9/30/12

I PASSED THIS WAY
By Patricia Crandall


I PASSED THIS WAY
through all seasons.
Change was inevitable
I have come to reason.
Where once a violet,
clusters.
Where once a house,
stone and foundation.
Where once a stream,
a creek bed.
Where once a robin,
a red bird.
Where once a hare,
the hound.
Where once strawberry fields,
golden rod.
Where once you. . .


- - -

9/29/12

Who do I trust, whom should I pry
By Eshani Sathe


Who do I trust, whom should I pry?
Who should be my call, when my lips tremble dry?
Who should I rely upon, for the saddest day of my life?
Who should be by my side, when life’s the pinpoint of a knife?
Who should hold me with strength?
Who should walk along my life’s length?
Who should cry on my stiffened body, and cold blood?
Who should remember me from the scent of soil and a mystifying bud?
I know the one who should, but who wont,
I know just the bliss of dreams, desires just my own,
I know the brittle mirror of reality, where he resides,
I know I walk the ray of sunlight, when I should follow the cosmic tides.


- - -

9/28/12

A GEEK ROMANCE
By Rich Levon


a day hike filled with
skipping flattened snowballs
across reflected skies
of sierra mountain lakes
— and pining for wildflowers

he is
infatuated
with her braininess
and indie music cred
while she
acts unimpressed
at his oblique strategies

the trance of an evening out
walking to a midtown eatery
and holding hands
— for the first time

witty comebacks
and shared mockery
of wine snobbery
then asking if they have red Zin
— yes
. . . but is it old vine?

a late night race
through an unlocked park gate
to take the first ride
on the lone chair
of a children’s swing

later the awkward silence
in the space between them
alone on the couch
before he moves over
gently kissing the beauty
of her ear lobes
and soft porcelain neck
to her whisper of
. . . this could work

inspired to take off all his clothes
he reveals the hard
nakedness of his body
. . . because it worked before

the tender request from her
that he put them back on
yet not losing the moment
leading him by the hand
to bed that night

and in the morning
consummating breakfast
the grace of manners
always being
what they hold onto
with the hope of love


- - -
Rich Levon is a lifelong resident of Northern California. When not toiling at his day job doing technical support work, he enjoys spending his free time playing guitar and writing songs, poetry, and short stories. His narratives tend to have a philosophical bent and are filled with quirky characters who seek meaning in life.

9/27/12

Ocean Air
By Wendy L. Schmidt


Madness is meeting him again,
praying he might want me,
keeping faith with flawed defiance.
Shall I risk this haunted heart,
on the Judas lurking inside,
crouched in corners of memory,
better left unconfessed, unforgiven?

Love leads me down a dark path,
capturing my soul with bold abandon,
briefly reviving an ailing ego.
I pick the apple of desire,
and fail to see the serpent's sin.
a creature cast in comfort and kisses,
artfully cloaked in mortal skin.

He pierces my soul untold,
grinding trust into drifting dust,
until even God cannot find me.
A breed apart from human need,
he covets want and wonder,
playing his role with skilled subtlety,
until the favored one is finally subdued.

Am I destined to find heartache,
forever failing, throughout lifetimes?
Am I the first of many women,
or the last dying Eve?
Beyond I glimpse a hint of blue,
ahead I hear the call of rushing tides,
baptized in salt and ancient song.

I shall voyage to the sea,
setting sail for higher ground,
cast this iron anchor,
onto tranquil white sands,
bath my bleeding heart,
in the clear waters of truth.
washing away past compliance.

I shall teach this timid will to swim,
and never turn back,
lest I plunge into depths of despair.
I shall strive to save drowning self,
struggle to survive narrow minds,
scale these rocky cliffs and stand firm,
taking in a long, slow breath.

Hope lies in the promise of fresh ocean air.


- - -
Wendy Schmidt is a native of Wisconsin. She has been writing short stories and poetry for the last ten years. Pieces have been published in Strange, Weird and Wonderful, Daily Flash 2012, Three Line Poetry, Tainted Tea, Fear and Trembling,Verse Wisconsin, One Million Stories and Twisted Dreams, Taste Like Pennies Anthology, Haunted Object Anthology.

9/26/12

What a Picture is Worth
By Heather Adams


I rehearse how to ask him. I could start with “This is going to be awkward.” Or “I know you aren’t going to want to do this.” But when he answers the phone, I don’t bother with any of that. I simply tell him that my grandmother is moving into a nursing home and that she wants a family portrait to take with her. And then the harder part, that I haven’t told her we have broken up. Because she has so little time left and she always thought we were perfect together, that we would get married, the whole thing.

“Okay, so I need to be in the picture? I can do that.” I imagine him nodding, his hair flopping over his forehead like it does at the end of the day.

“I’m sorry. It’s a strange thing to ask. After everything.”

“Yeah, it is strange. But it’s alright. I’ll meet you there on Saturday, okay?”

“Okay, see you then. And Stephen?”

“Yeah?”

“Thanks.”

“It’s no problem. See you soon.”

I think back to when all I saw were problems. The logistics. The impossibilities. When I get stressed out, I have this thing I do. I throw my hands up and call it off. Forget it. Move on. This wasn’t any different.

“It’s too hard.” I told him. We had been talking about what to do after graduate school. We had been talking about it for weeks, maybe even months, and I was exhausted. At first, he couldn’t believe what I was saying. That we couldn’t make it work. That we should move on with our lives, separately. And when he did understand, he got this look, like something had been peeled away from his face. I couldn’t take it. I asked him to drive me home and I stared out the passenger window because I couldn’t bring myself to see his face. That night I crawled into bed, realizing that what I was supposed to be feeling was relief.

When I told my mother that we broke up, she said that I was making things too difficult.

“It’s not a hard thing, Natalie. You love him, he loves you. I saw it the first time you brought him over. Why are you going to throw all that away?”

“I do love him, Mom. But it’s not that easy. Our job offers are in different cities. It makes sense to go our separate ways.” Thinking that if I said the correct words, they would become true. And she asked me things like “What kind of life is that going to be?” But I pretended not to hear her, pretended not to see her shaking her head like she knew better.

Saturday morning I think about him as I get ready. He’s been to my parents’ house before, but today it will be different.

The whole thing is crazy. I decide that I will pretend he’s only sort of there--as though pieces of him are there, but he’s not, not the real Stephen.

It would be so much better if I didn’t have to see him. But when I call my parents to suggest again that he doesn’t need to be in the picture, my dad says I am being ridiculous. Stephen has agreed to come and we don’t want to hurt Nana’s feelings by bringing all that up now. I sigh and tell him what he wants to hear, that it will all be fine, just forget that I asked.

At my parents’ house it is like I don’t know what to do with myself, how to act, what to say. I give Nana a hug and I drink coffee, leaning against the kitchen counter for support. My niece, Ashley, eats cookies and I keep patting her head, over and over again. I prepare myself for his arrival. He will walk in. I will say hello. We will smile for the picture. It will be okay, maybe even easy.

I don’t hear the doorbell, but I see my mother opening the front door and he is standing there. And oh, there is nothing easy about it. It is him, the real him, all of him. I can’t tell myself otherwise.

My mother smiles and turns toward the living room, where the photographer is waiting. Stephen looks at me. He walks toward me and when he stops, he is standing close to me, but still too far away and I want him closer. He touches my arm, just above the wrist.

“Are you doing okay?”

I shake my head. “Not really.”

He is waiting for what I will say next, but then Nana calls from the living room. He goes to her, putting his arm around her shoulders as he bends down beside her wheelchair.

“Tell Ash to wash her hands. She’s been sneaking cookies all morning,” she tells my brother, pointing toward the kitchen. “Now everyone is here and we can get started,” she says, nodding at Stephen like he has done exactly the right thing just by walking in the door.

Once everyone is in the living room, the photographer tells us to gather around the fireplace. Stephen is standing there, and I imagine myself standing beside him. It is a clear picture somehow, not the shadowy negative I expected.

Everyone is waiting for me to join the group. Stephen is smiling, really smiling, like he knows what I am thinking, and it’s easy. Like it should be. Like it always has been if only I’d stopped to see.

“That’s right,” the photographer says. “Come in close, like you love him.”


- - -
Heather Adams, who practices law in Raleigh, North Carolina, has published fiction and non-fiction works.

9/25/12

No Games
By Leonardo Castillo


Day after day, as time pass away
I slither to the medium
To meet you halfway

Some sunlights you’re there, on most you’re suspect
It boggles my mind, but then again
What did I expect?

My doggedness, will it be worth it?
I don’t want to give up
Surely I’m getting there, bit by bit

Come clear with it maybe, or tell me your aims
Because I’ll be at my highest
If our intentions are the same

Do me a favor and stop the digress
At each day’s end you leave me with nothing
Nothing, but this cold black sadness


- - -
Leonardo loves to play volleyball in his spare time. He is a college freshman and is the biggest Phoenix Suns fan.

9/24/12

Love Is Forever, Today
By LA Sykes


'We've been so good together ain't we? Tonight, as we've been lying here I just know we've made the right choice my darling. Looking back, I swear to the Lord I believe we were made for each other, you know? Made, just to be as one. After all we've shared it could never have been down to pure chance, it just wouldn't make sense. What a ride we've had my love.'

'Hold me tighter beautiful. That's better. I know what you're saying sweet pea, the way I see it, you'll always be a hell of a wild ride.'

'I'm serious mister, stop fooling around in such a serious conversation.'

'Okay, sorry my love. I know what you're saying, I think the same. Too perfect to be pure co-incidence. You know, I still see the first time we met in my dreams. When I ain't drank, sober sleep you know? What a place the old Miner's Arms was, especially that night. Clear as day I see it, at the bar when that prick started poking me in the back about that damn stool. If he'd had lived I'd have had him at our wedding, to thank him like. Guest of honour, speeding up our meeting. I just know we'd have met anyway, crossed paths at some point, gotten together. But the way I see it, it would have been just wasting time, delaying the inevitable. Then he started screaming in my ear, remember? I glanced around trying to clock potential witnesses I might have to worry about and saw you with your friends. You were the only one looking at us hollering who wasn't cowering, watching closely, your beautiful brown eyes almost got me killed. I froze, a second later and I'd have missed his throat completely. Jabbed him in the shoulder or something, lost the knife and been done myself. But it was written that way, love at first sight. You were the only person in that place who didn't look at me like an animal, even when I was covered in blood. You took me home, Jesus, I remember your girlfriends screaming at you as we left, calling me a monster, but you just kept walking with your dainty hand squeezing mine. Then I told you I'd love you till the day I died in that pokey kitchen when you were licking me clean. I love to dream that dream.'

'The beginning of the ride, my love, when we found each other. I always dream about our first. How nervous were we? Oh my, when she slipped her ties and almost escaped? Stop laughing'

'Ain't making fun, you know that baby. Just remember your face, looked like it had been struck by lightning as you slashed her across the heels when she was running. So smart. I almost forgot about that. There's been so many now they all kind of blend in, we've definitely had a hell of a run. You're right, what a hell of a ride. I'm glad you trusted me when I told you I was going to love you till the day I died. I told you I'd love you forever. I want go now, I'm ready my sweet pea.'

'Any regrets my darling?'

'Only two. That we didn't meet sooner and that they are closing in. Let's go now my baby, let me lead the way so I can wait for you in forever.'

'Alright, just relax, good, just a nick, done my darling. Oh how I love that neck, bleed for me, that's it. Keep going my love. That's it, shhh, it's alright, go to sleep, go to sleep my love. I hope you can still hear me, I'm looking in the mirror, gleaming in your sanguine my love, our hunger, our hunger. That's it, drift away and wait for me my darling. Oh if you could see me now my love, glistening for you. Hold out your hands and wait for me, I'll follow just as soon as you've arrived. That's it, lay still my love, I will be there in a few moments. I just know we were made to be together. In forever.'


- - -
LA Sykes is a psychotherapist and published sports writer from Manchester England. Bringing a new voice of musings and satire from the inside.

9/23/12

A Desperate Housewife
By Ali Znaidi


She anxiously sat in front of her computer
wondering why he no longer wanted to chill in her lap.
Her head was spinning & she even doubted in her beauty.
She didn’t understand why that love lost its sap.
She is always in front of this frigid machine.
His absence makes her stitch sorrow and pain.
She feels her rose is withering and losing scent.
She is in front of her machine waiting for a new rain.
All males give her compliments and praise her beauty.
But why on earth that great love and affection dim?
She was still in front of her machine pondering
if he just walked away on a whim.


- - -
Ali Znaidi lives in Redeyef, Tunisia where he teaches English at Tunisian public secondary schools. He writes poetry and has an interest in literature, languages, and literary translations. His work has appeared in The Bamboo Forest, The Camel Saloon, phantom kangaroo, BoySlut, The Rusty Nail, Yes,Poetry, Shot Glass Journal, the fib review, Ink Sweat and Tears, Mad Swirl, & other ezines. He also writes flash fiction for the Six Sentence Social Network—http://sixsentences.ning.com/profile/AliZnaidi.

9/22/12

While You Sleep
By R. Christophe Ryber


The night is dark, the moon asleep
In solitude I sit and keep
A silent vigil o'er your form
A light caress on limbs so warm
Stirs you in your deepest dreams
I long for you, I could write reams
of sentimental pretty words
of lovely ghosts and talking birds
But Poe already wrote those lines
and language sometimes but confines
the feelings that I must express
For e'en now my love no less
than e'er before burns in my chest
And of all God's creatures I love you best.


- - -
R.Christophe Ryber lives in Hardwick, VT where he writes poetry and studies literature at a local college.

9/21/12

Fractions
By S Marston


Maybe two thirds will be enough.

There’s the sun, games and friends and we make the most of the weekends when the weather’s good. I still have the old house though it’s falling apart faster than I can repair it. Jackie visits and she’s good with him. She makes a point of keeping him laughing and we have a few glasses of wine when he’s gone to bed. But with all these things there is no joy in them for me. Without you.

You should have seen him today, it was his first cricket match. He was terrible. He’s never going to be a sportsman I’m afraid. But there was something I experienced while watching him. The assembly process of a person. You deserved to see it more than anyone else. His run up is good, though that running was nothing but the natural progression from that first step you watched him take all those years ago. While I was at work. It’s quite amusing because he takes a massive run up using all his energy, but before he even starts to bowl he stops dead in his tracks and negates all that effort. The bowling action itself isn’t too bad, his release is good and that’s thanks to you picking up his spoons and crayons and placing them back into his clumsy hands time and time again for all of those years. The smile he has settled on is clearly one from your arsenal. He cheers unabashedly which is thanks to you and your lack of discipline.

So he’s not going to be a sportsman but he’s good with the other kids. He’s funny so they put up with him. He can’t bat too well either but I’ve been working with him on that, we can fix that. It should be enough to keep him in the team.

He has stopped asking about you. For no other reason than he sees what those questions do to me. He misses you, of course, but I think he’s starting to forget. Kids are resilient like that. Apparently.

I make a point to have music playing in the house in the mornings. Right now he’s enjoying ACDC, I’ll put him onto zeppelin next. I know this was important for you, for him to enjoy music, even if it’s my old-school redneck rock.

I have a growing worry. He’s going to grow up to be only half the man he was meant to. A fraction of what he should have been with you. I just hope he learned enough before you left, maybe it was enough to take him up to two thirds of a person. I don’t know how to answer his questions on the big stuff. I know why the sky is blue but telling him? I just don’t know how to. You would have known what to say. I tell him there’s a heaven and a God and you’re with Him there but I don’t know if he buys it. I don’t want to tell him what I really think about God and that He’s really nothing but the thief of mothers, constructed from lies and fairy tales. But I don’t tell him that because that would be subtracting from your portion of him.

Maybe two thirds will be enough.


- - -

9/20/12

One of Those Nights
By Alyanna Diavane


It was supposed to be another night of reckless drinking. Another one filled with pretentious cheer. At least, I thought it was. I really did. But, then, you were there. It wasn't supposed to mean anything, really. You were just another guy, right? But then we talked through the night, with alcohol and heartbreak fueling our desire to talk. It was never a big deal.

I was wrong. It became a big deal, to me. All because you, with your heart on your sleeve, were a bit too much for me to handle. You were a rare one. The old-fashioned, nice guy. Don't get me wrong. I'm not trying to insult you, really I'm not. But, you're just too unique for me. Too rare for me not to take for granted. Normally, I'd stay away. Normally, I'd run far, far away, where I will never be able to see or hear from you again. Too much heartbreak, too much drama, too much everything in between for me to want to stay away from it all.

Thankfully you didn't force me run off to a place I never wanted to be. But I did. After we talked. After I realized that talking to you made me feel a sensation that I thought was all but inexistent - hope. I hoped for this, for you, to make everything better. I hoped that you would change my life for the better, finally. I hoped that you would be able to give me what I wanted in order to fix my heart, me.

But then we stopped talking to each other. I was too much of a coward to send you a message. And you... I don't know. At first, I tried my best not to care. I did my best to make sure that I don't send you a "random" message, not to act clingy and needy and in dire need of attention to get you to notice me. No, I just sat here. Waiting for you to talk to me first. I mean, we, well you, talked about some of the deepest stuff you've been holding on to, right? What's wrong in expecting, assuming, that we'll talk again? That you'll talk to me again just to share those woes of yours?

Days, and eventually weeks, came by and nothing. Not a single word, message, anything. And here I was pining for you to talk to me, or the other way around. I was like a fish out of water, to put it lightly. It was like deja vu. Or not. All I know is that this is a completely different ball game altogether. Then again, you didn't care, at least, that's what I thought.

My sanity was, is, killing me. I had to do something. Anything, really, just to make this feeling go away. What exactly, I have no idea. Then it hit me. A message, just like before. Screw the norms, screw everything. I just want to talk to him. That's all. Is that too much to ask? I don't care if he stays away from me from now on. I. Just. Want. To. Talk. To. Him. I want to hear his witty comments all over again. I want to feel as if there's nothing left to worry about. I just want to lose myself in the moment, whether real or not. I honestly want to make myself believe that you're feeling it too. That sense of longing. That feeling of attachment growing between us but I know that's just me. You already gave your heart to someone else, unfortunately. Gave it to a machine for a heart. Someone who would never understand what it means to actually need someone.

Thankfully, you were perfectly fine with me taking the initiative, talking to you first, and it went smoothly from there. The words slid so smoothly to our fingertips, as if it was meant for each other to hear. That's when you told me about you giving your heart to a machine, telling me that all-too-familiar, heart-wrenching pain of knowing that that person will never notice you, despite your best efforts, of that person never looking at you past the point of being a close friend. Been there, done that, time and time again. But I can't tell you that. I can't relive my whole life story with you. Too much baggage, really. Too much pain for me to want to return to. And I honestly think you'll end up running to the other side of the world if you knew.

And still I pursued you and the tiny chance of you noticing someone like me, despite what you've told me. Maybe you'll realize that I'm someone with her heart on her sleeve, just like you. Someone who'd give just about anything for the one they feel something, anything, for. Then, maybe, we'll click. Or not. Maybe you'll run to the other side of the world, like I once did, just to get away from me, like what everyone else once did. Maybe I'll end up hiding my heart to the rest of the world because of this. We wouldn't know. Not unless we try, right?

It hurts. It still does. Because no matter how hard I try, nothing would happen. You'd go running to someone else. And me? I'll still be here. Silently cursing myself for liking you and cursing those people who take you for granted. "I'm here! I'm just here!" I'd scream to myself, knowing for a fact that it would never reach you. I'm just too damn scared for my own good, too afraid to want to reach out and console you whenever you need me to, just because I don't know how. And I'm scared. I'm terrified. I don't want to lose the friendship we've made for a very short time but, at the same time, I don't want to trust you that much. At least, not yet. And, because of that, I keep on hurting myself for not knowing any better, for relying on that minuscule chance of you ever noticing someone as fucked up as I am, instead of looking, and staying, with someone who actually loves me as it is. Without all the pretenses, without me trying, with everything I've got, to impress you.

The thing is, I like you, ever since that night. I like you and it's killing me because I don't want to. Or maybe I do. I just don't know how to move on. That's why I can't open up about it, about this, about you. And, it's killing me, literally, to see that you're being taken for granted. To actually see you worrying about me as a freaking friend, because that's not what I need, not now, not ever.

If I'm not trying to be nice, I really would have asked what I am to you. A friend? An acquaintance? Something else altogether? I just don't know anymore. That's why I need someone, hopefully that someone is you, to fill up the spaces in my head that need affirming, that craving for love.

"'I still care for you, you know..' That phrase again. Everyone cares for me. They just don't know how to love me." (Glass, Ellen Hopkins)


- - -
Innocent enough to love. Knowledgeable enough to think things through. "Be warned. I'm a disaster in the making." is what she'd normally say but now it's just "This has tragedy written all over it."

9/19/12

How Did You Meet?
By Sarah Lye


57 Years Ago

On a school trip to the beach, a couple of the boys had decided to pick on me. I didn’t understand what I had done to upset them, but clearly they had quite a big problem if they felt that something needed to be done about it. One of the boys just called me names behind my back, another would put sand down the back of my chair, but the one that upset me was the third, he waited until I was in a sand sinkhole and then he’d unplugged the engine of my wheelchair.

The rest of the class had started to move away, I tried calling them but they were too far away to hear me. I would have been stuck there all day if it wasn’t for a little girl from my class noticing me.

“Are you alright?” she’d said to me. For some reason the fact that this stranger cared more about me than everyone in my life, brought tears to my eyes. I’d tried to blink them away but there was no use. She’d seen them, but instead of running away she just hugged me.

“There seems to be a cable not attached.”

She’d plugged the cable back into the engine and tried to brush the sand off of me as best as she could. She’d gotten most of it off.

Once we’d caught up with the rest of our class it was time to have our lunch. The girl left her friends so that she could sit with me.

“I’m Jess” she had extended her empty hand to me. I took it and gave a weak hand shake and a slight smile.

“John” I’d replied.

Today

People always ask me ‘How did we meet.’ My answer is the story I’ve just told you. Jess has been there for me ever since that day. Just seven years after we first met, a week after Jess’ sixteenth birthday to be precise I’d asked her to marry me. And here we are today 50 years of marriage and watching our last grandchild get married. A tear formed in the corner of my eye.

“Are you alright?” Jess asked with her hand wrapping around mine.


- - -

9/18/12

The Stars For You
By Stacy Maddox


I took a blanket of stars
And blew silver dust
To remind me of your eyes
When they shine with hope

I made them the color white
For the innocence of you, my love
Pure as the dawn at sunrise
When you are so near

I molded the shape
For the number of years
One hundred times eternity
Of the days I need with you

I cast them so far away
To show the extent
Of this love I hold for you
In truth, there is no measure

I placed them against
A black cosmic canvas
To show you the light that glows
Through the night as I dream

I kissed to them, an enchanting magic
Displaying throughout the heaven's
The way you make me feel
And all the things you are.


- - -
“Stacy Maddox lives, dreams and writes in the fast-paced city of Lawrence, KS. When she is not sitting at her desk with pencil and paper in hand writing poems, songs and stories, she is typing on the computer, tending her garden, cooking or spending time with her family and two children. She loves to soak up the sun by the river and feel the rush of water over her feet. Stacy has been published in Shades Of Expression by Gerl Publishing, The Medulla Project and Daily Love and has won several writing contests. She has been passionate about poetry, music, quotes and stories for 30 years.”

9/17/12

Color blinded
By Carly Wells


The room spun, maybe you saw how fast my eyes darted around looking for something grounded.

Everything stopped when you reached your hand out to me
and pulled me into your warm embrace
as you danced slowly around the room with me closely knit into your arms.

I drank you in - let my chest take in your smell.
It felt like it had been a hundred years since someone
held
me
with
such
gentleness.

I wanted to die in that moment, so it couldn't be taken away like every other beautiful thing I have held.


- - -
Carly is currently a 23 year old 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.

9/16/12

On the Only Thing Making Sense
By Alyanna Diavane


Do you remember how we sat right next to each other almost every day?
Do you remember the sensation when our hands met?
I never understood why but it felt nice.
When we were together, everything felt right.
I didn't mind what others said.
I didn't care if there was someone else. All I knew back then was

I like you.

Did the wrongness of the situation put you off?
Did you see that there was no chance that it would be alright?
Was going away without a trace the only escape you can think of?
It's unfair. I thought you would always be there.
I thought there was something going on between us.
I thought risking reputation for you was worth it.
I just thought: Maybe this person is worth keeping.
I didn't know what happened next. You were gone but

I miss you.

Maybe it's the guilt that sent you away
Or maybe you got tired of me. How can I know now?
You were never the type to tell the truth.
You were never the one to break the ice.
Maybe there was nothing to begin with.
Maybe I only held on to the illusion of your smile.
Is this what you wanted? Am I just a fling to you?
The words hanging from my mouth:

Was I too much?

For believing, for once, that you might be able to save me
For holding my heart out for you to heal it once again
For expecting you to be different from the rest.
I was silly, I know. And now you're gone for good
It's as if we've never met. As if nothing happened.

I'm sorry.

Don't worry. I'm moving on.
Trying to find someone who can mend me once more.
Someone who can catch me when I fall.
One who can distract me from all the pain I've put myself through.
My scars won't go away, you see? But I've got to smile for no one else but me.
It might be fake but, who knows,
There might come a time when I can finally say

Goodbye.

- - -
Innocent enough to love. Knowledgeable enough to think things through. "Be warned. I'm a disaster in the making." is what she'd normally say but now it's just "This has tragedy written all over it."

9/15/12

The Silence That Surrounds Us
By Vivian Asimos


need not be suffocated by
words left unattached from
meaning, hanging in front of
our faces, obscuring my view
of your eyes. The
quiet does not define us,
but comforts us, wrapping us
in one blanket that gives warmth
to our iced feet and provides
a haven where we can
whisper silent words to one another.


- - -
Originally from the small town of Orange Park, Vivian Asimos is currently studying creative writing and religious studies at the University of South Florida in Tampa.

9/14/12

The Crossover Affair
By John Laneri


I accidentally met Stephanie at a local coffee shop. It was an explosive beginning in which my elbow sent her cappuccino skidding across the floor.

Right off, I mumbled a few choice words until I noticed a sympathetic smile along with silky smooth hair, warm features and one, snazzy little figure – all of which were standing quietly beside me, staring helplessly at a huge mess.

I suggested a refill. She agreed, and before long, we were sitting at a table, looking at one another, wondering what to say next.

I began by telling her that friends call me 'Thorny' and proceeded to indicate that it's a nickname for Jason Thorne. She seemed interested, so I avoided deploying my private investigator handle, knowing that it frequently unnerves some people.

We continued to gaze at one another until her lips parted as if to say something then hesitated. That's when, I politely stepped in and asked, “What were you just thinking?”

“I was just thinking about how sexy you look in jeans.”

Surprised, I replied, “I'm not wearing jeans today.”

She blushed and looked away, her embarrassment obvious. Once composed, she went on to say, “But, I remember seeing you in jeans several days ago.”

“And, where was that?”

“You were standing in the rain outside my apartment, waiting for someone.”

Thinking back, I recalled the day. It was the one those mornings when I was keeping tabs on Martin Frock, a slippery husband whose wife had been paying me three hundred dollars to watch each Tuesday – his usual day to disappear. Up to that point, the only thing I knew for sure was that he regularly visited someone in that same sprawling complex of apartment buildings.

Continuing, I said, “I remember the day. It was raining and cold.”

“If I had known you better, I would have invited you in for coffee.”

“A rain check works, but I'll need your number.”

“Cell or apartment?” she asked in turn, her eyes sparkling pleasantly.

“Both, if you don't mind.”

Later that day, on returning to the office, I fired up my computer in hopes of learning more about the delectable, Stephanie Walker. I soon learned that she worked as a model and fashion coordinator for a high priced woman's boutique. Otherwise, she seemed to live a normal life, so I reached for my cell in hopes of meeting her for dinner – well aware that the best ones often present when least expected.

We met at Leonardo's, an upscale restaurant near her apartment. I was waiting at the bar when she arrived. She was wearing a colorful silk top with a nicely tailored skirt and stylish heels. By then, I was beginning to enjoy her presentations.

Once seated, we ordered wine then drifted into a few minutes of small talk before she said, “I've been thinking about that day in the rain. Were you following man named Martin Frock?”

“Who?” I asked, thrown off by her direct manner.

“I recalled seeing you the previous week and later remembered that I'd seen you several times in the past wandering around the complex whenever he visited my neighbor.”

“He's like a client,” I replied evenly. ”Where do you get your information?”

She smiled. “I keep my eyes open. It's an necessity that goes with apartment living.”

A waiter brought our wine then I asked, “Are you friends with Martin Frock?”

“Not at all,” she replied, taking a sip. “Oh, nice selection. A bit sassy too... anyway, as I was saying, I met him one day in the stairwell and introduced myself. He'd been coming and going from that apartment for months. At first, I thought he lived there.”

I considered her reply and asked, “Can you tell me about the woman he's visiting?”

She laughed softly, her eyes directed to mine. “She's not a she... she's a he that cross dresses into a very stylish she. Initially, I thought she was a fashion model until I realized that she was really a he.”

My confusion growing, I reached for a menu to consider our conversation, my mind trying to digest the information just thrown my way.

Later, we ordered dinner, and somewhere around ten o'clock, we parted ways. Then reluctantly, I headed home only to spend a restless night reassessing the facts.

The following morning, I returned to the complex to install a small, motion activated camera to record the comings and goings along the third floor of her building unit. Then smiling to myself, I headed to the office. It was time to sit back and wait.

A few days later, I returned to the apartments and retrieved the recordings. After watching the video, I concluded that Martin Frock did indeed visit a stunning cross-dresser who likewise fooled me on first look. Later, as I continued to consider his affair, I began to wonder if Martin crossed from a he to a she during their livelier moments or did he remain a he and take the upper hand when he conquered the she.

In the end, I presented the video and a handful of photographs to the wife, who was not overly surprised, indicating quietly that she'd suspected something amiss for years.

The next day, I turned my full attention to Stephanie and soon learned exactly why jeans belong in a man's wardrobe. From there, we quickly became regulars. And before long, our relationship blossomed into a warm, intimate affair – reaffirming once again, that the best ones often present when least expected.


- - -
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.

9/13/12

Clarity
By Kait Gilleran


Meet me by the place we first saw each other at four o’clock, she says to me. This is like an emotional scavenger hunt—who remembers crap like that? We went to the same school since forever, I don’t remember her much during primary school—but I guess that would be the most reasonable assumption. Women.
I put on a newly pressed shirt and khaki pants for the occasion—a first anniversary only happens once per person. I buy her flowers on the way there, her favorite—lilies. A bracelet I bought her a week ago will look perfect hidden within them. Women like that shit, right? Shiny good smelling shit? That’s why I shave until is shines and wear cologne, and why my headboard’s a mirror and my sheets are doused in Axe.
I get there at 3:30, just as the busses are pulling away and wait outside of the building, good old Greenwood Elementary. My polished black loafers glisten in the afternoon sun. I wait. And I wait. Suddenly, it’s been an hour. Where is she? Did we see each other even earlier? Have I forgotten some clandestine meeting in a sandbox at the park? That bitch and her vague instructions, these feelings of mild anger and disappointment are far too familiar.
She’s crazy, maybe we had a class together. Maybe she’s in there, sitting at her assigned seat, pale knees stuck in a little chair waiting with a pinched pink mouth and wide brown eyes. I step into the building and it feels pleasantly nostalgic to step onto the tiles of earlier days. My eyes adjust to the fluorescent bulbs and take in the pale puke green tones of the walls; I close my eyes and take a moment to take in the scent of the unclean sterility of a grade school hallway. I can practically hear the squeak and crunch of my Velcro sneakers running down the hall, and Mr. Gerbles yelling at me to stop. Opening my eyes, I realize that I am actually hearing just that.
A young boy, blond haired and scrawny, turns his head towards a more withered and white haired Mr. Gerbles, who is assessing me suspiciously. Taking advantage of the opportunity, the kid runs into the bathroom down the hall.
“Picking up a kid? I don’t recognize you.”
“No, just looking for my girlfriend.” Crap. His eyes. Okay. Okay. Fix that. “She told me to meet her here, it’s not what it sounds like Mr. Gerbles.” I feel like a child.
“Mr. Gerbles… how do you know my name.”
“I was a student here…”
“Wait, Petey Sheffer?”
“Yes!” Relief.
“Sheffer… I knew you’d turn out to be a creep you quick footed little fuck.” Crap. No choice, only one logical solution to this problem.
I run. A small laugh escapes my lips as I slide across the linoleum floor in my loafers. Nearly falling more than once, I feel free. I can hear the heavy footfalls of an aggravated Mr. Gerbles swiftly following mine, and it just makes me laugh more.
Hightailing it out of that situation, I feel my phone buzzing. After catching my breath, hidden in an alleyway, I open it to find several voicemails. I call her without listening to them. She answers.
“Asshole. I’ve been sitting at a table outside Marceli’s for an hour! This is humiliating. Let me guess, Peter, you forgot where our first date was.”
“No, it’s just you said…saw…I thought you meant our elementary school. You know… ”
“We didn’t go to elementary school together. Did we?” What a bitch.


- - -
Kait Gilleran is an incoming senior at Montclair State University in New Jersey. She is an English major with minors in Creative Writing and Classics.

9/12/12

A New Love
By Alison Bennett


Tessa waved an emotional goodbye as her son Robert and daughter in law Lulu drove off. She insisted on maintaining it nervously until they were at the top of the road and eventually out of sight. Today, after 42 weeks, her Grandchild was making its debut into the world.

As she came back into the house she spoke to Barley and Bruce, her two Springer’s and told them: “soon boys, we will have some news.” As she pulled out the chair and sat at the dining table her whole body started to shake and she began to cry. It was strange a kind of half-fearful and half-excited reaction to what was about to be.

As she looked out of the patio window into her well kept garden, she saw a butterfly and thought of her mother, who had been dead for about two years. She knew that her mother would have loved to have seen the baby.

Tessa thought new life brings with it so many emotions. She realised that although she was nearly fifty years old she often felt quite childlike herself, then she remembered the birth of her own three children, Anna, Robert and Claire and how it felt like only yesterday.

Tessa herself had a bad childhood at the hands of a violent and controlling father and her formative years were not happy ones. Eventually her Mother found the courage to leave and Tessa was brought up with her Grandparents. It was during this time that she developed first hand, an understanding of that special relationship that exists between a grandchild and a grandparent.

She looked at her clock and thought they will be arriving at the hospital now. She felt so helpless at this most stressful time, waiting, hoping and praying. She never took anything for granted. She knew that even in this day and age birth still carries a certain amount of risk. Tessa really hoped that Lulu would not have to endure too much pain, but knew that she almost certainly would, as that is just the way the birth process works.

Tessa poured herself a glass of Cranberry Juice and went and sat in her garden. It was the same garden that the children had grown up in. She tried to visualize how it used to be, the little vegetable patch that was Anna’s own special garden, the sand pit under the shade of the apple tree where Robert spent many happy hours digging, and then a bit further down the garden path the old swing that Claire went on every morning before she could even cope with the idea of going to school.

Happy times, but Tessa knew that it was crucial to give them a stable and loving home, all the things that she never had. She also knew that being a mother was the most important and privileged job she would ever do and hoped that she had done it well, well enough for the same priorities of love, compassion and understanding to be passed on now from one generation to another.

It was now lunchtime, but Tessa didn’t really feel hungry. It had got quite hot outside, so she came back into the lounge and started to look on her bookcase at the family photos. There they all were, all the people that meant something to her, all of them living with her at some point, even her grandfather who she nursed for years after he had a stroke and until he died in her arms at 91. Her Mother, the most beautiful woman, smiled down on her. There was a lovely photo of Dan, Tessa’s husband, her rock and the sure foundation of how she had chosen to build her life.

The phone rang and Tessa jumped. Was this the news she was waiting for? She took a deep breath and picked up the phone.

“Hi Mum, its Anna. Any news?”

Tessa replied: “Hello my Love. No, not yet. I was just looking at a photo of you and Claire when you were little and thinking, they will soon be Aunties.”

Tessa realised that with the new arrival everything would change, everyone will become another generation, everyone will be someone different to what they were before. Time will move on and nothing will be the same.

Just as Tessa sat down to stroke Barley and Bruce the phone went again. This time it was Robert. His voice was breathy and excited and he said: “Mum, you have a Grandson.”

Tessa’s heart raced and a silent tear came down her flushed face, “Is he ok Robert?” She asked apprehensively. “He is fine. Do you want to come and see him?”

Tessa grabbed her bag and drove off in her Range Rover. She picked Dan up from work on the way. As they entered the Maternity unit one of Tessa’s old workmates, Jane, who was a midwife, came up and gave her a hug and said “Congratulations Grandma, Ill take you to see him.” The three of them walked very briskly up the corridor right to the end and into a private room that overlooked the chimney tops and spires of the old market town.

There he was. Lulu sat up in bed smiling and holding the new arrival. Tessa and Dan looked down and just stared in complete silence at him, the emotion of the moment washing over them, they then looked at each other through teary eyes in almost disbelief.

Although it was the first time she had ever met Matthew Robert Daniel Brown, Tessa was full of a new kind of love, a love that no one can ever prepare you for, the love of a Grandson.


- - -

9/11/12

Just wait and see
By Carly Wells


kiss my tears and you'll taste the ocean.
the salt water runs heavily down my face,
pooling on my chest.
swim through it and find me there,
gently pushing through the waves of sadness,
the beauty will unfold.


- - -
Carly is currently a 23 year old 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.

9/10/12

Hoover Dam
By Eric Suhem


Neda worked in a gift shop at the edge of the Hoover Dam. She would sell small dam trinkets and replicas to enthusiastic tourists, while staring at a map of the surrounding Mojave Desert. Neda’s beloved, a pioneering biologist named Dane, was part of an exploratory team researching Gila monster eggs in the desert. But the research team had mysteriously disappeared, and Neda’s tears for her missing beloved fell upon the postcards of the Hoover Dam in the gift shop, smearing the images of sky and cement. Most tourists would not buy the postcards in that condition, though some art-inclined visitors felt that the tears added a new dimension to the otherwise humdrum depiction of the Depression-era water-damming edifice, paying extra dollars and cents for a postcard stained by the fluid of Neda’s tear ducts.

One morning, Neda committed a transgression in the gift shop, slapping a decal of the Hoover Dam to the forehead of a 4-year old hellion named Edna, who was running amuck in the shop, knocking trinkets off the shelves, tearing up lovingly rendered reprint images of the dam. The child turned out to have influential parents, and Neda was fired later that morning. Little Edna would soon enjoy a lunch of toast and herbal tea, but Neda would not have as pleasant a meal, munching on difficult wafers, blood and regrets.

That night, feeling lost without Dane, Neda decided to walk along the length of the Hoover Dam, holding a metal fork in the air, in the midst of a lightning storm, waiting for a shock from above. Neda received the jolt 2.8 minutes into the walk, being struck down by the fatal jagged bolt of light, spasmodically clutching the kitchen fork as the volts worked their way through her skeleton and membrane. After her death, the local legend was that Neda’s spirit still trolled the desert in a 1934 Studebaker, pining for her lost love Dane.

Two decades later, the child from the gift shop, Edna, now grown up, had a baby in Kingman, AZ. The baby had a strange rectangular birthmark on her head. During her pregnancy, Edna had been feeling a strong pull toward the Hoover Dam. She had seen it in the kitchen sink, as part of the water’s reflection, and then an image of the dam was mysteriously mowed into her lawn, a sort of small-scale suburban ‘crop circle’.

One night as the storm clouds gathered over the desert, Edna could no longer resist the pull. She packed the baby into her 1954 Studebaker, and drove along the highway toward the Hoover Dam. As she neared the dam, Edna saw a broken down car by the side of the road, with Gila monster eggs near its right front tire. Alone in the car was an infant, apparently abandoned. Edna pulled to the side of the road to rescue the deserted child, placing him next to her baby in the back seat. In Edna’s Studebaker, the two infants locked eyes as lightning struck in the desert. Flashing recognition and love, the wandering souls of Neda and Dane rediscovered each other.

Edna drove to the local authorities, and after weeks of investigation and paperwork, was able to adopt the baby she had found in the abandoned car. The two infants were inseparable, as they grew together into childhood, then adulthood. As the years went by, they pooled together enough money to buy the Hoover Dam gift shop, which they would run together throughout eternity.


- - -
Eric Suhem dwells in office cubicles and ocean waves. His new book "Dark Vegetables" can be found in the orange hallway (www.orangehallway.com)

9/9/12

Candlelight
By Katherine Okpara


Dinner for two,
A candlelight affair;
Lonesome expressions
Soon melt away.

The comfort and ease
Of plush leather booths;
Shiny dress shoes
Tap restless rhythms on the marble floor.

Icy skin meets warm heart’s passion,
Timid hands reach out boldly;
Lungs inhale and minds exhale
All the toxins of a trying life.

Red velvet cupcake,
Waves of cream cheese kiss the surface;
Illuminated by radiating hearts,
Adorned carefully by love’s own intent.

A single, shiny glimmer,
Sparkles reflected on spoons;
Like dusk settling on a long, arduous day,
Realization covers my face.

Shining brightly,
Nestled gently in the waves;
Mined just for my heart,
A dazzling, unifying rock.

Peculiar as it may be,
What impresses more than the ring
Is the man whose gleaming face,
Casts beautiful shadows on my dinner plate.


- - -
Katherine Okpara is 18 and from Cerritos but soon to be Berkeley, California. Poetry is a passion that she cherishes and holds dearly to her heart. Katherine has recently returned from a trip Costa Rica that fed into her love of different cultures, and the language barrier she experienced while in Costa Rica allowed her to further develop the use of creativity to express herself.

9/8/12

Once
By Emma Ambos


Once you were here
once you spoke

once we lay
naked and breathing
like walruses

in the clutch of ‘we’
we drove through
forever

it stung my lashes
with its bang

Once we washed
dishes of their past
we felt like gods
and gave them a future
in the brown cupboard

once we walked
paw in paw
stopping at
break-apart poles
and mailboxes
to skip sideways
like blue crabs

once you smiled
like a puppet
waxen without
the ability to
summon joy
a conjurers trick

you faded in my hands
clear-skinned and blue
by the men who
made you swallow
pills, that turned you faint

Once you said goodbye
only once you said it
but still
I say it
and I don’t
believe it
when it slithers out my mouth.


- - -
A writer wrapped up in love with all things.

9/7/12

Unfinished Business
By Caty


4 am. The clock ticked slowly, rhythmically. The harder I tried to block out the sound, the louder it became. More aggressive with each passing second. Would this ever end? I longed for sleep. It was a thirst that grew insatiably stronger with each fleeting moment in which my wakeful mind churned. Jagged memories and distant, wild and untraceable thoughts collided as my eyelids wearily drooped and my body pleaded for rest. It was in these moments of restlessness I could no longer ignore the things that were so glaringly apparent. Things I had adamantly and spectacularly hidden deep in my subconscious, mistaking them to be wholly gone until the silent moments when they slowly crept back, reappearing menacingly. You played through my mind like a silent movie or that first song we danced to at the senior prom when you first told me you loved me. Memories crashed like frigid waves on the coast of my numbing mind. I closed my eyes for a moment and imagined opening them to your head on the pillow next to mine, lids heavy with sleep, and the steady breathing of a happy dreamer. I imagined my head on your chest, your arms wrapped loosely around me, and your smell, somewhat like cinnamon and aftershave would be lingering hazily. I’d be dozing off as the TV buzzed and the unnatural light would bounce off the walls periodically, sending shadows over our stony faces and flickering on our sleepy frames. I stayed in that moment, breathing deeply, inhaling your soothing scent and the warmth of contentedness. Slowly, hesitantly, and somewhat unwillingly, I peeled open my eyes. The air was cold and stale. The TV buzzed with the static of an unpaid bill. The worn blankly I was huddled under slipped off boney shoulders and my toes poked ashamedly out the end. I shivered sadly and turned back to gaze solemnly at my opponent. 4:01 am.


- - -

9/6/12

So much for gravity
By Carly Wells


We locked eyes
from across
the room
and
I
almost
broke
my ankle

.....when my stiletto lost all sense of gravity.


- - -
Carly is currently a 23 year old 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.

9/5/12

Dream
By Katherine Okpara


Eyes like precious stones
That illuminate a grieving heart,
Speak to me silently
Of hidden tales of desire.

Softly spoken symphonies

Lips the color of a crimson fire truck
On the verge of saving a home from flames,
Ironically set my heart ablaze,
As wildfire passion consumes my brain.

Free -Falling Fast

Arms that fall lightly,
Caressing my waist
Like a graceful swan’s gliding wings,
Ready to catch me the moment I fall.

Light Weight Feathers

Heart that beats rapidly
Like buildings shaking as the earth quakes,
Seismograph of love
Always measuring silently.

Nail-Biting Nerves

I’ve studied your features a million times,
When you visited my thoughts at night;
Yet never has it felt as real,
As now that I’m in front of you.

A Restless Heart’s Satisfaction

Love imagined
Is not always reliable,
But at last I met the one
Who always lingered in my dreams.

Peace of Mind.


- - -
Katherine Okpara is 18 and from Cerritos but soon to be Berkeley, California. Poetry is a passion that she cherishes and holds dearly to her heart. Katherine has recently returned from a trip Costa Rica that fed into her love of different cultures, and the language barrier she experienced while in Costa Rica allowed her to further develop the use of creativity to express herself.

9/4/12

Captivating Art
By Shelby "Mahogany Wilson"


You are the embodiment of living art
If you were a modern piece of sculpture
Sleek silhouettes of your frame
would capture attention from any angle and position
Leaving those who witness your beauty in awe

If you were a painting, the hues of your radiate color would halt time
The splendor of your character would be defined
by the brushes of passion stroked onto the canvas
filling it with the depth of your being in every impression

If you were a musical composition or sheet of music
Each note would stand alone
Together they would create a harmonious blend of melodies
Smooth and rich with complexity; evoking an emotional frenzy

If you were a novel you would be an intriguing classic
Your pages would tantalize the reader with vivid scenarios
Filled with an engaging yet mesmerizing storyline
Insatiable scenes of passion coupled with mystery

If you were edible art everyone would desire to devour you
Savor the subtle flavors of your essence
The intoxicating aroma of your being would engulf the room
Leaving many paralyzed by the experience

If you were poetry you would be recited like a sweet sonnet
Words would flow effortlessly like honey
trickling slowly off the tongue
Linger in the thoughts like implanted memories

My beautiful creation, you are a living craft of artistry
unchanged by time because your presence is timeless
Like all exquisite pieces of work
you will be eternally revered as captivating art


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

9/3/12

Lucky Day
By Michael Plesset


50’s music was playing when we met

and lightning was flashing all around.

“Don’t tell me your sign, I want to guess” she said.

“Astrology is crap, that’s my sign,” I said.

“Ok, then let’s talk about science, string theory” she said.

“That’s crap too, the human mind can’t comprehend the

universe so we come up with twisted explanations.”

“Keppler and Galileo were great astronomers and also astrologers.”

It started raining so hard it was hard to hear,

it was pounding on the roof so much it sounded like a train going by.

I said “It’s so dark I can’t see you, I wonder what you look like.”

“Typical male thinking, that’s all you care about.”

“Don’t you wonder what I look like?”

“No.”

We were sitting on a bench, and moved closer to each other

so we could hear.

She said “The human mind is figuring out the universe.”

“Fine, then what’s dark matter and dark energy?”

“I’ve always liked 50’s music, it’s better than what came later.”

“Astrology is so subjective, it can’t be really right or wrong.”

“What about lucky and unlucky days, that happens. and it can be predicted.”

“So what’s today?” I asked.

“It says this is a lucky one.”

“So was meeting me lucky?”

“It’s lucky for me, for you who knows. I think the rain is letting up, I’m going to go home before it starts again.”

“I’ll walk out with you.”

“No, I like that we talk and can’t see each other. I’ll give you my number and we can talk tomorrow.”

“Can we get together?”

“No, if we talk to each other for a month and like each other, without ever seeing each other, then we can.”

We did talk on the phone, every day, longer and longer. By the end of a month we were so close, we knew we’d be together for as far as anyone can know the future. Ok, she was right, she was smart about that. But I still think astrology is crap.


- - -
Michael Plesset has published poetry, flash fiction, short stories, non-fiction, and wrote material for a stand-up comedian. He did graduate work in mathematics and philosophy, and also attended seminary at one time. He worked in high technology and has taught English to Chinese students.

9/2/12

The Enchanted Bed
By A.J. Huffman

The room was too silent.  Amy could no longer hear the soft sounds of Andrew’s regularly restless sleep.  She lay there with her eyes open.  At least she thought her eyes were open.  She sat up, and looked at herself in the mirror.  What the hell?  She didn’t want to scream, or maybe she couldn’t scream.  But something was wrong.  Very wrong.  She was sitting up looking in the mirror, but her reflection showed that she was still sleeping, her arm lazily draped across Andrew’s back.
            As she stared at this bizarre reflection, she knew she was dreaming.  And yet she wasn’t.  She was fully awake.  At least she felt awake.  She pinched her arm.  Ouch!  Okay, she felt pain.  You don’t feel pain inside a dream.  At least you aren’t supposed to.  She stood up and moved toward the front of the bed.  It was the strangest feeling of her life, looking down at herself.  Then the room changed.
            It started with a feeling, more than an actual physical change.  At first.  Amy could actually feel the air in the room thicken.  She could feel it, clinging to her skin.  Then the ceiling fan slowed, raising the temperature and the hairs on the back of her neck.  That’s when everything paled.  She thought it was her eyesight, at first.  Everything got soft.  Edges turned fuzzy.  The light took on this amber orange glow, like a winter’s twilight, even though it was the middle of summer and well past midnight.  
            The sensations were so disorienting at first that Amy didn’t even notice the little flames fluttering around her.  That’s what they looked like.  Tiny little candle flames.  Or maybe over-sized, over-bright fireflies.  They were seeping in from the two mirrors.  Gently gliding straight from the glass.  Some hovered around her for a moment or two, testing her almost.  Then they moved on to the bed.  
             Amy watched in dumb-struck fascination as these fire faeries fluttered about her sleeping self and Andrew.  She watched them dance, spiraling up the uncanopied posts of the old hotel bed.  They took turns pulling and pushing at the blankets, mounding them, but not removing them.  A strange ceremony, completed by their daring dives into her true self’s hair.  How odd that Andrew’s hair remained untouched.  Amy remembered thinking they must be attracted to the blonde moments before she opened her eyes.
             She was lying in bed, her arm still draped across Andrew’s back.  A strange sensation of deja vu hanging in the back of her head as she looked around the brightly lit room.  What a strange dream.  She snuggled closer to Andrew, not upset by the dream’s lingering tangibility, but not fully okay with the idea of being the only one awake in the room either.  She closed her eyes, and waited for Andrew to stir.

- - -
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.

9/1/12

Best Friends
By John Laneri


Believe me, the Porsche still handles like a dream. Carla presented it to me on my fortieth birthday, whispering, “I love you.”

Naturally, there was no way to describe my elation – powerful new car, delectable luxury and even a bit of romance. At the time, her motive seemed sincere.

A week later though, she insisted that our Explorer was too masculine and clunky to suit her tastes, so I gave in knowing that baby soft leather seats were more her style. Thereafter, I only experienced the thrill of tires meeting road once a week – not often, but enough to keep life running smoothly at home.

My story began the evening Carla asked me to stop at the market to grab a bottle of wine and couple of steaks for dinner.

Right off, I spotted her best friend, Serena, browsing the chardonnays and looking every bit her gorgeous self.

At first, I remained by the reds, touching a bottle or two, watching as she edged about the area studying various labels. She was wearing high heel sandals, jeans and a revealing white top.

She looked my way, her eyes lighting in surprise. “Why Greg, I never expected to see you in a grocery store.”

Moving toward her, I replied, “Carla asked me to pick-up a few items on my way home from work.”

“I’d love to meet someone as thoughtful as you.” She eased closer and dabbed a kiss on my cheek. “I’m so happy to see you.”

I noticed that she was wearing a luxurious scent, one heavy with musk. To me though, her choice of perfumes seemed wrong for a place sporting Aunt Jamima Pancakes. Nonetheless, it smelled delectable.

“The last I heard, you were in love.”

She smiled playfully. “I was. Now, I’m free again.”

I looked away to study a couple of wine labels not wanting to get overly involved in the details of her love life. From what I knew, Serena discarded men like used toilet paper.

She pointed to a selection. “Carla likes the Stone Hollow wines.”

“When was the last time you saw her?”

“It’s been weeks. I’ve been meaning to give her a call.”

I reached for a Merlot – one known for its full body and seductive taste – and started away.

“I’ll walk with you,” she said, hurrying beside me. “It’s always good to see you.”

She followed me while I made the rest of my rounds through the store. Then, we walked to the checkout counter lost in small talk.

During those few minutes, she seemed different. I sensed an underlying warmth about her, a characteristic that I had rarely noticed in the past. Usually, she accepted me as Carla’s husband – the guy that mowed the grass and carried out the garbage.

Once outside, we walked to her car. By then, she had attached her arm to mine and was chatting as if we were old friends.

On reaching her car, she bounced to her toes and lightly kissed my cheek. “Greg, it’s been great seeing you. Perhaps, we'll see each other soon. If not, we can always do lunch.”

On arriving home, Senor Poncho, my large friendly Golden Retriever, met me at the door – his tail thrashing in excitement. I stopped to give him a good scratch then looked about and found Carla sitting by the pool reading a magazine.

I took a seat nearby, admiring her luxurious hair and soft, green eyes. Even after five years of marriage she continued to be the highlight of my day.

“You’re running late,” she said as she looked up, smiling.

“I ran into Serena. We talked for several minutes.” I settled onto a recliner and kicked off my shoes. “I take it that you two are not as close as you once were.”

“We talk from time to time. What did she have to say?”

“Not much… but she is single again.”

“She's always looking for someone new. I'll never understand her.”

Senor Poncho moved beside me and nudged my hand. I reached to scratch his ears.

“That dog’s been waiting all day,” Carla said, as she set her magazine aside and started for the house. “I'll get the steaks ready to grill. Take your time. I think he wants to play.”

Turning to Senor Poncho, I reached for the ball and tossed it across the yard, watching him bound away determined to have his time. After several more tosses, we headed into the house playing around like two kids happy with life.

Later, after a change of clothes, I was back outside experiencing the smell of burning charcoal. In the background, I detected a faint scent of Serena’s fragrance lingering through the aroma of the smoke. I took a draw on my drink, patted Senor Poncho on the head, and settled back to consider her luncheon proposition.

When I had finally become relaxed, Carla came outside with the steaks and took a seat near me.

“I didn’t mean to be so vague about Serena,” she went on. “But, she and I had a major falling out.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

“I’ll eventually get over it,” she replied quietly. “We’ve been friends since grade school.”

I noticed her continue to study me, so I asked, “What did I do this time?”

“Not you,” she said. “Your dog.”

Senor Poncho moved near me. I noticed his ears droop.

“What seems to be the problem with Senor Poncho?” I asked, as I reached to give him a scratch.

She hesitated then said, “He left another spot on my favorite carpet. I’ll never understand why he can’t use the grass. Dogs are so nasty.”

“They occasionally have accidents, that’s true. But, for some reason, he seems stressed. Maybe, something is troubling him.”

“I think we should get rid of him. He constantly keeps our house disrupted.”

In the days to follow, I realized that Carla was truly unhappy with Senor Poncho. As a result, our relationship suffered. She seemed content to go her way and not involve me, so I started walking him every evening at the park.

For no apparent reason though, I tended to run into Serena from time to time. One night in particular caught me by surprise. The incident occurred as I was returning to my car.

“Hello again,” I heard her say.

Turning about, I spotted her jogging in my direction.

“Getting your workout?” I asked, as she coasted to a stop beside me.

“Running makes me feel good. I’ve missed seeing you in the park.”

“I didn’t know I was so special.”

“There’s always been an attraction between us. I’ve watched you look at my breasts.”

Surprised by her remark, I started Senor Poncho toward the truck. “Carla is expecting me any minute.”

Once I had coaxed Senor Poncho into the back seat, she moved close and pressed her body against me, her lips seeking mine.

While I like attention, I eased her away, when Senor Poncho began barking. “This is not the place.”

“I know,” she said quietly. “But, I expect you to call me and finish what you started. There's always been something special between us.”

Ten minutes later, I arrived home basking in a pleasant sexual aura, my mind flitting from one fantasy to another until the moment Carla opened the door. Right off, I noticed her nose lift to sniff the air. When her eyes turned to my shirt collar, I knew we were going to have a long, difficult night.

Following an intense evening of tossing accusations and explanations back and forth, she went on to pose several threats including an allegation that I was having an affair with Serena. Surprisingly, her comments included Senor Poncho, who she indicated with absolute certainty, had to go.

The following morning, I called my veterinarian for a psychiatric consult regarding Senor Poncho. Later in the day, I went to the gym determined to exercise away the tensions filling my life.

After a basketball game, I stopped to talk with one of my opponents, a fellow in the home security business.

By the time I had finished explaining that I needed to install a video camera to record my dog, he was already laughing. When he had finally calmed down, he said, “That’s a first for me. You want to monitor the family room to watch your dog use the floor?”

“Not exactly for that reason. I think my wife is mistreating him – at least that’s what the veterinarian suspects.”

“I’m a dog person too, and I know how you feel, so when is a good time?”

“Saturday at noon would be perfect.”

“I’ll see you then,” he replied, as he headed to the locker room still laughing. By then, I was beginning to feel foolish, but as I knew, people often do crazy things for those they love.

On Saturday, he had the hidden camera installed in just under an hour. The exercise cost me over six hundred dollars – a sum I had not expected to pay – but as I reasoned, it was a small price, given my affection for Senor Poncho.

A few hours later while testing the system, I heard a car pull into the driveway. Going to the door, I looked out and saw Serena holding a bottle of wine.

“I thought a peace offering was in order. I haven’t talked to Carla for several weeks. Is she home?”

“She’s out running errands. Come in. We'll wait together.”

Serena handed me the bottle then headed toward the kitchen. After a few moments of small talk, I noticed her fingers move to loosen several buttons on her blouse.

“I'm so hot today. Lets fix a couple of wine coolers while we wait.”

As I was opening the wine bottle, she stepped closer and draped an arm over my shoulder.

“You never called.”

“I didn’t think it was appropriate,” I replied, setting the bottle aside.

“I'd like to make it appropriate,” she whispered, as her lips again sought mine.

Instantly, Senor Poncho sprang to his feet and charged us, his muzzle striking her leg, the fur on his back bristling.

Serena scrambled away, as he continued making a low-pitched growl from deep in his throat. “That dog scares me. He’s never been friendly.”

“That’s unusual,” I said, reaching for his collar. “Senor Poncho likes everyone. But, I’ll lock him in a back room while we wait for Carla.”

When I returned, I found Serena in the family room.

For a few moments, I watched as she moved about, pausing here and there to admire various decorative pieces. When she settled on the carpet in front of the fireplace and slipped off her sandals, I started to wonder. But when she loosened the final button on her blouse and indicated that I was welcome to join her, I clearly understood her motive.

I took several steps toward her then hesitated knowing the consequences. While she was an attractive woman, I was a happily married man. I’d be a fool to fall for her advance. I took a step back, uncertain.

Suddenly, from behind me, a spine tingling scream electrified the air.

Turning quickly, I saw Carla watching from the doorway, her mouth agape and her eyes emanating fury. For many heart-stopping seconds, we stared at each other.

“It’s not what you think,” I said, backing further away.

When her lips turned into a snarl, I took another step back and stumbled, my fall landing me squarely on top of Serena. An instant later, Carla resumed screaming – pouring out words and obscenities that told me whatever I had to say would never be enough.

A month later at my new apartment, while going through a pile of divorce papers, I remembered the video recorder and tape. At the time, Senor Poncho was napping.

Tossing the papers aside, I started searching for the tape curious to see what, if anything, it contained.

While digging through a box, I recalled the events of the past month.

Carla, as expected, had immediately filed for divorce. She was asking for the house, the new car and everything of value, except Senor Poncho who remained faithfully at my side during that long, agonizing month.

I managed to see her a week later. It was the one and only day her attorney agreed to let me enter the house to gather my belongings. For no particular reason, I grabbed the video recording from the hidden recorder and stuck it in a box of personal items then promptly forgot it in the ongoing confusion.

Later that same evening, after Senor Poncho and I had finished feasting on a large pizza, I switched on the television, inserted the recording and sat back to see what I had paid six hundred dollars to watch.

To my surprise, the hidden recorder had activated the minute Serena walked into the family room and removed her sandals on Carla’s favorite carpet. I remained mesmerized, watching as she went through her seduction routine. I saw Carla enter the room and let out that horrible shriek.

The recording sent my spirit at a new level of low. But then, when I rose from my chair to start the replay, my interest suddenly awakened. I inched closer to the screen and adjusted the volume.

There was more.

“Has he gone yet?” Serena asked.

Carla left the room then a few moments later she returned to the camera’s view. “His car just turned the corner. He won’t be back. He doesn’t have the courage.“

“Did he take the Porsche?”

“He took the Explorer,” Carla replied, laughing. She poured two glasses of wine. “Can you believe… we actually pulled it off just as we planned?”

“Men always fall for sex. Now, you’ll have all the money you want plus a new Porsche and a fabulous house. I can’t wait for us to start traveling.” She touched the carpet beside her. “Come sit with me. It’s been far too long.”

I watched Carla settle on the carpet next to Serena, feeling a range of emotions fill me. Then finally, when they disappeared into another room talking about an elegantly scented soap, I rose from my seat to again start the rewind.

Suddenly, I stopped. There was even more.

With the recorder still running, I began smiling as I watched Senor Poncho come into view and walk calmly to the carpet in front of the fireplace. For a many long, drawn-out minutes, my old-friend sniffed the area. Then in a practiced manner, he circled several times and proceeded to lift his leg exactly on the spot where Carla and Serena had sat discussing their scheme.

In the weeks to follow, life for both Senor Poncho and me became sweeter. With the video in hand, my attorney quickly settled the divorce action with no contest from Carla. And before long, I was again driving the Porsche and experiencing the power.

As a reward for his love, Senor Poncho assumed a stately position to my right where he sat on the baby soft leather seat and pointed his nose to the wind.

Sometime later, I learned that Serena was living in Miami. As for Carla, I never saw her again after that day I retrieved my clothes and my all time, most favorite video.

The recording was something I planned to keep as a reminder that life is not always a luxury car, an expensive home or even an attractive wife. While the amenities are great, a good dog is still – a man’s best friend.


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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.