set to fall. Luckily for him, Leon had foreseen the impending defeat long before his countrymen; when he had time to prepare for the hardships that come with being a suppressed people.

The desperate looters below had not been so fortunate as to predict the ensuing anarchy. The streets were flooded with the desperate. Some protested for peace and order. Most, feeling trapped and hopeless under the weight of a collapsing society, protested against the injustices of their dire circumstances in the only way they knew how, violently. Their mingling angry cries were constant, occasionally accompanied by a burst of gunfire or a small explosion. Most had given up on foraging for food; it was all gone. Leon felt his heart wrench at the thought of the wall of canned goods stacked up in his closet. He wanted to help them, but he knew there was no saving the city; he knew there was no saving himself either.

Leon ran a hand through his thick, brown hair and walked back down three flights of stairs and into his apartment. The sound of Otis Redding singing “These Arms of Mine” caressed his ears and he was overwhelmed with a deep, yearning nostalgia. He was carried back through time to the night of his honeymoon with Holly. His senses had been dreamily intoxicated with wine and sweet liquors. He was following Holly from room to room of the suite, catching only the passing wave of her inviting fingertips or the curve of her bare leg from door to door. She laughed as she drunkenly pranced from room to room. Otis was singing songs of loss and love; hardship and wonder. The night had ended with their lovemaking as they basked in the light of a full moon cast perfectly over the ocean in clear, starry skies.

His vision was interrupted by the abrupt end of the music. The deep, practiced voice of a television reporter replaced Otis’. Leon walked down the hallway and into the living room to investigate. There, he found Holly standing in the middle of the room facing the television.

“Ladies and Gentlemen,” the reporter began with a look of grave urgency “I am grieved to report that the President has been assassinated.” The reporter continued the announcement with details of the assassination but Leon paid no attention to it. As far as he was concerned, the end was inevitable, president or not.

Holly turned towards him, sensing his presence behind her. Her large, gray-sometimes-blue-sometimes-green eyes swelled with tears and she rushed towards him. 'She was dancing' Leon thought to himself as he took her into his arms. She drew in a deep, wheezing breath in an attempt to control herself before breaking down into sobs. Leon swept her up and carried her to the couch where he laid her down and rested her head on his lap. He ran a soothing hand through her wavy hair and looked down at her with a smile.

Holly sat up and turned her head away from her husband to hide her sorrow. Leon chuckled silently to himself, amused by her lingering attempts to hide weakness; Holly had always been a stubborn and prideful woman. Gently, he grasped her chin with his hand and turned her head to face him.

“I wish none of this had happened.” Holly said; fresh tears began to accumulate at the corners of her eyes. She struggled to retain them, but failed, freeing them to stream down her flushed cheeks.

“So do all who live to see such times, but that is not for them to decide. All we have to decide is what to do with the time that is given to us.” Leon wiped away Holly’s tear with his thumb.

“You stole that.” Holly accused. The corners of her lips curled into a subtle smile that Leon recognized and loved.

“I did.” Leon laughed. “Gandalf, Lord of the Rings.” He admitted. Holly rolled her watery eyes with a sniffle and a laugh.

“Leon, I'm scared.”

“Holly, you've never been scared before.” Leon marveled. “I've always been the one that was scared. Do you remember our first performance together?”

“Of course I do!” Holly laughed and took Leon's hands in her own. Her fearful visage had been replaced with one of joyous recollection. “You were so scared you were shaking from head to toe.”

“But you were there for me. You had the confidence in me I didn't have in myself. I never would have been able to do it without you.”

“And I never could have done it without you.” Holly replied. Leon shook his head, but did not verbalize the truth he knew in his heart. Holly was destined for greatness from the moment she was born; Leon had merely ridden on the coattails of her success.

“How?” Holly asked. “How can you not be scared now with the world ending all around us?” Leon's answer was nearly lost in the oceans that were Holly's gray, disbelieving eyes.

“How do you know I'm not?”

“I know you Leon. I know you better than I know myself.” Leon chuckled in response. It was true, she knew him inside and out yet she had never, at least not outwardly, appeared aware of her own talent and strength.

“Look, it’s not that everything that's happening isn't scary.” Leon began and motioned to the television with a nod of his head. His hands tightened around Holly's as he spoke. “And I know this is corny, but I'm honestly not afraid of anything when you're with me. There's no one in the world that I'd rather face the apocalypse with than you Holly.”

Holly stared into the hazel mirrors of Leon's eyes as he spoke, seeing the truth in it all. Leon watched with amazement as understanding dawned in his wife's eyes. The possibility of a threatening future remained, but the acceptance of their hopelessness alleviated them of the responsibility of fear and left them with a feeling of fulfillment. Yet, as if on cue, as one metaphorical light went on, all others went out. The television cut out with a hiss and their apartment, along with the entire northeastern United States, was plunged into darkness.

The two remained where they were, staring into the only lights left in the city. When they had finished silently communicating to each other, 'It's going to be okay', Leon rose to find candles. An overwhelming fear overtook Leon from the moment he left Holly’s side. It was as though every moment apart was a moment in which their lives could tragically end in separation. Less than half a minute later, he returned running to the room with two lit candles. Holly’s face reflected the same horror he had experienced in their brief time apart. Upon understanding each others’ mutual empathy, the two broke out into laughter.

“Dance with me?” Leon asked and offered Holly a candle.

“How? We have no music.” Holly accepted the candle and offered her free hand. Leon lifted her off the couch with a smile and silently led her through the apartment to his closet in their bedroom. After some searching, Leon lifted a dusty record player from the shelf. He offered it to his wife with a smug grin.

“And to think I made fun of you for buying that thing.” Holly sighed. She always pretended to hate when Leon was right. Leon winked at her in response. “Will it work though? There's no power.” Holly lifted the cord up to Leon.

“Back up batteries.” Leon explained and tapped on the bottom of the record player. “Come on.” Together they climbed the stairs to the roof with a growing excitement. They both knew that a great moment was upon them. In the face of adversity, they would dance.

It was a clear, early October night. The air was cool and crisp, but not yet uncomfortable. The stars, which had always been masked by the artificial luminescence of the city, were shining above them with an indifferent brilliance. Leon placed the record player on the ground, rested the needle on the LP, and turned it on. A moment later, their favorite song sprung forth into the night air. Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata mingled with the sound of a siren rising in the dark. Without a word, Leon extended his hand as the curtains rose to reveal the final act and Holly came to him.

Never before had they danced so well, so perfectly. Even as the world began to tremble with the coming of doom, they could not be moved from the grace of their step. A rebellion against the very nature of destruction, the serene beauty of their dance echoed unseen throughout time- a celebration of all wonder man has wrought; an inurning for all that he has undone. The dance was as elegant and complicated as their most intricately choreographed performance and yet it was a dance they had never performed before. Their bodies and minds moved as one with the music with a fluid grace and inherent beauty that matched, if not surpassed, the wonder of Beethoven’s classic.

They were so enveloped in their defiance that they did not hear the planes approaching from the north. They did not hear the explosions of artillery and anti-air cannons or machine gun fire; nor would they have cared even if they had. As the last notes of the song came to an end, Leon dipped Holly into a dramatic close and the world exploded into a thunderous, one hundred megaton applause. It was their finest performance.

- - -

3/20/12

Seasons of Love
By Linda M. Crate


I feel as if I could tell you anything,
and you would not be chased away by
the purport of my words; whether in
malice or in joy, whether kind or unkind —
you love me unconditionally, and it’s
unlike anything I’ve known; I don’t want
to push you away, but there’s a part of
me that wants to test the boundaries to
see just how deep the depths of your love
go, to see if they wash upon me with the
torque of the ocean; I see that they are
unending as the cycle of daisies marching
upon my yard every spring, so are we
dying and revived with each season of love.


- - -
Linda Crate is a Pennsylvanian native born in Pittsburgh yet raised in the rural town of Conneautville. She has a Bachelor's in English-Literature from Edinboro University. Her poetry and short stories have been published in several magazines.

3/19/12

Last Train
By Jeff(anity)


It was a long and slow car ride, the radio had just been stolen out of her little Toyota and she was still a little too proud to go and replace it. “I won’t let them win, those little mother fuckers,” she kept telling me. All there was were the pattering sounds of the rain as it hit the windshield and the thump of the wipers clearing the way. It must have been luck of some sort because we didn’t manage to catch a single green light all the way, but we didn’t make use of our time like each of us had hoped. My mind was wrestling with my tongue trying to come up with something clever to say.
Would it be appropriate to bring up the past at this point? Who would it hurt more if I traced my fingers across the long vein of our history and severed it, letting the memories pour out between us? Who would be the one the stop the bleeding?
I kept thinking. What was she thinking? Was she just as trapped as I? I shouldn’t have asked her for a ride. I should have just taken the bus. I was startled and wrenched from my own thoughts when I heard a quick sneeze from the drivers seat. “Pardon me,” she said quickly scratching her nose and then looking back intently on the road, another red light.
“Thanks,” I said, finally.
“Huh?”
“For the ride.”
“Oh yeah, no problem,” she said. I noticed that she didn’t even look at me when she spoke, eyes intently on the road. I was still watching her and noticed her mouth start to open and lips move like she were going to say something, then it quietly closed.
“What?” I asked.
“I didn’t say anything,” she replied.
“Oh.” Back to quiet.
Traffic began to pick up, another miracle or stroke of luck I suppose. Some asshole started quiet the nasty car accident, detours were put up all over the place.
My mind couldn’t stay still. I thought past, present, and future all at the same time.
What was her favorite memory? I remember reading once in her journal some time ago, when we were still in high school about a dream she had of me. How I held her strong and kissed her. In the dream, she wrote, that it was the most vivid dream she had ever had. She doesn’t know I made a habit of reading her journal, every once in a while, just to know what was going on beneath her million dollar smile, and priceless lips. She went further in detail about that dream. She described the scene in such detail, what did she say it was again:

“in the corridor in the upstairs of my home. I don’t remember why he was there, and I don’t much care for that matter. What does matter is that I can’t stop repeating the image of him standing in front of me, his broad chest heaving heavily like he’d just run some sort of race and I just standing there outside the door to my room looking into his eyes in a dark shade of amber brown in awe. I closed my eyes to blink and in the split second my eyes were shut he moved in and kissed me. Until then I hadn’t noticed that where my lips were slightly uneven, the bottom one a little more fuller than the top his were as near perfect as could be. He kissed me and held me strong by my hip cementing me there.”

She has no idea that I’ve had dreams too. Dreams of her of just her, then dreams of she and I. But do my own dreams count as memories? I remember one dream in particular. That night when I went to sleep it had been raining, because the sound of the rain intruded into my dream. I dreamt that she was there, knocking on my door in the middle of the rain. She was soaked, her yellow tank top clinging to her body desperately, her sneakers and socks both water logged and tracking where ever she went. In my dream I had a fireplace, when in reality I don’t. I dreamt that I had given her some spare clothes, and I didn’t watch her as she changed, instead I lit a blazing fire. In my dream she was the one with the courage to kiss me. Her perfectly sparkling mahogany eyes were hidden beneath her eye lids just before our lips touched. I to this day wish there were more to this dream, but as I slept the storm got worse and a shrieking crack of thunder hurdled me from my bliss to my cruel and lonely reality.
I looked over at her and caught her looking at me, but she didn’t turn away like most people would, she kept staring and only looked away once the light finally turned green.
“You know how long you plan on being gone this time,” she finally asked, settling on a question that wasn’t too intrusive.
“Not a clue, long as it takes I suppose.”
“Oh.” Back to silence.
Was her favorite memory the New Years Eve party from the year before? She had the flu and everyone else had gone to my parent’s house for the celebration, but I managed to sneak out at around 11:50 to walk down the street, champagne bottle in hand and join her. Her fever had already broken she told me, and assured me that she was no longer contagious as I had covered my mouth and nose with the top of my shirt as a joke that she vaguely laughed at. We hadn’t bothered to wait until the new year to open the champagne. We were three glasses in by the time we got the then countdown. Ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five, four, three, two, one and we poured another glass for ourselves. We set a toast to ourselves, wrapping our forearms around each other’s like we had seen in a movie once, and took a drink. By the time we had finished the bottle we were a giggling drunk mess. We got to, I don’t clearly remember who started it, a tickling competition, and I quickly over powered her, pinning my body on top of her tickling her sides as she squealed in delight underneath me. “Say uncle,” I commanded, and she held out. Again I tried my command, “Say uncle.”
She shrieked in delight at my touch, and finally she began “Unc-“
My lips cut her off, and we had finally kissed. She succumbed easily to my lips and began to lean her body upwards kissing me back. We paused only to move into her bedroom, kicked about between her sheets. Because I hadn’t the tolerance for alcohol that one would equate to a man, I woke up the next morning with very little recollection of what had occurred the night before. I woke up in her bed alongside her, naked except for a sock on my left foot, a peek under the covers revealed that she was too. I slid from outside the covers, retrieved my clothes and was gone by the time she woke, no note.
I wonder to this day if she remember s what happened, I’m just too afraid to have my suspicions realized.
I wanted to tell her then, I wanted to tell her so much then. I wanted to tell her that I was sorry for leaving her there, naked and probably confused. These are words I’ve been choking on for the last eighteen months. I wanted to ask her about her first boyfriend, the second and third one too, and why none of them were ever me (except I knew that answer already).
“We’re here,” she finally said.
“Oh.”
She pulled into the lonely train station and parked in the deserted parking lot, letting the car idle.
I looked at my watch, “if you don’t mind, the train doesn’t leave for another fifteen or twenty minutes, I could sure use some company,” I asked, but if she looked into my eyes and not at the windshield wipers that danced back in forth on the winsheild she could see that with my eyes I was pleading she say yes; that she would oblige my request.
She didn’t say anything, but turned the car off and opened her door. I scrambled to reach in the back seat and get my duffel back, hoist it over my seat and hurriedly follow her into the station. She was reaching a cluster of benches by the platform I’d be departing from when caught up to her. We sat facing each other, but both of our faces were turned away.
“Do you have you’re ticket?”
“Yup, right here,” I said smiling, patting my breast pocket.
“Good.”
The silence was back between us. “This weather sure doesn’t make you believe it’s spring time,” I said feebly looking out at a distant watching the grey clouds and the rain as it fell.
“Yeah.”
Again silence.
The next time though, she was the one that broke it, “I wish you wouldn’t go sometimes.”
“Only sometimes,” I joked.
She looked at me sternly.
“Sorry. It was just a joke.”
“You always joke.”
“I like to see you smile, that’s why?”
“Sure could have fooled me,” she muttered under her breath.
“What?”
“Nothing,” she replied quickly turning her face from me once again.
Over head my train had been announced, boarding now the voice said over the intercom. I got up and got my duffel bag and got up, and before I could say anything she got up too and took my hand, so we walked. Hand in hand towards the steaming train.
Maybe her favorite memory was that fateful night when we thought to attempt to make something of our situation. I took her out a rightful date. I tried to look as casual, yet presentable as possible when I showed up at her door, with tan chinos and button down shirt that had the sleeves rolled up to the elbows. I rang the door bell twice, and in a moment she was standing in front of me in a royal blue dress, with lace around the color, and at the bottom of the dress, which was mid thigh. I could barely mutter a small compliment because I was in such awe. The date went well, considering this was not the first time we’d gone to a restaurant together, we already knew what each other had liked and liked to talk about. It go a little weird in the movie theater, we both had reached for the arm rest at the same time and her hand rested on top of mine for a moment, I expected her to move it but she let it lie there. We had gone to see something witty and romantic, and just at the part where the main protagonist is losing everything, his friends, his good fortune, and eventually the woman he loves I couldn’t stand another second and I pulled her face to mine and we kissed under the cover of darkness. We never made it to the end of the movie, we left before we got to see the young champion get everything restored to him. My car was outside her house, the night at its end. I was expecting her to invite me inside for “coffee” which neither of us drank, but merely as a formality to get me inside her door, but she didn’t she merely kissed my cheek lightly and got out of the car, half skipping up the walk way into her house. I was expecting a call for a second date, waited a week but nothing. But I did get another call, I had to leave again, back to my dad before we could figure out a thing.
“Last call for all boarding,” shouted a small female conductor over the engine of the train.
“Well I guess this is it then,” I said letting her hand go and picking up my duffel bag.
“I guess it is,” she replied, finally looking me in the eyes.
I made my way on to the train, lingering at the door way a bit, I turned back around and seen that she was still standing there, just a few feet from the train, “Hey,” I shouted at her, getting her attention, “there is something I’ve been meaning to ask.”
“What is it?” she shout back as the train released its break and started its crawl.
“What’s your favorite memory, you know. Of us?”
I seen her mouth move in reply, but the train let off it’s blaring whistle warning people that they train was now in motion, and as it picked up speed I shout “what?”
And I seen her mouth open wider, she was probably screaming, but that goddamn whistle drowned her out again.

- - -