2/28/13

The Box
By Stacy Maddox


I went to visit her today
And I realized the seasons had changed again
Standing there between the bare maple tress
I thought of the box marked, 'Memories'
That I could never bring myself to open
After she was gone

Laying the flowers at her feet
I said one last goodbye
And as I walked back down that old road
I tried to think of the things I would say
If she were here with me now
Oh, did she really ever know?

Sitting in the attic
Holding onto the box, I cried
For I remember the day she sealed it up
She said we would open it, when we grew old
And as I watched her put it away
She turned around to say, “I'll always love you”.

I took her in my arms and held her tight
When she smiled up at me
For there were no words to describe
How I felt at that moment
And now, missing her so much
I wish she were here to hold once again

Laid inside the box were souvenirs
Long forgotten to me
A little stuffed bear I had won for her
On our first date together
A guitar pick and an old shirt of mine
She used to love to wear

Dried roses and cards
Brought back glimpses of her
Letters full of promises
And pictures that made me smile
At last I picked up her diary
Kept since she was a child

Scattered dates and tales of growing up
I saw a side I never knew
She had written about the day we had met
When she was just sixteen years old
And how she felt it in her heart
That I was the only one for her

The final entry she had made
Were the words of a love song
It was the one I had sung to her
On the day we were married
And as I read each line, there was no doubt
That she had always believed in me.


- - -
Stacy Maddox lives, dreams and writes in the fast-paced city of Lawrence, KS. When she is not writing poems, songs and stories or taking photographs, she is tending her garden, cooking and 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, Daily Love,The Entroper, Emerge Literary Journal, Three Line Poetry, The Fat City Review and Mused: The BellaOnline Literary Review. She has been passionate about poetry, photography, music, quotes and stories for over 30 years.

2/27/13

Last Night
By Therese Ella De La Fuente


Last night got me thinking
Of those summer days.
That if I lived closer to you,
It could have been me.
You destroyed the fences so easily
I built so hard for years,
Yet you still left me broken and bruised
Like a ripe peach that fell from a tree.
I went to you for closure
Because I knew you would never come.
Your “sorry” felt hollow
Like a glass filled with air.
Still, you looked at me as if you cared,
Though it might have been an illusion I built
To numb myself from pain.
I don’t need you anymore though,
I probably never did.
But I do now know,
That I’m stronger than I was last night.


- - -
Therese Ella De La Fuente is a proud senior of Cerritos High School. Writing had always been a hobby to escape from reality, she hopes to relate to and capture the heart others through words.

2/26/13

Lust
By DeShields Fajardo


The scent of cherry blossom as I walked by,
As I turned, we made contact eye to eye.
We had some sort of connection,
Small talk turning into a different direction.
You made me melt with that deceiving smile,
A soft kiss on my lips I haven’t felt in a while.
You looked good with blurry vision,
We took a cab back to my house, a stupid decision.
No feelings, just two bodies having fun,
Staring blankly at the ceiling after being done.
Cuddling, feeling loved, thinking you were the one,
Now alone so cold, feeling heat from the rising sun.
I had a feeling this would happen to me,
Careless women, no commitment, pink apathy.


- - -

2/25/13

The Devil’s Due
By Mary Ann Back


A soul is a dear thing to lose – if you hold such beliefs. But the time comes when we all must pay for our sins. I was young and free spirited in ’31, preferring both my liquor and my men one-hundred-proof. Having traded sweet tea and soirees for sour mash and speakeasies, I assumed my soul was already destined for perdition. But I was sorely mistaken. Damnation isn’t so easily achieved. It takes the devil himself to claim a soul, and the night he came for mine, he took my breath away.

*

I stood on the balcony of Lamar Thibodaux’s plantation house, staring down the oak lined lane that led to Missionary Road. Music from the ballroom drifted into the sultry night air. My curls, damp and loosened from endless dancing, clung to my cheeks. I fanned myself, finding no relief.

A velvet breath caressed my ear.

“Might I be of assistance, Mon Cheri?”

I turned to find the most beautiful man I’d ever seen, tall, sleek, and broad shouldered. He was swarthy with hair so black it shone indigo in the moonlight - his face was exquisite with chiseled features and eyes the color of the ocean. But it was his smile, so perfect and self-assured, that made me forget to breathe.

“Perhaps this will relieve your distress,” he said.

I lifted my hand, expecting his handkerchief, but instead he plucked an ice cube from his drink and placed it at my throat. His fingers feathered downward across the swell of my breasts. He lingered momentarily, eyes embracing the fullness of my curves. He let the melting chip fall from his fingertips and slip down my cleavage. I shivered as it slid across my skin, but did not pull away. He was reckless and brazen. I was utterly captivated.

“Forgive my impertinence, Madame. I sought only to ease your discomfort. I am Lucien Beaumont. And you are?”

“Charmed, I assure you, Monsieur Beaumont. My name is Allison DeChamps. Enchante.”

Warmth consumed me as he touched his lips to the back of my hand.

“The pleasure is mine. Perhaps Madame would care for a drink?” he asked.

“Absolument! Whiskey please, a double on the rocks. I fingered the icy trail that lingered on my neck, gazed into his eyes and whispered, “Make that extra rocks.”

*

I hastily excused myself from Lamar’s party feigning exhaustion from the summer heat. A chivalrous southerner, he escorted me to my suite and bid me goodnight. After removing the comb that pinned my hair, I flung wide the doors to the veranda. Thunderheads roiled across the sky. A blustering wind wafted my hair and billowed the white summer sheers that covered the balcony doors. Lucien stepped through them, crossed the room, and took my mouth in his. Lightning flashed, thunder rolled, ebbing and flowing with the tides of our passion. He anticipated my every desire, my every need. I ached for his touch as I had never ached before. Even as skilled a lover such as I had never known such passion. Having given him all, still I craved his caress. We lie, spent, languid, watching the lightning as it snaked across the sky.

He gazed into my eyes, tracing my lips with his finger, and asked, “What is it you want most?”

“To enjoy this moment forever,” I whispered. Lightning seared the night sky. I thought it an illusion when his eyes turned black as pitch.

“Tell me, Cheri. What would you give for such an eternity?”

*

That was eighty years ago, though the reflection in my mirror remains the same today as it was then. Some things have changed while others have remained the same. Southern nobility has faded and speakeasies have evolved into martini bars, but I still prefer both my men and my whiskey one-hundred-proof - though I confess, I’ve found little in common with what passes for a gentleman these days.

Lamar and my other cronies have long since left this world behind. Sometimes I visit the old plantation house and revisit the memories of that carefree life. There are other more recent memories to dwell upon, but none so sweet – nor any that I would be entitled to under the laws of natural order. We are not designed to live forever.

On occasion, Lucien still comes in the night and takes me with abandon, though he no longer disguises the hideous monster within him. His elegant features and bedroom eyes are secreted behind a ghastly, wicked countenance. He is rough and horned and vile. I close my eyes as he ravages me to recapture memories of the handsome rogue who stole my heart that night. But he will never return. There is only the devil who seduced me for my soul. And payment is due – ad infinitum.


- - -
The characters Ms. Back creates are often disreputable and are not to be trusted. She kicks them out of the house every chance she gets, when some unwitting publisher agrees to take them off her hands. Her writing has appeared in many print and electronic publications.

2/24/13

My Lying Heart
By Stacy Maddox


I could hear every tear
That slipped down her cheek
Fall to the pillow
Where she laid her head

I hated to see her cry
But I listened to every one
When she turned away
And tried to hide the pain

Another late night again
And I promised myself
I wouldn't lie to her this time
As I walked out the door

Now the words, 'I'm sorry'
Would never make it right
I've left her here alone
Too many times before

She said I wasn't the man
That she needed me to be
And her love light didn't shine
As brightly anymore

By the silence that followed
I knew she was sure
That my lying heart
Had finally broken hers.


- - -
Stacy Maddox lives, dreams and writes in the fast-paced city of Lawrence, KS. When she is not writing poems, songs and stories or taking photographs, she is tending her garden, cooking and 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, Daily Love,The Entroper, Emerge Literary Journal, Three Line Poetry, The Fat City Review and Mused: The BellaOnline Literary Review. She has been passionate about poetry, photography, music, quotes and stories for over 30 years.

2/23/13

A Good Day
By Corey Cook


Waking to small, soft hands on your cheeks rather than the alarm
clock. Snuggling in bed with your wife and daughters under layers
and layers and layers of quilts. Taking a long, hot shower. Homemade
pancakes drenched in maple syrup made at the family sugarhouse
and omelets with salsa, sausage and cheese. No one rouses the TV

from hibernation and the phone sits silently in its rigid nest. Walking
in the woods under orbs of yellow and orange. Our oldest shuffling
through fallen leaves. The youngest picking up sticks, presenting them
to us and then discarding them for bigger sticks. Hot tea. Reading picture

book after picture book on the over stuffed couch. Making chicken pot
pie stew for dinner - the smell permeating throughout the house. Being
fed pieces of fresh bread by the youngest nestled in your lap. Getting both
girls to fall asleep easily. Dancing with your wife in the breezeway to music
coming from the fairgrounds - swathed by cold, crisp air. Ending with a poem.


- - -
Corey Cook is the author of three chapbooks: Rhododendron in a Time of War (online), What to Do with a Dying Parakeet (print), and Flock (online). His work has recently appeared in The Aurorean, Brevities, Commonthought, Nerve Cowboy, Smoky Quartz Quarterly, and many others. New work is forthcoming in The Germ and Milk Sugar. Corey lives in Vermont. Email: corey.douglas.cook@gmail.com.

2/22/13

With Love, From Japan
By Steve Baba


The doors opened and I saw the sun for the first time in days. My chin itched. It was filled with whiskers. I breathed in the fresh air and felt better. The alarm went off. I was surprised I had woken up before it. I closed the doors and sat down on my bed. Such a cold bed. Such a cold bed.

I took a shower. The hot water felt really good. I washed everything twice. Then I shaved. The cool shaving cream felt good too. The razor did its job well. I looked in the mirror, and saw a man that was 20 years older than he should have been.

I dressed and went to the kitchen. The coffee was already ready. I poured a cup and mixed in cream and sugar. I took a bagel out of the plastic package and went to the refrigerator to get the cream cheese. I felt the cool air. I ate the bagel as if I hadn’t eaten in years. The coffee was excellent. I took a look at the empty chair across from me.

I went to the desk where my laptop was. I opened it and waited for it to turn on. Then I clicked on the word processor icon. The words came out like someone breathing. I wrote about her. How she came here. How she stayed. How she left. I shivered a little, so I turned on the heat. Then back to the computer. I typed for an hour. Then I typed for another. I finally stopped when the dog barked. I saw that the mail had been delivered. I saw a letter with a return address from Japan. I put the letter on my desk and let it be. I opened the rest of the mail. Just bills and advertisements. I went back to the kitchen and poured myself a glass of orange juice. It was light and tangy.

Back to the computer. Wrote my memoirs. Those days in San Francisco. All those parties. The bars. The women. The friends who were long gone now. I turned off the computer and went to the living room. It was time to watch the news. Nothing exciting. There was a small earthquake in California. Taxes were going up next year

My dinner was whiskey and peanuts. Then I abandoned the peanuts. One whole bottle in 3 hours. I turned on the light to my desk and saw the letter. I sat down and sighed. I opened it and it smelled like her perfume. I took the letter out and saw that it was indeed her writing. It said that she missed me. That I should give everything up and come see her. She still loved me. That made me take a long sip from my glass. I put the letter down and wiped my eyes.

I took the phone and dialed long distance. A long, long distance. The phone clicked and I heard, “Mushi mushi?”

“It’s me.”
“Oh, how are you?”
“I’m doing alright.”
“How are you?”
“I’m fine.”
“It was a beautiful sunrise this morning. I got your letter. I understood all of it.”
“Well?”
The money in my pocket jingled. The credit card was next to the bed.
“I wish you came back here.”
"I wish that too. But you would love to see Tokyo. It is a wonderful city. And you could write here too!”

I told her that I would be on the next plane. She kissed the receiver and I hung up.

Swimming through a sea of people always made me feel dizzy. But I swam and made it to the airport. I went through all the usual rituals of an airport and finally sat down at my seat, 7C. The plane took off and I saw my city. Goodbye. Goodbye for now.

I wrote some poems on the flight. Love poems. For her. I talked briefly with my fellow passenger. He was going for business. And why are you going? For pleasure. Hope you have a good trip. You too.

The plane landed 16 hours later. I was tired, as I hadn’t slept at all. The passengers filtered out of the plane and into the terminal. I was the last to get off. I took my bags and walked slowly. I wanted the anticipation to last. I went through customs. Above the desks there was an observation desk. There she was. In all her beauty. I finally finished all the formalities and stood next to the stairway. I saw her rushing down. She didn’t even look at the steps. Her eyes were on me. Then we stood face to face. She put her hand on my cheek. I touched her nose. And that moment lasted forever.


- - -
Steve Baba is a full time poet and short story writer. He is currently editing a memoir of his time living in London. Steve lives in San Francisco.

2/21/13

A Night Out
By Steve Baba


I met her on the street. I met her on the playground. We were ten. No, we met on the street. It was cloudy this mild autumn evening. The street was slick with rain. She was beautiful. Wonderful almond brown eyes. A small nose. Perfect pink lips. Medium length black hair. She smiled when she saw me. We greeted each other. I asked her if she was ready to go. She nodded. We crossed the street and walked a couple blocks. Then I realized we went the wrong way.

We turned around and she laughed. All I could do is look straight ahead. I wasn’t embarrassed. I wasn’t ashamed. I asked her her name. Yuri. My name is Steve. How old are you? I’m 23. I’m from Japan. I’m here to learn English. How old are you? What? I almost forgot her words. Oh, I’m 28, I lied. What do you do? I’m a poet. I write poems for a living.

We made it to the restaurant. We were admitted immediately. She took off her tan overcoat and sat down. Where were my manners? I took off my jacket and sat down. We ordered beer and sashimi. I didn’t notice the waitress. Yuri looked into my eyes and I saw questions.

After the first of the beers went down our throats, a light blush was painted on her cheeks. So how is it being a poet? I like it. No, I love it. It is my calling. It is my career. And what do you do in Japan? I work in an office. It’s not boring, but I wish I were doing something else. The food came and it was delicious. Sashimi with soy sauce. She took it with wasabi. I did not. We ordered some fried chicken pieces and a kind of cake that had fish in it.

I love my life. I am in love with life. I could be in love with you too. She took a piece of chicken and smoothly put it in her mouth. I was watching the whole time. I ate too. Drank some more beer. I told her my family was descended from samurai. She said her family came from peasants. You should come to Japan. She answered what I was thinking. I would love to see the cherry blossom festival. You would love it. I think I would. I then excused myself. I need to go outside to smoke. You smoke? Yes, I’m sorry. Why was I sorry? I was. I glanced at the nicotine stain on my left middle finger. I hope she didn’t see it.

I learned to use chopsticks from my grandpa. He was right handed and it was difficult to teach me. But I finally learned. And he was happy. She said she was from Osaka. But lived in Tokyo. She liked life in Tokyo. But missed Osaka. That’s where her family was. She said her mother had just separated from her father. I would never do that to you.

More and more, I could feel her in my heart. And it wasn’t because of the beer. We talked throughout the night. Then we had to go. I was sad. I put her overcoat on her. I tied my jacket to my waist. I was too hot. Too hot. I opened the door for her and there was a light rain coming down. She opened a black umbrella, and I walked like a naked man in the dark.

I asked her if she was going to come back to San Francisco. She said she didn't know. I wanted to ask her, what if you would if it were someone special? We walked back to the corner where we met. The children around us giggled and ran around the playground. I wish I had had a rose to give her. Instead I gave her my favorite rock. The rain came down harder, and I realized we were still standing on the sidewalk. I hugged her and said I would call her. I watched her skip down the stairs to the subway. My heart was finally pierced.


- - -
Steve Baba is a full time poet and short story writer. He is currently editing a memoir of his time living in London. Steve lives in San Francisco.

2/20/13

Once-Untamed Spirit
By Stacy Maddox


Lightning illuminates your beautiful face
Searching for someone, calling to me
Blue eyes that are hopeless to shield
The meaning of harmonizing our dance

One step closer to the verge of surrender
Your hand brushes gently against mine
Whispering, we don't need a reason why
Pulling me in, anticipating this moment

In some other place we have collided before
This is not the beginning, nor the end
Our paths have crossed many bridges
I recognize it in your kismet smile

Your mouth was created for comfort
To kiss with a most memorable of secrets
Soft and cool, at first savored touch
Crafted to soothe my untamed spirit

Our bodies slowly melt into one
Reminding me, I am fulfilled at last
Separated only by time and space
Many lonely years, come to a close

No words need to be spoken between us
As two souls rejoin for another epoch
This journey has been etched with eternal flames
Across a star-streaked cosmic canvas.


- - -
Stacy Maddox lives, dreams and writes in the fast-paced city of Lawrence, KS. When she is not writing poems, songs and stories or taking photographs, she is tending her garden, cooking and 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, Daily Love,The Entroper, Emerge Literary Journal, Three Line Poetry, The Fat City Review and Mused: The BellaOnline Literary Review. She has been passionate about poetry, photography, music, quotes and stories for over 30 years.

2/19/13

A Love Affair
By Mike Putnam


I looked it up online; she drove a Lincoln Town Car. It was a model from the late eighties, judging from the taillights. I think. We met on October 17 at a Shell station just off the highway. We both made the same mistake of pulling up to the pumps that said “Pay Attendant Inside.” Small talk was created when we reversed in sync to avoid the extra steps. That night I dreamt we met while studying abroad in Osaka. I knew it was Osaka because a musician friend that moved there was in a restaurant with other musician friends. Although none of them recognized me. And everything was in English. We ate American Chinese dishes before I walked her to a brownstone she was staying in owned by an adorable homeowner that pulled weeds and made renovations all day.

It wasn’t until November 7 that I saw her again. She had felt gloves a few shades lighter than her car that she pulled on like any cold person is apt to do. Seeing that action made me more aroused than if she had stood naked in front of me. We didn’t speak, I’m not even sure she was aware of my presence. That night I fantasized about her touching me with those gloves. I rehearsed what I would say to her while the more erotic part of my brain played sequences of animalistic desires performed in front of those exiting the highway. Our breath floated to the overhang above us.

December 5 was the last time she stopped at the Shell off of Exit 186. Black tights perfectly hugged legs that disappeared into a navy pea coat. Her sharp features looked distressed and she swore when her credit card didn’t go through. I wanted to hold her, press up against the Lincoln and tell her to use mine. But it worked and she was off, without even a glance. Sadness came over me when I walked around to her side and didn’t find a belonging of hers to take home.


- - -
Mike Putnam is an American writer currently living in Cleveland, Ohio. He has previously been published in Linguistic Erosion, Daily Love and WeirdYear.

2/18/13

After the Rain
By Samantha Seto


Looking towards the Earth and sky,
mist in the breeze circles the leaves,
past pores of ocean shores.

I am a fragrance,
with the spirits soaring in the wind,
to the end of the Earth,
always hidden from sight.

Among the breeze on an autumn day,
I move through fields of daffodils,
wander up and down small hills
as if I was a melody that you created for me.

Wandering, I tread grasses of meadows,
where the sunflowers nod “okay,”
amongst buttercups with golden dew,
lavender butterflies flutter away.

With frames of rocks on the sandy shore,
the sunset paints color across the sky.
I hear voices in the wind,
but rain clouds appear, vanished.

In dome of the air,
I stare at my reflection in a puddle,
my yellow rainboots leave muddy tracks,
as the rain arises to unbuild again.


- - -
Samantha Seto is a writer. She has been published in various anthologies including Ceremony, Soul Fountain, Carcinogenic Poetry, Ygdrasil, and Black Magnolias Journal. Samantha studies creative writing. She is a third prize poet of the Whispering Prairie Press contest.

2/17/13

Language Lesson
By Edward Garza


Nola likes that I’m learning Spanish, though she thinks twenty-six is a little late. “Why don’t you already know Spanish, Ernesto Guerra?” Nola says the first time we’re at the movies, rolling the r’s. (Most people just call me Ernest.)

▪ ▪ ▪

Annie Hall ends and we’re back in the sunlight, arms woven. Right away we see this guy, a Chicano, getting arrested in the parking lot, handcuffs snapping against his wrists. The cop is this brassy redhead. Breasts like hurricane sandbags.
“What’s ‘wife’ in Spanish?” I ask Nola before bringing her hand to my lips, pecking it.
“Esposa.”
“How about ‘to handcuff somebody’?”
“Esposar.”
“Yeah, that’s it.”
“Move along–nothing to see here.”


- - -
Edward Garza works as a consultant at the Writing Center at the University of Houston, where this May he will earn his Bachelor’s degree in English Literature. He is Editor-in-Chief of the literary journal The Aletheia.

2/16/13

Brad Clayton’s Sweetheart
By Tim Tobin


The children and grandchildren gathered and said their goodbyes.

His sweetheart’s namesake, five year old Emily, came with her storybook, the one her grandmother read to her a hundred times. Brad was worried that little Emily would be disappointed that her grandmother would not be able to read the book.

But the small child muscled a large hospital chair next to the bed and hopped up on it. She then told her Mom Mom the story she knew by heart making sure to turn every page.

That moment was the only time the old man cried.

Naturally his children wanted to stay. But they both recognized the steel in their father’s eyes.

Mike wrapped his father in a bear hug and for just a moment, Brad let himself be comforted by the warmth of his son.

His daughter looked at him with tears running down both checks.

“Dad?” she asked.

“Hush now, Lil,” Brad replied. “This is the way it’s supposed to be.”

Later he tried to sleep in the ICU waiting room. The straight back chairs were impossible so he willed his 84 year-old body onto the floor. A very nice nurse brought him a pillow. But the sounds and the bustle of the ICU kept him awake. Finally he used two chairs to pull himself onto arthritic legs.

Brad Clayton went to the bathroom, splashed water on his face and combed his wispy hair.

He then sat next to his sweetheart. Even after sixty years, that’s all he ever called her.

The doctor said that perhaps she could hear, so he reminisced about their wedding, the births of Mike and Lily, the joy of their grandchildren.

The hand he had held so many times was now old, wrinkled, and covered with age spots. A needle violated a huge blue vein. And he remembered the first time she held out a tiny hand to him.

He had gathered his courage and asked her to dance. The band was playing that bittersweet tune called The Tennessee Waltz. And some of the old lyrics floated through his head.

“My friend stole my sweetheart from me.”

“Well, sweetheart,” Brad said aloud, “It looks like the Man is going to steal you tonight.”

Brad Clayton did not notice the change in the monitors until a resident entered the room and stood by his side. The doctor put his arm on the old man’s shoulder and spoke softly to him.

“It won’t be very much longer, sir. Can we call anybody for you?”

“No, no, thanks. I’m OK,” mumbled Brad.

As the doctor left, the nice woman, the one who gave him a pillow, came in and stood close by.

Within moments the incessant beeping of the monitors stopped and the green lines flattened.

His sweetheart stepped into a new existence.

Brad Clayton kissed his sweetheart goodbye and the nurse covered her with a sheet.

He glanced at the clock on the wall. The time was 3:00 A.M. and Brad was alone.


- - -
Mr. Tobin holds a degree in mathematics from LaSalle University. He retired from L-3 Communications after a career in software engineering. Over forty of his short stories and poems have been published to date.

2/15/13

Forever Untamed
By Stacy Maddox


Steal the sheer, tempted quick breaths
From these offered, longing, crimson lips
Tantalize deep, dark coveted corners
Hoping for a sweet and salty taste

Savor slowly, ripe, flushed silhouettes
Linger, caress, shamelessly explore
Kindling that glittering, lucid flame
Shimmering in its full, intense desires

Create embracing ecstasy, secluded paradise
With that blessed, first flourishing kiss
Set fire to this tempestuous, lonely being
Ready to arise, phoenix-like, and waken anew

Claim this euphoric, arousing, stimulating dream
For a few captivating, suspended moments
Surrender an incited, fervent, wandering soul
To a consuming burning passion, forever untamed.


- - -
Stacy Maddox lives, dreams and writes in the fast-paced city of Lawrence, KS. When she is not writing poems, songs and stories or taking photographs, she is tending her garden, cooking and 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, Daily Love,The Entroper, Emerge Literary Journal, Three Line Poetry, The Fat City Review and Mused: The BellaOnline Literary Review. She has been passionate about poetry, photography, music, quotes and stories for over 30 years.

2/14/13

Shangri-La
By David Edward Nell


Throughout the nerves in my body, there is a tide of awakening, and yet it is the ultimate sleep. What breath remains, goes, and so I lose my compass, and curiosity is reduced to its rawest, without the logic of an internal voice. By the wall, on which my mother once painted an abstraction of a sea shell in acrylic blue, the clock does a spin-wheel dance across the waves of concrete; my sight, it seems, has been tickled by a mirage, but one inescapable. That clock appears to beat its last as well, stops on twelve. Something is by the door, breaching atoms, material. I see an assortment of shards travel through and coalesce into a discernable shape, a human shape, and it bends its obscured consistency in approach, motioning for my acknowledgement. What an impossible idol, so benign and virtuous in aura. Who are you?

Standing right by the bed on which I lay, it observes with no semblance of judgment. It is of a sentimental charm. I try to assert what business it has here, why it's so persistent in its watchfulness, and finally, I know. It's him, that lost contact who went without a goodbye. The link that once was, is again. But I cannot reach out, nor can I wipe away these tears so black, nor can I think of anything beyond my sin. There it is, returning to haunt. Was I not selfish?

The burning brand of remembrance is stoked, not of my own volition. What I've done is unforgivable, it seems. This is how my penance is to be paid. A great sadness takes charge of my will. The strands of my ego are picked apart by unseen forces seeking the cause of my lack of existence before. My brain is set upside-down, drowning in the pits of fear. Then it's just that ever-consuming darkness, where the hurt dwells as a permanent dressing of regret and the divisions linger more strongly; it is an outpouring of acid on self. Is this all there is, all I'll know?

My ears fill with an inner hum, a warning bell programmed by some wise harvester. My fingers and toes furl painfully on instinct. A surge of electricity flows anew in my body, briefly, then secedes. There's a pressure at the back of my head, and it feels like a worm wriggling in my skull. It's an itch I cannot scratch, and it's inflating. I hear a pop. Those images, that final sin, trailing off in the form of nothingness. At last, I cease to fear, for he, the man who watches my hour, doesn't want me to; for those memories aren't important anymore, and he understands that life is the road to death, that it's just a ride for explorers of the vast paradigm. A dream in itself. Isn't all of it?

What happiness this is. What it is, is what we should've known. There's a light there behind him, bearing the mark of the brightest night star imaginable, so pure and welcoming it must be the most desired ecstasy of all. It's a part of him, our cherished memories, everything. From his heart there comes a tunnel, connecting through him, to the light. And the light to the tunnel, tying with it in natural synchronicity. I become a child again, torn from care. The adjoining of our beings triggers our transition to another place, time. We're standing together on a small, desolate harbour overlooked by oak trees, watching the sun wane its orange hind into the sparkling sea. This can't be. But it's so real, so real.

Dear Grandfather. With me again.

Do you remember when you used to hold my hand and take me to the park and push me in the swings; when you used to wait for me at the bus station every day and treat me to juice and chips in the afternoon; when we used to indulge in fun and games together in the passage; when every Sunday we'd go to Church and have roast for lunch; when you'd let me play in your backyard; when you gave me endless joy; when you passed that day and I never stopped crying?

He smiles in response. I'm home.


- - -
David Edward Nell is still on the ride, and in his spare time he watches the skies and writes from Cape Town, South Africa.

2/13/13

Your Lips...
By Richard Morris


Cool – like a drink of rain from a welled rose petal. It’s when you smile, in that sort of crooked fashion, that a golden piece of the sun falls into my hand. It’s into your eyes I look when I want to see the other half of a soul separated til now, but it’s when I want to hear its music that I look to your lips. In the evening’s silent prayer they move to show God the effort you’re making. Then in the dawn, they whistle a birdsong carried out an open window, and toward the greening pine, which steals it as the morning’s first kiss.


- - -

2/12/13

One Truth
By Stacy Maddox


I was the one to love her then
As long as she was here
Holding her close, touching her skin
For all those lonesome years

I tried to show the many ways
She made my life whole again
Even on the darkest of days
She was my love, my best friend

But when Fall came back around
She said she was just too tired
There was no more love to be found
I wasn't the man she now desired

I still remember the look in her eyes
When she finally told me the truth
Standing in the doorway, saying goodbye
I was sure this time we were through

There was only sadness, written without pen
No tears were shed to fall on her face
Leaving rivers where a smile should have been
I saw then, my heart no longer had a place.


- - -
Stacy Maddox lives, dreams and writes in the fast-paced city of Lawrence, KS. When she is not writing poems, songs and stories or taking photographs, she is tending her garden, cooking and 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, Daily Love,The Entroper, Emerge Literary Journal, Three Line Poetry, The Fat City Review and Mused: The BellaOnline Literary Review. She has been passionate about poetry, photography, music, quotes and stories for over 30 years.

2/11/13

Celsius 232.78
By Pancham Banerjee


When all that there is to talk about
Has been said
Would you then put on your spectacles
And your air of perfect comprehension
And read mellow to me aloud (but softly)
In bed

When we have rhymed the rhymes
The breakfast tunes
Then shall we read each to the other
The window panes, the paper skies
The intimacy to be found (perhaps) in the heart
Of passing afternoon

And you are quite the picture
In your pretty French pince-nez
As your petite breasts heave gently
With the burden of oration
As my hands and memories wander
The corridors of shadows carved in light
Through half-forgotten days

And you do (oh so predictably) read Thomas Stearns
'There is the final addition, the failing'
Your voice so serious, so child-like
As when it first arrived through telephone
To announce the arrival of days burning through
Our origami selves against the tides,
Flailing


- - -
I am supposed to be pursuing a Physics PhD at USC, having almost unwittingly pursued the subject for five years back in India. I write on occasion, when the fancy takes me, or when I feel that a passing memory must be paid homage to.

2/10/13

Work
By Colleen Colkitt

My job is to take drunk kids from point A to point B.  Usually point A is a party on the edge of campus, and point B is another party on the other end of campus.  It is also my job to make sure these kids don’t throw up in my car.  Sometimes I do not fulfill this job requirement.

It’s a simple system, really.  When Thursday comes rolling around, I turn my car into a taxi service for spoiled rich kids who live near my college.  I cruise the streets in the evening and when someone flags down the car, I let them climb right in, and take them where they want to go, within reason of course.  It’s not always easy though, because they have to tell me where they want me to drop them off.  No, I am not familiar with that one white mailbox next to the house with the porch.  Typing those directions into the GPS probably wont help, either. 

            I had already made roughly a hundred bucks by about ten.  I had promised a couple I'd come back for them because there wasn't enough room in the car for their whole group, but I quickly put them on hold after taking in the scene to my right.  I saw a girl with one shoe on, being propped up by two other girls as they walked her carefully on the sidewalk.  The shoeless foot was held gingerly above the ground, and it looked as though she had broken a foot or something, so I’d be a bad person if I didn’t stop to help.

            Turns out, I was driving these girls home early from a party.  The girl in the backseat had lost a high heel while dancing, and the other two girls were upset they had to leave the party early because of her crazy, shoe-losing dance moves.  They were gradually getting over being mad at the girl, when I heard one of them say, “Last night Jack was soooooo drunk,” the girl said, her voice high pitched.  She made the end of the sentence sound like a question.

            “Jen, he’s alllllllways sooooo drunk though.  I saw him trying to run after that taxi girl outside the party.  He was like running in the street after her. Sooo pathetic,” this girl had the same intonation raise at the end of her sentence but I didn’t even register that.  “Do you think she was trying to get with him?”

            “No way,” said Jen and this time her tone was firm all the way through.  “She’s like that weird girl who never goes out and has like nooooo friends because she’s always driving random kids…” she trailed off, realizing she was talking about me, and decided to leave her sentence unfinished by going into a loud, very fake, coughing fit.  I had no clue who these girls were talking about, but it seemed important that this guy “Jack” never got in my car.

            I heard the sound of body parts being slapped girlishly, and in the rear mirror I saw the other girls give her mean looks.  Changing the subject, loudly, the girl with the lost shoe said to me, “Thank you sooooo much for the ride!  I don’t even know how I’d go to the Graveyard without my other shoe!  Can you just wait for us to run in and grab another pair?  Pleeeease?” she asked sugar-sweetly.

            After hearing these girls bash me, I was not looking forward to waiting.  But, let’s be honest, what else did I have to do?  It was still early.  I agreed to wait but after they were inside for what felt like forever, I determined they were the type of girls who would think it was funny, standing me up.  Well, fuck it.  Their meter was running, but their money wasn’t even worth the wait.  They were bitches. 

            I tried to put the mean girls out of mind by concentrating on my regulars.  Their alcoholism never let me down.  Every weekend night I could always count on at least, collectively, a hundred dollars from the usual suspects.  The first pick-up I recognized was Lex.  He started early, and I can usually rely on him calling for a ride sometime around ten.  This time he’s got news to tell me.

            “Becca, oh my god Becca.  I got a tattoo!” he pops his face from the backseat between the two front seats and shows me what he got.  His eyes are wide.

            It’s a face tattoo.

            “It’s a face tattoo!” he can hardly contain himself.  He kept jabbing a finger into the fresh curvy letters in script, framing his eyebrow.

            I couldn’t get a good look because I was driving so I asked, “Lex what does it say?”

            “Oh it’s in elvish,” he explains rationally, “Yeah it’s something from Lord of the Rings.  I’m so glad the tattoo artist spoke elf!  Have you seen that movie?  It is like the best movie ever.”  He’s talking so fast that I conclude he probably took a harder substance than alcohol this evening.  I congratulate Lex on his tattoo and let him out at the house party he directed me to.  I could see him point to his forehead every time he saw someone outside on the lawn.

            My favorite thing to do when I pick people up, is creep behind them in Baby Blue.  Prius’s…or is the plural Pri-i?...go in weird stealth mode if the driver goes under six miles per hour.  It sounds like the engine cuts out, and no one ever expects me to stalk behind them from the street and then honk my horn.  What?  I was just asking if they needed a ride is all…

            Another one of my regulars is a young woman named Linda.  I am almost positive Linda goes on African lion hunts, because her wide-brimmed sun hat made her look like a safarian.  I’ve heard people refer to her as Lindiana Jones… She was quiet tonight.  I was confused when I heard multiple zippers being tugged at, when I realized she was taking the bottom layer of her pants off by the zipper, and turning them into shorts. 

            “My legs are sweatin’ in here.  It’s a hot night out there, you know Becca.  You better watch out for those big critters you might be seein’,” she said, peering all around the streets.  I had no clue what “critters” she was referring to, but I took her word for it.

            I saw her pull out a water canteen and chug deeply from it.  “Lindy – !” I said, slightly slipping and almost calling her Lindiana by accident.

            “Alright, alright,” she grunted, stowing the canteen in one of her many pockets.  Once Linda had shown me every little thing she carried around in her pockets on a daily basis.  Some of the items included, but were not limited to, a hunting knife, a laminated lifetime membership Girl Scout card, a Cliff bar, tablets to purify water, and an assortment of carabineer clips.

            She had me pull over before we got to her stop.  “I’m lookin’ to track that pack of deer in the woods.  They’re migrating to the east,” she told me, checking a compass she produced from one of her pockets.  Linda grabbed her oversized camping backpack and hauled it over a shoulder.  Before she shut the door and trekked into the not-so-dense woods, she told me stoically, “If you don’t hear from me in a few weeks, track the trail I’m leaving for you.”

My school, even though it’s in the middle of nowhere, is known for “networking” after graduation, but these drunks who pass out in my backseat on the way to the bar have networking furthest down their list of things to do here at St. Michael's College.  The kid behind me can cross off “pet my own vomit”, though.  This is a Thursday for you.

Through dry heaves that did an amateur job of pretending to be hiccups, this fine young academic tells me, “Your car smells like puke.”

I nod my head in agreement and roll down the windows.  Uh, yeah, dude, so does your breath, I want to say, but instead I continue to take him where he wants to go.   Sometimes I just had to push the fact out of my head that my blue Prius, better known to me as Baby Blue, who I loved so much, was only a lease and I probably should pick a different job.

            “I’m sorry man, throw up is extra,” I told him as I grabbed his credit card and swiped it down the side of my iPhone.  Honestly, what a great invention.

            I let the kid stumble out of the car as he wipes the vomit from the corner of his mouth on the underside of his shirt, he’s got to stay classy, after all.  I called out to him, “Have a good night!”  He then decided to take the least direct route to the entrance to the town’s only bar, Graveyard, and I decided to call it a night.  As a rule, as soon as the car could be considered a health code violation, the shift is over.  Another rule, is no one sits up front with me.  For my protection, of course.

            I pulled out of the parking lot, doing my best to narrowly avoid running over dudes who were trying to convince vulnerable girls to come home with them, and drove carefully down the street.  The street was very well lit with lampposts, and good thing for that, because there were dozens of people just milling about the sidewalks and roaming into the street.  I had to drive slow and keep an eye out, but I had to keep dodging kids trying to flag me down: I was out of service.

            I was stopped at a stop sign, but a person who was waiting on the corner saw my car and started to come over.  I planned on just ignoring him, pretending like I hadn’t seen him.  I was going to drive away casually, but the dark figure ran out from my blind spot and into the road, just a few feet in front of my car.  For the smallest part of a second, his face was illuminated by my head lights.  All I had time to register was his wide, easy smile.  I could see every single one of his paper-white teeth, but he wasn’t even straining his face muscles to show them; his mouth was just that big.

            The car tires screeched to a stop, and he wasted no time climbing in the front seat of Baby Blue.  I tried not to be excited about him being in my car again, sitting next to me so close.  Something was different this time, though.

            Who does this guy think he is?  Trying to take advantage of my public service, more accurately it’s a public service business, regardless – people try to take advantage of me all the time and this kid is not the first.  But something about his silly smile set me off.  Doesn’t he realize what could have happened?  He could have died, or someone else could have gotten hurt.  It made me angry when people were so selfish.

            I got out of the car with a hard thunk of the door slamming shut behind me.  I was so angry I didn’t even treat Baby Blue with the love she deserved from saving this boy, or myself.

            “What is wrong with you?” I got right up in his face, eye level with that huge cocky smile of his.

            “Whoa there, eeeeasy killer!” he couldn’t keep his words from colliding into each other, molding themselves into one long, superword.  It was like speaking in parseltongue from Harry Potter.

            “You could have killed yourself,” I shouted at him, angrier at myself for being distracted at his gorgeous – I mean, annoying smile.

            “Just, can I get a ride?” he said, still smiling.  His voice was like lemonade being poured from a pitcher; sweet and fluid.

            I noticed his entire tall, thin figure now, too.  He had arms and legs longer than he knew what to do with.  His limbs hung out awkwardly, but it seemed just right for him.  He wore a thin turquoise tee shirt and straight-legged jeans, but still he must have been cold.

             “Isn’t this what you do, make sure I don’t get myself killed?” he pressed on, stepping even closer towards me, encroaching on my personal space. He looked down at me and grabbed my hand, quickly dropping to one knee.  “Will you – ” he stopped and asked frankly, “What’s your name?”

            “Becca,” I rolled my eyes, trying not to notice how the touch of his hand made me feel.  I fought to maintain my look of annoyance.  The corners of my mouth struggled not to smile.

            He continued melodramatically.  “Will you, Becca,” he awkwardly inserted, “take my hand in the marriage of riding in your car for three minutes?  Just three minutes is all I need, dearest Becca,” he drawled loudly, “to make you fall in love with me, Becca,” he said, repeating my name for, emphasis, I guess.

            I remembered the puke.  “Um.  I kind of have a rule about no one riding in the car when there is, um, a mess in the backseat,” I reluctantly pulled my hand away from his, our fingers slipping across each other’s skin.

            “Becca do you honestly think I care about such things as messes?  I’ll sit up front with you of course,” he said confidently, sounding less coherent as he kept speaking.  He kept emphasizing and drawing out random words.  He took long strides to the passenger side of the car and pulled the door open.

            He was already plopped down comfortably in Baby Blue, turning the radio on and leaning back.  I sighed.  But I was excited.  Taking my seat next to him, I turned to him in the cramped car and admit, “I can’t charge you, though.  It’s unprofessional to drive someone with barf in the seat behind them,” as I said this, I realized how I have such an elegant way with words.  How is it that no man has snatched me up yet?  Internally, I cursed myself for being so uncool.

            “Perfect!  I don’t have money on me anyway.  24 Smith Street, ma’am,” he said quickly and reclined the seat.  He leaned in close to me as I drove slowly away from the stop sign, uncertain of where to go.  He seemed normal to me, although he had almost committed suicide by way of Baby Blue.  I was not sure what to make of the situation so I did what I do best.  I drove.

            “My name’s Jack.”

            “Oh, um, what a cool name.” I said, keeping it cool, obviously.  I knew he was the guy those bitchy girls were referring to.  He was just that good looking.

            He turned his entire body towards me in his seat and said, “Becca.  Becca, I am honestly unbelievably embarrassed for my behavior tonight,” he said, with an air of false formality in his tone.  He sounded like he was trying too hard.  “I cannot apologize enough for acting so immaturely.  Can you find it in your bottomless heart to forgive such a poor, sad fellow such as the like?”

            I laughed.  I couldn’t help it.  He sounded ridiculous but he did seem genuinely sorry.  “I guess I’ll let it slide this once,” I said.  And it was as simple as that.  He was just so silly, and it was the only thing that made me smile so wide tonight.  But not as wide as Jack’s smile, obviously.

            “What are you doing tonight?”

            What was I doing tonight?  I had to think of something interesting and mysterious.  “I’m just going to bed.” 

            “Nope, you’re going to the bar,” he said, pointing out that I had actually driven to the Graveyard without even noticing.  Habit, I guess.

            I parked the car towards the back of the lot and paused.  “Oh, um, yeah I didn’t really look where I was driving.  Sometimes when I get scared I’m going to hit a car when I’m trying to park, I just close my eyes.  Not that I just closed my eyes now of course.  Uh, what do you normally do around this time?”  Why am I so lame.  God.

            “Well, I mean I like to go out most weekends.  You have to just relax sometimes, you know?” he said, giving my bicep a couple playful squeezes.

            “What are you, an alcoholic?” I teased.

            “You’re a workaholic.  Why don’t you have just one drink with me?”

            I hesitated.  Maybe once I could let loose and actually make friends.  Friends that weren’t paying me to help them out.  I stopped smiling, “We both can’t drink.  Who’s going to drive us home?”

            “Oh hush we’ll figure that out later,” he said, carelessly waving his had through the air.

            My body tensed.  “No,” I said, “I don’t think I can do that.”

            It took every ounce of my will to stop my body from going after him.  He got out of the car after shrugging and muttering something about being “uptight” and I knew I made the right decision.  For some reason, even though I knew it was right, it was so difficult to back out Baby Blue and leave. Jack could find his own way back tonight.  I waited in the parking lot for my tears to subside, and drove myself home. 

- - -
Colleen Colkitt is a freelance writer of fiction and poetry. She lives in Buffalo, New York with her family. She will graduate from SUNY Brockport with degrees in Creative Writing and Communications. Her work has recently been published in Bare Hands Poetry and also the Muddy River Poetry Review.

2/9/13

A Little Note of Many Meanings
By Dora Estela Gonzalez

I love you.

Three words full of emotion and yet as empty as the rest of the paper they were written on. I stared at the note left on the dresser and glanced at the now half empty closet, the empty spot where a pair of female shoes had been only a few hours before. A rage ran through me and I crumbled the confession of love, the three words that both said she had been the one and a mistake.

I love you.

How could those words hurt and fail to bring comfort? How could those words be the only thing to welcome me when I returned to the room after fetching a pail of ice? I tossed the note into the trash and reached for my coat. I left the hotel not bothering to properly pack my things. I jumped into my car and drove until the gas meter light came on, demanding my attention.

I love you.

I thought I wanted this.

I’m sorry.

- - -
Dora Estela Gonzalez is currently working on her third novel. She enjoys writing the occasional short story, dabbing in flash fiction, getting lost in a video game, and hunting down the next book to fall in love with.

2/8/13

THE PROPOSAL
(a short screenplay)
By Harry Noussias

FADE IN:

EXT.  A PARK - DAY

FAY walks through the park.  She is searching for MIKE.  She sees him and rushes to him.

                                                FAY

I got here just as soon as I could.  Why did you want to meet in the park? 

                                                MIKE

I wanted to talk to you about something.  I want to know if you would marry a guy like me.

                                                FAY

I guess.  I mean you’re a nice person.  I would probably marry someone like you.  A lot of women would.  Why? 

                                                MIKE

No, you don’t understand.  I wasn’t asking for your opinion.  I want to know if you would marry me.

                                                FAY

If I would marry you personally?  Is this a proposal?

                                                MIKE

Well yeah.  Isn’t it obvious?     

                                                FAY

The way you asked.  And in the middle of a park.  It kind of threw me off.  Most men would ask differently.  And maybe at a nice restaurant.  At a table for two.  You know.  A romantic dinner.  With champagne and all.  They would ask – will you marry me?  Will you, not would you.  And maybe they would get down on one knee.  They would also have a ring.  That’s a more traditional method.  But, then again, everyone is not traditional.

Mike takes a ring out of his pocket and hands it to Fay.  Fay takes it but does not put it on.

                                                MIKE

I never did this before and I was kind of nervous.  I didn’t know how you would react.  There’s the ring.  And I’ll get down on one knee if you want.  I just didn’t want to get my pant leg dirty if I didn’t have to.

                                                FAY

Well I guess you don’t have to.  Anyway I’m not the traditional type.

                                                MIKE

So, will you?  I mean.  Will you marry me?

                                                FAY

Isn’t this kind of sudden?

                                                MIKE

We’ve known each other for six months now.  And it isn’t like we’ve never gone out together.  We live right across the hall from each other in the same apartment building.  It would be real easy for you to move your stuff into my apartment.  Or for me to move in with you.  I don’t really care which.  We see each other all the time.  Every day and sometimes all day.  We’re practically inseparable.  Hell, I even know what type of toothpaste you use.  How many guys know that about the women they go out with?  And besides, I love you.  I truly love you.                                             

                                                FAY

That’s the most romantic thing I have ever heard.  You know.  The part about how you know what kind of toothpaste I use.

                                                MIKE

Well?  Will you or not?

                                                FAY

I’m just not a traditional type person.

                                                MIKE

What does that mean; you’re not a traditional person?  Does that mean you don’t go for marriages?  Or, does it mean you’re turning me down?  What does it mean?

                                                FAY

It means that I think the woman should do the proposing if she feels like it.  I always pictured myself as being the one doing the proposing.  But, I’m not against all conventionality.  The man can still buy the ring.  It’s a matter of economics.

                                                MIKE

You’re turning me down.  Aren’t you?  I guess I was wrong about us.  I thought you felt the same way about me as I feel about you.  I may have messed up proposing, but you’re doing an even worse job at rejecting.

                                                FAY

I’m not rejecting.

                                                MIKE

Now you’re trying to keep me from having hurt feelings.

                                                FAY

No, I don’t care about your feelings.  No, that didn’t come out right.  I mean there is no reason for you to have hurt feelings.

                                                MIKE

Women think that a man will die if his ego is damaged.  They must never hurt the man’s ego.  Never.   At all costs.  I suppose it’s genetic.  Let me guess what’s coming next.  That old line - it’s not you, it’s me. The ultimate tried and true line of rejection.

                                                FAY

I’m not rejecting.  I’m just not accepting. 

                                                MIKE

You don’t like me.

                                                FAY

You’re right.  I don’t like you…  I love you.  I think I’ve always loved you.  Even before I met you.  Even before I was born.  I felt it from the very first moment I saw you.  No one can care as deeply or as passionately about anyone as I do for you.  But, I’m still not accepting.

                                                MIKE

You love me more than anything, but you don’t want to marry me?

                                                FAY

I didn’t say that I didn’t want to marry you.

                                                MIKE

It’s that knee thing.  Isn’t it?  I should have gotten down on my knee or maybe both knees.  I shouldn’t have worried about getting my pants dirty. 

                                                FAY

It’s not the knee thing.  I told you.  I’m not a traditional person.

                                                MIKE

It couldn’t be the ring.  I spent a lot of money on that ring.  It ain’t cheap.  Or maybe it’s the park.  I should have chosen a fancy restaurant instead.  The park was a dumb idea.

                                                FAY

It’s not the ring or the park or anything you did or didn’t do.  I told you I’m not a traditional person.                                                

                                                MIKE

What?...  You want to be the one that proposes?

                                                FAY

It’s important to me.

                                                MIKE

Well I’m not sure about all this.  How would it look?  What will people say?  And how ridiculous would it look for a woman to get down on one knee?  It just has never been done.  Look at all the people in this park.  These people would stone me.  And even if you did it in a restaurant, the waiter would probably poison my food.  I’d be dead before I could say yes.  I’m telling you I would be laughed out of this town.

                                                FAY

Do you want to marry me?  Yes or no?

                                                MIKE

Oh no.  You’re not going to trick me.  I’m not answering that question.  That’s a proposal.  Did you ever think that maybe I feel the same way about proposing as you?  You want to be the one doing the asking.  Well, I want to be the one doing the asking too.

                                                FAY

All you had to do is say yes.

                                                MIKE

That’s all you had to do too.

                                                FAY

So now what? 

                                                MIKE

I don’t know.  All I know is that I love you and I want to marry you.  I want to spend the rest of my life with you.  I want to have children with you.  I want to take trips with you, and grow old with you, and collect Social Security with you.  And when I die I want to be buried next to you.

                                                FAY

So, will you marry me?

                                                MIKE

There you go.  Trying to catch me off guard.  Trying to trick me again.  It ain’t happening.  I would like very much to answer in the affirmative.  But, I would much rather be doing the inquiring.

                                                FAY

You do realize that we are both being a bit stubborn?

                                                MIKE

Of course we’re both being stubborn.  We think alike.  That thing you said about always loving me.   Even before you met me.   Even before you were born.  Well, it’s the same with me.  The exact same.  The gods must have willed it.  That’s why it’s important to the both of us to be the one to do the proposing.  Who can go against the gods?

                                                FAY

Maybe we can both have our way.

                                                MIKE

This ought to be good.  I’m listening.

                                                FAY

What if we propose at exactly the same time?

                                                MIKE

A simultaneous proposal.  Hmm.  And how do you propose that we do this proposing?

                                                FAY

We’ll count to three together.  One two three.  And then together, at the same time, we’ll both say - will you marry me.  Then we’ll count to three again together.  One two three.  And then we’ll both say at the same time and together – yes.  What do you think?  No one has to do the knee thing.  And you still get to give me the ring.  That’s fair enough. 

                                                MIKE

I guess that would work.  I mean, I can still tell people that I proposed to you.  That statement would be technically correct. 

                                                FAY

And no one would stone you or laugh you out of town.  You would win.  And I would not damage your male ego.  Something that I was genetically engineered to always preserve.  I win too.

                                                MIKE

OK.  Let’s do it.  Ready?

                                                FAY

Ready

                                                MIKE

Here we go.

                                      MIKE and FAY                                                                                                                                                (simultaneously)

One two three.  Will you marry me?  One two three.  Yes.

                                                MIKE

We did it.

                                    (pointing at the ring)

Are you going to put it on?

                                                FAY

                             (putting the ring on her finger)

It’s beautiful.  I love you.  I truly do.  More than anything in the world.  More than life itself.

They embrace and kiss passionately.

                                                MIKE

I guess now we can set the date and start making all the plans and all the arrangements.  I can’t wait to tell our families.  My mom will be thrilled.  She really adores you.

                                                FAY

There is a lot to do.

                                                MIKE

I can’t wait to see you in that wedding gown.

                                                FAY

What wedding gown?  I don’t plan on wearing a wedding gown.  Why spend all that money on a dress just to wear it only one time?  It’s an economic thing.  More traditional nonsense.

                                                MIKE

But, I’ve always pictured my bride at the altar in a fancy white gown.  Along with all the bride’s maids.  And I in a tuxedo.  And my best friend being the best man.  He would be in a tuxedo too.  And your father giving you away.  He’d also be in a tuxedo.

                                                FAY

Ain’t going to happen.  The bride does all the wedding planning.  And I think a quickie justice- of- the- peace style ceremony would be just fine. 

                                                MIKE

Well maybe I’m not always a traditional type of person either.  I think the man should plan the wedding once in a while.

                                                FAY

That can’t happen.  If people found out, I would be embarrassed.  They would laugh at me behind my back.  I wouldn’t be able to hold my head up high.  I would be constantly in tears.

                                                MIKE

Constantly in tears, huh.  You know I couldn’t stand that.  You know men are genetically engineered to not want to see a woman cry.  Tears always win out.  The gods made us that way.  Women cannot damage a man’s ego and men cannot stand to see a woman cry.  Still I kind of want some say in the planning of the wedding.

                                                FAY

I have an idea.

                                                MIKE

We can’t do the one two three thing.  We both have different plans.

                                                FAY

But, we can both have a say.  One of us chooses the style of wedding.  Formal with gowns and tuxedos or the informal justice-of-the-peace style.  And the other can make the arrangements.

                                                MIKE

Hmm.  I suppose that would be OK.  How do we choose which style of wedding?

                                                FAY

We could flip a coin.  Heads I win.  Tails you win.  What do you say?

                                                MIKE

I would rather do rock paper scissors.

                                                FAY

What’s wrong with a toss of a coin?  I’ll even supply the coin.  Any denomination you want.

                                                MIKE

Rock paper scissors is much more dignified.

                                                FAY

It is not.

                                                MIKE

It is.  Look, I’ll tell you what.  I have a pen on me.  We’ll go across the street to that hamburger joint.  We’ll use one of their napkins and we’ll play a game of tic tac toe.  The winner of the game of tic tac toe will get to decide if we flip a coin or do the rock paper scissors thing.  Do you like tic tac toe?

                                                FAY

Yeah, I like tic tac toe.

                                                MIKE

Do you like burgers?  I like a good hamburger with the works.

                                                FAY

Yeah, I like hamburgers.

                                                MIKE

How about fries?  I like fries.  You like fries?

                                                FAY

I like fries.

They walk off into the distance, talking as they walk.

                                               

                                              MIKE

We have a lot in common.

                                                FAY

Yeah, we do.

                                                MIKE

This is going to be a great marriage.

                                                FAY

Yes, it is.

                                                                                                FADE OUT.


- - -
I have been a writer for several years. Most of my efforts have been in the nonfiction area. It is not very exciting to be sure, but the money is good. I thought I might try my hand at something different, something a bit more amusing with a touch on the romantic side.