Joyce
By Mike Berger
There is only one girl like Joyce in every grade in school; she is every guys dream. When you date a girl you realize that she is your second choice. A smile from Joyce can make your day. She has a keen mind but most guys don't notice; they can't get past her tight sweaters. When we talk I often compliment her on her keen mind. When Walt Disney made the movie, Snow White, they must have used her for model. She has coal black hair and soft white skin; her teeth are flashing white and she has big brown eyes that turn your spine to Jell-O. Her stunning body blows most of the guy’s minds a mile out of the water. She has just a hint of a dimple and a big lower lip that seems to be waiting to be kissed.
Most of the guys her age are intimidated by her. She always dates the older guys who have to take a number and wait in line. It took months for me to work up the courage to ask her to go to the prom with me. Totally speechless, when she said yes; I shook my head in disbelief. I couldn't believe my ears when she said that
she thought I would never ask. Those words were the Hallelujah Chorus sung by
angel voices.
Parading around school, I wore a huge grin; after all I now have the bragging rights. No longer a nameless face in an ocean of guys, I was the envy of all those jocks and good-looking guys. I enjoyed every minute.
Arriving right on time, I had to wait those uncomfortable minutes with her parents as she finished getting ready. As she came down the stairs, she took my breath. She was wearing a little black dress that didn't leave much to my imagination. I was all thumbs as I tried to pin on her corsage. Afraid of sticking her with the pin
I fumbled uncomfortably. She laughed at my futile efforts.
I bought a double orchid corsage that cost an arm and a leg. I borrowed my uncle's new Mercedes. I got a fresh haircut and brush my teeth three times.
Making reservations at the fanciest restaurant in town, I slipped the waiter an extra twenty. We were under age, and the waiter smiled at me when I asked him to bring as a bottle of champagne. He wore a wry smile and nodded his head. He
put us into a dark corner of the room lit only by candlelight.
The amazing thing about Joyce besides her stunning beauty was her brutal honesty. She said that she had been interested in me for months, but I never
recognize the signals. I told her I was clueless, and she replied that I didn't have to tell her. I was the only person in the school who didn't know that she wanted to go out with me. At the restaurant I have to admit I wasn't much interested in the food. I tried to avoid being obnoxious staring into her eyes. She enjoyed the prime rib and enjoyed drinking champagne. When she bent over to take a bite
she revealed an acre of cleavage. I try to keep us stoic face so she wouldn't see the sky rockets that were going off in my head.
As we entered the ballroom, I could hear silent trumpets sound. They announced her arrival. Every guy’s eyes in the place were fixed on her. After several dances
and a myriad of second and third glances; I came to the sudden realization, while all the guys smiled, all the dates faces had turned to prunes. I also realized that all that attention was only half due to the gorgeous lady. Some of it was directed to her little black dress. It can best be described as a gownless evening strap. She seemed oblivious to all the attention she was receiving. She had a mischievous look in her eyes when she put her hand on my cheek and whispered in a husky voice could go somewhere a little more private.
- - -
Mike Berger is an MFA, PhD. He writes poetry and short stories full time
He has been writing poetry for less than four years. His work appear in seventy-one journals. He has published two books of short stories and eight poetry chapbooks .He is a member of The Academy of American Poets.
Friday, August 31, 2012
Thursday, August 30, 2012
8/30/12
HAREBELLS AND SEASHELLS
By Patricia Crandall
- - -
By Patricia Crandall
Turquoise waters
break over pearly beaches
beneath a lazy Caribbean sun.
seashells pink
harebells blue
arouse feelings
my love for you
- - -
Wednesday, August 29, 2012
8/29/12
The Goddess in the Street
By Matthew Vernon Whalan
Today I saw a Goddess in the street:
She who begged him not to love her but to still stay painfully faithful,
She who stared down at the world through pompous eyes shaded by aviator sunglasses,
She who kicked him in the back off of a building top and down into streetlight twilight,
She who drew him closer and closer and walked further backwards and further backwards until she rolled down the curve of the earth, cradling his sanity as she tumbled,
She with her butter colored skin
And her firm thighs
And her power corrupted waist
And her taunting little dress.
She who killed Hemingway and deafened Van Gogh and forced men into trying to be impressive by building railroads and blowing smoke rings and throwing darts and running for president.
She who wants attention for the sake of brutality and will act self destructively if she gets too much of it or not enough of it.
She who doesn’t need makeup but wears it anyway.
Today I saw two goddesses in the street and one smiled at me and one didn’t and both made me feel equally disappointed in myself.
They who talk behind his back and either overly praise him or overly blame him and either way it’s just as bad.
They who shifted their hair into the breeze so that reliable shining strand would blow right into the side of her deprecating smile.
She who can’t help her devilish desires or her angelic heart or her tempting body.
- - -
My name is Matthew Vernon Whalan. I am a writer from Great Barrington, MA.
By Matthew Vernon Whalan
Today I saw a Goddess in the street:
She who begged him not to love her but to still stay painfully faithful,
She who stared down at the world through pompous eyes shaded by aviator sunglasses,
She who kicked him in the back off of a building top and down into streetlight twilight,
She who drew him closer and closer and walked further backwards and further backwards until she rolled down the curve of the earth, cradling his sanity as she tumbled,
She with her butter colored skin
And her firm thighs
And her power corrupted waist
And her taunting little dress.
She who killed Hemingway and deafened Van Gogh and forced men into trying to be impressive by building railroads and blowing smoke rings and throwing darts and running for president.
She who wants attention for the sake of brutality and will act self destructively if she gets too much of it or not enough of it.
She who doesn’t need makeup but wears it anyway.
Today I saw two goddesses in the street and one smiled at me and one didn’t and both made me feel equally disappointed in myself.
They who talk behind his back and either overly praise him or overly blame him and either way it’s just as bad.
They who shifted their hair into the breeze so that reliable shining strand would blow right into the side of her deprecating smile.
She who can’t help her devilish desires or her angelic heart or her tempting body.
- - -
My name is Matthew Vernon Whalan. I am a writer from Great Barrington, MA.
Tuesday, August 28, 2012
8/28/12
Absolutely, Maybe Not
By R. Gerry Fabian
Incidentally,
you are supposed to go back
to those damp fog blue memories.
Sure, the special cologne hours
still somehow linger
in certain Spring lilac breezes.
You must refuse them.
Of course, often in snarling traffic tangles
the radio waves carry a song
to reclaim a date, a special day or moment.
You must avoid it. Please.
If a pair of gentle hands should hold you,
just so you know,
no matter what - don’t squeeze back.
Beware that crazy butterfly mercury magic.
It’s gone.
And if you ever return -
I’ll be waiting.
- - -
R. Gerry Fabian is a retired English instructor and editor of Raw Dog Press. http://rawdogpress.bravesites.com/ He has published in various little and literary magazines since 1970. Currently, he is putting the finishing touches on a poetry manuscript of his published poetry and searching for a publisher.
By R. Gerry Fabian
Incidentally,
you are supposed to go back
to those damp fog blue memories.
Sure, the special cologne hours
still somehow linger
in certain Spring lilac breezes.
You must refuse them.
Of course, often in snarling traffic tangles
the radio waves carry a song
to reclaim a date, a special day or moment.
You must avoid it. Please.
If a pair of gentle hands should hold you,
just so you know,
no matter what - don’t squeeze back.
Beware that crazy butterfly mercury magic.
It’s gone.
And if you ever return -
I’ll be waiting.
- - -
R. Gerry Fabian is a retired English instructor and editor of Raw Dog Press. http://rawdogpress.bravesites.com/ He has published in various little and literary magazines since 1970. Currently, he is putting the finishing touches on a poetry manuscript of his published poetry and searching for a publisher.
Monday, August 27, 2012
8/27/12
She Died of Kisses
By A.J. Huffman
- - -
A.J. Huffman is a poet and freelance writer in Daytona Beach, Florida. She has previously published four collections of poetry: The Difference Between Shadows and Stars, Carrying Yesterday, Cognitive Distortion, and . . . And Other Such Nonsense. 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.
By A.J. Huffman
in a night with no lips. His memories
whipping their magic – true masochists
under the stars. She lay on her side
remembering the pressure, his head
creasing the pillow. Distracting
her lungs, she contemplates the texture
of the now untouched white expanse. Simply
choosing to forget
to breathe.
- - -
A.J. Huffman is a poet and freelance writer in Daytona Beach, Florida. She has previously published four collections of poetry: The Difference Between Shadows and Stars, Carrying Yesterday, Cognitive Distortion, and . . . And Other Such Nonsense. 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.
Sunday, August 26, 2012
8/26/12
What You Swore Before
By Maelina Frattaroli
"Never again" is what you swore before.
My legs are sealed until the next time comes
In dreams I wait while you top your high score.
The ceiling spins from Jack Daniels’ last lure,
Your world sounds a steady beat of drums
"Never again" is what you swore before.
Can I obtain this? Abstain ‘til there’s more?
The song in me becomes a silent hum.
In dreams I wait while you top your high score.
It’s back—your subtle shutting of my door;
I hear it loud, quiet footsteps on the run.
“Never again” is what you swore before.
The thing I keep behind vaults, you still tore;
In cage-free fantasies, it pumps freedom
In dreams I wait while you top your high score.
I should reach out for what wants me, I’m sure;
Indifference spoons in doses when you’re numb.
"Never again" is what you swore before
In dreams I wait while you top your high score.
- - -
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.
By Maelina Frattaroli
"Never again" is what you swore before.
My legs are sealed until the next time comes
In dreams I wait while you top your high score.
The ceiling spins from Jack Daniels’ last lure,
Your world sounds a steady beat of drums
"Never again" is what you swore before.
Can I obtain this? Abstain ‘til there’s more?
The song in me becomes a silent hum.
In dreams I wait while you top your high score.
It’s back—your subtle shutting of my door;
I hear it loud, quiet footsteps on the run.
“Never again” is what you swore before.
The thing I keep behind vaults, you still tore;
In cage-free fantasies, it pumps freedom
In dreams I wait while you top your high score.
I should reach out for what wants me, I’m sure;
Indifference spoons in doses when you’re numb.
"Never again" is what you swore before
In dreams I wait while you top your high score.
- - -
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.
Saturday, August 25, 2012
8/25/12
Never thought I'd say
By Carly Wells
My heart's changing.
I think I want a dog.
I think I want to get lost in the woods and breathe in the crisp air.
I think I want to be okay living out of 2 suitcases.
I think I want to hail a cab and sit in coffee shops alone, happily sipping a chai latte. I think I want to sleep in different beds in different countries and not be afraid of the dark, or afraid that I'll always sleep alone….
I think I want to not be afraid anymore, or be so timid.
I think I want to trust my heart a lot more and not blame it for some of my mistakes.
I think I want to embrace all the change that's happening around me.
And most of all, I know I want to believe in true love again.
- - -
Carly is currently a little gypsy, selling everything she has and traveling to Ecuador to find what love really looks like, in the eyes of street kids, prostitutes, beggars and the lost and broken of society. She's writing about love all along the way.
By Carly Wells
My heart's changing.
I think I want a dog.
I think I want to get lost in the woods and breathe in the crisp air.
I think I want to be okay living out of 2 suitcases.
I think I want to hail a cab and sit in coffee shops alone, happily sipping a chai latte. I think I want to sleep in different beds in different countries and not be afraid of the dark, or afraid that I'll always sleep alone….
I think I want to not be afraid anymore, or be so timid.
I think I want to trust my heart a lot more and not blame it for some of my mistakes.
I think I want to embrace all the change that's happening around me.
And most of all, I know I want to believe in true love again.
- - -
Carly is currently a little gypsy, selling everything she has and traveling to Ecuador to find what love really looks like, in the eyes of street kids, prostitutes, beggars and the lost and broken of society. She's writing about love all along the way.
Friday, August 24, 2012
8/24/12
First Kiss
By R. Gerry Fabian
- - -
R. Gerry Fabian is a retired English instructor and editor of Raw Dog Press. http://rawdogpress.bravesites.com/ He has published in various little and literary magazines since 1970. Currently, he is putting the finishing touches on a poetry manuscript of his published poetry and searching for a publisher.
By R. Gerry Fabian
In bloom the bulb bursts
to a basic red shadow blush.
Stretching in sun spray,
a faint sweet fragile fragrance
touches
two lips.
- - -
R. Gerry Fabian is a retired English instructor and editor of Raw Dog Press. http://rawdogpress.bravesites.com/ He has published in various little and literary magazines since 1970. Currently, he is putting the finishing touches on a poetry manuscript of his published poetry and searching for a publisher.
Thursday, August 23, 2012
8/23/12
What You Mean to Me
By Donald Ishikawa
A night that will never fade,
Feelings that will never be forgotten.
Beginning in a fit of anguish,
Ending in the caress of comfort.
Staring into the dimmed panel, the mocking screen.
Only caused me to hurt.
An affliction of wanting,
Furthered only by the false hopes of belonging.
The human curse.
Staring into your words,
The declarations of your devotion.
Glowing sigils that sing of eternity,
An endless lifetimes of happiness.
Reading them for what they are,
Whom they are to,
To her...
Making me forget the dreams,
My own delusions,
The deep seeded desires of a fool.
Words that describe what I wished for,
What I secretly covet.
The letters that spell your glimmering world,
Eviscerating mine in an instant.
Were my efforts hollow?
Warm intentions turned to ash.
Burned alive by their own purpose.
The opening of my soul to you,
To make myself vulnerable, to let you inside.
Opening the gates that I bar to all others.
A rash effort to become one?
No!
Nothing was wasted,
Bold actions were not in vain.
The words on that screen no longer herald sadness,
But joyous epiphany.
When I remember time I've shared with you,
Though brief in the eyes of world,
Feel like years of revelations.
The conversations that intrigue me,
That made me laugh,
That made me share myself,
Showing you who I am,
Making me reflect on myself.
I can only smile inside.
A feeling that reaches into my core, saving me from suffocation.
I see how much closer to a person I have become,
To a woman of uniqueness,
Who's spark is matched by her wit.
Who's conviction is unwavering.
Who isn't afraid to reveal herself, who she is.
Who she loves.
And when I remember your words about her,
When we spoke.
What you said, what I read before me,
How can I not want you to hold tightly to that?
I no longer covet you,
Humanity's curse no longer hanging over my strengthened body,
It is a shadowed figure that sits in exile.
No longer agonizing a once troubled being.
I have only one feeling now.
A desire that has yet to be told,
One to be saved for when we meet again.
To tell you that I care,
About you, our friendship.
To continue the bond we have built.
Watching you grow as a person,
Witnessing your triumphs.
Shall I have the courage to open up again?
I will.
And when they ask me about you.
Whether it was worth it.
Getting to know you,
Finding out who you are.
I can say in a heartbeat,
Voided of any hesitation,
Without a moments pause,
Yes!
- - -
Donald Ishikawa is a student who loves to write poetry. After a year of creative writing, he now seeks to continue his writing and get his name "out there". He has been recently been informed that he will be published in The Rusty Nail literary magazine.
By Donald Ishikawa
A night that will never fade,
Feelings that will never be forgotten.
Beginning in a fit of anguish,
Ending in the caress of comfort.
Staring into the dimmed panel, the mocking screen.
Only caused me to hurt.
An affliction of wanting,
Furthered only by the false hopes of belonging.
The human curse.
Staring into your words,
The declarations of your devotion.
Glowing sigils that sing of eternity,
An endless lifetimes of happiness.
Reading them for what they are,
Whom they are to,
To her...
Making me forget the dreams,
My own delusions,
The deep seeded desires of a fool.
Words that describe what I wished for,
What I secretly covet.
The letters that spell your glimmering world,
Eviscerating mine in an instant.
Were my efforts hollow?
Warm intentions turned to ash.
Burned alive by their own purpose.
The opening of my soul to you,
To make myself vulnerable, to let you inside.
Opening the gates that I bar to all others.
A rash effort to become one?
No!
Nothing was wasted,
Bold actions were not in vain.
The words on that screen no longer herald sadness,
But joyous epiphany.
When I remember time I've shared with you,
Though brief in the eyes of world,
Feel like years of revelations.
The conversations that intrigue me,
That made me laugh,
That made me share myself,
Showing you who I am,
Making me reflect on myself.
I can only smile inside.
A feeling that reaches into my core, saving me from suffocation.
I see how much closer to a person I have become,
To a woman of uniqueness,
Who's spark is matched by her wit.
Who's conviction is unwavering.
Who isn't afraid to reveal herself, who she is.
Who she loves.
And when I remember your words about her,
When we spoke.
What you said, what I read before me,
How can I not want you to hold tightly to that?
I no longer covet you,
Humanity's curse no longer hanging over my strengthened body,
It is a shadowed figure that sits in exile.
No longer agonizing a once troubled being.
I have only one feeling now.
A desire that has yet to be told,
One to be saved for when we meet again.
To tell you that I care,
About you, our friendship.
To continue the bond we have built.
Watching you grow as a person,
Witnessing your triumphs.
Shall I have the courage to open up again?
I will.
And when they ask me about you.
Whether it was worth it.
Getting to know you,
Finding out who you are.
I can say in a heartbeat,
Voided of any hesitation,
Without a moments pause,
Yes!
- - -
Donald Ishikawa is a student who loves to write poetry. After a year of creative writing, he now seeks to continue his writing and get his name "out there". He has been recently been informed that he will be published in The Rusty Nail literary magazine.
Wednesday, August 22, 2012
8/22/12
Eleanor
By Mike Berger
The phone rang two or three times a day, with girls calling me; I had my choice of girls to take out. Text messages came flooding in, but I deleted them without ever being read. Most of the girls used as subtle approach; they would ask me if I knew what was assigned for homework in English. A few were blatant and told me they were more than available. Content to play the field, I was having a ball, but some crazy feeling kept nagging at me. It took six months for me to finally pin down those odd feelings.
I finally realized that those feelings became intense when I was around Eleanor.
She was the only girl in the school who didn't know that I existed. When we passed in the halls, she never saw my smile, I seemed to be invisible. With all the other girls clamoring for a date, my mind was frozen on Eleanor. I often found myself daydreaming in class, where I would be kissing her lips.
The odd thing about it was there wasn't anything remarkable about her. She had mousy brown hair always done in soft curls. She had a pretty face, but nothing outstanding. She was flat in the chest. She wore a superior, regal look, but had an assertive walk. She was aloof around everyone, as if she owned the world.
She rarely smiled and when she did, you noted that her smile was lopsided.
I asked a mutual friend to introduce us. He scoffed at the thought, and he told me the word around school was she was as cold as a polar bear in a snowstorm.
Meeting Eleanor wasn't what I had hoped for. She held out as stiff hand and gave me a polite hello. For the first time in my life, I was tongue tied and barely able to choke out, "Hello."
Going out of my way to run into her, she might give me a wave of her hand. It took me two weeks to work up the courage to ask her out. I was on top of the world when she said, "Yes." I felt like a kid in a candy store. Standing in front of my mirror for hours, I rehearsed a thousand lines; I didn't want to be a buffoon again.
It took three dates for me to get a tight lipped little peck; that kiss was as satisfying as being kissed by your sister. I knew I had to bridle my passions, but she was so terribly inviting. After a half dozen dates, I began to wonder if she would ever let her hair down. I was afraid to overplay my hand, but I couldn't wait anymore. I planted up passionate kiss on her neck, and my tongue teased her soft flesh. She immediately pulled back and told me that she wasn't that kind of girl.
After that, she wouldn't return my calls, and I became invisible again. I heard from our mutual friend that she was dating some other guy. I moped around with a broken heart. None of the other girls I took out filled the void. For more than a month, I agonized over losing her.
I was confronted in the hall by the other guy; he had an evil look in his eye. I thought I was destined to duke it out with him, and I didn't have the foggiest reason why. His surly look suddenly changed to one of desperation. He
clasped his hands together and begged me to take her back.
- - -
Mike Berger is an MFA, PhD. He writes poetry and short stories full time
He has been writing poetry for less than four years. His work appear in seventy-one journals. He has published two books of short stories and eight poetry chapbooks .He is a member of The Academy of American Poets.
By Mike Berger
The phone rang two or three times a day, with girls calling me; I had my choice of girls to take out. Text messages came flooding in, but I deleted them without ever being read. Most of the girls used as subtle approach; they would ask me if I knew what was assigned for homework in English. A few were blatant and told me they were more than available. Content to play the field, I was having a ball, but some crazy feeling kept nagging at me. It took six months for me to finally pin down those odd feelings.
I finally realized that those feelings became intense when I was around Eleanor.
She was the only girl in the school who didn't know that I existed. When we passed in the halls, she never saw my smile, I seemed to be invisible. With all the other girls clamoring for a date, my mind was frozen on Eleanor. I often found myself daydreaming in class, where I would be kissing her lips.
The odd thing about it was there wasn't anything remarkable about her. She had mousy brown hair always done in soft curls. She had a pretty face, but nothing outstanding. She was flat in the chest. She wore a superior, regal look, but had an assertive walk. She was aloof around everyone, as if she owned the world.
She rarely smiled and when she did, you noted that her smile was lopsided.
I asked a mutual friend to introduce us. He scoffed at the thought, and he told me the word around school was she was as cold as a polar bear in a snowstorm.
Meeting Eleanor wasn't what I had hoped for. She held out as stiff hand and gave me a polite hello. For the first time in my life, I was tongue tied and barely able to choke out, "Hello."
Going out of my way to run into her, she might give me a wave of her hand. It took me two weeks to work up the courage to ask her out. I was on top of the world when she said, "Yes." I felt like a kid in a candy store. Standing in front of my mirror for hours, I rehearsed a thousand lines; I didn't want to be a buffoon again.
It took three dates for me to get a tight lipped little peck; that kiss was as satisfying as being kissed by your sister. I knew I had to bridle my passions, but she was so terribly inviting. After a half dozen dates, I began to wonder if she would ever let her hair down. I was afraid to overplay my hand, but I couldn't wait anymore. I planted up passionate kiss on her neck, and my tongue teased her soft flesh. She immediately pulled back and told me that she wasn't that kind of girl.
After that, she wouldn't return my calls, and I became invisible again. I heard from our mutual friend that she was dating some other guy. I moped around with a broken heart. None of the other girls I took out filled the void. For more than a month, I agonized over losing her.
I was confronted in the hall by the other guy; he had an evil look in his eye. I thought I was destined to duke it out with him, and I didn't have the foggiest reason why. His surly look suddenly changed to one of desperation. He
clasped his hands together and begged me to take her back.
- - -
Mike Berger is an MFA, PhD. He writes poetry and short stories full time
He has been writing poetry for less than four years. His work appear in seventy-one journals. He has published two books of short stories and eight poetry chapbooks .He is a member of The Academy of American Poets.
Tuesday, August 21, 2012
8/21/12
Brick Ride
By A.J. Huffman
- - -
A.J. Huffman is a poet and freelance writer in Daytona Beach, Florida. She has previously published four collections of poetry: The Difference Between Shadows and Stars, Carrying Yesterday, Cognitive Distortion, and . . . And Other Such Nonsense. 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.
By A.J. Huffman
What am I doing here, in your world
of mirrors? I wrap myself
in delusions so strong I actually believe
you can see me. For
give my flaw --
filled judgment a break.
(It is overworked and underlaid
with doubts bout its very existence).
It is dying,
an existential martyr to my madness, I begin
to grieve our mutual loss. Then you
smile
at/over/through me.
A deliberate[d?] gift
or goad? It does not matter.
All I see is its breadcrumbing trail
glowing like fairytold gold.
- - -
A.J. Huffman is a poet and freelance writer in Daytona Beach, Florida. She has previously published four collections of poetry: The Difference Between Shadows and Stars, Carrying Yesterday, Cognitive Distortion, and . . . And Other Such Nonsense. 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.
Monday, August 20, 2012
8/20/12
Kah-Thump
By Taylor Garrison
It was easy to love him. Maybe because his heart sounded honest when I pressed my ear against his chest. Kah-thump. Kah-thump. I will never leave you. Kah-thump. Kah-thump. We could lay here forever. Kah-thump. Kah-thump. We can turn into a pile of entangled bones and dust. Kah-thump. Kah-thump.
Maybe it was because I have always believed in happy endings. I like to shut off Titanic right in the middle and pretend it never sank; pretend Rose and Jack got off that ship and had ten cute, artistic, red-headed babies and spent their lives laughing and drinking beer and reminiscing of the time they met on that great big boat. I never let myself watch the end. The romantic in me won’t allow it.
Or it could have just been the fact that he was the first boy I ever loved, and there’s something really intoxicating about the first time you fall in love. It’s like chugging a whole bottle of whiskey – it burns and it tingles and you feel kind of sick and the world becomes a huge blur of laughter and inhibition.
I remember the exact moment I realized I loved him. We were laying in his bed and a Say Anything song came on. The one about the different color cats, maybe? I don’t really remember because I hate Say Anything and he knew that so he started to sing. He started to sing and it sounded like a cat that was being slowly strangled and I laughed and pressed my palms against my ears and he just sang louder. When I went to escape the awful droning of his off-key melody, he pressed me tightly against himself and nibbled lightly on my ear and I knew in that moment that if I could be anywhere with anyone – if I could stand on the Eiffel Tower with Marilyn Monroe and Elvis Presley and lightly sip champagne as we discussed the good ol’ days of Hollywood-- I wouldn’t. I would be right there in that tiny blue bed that squeaked whenever I barely moved, listening to this gangly boy sing this ridiculous song.
It was in that moment I knew I was in love. I knew I was fucked.
After that all I wanted to do was say it. We would be grocery shopping and I’d think “They’re having a special on liter Cokes, buy two get one free. I love you.” We’d be driving down the road and he’d be bitching about construction and I’d think “Yeah, it is annoying that it takes thirty minutes just to get down Wards Road but I love you.” My love for him infected everything I did. He was the most beautiful virus I had ever been plagued by.
Relatively speaking, it was barely a blimp on the vast radar of a lifetime. I can’t remember the start and end dates exactly. I don’t remember much about that year at all, actually, except that it was filled with breathless kisses and nervous firsts. I remember that he always smelled of chlorine. He was a swimmer and the smell of the chemicals stayed embedded in his skin. I still breathe in deeply when I walk into an indoor pool. Habit, I suppose. It always transports me back to that year. It was one of the best years of my life.
We broke up eventually. It doesn’t really matter why. I assume we labeled it with a specific reason, but in the end it was really just life. Life has a way of changing the most permanent things into temporary ones. Thankfully, it can do the same with a broken heart.
He’s dating some blonde girl now. She seems quiet and sweet, very different from me. But I guess that’s a good thing. Maybe life will let the two of them be permanent. I’d like to know he ended up happy.
I’ve fallen in love a few times since then, too. Each time is its own masterpiece. My heart is my romantic Michelangelo. Every time it beats it produces a new and beautiful Sistine Chapel, but instead of paint, it is pain and pleasure that spatters against the ceiling.
He is still my favorite piece, though. Our love is my most treasured creation, even if it only lives through memories. It lives in a young girl’s laughter, in an awkward boy’s terrible singing voice, in the innocence of two kids who haven’t yet experienced the pain that echoes within the terrible truth that love is sometimes not enough.
Every now and then when I’m feeling old or unoriginal or just depressed, I pull out the memory of my first love and his strong, honest heart. I replay my favorite parts in my head. I smile at what I see. I’d like to think he does too.
- - -
Taylor Garrison is a nineteen-year-old wannabe writer with a weakness for Kate Morton novels and rootbeer floats. She loves warm towels fresh from the dryer, hates when she wakes up three minutes before her alarm is supposed to go off, and spends the majority of her free time trying to be half as wonderful as her friends and family promise her she is.
By Taylor Garrison
It was easy to love him. Maybe because his heart sounded honest when I pressed my ear against his chest. Kah-thump. Kah-thump. I will never leave you. Kah-thump. Kah-thump. We could lay here forever. Kah-thump. Kah-thump. We can turn into a pile of entangled bones and dust. Kah-thump. Kah-thump.
Maybe it was because I have always believed in happy endings. I like to shut off Titanic right in the middle and pretend it never sank; pretend Rose and Jack got off that ship and had ten cute, artistic, red-headed babies and spent their lives laughing and drinking beer and reminiscing of the time they met on that great big boat. I never let myself watch the end. The romantic in me won’t allow it.
Or it could have just been the fact that he was the first boy I ever loved, and there’s something really intoxicating about the first time you fall in love. It’s like chugging a whole bottle of whiskey – it burns and it tingles and you feel kind of sick and the world becomes a huge blur of laughter and inhibition.
I remember the exact moment I realized I loved him. We were laying in his bed and a Say Anything song came on. The one about the different color cats, maybe? I don’t really remember because I hate Say Anything and he knew that so he started to sing. He started to sing and it sounded like a cat that was being slowly strangled and I laughed and pressed my palms against my ears and he just sang louder. When I went to escape the awful droning of his off-key melody, he pressed me tightly against himself and nibbled lightly on my ear and I knew in that moment that if I could be anywhere with anyone – if I could stand on the Eiffel Tower with Marilyn Monroe and Elvis Presley and lightly sip champagne as we discussed the good ol’ days of Hollywood-- I wouldn’t. I would be right there in that tiny blue bed that squeaked whenever I barely moved, listening to this gangly boy sing this ridiculous song.
It was in that moment I knew I was in love. I knew I was fucked.
After that all I wanted to do was say it. We would be grocery shopping and I’d think “They’re having a special on liter Cokes, buy two get one free. I love you.” We’d be driving down the road and he’d be bitching about construction and I’d think “Yeah, it is annoying that it takes thirty minutes just to get down Wards Road but I love you.” My love for him infected everything I did. He was the most beautiful virus I had ever been plagued by.
Relatively speaking, it was barely a blimp on the vast radar of a lifetime. I can’t remember the start and end dates exactly. I don’t remember much about that year at all, actually, except that it was filled with breathless kisses and nervous firsts. I remember that he always smelled of chlorine. He was a swimmer and the smell of the chemicals stayed embedded in his skin. I still breathe in deeply when I walk into an indoor pool. Habit, I suppose. It always transports me back to that year. It was one of the best years of my life.
We broke up eventually. It doesn’t really matter why. I assume we labeled it with a specific reason, but in the end it was really just life. Life has a way of changing the most permanent things into temporary ones. Thankfully, it can do the same with a broken heart.
He’s dating some blonde girl now. She seems quiet and sweet, very different from me. But I guess that’s a good thing. Maybe life will let the two of them be permanent. I’d like to know he ended up happy.
I’ve fallen in love a few times since then, too. Each time is its own masterpiece. My heart is my romantic Michelangelo. Every time it beats it produces a new and beautiful Sistine Chapel, but instead of paint, it is pain and pleasure that spatters against the ceiling.
He is still my favorite piece, though. Our love is my most treasured creation, even if it only lives through memories. It lives in a young girl’s laughter, in an awkward boy’s terrible singing voice, in the innocence of two kids who haven’t yet experienced the pain that echoes within the terrible truth that love is sometimes not enough.
Every now and then when I’m feeling old or unoriginal or just depressed, I pull out the memory of my first love and his strong, honest heart. I replay my favorite parts in my head. I smile at what I see. I’d like to think he does too.
- - -
Taylor Garrison is a nineteen-year-old wannabe writer with a weakness for Kate Morton novels and rootbeer floats. She loves warm towels fresh from the dryer, hates when she wakes up three minutes before her alarm is supposed to go off, and spends the majority of her free time trying to be half as wonderful as her friends and family promise her she is.
Sunday, August 19, 2012
8/19/12
You Are Everything I Don’t Remember
By Lionel Ngion
I don’t remember her anymore.
Isn’t it funny how someone who was so important in your life, someone who knew you better than you did yourself, someone whose heart beat in your chest and yours in hers, could just fade from memory? Like warm breath on cold mirror. Just. Gone.
I don’t remember you anymore.
I used to be able to. In my mind you were clad head to toe in warm winter gear – a purple cap, a black woollen sweater, gloves, tights and boots that left deep imprints on the white canvass. You asked me to close my eyes, and gave a quick laugh when you stuffed a snowball into my pants, followed by an apologetic, sorry grin so I wouldn’t bring righteous retribution.
Which I did anyway.
On the way back home, you were shivering from the wet and cold, so I took off my jacket and wrapped you tightly with it. You gave me a warm, grateful smile, and I remember thinking making you smile is definitely worth a freezing or two. The wind whipped snowflakes about as I kissed you on the corner of Borough and Linthorpe, and everything faded away – the cold, the snow, the wind, the poor homeless man who sits in front of Sainsburry.
I remember shivering so badly once we were home. You took off your clothes and mine, and hugged me under those atrocious floral covers that you liked. We fell asleep like that, and I remember drifting off, thinking that it was nice to be the little spoon, and no wonder you liked it and hey I stopped shivering and…..
And that’s it. All I have are impressions. I don’t remember your face, but I remember the quirky dance of your lips. I don’t remember your hand in mine, but I remember them cozy in those fat gloves. I don’t remember your eyes, but I remember the way you looked at me and really saw me. I don’t remember your skin against mine, but I remember the shocking cold when you stuffed snow down my pants. I don’t remember how you smelled, but I remember the exact brand of lotion that you loved to use for your dry skin.
I don’t remember what you looked like, but when we hug, my chin will rest on your head, and you will tell me that you can hear my heartbeat. And I would tell you it beat for you, always. You’d kiss my chest and reply, forever.
And that would have been it, but your heart couldn’t beat anymore, and my promise that mine would for you, always, is the only reason is still is.
I don’t have many memories of you, and as time goes by, I have less as they slip throw the cracks in the wall of my mind. Maybe, the memories go back to you, maybe they have to, to make you whole. Maybe it doesn’t matter what I remember, save that I loved, and was loved, and that will have to be enough.
- - -
A dreamer, a pilgrim, and a storyteller. I live not for the moments, but the in-betweens.
By Lionel Ngion
I don’t remember her anymore.
Isn’t it funny how someone who was so important in your life, someone who knew you better than you did yourself, someone whose heart beat in your chest and yours in hers, could just fade from memory? Like warm breath on cold mirror. Just. Gone.
I don’t remember you anymore.
I used to be able to. In my mind you were clad head to toe in warm winter gear – a purple cap, a black woollen sweater, gloves, tights and boots that left deep imprints on the white canvass. You asked me to close my eyes, and gave a quick laugh when you stuffed a snowball into my pants, followed by an apologetic, sorry grin so I wouldn’t bring righteous retribution.
Which I did anyway.
On the way back home, you were shivering from the wet and cold, so I took off my jacket and wrapped you tightly with it. You gave me a warm, grateful smile, and I remember thinking making you smile is definitely worth a freezing or two. The wind whipped snowflakes about as I kissed you on the corner of Borough and Linthorpe, and everything faded away – the cold, the snow, the wind, the poor homeless man who sits in front of Sainsburry.
I remember shivering so badly once we were home. You took off your clothes and mine, and hugged me under those atrocious floral covers that you liked. We fell asleep like that, and I remember drifting off, thinking that it was nice to be the little spoon, and no wonder you liked it and hey I stopped shivering and…..
And that’s it. All I have are impressions. I don’t remember your face, but I remember the quirky dance of your lips. I don’t remember your hand in mine, but I remember them cozy in those fat gloves. I don’t remember your eyes, but I remember the way you looked at me and really saw me. I don’t remember your skin against mine, but I remember the shocking cold when you stuffed snow down my pants. I don’t remember how you smelled, but I remember the exact brand of lotion that you loved to use for your dry skin.
I don’t remember what you looked like, but when we hug, my chin will rest on your head, and you will tell me that you can hear my heartbeat. And I would tell you it beat for you, always. You’d kiss my chest and reply, forever.
And that would have been it, but your heart couldn’t beat anymore, and my promise that mine would for you, always, is the only reason is still is.
I don’t have many memories of you, and as time goes by, I have less as they slip throw the cracks in the wall of my mind. Maybe, the memories go back to you, maybe they have to, to make you whole. Maybe it doesn’t matter what I remember, save that I loved, and was loved, and that will have to be enough.
- - -
A dreamer, a pilgrim, and a storyteller. I live not for the moments, but the in-betweens.
Saturday, August 18, 2012
8/18/12
First Anniversary
By April Salzano
You still make me come
to my senses, when I am running
out of options, solutions, patience.
You bring me home
in a new car when mine is no longer safe.
You speak softly
when my son redecorates the walls
with thick black scribble art.
You are not scared
of my anger when nothing goes right.
You pull me out
when I am buried under freshman comp papers.
You make me pause
long enough to stop feeling
guilty for neglecting the laundry,
or missing a soccer game.
You have seen every goal
for three years.
You carry my son
upstairs after he’s fallen asleep in your arms.
You work until you are too tired
to stand up on Friday, and still
you build me
a deck on Saturday. Your modesty turns me
on more than your toolbelt and work gloves.
You teach me survival
of the fittest, why it’s ok to let
baby raccoons cry for their lost mothers;
the young hawk needs food too.
You tell me
the names of flowers and birds
and tirelessly explain
the difference between annuals and perennials
over and over again.
You mean exactly what you say,
no subtext-searches necessary, simple
language that never lies or implies a hidden agenda.
Long before the diamonds, I knew your intentions:
when we shot your ex
wife’s lamp to bits, the only thing she left,
when you built my kids
a jungle gym in your back yard,
when your vulgar coworkers sent pictures
of perfect, round porn star asses and you
told me that mine looks better,
when you said I don’t need
anything else. And you meant it.
- - -
April Salzano teaches college writing in Pennsylvania. Her work has appeared in Poetry Salzburg, Pyrokinection, Convergence, Ascent Aspirations, The Rainbow Rose, The Camel Saloon, The Applicant, The Mindful Word, Napalm and Novocain, The Second Hump, Jellyfish Whispers, The South Townsville Micro Poetry Journal, The Weekender Magazine, and is forthcoming in Inclement and Poetry Quarterly. She is working on her first collection of poetry.
By April Salzano
You still make me come
to my senses, when I am running
out of options, solutions, patience.
You bring me home
in a new car when mine is no longer safe.
You speak softly
when my son redecorates the walls
with thick black scribble art.
You are not scared
of my anger when nothing goes right.
You pull me out
when I am buried under freshman comp papers.
You make me pause
long enough to stop feeling
guilty for neglecting the laundry,
or missing a soccer game.
You have seen every goal
for three years.
You carry my son
upstairs after he’s fallen asleep in your arms.
You work until you are too tired
to stand up on Friday, and still
you build me
a deck on Saturday. Your modesty turns me
on more than your toolbelt and work gloves.
You teach me survival
of the fittest, why it’s ok to let
baby raccoons cry for their lost mothers;
the young hawk needs food too.
You tell me
the names of flowers and birds
and tirelessly explain
the difference between annuals and perennials
over and over again.
You mean exactly what you say,
no subtext-searches necessary, simple
language that never lies or implies a hidden agenda.
Long before the diamonds, I knew your intentions:
when we shot your ex
wife’s lamp to bits, the only thing she left,
when you built my kids
a jungle gym in your back yard,
when your vulgar coworkers sent pictures
of perfect, round porn star asses and you
told me that mine looks better,
when you said I don’t need
anything else. And you meant it.
- - -
April Salzano teaches college writing in Pennsylvania. Her work has appeared in Poetry Salzburg, Pyrokinection, Convergence, Ascent Aspirations, The Rainbow Rose, The Camel Saloon, The Applicant, The Mindful Word, Napalm and Novocain, The Second Hump, Jellyfish Whispers, The South Townsville Micro Poetry Journal, The Weekender Magazine, and is forthcoming in Inclement and Poetry Quarterly. She is working on her first collection of poetry.
Friday, August 17, 2012
8/17/12
I Won't Mourn You
By Linda M. Crate
you are sharp as glass and predictable
as the hands of a clock; I know when
you are coming before you appear you leave
a trail of broken memories after you a silver
stain of all the tears you've stolen from me all
the women that fell subject to your tyrannical
love, but I am not like all of them before me
I will not regret what we had only what
we've become and I won't miss your singing
or guitar playing or demanding insistence to do
things your way; I'm no longer a masochist, love.
- - -
Linda Crate is a Pennsylvanian native born in Pittsburgh, but she was raised in the rural town of Conneautville. She has recently moved to Fort Fairfield, ME. She attended and graduated from Edinboro University of Pennsylvania with a degree in English-Literature in 2009. She has a passion for writing that she has nurtured since the age of thirteen. Her poetry and short stories have appeared in a variety of magazines the latest of which includes: Nebo: A Literary Journal and Visceral Uterus.
By Linda M. Crate
you are sharp as glass and predictable
as the hands of a clock; I know when
you are coming before you appear you leave
a trail of broken memories after you a silver
stain of all the tears you've stolen from me all
the women that fell subject to your tyrannical
love, but I am not like all of them before me
I will not regret what we had only what
we've become and I won't miss your singing
or guitar playing or demanding insistence to do
things your way; I'm no longer a masochist, love.
- - -
Linda Crate is a Pennsylvanian native born in Pittsburgh, but she was raised in the rural town of Conneautville. She has recently moved to Fort Fairfield, ME. She attended and graduated from Edinboro University of Pennsylvania with a degree in English-Literature in 2009. She has a passion for writing that she has nurtured since the age of thirteen. Her poetry and short stories have appeared in a variety of magazines the latest of which includes: Nebo: A Literary Journal and Visceral Uterus.
Thursday, August 16, 2012
8/16/12
A POEM TO MY BELOVED
By Walter William Safar
If I had to lie down
Onto the black hearse instead of our love,
I would agree to die right away,
But hope is the last thing to die,
Yes, my golden one, I am living with hope
That Your tear, like the beautiful moon,
shall shine upon each letter,
each word, comma, exclamation mark and period of this poem,
as if it was the most honest of prayers.
My prayer is loud;
Like the prayer of an abandoned derelict;
Like the prayer of an abandoned child,
Like the prayer of a missionary in the valley of horrible hunger;
My prayers are searching for a sacred sanctuary,
To enter the cathedral above all cathedrals;
To enter your heart.
Just like a derelict is searching for bread crusts,
Just like a believer is searching for his communion wafer,
I am searching for Your kiss.
This prayer is my last hope
That Your tear shall slide onto my tear,
Into a world that is entirely ours;
A world into which the aureola of all human desires is born,
A world into which love is born.
In the darkness of a lonely night,
I am finishing this poem
With an inexplicable hope
That the time to say goodbye isn't here yet,
That our love shall not end on a black hearse,
That it shall live forever in our wonderful world,
In our hearts.
- - -
WALTER WILLIAM SAFAR was born on August 6th 1958 in Sherman-Texas . He is the author of a number of a significant number of prose works and novels, including "Leaden fog", "Chastity on sale", "In the flames of passion", "The price of life", "Above the clouds", "The infernal circle", "The scream", "The Devil’s Architect”, "Queen Elizabeth II", as well as a book of poems.
By Walter William Safar
If I had to lie down
Onto the black hearse instead of our love,
I would agree to die right away,
But hope is the last thing to die,
Yes, my golden one, I am living with hope
That Your tear, like the beautiful moon,
shall shine upon each letter,
each word, comma, exclamation mark and period of this poem,
as if it was the most honest of prayers.
My prayer is loud;
Like the prayer of an abandoned derelict;
Like the prayer of an abandoned child,
Like the prayer of a missionary in the valley of horrible hunger;
My prayers are searching for a sacred sanctuary,
To enter the cathedral above all cathedrals;
To enter your heart.
Just like a derelict is searching for bread crusts,
Just like a believer is searching for his communion wafer,
I am searching for Your kiss.
This prayer is my last hope
That Your tear shall slide onto my tear,
Into a world that is entirely ours;
A world into which the aureola of all human desires is born,
A world into which love is born.
In the darkness of a lonely night,
I am finishing this poem
With an inexplicable hope
That the time to say goodbye isn't here yet,
That our love shall not end on a black hearse,
That it shall live forever in our wonderful world,
In our hearts.
- - -
WALTER WILLIAM SAFAR was born on August 6th 1958 in Sherman-Texas . He is the author of a number of a significant number of prose works and novels, including "Leaden fog", "Chastity on sale", "In the flames of passion", "The price of life", "Above the clouds", "The infernal circle", "The scream", "The Devil’s Architect”, "Queen Elizabeth II", as well as a book of poems.
Wednesday, August 15, 2012
8/15/12
Maybe in the Next One
By Graham Connors
Tommy steps idly around the churchyard, making sure not to scuff his finely polished shoes. Pausing by the porch door he straightens the flower on his lapel, trying to avoid his reflection in the glass. It’s only nerves he tells himself, only nerves. On the other side of the yard his best man laughs loudly, flitting through the knots of gathered guests, a few pastel coloured cards clutched in his fist. Adjusting the lie of his suit, Tommy notices an unfamiliar woman stepping down the Chapel lane. He watches her, reflected in the glass, as she approaches the gathering group of his friends. Tommy turns as she slips a hand around the elbow of an old school friend, Sean. Curious, he waits and watches and catches Sean’s eye. They break from the group, Sean turning the woman to face Tommy.
“Cherie, this is Tommy, today’s poor unfortunate,”
“Hello,” she says, chastising Sean with a scolding smile.
“Hello,” Tommy says, “you look so familiar.”
She smiles shyly, “so do you,” her broad smile setting her face alight, “Have you ever been to London?” she says, her fragile blue eyes regarding him with the utmost curiosity.
“Afraid not.” Tommy is smiling now too.
“And this is my first trip to Ireland.”
“In a past life maybe?” he says, raising his hands in a gesture that brings a deep puce of shy embarrassment to his cheeks. Sean snorts sharply, “I see you’ve found a kindred spirit. Don’t forget who you’re marrying,” he says with a grin and a pat on the shoulder, turning to speak with the other guests gathered in the churchyard.
“Do you believe in that?” she asks, letting Sean slip into chattering crowd.
“Past lives? Maybe,” Tommy says, stuck very much for words. Looking at her he notices the delicate beauty in her face, the soft rise of her cheekbones, the vibrant dance of the afternoon light in her eyes and the warm curl of her lips as she smiles. A silence falls between them but it is neither awkward nor unkind; it is perfect. Looking at her, Tommy feels a tight knot inside him slowly unravel.
“Do you think she’ll be on time?” she asks, gently teasing that knot asunder.
“Who? Marie? Not a chance.”
She smiles, turning her face to the sun, as the best man steps from the thinning group of guests, smoothing his palms over his jacket as both he and Sean shake with laughter.
“Right, let’s get some seats, it’s nearly time, she can’t be a million miles away,” he says, checking his watch. “Tommy, you met Cherrie I see, brought all the way from London...”
“...at enormous expense,” Sean chimes as he finds his way back to her. She smiles again, Sean’s hand slipping into hers. Pausing, to let him step an arm’s length ahead, she turns to Tommy, her eyes meeting his for a moment.
“Maybe in the next one,” she whispers, before drifting into the cool shadows of the church mouth.
- - -
Graham Connors is twenty-nine years old and has previously been published in wordlegs magazine and Link magazine as well as writing for the Dublin Informer newspaper in the Rep. Of Ireland . He successfully staged his first play, ‘The Mortal Pitch’, in both Wexford and Dublin. He is from Gorey, in Co. Wexford but has lived in Dublin for the last ten years.
By Graham Connors
Tommy steps idly around the churchyard, making sure not to scuff his finely polished shoes. Pausing by the porch door he straightens the flower on his lapel, trying to avoid his reflection in the glass. It’s only nerves he tells himself, only nerves. On the other side of the yard his best man laughs loudly, flitting through the knots of gathered guests, a few pastel coloured cards clutched in his fist. Adjusting the lie of his suit, Tommy notices an unfamiliar woman stepping down the Chapel lane. He watches her, reflected in the glass, as she approaches the gathering group of his friends. Tommy turns as she slips a hand around the elbow of an old school friend, Sean. Curious, he waits and watches and catches Sean’s eye. They break from the group, Sean turning the woman to face Tommy.
“Cherie, this is Tommy, today’s poor unfortunate,”
“Hello,” she says, chastising Sean with a scolding smile.
“Hello,” Tommy says, “you look so familiar.”
She smiles shyly, “so do you,” her broad smile setting her face alight, “Have you ever been to London?” she says, her fragile blue eyes regarding him with the utmost curiosity.
“Afraid not.” Tommy is smiling now too.
“And this is my first trip to Ireland.”
“In a past life maybe?” he says, raising his hands in a gesture that brings a deep puce of shy embarrassment to his cheeks. Sean snorts sharply, “I see you’ve found a kindred spirit. Don’t forget who you’re marrying,” he says with a grin and a pat on the shoulder, turning to speak with the other guests gathered in the churchyard.
“Do you believe in that?” she asks, letting Sean slip into chattering crowd.
“Past lives? Maybe,” Tommy says, stuck very much for words. Looking at her he notices the delicate beauty in her face, the soft rise of her cheekbones, the vibrant dance of the afternoon light in her eyes and the warm curl of her lips as she smiles. A silence falls between them but it is neither awkward nor unkind; it is perfect. Looking at her, Tommy feels a tight knot inside him slowly unravel.
“Do you think she’ll be on time?” she asks, gently teasing that knot asunder.
“Who? Marie? Not a chance.”
She smiles, turning her face to the sun, as the best man steps from the thinning group of guests, smoothing his palms over his jacket as both he and Sean shake with laughter.
“Right, let’s get some seats, it’s nearly time, she can’t be a million miles away,” he says, checking his watch. “Tommy, you met Cherrie I see, brought all the way from London...”
“...at enormous expense,” Sean chimes as he finds his way back to her. She smiles again, Sean’s hand slipping into hers. Pausing, to let him step an arm’s length ahead, she turns to Tommy, her eyes meeting his for a moment.
“Maybe in the next one,” she whispers, before drifting into the cool shadows of the church mouth.
- - -
Graham Connors is twenty-nine years old and has previously been published in wordlegs magazine and Link magazine as well as writing for the Dublin Informer newspaper in the Rep. Of Ireland . He successfully staged his first play, ‘The Mortal Pitch’, in both Wexford and Dublin. He is from Gorey, in Co. Wexford but has lived in Dublin for the last ten years.
Tuesday, August 14, 2012
8/14/12
Love, Luck and Fate
By Jerry Guarino
Joseph Bosco looked down at the sidewalk, after hearing the bird whistle in the tree overhead. That’s when he saw the worn, twenty-dollar bill caught in the stray roots breaking through the sidewalk. “Hmm. How about that?” and he put the bill in his pocket. Joe learned one important lesson growing up. He didn’t believe in luck but whenever fortune passed his way, he would say ‘it was God’s will’ and accept it. In fact, Joe attributed everything that happened to him to God’s will, good or bad. “Much less stress” he used to say, “much less disappointment too.”
Most everyone accepted Joe’s philosophy of life. His friends liked the fact that he was so even tempered, never too high or too low. At holiday gatherings, he could be counted on to balance out the histrionics and emotional outbursts of his Sicilian family. At work, he would be the voice of reason when an argument ensued. His matter of fact personality worked just about everywhere, except when he was dating.
“I like your dress Sorana.”
“Thanks Joe.” Sorana blushed. “I like your shirt.”
Joe and Sorana’s first date was everything it should have been. Their infatuation continued for two years, until Sorana’s parents moved out of state. As it is with young love, both of them were heartbroken. They tried to keep in touch but high school pressures and other interests gradually pulled them apart. Later in life, he wished he had been more persistent and not just accepted their breakup.
“Get me something at the deli George. I’d like to do some reading. I’ll be in my office.”
“Corned beef on rye?”
“You know it George.”
Senator Joseph Bosco sat in his office reading the paper and eating his lunch when his secretary interrupted him.
“Excuse me senator. You have a visitor.”
“Who is it, Hannah?”
“Her name is Sorana Antonelli. She says she’s an old friend.”
Joe stood up, smiled and gestured her to let Sorana in. He got up to greet her at the door. As Sorana entered, she saw Joe with open arms.
“Senator Bosco, do you remember me?”
“Sorana, you’re not allowed to call me senator. How are you?” He gave her a long hug, and then pushed her back while holding on to look at her. “I can’t believe it. What’s going on with you now?”
“My parents are retired down the shore. The Midwest winters were too much for them now. I came back to visit.”
“But they’re in good health?”
“Oh, they’re fine. Just spending their days walking on the boardwalk and nights watching TV.”
“Sit down please. Hannah, get us some snacks and soft drinks please.”
“Right away senator. Fruit and vegetable plate and iced tea?” Joe glanced at Sorana for approval, and then gave Hannah the thumbs up. They sat at the round table in the private room adjoining his office.
They each noticed the other’s ring finger, naked, providing an answer to one question. “The life of a senator; don’t you have anyone special in your life?”
“I was married for a few years, but she died from cancer in 2009.”
“I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have asked.”
“No Sorana. I’m glad you did. It’s time I moved on.”
“So you didn’t have any children?”
“No, that was a mixed blessing. I wanted a family. What about you?”
“Well, I was engaged for two years, but he cheated on me so we called it off. At least I didn’t marry someone who would be unfaithful. But at our age, I’m wondering if I’ll ever find love.”
“Our age? You’re only 31 dear. I’m sure any man would be lucky to have a beautiful and intelligent woman like you.”
Sorana blushed. “Well, several have made offers, but after the engagement, I’m hesitant to trust.”
Joe took Sorana’s hand and looked at her with a gentle smile. “You could always trust me.” Sorana put her other hand on top of Joe’s, more than just flirting.
“Yes. You were my first and best love.”
Hannah noticed the intimate moment and knocked gently on the door. “May I bring this in now?” The senator took his hands away and gestured her in. “Thank you Hannah. That looks perfect.” Sorana agreed. Hannah closed the door behind her as she left. Joe and Sorana had an intimate and joyful lunch together.
George knocked on the door. “Senator, it’s time for that vote.” Joe looked at his watch.
“Thank you George. Is that the only vote this afternoon?”
“Yes senator. You have a rare afternoon off.”
“Perfect. Sorana. I have to be away for about an hour, then I’d love to spend the rest of the day with you. Are you free?”
Sorana made a tongue in cheek pretense of propriety. “Yes, senator Bosco. I would like that very much” and shook his hand. Joe rolled his eyes.
“It’s Joe, dear, remember? Hannah, would you please help Sorana for the next hour and I’ll meet her back here at 3:00.”
“Of course senator. Sorana, would you like to go to the Smithsonian for a bit. I can have the senator meet you there.”
“Oh, that sounds lovely. Is that OK?”
Joe gave Hannah thumbs up, and then said to Sorana. “Of course, much better. Now you know why I hired Hannah. Have my driver bring her to the museum and I’ll meet her there at 3:00.”
“Very good senator.” Hannah nodded to Joe, then whispered to Sorana. “Sometimes these votes go longer so don’t worry if he’s a little late.”
Joe and George hurried out to make the vote.
Sorana walked leisurely through the museum, admiring the marvels of flight, from daVinci’s flying machine to the space shuttle. She was every bit as lovely as Joe had thought when they were kids, but now she was a striking, mature woman. Her pleated grey skirt over cranberry knee socks, L.L. Bean blouse and cardigan indicated her New England education. She had gone to Boston College, just a few miles from Harvard where Joe went to school. But they never ran into each other there.
- - -
Jerry Guarino’s short stories have been published by dozens of magazines in the United States, Canada, Australia and Great Britain. His latest book, "40 Slices of Pizza" is available on amazon.com (http://amzn.to/HYYIxv) and as a kindle ebook (http://amzn.to/HXvIV9). Please visit his website at http://cafestories.net
By Jerry Guarino
Joseph Bosco looked down at the sidewalk, after hearing the bird whistle in the tree overhead. That’s when he saw the worn, twenty-dollar bill caught in the stray roots breaking through the sidewalk. “Hmm. How about that?” and he put the bill in his pocket. Joe learned one important lesson growing up. He didn’t believe in luck but whenever fortune passed his way, he would say ‘it was God’s will’ and accept it. In fact, Joe attributed everything that happened to him to God’s will, good or bad. “Much less stress” he used to say, “much less disappointment too.”
Most everyone accepted Joe’s philosophy of life. His friends liked the fact that he was so even tempered, never too high or too low. At holiday gatherings, he could be counted on to balance out the histrionics and emotional outbursts of his Sicilian family. At work, he would be the voice of reason when an argument ensued. His matter of fact personality worked just about everywhere, except when he was dating.
***
When Joe was a boy back in 1995, he had his first crush on Sorana Antonelli, a pretty eighth grader in his English class. They were sitting in the movie theater, sharing a box of popcorn. Sorana, like Joe, was from the poor side of town, but that doesn’t matter. “I like your dress Sorana.”
“Thanks Joe.” Sorana blushed. “I like your shirt.”
Joe and Sorana’s first date was everything it should have been. Their infatuation continued for two years, until Sorana’s parents moved out of state. As it is with young love, both of them were heartbroken. They tried to keep in touch but high school pressures and other interests gradually pulled them apart. Later in life, he wished he had been more persistent and not just accepted their breakup.
***
“Thank Senator.” George took the papers from him and filed them into the briefcase. “We have a vote coming up at 2:00pm, so I will pick you up after lunch.”“Get me something at the deli George. I’d like to do some reading. I’ll be in my office.”
“Corned beef on rye?”
“You know it George.”
Senator Joseph Bosco sat in his office reading the paper and eating his lunch when his secretary interrupted him.
“Excuse me senator. You have a visitor.”
“Who is it, Hannah?”
“Her name is Sorana Antonelli. She says she’s an old friend.”
Joe stood up, smiled and gestured her to let Sorana in. He got up to greet her at the door. As Sorana entered, she saw Joe with open arms.
“Senator Bosco, do you remember me?”
“Sorana, you’re not allowed to call me senator. How are you?” He gave her a long hug, and then pushed her back while holding on to look at her. “I can’t believe it. What’s going on with you now?”
“My parents are retired down the shore. The Midwest winters were too much for them now. I came back to visit.”
“But they’re in good health?”
“Oh, they’re fine. Just spending their days walking on the boardwalk and nights watching TV.”
“Sit down please. Hannah, get us some snacks and soft drinks please.”
“Right away senator. Fruit and vegetable plate and iced tea?” Joe glanced at Sorana for approval, and then gave Hannah the thumbs up. They sat at the round table in the private room adjoining his office.
They each noticed the other’s ring finger, naked, providing an answer to one question. “The life of a senator; don’t you have anyone special in your life?”
“I was married for a few years, but she died from cancer in 2009.”
“I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have asked.”
“No Sorana. I’m glad you did. It’s time I moved on.”
“So you didn’t have any children?”
“No, that was a mixed blessing. I wanted a family. What about you?”
“Well, I was engaged for two years, but he cheated on me so we called it off. At least I didn’t marry someone who would be unfaithful. But at our age, I’m wondering if I’ll ever find love.”
“Our age? You’re only 31 dear. I’m sure any man would be lucky to have a beautiful and intelligent woman like you.”
Sorana blushed. “Well, several have made offers, but after the engagement, I’m hesitant to trust.”
Joe took Sorana’s hand and looked at her with a gentle smile. “You could always trust me.” Sorana put her other hand on top of Joe’s, more than just flirting.
“Yes. You were my first and best love.”
Hannah noticed the intimate moment and knocked gently on the door. “May I bring this in now?” The senator took his hands away and gestured her in. “Thank you Hannah. That looks perfect.” Sorana agreed. Hannah closed the door behind her as she left. Joe and Sorana had an intimate and joyful lunch together.
George knocked on the door. “Senator, it’s time for that vote.” Joe looked at his watch.
“Thank you George. Is that the only vote this afternoon?”
“Yes senator. You have a rare afternoon off.”
“Perfect. Sorana. I have to be away for about an hour, then I’d love to spend the rest of the day with you. Are you free?”
Sorana made a tongue in cheek pretense of propriety. “Yes, senator Bosco. I would like that very much” and shook his hand. Joe rolled his eyes.
“It’s Joe, dear, remember? Hannah, would you please help Sorana for the next hour and I’ll meet her back here at 3:00.”
“Of course senator. Sorana, would you like to go to the Smithsonian for a bit. I can have the senator meet you there.”
“Oh, that sounds lovely. Is that OK?”
Joe gave Hannah thumbs up, and then said to Sorana. “Of course, much better. Now you know why I hired Hannah. Have my driver bring her to the museum and I’ll meet her there at 3:00.”
“Very good senator.” Hannah nodded to Joe, then whispered to Sorana. “Sometimes these votes go longer so don’t worry if he’s a little late.”
Joe and George hurried out to make the vote.
Sorana walked leisurely through the museum, admiring the marvels of flight, from daVinci’s flying machine to the space shuttle. She was every bit as lovely as Joe had thought when they were kids, but now she was a striking, mature woman. Her pleated grey skirt over cranberry knee socks, L.L. Bean blouse and cardigan indicated her New England education. She had gone to Boston College, just a few miles from Harvard where Joe went to school. But they never ran into each other there.
Several men made extended glances at her while she walked; Sorana smiled back at them but didn’t encourage any more. She was secretly glad that Joe was ready and able for a relationship and she still felt that initial chemistry they had as youngsters.
The senator found her at the museum. He came up behind her and gave her a friendly hug and kiss on the cheek; others noticed this public display of affection. “Isn’t that senator Bosco?” said a man who was admiring Sorana.
“I’m afraid so, Bob” said his friend. “Women like that aren’t available very long. Looks like the senator has a new love or a mistress.”
“Oh, Joe. You made it on time.”
Joe took her hand and walked her away from the others. “So, what would you like to do now?”
Sorana squeezed his hand, acknowledging his gesture. “I like the museum but maybe we could go somewhere a little quieter to talk.”
As a senator in Washington, D.C., Joe knew all the best places for quiet conversation, whether it was for behind the scenes deal making or for greeting a constituent visiting from New Jersey. They went to one of his favorite cafés and found a table for a glass of wine. They sat in a corner booth, but not completely in private; several people noticed their body language but couldn’t hear their conversation. He was not ashamed to be seen in public with a beautiful woman.
“I didn’t think I would see you again. Thank you for coming to visit me.”
“To be honest, I was hoping it would turn out this way. I have been so blessed except for having someone to share with. That’s when I remembered how happy we were as kids. I guess that sounds a little desperate.” She lowered her head.
Joe held her hand. “Sorana. You know what I always say. Everything happens for a reason. We were meant to meet again. You are not desperate; you need the right person in your life. So do I. Maybe that’s why I haven’t moved on.”
Sorana felt relaxed and gave Joe a smile that let him know how happy she was. “Is it a problem if we spend time together? I wouldn’t want to complicate your public image.”
“My image will probably improve being seen with you. My colleagues are always trying to set me up with a lawyer clerking at the court or one of their staff interns. That’s not what I’m looking for.”
“Well, I’ll let you decide how much time you can give me. What hotel would you recommend here?” Her coy question suggested a lot more than a recommendation. Both of them knew where this was going.
“A hotel? Nonsense. You can stay at my townhouse in Georgetown. Where is your baggage?”
“At Union Station in a locker. I took the train from New Jersey.”
Joe confirmed his feelings with a hand on Sorana’s arm. “That’s fine. After our drink, I’ll call my driver and we can pick it up. Then we can go freshen up before dinner.”
They went to Union Station. Joe went inside while Sorana stayed in the limo. A bird whistled in a tree just outside the entrance. A homeless man sat near the lockers holding a sign that read ‘can you spare some love?’ Joe reached into his pocket and took out the twenty-dollar bill he had found that morning.
“Here you go friend.”
The circle was completed. It wasn’t luck, just the way it was supposed to be.
- - -
Jerry Guarino’s short stories have been published by dozens of magazines in the United States, Canada, Australia and Great Britain. His latest book, "40 Slices of Pizza" is available on amazon.com (http://amzn.to/HYYIxv) and as a kindle ebook (http://amzn.to/HXvIV9). Please visit his website at http://cafestories.net
Monday, August 13, 2012
8/13/12
The Way I Fell in Love with You
By April Salzano
The way the candle’s dancing light quivered
its orb on the ceiling. Your surefootedness
as you walked across a rooftop
stringing multicolored Christmas lights
as you moved, strong, stable, a boy
smiling down at me with ease. I forgot
that we had just met a few months ago.
I have known you
all my life. I have searched for you
in and among my fears friends places
for years. And here you are.
And here I am on the ground looking up at you.
The way you loved me that morning
with your eyes your hands your mouth. The way
you found me in the dark
the night before, pulled me toward you,
as if we had been apart too long,
panting through dreamscape, twisting through
the place where dusk comes too fast,
where I am lost in terrain
you navigate with long-legged ease.
I had been hiding a long time,
when you found me and asked where I had been
like you were expecting me all along. And there
I was, my answer
mirroring yours: I was looking for you.
The way your eyes searched my skin
for a place to call your own. The way
you let my body welcome you
as if no one had been there before,
the way you knew no one would be
there again. You let me belong
to you from the moment we touched, a reunion
between two people who had never met, two
divers who had been down too long, needing
air and light and a place to step
that would not give way like water.
The way you gave me
flowers on my birthday, unsure
of their color, of my reaction. The way
you hesitated, the way you smiled, shy
and nervous, the way you asked me to stay,
the way you let me go, the way you waited
for me to come back to the place you had
already created for us. The way you let me
love you, the way you know I always will.
- - -
April Salzano teaches college writing in Pennsylvania. Her work has appeared in Poetry Salzburg, Pyrokinection, Convergence, Ascent Aspirations, The Rainbow Rose, The Camel Saloon, The Applicant, The Mindful Word, Napalm and Novocain, The Second Hump, Jellyfish Whispers, The South Townsville Micro Poetry Journal, The Weekender Magazine, and is forthcoming in Inclement and Poetry Quarterly. She is working on her first collection of poetry.
By April Salzano
The way the candle’s dancing light quivered
its orb on the ceiling. Your surefootedness
as you walked across a rooftop
stringing multicolored Christmas lights
as you moved, strong, stable, a boy
smiling down at me with ease. I forgot
that we had just met a few months ago.
I have known you
all my life. I have searched for you
in and among my fears friends places
for years. And here you are.
And here I am on the ground looking up at you.
The way you loved me that morning
with your eyes your hands your mouth. The way
you found me in the dark
the night before, pulled me toward you,
as if we had been apart too long,
panting through dreamscape, twisting through
the place where dusk comes too fast,
where I am lost in terrain
you navigate with long-legged ease.
I had been hiding a long time,
when you found me and asked where I had been
like you were expecting me all along. And there
I was, my answer
mirroring yours: I was looking for you.
The way your eyes searched my skin
for a place to call your own. The way
you let my body welcome you
as if no one had been there before,
the way you knew no one would be
there again. You let me belong
to you from the moment we touched, a reunion
between two people who had never met, two
divers who had been down too long, needing
air and light and a place to step
that would not give way like water.
The way you gave me
flowers on my birthday, unsure
of their color, of my reaction. The way
you hesitated, the way you smiled, shy
and nervous, the way you asked me to stay,
the way you let me go, the way you waited
for me to come back to the place you had
already created for us. The way you let me
love you, the way you know I always will.
- - -
April Salzano teaches college writing in Pennsylvania. Her work has appeared in Poetry Salzburg, Pyrokinection, Convergence, Ascent Aspirations, The Rainbow Rose, The Camel Saloon, The Applicant, The Mindful Word, Napalm and Novocain, The Second Hump, Jellyfish Whispers, The South Townsville Micro Poetry Journal, The Weekender Magazine, and is forthcoming in Inclement and Poetry Quarterly. She is working on her first collection of poetry.
Sunday, August 12, 2012
8/12/12
Lovely As Regret
By Linda M. Crate
you're lovely as regret unutterable,
and I fell for your charisma and
charm; I thought you were the
glistening diamond of my heart's
desire, but you were just the villain
that would impale me with his
venomous words - then he'd keep
twisting the dagger until my heart
was swept away in a ruby flood;
once upon a time in golden autumn
laughter I thought there was a
chapter for you and I yet you
were merely the poisoned apple that
would have led to certain death
had I not found prince charming.
- - -
Linda Crate is a Pennsylvanian native born in Pittsburgh, but she was raised in the rural town of Conneautville. She has recently moved to Fort Fairfield, ME. She attended and graduated from Edinboro University of Pennsylvania with a degree in English-Literature in 2009. She has a passion for writing that she has nurtured since the age of thirteen. Her poetry and short stories have appeared in a variety of magazines the latest of which includes: Nebo: A Literary Journal and Visceral Uterus.
By Linda M. Crate
you're lovely as regret unutterable,
and I fell for your charisma and
charm; I thought you were the
glistening diamond of my heart's
desire, but you were just the villain
that would impale me with his
venomous words - then he'd keep
twisting the dagger until my heart
was swept away in a ruby flood;
once upon a time in golden autumn
laughter I thought there was a
chapter for you and I yet you
were merely the poisoned apple that
would have led to certain death
had I not found prince charming.
- - -
Linda Crate is a Pennsylvanian native born in Pittsburgh, but she was raised in the rural town of Conneautville. She has recently moved to Fort Fairfield, ME. She attended and graduated from Edinboro University of Pennsylvania with a degree in English-Literature in 2009. She has a passion for writing that she has nurtured since the age of thirteen. Her poetry and short stories have appeared in a variety of magazines the latest of which includes: Nebo: A Literary Journal and Visceral Uterus.
Saturday, August 11, 2012
8/11/12
The Beach Stroll
By Ramesh Anand
Early spring in the evening air,
Colourful kites fill the twilight,
Flock of birds are homing,
Changing colours of clouds and waves,
Songfulness of children fills the breeze,
Balloons are flying off the wallah's stand,
Romantic feel of cooling waves,
grandness of pink candyfloss in ballooned bags,
As she and I are strolling,
Hand in hand,
On the sands of Marina beach.
- - -
Ramesh Anand authored Newborn Smiles, a book of Zen poetry published by Cyberwit.Net Press. His haiku has appeared across 11 countries including Print Journals, Magazines, Anthologies, Japanese Newspapers, E-Zines and E-Journals.
By Ramesh Anand
Early spring in the evening air,
Colourful kites fill the twilight,
Flock of birds are homing,
Changing colours of clouds and waves,
Songfulness of children fills the breeze,
Balloons are flying off the wallah's stand,
Romantic feel of cooling waves,
grandness of pink candyfloss in ballooned bags,
As she and I are strolling,
Hand in hand,
On the sands of Marina beach.
- - -
Ramesh Anand authored Newborn Smiles, a book of Zen poetry published by Cyberwit.Net Press. His haiku has appeared across 11 countries including Print Journals, Magazines, Anthologies, Japanese Newspapers, E-Zines and E-Journals.
Friday, August 10, 2012
8/10/12
A Bouquet of Honeysuckle
By John Laneri
Sheriff Matt Carson lifted his nose to the air and inhaled deeply. After a long winter, the smell of honeysuckle announced that spring had finally arrived in Neverton, a small Texas community along the cattle trail to Fort Worth.
Across the street, he spotted Roscoe Sayers standing in front of his newspaper office.
“Beautiful day,” he said, as he headed that way.
“I haven’t noticed.”
“Then, you need to take a good look”, the Sheriff said as he indicated about. “Spring is in the air… just smell that honeysuckle.”
Roscoe was a skinny little man with inquisitive eyes and a quiet demeanor. Today, he was exceptionally quiet, almost as if the weight of the world resided on his shoulders.
Concerned, the Sheriff asked, “Why the gloom? You’re usually in a happy mood.”
“I’m havin’ an awful day.”
The Sheriff twisted the ends of his mustache and waited, wondering if Roscoe would elaborate further. Finally, his concern growing, he asked, “Care to talk about it.”
“There’s not much to talk about,” Roscoe replied distantly. “My troubles are personal.”
“Morning gents.”
Turning about, they recognized Vernon Carter headed their way. Vernon was the owner of the local hardware store as well as the Mayor of Neverton. He was an older man with bushy eyebrows and sleepy eyes.
“Springtime always makes me feel alive,” he said, as he stepped onto the boardwalk and shook hands like he was still running for office. After a moment, he turned to Roscoe. “You don’t look too happy.”
The Sheriff spoke up. “Roscoe’s feeling a bit under the weather.”
Vernon continued to study Roscoe, his eyebrows narrowed in concern. “You look like a man that just lost his best friend.”
“I might have,” Roscoe replied. “I had a big fight with Gertrude Louise.”
Vernon laughed aloud. “Don’t take it so hard. If you’re lucky, she’ll leave to visit her mother and stay for a few months… give you plenty of time to feel your oats again.”
Roscoe looked up. “I don't need to be steppin' around. Gertrude Louise keeps me plenty happy.”
“That might be so,” Vernon said smiling, “But once you take that first step, you’ll be a changed man. Take the girls at Aunt Jillie’, most of them can be mighty soothing when a fellow's feeling low.”
Vernon was, of course, referring to the ladies that worked at Aunt Jillie's Boarding House, the finest establishment west of Fort Worth.
“I like being married,” Roscoe continued, “And, I’m not interested in parting with Gertrude Louise, so mind your own business.”
“I’m not talkin’ about sending her away for good,” Vernon continued unperturbed. “You need to keep her close for your later years. As most fellows know, the conveniences of being married are mighty tempting for the first few years, but when the little lady starts gettin’ cantankerous, most fellows naturally begin to have wandering thoughts... Isn’t that true Sheriff?”
The Sheriff cleared his throat. “I’ve never been married so I can’t speak with authority. But, as I see it, some folks are the marrying kind. To them, being family just comes natural.”
“You’re probably right,” Vernon replied. “Take Roscoe for example, he has a good wife that cooks his meals and washes his clothes… even gives him a good sparkin’ every Saturday night. He has plenty of reasons to be happy.”
Blushing, Roscoe looked away.
Vernon scratched at his whiskers. “Your little lady does give you a good sparkin’ on Saturday nights… doesn’t she?”
“Well… not always,” Roscoe mumbled faintly, his shoulders sagging.
Shaking his head, Vernon continued, “I understand your gloom. Most fellows live from Saturday to Saturday.” He again studied Roscoe before quietly asking, “How longs it been, son?”
Roscoe hesitated then replied, “It been six or seven months, maybe longer. She’s always having headaches.” He turned away, choking on his words. “But, I’m not ready to visit establishments. I’m happy with Gertrude Louise. She keeps me plenty comfortable.”
“Comfortable, you say”, Vernon chuckled, his eyebrows jumping up and down. “Comfortable is for folks in their old age. Young fellows need a taste of livin' from time to time – keeps 'em bouncing on their toes.”
The Sheriff spoke up. “Hold on a minute, Vernon. Maybe, Roscoe needs to try appealing to her finer senses.”
Vernon looked his way. “That's a good thought. The honeysuckle is blooming. I can smell it in the air.”
“What do you think, Roscoe?” The Sheriff continued, “The stuff won't cost you a cent. It's blooming everywhere. And, flowers do provide women plenty of comfort.”
Roscoe began to brighten. “It does do that. Do you think Gertrude Louise would appreciate a big bunch?”
The Sheriff and Vernon looked at one another then nodded their heads in agreement.
Turning about, Roscoe hurried away, his thoughts directed to Gertrude Louise and winning her back with a bouquet of honeysuckle.
Vernon glanced at the Sheriff saying, “He looks mighty eager. I'm happy we solved his problem.”
“We brightened his mood. That's for sure,” the Sheriff replied, “But, I hope he remembers to shake the bees out of that honeysuckle before handing it to her.”
Vernon slapped his leg in laughter. “Then, he needs to be careful. As I recall, she's a mighty full-bodied woman. If she needs to run from a bee, she'll likely trample him like a thirsty mule headed for water.”
- - -
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.
By John Laneri
Sheriff Matt Carson lifted his nose to the air and inhaled deeply. After a long winter, the smell of honeysuckle announced that spring had finally arrived in Neverton, a small Texas community along the cattle trail to Fort Worth.
Across the street, he spotted Roscoe Sayers standing in front of his newspaper office.
“Beautiful day,” he said, as he headed that way.
“I haven’t noticed.”
“Then, you need to take a good look”, the Sheriff said as he indicated about. “Spring is in the air… just smell that honeysuckle.”
Roscoe was a skinny little man with inquisitive eyes and a quiet demeanor. Today, he was exceptionally quiet, almost as if the weight of the world resided on his shoulders.
Concerned, the Sheriff asked, “Why the gloom? You’re usually in a happy mood.”
“I’m havin’ an awful day.”
The Sheriff twisted the ends of his mustache and waited, wondering if Roscoe would elaborate further. Finally, his concern growing, he asked, “Care to talk about it.”
“There’s not much to talk about,” Roscoe replied distantly. “My troubles are personal.”
“Morning gents.”
Turning about, they recognized Vernon Carter headed their way. Vernon was the owner of the local hardware store as well as the Mayor of Neverton. He was an older man with bushy eyebrows and sleepy eyes.
“Springtime always makes me feel alive,” he said, as he stepped onto the boardwalk and shook hands like he was still running for office. After a moment, he turned to Roscoe. “You don’t look too happy.”
The Sheriff spoke up. “Roscoe’s feeling a bit under the weather.”
Vernon continued to study Roscoe, his eyebrows narrowed in concern. “You look like a man that just lost his best friend.”
“I might have,” Roscoe replied. “I had a big fight with Gertrude Louise.”
Vernon laughed aloud. “Don’t take it so hard. If you’re lucky, she’ll leave to visit her mother and stay for a few months… give you plenty of time to feel your oats again.”
Roscoe looked up. “I don't need to be steppin' around. Gertrude Louise keeps me plenty happy.”
“That might be so,” Vernon said smiling, “But once you take that first step, you’ll be a changed man. Take the girls at Aunt Jillie’, most of them can be mighty soothing when a fellow's feeling low.”
Vernon was, of course, referring to the ladies that worked at Aunt Jillie's Boarding House, the finest establishment west of Fort Worth.
“I like being married,” Roscoe continued, “And, I’m not interested in parting with Gertrude Louise, so mind your own business.”
“I’m not talkin’ about sending her away for good,” Vernon continued unperturbed. “You need to keep her close for your later years. As most fellows know, the conveniences of being married are mighty tempting for the first few years, but when the little lady starts gettin’ cantankerous, most fellows naturally begin to have wandering thoughts... Isn’t that true Sheriff?”
The Sheriff cleared his throat. “I’ve never been married so I can’t speak with authority. But, as I see it, some folks are the marrying kind. To them, being family just comes natural.”
“You’re probably right,” Vernon replied. “Take Roscoe for example, he has a good wife that cooks his meals and washes his clothes… even gives him a good sparkin’ every Saturday night. He has plenty of reasons to be happy.”
Blushing, Roscoe looked away.
Vernon scratched at his whiskers. “Your little lady does give you a good sparkin’ on Saturday nights… doesn’t she?”
“Well… not always,” Roscoe mumbled faintly, his shoulders sagging.
Shaking his head, Vernon continued, “I understand your gloom. Most fellows live from Saturday to Saturday.” He again studied Roscoe before quietly asking, “How longs it been, son?”
Roscoe hesitated then replied, “It been six or seven months, maybe longer. She’s always having headaches.” He turned away, choking on his words. “But, I’m not ready to visit establishments. I’m happy with Gertrude Louise. She keeps me plenty comfortable.”
“Comfortable, you say”, Vernon chuckled, his eyebrows jumping up and down. “Comfortable is for folks in their old age. Young fellows need a taste of livin' from time to time – keeps 'em bouncing on their toes.”
The Sheriff spoke up. “Hold on a minute, Vernon. Maybe, Roscoe needs to try appealing to her finer senses.”
Vernon looked his way. “That's a good thought. The honeysuckle is blooming. I can smell it in the air.”
“What do you think, Roscoe?” The Sheriff continued, “The stuff won't cost you a cent. It's blooming everywhere. And, flowers do provide women plenty of comfort.”
Roscoe began to brighten. “It does do that. Do you think Gertrude Louise would appreciate a big bunch?”
The Sheriff and Vernon looked at one another then nodded their heads in agreement.
Turning about, Roscoe hurried away, his thoughts directed to Gertrude Louise and winning her back with a bouquet of honeysuckle.
Vernon glanced at the Sheriff saying, “He looks mighty eager. I'm happy we solved his problem.”
“We brightened his mood. That's for sure,” the Sheriff replied, “But, I hope he remembers to shake the bees out of that honeysuckle before handing it to her.”
Vernon slapped his leg in laughter. “Then, he needs to be careful. As I recall, she's a mighty full-bodied woman. If she needs to run from a bee, she'll likely trample him like a thirsty mule headed for water.”
- - -
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.
Thursday, August 9, 2012
8/9/12
Your Strength
By Linda M. Crate
like a frightened mouse
I lay in my hole
unwilling to dart out into
situations that make me uncomfortable,
yet you've taught me sometimes
I have to be brave and
weather the storm
no matter how difficult they
are or how much I'd like to run away
because you would never let me shatter.
- - -
Linda Crate is a Pennsylvanian native born in Pittsburgh, but she was raised in the rural town of Conneautville. She has recently moved to Fort Fairfield, ME. She attended and graduated from Edinboro University of Pennsylvania with a degree in English-Literature in 2009. She has a passion for writing that she has nurtured since the age of thirteen. Her poetry and short stories have appeared in a variety of magazines the latest of which includes: Nebo: A Literary Journal and Visceral Uterus.
By Linda M. Crate
like a frightened mouse
I lay in my hole
unwilling to dart out into
situations that make me uncomfortable,
yet you've taught me sometimes
I have to be brave and
weather the storm
no matter how difficult they
are or how much I'd like to run away
because you would never let me shatter.
- - -
Linda Crate is a Pennsylvanian native born in Pittsburgh, but she was raised in the rural town of Conneautville. She has recently moved to Fort Fairfield, ME. She attended and graduated from Edinboro University of Pennsylvania with a degree in English-Literature in 2009. She has a passion for writing that she has nurtured since the age of thirteen. Her poetry and short stories have appeared in a variety of magazines the latest of which includes: Nebo: A Literary Journal and Visceral Uterus.
Wednesday, August 8, 2012
8/8/12
Paper Heart
By Walter William Safar
Like a French chansonnier in love,
The wind sings a sad ballad
To the blue night,
About two leaves in love
He set apart in fall,
And about the paper heart in my hands,
That so sadly flutters
Under the burden of a mute tear.
While the sad wind whispers
To the blue night
About its thousand days of silence and hermitage,
I am caressing the paper heart
With the inexplicable hope
That I shall hear the echo of her heart
In this blue night,
Yes, Lord, now I know,
This blue night became a wonderful home
To many a heart,
This night that so tenderly loves
Like a big blue heart,
That beats so timidly and equally for all people.
In this blue night, everything comes to life,
And the paper heart,
And those two leaves in love,
Which the wind joined again.
The paper heart is tenderly fluttering now,
As if it was alive,
As if the wind brought it
From its tender chest
Into this blue night.
It is wonderful when your blood
So lively flows through you veins,
And even more wonderful
When your heart beats so lively in your silent chest,
Which has not heard the music of love for so long.
The paper heart is fluttering in my hands,
Born by her tender hand
And put onto my palm
When she left
Into the blue night.
- - -
WALTER WILLIAM SAFAR was born on August 6th 1958 in Sherman-Texas . He is the author of a number of a significant number of prose works and novels, including "Leaden fog", "Chastity on sale", "In the flames of passion", "The price of life", "Above the clouds", "The infernal circle", "The scream", "The Devil’s Architect”, "Queen Elizabeth II", as well as a book of poems.
By Walter William Safar
Like a French chansonnier in love,
The wind sings a sad ballad
To the blue night,
About two leaves in love
He set apart in fall,
And about the paper heart in my hands,
That so sadly flutters
Under the burden of a mute tear.
While the sad wind whispers
To the blue night
About its thousand days of silence and hermitage,
I am caressing the paper heart
With the inexplicable hope
That I shall hear the echo of her heart
In this blue night,
Yes, Lord, now I know,
This blue night became a wonderful home
To many a heart,
This night that so tenderly loves
Like a big blue heart,
That beats so timidly and equally for all people.
In this blue night, everything comes to life,
And the paper heart,
And those two leaves in love,
Which the wind joined again.
The paper heart is tenderly fluttering now,
As if it was alive,
As if the wind brought it
From its tender chest
Into this blue night.
It is wonderful when your blood
So lively flows through you veins,
And even more wonderful
When your heart beats so lively in your silent chest,
Which has not heard the music of love for so long.
The paper heart is fluttering in my hands,
Born by her tender hand
And put onto my palm
When she left
Into the blue night.
- - -
WALTER WILLIAM SAFAR was born on August 6th 1958 in Sherman-Texas . He is the author of a number of a significant number of prose works and novels, including "Leaden fog", "Chastity on sale", "In the flames of passion", "The price of life", "Above the clouds", "The infernal circle", "The scream", "The Devil’s Architect”, "Queen Elizabeth II", as well as a book of poems.
Tuesday, August 7, 2012
8/7/12
Priority
By Maddie Voigt
I couldn't love my sister,
not after Sophie died.
I couldn't lose her,
she couldn't die.
I would crumble
into a pile
of pieces of myself
If I went through another infant's tragedy.
So I loved you instead.
You left anyway
and my sister is still alive.
What have I become?
- - -
I'm fifteen years old, have been published in print twice. It is not the typical love story of two young kids, its something more complex. More painful.
By Maddie Voigt
I couldn't love my sister,
not after Sophie died.
I couldn't lose her,
she couldn't die.
I would crumble
into a pile
of pieces of myself
If I went through another infant's tragedy.
So I loved you instead.
You left anyway
and my sister is still alive.
What have I become?
- - -
I'm fifteen years old, have been published in print twice. It is not the typical love story of two young kids, its something more complex. More painful.
Monday, August 6, 2012
8/6/12
Our Story
By Glenda Grande
Star cloaked secrets hidden in the darkness of night,
Living in silence with our hearts under the moonlight,
Masking scars of our story that we continue to write,
Whispering convoluted words; mimicking the truth of us.
In sweet agony, play the turntable for melancholic melodies,
With both eyes closed, playback the nostalgic memories.
Then fast forward to the scene where we place our apologies,
With my hand upon your chest, I could feel your heart beat.
Our history is no fairytale, but our meeting was destined to be.
This story, it has no end – just new chapters and new beginnings.
- - -
Emotions written from the heart, this young woman writes a collection of literature by telling the tales of life with artful words. Her aim is to make people remember that being emotion-filled is only human. You can find more of her literary works on her website www.angellusion.com
By Glenda Grande
Star cloaked secrets hidden in the darkness of night,
Living in silence with our hearts under the moonlight,
Masking scars of our story that we continue to write,
Whispering convoluted words; mimicking the truth of us.
In sweet agony, play the turntable for melancholic melodies,
With both eyes closed, playback the nostalgic memories.
Then fast forward to the scene where we place our apologies,
With my hand upon your chest, I could feel your heart beat.
Our history is no fairytale, but our meeting was destined to be.
This story, it has no end – just new chapters and new beginnings.
- - -
Emotions written from the heart, this young woman writes a collection of literature by telling the tales of life with artful words. Her aim is to make people remember that being emotion-filled is only human. You can find more of her literary works on her website www.angellusion.com
Sunday, August 5, 2012
8/5/12
Falling Out from In
By Alyssa
How do you explain the difference between loving and being in love to someone who has only ever been unconditionally in love with you? Where does that thin, desolate line begin amidst a seemingly perfect union of bodies? When did standing, sitting, laying, eating, and living next to someone begin to feel lonely?
That moment of clarity hits like the nails of a clenching fist slowly breaking the edges of your heart until a piece falls and crashes. And that's when you know. It's not right anymore. We live our lives together tangled in daily tasks, and somehow they're just daily tasks again – nothing magical or sparkly remains. I'm not the kind to run once the initial fireworks are over, I like to bask in the night heat for a long time after. But sometimes, sometimes you just feel alone in the dark. And that's when you know. It's not right anymore.
The look in his eyes says more than the words falling from his mouth. On his knees, afraid of the future and scared to face it without me. Tears fall freely from us both without judgment. Breaking hearts isn't easy, especially when you have to break your own to do so. People don't understand the beating a heart must endure when its hurting the one person it never wanted to hurt. The love will always be there, but that feeling of being right for each other has been missing and I ignored it for too long. I wish I could comfort him, because I love him, but he doesn't believe it anymore. He doesn't believe me.
Weeks pass and I watch the hatred build in his heart. I hear the bitterness in his voice when we speak. He questions my motives, what went wrong, what he did wrong. Nothing, absolutely nothing. It just wasn't right anymore.
“I gave you everything, and I loved you so much,” he says. Sometimes, though it hurts to even begin to think this sad truth, sometimes that's not enough. I can't say my efforts were the same. They never were, and the distance shows me all the ways I could have tried harder, made a greater effort, and I simply refrained for a reason that I now know: I wasn't in love anymore, and I couldn't hide the truth from the my body.
Sometimes we fall into love and sometimes we fall out, and it rips me apart to know the latter can happen without so much as a warning. Sometimes you simply wake up one morning and realize it has been happening for some time. Sometimes you don't realize it until your body makes you feel it physically; a sharp shooting pain to the gut that begs your head to listen to your heart just this once. As much as it hurts, there's nothing to be done but find a way to conclude this chapter. Sometimes, it's just not right anymore.
I understand exactly how he feels, and I hoped that life would never lead me to do this to someone. I understand, and that is what makes this so fucking hard. Though being left behind is unbearable, I believe there is one position worse – looking into the eyes of someone you love and stealing every last ounce of light from them.
What's the difference between loving someone and being in love with someone? One small preposition that carries the weight of every broken heart trying desperately to explain that sometimes... sometimes it's just not right anymore.
- - -
Alyssa is a college girl who likes mimosas, cigarettes, and crafting. She's a nostalgic, a romantic, and basically every other word in the English language pertaining to emotions. She resides and attends a University in the heights of an East coast mountain range. Her major is in dead languages, and her life is as crazy as her mood swings. She writes almost solely about the heart as an outlet to heal her own.
By Alyssa
How do you explain the difference between loving and being in love to someone who has only ever been unconditionally in love with you? Where does that thin, desolate line begin amidst a seemingly perfect union of bodies? When did standing, sitting, laying, eating, and living next to someone begin to feel lonely?
That moment of clarity hits like the nails of a clenching fist slowly breaking the edges of your heart until a piece falls and crashes. And that's when you know. It's not right anymore. We live our lives together tangled in daily tasks, and somehow they're just daily tasks again – nothing magical or sparkly remains. I'm not the kind to run once the initial fireworks are over, I like to bask in the night heat for a long time after. But sometimes, sometimes you just feel alone in the dark. And that's when you know. It's not right anymore.
The look in his eyes says more than the words falling from his mouth. On his knees, afraid of the future and scared to face it without me. Tears fall freely from us both without judgment. Breaking hearts isn't easy, especially when you have to break your own to do so. People don't understand the beating a heart must endure when its hurting the one person it never wanted to hurt. The love will always be there, but that feeling of being right for each other has been missing and I ignored it for too long. I wish I could comfort him, because I love him, but he doesn't believe it anymore. He doesn't believe me.
Weeks pass and I watch the hatred build in his heart. I hear the bitterness in his voice when we speak. He questions my motives, what went wrong, what he did wrong. Nothing, absolutely nothing. It just wasn't right anymore.
“I gave you everything, and I loved you so much,” he says. Sometimes, though it hurts to even begin to think this sad truth, sometimes that's not enough. I can't say my efforts were the same. They never were, and the distance shows me all the ways I could have tried harder, made a greater effort, and I simply refrained for a reason that I now know: I wasn't in love anymore, and I couldn't hide the truth from the my body.
Sometimes we fall into love and sometimes we fall out, and it rips me apart to know the latter can happen without so much as a warning. Sometimes you simply wake up one morning and realize it has been happening for some time. Sometimes you don't realize it until your body makes you feel it physically; a sharp shooting pain to the gut that begs your head to listen to your heart just this once. As much as it hurts, there's nothing to be done but find a way to conclude this chapter. Sometimes, it's just not right anymore.
I understand exactly how he feels, and I hoped that life would never lead me to do this to someone. I understand, and that is what makes this so fucking hard. Though being left behind is unbearable, I believe there is one position worse – looking into the eyes of someone you love and stealing every last ounce of light from them.
What's the difference between loving someone and being in love with someone? One small preposition that carries the weight of every broken heart trying desperately to explain that sometimes... sometimes it's just not right anymore.
- - -
Alyssa is a college girl who likes mimosas, cigarettes, and crafting. She's a nostalgic, a romantic, and basically every other word in the English language pertaining to emotions. She resides and attends a University in the heights of an East coast mountain range. Her major is in dead languages, and her life is as crazy as her mood swings. She writes almost solely about the heart as an outlet to heal her own.
Saturday, August 4, 2012
8/4/12
It Was a Dark and Stormy Night
By John Domenichini
It was a dark and stormy night. That's the humor I brought to that night. That was the humor I brought to everything during that phase of our lives, following Steven's death. How distant we had become, blaming each other silently. Drinking heavily, I was numb most of the time, in a dream state, nightmarish. But nightmares were welcome because nightmares weren't real. Steven's death was real.
It was just you and me again. We could have another child. We weren't too old. I didn't dare broach the subject. That would be treating a child like an object, a pet even. I knew what you would say, what you would feel.
I was sarcastic at that time, joking about Steven's death. Not to you. That would have destroyed you, but I was edging ever closer to the brink. All I wanted was to bond with you, but you wouldn’t have it, and I was becoming someone I didn't like. Helpless to stop our destruction, I started pushing toward it, mocking that which was sacred.
I came home sometime after three in the morning. It was a dark and stormy night. I thought that thought, thought it exactly. It was a dark and stormy night. I thought it funny, thought it with cynicism, thought it defensively and offensively toward you, toward your mood, the storm that you brought into our home day after day, night after night. How many more months would you go on like this?
I walked into the house, saw you in the living room. You didn't notice me, didn't acknowledge me, anyway. I stumbled slightly and stopped, waiting for my equilibrium. I watched you as you danced an ancient dance of grief on a lake of sorrow. You seemed to be in on the dark-and-stormy-night metaphor, except you brought truth to it, not sarcasm or cynicism.
You danced on the water, wailed at the lighting and thunder. You cried tears like a raging river. The wind howled through our lonely home. A chill struck me violently, sobering me up, making me feel.
I was alive again, not in a nightmare anymore. I felt, sensed, loved as I took cautious steps toward you, afraid that I couldn't walk on the water as you could, afraid that I wasn’t pure, wasn’t worthy.
You turned to me, your expression filled with empathy for my condition, for my existence.
And you and I were together again.
- - -
John Domenichini is a technical writer in Palo Alto, California. He has submitted work to Bartleby Snopes literary magazine.
By John Domenichini
It was a dark and stormy night. That's the humor I brought to that night. That was the humor I brought to everything during that phase of our lives, following Steven's death. How distant we had become, blaming each other silently. Drinking heavily, I was numb most of the time, in a dream state, nightmarish. But nightmares were welcome because nightmares weren't real. Steven's death was real.
It was just you and me again. We could have another child. We weren't too old. I didn't dare broach the subject. That would be treating a child like an object, a pet even. I knew what you would say, what you would feel.
I was sarcastic at that time, joking about Steven's death. Not to you. That would have destroyed you, but I was edging ever closer to the brink. All I wanted was to bond with you, but you wouldn’t have it, and I was becoming someone I didn't like. Helpless to stop our destruction, I started pushing toward it, mocking that which was sacred.
I came home sometime after three in the morning. It was a dark and stormy night. I thought that thought, thought it exactly. It was a dark and stormy night. I thought it funny, thought it with cynicism, thought it defensively and offensively toward you, toward your mood, the storm that you brought into our home day after day, night after night. How many more months would you go on like this?
I walked into the house, saw you in the living room. You didn't notice me, didn't acknowledge me, anyway. I stumbled slightly and stopped, waiting for my equilibrium. I watched you as you danced an ancient dance of grief on a lake of sorrow. You seemed to be in on the dark-and-stormy-night metaphor, except you brought truth to it, not sarcasm or cynicism.
You danced on the water, wailed at the lighting and thunder. You cried tears like a raging river. The wind howled through our lonely home. A chill struck me violently, sobering me up, making me feel.
I was alive again, not in a nightmare anymore. I felt, sensed, loved as I took cautious steps toward you, afraid that I couldn't walk on the water as you could, afraid that I wasn’t pure, wasn’t worthy.
You turned to me, your expression filled with empathy for my condition, for my existence.
And you and I were together again.
- - -
John Domenichini is a technical writer in Palo Alto, California. He has submitted work to Bartleby Snopes literary magazine.
Friday, August 3, 2012
8/3/12
The Streetwalker
By Hollis Whitlock
John straightens his legs and arches his back. He looks to the static ticking on the wall. Sixty seconds is a minute. Sixty minutes is an hour. Forty hours is a week. Ten years is a decade. John is twenty-eight. He's worked here since high school. The hands read four forty-five. He has fifteen minutes of paper shuffling to complete. Fortunately, it is Friday and payday. He's meeting Rod after work for a drink.
A ringing phone interrupts a shuffle. Incessant babble, interpreted as an angry complaint, coupled with a self-explanatory question is followed by an explanation that reads like the dialogue of a script. John places the receiver down and looks to the wall. The big hand stands erect.
"What are you still doing here! I don't pay overtime!" his boss yells.
"I know sir." John replies.
John walks toward the exit.
"Have a good weekend," the secretary says.
"You to."
John steps into the elevator, loosens his tie, and undoes a button. His fingers soften the binds of his gelled hair. A curl falls to his forehead. He tucks his wrinkling shirt into his pants. Four suited men, with gray hair, approach. Their voices are loud.
"Hold that door!"
"Yes sir," John replies.
The businessmen enter without speech. Silence is awkward like the first day at a job. The men glare. John steps back and lowers his head. The businessmen turn. The first floor button illuminates. Bellowing voices are followed by loud guffaws. John watches the buttons illuminate in a thirty-second fall to the ground. The door slides open.
John walks through the corridor past three long mirrors. He glances and smiles. His casual and relaxed demeanor is free. He skips to the exit and opens the door for a lady. She smiles.
"Thank you."
"You're welcome," John replies.
John steps into the cool night air, and walks past trendy vendors locking their shops with metal gates. Street lamps flicker and hum, as the sun's light slowly vanishes. Shoppers, fashioning the latest trends, strut along the walk. Vagrants stroll the street corners with gloves and cups. Some have guitars. Others sit with their heads down and a sign begging for help.
A young woman with long curly hair approaches. She is wearing tight jeans and a snug sweater. Her blue eyes glisten in the artificial light. John transfixes on her natural beauty and smiles. She smiles.
"Hi," she says. John stops. She stops.
"Hi."
"What're you doing?"
"Not much…Just going for a walk. What are you doing?"
"Nothing. Can I have ten bucks for food?" She smiles. Her perfect white teeth are alluring. John smiles and laughs. A stroller pushes past. John is oblivious to the intrusion. He's transfixed on her beauty.
"Sure." John removes his wallet and hands her ten dollars. Vagrants peer behind hooded faces, scruffy beards, dark lenses and mangy hair.
"Thanks." She smiles. Her eyes sparkle.
John continues forward stepping around oncoming pedestrians. Opiates swirl in his cerebrum. His mind numbs thinking about the young woman. His chin rises like a helium balloon, but as he strolls farther, into the nightlife of the downtown core, depression manifests. Why didn't he invite her? John stops and looks at his cell phone. It's five fifteen. He's not meeting Rod until seven. The pub is a fifteen-minute stroll.
John turns. His heart races like a fool chasing love at sea. He steps quickly around on coming patrons. Their presence didn't bother him before, but now he feels like a running back, charging past linebackers, trying to score a touchdown before time runs out.
John peers into restaurants, shops and nooks in vain. Too many women have long curly hair. He peers hoping to catch a glimpse of beauty, but none release the opiates.
He reaches the street corner and stops. He realizes that he's walked past their meeting point. He looks at a street vendor selling hotdogs. He considers asking, but the vagrants are watching him like a cat waiting to pounce. John's chin sinks to his chest. He looks at his phone. It's six o'clock.
He strolls along the sidewalk, like a bum scouring the sidewalk for butts, and wonders if their paths will cross again. His cell phone rings. John answers.
"Hello."
"Johnny my man. I've got a couple of babes lined up. Reserve a table for four."
"Sounds good Rod."
"Make it seven thirty."
"Ok."
"You got paid right."
"Yeah."
"Ok, don't be late. They're cuties."
"Yeah, yeah, I'll be there."
John looks at the vagrants who peer with animosity. He raises his chin and runs his fingers through his hair. The vagrants utter silent words under breath. John shakes his head. If only they knew what it is like to spend eight hours a day in an office, they wouldn't be so resentful. At work, he's been reprimanded twice for being underdressed. Here, he's considered a prude. John steps forward. The woman appears from behind oncoming pedestrians. Opiates release.
"Hi," she says.
"Hi… I was looking for you."
"I was looking for you too."
"Really?"
"Yeah."
John feels the stares of the vagrants. He knows that she's one of them. He wonders why?
"Do you want to get out of here?"
"Yeah, I do."
John rubs his forehead. Tingling ascends his spine. He hasn't had a girlfriend in almost a year. He feels like a high school student asking their sweetheart on a date and she says yes.
"Did you get something to eat?" The woman smiles and rubs her belly while bouncing on her tiptoes like a ballerina.
"Oh yeah. I'm all full." John laughs and nods. The young woman points "I know a place… We could go over there." John looks at the vagrants and then nods. He wants to leave their presence. The glares are discomforting. He feels moisture form under his collared shirt.
John and the woman stroll past three shops. She stops and points in the direction of a building with a nook and balcony. John follows her up the stairs, into the nook, to a closed door. He pulls on the handle.
"I think it's closed."
"Yeah, I know. We can do it here."
John turns around and looks into the street. Rumbling engines muffle voices. Strolling pedestrians are oblivious to their presence. John looks at the woman. She smiles and pushes her delicate hands forward. The fingertips and palms are dirty.
"Well… won't someone come?"
"Nope… I've done it here before."
John puts his hand to his forehead, as blood rushes below. He adjusts his briefs. A rush of passion, but he wants more than sex. He wants intimacy too. He looks into her eyes. He feels empathy and compassion. She smiles. Her skin is flawless even without makeup.
"What's your name?"
"It really doesn't matter."
"I just live a short walk from here."
"Oh! You have a place."
"Yeah."
John and the woman stroll from the nook to the sidewalk past the tormenting glares of the vagrants. John feels uneasy and nervous. He increases his pace. The woman follows. Dusk brings darkness.
"Are you embarrassed of me?"
"No, I just wanted to get away from there. Do you know them?"
"Nope, I want to get away from there too."
"Good. Are you going to tell me your name?"
"No." John laughs. She smiles.
"Ok."
John and the woman walk in silence along the walkway past bright street lamps. Their shadows gradually extend outward to a distance of fifty feet before vanishing under the light of the next lamp.
"Are we going to your place?"
"I'm supposed to meet someone tonight." Her head drops. She looks away. "It's only for an hour. We can go for a walk and get to know each other." She nods. "Where are you from?"
"Kelowna." John smiles. Memories of the warm sun and cool water returns.
"I used to visit there when I was a kid. Do you ever go to gyro beach?"
"Yeah, all the time." She blinks and smiles. John nods.
"How did you end up here?
"Took a bus."
"How long have you been in town?" She shakes her head.
"Just a week. All my stuff is in storage. I need forty bucks to get it out."
"I see…Why did you leave?"
"My ex was abusive."
"That's not good. You're really beautiful."
"I know. I need to get something."
"What's that."
"Nothing… I, I need forty bucks." Her head drops to her chest. She toes the ground with the tip of her shoe and glances back. John looks at eyes that are pools of water reddened with blood. John nods.
"Are you addicted?
"Yeah." John runs his fingers through his hair and exhales. She looks at John. "Then we can go back to your place." She forces a smile and then looks away. John smiles and nods. He walks forward. "I know a guy."
"Do you really need it?"
"Yeah, I do." John nods. "He's just around the corner."
The young woman leads. John reluctantly follows along the sidewalk, across the street to an avenue and then down a narrow alleyway where the brick buildings are just wide enough for a car to fit. Graffiti brings life to the barren walls in colors of blue, red and green. Debris clings to sharp protruding objects. The stench of rooting food increases, as they approach a blue garbage bin that becomes illuminated by a motion detecting light. She stops and looks down a dark two-foot alley. The outline of a man in black is visible. He approaches smoking a cigarette.
"Maybe, I should wait for you somewhere."
"Yeah… Wait down there by the statue. I'll only be a minute." She points to the end of the alleyway, across the street. John nods. "I need the money."
"You're going to show up?"
"Yeah, I need a shower… I've got nowhere to go." She extends her hand forward with the palm facing upward. John opens his wallet. Numerous twenties expose.
"Ok." John hands her forty dollars.
He walks down the alleyway. Moaning faintly resounds. He looks into a narrow passage. A man and woman are copulating against the brick wall. John looks away and jogs to the illuminated street. He stops and turns around. The motion light extinguishes to darkness.
John jogs across the street and sits, on the steps surrounding the statue, underneath a street lamp. He's on the border of the red light district. Sports cars race past. Taxis putter looking for fares. Couples stroll to nightclubs. Drunken youth yell vulgarities. Vagrants linger within the shadows. Pigeons scour for crumbs. John's phone rings.
"Hello."
"Johnny, I'm running a little late. Have you got the seats reserved?"
"I'm just on my way."
"Good, good. Make sure you bring some coin. It's going to be an expensive evening."
"I've got my card."
"That's what I like to hear. Later bro."
"Later."
John reads six thirty on the digital display. He ponders his decision to wait. Rod's planned this date for three weeks. This is the first weekend that things could be arranged. His date is beautiful with long dark hair and blue eyes. Rod says she's perfect, but John is infatuated with a low-end streetwalker struggling to survive.
John looks at his cell phone. It reads seven o'clock. He looks up. The young woman is skipping across the road. Her smile is toothy white. She walks up the stairs with a white grayish crystal about a quarter of the size of a sugar cube.
"What's that?" John asks.
"Crack."
"Well, have a seat."
"No I don't sit there. People piss on those things."
"Oh… I see."
"Can we smoke at your place?"
"Uh… no… it's a nonsmoking suite."
"Ok, I'll have to smoke it here." John stands. His face reddens. He runs his fingers through his hair. She removes a metal pipe made from the piping of a gas line. She crumbles a fragment onto a fine mesh within the bowl and flicks a lighter. After inhaling, white smoke wafts from her upward extended jaw. "Do you want some?"
"No, I don't smoke."
"That's good."
"What's it do for you?" She looks John in the eye and crumbles a piece into the bowl. She pushes the pipe toward him.
"Here." John raises his open palm.
"No… That's ok thanks." She shakes her head and flicks the lighter. John glances around the streets and sidewalks. Hooded vagrants lurking in the shadows are shifting gray outlines against dark buildings. She walks to the other side of the statue. John follows. She peers around the edge. Anxiety twinges.
"What is it?"
"You have to keep moving. They follow me."
"What do they want?"
"They know what I got. Are we going to your place?"
John's cell phone rings.
"Johnny! I'm just a having a quick drink at their place. Suzan is looking sweet bro. She's in the ladies room getting dolled up for you as I speak," Rod says. John runs his hand along his forehead. He glances at the woman inhaling on the pipe.
"Sounds good."
"We're heading out now. Get a window seat bro."
"I'll do what I can."
"You're the man Johnny."
John closes the receiver and looks at the display. It's seven ten. The pub is a ten-minute stroll. The young woman exhales a cloud of exhaust. The breeze blows it toward John. Sweet caramel and burning rubber permeates. John steps from the cloud.
"Was that your wife?" She asks.
"No, I'm not married. I've got a business meeting for a couple of hours. I can meet you back here… at say ten." The young woman shakes her head and looks down.
"Can I wait at your place?"
"It's the opposite direction from here."
"Let me have your key. I'll be all cleaned up for you when you get back." She smiles
"No I… I can't do that. I'll meet you here at ten ok." John steps down to the sidewalk. She follows.
"You have a girlfriend or something?"
"No, it's not that. I have a meeting to attend."
"What am I supposed to do in the meantime?"
"Well…" John puts his hand to his forehead.
"Can't you cancel it?"
"No, I can't." John walks in the direction of the pub. She follows.
"Can I have twenty bucks for my time?" John nods repeatedly.
"Ok, here. Meet me at ten, ok."
"Sure… whatever."
John walks briskly to the pub and arrives at seven thirty. He reserves a table for four, overlooking the street, and orders a beer. The patron's conversation is masked by upbeat music. John sits, next to the window, and stares into the street while fiddling with a loose thread on his shirt. The woman's face lingers in his mind.
Rod enters, dressed like a pimp, with his ladies dolled to impress. The ladies attire reveals cleavage and slender legs. Their faces are masked with rouge, red lipstick and blue mascara. Blonde and dark curls dangle seductively. Rod raises his arm and smiles.
"Johnny, It's Friday. Time to party." John stands. Introductions are made. Hands shake. The ladies sit quietly. The tension would snap a two thousand-pound cable. "What are you drinking Johnny."
"Beer."
"Come on Johnny… liven up a bit… Let's get some shooters." The ladies giggle. Rod motions for the waitress. "Four cocaine ladies." The waitress returns. Test tubes are served. A sweet hint of peppermint tantalizes the tongue. Rod hands the waitress a fifty. "Four more." Rod entertains with outlandish stories and wild hand gestures for two hours. The ladies excuse themselves for the powder room. "Johnny what's wrong?
"Nothing Rod."
"Come on. You can tell me."
"Well… I met this girl."
"Why didn't you tell?
"Well..."
"Where did you meet her?"
"On the way here. I'm supposed to meet her at ten." Rod looks at his watch.
"It's nine forty five. Get out of here." Rod slaps John on the shoulder. John smiles and walks to the exit
His walk turns to a jog, as he looks at the digital display on his phone. He arrives at the statue in a sweat. The woman isn't in sight. He paces for half an hour condemning his decision not to have taken her to his apartment. He looks across the street.
Two vagrants scurry, from the shadows, into the alleyway. John pursues. He looks into the alleyway. Dark outlines shift forward. A light emits. The vagrants disappear from sight. John sprints to the blue bin and looks into the narrow passage. A feminine voice squeals. Splattering footsteps are eerie.
John steps forward into darkness and stumbles in a puddle. His shirt tears on the edge of the building. A shriek terrorizes. He rushes forward in blindness. Sweet rubber wafts. Voices whisper. The light extinguishes.
John turns around. A black outline approaches from the alleyway. John's arms shake. He turns and runs over the uneven surface. A feminine voice shrieks. John trips and falls to the ground unconscious.
He awakens to murmuring voices and filtered light. His vision is blurred. The stench of old urine mixed with burning plastic nauseates. He rubs the stubble on his chin and runs his fingers through his matted hair. Engines are roaring. Horns are honking. A pipe is in his grubby palm.
Sixty seconds is a minute. Sixty minutes is an hour. Twenty-four hours is a day. Ten years is a decade. John is thirty-eight.
- - -
Hollis Whitlock is an insane writer, hoping to one day live out his idiotic thoughts.
By Hollis Whitlock
John straightens his legs and arches his back. He looks to the static ticking on the wall. Sixty seconds is a minute. Sixty minutes is an hour. Forty hours is a week. Ten years is a decade. John is twenty-eight. He's worked here since high school. The hands read four forty-five. He has fifteen minutes of paper shuffling to complete. Fortunately, it is Friday and payday. He's meeting Rod after work for a drink.
A ringing phone interrupts a shuffle. Incessant babble, interpreted as an angry complaint, coupled with a self-explanatory question is followed by an explanation that reads like the dialogue of a script. John places the receiver down and looks to the wall. The big hand stands erect.
"What are you still doing here! I don't pay overtime!" his boss yells.
"I know sir." John replies.
John walks toward the exit.
"Have a good weekend," the secretary says.
"You to."
John steps into the elevator, loosens his tie, and undoes a button. His fingers soften the binds of his gelled hair. A curl falls to his forehead. He tucks his wrinkling shirt into his pants. Four suited men, with gray hair, approach. Their voices are loud.
"Hold that door!"
"Yes sir," John replies.
The businessmen enter without speech. Silence is awkward like the first day at a job. The men glare. John steps back and lowers his head. The businessmen turn. The first floor button illuminates. Bellowing voices are followed by loud guffaws. John watches the buttons illuminate in a thirty-second fall to the ground. The door slides open.
John walks through the corridor past three long mirrors. He glances and smiles. His casual and relaxed demeanor is free. He skips to the exit and opens the door for a lady. She smiles.
"Thank you."
"You're welcome," John replies.
John steps into the cool night air, and walks past trendy vendors locking their shops with metal gates. Street lamps flicker and hum, as the sun's light slowly vanishes. Shoppers, fashioning the latest trends, strut along the walk. Vagrants stroll the street corners with gloves and cups. Some have guitars. Others sit with their heads down and a sign begging for help.
A young woman with long curly hair approaches. She is wearing tight jeans and a snug sweater. Her blue eyes glisten in the artificial light. John transfixes on her natural beauty and smiles. She smiles.
"Hi," she says. John stops. She stops.
"Hi."
"What're you doing?"
"Not much…Just going for a walk. What are you doing?"
"Nothing. Can I have ten bucks for food?" She smiles. Her perfect white teeth are alluring. John smiles and laughs. A stroller pushes past. John is oblivious to the intrusion. He's transfixed on her beauty.
"Sure." John removes his wallet and hands her ten dollars. Vagrants peer behind hooded faces, scruffy beards, dark lenses and mangy hair.
"Thanks." She smiles. Her eyes sparkle.
John continues forward stepping around oncoming pedestrians. Opiates swirl in his cerebrum. His mind numbs thinking about the young woman. His chin rises like a helium balloon, but as he strolls farther, into the nightlife of the downtown core, depression manifests. Why didn't he invite her? John stops and looks at his cell phone. It's five fifteen. He's not meeting Rod until seven. The pub is a fifteen-minute stroll.
John turns. His heart races like a fool chasing love at sea. He steps quickly around on coming patrons. Their presence didn't bother him before, but now he feels like a running back, charging past linebackers, trying to score a touchdown before time runs out.
John peers into restaurants, shops and nooks in vain. Too many women have long curly hair. He peers hoping to catch a glimpse of beauty, but none release the opiates.
He reaches the street corner and stops. He realizes that he's walked past their meeting point. He looks at a street vendor selling hotdogs. He considers asking, but the vagrants are watching him like a cat waiting to pounce. John's chin sinks to his chest. He looks at his phone. It's six o'clock.
He strolls along the sidewalk, like a bum scouring the sidewalk for butts, and wonders if their paths will cross again. His cell phone rings. John answers.
"Hello."
"Johnny my man. I've got a couple of babes lined up. Reserve a table for four."
"Sounds good Rod."
"Make it seven thirty."
"Ok."
"You got paid right."
"Yeah."
"Ok, don't be late. They're cuties."
"Yeah, yeah, I'll be there."
John looks at the vagrants who peer with animosity. He raises his chin and runs his fingers through his hair. The vagrants utter silent words under breath. John shakes his head. If only they knew what it is like to spend eight hours a day in an office, they wouldn't be so resentful. At work, he's been reprimanded twice for being underdressed. Here, he's considered a prude. John steps forward. The woman appears from behind oncoming pedestrians. Opiates release.
"Hi," she says.
"Hi… I was looking for you."
"I was looking for you too."
"Really?"
"Yeah."
John feels the stares of the vagrants. He knows that she's one of them. He wonders why?
"Do you want to get out of here?"
"Yeah, I do."
John rubs his forehead. Tingling ascends his spine. He hasn't had a girlfriend in almost a year. He feels like a high school student asking their sweetheart on a date and she says yes.
"Did you get something to eat?" The woman smiles and rubs her belly while bouncing on her tiptoes like a ballerina.
"Oh yeah. I'm all full." John laughs and nods. The young woman points "I know a place… We could go over there." John looks at the vagrants and then nods. He wants to leave their presence. The glares are discomforting. He feels moisture form under his collared shirt.
John and the woman stroll past three shops. She stops and points in the direction of a building with a nook and balcony. John follows her up the stairs, into the nook, to a closed door. He pulls on the handle.
"I think it's closed."
"Yeah, I know. We can do it here."
John turns around and looks into the street. Rumbling engines muffle voices. Strolling pedestrians are oblivious to their presence. John looks at the woman. She smiles and pushes her delicate hands forward. The fingertips and palms are dirty.
"Well… won't someone come?"
"Nope… I've done it here before."
John puts his hand to his forehead, as blood rushes below. He adjusts his briefs. A rush of passion, but he wants more than sex. He wants intimacy too. He looks into her eyes. He feels empathy and compassion. She smiles. Her skin is flawless even without makeup.
"What's your name?"
"It really doesn't matter."
"I just live a short walk from here."
"Oh! You have a place."
"Yeah."
John and the woman stroll from the nook to the sidewalk past the tormenting glares of the vagrants. John feels uneasy and nervous. He increases his pace. The woman follows. Dusk brings darkness.
"Are you embarrassed of me?"
"No, I just wanted to get away from there. Do you know them?"
"Nope, I want to get away from there too."
"Good. Are you going to tell me your name?"
"No." John laughs. She smiles.
"Ok."
John and the woman walk in silence along the walkway past bright street lamps. Their shadows gradually extend outward to a distance of fifty feet before vanishing under the light of the next lamp.
"Are we going to your place?"
"I'm supposed to meet someone tonight." Her head drops. She looks away. "It's only for an hour. We can go for a walk and get to know each other." She nods. "Where are you from?"
"Kelowna." John smiles. Memories of the warm sun and cool water returns.
"I used to visit there when I was a kid. Do you ever go to gyro beach?"
"Yeah, all the time." She blinks and smiles. John nods.
"How did you end up here?
"Took a bus."
"How long have you been in town?" She shakes her head.
"Just a week. All my stuff is in storage. I need forty bucks to get it out."
"I see…Why did you leave?"
"My ex was abusive."
"That's not good. You're really beautiful."
"I know. I need to get something."
"What's that."
"Nothing… I, I need forty bucks." Her head drops to her chest. She toes the ground with the tip of her shoe and glances back. John looks at eyes that are pools of water reddened with blood. John nods.
"Are you addicted?
"Yeah." John runs his fingers through his hair and exhales. She looks at John. "Then we can go back to your place." She forces a smile and then looks away. John smiles and nods. He walks forward. "I know a guy."
"Do you really need it?"
"Yeah, I do." John nods. "He's just around the corner."
The young woman leads. John reluctantly follows along the sidewalk, across the street to an avenue and then down a narrow alleyway where the brick buildings are just wide enough for a car to fit. Graffiti brings life to the barren walls in colors of blue, red and green. Debris clings to sharp protruding objects. The stench of rooting food increases, as they approach a blue garbage bin that becomes illuminated by a motion detecting light. She stops and looks down a dark two-foot alley. The outline of a man in black is visible. He approaches smoking a cigarette.
"Maybe, I should wait for you somewhere."
"Yeah… Wait down there by the statue. I'll only be a minute." She points to the end of the alleyway, across the street. John nods. "I need the money."
"You're going to show up?"
"Yeah, I need a shower… I've got nowhere to go." She extends her hand forward with the palm facing upward. John opens his wallet. Numerous twenties expose.
"Ok." John hands her forty dollars.
He walks down the alleyway. Moaning faintly resounds. He looks into a narrow passage. A man and woman are copulating against the brick wall. John looks away and jogs to the illuminated street. He stops and turns around. The motion light extinguishes to darkness.
John jogs across the street and sits, on the steps surrounding the statue, underneath a street lamp. He's on the border of the red light district. Sports cars race past. Taxis putter looking for fares. Couples stroll to nightclubs. Drunken youth yell vulgarities. Vagrants linger within the shadows. Pigeons scour for crumbs. John's phone rings.
"Hello."
"Johnny, I'm running a little late. Have you got the seats reserved?"
"I'm just on my way."
"Good, good. Make sure you bring some coin. It's going to be an expensive evening."
"I've got my card."
"That's what I like to hear. Later bro."
"Later."
John reads six thirty on the digital display. He ponders his decision to wait. Rod's planned this date for three weeks. This is the first weekend that things could be arranged. His date is beautiful with long dark hair and blue eyes. Rod says she's perfect, but John is infatuated with a low-end streetwalker struggling to survive.
John looks at his cell phone. It reads seven o'clock. He looks up. The young woman is skipping across the road. Her smile is toothy white. She walks up the stairs with a white grayish crystal about a quarter of the size of a sugar cube.
"What's that?" John asks.
"Crack."
"Well, have a seat."
"No I don't sit there. People piss on those things."
"Oh… I see."
"Can we smoke at your place?"
"Uh… no… it's a nonsmoking suite."
"Ok, I'll have to smoke it here." John stands. His face reddens. He runs his fingers through his hair. She removes a metal pipe made from the piping of a gas line. She crumbles a fragment onto a fine mesh within the bowl and flicks a lighter. After inhaling, white smoke wafts from her upward extended jaw. "Do you want some?"
"No, I don't smoke."
"That's good."
"What's it do for you?" She looks John in the eye and crumbles a piece into the bowl. She pushes the pipe toward him.
"Here." John raises his open palm.
"No… That's ok thanks." She shakes her head and flicks the lighter. John glances around the streets and sidewalks. Hooded vagrants lurking in the shadows are shifting gray outlines against dark buildings. She walks to the other side of the statue. John follows. She peers around the edge. Anxiety twinges.
"What is it?"
"You have to keep moving. They follow me."
"What do they want?"
"They know what I got. Are we going to your place?"
John's cell phone rings.
"Johnny! I'm just a having a quick drink at their place. Suzan is looking sweet bro. She's in the ladies room getting dolled up for you as I speak," Rod says. John runs his hand along his forehead. He glances at the woman inhaling on the pipe.
"Sounds good."
"We're heading out now. Get a window seat bro."
"I'll do what I can."
"You're the man Johnny."
John closes the receiver and looks at the display. It's seven ten. The pub is a ten-minute stroll. The young woman exhales a cloud of exhaust. The breeze blows it toward John. Sweet caramel and burning rubber permeates. John steps from the cloud.
"Was that your wife?" She asks.
"No, I'm not married. I've got a business meeting for a couple of hours. I can meet you back here… at say ten." The young woman shakes her head and looks down.
"Can I wait at your place?"
"It's the opposite direction from here."
"Let me have your key. I'll be all cleaned up for you when you get back." She smiles
"No I… I can't do that. I'll meet you here at ten ok." John steps down to the sidewalk. She follows.
"You have a girlfriend or something?"
"No, it's not that. I have a meeting to attend."
"What am I supposed to do in the meantime?"
"Well…" John puts his hand to his forehead.
"Can't you cancel it?"
"No, I can't." John walks in the direction of the pub. She follows.
"Can I have twenty bucks for my time?" John nods repeatedly.
"Ok, here. Meet me at ten, ok."
"Sure… whatever."
John walks briskly to the pub and arrives at seven thirty. He reserves a table for four, overlooking the street, and orders a beer. The patron's conversation is masked by upbeat music. John sits, next to the window, and stares into the street while fiddling with a loose thread on his shirt. The woman's face lingers in his mind.
Rod enters, dressed like a pimp, with his ladies dolled to impress. The ladies attire reveals cleavage and slender legs. Their faces are masked with rouge, red lipstick and blue mascara. Blonde and dark curls dangle seductively. Rod raises his arm and smiles.
"Johnny, It's Friday. Time to party." John stands. Introductions are made. Hands shake. The ladies sit quietly. The tension would snap a two thousand-pound cable. "What are you drinking Johnny."
"Beer."
"Come on Johnny… liven up a bit… Let's get some shooters." The ladies giggle. Rod motions for the waitress. "Four cocaine ladies." The waitress returns. Test tubes are served. A sweet hint of peppermint tantalizes the tongue. Rod hands the waitress a fifty. "Four more." Rod entertains with outlandish stories and wild hand gestures for two hours. The ladies excuse themselves for the powder room. "Johnny what's wrong?
"Nothing Rod."
"Come on. You can tell me."
"Well… I met this girl."
"Why didn't you tell?
"Well..."
"Where did you meet her?"
"On the way here. I'm supposed to meet her at ten." Rod looks at his watch.
"It's nine forty five. Get out of here." Rod slaps John on the shoulder. John smiles and walks to the exit
His walk turns to a jog, as he looks at the digital display on his phone. He arrives at the statue in a sweat. The woman isn't in sight. He paces for half an hour condemning his decision not to have taken her to his apartment. He looks across the street.
Two vagrants scurry, from the shadows, into the alleyway. John pursues. He looks into the alleyway. Dark outlines shift forward. A light emits. The vagrants disappear from sight. John sprints to the blue bin and looks into the narrow passage. A feminine voice squeals. Splattering footsteps are eerie.
John steps forward into darkness and stumbles in a puddle. His shirt tears on the edge of the building. A shriek terrorizes. He rushes forward in blindness. Sweet rubber wafts. Voices whisper. The light extinguishes.
John turns around. A black outline approaches from the alleyway. John's arms shake. He turns and runs over the uneven surface. A feminine voice shrieks. John trips and falls to the ground unconscious.
He awakens to murmuring voices and filtered light. His vision is blurred. The stench of old urine mixed with burning plastic nauseates. He rubs the stubble on his chin and runs his fingers through his matted hair. Engines are roaring. Horns are honking. A pipe is in his grubby palm.
Sixty seconds is a minute. Sixty minutes is an hour. Twenty-four hours is a day. Ten years is a decade. John is thirty-eight.
- - -
Hollis Whitlock is an insane writer, hoping to one day live out his idiotic thoughts.
