5/31/12

Lightness
By Steven Ortega


I've found a lightness
living within

Light as a strand of his
hair

Let it contain the voice
that he left me

Oh will he be in my
dreams

Red haired devil, stain
me much like your voice

I've found a lightness
within


- - -

5/30/12

Love in Paradoxes
By Maelina Frattaroli


I speak to break your silence
My hopes are your stomping ground
I laugh because your face is numb
I shed tears because your eyes are dry
I go Breast Cancer pink because you go Army green

I'm on a whim and you're on a regiment
Your hidden agenda is transparent
I walk in circles; you walk in squares

I journey to the other side of the world-- where you are
To drift further and further from you
And we find each other
Still lost on dead-end roads

Together, we are inseparable
Oddly, we're an even pair
Hatefully, we love one another


- - -
Maelina isn't a fan of writing bios; they're so impersonal. But, here goes. She's a lover of words and all things garlic. She'll be forever inspired by Tom Waits and Neil Diamond. She also has a relentless phobia of moths.

5/29/12

Let's Last
By Linda M. Crate


you make my knees
sway like the limbs of

a tree in a harsh wind
when you walk by; your

words make me blush
like a schoolgirl giddy —

you make my heart sing
songs of adulation that

nest in the heart like
birdsong; I could spend

an eternity in your arms,
and not be bored with the

outcome, in a world where
nothing lasts — let’s make

ourselves a promise: let’s last.


- - -
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.

5/28/12

The Smile
By Megan Zabran


Who knew one expression could make your heart melt.
With one jerk of the lips everything changes.
That sweet, soft mouth, becoming perfect,
each one is different, but only one blows you away.

This one movement makes everything seem perfect,
and makes the sun shine brighter.
Everything is so much better with this expression.
Everyone is better too.

A smile changes your face,
but the smile changes your life.
The smile with the crooked teeth,
and the lips barely covering their surface.

We’ve all got that smile within us,
it’s just trying to come through.
It becomes breathtaking,
the light of love, can’t help but shine through.

The moment you have this smile,
you become this perfect everything.
You make the sun shine brighter,
and most importantly you make their heart flutter.


- - -
From a tiny town in Northern Illinois, aspiring writer in community college. Grew up writing whatever and wherever I could. The poem is my feelings toward my boyfriend that I have been with three years and every time he smiles he reminds why I love him.

5/27/12

The Music Box
By Mike Berger


The fire was devastating;
our house went up in flames.
Fortunately, we were away
and our house could be replaced.

The tragedy was the loss of
things you can't replace. There
were albums and family pictures.
My wife's doll collection was now
a pile of ashes.

When you get old, you accumulate
a lot of memorabilia. It all went up
in smoke; we were brokenhearted.

Friends and family gathered to
help us sort through the ashes.
There wasn't much left but charred
remains.

I found an old music box. It was
burned black but was still intact.
Cautiously I opened the lid.

I gave that box to my little bride
when I came home from the service.
It played, "Unchained Melody."

"Oh my love my darling, I've hungered
for your touch a long lonely time."

I took my wife in my arms and suddenly
things didn't matter. There were tears in
our eyes.


- - -
I am Mike Berger, MFA in creative writing. I am now retired and writing poetry full time. I have only been writing for three years. I have had good success publishing and have authored seven poetry chapbooks.

5/26/12

Still Missing You
By Alexandra Koziak


I miss feeling his heartbeat.
It was always so loud
And comforting.
I miss falling asleep on his chest
I miss crying in his arms
Crying is so lonely
Without him here to hold me
I miss holding his hand
I miss kissing him
I miss the way he would
Run his tongue along my lips
Playfully, jokingly
I miss the way he made me laugh
I miss his smile
His gorgeous smile
I miss watching him
As he drove with his sunglasses on
The windows rolled down
Not a care in the world
I miss the way he laughed at me
Whenever I said something silly
With his eyebrows raised
And his crooked smile
I miss the way he would tickle me
I miss how he would promise things
And always follow through
I miss the way he would answer
The questions in the songs on the radio
I miss his silence
As he let me sing every song on the radio
I miss hugging him
I miss feeling his arms around me
In his Calvin Klein shirt
I miss him.
So much.


- - -
I am 18 years old and I am a current freshman at the University of Miami, Pre-Med. I write for fun.

5/25/12

Call me Oh My Love
By Khurshid Alam


Call me when you’re free
When you come close to rot
When you feel down
When you go awry

Call me when you dry up
When you hang up
When you cry at the foul
When you lament a mistake

I’ll be along with you for no good reason
Whenever you call me I’ll be by you.
In all situations, I will be yours!


- - -
Khurshid Alam is a writer by profession and works as a senior technical writer with an IT company based in Pune, Maharashtra (India). Many of his writings have been published in various journals, magazines and anthologies in India and abroad such as Asia Writes, The Blue Fog Journal, Daily Love, Gently Read Literature, Kaal4Flash, ken* again, Mainstream, Meantime, and Muse India to name a few. He is the Editor-in-Chief with Contemporary Literary Review India.

5/24/12

The Bicycle Ride
By John Laneri


It was another lazy summer day when I started toward Aunt Jillie’s Boarding House, a place most Texans refer to as the finest establishment in Neverton, a small community along the cattle trail to Fort Worth.

As I neared her front gate, I noticed a bicycle parked against a picket fence. Curious, I stopped to check it out.

“Why Sheriff Carson, you look like a young boy admiring a new toy.”

Turning about, I saw Jillie coming my way, her red hair glowing in the sunlight. She was undoubtedly the most beautiful woman I had ever known. I'd probably loved her since the first day we met some twenty years ago.

“I couldn’t resist the opportunity to look at a bicycle.”

She eased beside me and took my arm. “Then, take your time. We can look together.”

“These contraptions are interesting. I've been wanting to see how one works.”

She smiled easily, her voice purring like a kitten. “Is that all you wanted?”

Clearing my throat, I said, “ What I really wanted was some of your lemonade.”

She smiled, her green eyes sparkling playfully. “Some fellow drank all of the lemonade… said he pedaled that thing from Fort Worth.”

“But, that’s over fifty miles along wagon ruts and cow trails.”

“Claims he was thirsty.”

“What’s he doin’ now?”

She chuckled, her green eyes smiling with delight. “He’s splashing in my bathtub with one of the girls.”

I took a deep breath. “That’s mighty unsociable. I’ve spent most of my day thinkin’ about crawling into that tub with a glass of lemonade in one hand and you in the other.”

“We can splash together later,” she replied. “But that fellow represents money in my pocket.”

I had to appreciate her point of view, so I returned my attention to the bicycle and realized that I was admiring a world renowned, Saint Louis Flier.

I pulled it away from the fence. “Did you know this is one of the finest bicycles ever built? I read about it in a magazine.”

Jillie moved closer and ran a hand along the bars. ““This thing looks like a fun way to go places.”

I swung a leg over the seat and bounced up and down, my excitement growing. “Get on top. We’ll see if bicycle riding is worth the pedaling effort.”

She lifted her dress above her knees and settled on the handlebars. And, before long, we were moving toward the road, feeling a breeze blow in our faces.

Once at a comfortable speed, she glanced over her shoulder. “Where’re we going, Honey?”

“I was thinkin’ of peddlin’ in the direction of the river. It’s mostly downhill.”

I rumbled over a series of wagon ruts, feeling the bicycle jostle about. But, once it settled down, I increased my speed.

“Don’t go too fast,” she said, tugging her dress higher. “I don’t want a broken leg for having fun.”

“You needn’t worry. Bicycle riding is easier than I figured.”

Soon, my boots were pumping furiously – moving us from one side of the road to the other. At the bottom of the hill, we started into the woods, bouncing along a narrow footpath that followed the river.

She glanced at me, concerned. “I hope you know how to control this thing. We’re going too fast.”

I brushed her hair from my face and continued on, pushing the bicycle for all it was worth. “Keep your eyes on the trail and, tell me what you see. I know what I’m doing.”

She pointed to the side, her finger moving wildly. “Follow that path to the right. It goes away from the river.”

“I’m trying, but this thing won’t turn.”

“Then you need to stop.”

“Stop…how do I stop?”

Moments later, I was sitting in water up to my neck, spittin’ out a nasty mouthful of river and looking around for my hat. That’s when, I noticed Jillie glaring in my direction.

“One thing for sure,” she said, as she came to her feet and took a step. “You’ve ruined a perfectly good dress.” She took another step and slipped, her head plunging below the water. Struggling, she tried to stand. “And, you certainly don’t know how to entertain a lady. My hair is ruined too.”

Feeling responsible, I went to her, took her in my arms and carried her to shore, feeling my boots slog through the water. “Accidents happen, but we did get our splash together.”

I tried a smile, hoping to calm her mood.

She ignored it and looked away. “For your information, falling into the river is not the same as splashing in my bathtub. Don’t you know anything?”

“Probably not,” I said, as I eased her to the ground in the tall grass and settled nearby unsure of what to say.

For some time, I left her alone and simply reclined in the weeds, feeling the warmth of the sun cover me like a friend. By then, I was laughing to myself and enjoying the moment.

Finally, I turned to her. ”I do know one thing.”

“And what's that?” she asked, her voice on edge.

“I know you, and that’s plenty important.”

She remained quiet for some time. Then, she turned to me. “You always say the sweetest things. That's why I love you so much.”

“When I'm with you, I always speak from the heart.”

She rolled beside me and settled her head against my chest, her eyes going to mine. “Then, snuggle closer. We don't need a bathtub.”


- - -
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.

5/23/12

Salty Sea-Sweet Soul
By Shayne Hinkle


Her fair skin reflected the Florida-summer sun. Watching the waves toddle upon the sand only to retreat again to the vast Atlantic he pondered life. For the last twenty years he was forced to concentrate on things most don’t bother one minute of their day with. There was no concern for normal adult issues. He scoffed at taxes and medical costs and retirement plans and college funds. He wondered if the precious time gifted to all humans prattling about this enormous blue-marble was really taken advantage of.

Aren’t you worried? He asked.

I’ve had way too much time to worry, she said.

Me and my stupid comments again.

Not stupid. You're just worried Baby. That's all. She said gripping his hand tighter and swinging her arm forward.

Each of them gazed upon the white-capping waves. Seldom did either look away from the red horizon while strolling along the beach.

Everything will be fine. Besides I know you won’t let me down…You never have, she said.

The hard object in his front pocket was felt every time his hand brushed his side. He gently took her hand and thought of the times spent with her in their garden back home tending to berry-bushes and pink bell-shaped flowers. Her hand was smaller now, too small for the wedding ring now hanging on her coral necklace.

It’s a beautiful sunset, she said. It’s been a long time since we’ve done this.

Too long, he said.

I just want to make the best of now and what is to come later, she said.

Their grandkids played as grandkids do. Their children watched from the confines of the wooden-railed deck. There were no smiling faces no joyous thoughts no feelings of happiness no feelings of hope no feelings of regret; only an understanding of what was to come with the next sunrise and why.

Thawed pineapple mugs sat about the dew covered tables on the deck. Plates of half eaten food and empty rum bottles filled the trash. The grill was still warm. The Tiki torches had burned out with the setting moon. The couple was lying on the beach being bathed in the morning sun. While stroking her hair over and behind her now seemingly small ear, he whispered questions to her.

Do you remember when I first met you? I do, he said softly.

He paused a moment only to snuggle closer to his still lovely wife.

You were the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen. Remember how I used to tell you that God must have been jealous that you choose to fall? I do, he said adding a soft kiss to her forehead.

Leaning his head on her, the couple stared at the deep blue. He kissed her on the cheek, recalling their youthful years together, how each of them had wanted a different life for the other and their children. The children, how they must feel, he thought. Closer the waves crept, as high-tide greeted the couple. In the midst of sloshing, salty-foam, he could hear sniffles behind him.

The children wanted to tell you good-bye one last time, Honey.

One by one each in their own way bid their mother farewell on her journey into the unknown. Flowers and kisses and sea shell necklaces and pictures and whimpered words and gentle touches and tears covered the strongest woman they had ever known. Each turned away in their own time, leaving their father alone with her for one last moment, one last memory.

The deep footprints leading from her body seemed to bear the sadness of their creators.

One by one the sorrowful steps were wiped from the sand by the ever churning surf. Even the tracks of the police and coroner could no longer be seen. Condolences given by neighbors and police and paramedics fell upon her husband’s deaf ears and silently smiling face as he pushed the white wicker glider back and forth with the heels of his bare feet. Holding her orchid head lei, he watched the small, brown, corked bottle drift out on the green tide.

Natural causes

Filled in the blank space on the death certificate and he took solace in knowing it was a lie. A peaceful departure surrounded by those who meant the most to her. And he had done it how she requested, with the dark Belladonna and Foxglove they had planted together in the garden a year before.


- - -
I am currently a non-traditional student at the University of Tennessee and enjoy writing in my spare time since completing some creative writing courses at Pellissippi State. I am a father of four and married to the love of my life. I normally concentrate on poetry, so this is new and fresh for me.

5/22/12

The Seasons of You and Me
By Meagan Paramore


In the spring, we fall in love; you and me. Together, we stay up all night. We dream of the future, and dissect the past. We wonder how we got here. We decide that we don't care; you and me. Together, that's how it should be. We spend hours lying in your bed, learning the curves and lines of each other's body. We go on dates that we don't call dates, because to put a label on what we are would only stifle things. We're not really sure what this is anyways, but we like it; you and me. Together, we think we are unstoppable. You are not normal, but that's okay, because neither am I. Our instabilities and insecurities balance each other. We are like yin and yang; you and me. Together, we are whole.

In the summer, you and I grow weary. Apart, we drift away. We slash at each other with words and fists. We fight and make up, and fight and don't make up. You and I are breaking. Apart, we start to shatter. The heat drives you mad, and you take it out on me. I get restless in the warmth, and begin to fly away. You and I are still together, but the cracks are beginning to show. Further and further apart we go. We stretch until one of us simply has to snap. You break first, diving head deep into your insanities, and breaking me in the process. You and I have gotten completely out of hand. Apart, perhaps we can heal?

In the fall, I attempt to heal myself. I do not hear from you, I do not wish to. I spend time putting myself back together again. I am a puzzle, and even I, am unsure of what the final picture will be. I try to pick myself up from the mess that you have made of me. I still have heard nothing from you, and I am still grateful for that fact. You have wounded me deeply, perhaps deeper than anyone knew. You have made your scars on both my heart and soul. I spend time doing things for myself, so that I can remember who I am. There is still silence from you; I do not miss you. I have begun to learn to live again. I even begin to flirt with the idea of love again. I believe that I have finally found myself again. I hear from you at last, a simple message; I am glad, because I have missed you as a friend.

In the winter, we come together again. We set boundaries, and know that we can still be friends. We start to talk again, little things, at first. But soon, we are telling all our secrets again. We are closer than normal friends, but then again, when have we ever been normal? We have no demands of each other this time around. The only thing we ask is a pair of ears to speak to. And together, we oblige. We spend time in public places, never alone, where we can't get into trouble. It is nice for us to share with each other again. We are more than we could have ever dreamed of being. But we still are not lovers, nor are we in love; this is a good thing. As winter begins to thaw, we grow closer and closer. And finally on the cusp of spring, we kiss, and the cycle begins anew.


- - -
Meagan Paramore has been writing almost all her life. If she didn't write, she doesn't know what she'd do. But her mom has always claimed she was born to be a Disney Princess, so probably that.

5/21/12

Assembly Required
By Terry Jude Miller


In one of Tony Hoagland's poems
he writes about a dogwood losing its mind.
That tree whispers its madness
to jasmine in our backyard.

The vines crawl up the trellis
in a path of lunacy and scream
the delicate dialect of starred
white flowers and perfume.

My wife places a box
on the patio concrete
containing an assemble-yourself bronze fire pit.
We rip the box apart, to find another box inside,
then rip that box apart. She,
being the more mechanically-inclined of us,
holds the tools as I hand her the pieces
while telling her the worn joke
about remembering how to screw.

When we finish the assembly work,
we are not amazed that the fire pit
looks exactly like the image on the box.
We've spent twenty-six years putting
together and breaking things, so
we've gotten pretty good doing both.

She stands next to me
as we study the fleur di lis design
on the rim. She says,
"Do you think it's too warm
for a fire tonight?"

She's grown to expect either poetic
or smart ass responses from me
so I try to create one that's a little of both,
"It's never too hot for a fire at night."

She nods her head once, then takes my left hand
in both of hers, smiles, then coos,
"I suppose you're right."

On cue the sun dips behind
the neighbor's two-story colonial,
where the lights are never on.

The kiss is sweet and tender,
she places her palm against my cheek,
just the way I like it.

In our embrace, I look over her shoulder
to see Hoagland's dogwood whispering
to the potted lilies, pregnant with
tight green buds waiting for the evening's fire.


- - -
Terry Jude Miller's Bio: Terry Jude Miller is a Juried Poet of the 2011 Houston Poetry Fest. His award winning poems have been published in dozens of poetry publications. His books are available at bn.com and amazon.com. Miller is a retired college professor of eMarketing.

5/20/12

A Walk To Remember
By Linda M. Crate


you give me wings that I didn’t know I had,
you help me soar when I feel I cannot —
brushing away my sorrows and my anger
in equal measures of love, you show me what
romance ought to be, and I wonder why I
haven’t stumbled upon anyone like you before —
you are he that proves that chivalry isn’t
dead, that there’s a still a pulse in it’s veins;
you splash me in the shores of love that I’ll
never be able to forget, I’ll always remember.


- - -
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.

5/19/12

Courage and Cotinine
By Josh Gottlieb


Right before the lecture began, I ran to the head; there were only a few minutes left. I pushed the heavy, wooden door open and shut the stall as quick as I could. Without removing any clothing, I sat on the seemingly clean seat, and opened the top three buttons on my shirt. In my back pocket, I pulled out a small, white square that I placed in my teeth to hold momentarily. Ripping off the top portion, I drew out the clear, sticky strip and slapped it on my left tricep. After breathing a quick sigh of relief, I buttoned my shirt back up, tossed the empty packet in the toilet, and flushed.

Before leaving the bathroom I quickly looked in the mirror to make sure my hair was neat, which it was not. Since there was nothing I could do, I shrugged my shoulders and hauled myself to the lecture, which had not yet begun.

“Hello!” the instructor said cheerfully.

She was always elated, no matter the situation. I could have walked in, spat on the floor, and flipped her the bird, and she still would have smiled and told me how nice the weather was.

“Good morning,” I replied, not remembering it was noon.

I took my usual seat in the third row and slouched back, tossing my bag on the floor next to my chair. There was no point in opening it since there were no notes to take, considering we usually discussed topical issues loosely related to the subject matter for nearly the entirety of each fifty minute session.

“What’s up, Sam?” I heard from behind me.

“Hey Sarah.”

I served as Sarah’s single, male friend who wasn’t trying to sleep with her. Only half of that was true, since she knew I would hop in bed with her any time she wanted, but since I knew this was not a possibility there was no tension between us. In fact, we frequently discussed our sexual frustrations. It was just something that would simply never happen, and I was oddly content with this. Sarah however, was not the object of my fancy.

Then, as always, looking exhausted and carrying only a single book, she walked in right on time, two minutes late. She took her seat right next to the door, and her hair flipped just a bit when she reached to place the book under her chair. The endorphins flooded through my brain from the contents of the adhesive on my arm, but I like to think it was due to her walking in.

She crossed her legs and sat back a bit, letting her dirty blonde hair droop down on the chair-back. About an inch from her shoulder blades, the dirty blonde suddenly transposed to the seductive, blue dye she had recently applied. She turned her head slightly to the left to peer at the class, and just for a tick, locked eyes with me and smiled.

Within that fraction of a second, my heart fluttered. I could feel every organ in my body at once, and imagined a white, vaporous fume emitting from my skin, as if my soul had escaped. My eyelids turned heavy and my facial muscles tensed just enough to gesture a smile. This was pure, biological emotion; not a hint of logic formed it.

We gazed at each other, embracing each others’ eyes passionately. Her angelic, hazel irises met with my pedestrian, dark brown gashes that protruded from my head. I felt unworthy to even have the chance to be in their line of sight, or even glance at them peripherally! But despite my skepticism, I took them in.

Before I could even exhale, those dazzling eyes flashed back to the front of the room— back to the chalkboard, which hadn’t been used in a quarter century. The next fifty minutes went painfully slow, dragging on longer than the State of the Union address. At nine minute to the hour, the pseudo-intellectual discussion had ceased, and it was time to leave.

As I stood up, beads of sweat trickled down my ribcage, gently piercing the fabric of my shirt.

“Later,” I breezed to Sarah, who waved goodbye.

I quickly turned around and began walking towards the poor girl with whom I was infatuated. Her soft, pale hands reached under the chair to grab her book; her fingers clasped its spine gently.

“C’mon Sam,” I hissed to myself quietly.

My feet managed to gather up the strength to lift my shoes and carry me a few feet. I found myself behind an apple polisher who was determined to continue discussing the need for primary texts in higher education. Weaving past the misguided classmate, I found myself right behind the gorgeous book carrier. I walked up next to her, our hands about a half an inch from touching.

She turned and looked at me, those hazel eyes once again lifting my spirit, and flashed her perfect teeth. She quickly blinked twice. I took in half a breath and opened my mouth, about to deliver the message the remainder of my anatomy had been purging for the past hour.


- - -
Originally from the Washington, D.C. area, Josh Gottlieb enjoys writing about the mundane aspects of life, regardless of triviality. His work has appeared in The Scarlet Sound and Dew on the Kudzu: A Southern Ezine.

5/18/12

Scarlet's Savior
By Wendy L. Schmidt


Cheap motel,
disheveled bed,
symbolizes,
her doomed affair.

Pills in hand,
bitter tears spent,
farewell sighs,
to a cruel lover.

If this is all,
there is to life,
it's hardly worth,
the effort.

A foiled square,
tucked under,
threadbare pillows,
catches her eye.

Found treasure,
kisses bruised lips.
She settles in,
to savor dark desire.

Mood altering,
the silky taste,
is a reminder,
of simple pleasures.

She might miss,
long walks,
idle gossip,
southern sweet tea.

White pills tossed,
rye whiskey spilled,
swirling down,
a rust stained sink.

She powdered her nose,
primps her dark hair,
and stares at,
her mirrored reflection.

"I won't give up,"
Scarlet states,
"After all,
tomorrow is another day."


- - -

5/17/12

2/7/12
By Juliette Mann


I love
Waking up in the morning, smelling like you
My sheets smell like you
Even my thoughts smell like you.

For now, I’ll stay here
Tangled up in me
Smelling like you.


- - -

5/16/12

Hopes and Fears
By Tess Devine


I fear she's the same thing wrapped in a different package.
I fear she's sprinkled sugar on a pile of garbage, hoping you'll think it's candy.
I fear you've once again chosen from the pool of familiarity
in the hopes that you can expedite your love for her because you've already known her for so long.

I hope I'm wrong.

I hope she's everything you've hoped for.



- - -
Tess Devine is a St. Louis native who's relocated southwest to Springfield, Missouri. Her hobbies include writing, watching anything involving comedy, and forgetting Mumford & Sons lyrics while she sings in her car.

5/15/12

By the way
By Jessica Morrow


There’s this guy that I love. Consider guy a loose term. I don’t know whether to refer to a nineteen year old male as a man, a guy, a bloke, or even just a sentient human being from the opposite gender compatible sexually with myself.

Anyway, there’s this guy that I love.

We've only known each other for just over a year. But it’s like I’ve known him forever. I know his wants and his fears, his likes and his dislikes, his deepest darkest pages of his history. You might just look at us and go, oh not another teenage couple, but you’re wrong.

Do teenage couples deal what we’re dealing with? I highly doubt it. To some extent, I should admit it, because nobody’s ever alone in anything, even though they think so. I also know there are others because of my late night Google searches telling me history repeats itself. It just continues for generations. If we don’t fix what’s tearing us apart, things will just become worse and worse and worse until they just…explode.

Life is funny like that sometimes.

You’re going along so well – there are a few things you’d like to fix here and there, but its okay for now – and then boom, your world turns upside down.

Sorry for all my clichés, but it’s one of the few ways to illustrate a point, even if other writers just sigh and say thanks, but no thanks.

I don’t know if clichés can express my love for him. I might use one again later on, but for now, our love is unique. We are together and we are one. We know almost all about each other; much more than even a lot of married couples. You know the type that’s been married for years, and they have to lie to each other to keep the peace? The sort of lies, like credit card debt or where they’re spending their after-work hours, it’s depressing them. Their continued marriage is only continuing because of a very vague, selfish reason. Money is usually that reason.

True love doesn’t need sacks of cash. They can function just fine with the bare minimum, and a brilliant weekend needn't involved taking a luxury jet to Paris and a night out at the Hilton. It just involves being together. Whether you talk or not, it’s unimportant. It’s just basking in each other’s company. Just holding and seeing each other. There doesn't even need to be sex. Yes, you need sex in a relationship eventually, but if that’s all the relationship is, then there’s no point. The intimacy, it’s what makes everything tick. It’s what makes you truly realise you love your other half, and actually mean it. Without any added words – your high-paying job, your antics in the bedroom. Those add-ons might be lovely extras, but if you can’t just say the three words without anything added on, being together is nothing.

That brings me back to him.

I can guess you’re probably reading this and laughing at what a nineteen year old could know about love. After all, I’ve never been in a proper relationship before him. I’ve been asked out and I’ve admired others from a glance, but never anything like this. Maybe I’m overreacting. Maybe my first instance of love has just turned me into some lovey-dovey Valentine’s Day cut-out.

I see a cliché coming: when someone you have feelings for is on the brink of death, something clicks in you. Either you realise you truly do love them, and can’t bear the thought of life without them, or you just go ‘oh’ and realise they never were that important.

When it happened to me, the only thing that came into my head was ‘No, not him’ on a repetitive overdrive in my mind. Everything else was wordless. I just couldn’t begin to think of a world without… It just makes me sick thinking about it.

Faced with the loss of someone you love, you realise what you feel is more than skin-deep. It’s not just intimacy. You’re faced with thoughts of the two of you being together. Thoughts of the two of you being apart are just met with horror. Being with someone other than him is just unbearable. I can have celebrity crushes, peek glances at buff passersby, but he’s the one I think about being with forever. I only look at them briefly; whether it is that sexy vampire from that drama show, or the cute guy in my Lit class. They’re nothing compared to him. If anyone even tried to compare the two, it’d just get lost on me, and I’d be like ‘Bitch, please’ like that meme they have all over the internet.

I can’t wait until I see him. It’s not that long, like a day or two, but sometimes it feels like eternity. Without him, I feel like a part of me is missing. It’s like he completes me. Before I knew him, I could consider those the dark days. I may have had family and my best friend, but to have the connection I’ve had with him is something so rare not even they could have it with me. It’s like we were meant to meet, destiny told us to go to the same university and for him to make friends with the only people I knew there from high school.

Time feels like it’s going on forever. I have commitments to make up the time between our visits; work, eating, sleeping, writing. That doesn’t mean I won’t miss him. The time periods between each visit means nothing. It’s like I don’t even have to work, like wearing a uniform and serving an endless parade of snooty customers is just a very vague dream. I have to fake a smile and act like seeing that man ordering a burger meal is just the very highlight of my day. We all know it’s just a big lie, planted on top of a fancy fast food restaurant, so why continue bothering?

It's appearances which cause conflict, even, and especially, in our relationships. Other people may show affection and adoration towards the couple, but when they’re behind closed doors, they can be rather sneaky. Lies on top of lies on top of a big, fake smile, it’s just everywhere. It’s hard to fake appearances to almost everyone, whether co-worker or sibling, friend or boyfriend. Society has so many taboos, and they seep into everyday life. Why does everyone just accept these sometimes absurd norms without any questions?

Be normal, no matter the consequences.

You can only be your true self to a select few, if even that. Sometimes, people you believe to be your most trusted confidantes, eventually betray you to the social norm patrol, believing your actions to be unacceptable. Whether you have chronic depression, or a desire for a rose tattoo, someone will always see an abnormal act. That’s why the desire to locate the perfect partner is so intense, and why magazines and social media and advertisements and magazines and video games are already so desperately trying to get us with someone who is so perfect…genetically. Societal norms suggest you get with someone who has nice genetics, and his pretty and strong, and will make humans stronger than ever before. Social Darwinism, they call it. However, internally, we all want someone we don’t have to please all the time, which we can just veg out in a poncho and a hardhat watching Jersey Shore or singing out What about me in the shower at the top of our lungs, and they won’t give a damn. We can just show who we really are and they’ll accept us, because they love us. Sometimes I wish societal norms and our internal belief system would match up. It’d be nice not to be so plastic all the time. What’s the problem if someone walks around with a poncho and a hardhat; if gay Muslims get married in the Sistine Chapel wearing crosses; if couples of any race, shape or colour can just do whatever the hell they like? Granted it doesn’t involved rape, murder or any other vulgarities.

What’s all this even got to do with him? If you’ve got to ask that, it’s rather silly. I love him because of who he is. Obviously, or I’d be off gallivanting with sexy stud from Lit. I don’t care if he’s got a hairy chest, if he prefers playing Fallout than hanging out at the gym, or if he doesn’t fix the media’s stereotype for a perfect man. He may have problems worthy of their own drama TV show, but I wouldn’t mind that. It’d beat watching that vampire show with the clichéd plotlines and the love triangles. Even though he’s an amateur actor, I doubt he’d be playing himself, but that’s okay. I’d have him beside me as I watched it, and….wow, I’m getting a little ahead of myself, aren’t I?

I should end this story right about now, before it starts to turn into a Mills and Boon novel, and before you just give up on me. I guess what I’m trying to say is: there’s a guy that I love. Despite everything we’ve been through since we’ve met, my message still remains the same.

Don’t judge appearances, because sometimes they’re proven to be a load of horse manure. I can count the fingers on one hand in an instant, of people who need to heed this advice. Those people are the sort of dreary dunces who think money and taxes are the be-all and end-all of life. And then they die.

If only they realised how much they’re missing out on. If only they could be like me and him, and marvel in life in all its intricacies. To look at a man eating a zinger burger no mayo, or a quadriplegic learning to live again, and see how wonderful it all is, it’s just purely amazing.

I know that there are a lot of bad things in this world. A lot of people might call me naïve, but those are people who don’t even know my favourite colour, let alone my opinions on the world. They just go, ‘she’s a nineteen year old girl who can’t cook or drive, she must be useless’ but they don’t see what’s under the surface.

And that’s why love and intimacy can be so important. Finding someone, even one person, makes it all worthwhile. It might take a year, it might take fifty, but when you finally meet that person, you just know you’re in for the long haul with them. And I mean that in a positive way.

By the way, there’s this guy that I love.


- - -
Jessica Morrow is an emerging writer and second year Bachelor of Arts (Professional and Creative Writing) student at Deakin University in Geelong, Australia. Inspired by the works of authors such as Suzanne Collins and George Orwell, Jessica likes to strike a balance between literary and genre fiction in her writing. Hopefully, this inspires more people to read.

5/14/12

Lavender
By A.J. Huffman


Lavender
is the color I see
you.
Shimmering.
A silken light,
it wears your face.
Soft.
In whispered kisses.
Blossoming.

Among the ruined garden.
In narrow sun,
placed.
By beauty.
Her beloved beast.
A gift to darkness.
And me.
Its undeserving bride.


- - -
A.J. Huffman is a poet and freelance writer in Daytona Beach, Florida. She has previously published three collections of poetry: The Difference Between Shadows and Stars, Carrying Yesterday, and Cognitive Distortion. She has also published her work in national and international literary journals such as Avon Literary Intelligencer, Writer's Gazette, and The Penwood Review. Find more about A.J. Huffman, including additional information and links to her work at http://www.facebook.com/profile.php?id=100000191382454 and https://twitter.com/#!/poetess222.

5/13/12

Forgotten
By Angela Catley


Today
I thought of you
but didn't remember how your face looks like
I used to know each crevice and dip in your body
like the back of my hand
the scent of your skin
the warmth of your touch
your voice
they're starting to fade
I'm starting to forget
I'm sorry


- - -
Made in the Philippines, exported to the United States. Angela has a Bachelor's Degree in Psychology and spends her time working a full-time office job and enjoying her young adult life in sunny Orange County, California.

5/12/12

Starfall
By Caitlin Goldstein


“Jamie! Wait!”

I ignored the call to wait and I ran a few more steps around the corner and then stopped, sliding and sending a wave of sand away from me. Leaning my hands on my knees to rest, I remembered Skylar, my best friend in the world, wasn’t that far behind me and I straightened up, feigning total immunity from the consequences of running. Seconds later, Sky rounded the corner, slipping a little in the sand before skidding to his knees in front of me, panting.

“Geeze, Sky, you’re so slow.” His head was down, facing the sand, so I allowed myself a little affectionate smile that he wouldn’t see.

Skylar waved a hand irritably at me, breathing heavily, his messy reddish hair sticking to his cheeks and the back of his neck with salty sweat. He raised bright blue eyes, matching the ocean, squinting a little up at me.

“I’m…not…” he said between breaths, “slow…you’re just...too fast.” He frowned, stubborn as always.

I grinned down at him, my head cocked to the side, like I knew everything. Of course, all ten-year-olds think that they know everything. I wish I could be ten again sometimes. Everyone says it, but it’s true: things were so much easier back then. Even if back then was only five years ago.

Before she came to the island, everything was fine. Skylar and I had our other friends, and we went to school, and our parents let us take my dad’s little wooden rowboat to the smaller island (it’s barely a half-mile wide all the way around) during the summer. Skylar and I were pretty much inseparable then, and I knew I would always love him like my own brother. More than a brother, because brothers were family and you’re kinda forced to love family, but Skylar was like a family I chose. He chose me, really, he was always the one making new friends and taking the initiative. He was my polar opposite, which I’ve found is sometimes the case with best friends. Skylar Swanson was a bright kid, with ridiculous red-brown hair that spiked up in all directions, until it got too long and his mom made him cut it. He has the most intense blue eyes I’ve ever seen, and I find as I get older, the ocean reminds me of him because of his eyes. He’s one of those people that constantly smiles, even when he’s sad, because he doesn’t want to burden other people with his problems. He tans very easily, and is constantly in my shadow. What can I say? I’m better than him at most things.

Where Sky is dark, I’m light. I’m glow-in-the-dark light. I’m an albino. Not full albinism, but enough to give me a somewhat vampiric look. My skin is very pale, and my hair grows in with no color at all. Thankfully, my eyes aren’t as affected and in most lights are just pale blue. Even at ten years old, I was more aware of my appearance than Skylar; I actually brushed my hair whereas Sky hardly ever remembered to. I think the awkward knowledge of being different and a little stare-worthy at first glance made me way more self conscious of my looks. What’s funny is, our personalities are opposite of our looks. Skylar is happy-go-lucky and naïve to a fault, and I guess people say I’m darker, more introverted, more of a pessimist. Skylar had faith and optimism enough for both of us, though. I wasn’t worried. I never worried about myself. I think I still don’t.

“C’mon, Jamie! Let’s go! The sun is setting!” Skylar scrambled up, kicking sand into my mouth in the process, and sprinted away, smiling back at me.

I followed, laughing.

This was how most of our summer afternoons were spent: chasing each other across the beach, retrieving coconuts from the tops of the palms seeing who could climb the highest, building rafts, fishing, exploring. Time was never wasted during the summer, and the days were never long enough to do everything you wanted. I think something special is lost when you grow up and you don’t take your summers as seriously as you used to. And you never do get that back. That summer, that summer when Skylar turned ten and I turned eleven, that was the summer when she moved in.

Victoria’s father moved to the main island on business and Skylar, being the amazing host and friend he’s always been, had her playing with the other kids in almost one afternoon. I was happy to have her here, have her join our little duo and become a trio. We were happy, the three of us, and she came out of her shy little shell and became my second best friend. She had wide green eyes and auburn hair, and one dimple in her left cheek. Of course all the little boys wanted to be her friend, but she only giggled and told them she was friends with everyone. It only got worse when she turned thirteen. Little tease she was, even back then. Hah, just an innocent little tease. I don’t think she ever did it on purpose, not really.

I remember the three of us growing up together and dealing with school together. It was always everything together. Always the three of us. Until recently, anyway. I’ve noticed that Victoria is paying much more attention to Sky than she used to. Maybe it’s just different attention, I’m not sure. She’s even been more guarded around me lately, like I’m going to do something she won’t like.

Today is a day to try and ignore all that, though. Today is a special day. Today is a magical day, even. Today is the day of the Gireffeins Meteor Shower. Sky and I have been looking forward to this since we were old enough to understand our parents telling us how special a day this was going to be. And I’ll be damned if I let Victoria take that from me.

I’m already on the smaller island when Sky and Victoria get here. They’re with a group of friends from school and everyone is talking excitedly. I greet my friends and the three of us race to the other side of the tiny island where a little grove of palm trees surround the dock where my dad’s boat is moored. Other kids are there already, sitting with their legs dangling off the side of the dock, kicking water at each other and laughing. Skylar nudges me and points to a vacant spot, promptly plopping down, munching an apple with Victoria beside him. Her hair is longer now, and Skylar is still blissfully ignorant of her attractiveness. She sits between us, where she seems to fit just fine. The sun is about to set, and it’s something of a ritual for all the kids to gather and watch it together.

Someone taps my shoulder. “Hey, Jamie! Tonight is going to be awesome! My mom’s coming out here with marshmallows and chocolate for s’mores after dark!”

“Yeah, I know,” I nod, “I’ve been looking forward to finally seeing this.” I lean back a little, scratching at my arm where a sunburn is newly peeling. This day has already worn me out.

“Oh, isn’t it beautiful, Skylar?” Victoria is squinting and smiling and being all cuddly again. She’s nudging her way into Sky’s personal space, slowly but surely. My ears get hot and I grumble under my breath at her. She thinks she’s so freaking cute.

See, she never was content with just being a part of our group. Oh no, she has to play favorites and it’s starting to scare me. I had everything I wanted here on these islands in the middle of nowhere, and this little princess just waltzes in from Far Far Away and takes everything over. Tearing up everything I hold dear like all hell. The worst part is, I don’t think she really means it, not really.

“Yeah. Look, Jamie! It’s starting!” Skylar points up into the twilight, and my almost colorless eyes follow his finger to the faint lights falling into the sea.

“You know,” the girl behind us, Amanda, peers over Victoria’s shoulder and whispers loudly into her ear, gushing, “this island has a legend about the falling stars. This won’t happen for another fifty years!”

“Really? I haven’t heard the whole story yet.” Victoria’s green eyes light up in the half darkness, Skylar cocks his head to the side to listen as well, even though we’ve all heard the story.

“Yeah!” Amanda nods enthusiastically, “well, it’s like this: you can make wishes on falling stars, right, but this is the night that wishes can actually come true! They say that if two people kiss tonight, during the meteor shower, then they will be together forever. It doesn’t matter how far apart they get, they will always come back together.”

Blech. Tourist trap. That’s all the legend was. Really. I mean, she’s right about the meteor shower and the once every fifty years thing, but the rest was totally a made up story to make the whole thing seem way cooler than it actually is. I think it’s cool enough already. Rocks, from space, falling into the ocean all around us. You can’t get much cooler than that.

I roll my eyes at the story and I hear Skylar snort. I glance at him, and he catches my eyes, both of us trying to humor the girls. We’re fifteen and I guess everyone is really only beginning to understand the whole dating and pairing off thing. Honestly, I think the romantic story is a bunch of crap people made up to get girls to kiss them. There is absolutely no way I am going to admit I believe, or care, about anything regarding the island’s famous myth. Even if I do. Because I’m not saying I do.

Amanda continues, “Isn’t it, like, the most romantic thing you’ve ever heard?”

Victoria giggles, batting her eyes at Skylar. He is far too busy trying to stick his apple core in my ear. Because he’s gross like that.

“You know, they say apples make you smarter, Jamie, maybe you should try it out,” Skylar says, smirking.

“Screw you, Sky!” I struggle against him, succeeding only in knocking the apple core into the water, but not before he smears it across my face.

Skylar only laughs, looking up at the sky again. “Look, it’s really starting now!”

We all look up at the sky, the beach not completely dark because of the lanterns kids are lighting around the edges of the dock. Victoria leans her head on Skylar’s shoulder, sighing loudly. His eyebrows furrow and he flails a little, not really knowing what to do about it. I can’t tell if his cheeks are getting red or if the torchlight is making it look that way, but I truly hope it’s the latter.

“Wow, we never have such magical stories like that where I used to live.” Victoria sighs again, all the other girls naturally segregating themselves to gossip to each other. The sky lights up with the meteors, falling into the water like tiny shards of glass, glittering over the water through the stars.

Skylar nods, ‘hmmm’-ing noncommittally. Her weight against him makes them both lean away from me. I frown, looking away from the falling stars across the inlet to the main island, where I could see lanterns and flashlights flicking across the dark water, drawing slowly closer. Our parents are on their way to watch the event with us. Another tradition I’m sure we’ll understand when we’re older. I decide to get off the dock, quietly leaving Victoria and Skylar to themselves with the other burgeoning couples with the oh-so-romantic setting. It’s making my stomach hurt.

“Jamie?” Skylar stopped me, for a moment reminding me of the ten year old boy looking up to me like I was the only person that mattered to him, but Victoria’s gaze joins his and the memory is lost. “Where’re you going?”

I shrug, looking away, “Dunno, maybe help build the bonfire. The stars will fall all night.” I don’t wait for him to answer.

I try to avoid him for awhile, just because I don’t really trust myself not to say something rude if Victoria was actually going to make her move, finally. She’s a good girl, I guess, so I don’t really mind her taking Skylar away from me…or at least, that’s what I keep trying to tell myself. She really seems to like him, and I don’t blame her. Everyone likes him. He’s just, likeable. It’s completely impossible to not have a crush on the kid, really. Absolutely impossible.

But really, it’s not fair. No one knows Skylar like I do. Victoria wasn’t here when he was sick with the Red Cough, or when he broke his arm falling off a palm tree. She doesn’t deserve to be near him like that, when she doesn’t know him like I do! It’s not fair.

“Hey, Jamie?” There’s someone behind me, and I turn to see the blushing face of Alex, another school friend. There are fireflies beginning to pepper the beach.

“Hey,” I scratch the back of my head, nonchalantly trying to look for Skylar and Victoria, but I can’t see them on the dock anymore. It feels like my heart is falling into my knees and onto the sand, and I realize I’ve probably lost my best friend forever. Naïve as he is, he can’t be oblivious to Victoria’s advances for long. Especially not tonight, not here, not on this island. I blink at Alex, trying to smile without looking as depressed as I suddenly feel. It’s pretty, really, the fireflylight around Alex’s face. I find myself blushing back.

“Hey. I, umm, I wanted to ask if you’d dance with me. I mean, there’s lots of people dancing, and I…uhh, well,” there’s more mutual blushing and I raise an eyebrow.

“You want to dance with me?” I almost burst out laughing. No way.

“Well, yeah, I mean, that is why I just asked…” sandaled toes scuff into the sand, trying to distract from actually looking into each other’s faces too much.

I sigh. What can I do? Maybe I can like Alex, and then Skylar and I can be like, dating buddies or whatever. I don’t know. It doesn’t make sense without him in my life somehow. So I smile, and then I nod.

“Yeah, okay,” I say, trying to make myself heard over the butterflies dropping bombs in my stomach.

Alex smiles at me with very beautiful, very straight teeth. We begin to awkwardly sway together by the fire. I don’t know where to put my hands, even though I try to come off like I know everything. My fake confidence is shaky at best and I completely lose it when I feel fingers on the side of my face, pulling me closer to foreign lips and no, no, no, I don’t think I want this. Not right now.

I push Alex away from me a little, scared and really confused. I’m not supposed to allow that, am I?

“Sorry…” The air all around us is filled with the feeling of terrible awkward horribleness. Alex is backing away from me, embarrassed and flustered and I think a little upset and I try to cover for myself.

“No, I mean, it’s okay, I think, I mean, I don’t know. I just didn’t expect that and …I’m sorry.” I’m rambling. And Alex is already far enough away that I doubt I was heard. Awesome. Now what?

“Jamie?” Skylar’s voice is next to me, and turn to face him. I’ve never been so relieved to see him in my life.

“Sky!” I resist the urge to tackle him for saving me from the increasing awkwardness that I no longer want to be a part of. “Wait, where’s Victoria?” I look around. “I thought for sure you’d be with her.”

“She’s with Amanda somewhere, I think,” he waves the question off, “are you going to start dating Alex now?”

The subject in question has already melted back into the mass of people on the beach, probably hoping I would forget any of it ever happened. I almost say ‘Oh, HELL no,’ but I remember Victoria and her treason so I shrug. “I dunno. Maybe. I really don’t know, I never really thought about it before.” I shrug again.

The look on Skylar’s face will haunt me forever.

I shrink back a little from him. “…What?”

My best friend’s bottom lip is sticking out in a thoroughly uncharacteristic frown, with his thin eyebrows stitched together and he looks angry. No, not angry, concerned…determined. He grabs the front of my shirt and pouts up at me. Suddenly, without warning, he leans up and kisses my lips softly. It only lasts a second and then I blink and he’s back at a more appropriate distance.

“Sky…? What—”

Skylar nods, smiling. “Just in case you kiss anybody else tonight.”

I just stare at him. I can’t believe my best friend just freaking kissed me. How am I supposed to come to terms with that right now? My mouth opens and closes like a drowning fish and I don’t know exactly how I’m supposed to feel about this, because I’m happy and freaked out and I have so many questions…but he’s still looking at me like he used to when we were younger and I can’t help but smile back.

“I just want to make sure I’ll be with you forever, okay?” Skylar crosses his arms, like this is the most obvious thing in the world. “You’re my favorite person.”

I love this kid.

“You’re my favorite too, Sky.” I allow a huge genuine smile to creep onto my face and Skylar’s face breaks into a similar one.

He nods. “Cool.”

We both look back up at the sky, still filled with falling space rocks like so much glitter, and I put my arm around my best friend.

“Sky?”

“Yeah?”

“You have no idea how weird that just was, do you?”

“What, the meteors?” He looks up at me quizzically.

I let out a huge barking laugh, so unexpected that Skylar almost falls over.

“Ha! No, not the meteors, although that is pretty weird too…”

He just stares at me. He may not ever understand.

“Nothing’s weird, Jamie. It’s okay, you know,” he pokes me in the ribs, “just don’t, like, tell anybody about the, uh, kiss, okay? Not today.”

I raise an eyebrow. “Wasn’t gonna.” Nope. Won’t say a word. Even though part of me wants to shout and jump around and rub it in Victoria’s pretty face and never stop smiling.

I relax into Sky’s constant weight at my side and I realize he’s warm and comforting in a way I wasn’t really aware of until now. I glance away from the meteors for a moment and suddenly I realize something else. There are more adults here than kids now, and most of them are over sixty, maybe seventy years old. There are elderly couples, happily sitting together, in complete and total delight in each other’s company and all at once, I know. I know these older people were here fifty years ago when the last meteors fell. The legend is written all over their faces and every bit of it is true for them. This island has magic in its sky and in its sand, which I’m now sure has bits of meteors in the billions of grains that wash out from the ocean everyday. This night is more special than I could ever have imagined.

Sky nods, looking content with my answer. Victoria is wandering over now, smiling and waving at us, and we stand there next to the fire, just the three of us, until Sky’s legs get tired and we sit.

“Whoa, Jamie,” Victoria points a painted fingernail in my face, “why are you so red?”

“He’s an albino,” Skylar shrugs, “they do that sometimes.” His hand rests touching mine in the sand.

I nod, still smiling, and look back to the sky.


- - -
Caitlin studied creative writing at the University of Colorado at Boulder, because she wanted to share her mind and soul on paper and encourage others to do the same.

5/11/12

New School
By Nicole Lewis


“Don’t worry sweetie, okay? You’ll be fine.” Lacy’s mother reached down and gave her a hug. Lacy appeared unsure and looked at up at her teacher, Mrs. Lyne, who smiled warmly in return. “You can tell me all about your day when I come pick you up later okay?”

Lacy nodded, sucking her thumb with one hand and waving with the other. The ball rang signaling the start of class and children began coming into the room. Lacy briefly stopped sucking her thumb to gaze at a boy with curly brown hair. He was grinning oddly to himself as he walked into the room and went to his cubby to deposit his Spiderman backpack. She watched as he took a seat on the carpet, still grinning. Mrs. Lyne smiled at the class, then turned to Lacy and beckoned her over. Lucy resumed sucking her thumb and looked down at her feet while Mrs. Lyne introduced her to the class.

“Good morning class, this is your new classmate and friend, Lacy.” Lacy could feel her classmates' eyes on her and let her blond hair fall forward, obscuring most of her face. “I’m sure you will all be kind and make her feel welcome. Now-" here she looked down at Lacy “why don’t you sit next to Zach.” She pointed at the boy Lacy had noticed earlier.

* * *

“Class!” Mrs. Lyne yelled out a couple hours later, “Break time! Go on outside!”

Once outside, Lacy began to wander aimlessly around the playground, watching other kids playing. She sat on the first step leading to the slide and began sucking her thumb again. A tear rolled down her face but she didn’t bother wiping it away. “Hey, what’s wrong?” It was the boy she sat next to in class, Zach.

She sniffed and pulled her thumb away before answering softly, “I miss my old s-s-school.” Her lower lip trembled. “I miss my f-f-friends.” Two more tears fell.

Zach looked at her thoughtfully for a minute then said “Oh. Well…you wanna play with me? I could be your friend.” He held out his hand and, after hesitating for a moment, Lacy grabbed it and allowed herself to be pulled over to the swing set. Zach began swinging higher and higher. Soon Lacy began to giggle and do the same. Zach yelled, “Jump on three! One…two...THREE!” They both jumped and landed on the sand, giggling. “Wanna do it again?” Zach asked.

Lacy grinned at him and said “Yeah!” Zach smiled at her and together they raced to the swings.


- - -
My name is Nicole Lewis. I am African American and 18 years old and was born on November 30, 1993. If you were to publish this it would be my first published work. I enjoy reading; my favorite series is Harry Potter. I have a mother and a father, a sister, a brother, and dog in my family.

5/10/12

Time, Heat and a Smoking Ember
By John Conway


Gina should have said, "No thank you." Then she would be home with her slippers and tea. It would have much simpler. She checked her eyes in the rear view mirror. She'd done a shabby job on the shadow—not very subtle at all. But it would have to do.
Not that it mattered. She and Nathan broke up long ago. A college fling, really—nothing more—and even then they weren't a great match. He smoked. He drank. He skipped class. In retrospect, she wondered what she ever saw in him.
Still, she was curious what brought him back to town. He was always city bound. When he left for law school and she returned home to help Mom with the bakery, she assumed that was it ... which was fine with her. No complications. He was fun, but immature. Not what she ever envisioned as a serious relationship.
She stopped the car and texted, "Here."
Nathan responded immediately. "Be there soon. Stopped to pick up something."
She rolled her eyes. She had always waited for Nathan. He was constantly forgetting his cigarettes somewhere, or his lighter ... it was the number one reason he ran late.
"Bad habit," she responded.
She stepped to the sidewalk and enjoyed the evening air. It was a great town and everything was going just fine. She would tell him that. It was none of his business whether she'd had a date in ages, and really none of hers whether he had either. It was odd how their phone conversation this afternoon felt like no time had passed since graduation. The only real change she sensed was a calmer tone. He didn't sound today like he was talking through a cocky smirk.
"You look ... amazing."
Gina spun. Oh my.
Where she expected a cute, smart-mouthed college student with disheveled hair, she saw a well-dressed, confident man—Nathan as she would have ordered him, had she thought it possible.
She drew a breath. "Thank you," she managed.
He held his hands out, palm up. She slid hers onto his and tried a casual smile.
He opened his mouth to speak, but stumbled on the words. "I ... I, uh ..."
They both laughed.
He shook his head. "Wow. I didn't realize how ... nice it would be to see you again."
She tilted her head. It was flattering that he seemed as flustered as she. But she needed solid ground—not a foolishly racing heart. "Stop it. Why are you really here?"
He shrugged. "I'm thinking of moving back."
Gina, unlike most, could always gauge Nathan's sincerity. Here she saw the real deal, although any other answer would have been more expected. The Nathan she knew had only ever wanted to be near the center of the action.
"Move away from the city?" she asked, squeezing his hands.
He twisted his mouth—that cute, 'aw shucks' expression that always crept in when Nathan admitted he was actually wrong. "It's not what I thought it would be," he said. He let go of her hand and reached inside his jacket.
She shook her head. "Downtown is no smoking," she warned, pointing to a sign. "New ordinance last year."
With a crooked smile, Nathan pulled a single yellow tulip from his jacket and handed it to her. "I quit smoking five years ago."
Gina lost her breath. He remembered. Her favorite flower ... her favorite color on her favorite flower.
"Um ... that's good." She swallowed. "I mean"--she felt her voice thicken--"for you ... for your health ..."
Her eyes bounced between the bright yellow tulip and his deep brown eyes.
"Well you always told me ..." He placed his hands on her arms near the shoulders, tenderly caressing.
"Who knew you listened?" she said, inching closer and putting a hand on his chest.
She inhaled deeply. Mmm. Clean, warm, strong ... no cologne ... all Nathan.
He stroked her neck, her jaw line ... his thumb passed gently across her lips, carrying the scent of the freshly-picked tulip.
Was she losing her mind? She had seen neither hide nor hair of Nathan for ... almost six years.
She should step back.
He leaned in, brushing his lips over her forehead. Gina closed her eyes. Slowly, his lips descended, grazing her eyelash ... her cheek. Their breath mingled. The sensation stirred memories and longings. This was too much—and not enough. For the moment, she resolved not to try sorting out her thoughts and feelings—just let them be.
She met his lips with hers—tasted them with a probing touch, delicious, then pressed tighter ... how could one man's flavor exude such confidence and passion?
Their lips parted, reluctantly. They both took a deep breath—almost a gasp. "It's good to see you too," he said, with a light, warm laugh.
She nodded. Nathan was back.
Things would not be simple anymore.


- - -
I am an RWA member, the 2012 grand prize winner of the Yosemite Romance Writers Smooch contest, I am a winner with two stories of Genre Fiction in the 2011 Writers Digest 80th Annual Writing Competition, my science-fiction stories appear or will appear in the April and May editions of Static Movement and Farther Stars Than These, respectively. Web Site: JCConway.com

5/9/12

Seven
By Linda M. Crate


I wear your necklace
I wear your ring
you’re the one that
makes my heart sing —

hair colored like the
flaxen of the grain,
you’re quite amazing;
you drive me insane!

thoughts of you linger
when I gaze out my window —
you make my smile remain,
and cause happiness to flow

when I thought that I
couldn’t possibly smile,
it was then that you shot
joy longer than a mile

to embrace me in it’s arms —
everyday is a new heaven,
just to hear two strands speaking
in sympathy, and if seven

is the magical number may
I spend seven eternities with you;
because I know standing at your side
I would never again be blue.


- - -
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.

5/8/12

Apple Sauce
By Jerry Guarino


Julie walked in with her laptop case over her shoulder. Her long brown hair pulled through a crimson velvet scrunchy, draped behind her blue blazer, over the cranberry cardigan sweater, over the white oxford, accented by the Harvard tie which went with the plaid, pleated skirt that highlighted the knee socks which sat atop the cordovan clogs. In short, she was the dream girl of every code savvy programmer in Cambridge. “Hi, my name is Julie Bowen.”

“Hi Julie, I’m Zach” said the college sophomore in jeans and t-shirt. Zach was one of those code savvy programmers, working a part time job in the hopes of meeting girls like Julie. He wasn’t a bad looking guy, just not in the same league as Julie, sort of like your company softball team versus the Red Sox.

“Hi Zach.” At this point, Zach could feel his heart beating. Not that this was the first time he talked with such a vision. In fact, beautiful women were lining up to meet with him on a daily basis.

“How can I help you Julie?” Zach could smell the expensive perfume Julie was wearing, light but classy, just like her.

“There’s something wrong with my mail program. It works on my phone, but not on my laptop.” She smiled at Zach in that way beautiful women do, not encouraging anything more than friendship, but genuinely grateful.

“Well, let’s see what we can do.” Julie put her laptop on the counter, turned it on, entered the password and passed it to Zach. “This doesn’t sound too serious.” He quickly and deftly checked the mail program, the settings and tested the incoming server. “Yes, I see the problem. But I know how to fix it.” Within minutes, her program was working again.

“What was wrong?” she said while flicking her bangs to the side.

“Sometimes the other company servers hiccup and it changes the settings. I just reset it. No problem.” Zach, always the professional, and hoping to prolong the encounter, offered his parting phrase. “Is there anything else I can help you with today?”

“I guess not. Thanks very much Zach.” She packed up her laptop, and then offered her hand. “You’re welcome,” said Zach. “Have a good day.” Julie turned slowly, giving Zach one more friendly smile. Julie glided gracefully toward the big glass door, and then looked back once more. Zach waved, sighing to himself. “I love my job.”

Later, at another bar, this one on Dunster Street, Zach and his friends were having a beer and watching the Celtics. “Looks like they’re ready for the playoffs” he said. “Yeah, and the Bruins too. Makes the cold Boston winter bearable. It must be tough for places like Toronto, stuck inside watching two lousy teams. Must be why they drink so much up there.”

Then he saw three Harvard coeds coming in, shaking off snow from their UGGs and taking off scarves and wool caps. Zach thought he recognized one of them. The girls sat down at a booth. “Excuse me,” said Zach to his buddies, as he tried to walk nonchalantly to the rest room.

“Hey, Zach” Julie said as he passed by while Julie’s friends looked up. Zach did his best to act surprised, even though he had smelled her perfume.

“Hi. It’s Julie, right?” Zach paused long enough to be polite, without acting too eager. “Mail problem?”

“Email, yes. This is Debbie and Karen. Zach fixed my computer last week. He’s a genius.”

“Small G, Julie, small G.”

“We’re just having drinks and some bar food. Want to join us?”

“Well, I’m with a couple friends” pointing to the bar, “watching the game.”

“That’s ok, we can go to that big table.” Zach called for the waitress to set them up. “Can we get six here please?”

Over the next hour, the six talked about living and working in Bean town, the sports teams, life at Harvard. Then Karen excused herself. “Well, I have an early class and a paper to finish. Sorry but I’ll have to go.” Julie and Debbie nodded that they should go too.

“May I walk you back?” said Zach.

“I’d like that thanks,” said Karen. As the girls left, Karen whispered something into Julie’s ear, gave her a hug and headed out with Zach.

As they walked out, Zach turned and looked back at Julie, smiling. Julie gave him a little wave and sighed to herself.


- - -
Jerry Guarino’s short stories have been published by dozens of magazines in the United States, Canada, Australia and Great Britain. His new book, "40 Slices of Pizza" is now available on amazon.com (http://amzn.to/HYYIxv) and as a kindle ebook (http://amzn.to/HXvIV9). For more information visit his website at http://cafestories.net.

5/7/12

Underneath the Night Sky
By Deaven Machingo


A time of day
I can’t wait to meet
When the sun falls
And the moon rises
Another pure night to come

A time of peace
Graceful breezes
A feeling
A knowing
That I may get the chance to see you again

I close my eyes
Allow myself to settle
My heart pulse
The only thing I can hear
A sound that reminds me of you

In a deep sleep
A trance of love
A voice so familiar
A face so beautiful
Once again you’re near

To a place filled with bliss
Underneath the night sky
Looking at the stars
Wishing this could last forever
We shared our first kiss

Beginning to toss and turn
The dream fading away
Your face becoming blurred
Sky growing brighter
Another night of good byes

How the night is
Nothing but a dream
A dream
Soon to be real
A wish come true


- - -
I am currently 18 years old. I live in the sunny west coast of California. I have enjoyed writing poetry since I was a little girl.

5/6/12

Wade in the water
By Manikk Arte


I sculpted your curves with the same brisk movement
I used to smooth the banks of the River Gambia,
cupping your beautiful breasts in my miniscule hands
with their textured likeness of the weathered rocks that lay at the bottom who bounce against each other,
meeting with an abridged greeting to honor the journey that had taken them days upon days from their home up in the mountains of the heavenly land of the Fouta Toro.
Here they all bow before you, my African empress.
Dusty footed and wide-eyed,
I should have ran,
so fast my feet wouldn't touch the ground,
never waded in the bends and breaks of your allure.
Like most things that I had at one point thought were perfect -
you're no good for me.
No matter how strong and satisfying the high.
At the top of the list of dangerous drugs:
STAY AWAY, they label you.
Once taken, chances of addiction are reported to be 10/10.
All victims, lost.
Don't change the channel, forget the memories, just hear the words,
Love is in fact a losing game.
Second?
To none.


- - -
Manikk Arte. International artist, poet and professional student. I spread awareness and educate in whatever ways I can with whatever knowledge I have. Bring your own containers.

5/5/12

Wines and Sunsets
By John Laneri


Before Sharon came into my life, I rarely traveled to New York City. The place was too busy for a small town lawyer from Texas.

I first met her that afternoon at her firm's office where she represented legal council for one of my client’s business interests.

On entering her suite, I glanced about. The setting was impressive as were the impressionist paintings on the walls. From what I saw, I pictured Ms. Sharon Parker as a high priced, no nonsense woman who wore sensible shoes and trampled other lawyers for fun.

My first surprise came when I encountered an attractive woman wearing a fashionable suit accented with a white silk blouse and sexy, high heel pumps.

She rose from behind an large desk and extended a hand to greet me, her bright eyes and dark hair projecting an alluring presence, one reminiscent of a fine wine.

“Thank you for coming. May I call you Greg?”

I indicated yes, as I removed my Stetson and set it in my lap.

She glanced at the hat, seemingly amused, then she reached for a portfolio of papers. “I’ve studied your client’s proposal. It’s interesting, but there are several points that need further clarification.”

Her approach seemed a bit formal for what I was proposing, so I said, “My client’s intentions are sincere. He’s an honest small town boy trying to make the deal work for both parties.”

“I’m sure he is, but lets dig a bit deeper, shall we?”

We continued to discuss our differences for several minutes. Then, she asked, “Do you come to New York often? ”

“Only for business.”

She seemed surprised. “It’s a wonderful city. You really should take a closer look.”

“Perhaps later,” I replied, feeling a bit annoyed by her motherly tone. ”But now, I think we should amend paragraph five of section three.”

She sighed and glanced in my direction. “Is that really what you want?”

By then, I was beginning to wonder what made the woman tick. I was merely requesting simple clarification of a minor point. It was something that could have easily been handled on the phone, but she had insisted that we meet face to face, so I ended up half way across the country, sitting in her office arguing trivia.

A phone call interrupted us. She answered it then turned away, her manner conveying disgust. After a lengthy conversation, during which she walked to the far side of the room, her hands gesturing heatedly, she returned to me, her face flushed.

“Is everything okay? I asked.

Ignoring me, she paused to gather herself. Then forcing a smile, she again reached for her papers saying, “I understand you're from Texas.”

“Yes ma'am, I practice out of a small town west of San Antonio.”

“Do you have a ranch like most people from Texas?”

Surprised by her comment, I chuckled to myself and replied, “I manage to graze about five hundred head of beef cattle. I also do some farming to keep the acreage in use.”

She looked at me quizzically. “I can't imagine living away from the romance of a big city. We have everything one ever needs.”

“I manage to get by. It's not so hard once you get use to the clear skies and clean air.”

“But, don't you miss the city lights, the hustle and bustle?” she asked, her voice skeptical.

“No ma'am. I like the quiet. It gives me time to enjoy the sunsets while I sip my wine and kick off my boots after a hard day's work.”

She smiled, as if she had won a point. “I thought cowboys only drank beer.”

“When we're hot and sweaty, a cold beer tastes good. But in the evenings, I prefer the wines from my vineyards.”

Surprised, she asked, “Cowboys make their own wine too?”

“Yes ma'am, I have about a fifty acres for vines and a winery for my fermentation vats and bottling plant.”

“I'm impressed,” she smiled, as she seemed to relax. “Very impressed. You're a busy man.”

In an attempt to redirect her thoughts, I asked, “Have you made a decision as to my client’s position regarding paragraph five? It would definitely allow both parties to profit handsomely.”

We continued to discuss our differences for awhile longer, but she remained distracted and hesitant to concede any points, saying only that she would gladly pass my suggestions on to her client, so I suggested that we take a another approach.

“Another approach?” she asked, her eyes questioning to mine.

“Yes Ma’am... our differences are minimal. So, let's finish discussing them while we have dinner and share a bottle of wine. Later, if you like, you can show me around the city. Maybe, we'll even catch a sunset.”

She studied me for a few moments then smiling pleasantly, she set her papers aside. “I favor the wines from France. But, I doubt we'll see a colorful sunset.”

“Whatever you like. But I have to admit, the Texas wines are worth a look. Life is best appreciated when the spirit inside is unlocked and allowed to roam free.”

She pushed away from her desk, her features beginning to brighten with anticipation. “Then, let's do a Texas wine. I'm ready to roam free for a change.”

And, that’s how it went. We had our night on the town. We failed to see a sunset worth mentioning. And best of all, we discovered each other.

Truth be told, after we moved to the ranch, she began to enjoy life again, as the wines and the sunsets set her free, then drew us together, captured our spirits and allowed us to become one.


- - -
John is a native born Texan living near Houston. His writing focuses on short stories and flash. Publications to his credit have appeared in several scientific journals as well as a number of internet blogs and short story print edition periodicals.

5/4/12

One Eye Opened
By Tim Tobin


Kate took my hand, just my index finger. Our precious little girl was just a year old and taking her first awkward steps. She would take two or three steps and plop down on her bottom. Then she would stretch her legs straight and try again. Same result. I knew she had to learn but I went to her, stooped and held out my hand. And this gentle, soft, and oh so tiny, hand grabbed my finger and pulled up. She stood and tried again. And when we took a walk, when she went up the stairs, when we crossed the street, when we went to the park, my hand was always there to protect and encourage.

She was around ten when holding Dad’s hand was no longer cool. Sure I understood but I missed the feel of my daughter’s hand. From then on a sophisticated young woman shook my hand with firmness and confidence. We shook on her graduation from high school, when she was accepted into college and when she graduated and when she got her first job. The touch of my child’s hand still stirred my heart.

***

“Sales and orders are down,” my boss explained.

“The economy is very bad. The board has made some tough choices. We are downsizing the company to avoid bankruptcy. Yes, some stores will close. Unfortunately, your store is one of them. Yes, yes, I know how long you’ve been with the company. And no, there are no openings in the other stores.”

I was fifty years old and out of work but I felt flush. My separation package was twenty-eight week’s pay, one for every year of service. I had unused vacation pay, my 401(K) and unemployment insurance. And my wife Marie was an Administrative Assistant. Her paycheck would pay for the groceries. We even took a family vacation with Kate. She asked if she could give us a hand. We declined.

My professional accomplishment could help a lot of companies. So, I mailed a hundred resumes. Not a single response.

I went to see a head hunter. Sure, he told me, I can find you a job for ten grand, up front. His office was full of middle age men reading want ads.

I called friends and acquaintances. Everyone understood. Everyone was polite. But no one could help.

Our nest egg dwindled quickly. No more vacations until I find something. We economized and slowed the burn rate. But everything went up. Gas, electric, Internet, phone, cell phones, groceries, fuel. We tried to refinance the house, lower the mortgage payment. With no income? Yeah, right.

We economized some more. We dropped the land line and fell back to dial-up Internet service. We switched to pre-paid cell phones. Marie could no longer chat with her mother and sister. Kate always called us. More offers of that helping hand that were declined.

I met a friend for a beer. He had been out of work for four years. Really tough he said. About seven pints later I staggered home. Lucky I didn’t kill anybody driving. Marie looked at me.

Booze turned out to be a big help. I couldn’t solve my problems so why think about them? Being drunk was a help to Marie too. She didn’t have to listen to me complain about how unfair life was, how bad that jerk in the White House is, how screwed up Congress is, what a joke my old company was.

Marie left one day. Went home to good old helping-hand Mom. I was welcome to come if I quit drinking. With my wife and mother-in-law? I’d rather be dead. Dead? Suicide? Don’t have the guts. Can’t think of a way without pain. No pain when I drink.

I hit sixty. Still two years to collect Social Security. Won’t be enough. 401(K) gone. House worthless. Me? Worthless. Can’t pay the mortgage. Dunning letters. No, the bank could not help me.

Foreclosed. Evicted. Lived in my car. Homeless. Sixty-years old.

Desperate, scared? You bet. So, the husband, father, mid-level manager, drunk and failure panhandled. Will work for food. That strategy was a success. Oh, sure. Will drink for tips was more like it.

My new home was a cardboard box with a stolen blanket. Winter was coming. Will probably freeze to death. Painless? Can’t wait.

Yesterday, today, tomorrow. All a drunken stupor. Eat? When I can rifle some garbage cans. My teeth? Rotten and falling out. Who needs teeth? I can gum garbage.

***

A voice. Far, far away. Go away. Don’t want to talk. Scram. Got a bottle?

“Dad?” the voice was nearer now. Just a drunken dream. Leave me alone! Please, just let me die.

More insistent, “Dad! Wake up.”

One eye opened. Kate. Seeing me like this. Smelling me like this. No, No, No. Please go way, please, please. My heart broke and my body convulsed. Water, on my lips. Can I have a little bit more, please? I’m sure I didn’t say it out loud. But there was more.

I sat and drank the water. My little girl was there, giving me a drink. How many times had I done that for her? She offered me new clothes. How may times had I dressed her? She handed me a real hamburger. How many times had I fed her baby food? I gummed the hamburger. My throat and my stomach burned like fire. Need a drink. Kate, please. Have you seen my bottle?

And then she stooped down to my eye level.

She smiled and offered her hand.

Decisions. Get up or wallow. I wanted to wallow. A drunken failure of a man, a husband, a father. If I stay, it will be cold soon. Freezing. Death. No pain.

Kate took my index finger and pulled. Her touch was gentle, soft. My baby, my daughter.

I stood.


- - -
Mr. Tobin holds a degree in mathematics from LaSalle University. He retired five years ago from L-3 Communications after more than forty years as a project manager and software engineer. His speculative stories appear in Separate Worlds Magazine, Marco Polo, The Moustache Factor, Burial Day Books, Rainstorm Press and Micro Horror. His western stories and poetry appear on the Rope and Wire web site. Darkest Before The Dawn has published his crime stories.

5/3/12

A RAINY DAY IS FOR LOVERS
By Patricia Crandall

Percolating espresso-

the coffee bean aroma

scents the new pine kitchen.

Newspapers are spread open

on the Sunday morning table.

A smooth white hand

couples with a rough one.

Rain on the roof

and patterns on the glass.

Eyes liquefy,

conveying passion

yet to be expressed.

- - -

5/2/12

Breath Taker
By Shelby "Mahogany Wilson"

You appear in my world unnoticed

So debonair

Sweet succulent passionate being

The thrill of a new beginning

seeping through my pores

strong structural body stood before me unclothed

Naked before my soul

You entrenched upon my thought patterns with small pulses

A spine tingling sensation paralyzes my body

I underrate the effects and forgot my manners

I stole and lied to hold one more glimpse

Just one more kiss, touch, moment

With every stoke, I carve your impression in my mind

Each dimple, scar, mole, tattoo and uneven pattern

My hands and eyes shall hold the image

My heart feels weak with confusion

This body before me will appear again and again

Because you are forever carved in my memory

As the one who stole my breath

- - -
Shelby Wilson is an local Alaskan performance poet. She is the Vice President of Black Feather P.O.E.T.S., an organization built on self empowerment through the expression of poetry. She has self published two books Broken Wings and Serinity.

5/1/12

My Dream
By Linda M. Crate


robin eggs blue, flaxen locks of gold;
pale white pearls and a rosemary beach
perched like a bird precariously against
the ivory, these are the things that make
me love you ever more — your intelligence,
your wit, the way you make me laugh; these
are all icing on the proverbial cake, so let’s
take a bit of you and me and see what is
left of Rome, when we finish it may be
past the point of repair; dappled light hangs
before us on spools of sun star shining
through the crux of the wood, let it fall over
us and burn away all the painful stains of
yesteryear that cry like rain water in streams.


- - -
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.