Love Is Love
By Allison Grayhurst
Touching shadows with a hero,
trusting the secret journey.
Love is love, full of thirst and suffering
but stronger still than
the devil's lyre. And once
my world was a wound of sleepwalking
and intangible thoughts.
Today, there is a voice under the sheets
that has learned the language of my private choir.
God seems distant, farther than imagination can conjure,
but I know it is only a fossil for tomorrow's hands
and a new facet of a living faith.
Please be near, because sometimes my ribs are
drowning and my hopes are torn.
Please let me feel the light of your finger
and catch the nectar of your breath.
Love is love, longing for more,
to know its kiss has reached another's heart
and then to be returned like never before.
- - -
Allison Grayhurst has had over 200 poems in more than 130 journals, magazines, and anthologies throughout the United States, Canada, Australia, and in the United Kingdom, including Parabola (summer 2012), South Florida Arts Journal, The Antigonish Review, Dalhousie Review, The New Quarterly, Wascana Review, Poetry Nottingham International, The Cape Rock, Journal of Contemporary Anglo-Scandinavian Poetry, poetrymagazine.com; Fogged Clarity, Out of Our, Quantum Poetry Magazine, Decanto, and White Wall Review.
Her book Somewhere Falling was published by Beach Holme Publishers, a Porcepic Book, in Vancouver in 1995. Since then she has published nine other books of poetry and two collections with Edge Unlimited Publishing. Prior to the publication of Somewhere Falling she had a poetry book published, Common Dream, and four chapbooks published by The Plowman.
Her poetry chapbook The River is Blind was recently published by Ottawa publisher above/ground press December 2012.
She lives in Toronto with her husband, two children, two cats, and a dog. She also sculpts, working with clay.
Tuesday, April 30, 2013
Monday, April 29, 2013
4/29/13
When You Come Home
By Adreyo Sen
I like it when you return.
I open the door and there’s this faraway look
in your face. The slight, sweet sadness
you conceal so well.
Absentminded when not by our side, you
are looking away, your defenceless eyes
searching somewhere far beyond the leaving taxi
and the people momentarily arrested by the
unbelievable unknowing of your beauty.
I can look at you the way a child
looks at her favourite doll, examine the
neat simplicity of your dress, the serene
dance of its georgette against your tired body,
the peace returning to your nervous hands
as you realise you’re home now, with me,
your owner, empress of your
too intensely hammering heart.
Of course, my favourite part is when you finally see me.
Always with that faint air of disbelief turning to glad surprise
and I crush you in my arms with the savage, inconsiderate
Decisiveness of a queen claiming her playthings.
For I can feel in the way the shuddering fire
in your back is fading away and your still legs are slacking
their frenzied meditations at flight,
that your heart is all mine. You are mine!
You foolish, foolish, creature.
Be glad I am fond of you.
- - -
Adreyo Sen, based in Kolkata, hopes to become a full-time writer. She did her undergraduate work in English and her postgraduate work in English and Sociology. Adreyo has been published in Danse Macabre and Kritya.
By Adreyo Sen
I like it when you return.
I open the door and there’s this faraway look
in your face. The slight, sweet sadness
you conceal so well.
Absentminded when not by our side, you
are looking away, your defenceless eyes
searching somewhere far beyond the leaving taxi
and the people momentarily arrested by the
unbelievable unknowing of your beauty.
I can look at you the way a child
looks at her favourite doll, examine the
neat simplicity of your dress, the serene
dance of its georgette against your tired body,
the peace returning to your nervous hands
as you realise you’re home now, with me,
your owner, empress of your
too intensely hammering heart.
Of course, my favourite part is when you finally see me.
Always with that faint air of disbelief turning to glad surprise
and I crush you in my arms with the savage, inconsiderate
Decisiveness of a queen claiming her playthings.
For I can feel in the way the shuddering fire
in your back is fading away and your still legs are slacking
their frenzied meditations at flight,
that your heart is all mine. You are mine!
You foolish, foolish, creature.
Be glad I am fond of you.
- - -
Adreyo Sen, based in Kolkata, hopes to become a full-time writer. She did her undergraduate work in English and her postgraduate work in English and Sociology. Adreyo has been published in Danse Macabre and Kritya.
Sunday, April 28, 2013
4/28/13
Stay
By Wendy L. Schmidt
Tell him not to walk away,
the boldest ones will fight and stay.
Tell him once upon a kiss,
blue eyes wept for happiness.
Tell him one thing true to know,
deep-rooted rivers bend and flow.
Tell him what you feel is real,
in time all wounded hearts will heal.
Tell him he must reach within,
that giving up would be sin.
Tell him not to walk away,
wait one more day,
and stay.
- - -
Wendy Schmidt is a native of Wisconsin. She has been writing short stories and poetry for the last ten years. The Four C's; cat, chocolate, coffee and computer are her chosen writing tools. Pieces have been published in many places. Surf the web and you'll find her everywhere, like a poetic virus.
By Wendy L. Schmidt
Tell him not to walk away,
the boldest ones will fight and stay.
Tell him once upon a kiss,
blue eyes wept for happiness.
Tell him one thing true to know,
deep-rooted rivers bend and flow.
Tell him what you feel is real,
in time all wounded hearts will heal.
Tell him he must reach within,
that giving up would be sin.
Tell him not to walk away,
wait one more day,
and stay.
- - -
Wendy Schmidt is a native of Wisconsin. She has been writing short stories and poetry for the last ten years. The Four C's; cat, chocolate, coffee and computer are her chosen writing tools. Pieces have been published in many places. Surf the web and you'll find her everywhere, like a poetic virus.
Saturday, April 27, 2013
4/27/13
LOVE STORIES
By Lela Marie De La Garza
Tanya had dreamed, since she was a little girl, of meeting “Mr. Right.” A faint picture had emerged when she was a child, and it became clearer as she got older. He would be tall, slim, and blond. His eyes would be brown with fascinating specks of green. He wouldn’t care for sports but for classics—both music and literature. His name would not be ordinary, but something like “Byron” or “Russell” or even “Sean”.
When Tanya was seventeen Anthony (never “Tony”) came into her life. He was tall and slim and blond. He had brown eyes. He owned all the music Beethoven ever wrote. He could quote whole passages from “Idylls of the King” by memory, often moving Tanya to tears as he did so.
Anthony was fond of planting butterfly kisses on her eyelids, on her hair—never with passion. He treated her like a porcelain doll. This delighted Tanya—and disturbed her at the same time. She wasn’t a doll. Something else bothered her. Anthony often told her “You are everything I could ever want.” Tanya took this as her due, because certainly Anthony was everything she could ever want. He would gaze soulfully at her and proclaim “Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?...thou art more fair…”
But he never came right out and said he loved her. Tanya was sure he did, of course. Love was simply too sacred a word for him to use until he asked her to marry him…which he never did.
Anthony had slipped into her life with the slightest of ripples, and that was the way he left. Tanya had a friend named Wanda. Wanda was a cheerleader, screaming herself hoarse at every football game. Her concept of poetry began and ended with “Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star.” Her idea of music was anything she could dance to. She liked parties and fun and excitement, and Anthony liked her. When he told Tanya “Parting is such sweet sorrow…”, she knew there would be no tomorrow.
She was bereft for a while, and then Sam appeared. He was the exact opposite of Anthony. Sam was short and stocky. His hair was black and his eyes the uncompromising blue of an August day. His music was 50’s rock, with a nod to some of the 60’s groups—“The Kingston Trio”, “Peter, Paul, and Mary.” He rarely read, but when he did, his choice was pulp fiction from decades ago—Cornell Woolrich, James Cain, Mickey Spillaine. He had no trouble at all telling Tanya he loved her, and her lips were often bruised from his passionate kisses. Many times she had to fight him off. Though she was excited and thrilled, she wasn’t ready to make that kind of commitment yet.
If Anthony had been a slight ripple in her life, Sam was a huge wave. Tanya rode it for a while, wondering, if, after all, he was the one. But her dreams died hard, and she knew Sam wasn’t what she wanted. She broke it off, saying “Hit the road, Jack.” She knew he’d appreciate that.
Mike was next. He was of medium height and build. His hair was the red of a sunset and his eyes were dark green. He didn’t care for most sports but liked tennis. His music of choice was from “The Big Band” era, and something called “Barrelhouse Jazz.” He thought Mark Twain was the greatest author who ever lived, and when you asked him about poetry, he replied, with reverence, “Kipling.”
Tanya was done with dreams and into reality. She married Mike and learned to like Glen Miller and the mad piano of someone called “Light’n” Louie Long. She read “Gunga Din” and cried. Tanya played the classics for Mike until he acknowledged that Chopin knew how to “lay down those licks”, and that Bach was a “mellow fellow”. He also admitted that Shakespeare had “some stuff”.
Tanya is glad she met “Mr. Right”; equally glad she met “Mr. Wrong”, and very glad she married “Mr. In Between.”
- - -
Lela Marie De La Garza has had work published in “Behind Closed Doors”, “Pound of Flash”, and “ChickLit”. She was born in Denver, CO. in 1943 while her father was serving in WWII. She currently resides in San Antonio, TX. with two and a half cats and a visiting raccoon.
By Lela Marie De La Garza
Tanya had dreamed, since she was a little girl, of meeting “Mr. Right.” A faint picture had emerged when she was a child, and it became clearer as she got older. He would be tall, slim, and blond. His eyes would be brown with fascinating specks of green. He wouldn’t care for sports but for classics—both music and literature. His name would not be ordinary, but something like “Byron” or “Russell” or even “Sean”.
When Tanya was seventeen Anthony (never “Tony”) came into her life. He was tall and slim and blond. He had brown eyes. He owned all the music Beethoven ever wrote. He could quote whole passages from “Idylls of the King” by memory, often moving Tanya to tears as he did so.
Anthony was fond of planting butterfly kisses on her eyelids, on her hair—never with passion. He treated her like a porcelain doll. This delighted Tanya—and disturbed her at the same time. She wasn’t a doll. Something else bothered her. Anthony often told her “You are everything I could ever want.” Tanya took this as her due, because certainly Anthony was everything she could ever want. He would gaze soulfully at her and proclaim “Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?...thou art more fair…”
But he never came right out and said he loved her. Tanya was sure he did, of course. Love was simply too sacred a word for him to use until he asked her to marry him…which he never did.
Anthony had slipped into her life with the slightest of ripples, and that was the way he left. Tanya had a friend named Wanda. Wanda was a cheerleader, screaming herself hoarse at every football game. Her concept of poetry began and ended with “Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star.” Her idea of music was anything she could dance to. She liked parties and fun and excitement, and Anthony liked her. When he told Tanya “Parting is such sweet sorrow…”, she knew there would be no tomorrow.
She was bereft for a while, and then Sam appeared. He was the exact opposite of Anthony. Sam was short and stocky. His hair was black and his eyes the uncompromising blue of an August day. His music was 50’s rock, with a nod to some of the 60’s groups—“The Kingston Trio”, “Peter, Paul, and Mary.” He rarely read, but when he did, his choice was pulp fiction from decades ago—Cornell Woolrich, James Cain, Mickey Spillaine. He had no trouble at all telling Tanya he loved her, and her lips were often bruised from his passionate kisses. Many times she had to fight him off. Though she was excited and thrilled, she wasn’t ready to make that kind of commitment yet.
If Anthony had been a slight ripple in her life, Sam was a huge wave. Tanya rode it for a while, wondering, if, after all, he was the one. But her dreams died hard, and she knew Sam wasn’t what she wanted. She broke it off, saying “Hit the road, Jack.” She knew he’d appreciate that.
Mike was next. He was of medium height and build. His hair was the red of a sunset and his eyes were dark green. He didn’t care for most sports but liked tennis. His music of choice was from “The Big Band” era, and something called “Barrelhouse Jazz.” He thought Mark Twain was the greatest author who ever lived, and when you asked him about poetry, he replied, with reverence, “Kipling.”
Tanya was done with dreams and into reality. She married Mike and learned to like Glen Miller and the mad piano of someone called “Light’n” Louie Long. She read “Gunga Din” and cried. Tanya played the classics for Mike until he acknowledged that Chopin knew how to “lay down those licks”, and that Bach was a “mellow fellow”. He also admitted that Shakespeare had “some stuff”.
Tanya is glad she met “Mr. Right”; equally glad she met “Mr. Wrong”, and very glad she married “Mr. In Between.”
- - -
Lela Marie De La Garza has had work published in “Behind Closed Doors”, “Pound of Flash”, and “ChickLit”. She was born in Denver, CO. in 1943 while her father was serving in WWII. She currently resides in San Antonio, TX. with two and a half cats and a visiting raccoon.
Friday, April 26, 2013
4/26/13
Morning Glory
By Allison Grayhurst
Lost hideaway under the flesh
where birds of prey drink to the heart's
southward direction.
In liquid sleep a pocket is forming
of voices named in childhood years.
And from the beginning the miracle
sat on our shoulder like a butterfly,
though we never christened it as our own.
I am tossing back the weight of worldly waters
and things to be morally wounded for.
I give no more from the side of my mouth,
for the seductive shadow and the running crowd.
Plain as the path to heaven, I kiss the dread
and let it drift down sea. I open a room
where the light catches my breath
and I am breathing a morning glory.
- - -
Allison Grayhurst has had over 200 poems in more than 130 journals, magazines, and anthologies throughout the United States, Canada, Australia, and in the United Kingdom, including Parabola (summer 2012), South Florida Arts Journal, The Antigonish Review, Dalhousie Review, The New Quarterly, Wascana Review, Poetry Nottingham International, The Cape Rock, Journal of Contemporary Anglo-Scandinavian Poetry, poetrymagazine.com; Fogged Clarity, Out of Our, Quantum Poetry Magazine, Decanto, and White Wall Review.
Her book Somewhere Falling was published by Beach Holme Publishers, a Porcepic Book, in Vancouver in 1995. Since then she has published nine other books of poetry and two collections with Edge Unlimited Publishing. Prior to the publication of Somewhere Falling she had a poetry book published, Common Dream, and four chapbooks published by The Plowman.
Her poetry chapbook The River is Blind was recently published by Ottawa publisher above/ground press December 2012.
She lives in Toronto with her husband, two children, two cats, and a dog. She also sculpts, working with clay.
By Allison Grayhurst
Lost hideaway under the flesh
where birds of prey drink to the heart's
southward direction.
In liquid sleep a pocket is forming
of voices named in childhood years.
And from the beginning the miracle
sat on our shoulder like a butterfly,
though we never christened it as our own.
I am tossing back the weight of worldly waters
and things to be morally wounded for.
I give no more from the side of my mouth,
for the seductive shadow and the running crowd.
Plain as the path to heaven, I kiss the dread
and let it drift down sea. I open a room
where the light catches my breath
and I am breathing a morning glory.
- - -
Allison Grayhurst has had over 200 poems in more than 130 journals, magazines, and anthologies throughout the United States, Canada, Australia, and in the United Kingdom, including Parabola (summer 2012), South Florida Arts Journal, The Antigonish Review, Dalhousie Review, The New Quarterly, Wascana Review, Poetry Nottingham International, The Cape Rock, Journal of Contemporary Anglo-Scandinavian Poetry, poetrymagazine.com; Fogged Clarity, Out of Our, Quantum Poetry Magazine, Decanto, and White Wall Review.
Her book Somewhere Falling was published by Beach Holme Publishers, a Porcepic Book, in Vancouver in 1995. Since then she has published nine other books of poetry and two collections with Edge Unlimited Publishing. Prior to the publication of Somewhere Falling she had a poetry book published, Common Dream, and four chapbooks published by The Plowman.
Her poetry chapbook The River is Blind was recently published by Ottawa publisher above/ground press December 2012.
She lives in Toronto with her husband, two children, two cats, and a dog. She also sculpts, working with clay.
Thursday, April 25, 2013
4/25/13
Your Smile
By Adreyo Sen
One night, when you smiled at me, the smile
stayed in the air when you left. It shone. The
brightness in your eyes had brought it to life.
Too young to know it could travel the world
unsupported, it did not protest when I pressed
flat its jaunty curviness and put it in my
pocket.
I took your smile to a jeweller with lightless
eyes. Not appreciating its magic, he beat it
into a ring. Too strong to break, it shone serenely.
It glowed with a complacency
that was somehow not unappealing.
Transparent, like a fine strand of hair in my hand,
a river of milk, it already had an air of immortality
unjustified and thus dangerous. Yet, captivating.
Now, it was invincible.
And so, now that you are travelling into a world
of shadows, your eyes in the gloom, even as
they look at me, I give you back your smile.
I will wrap it around your finger. May it
lead you back into the light, back to where
you were, back into the centre of my life.
And maybe, one day, you’ll smile at me again.
- - -
Adreyo Sen, based in Kolkata, hopes to become a full-time writer. She did her undergraduate work in English and her postgraduate work in English and Sociology. Adreyo has been published in Danse Macabre and Kritya.
By Adreyo Sen
One night, when you smiled at me, the smile
stayed in the air when you left. It shone. The
brightness in your eyes had brought it to life.
Too young to know it could travel the world
unsupported, it did not protest when I pressed
flat its jaunty curviness and put it in my
pocket.
I took your smile to a jeweller with lightless
eyes. Not appreciating its magic, he beat it
into a ring. Too strong to break, it shone serenely.
It glowed with a complacency
that was somehow not unappealing.
Transparent, like a fine strand of hair in my hand,
a river of milk, it already had an air of immortality
unjustified and thus dangerous. Yet, captivating.
Now, it was invincible.
And so, now that you are travelling into a world
of shadows, your eyes in the gloom, even as
they look at me, I give you back your smile.
I will wrap it around your finger. May it
lead you back into the light, back to where
you were, back into the centre of my life.
And maybe, one day, you’ll smile at me again.
- - -
Adreyo Sen, based in Kolkata, hopes to become a full-time writer. She did her undergraduate work in English and her postgraduate work in English and Sociology. Adreyo has been published in Danse Macabre and Kritya.
Wednesday, April 24, 2013
4/24/13
Serendipity
By Bob Skoggins
I thought I was experiencing the worst day of my life, but the man next to me explained otherwise. I did not know the man, but he knew who I was and what had happened to me.
Earlier that morning my alarm did not go off. It was my first day of work. I had gotten a secretary position for a private business owner. Work started at eight. I looked at the clock and panicked, grabbing any clothes I could find and running out the door. I couldn’t find my shoes so settled on the leather sandles my cousin, Fiona, had gotten me. It was twenty degrees outside.
I missed the first bus by thirty seconds and had to wait twenty minutes for the next one to come. When I got to work, my boss was not there. Only the janitor, quietly sweeping the halls. I sat down, and for the entire day did nothing.
I left at three, thinking I’d blown my chance. I would have to explain the next day why I was late. He would fire me.
As I sat down on a bench, waiting for a bus to take me home, I saw Fiona’s husband. He smiled and pointed at my sandles. We laughed. “Isn’t it a little cold for those?” he said.
“I just love them so much,” I said.
The bus was crowded when I got on. I was forced to sit by a man in raggedy clothes. He had a long white beard and grey eyes. He glanced at me. “Young lady,” he said. “This is one of the best days of your life.”
“Everything’s gone wrong today,” I said.
He smiled. “If you'd made it to the first bus, you would have been pick-pocketed by a stranger. If you had been to work on time you would have been fired like the other secretary. If you hadn’t worn those sandles, you would have never gotten another gift from Fiona because she'd never seen you wear them. If you hadn’t been on this bus, you wouldn’t have bumped into your future husband.”
I paused. “I haven’t bumped into anybody.” He smiled. The bus creaked to a stop. It was my stop. “I have to go now,” I said.
“Then go,” he said.
I turned to look at him as I stepped onto the curb and bumped into a man on his cell phone. He tripped and dropped his phone in the street. “I’m so sorry!” I said.
He looked at me and smiled. The old man waved as the bus rolled away.
- - -
Bob Skoggins is a writer, cartoonist, and musician based in Arkansas.
By Bob Skoggins
I thought I was experiencing the worst day of my life, but the man next to me explained otherwise. I did not know the man, but he knew who I was and what had happened to me.
Earlier that morning my alarm did not go off. It was my first day of work. I had gotten a secretary position for a private business owner. Work started at eight. I looked at the clock and panicked, grabbing any clothes I could find and running out the door. I couldn’t find my shoes so settled on the leather sandles my cousin, Fiona, had gotten me. It was twenty degrees outside.
I missed the first bus by thirty seconds and had to wait twenty minutes for the next one to come. When I got to work, my boss was not there. Only the janitor, quietly sweeping the halls. I sat down, and for the entire day did nothing.
I left at three, thinking I’d blown my chance. I would have to explain the next day why I was late. He would fire me.
As I sat down on a bench, waiting for a bus to take me home, I saw Fiona’s husband. He smiled and pointed at my sandles. We laughed. “Isn’t it a little cold for those?” he said.
“I just love them so much,” I said.
The bus was crowded when I got on. I was forced to sit by a man in raggedy clothes. He had a long white beard and grey eyes. He glanced at me. “Young lady,” he said. “This is one of the best days of your life.”
“Everything’s gone wrong today,” I said.
He smiled. “If you'd made it to the first bus, you would have been pick-pocketed by a stranger. If you had been to work on time you would have been fired like the other secretary. If you hadn’t worn those sandles, you would have never gotten another gift from Fiona because she'd never seen you wear them. If you hadn’t been on this bus, you wouldn’t have bumped into your future husband.”
I paused. “I haven’t bumped into anybody.” He smiled. The bus creaked to a stop. It was my stop. “I have to go now,” I said.
“Then go,” he said.
I turned to look at him as I stepped onto the curb and bumped into a man on his cell phone. He tripped and dropped his phone in the street. “I’m so sorry!” I said.
He looked at me and smiled. The old man waved as the bus rolled away.
- - -
Bob Skoggins is a writer, cartoonist, and musician based in Arkansas.
Tuesday, April 23, 2013
4/23/13
For My Often Forlorn Love
By Scathe meic Beorh
How I would lift her on my fiery wings
and take her high above this motley state
where the best are lacking all good things
and the worst are filled with passionate hate.
But she is a friend of the Bridegroom, as am I.
It is the voice of the Bridegroom she must heed—
so if I save her, then she will love me, though she try
to love Him—and my ancestry must meet her need.
Then would I take her upon flaming wings—
wings set aflame with the fires of Hell,
for I would be a thief of her soul and all good things
the Bridegroom could have given her, and well.
- - -
Scathe meic Beorh is an author and editor who lives with his wife Ember on the Atlantic Coast of Florida. His favorite writer is William Butler Yeats.
By Scathe meic Beorh
How I would lift her on my fiery wings
and take her high above this motley state
where the best are lacking all good things
and the worst are filled with passionate hate.
But she is a friend of the Bridegroom, as am I.
It is the voice of the Bridegroom she must heed—
so if I save her, then she will love me, though she try
to love Him—and my ancestry must meet her need.
Then would I take her upon flaming wings—
wings set aflame with the fires of Hell,
for I would be a thief of her soul and all good things
the Bridegroom could have given her, and well.
- - -
Scathe meic Beorh is an author and editor who lives with his wife Ember on the Atlantic Coast of Florida. His favorite writer is William Butler Yeats.
Monday, April 22, 2013
4/22/13
Moment in a Marriage
By Donal Mahoney
After all these years
my wife at the ironing board,
perfect in panties.
- - -
Donal Mahoney has been married a long time.
Some of his earliest work can be found at http://booksonblog12.blogspot.com/
By Donal Mahoney
After all these years
my wife at the ironing board,
perfect in panties.
- - -
Donal Mahoney has been married a long time.
Some of his earliest work can be found at http://booksonblog12.blogspot.com/
Sunday, April 21, 2013
4/21/13
When He Leaves
By J. M. Tompkins
Standing in the shade of the garage
socks penetrated by the dampness of winter
watching him pick up the black suitcase
and toss it roughly
into the deep gray hatchback. I wrap myself
in my own arms, smile weakly
and shiver.
He stands up straight, turns and all I see are his bright blue eyes
made brighter by his teal polo shirt, a birthday present from me.
The wind fiercely blows and birds flutter to escape,
complaining as they whisk themselves away.
We watch them as he wraps his arm around me,
touching my cheek with his soft lips, I shiver, again,
as the cold rushes up through my feet.
I wonder, why, did I abandon my shoes?
I want to stand here longer to be with him.
I hate the extended goodbyes
waiting all day for him to leave
I hate the days without him
the smell of his natural musk gone.
Let’s just skip this all together and let him stay
no trips.
He releases me, saying he loves me and opens the car door
I run away, into the sunshine so I can watch as long as I can
and I hear the thud behind me and I know he is in the driver’s side.
With the warmth bringing new life I smile, a real smile,
as I enjoy the gift of nature and know, that I am giving him my heart in my expression.
It is my gift for him, a memory, better memory than a wife standing bitter and in distain.
I hear the engine and watch the back of his head look down
he puts the car in gear and adjust the rear view mirror
he turns, flashes a smile and the car moves backward
until he is level with me in my sun.
The window descends just low enough for a quick kiss, a final touch
and there goes the car, down our cracked concrete driveway and into
the perfectly paved road.
I wave two, three and four times as he pulls away
and I am left standing there
listening to the sound of the engine fade.
- - -
J. M. Tompkins is a poet and writer of dystopian fiction. Writing poetry since the age of 14, she published her first poem at the age of 15. An aspiring novelist, she still writes poetry regularly for her blog and magazines.
By J. M. Tompkins
Standing in the shade of the garage
socks penetrated by the dampness of winter
watching him pick up the black suitcase
and toss it roughly
into the deep gray hatchback. I wrap myself
in my own arms, smile weakly
and shiver.
He stands up straight, turns and all I see are his bright blue eyes
made brighter by his teal polo shirt, a birthday present from me.
The wind fiercely blows and birds flutter to escape,
complaining as they whisk themselves away.
We watch them as he wraps his arm around me,
touching my cheek with his soft lips, I shiver, again,
as the cold rushes up through my feet.
I wonder, why, did I abandon my shoes?
I want to stand here longer to be with him.
I hate the extended goodbyes
waiting all day for him to leave
I hate the days without him
the smell of his natural musk gone.
Let’s just skip this all together and let him stay
no trips.
He releases me, saying he loves me and opens the car door
I run away, into the sunshine so I can watch as long as I can
and I hear the thud behind me and I know he is in the driver’s side.
With the warmth bringing new life I smile, a real smile,
as I enjoy the gift of nature and know, that I am giving him my heart in my expression.
It is my gift for him, a memory, better memory than a wife standing bitter and in distain.
I hear the engine and watch the back of his head look down
he puts the car in gear and adjust the rear view mirror
he turns, flashes a smile and the car moves backward
until he is level with me in my sun.
The window descends just low enough for a quick kiss, a final touch
and there goes the car, down our cracked concrete driveway and into
the perfectly paved road.
I wave two, three and four times as he pulls away
and I am left standing there
listening to the sound of the engine fade.
- - -
J. M. Tompkins is a poet and writer of dystopian fiction. Writing poetry since the age of 14, she published her first poem at the age of 15. An aspiring novelist, she still writes poetry regularly for her blog and magazines.
Saturday, April 20, 2013
4/20/13
My Angel
By Adreyo Sen
When my baby was five,
full of sugar and spice,
she told me, “Mommy,
I am going to make an angel
out of ice.”
The ice melted.
My baby broke.
When my baby was seven
and smelt like heaven,
she told me, “Mommy,
I am going to make an angel
from stone.”
The stone cracked.
My baby’s eyes tore.
When my baby was thirteen,
so serious and wired,
she told me, “Mommy,
I am going to make an angel
out of fire.”
The fire died.
My baby’s heart cracked.
When my baby was eighteen,
so soft, so slender,
she told me, “Mommy,
I saw an angel
so loving and tender.”
We did not tell her -
she was looking in the mirror.
- - -
Adreyo Sen, based in Kolkata, hopes to become a full-time writer. She did her undergraduate work in English and her postgraduate work in English and Sociology. Adreyo has been published in Danse Macabre and Kritya.
By Adreyo Sen
When my baby was five,
full of sugar and spice,
she told me, “Mommy,
I am going to make an angel
out of ice.”
The ice melted.
My baby broke.
When my baby was seven
and smelt like heaven,
she told me, “Mommy,
I am going to make an angel
from stone.”
The stone cracked.
My baby’s eyes tore.
When my baby was thirteen,
so serious and wired,
she told me, “Mommy,
I am going to make an angel
out of fire.”
The fire died.
My baby’s heart cracked.
When my baby was eighteen,
so soft, so slender,
she told me, “Mommy,
I saw an angel
so loving and tender.”
We did not tell her -
she was looking in the mirror.
- - -
Adreyo Sen, based in Kolkata, hopes to become a full-time writer. She did her undergraduate work in English and her postgraduate work in English and Sociology. Adreyo has been published in Danse Macabre and Kritya.
Friday, April 19, 2013
4/19/13
Understand
By Chelsey Williams
You don't understand until you do
Broken hearts, shattered, unable to glue
You just don't understand until you do
Anguish and longing, a hostage in my brain
It is certainly enough for a person to feel insane
Anguish and longing, a hostage in my brain
Loving and leaving is no easy feat
Especially when you feel no other can compete
Loving and leaving is no easy feat
You just don't, can't understand… until you do
- - -
Chelsey Williams is new to writing poetry and is using it as a cathartic outlet. She lives in Columbia, MO where she is a caseworker for the mentally ill. Chelsey's main interests include going to live shows, reading, and journaling.
By Chelsey Williams
You don't understand until you do
Broken hearts, shattered, unable to glue
You just don't understand until you do
Anguish and longing, a hostage in my brain
It is certainly enough for a person to feel insane
Anguish and longing, a hostage in my brain
Loving and leaving is no easy feat
Especially when you feel no other can compete
Loving and leaving is no easy feat
You just don't, can't understand… until you do
- - -
Chelsey Williams is new to writing poetry and is using it as a cathartic outlet. She lives in Columbia, MO where she is a caseworker for the mentally ill. Chelsey's main interests include going to live shows, reading, and journaling.
Thursday, April 18, 2013
4/18/13
If I Were Yours
By Alicia Rogers
- - -
By Alicia Rogers
Once there was a girl who met a boy
Oh, how this boy brought her so much joy
Know the hurt that he has felt
He decided to ask a question, knowing the girl’s heart may melt
“If I were yours, how would you be?”
The girl stopped and thought for a minute
“I would be joyous, affectionate, and would want to fill you with glee”
The girl asked the same question
“If I were yours, how would you be?”
The boy smiled and answered with glee
“I would be respectful in every way
And hope to be there for you until our dying day”
“I know your past and you know mine”
You are so caring, understanding, and kind”
The girl, now blushing, softly says
“If I were yours, you would have no more fears”
“I would be there to dry your face of painful tears”
“I would be there to encourage you”
“I just need to know, is everything you are saying true?”
“Like you, I was hurting too”
“Someone tore my heart in two”
The boy told her
“If I were yours, you would feel no more pain”
“Free as a bird, you could rise again”
“No cheating, no lying, or hurtful words”
“Only what God has in store for us in this world”
“You would feel safe in my arms”
“I would never allow you to be harmed”
Looking up at the sky, the color so blue
The girl says to him
“I have been praying so long for someone like you”
“Could you be him? Is this true?”
- - -
Wednesday, April 17, 2013
4/17/13
Anjali
By Adreyo Sen
When you smile, the air seems
a softness on my skin,
a kiss under my eyes.
When you smile, I feel as if,
if I closed my eyes and fell
asleep,
I would wake to find you
in my arms, my hopes
burning bright
on your face.
I hope there are little, lonely
villages and solemn, sandy
shores
where you are always smiling
into the gray of the evening,
bringing a sudden joyful ease
strangely as final as heartbreak
to travellers weary and sick.
I hope that when I wash up at
your feet, you will know me
as I was
when you loved me
and that you will take my hand.
- - -
Adreyo Sen, based in Kolkata, hopes to become a full-time writer. She did her undergraduate work in English and her postgraduate work in English and Sociology. Adreyo has been published in Danse Macabre and Kritya.
By Adreyo Sen
When you smile, the air seems
a softness on my skin,
a kiss under my eyes.
When you smile, I feel as if,
if I closed my eyes and fell
asleep,
I would wake to find you
in my arms, my hopes
burning bright
on your face.
I hope there are little, lonely
villages and solemn, sandy
shores
where you are always smiling
into the gray of the evening,
bringing a sudden joyful ease
strangely as final as heartbreak
to travellers weary and sick.
I hope that when I wash up at
your feet, you will know me
as I was
when you loved me
and that you will take my hand.
- - -
Adreyo Sen, based in Kolkata, hopes to become a full-time writer. She did her undergraduate work in English and her postgraduate work in English and Sociology. Adreyo has been published in Danse Macabre and Kritya.
Tuesday, April 16, 2013
4/16/13
Moment Of Realization
By Alexander Rivera
Day by day we got to know each other
A little more than we did the day before.
Every look in your eyes
Was more enchanting than the other.
Our hearts flourish into red decadence,
And our souls into coral flush.
We had those moments,
Where we could feel rather than think.
And the world seems so fresh and new,
That when I’m with you
Its as if everything just came into existence.
It is as if it were mean to be.
Unchanged and unaltered.
Hand in hand wherever we go
Through life’s tribulations and troubles
We live our lives off these precious moments of love and joy.
- - -
Alexander Rivera is currently a Senior at Cerritos High School. In the fall he will attend the Fashion Institute for Design and Merchandising to start his A.A. in Graphic Design. His artistic works have been featured in Tokyopop.
By Alexander Rivera
Day by day we got to know each other
A little more than we did the day before.
Every look in your eyes
Was more enchanting than the other.
Our hearts flourish into red decadence,
And our souls into coral flush.
We had those moments,
Where we could feel rather than think.
And the world seems so fresh and new,
That when I’m with you
Its as if everything just came into existence.
It is as if it were mean to be.
Unchanged and unaltered.
Hand in hand wherever we go
Through life’s tribulations and troubles
We live our lives off these precious moments of love and joy.
- - -
Alexander Rivera is currently a Senior at Cerritos High School. In the fall he will attend the Fashion Institute for Design and Merchandising to start his A.A. in Graphic Design. His artistic works have been featured in Tokyopop.
Monday, April 15, 2013
4/15/13
I Am In Love Again
By Paul Tristram
It has taken me
three hours to write this.
She has been asleep
in my arms,
while I watched
and listened to
the rhythm of
her breathing.
But finally here it is
in writing.
- - -
Paul Tristram is a Welsh writer who has poems, short stories and sketches published in many publications around the world, he yearns to tattoo porcelain bridesmaids instead of digging empty graves for innocence at midnight, this too may pass, yet.
By Paul Tristram
It has taken me
three hours to write this.
She has been asleep
in my arms,
while I watched
and listened to
the rhythm of
her breathing.
But finally here it is
in writing.
- - -
Paul Tristram is a Welsh writer who has poems, short stories and sketches published in many publications around the world, he yearns to tattoo porcelain bridesmaids instead of digging empty graves for innocence at midnight, this too may pass, yet.
Sunday, April 14, 2013
4/14/13
Color
By Lheydrian Martinez
Color
Gray streaks poking through the pale sky
Flowers peering through the blackened dirt
Blends of gray
Stirs of white
Dashes of black
A gray world
She
Greens
The tops of evergreens
The grass of a meadow
Blues
The underbelly of a blue jay
The color of sea glass hit by the sun
Pinks
The cotton candy at a carnival
The buds of tulips
Browns
The golden bronze coins
The sticks of broken cinnamon
Her image
Full blown color
Her skin porcelain
Soft like the inside of a rose
Her existence
Her very being awakened the world around me
Golden rays
Touching upon treetops
Patches of rubies
Growing upon emerald meadows
I was once content with a gray world
- - -
Lheydrian Martinez is an aspiring poet currently attending Cerritos High school. She draws inspiration from experience and indie singer Lana Del Rey.
By Lheydrian Martinez
Color
Gray streaks poking through the pale sky
Flowers peering through the blackened dirt
Blends of gray
Stirs of white
Dashes of black
A gray world
She
Greens
The tops of evergreens
The grass of a meadow
Blues
The underbelly of a blue jay
The color of sea glass hit by the sun
Pinks
The cotton candy at a carnival
The buds of tulips
Browns
The golden bronze coins
The sticks of broken cinnamon
Her image
Full blown color
Her skin porcelain
Soft like the inside of a rose
Her existence
Her very being awakened the world around me
Golden rays
Touching upon treetops
Patches of rubies
Growing upon emerald meadows
I was once content with a gray world
- - -
Lheydrian Martinez is an aspiring poet currently attending Cerritos High school. She draws inspiration from experience and indie singer Lana Del Rey.
Saturday, April 13, 2013
4/13/13
The Word Love
By Amy Eyre
- - -
Amy Eyre has written 4 self published chapbooks; How Ugly It Is to Eat Apples, Pele the Volcano Goddess Out on the Front Lawn, Words from the Moon and A Kiss Smacked Crimson Upon Your Poppy Lips. Native of Delaware, Amy Eyre has competed in Slam Competitions in New York City, Baltimore and D.C. Amy has also been published in Dream Streets Magazine.
By Amy Eyre
When I fell in love with you it wasn't any small thing.
The emotional bloodletting that the word Love had always brought me
made me hard against its meaning.
My heart was a stone when I first saw your face.
You were black leather, shades, shimmering bright light and cigarettes beautiful.
You had a voice that signaled out into my deep space;
a beacon guiding me into unknown territory.
Your baritone caught my ear like a sweet melody.
I could not help but listen; singing along helplessly.
I tried to think of the sweetness of your kiss;
a sensual breath laced with passionate speech.
I wasn't looking for your love...that word again...that pretty bitter word;
perpetually wrapped all around and inside out of man and woman.
Invariably there is heartache ready to dilute the meaning from the definition.
I desired you. I feared you;
terrified of enduring another crack in my heart.
Thor's hammer continually at the ready
to crush Eros and his Arrows to dust for me to swallow.
One day I saw you sleeping.
In your slumber the radiance of angels surrounded you;
punk rock and poetry lousy with golden light.
I felt something inside my chest break free.
Marble shattering; a statue coming to life; I cracked opened.
My exposed organ throbbed and raced vigorously.
I felt softness and beauty grab at the pith of my grit like thieves.
The word “love” hijacked my vocabulary; wrote your name inside my soul as if it were a locket,
imprinting itself upon my blood stream like a drug.
I was struck through by an errant arrow as you leaned in to kiss me with your sweet lips.
I watched as Eros danced away from the scene;
a blithe smile upon his Cherubic face.
- - -
Amy Eyre has written 4 self published chapbooks; How Ugly It Is to Eat Apples, Pele the Volcano Goddess Out on the Front Lawn, Words from the Moon and A Kiss Smacked Crimson Upon Your Poppy Lips. Native of Delaware, Amy Eyre has competed in Slam Competitions in New York City, Baltimore and D.C. Amy has also been published in Dream Streets Magazine.
Friday, April 12, 2013
4/12/13
Go Away
By Alexander Rivera
I will destroy the pictures that remind me about you.
I will burn the letters you once wrote to me.
I will throw out the memories that we created together.
Now those things seem to be useless.
I wish you would just die.
I will erase you from my life.
You and I are no longer alive.
I will throw out your presents, hugs and kisses.
Even if I have to lose my mind
You used to be mine.
You will no longer be part of my life
My eyes will not see you again
I will throw you out of my life.
I don’t care what happens to you
I have to throw you out of my heart.
- - -
Alexander Rivera is currently a Senior at Cerritos High School. In the fall he will attend the Fashion Institute for Design and Merchandising to start his A.A. in Graphic Design. His artistic works have been featured in Tokyopop.
By Alexander Rivera
I will destroy the pictures that remind me about you.
I will burn the letters you once wrote to me.
I will throw out the memories that we created together.
Now those things seem to be useless.
I wish you would just die.
I will erase you from my life.
You and I are no longer alive.
I will throw out your presents, hugs and kisses.
Even if I have to lose my mind
You used to be mine.
You will no longer be part of my life
My eyes will not see you again
I will throw you out of my life.
I don’t care what happens to you
I have to throw you out of my heart.
- - -
Alexander Rivera is currently a Senior at Cerritos High School. In the fall he will attend the Fashion Institute for Design and Merchandising to start his A.A. in Graphic Design. His artistic works have been featured in Tokyopop.
Thursday, April 11, 2013
4/11/13
California Love
By Sofia Diana Gabel
Jake sat on his oversized beach towel and watched the squawking seagulls swoop down from the blue sky to land on the warm sand at the water’s edge. Two children giggled as they played in the surf under the watchful eye of their mother. It was a wonderful southern California day, a perfect end to the summer.
Tomorrow Jake would start college, leaving his high school years behind. He’d adjust, after all, it was a new beginning, an exciting new adventure. But there was a part missing that he’d never forget. Perhaps the most important part of all. That part was Maddie. Beautiful, vibrant, funny, intelligent Maddie.
They’d been together since junior high, voted ‘best couple’ in the year book, and were prom king and queen in high school. They were soul mates. Maddie, with her California blonde hair and sparkling ocean-blue eyes, loved to laugh, and he loved to hear her laugh. But that laugh was gone now. The only sound was the breaking of the waves and the crying of the sea gulls.
He missed her. They’d shared so much and had grown more close over the years. How could it be over? How could he go through another day without her smile and soft touch? In the worst situations, Maddie was there to give him support and love when he needed it most. All it took was her hand in his and he knew everything would work out. And it always did.
The ocean waves rushed in with the high tide, coming closer to his towel. He didn’t want to move. It was their place, his and Maddie’s. Their summer routine was to spend the morning at the beach and then head off to the park where Maddie would read to him under the canopy of the trees. Everything was right with the world when he was with her.
A cool mist of sea spray drifted up from the waves. He closed his eyes. He remembered so clearly that day at the airport when Maddie had left for Africa. They’d only graduated the week before, but it was an opportunity Maddie couldn’t pass up, and he didn’t want her to pass it up. Spending the summer in Africa, working at an orphanage was Maddie’s dream. She loved children. They kept in touch, writing and emailing every day, exchanging photos of Africa and California.
Then came a message Jake wished he’d never seen. Maddie wanted to stay. She couldn’t bear leaving the children. They needed her. While Jake needed her as well, he realized that he didn’t have the right to have her all to himself. When she’d asked him to go to Africa, he’d thought about it, even worked out the details. Then his mother became ill. He couldn’t leave now.
He knew in his heart that Maddie would find someone else and move on with her life. He wasn’t so sure, though, that he could. Or that he wanted to. He opened his eyes. The sun was going down, painting the sky a brilliant orange and pink. He stood up and shook the sand from the towel.
The waves beat out a gentle rhythm, whoosh-whoosh, whoosh-whoosh. It was Maddie’s heartbeat. He put the towel away in his backpack and slipped on his sandals. Time to put away the memories. There was no more high school and no more Maddie.
Jake strolled down the beach toward the parking lot, but after placing the backpack on the front seat of his car, he decided to take another walk. It wasn’t far. It would be the final act that would shut the door on his dreams. He walked along the footpath until he saw the familiar trees with their spreading canopies. Was he really ready to move on? Could he ever forget Maddie? He’d have to try.
The park was deserted, roped off with yellow tape. He walked closer. A small sign hanging from the tape said ‘Caution: closed for repairs’. Several trees were splintered and on the ground. Jake had to laugh. It was just like his heart. Broken and closed for repairs.
He stood for a few minutes in the last blush of the sunset. The air turned chilly. It was time to go. Time to start his new life. He’d keep Maddie’s memory tucked away in his heart and bring her out whenever he needed her.
He took a final look at the park and turned away. Life was about new beginnings, and holding on to memories. He walked back toward his car, but stopped. Something nagged at him, begging him to go back, to relive his days with Maddie.
He jogged back to the park and climbed over the yellow tape and sat on the trunk of the fallen tree that used to be theirs. His hand rested on a small carving, and even though he couldn’t see it in the dark, he knew it was a tiny heart he’d carved on Maddie’s sixteenth birthday. The day they pledged to always be together.
He traced the outline of the heart. A soft rustle made him turn. There was a figure, silhouetted in the darkness, standing at the edge of the park. Could it be?
“Maddie?”
“Jake?”
He ran to her. “What are you doing here?”
“I couldn’t stay away. I love you too much to leave you.”
He hopped over the tape. “But what about Africa? The children?”
She smiled and wiped her tears. “I’m heading up an adoption service in California. We can be together, Jake. Forever, like we planned. And I have a crazy idea.”
“What’s that?”
“Let’s get married here, in the park.”
They embraced like they’d never been apart. He saw the closed sign sway in the breeze. Maddie had come back. She’d torn down his own ‘closed’ sign and opened the door to his heart again. They’d be together now, two people sharing one love that would burn strong like the California sun, never fading and never ending.
- - -
I was born in Sydney, Australia but now live in southern California with my three amazing daughers and three equally amazing hairless Sphynx cats. I have a few publishing credits; historical women's fiction novel, A Woman's Way, a science fiction novella, The Clean Slate Accord, and a historical romantic suspense, Charity's Heart, all published under my pen name, Sofia Diana Gabel. I have also had a short story, Seconds, published in an anthology and won first place in an international short story contest for Love's Lost.
By Sofia Diana Gabel
Jake sat on his oversized beach towel and watched the squawking seagulls swoop down from the blue sky to land on the warm sand at the water’s edge. Two children giggled as they played in the surf under the watchful eye of their mother. It was a wonderful southern California day, a perfect end to the summer.
Tomorrow Jake would start college, leaving his high school years behind. He’d adjust, after all, it was a new beginning, an exciting new adventure. But there was a part missing that he’d never forget. Perhaps the most important part of all. That part was Maddie. Beautiful, vibrant, funny, intelligent Maddie.
They’d been together since junior high, voted ‘best couple’ in the year book, and were prom king and queen in high school. They were soul mates. Maddie, with her California blonde hair and sparkling ocean-blue eyes, loved to laugh, and he loved to hear her laugh. But that laugh was gone now. The only sound was the breaking of the waves and the crying of the sea gulls.
He missed her. They’d shared so much and had grown more close over the years. How could it be over? How could he go through another day without her smile and soft touch? In the worst situations, Maddie was there to give him support and love when he needed it most. All it took was her hand in his and he knew everything would work out. And it always did.
The ocean waves rushed in with the high tide, coming closer to his towel. He didn’t want to move. It was their place, his and Maddie’s. Their summer routine was to spend the morning at the beach and then head off to the park where Maddie would read to him under the canopy of the trees. Everything was right with the world when he was with her.
A cool mist of sea spray drifted up from the waves. He closed his eyes. He remembered so clearly that day at the airport when Maddie had left for Africa. They’d only graduated the week before, but it was an opportunity Maddie couldn’t pass up, and he didn’t want her to pass it up. Spending the summer in Africa, working at an orphanage was Maddie’s dream. She loved children. They kept in touch, writing and emailing every day, exchanging photos of Africa and California.
Then came a message Jake wished he’d never seen. Maddie wanted to stay. She couldn’t bear leaving the children. They needed her. While Jake needed her as well, he realized that he didn’t have the right to have her all to himself. When she’d asked him to go to Africa, he’d thought about it, even worked out the details. Then his mother became ill. He couldn’t leave now.
He knew in his heart that Maddie would find someone else and move on with her life. He wasn’t so sure, though, that he could. Or that he wanted to. He opened his eyes. The sun was going down, painting the sky a brilliant orange and pink. He stood up and shook the sand from the towel.
The waves beat out a gentle rhythm, whoosh-whoosh, whoosh-whoosh. It was Maddie’s heartbeat. He put the towel away in his backpack and slipped on his sandals. Time to put away the memories. There was no more high school and no more Maddie.
Jake strolled down the beach toward the parking lot, but after placing the backpack on the front seat of his car, he decided to take another walk. It wasn’t far. It would be the final act that would shut the door on his dreams. He walked along the footpath until he saw the familiar trees with their spreading canopies. Was he really ready to move on? Could he ever forget Maddie? He’d have to try.
The park was deserted, roped off with yellow tape. He walked closer. A small sign hanging from the tape said ‘Caution: closed for repairs’. Several trees were splintered and on the ground. Jake had to laugh. It was just like his heart. Broken and closed for repairs.
He stood for a few minutes in the last blush of the sunset. The air turned chilly. It was time to go. Time to start his new life. He’d keep Maddie’s memory tucked away in his heart and bring her out whenever he needed her.
He took a final look at the park and turned away. Life was about new beginnings, and holding on to memories. He walked back toward his car, but stopped. Something nagged at him, begging him to go back, to relive his days with Maddie.
He jogged back to the park and climbed over the yellow tape and sat on the trunk of the fallen tree that used to be theirs. His hand rested on a small carving, and even though he couldn’t see it in the dark, he knew it was a tiny heart he’d carved on Maddie’s sixteenth birthday. The day they pledged to always be together.
He traced the outline of the heart. A soft rustle made him turn. There was a figure, silhouetted in the darkness, standing at the edge of the park. Could it be?
“Maddie?”
“Jake?”
He ran to her. “What are you doing here?”
“I couldn’t stay away. I love you too much to leave you.”
He hopped over the tape. “But what about Africa? The children?”
She smiled and wiped her tears. “I’m heading up an adoption service in California. We can be together, Jake. Forever, like we planned. And I have a crazy idea.”
“What’s that?”
“Let’s get married here, in the park.”
They embraced like they’d never been apart. He saw the closed sign sway in the breeze. Maddie had come back. She’d torn down his own ‘closed’ sign and opened the door to his heart again. They’d be together now, two people sharing one love that would burn strong like the California sun, never fading and never ending.
- - -
I was born in Sydney, Australia but now live in southern California with my three amazing daughers and three equally amazing hairless Sphynx cats. I have a few publishing credits; historical women's fiction novel, A Woman's Way, a science fiction novella, The Clean Slate Accord, and a historical romantic suspense, Charity's Heart, all published under my pen name, Sofia Diana Gabel. I have also had a short story, Seconds, published in an anthology and won first place in an international short story contest for Love's Lost.
Wednesday, April 10, 2013
4/10/13
SEDUCE ME...
By Stacy Maddox
Please be mine and set me free
Let truth fall, from whispering lips
Unveil the way you covet solely me
In a caress of longing fingertips
Keep me close with the awakening of dawn
Murmur dark secrets, kiss me with fire
Weaken my senses, until I am gone
Tantalize my needs with every ounce of desire
Blazon my dewy skin with a slow hand
Leave a burning trail where bliss explores
Your pleasure is only my greatest demand
Falling as a feather, suspended over the floor
Tempt me over and over, from my liquid dreams
Tangled in white linen and gossamer pillowslip
Dancing languidly between slanted moonbeams
Quivering breathlessly where passions drip
Seduce me...
- - -
Stacy Maddox lives, dreams and writes in the fast-paced city of Lawrence, KS. She loves to soak up the sun by the river and feel the rush of water over her feet while spending time with her family and pets. Stacy has been published in Long Story Short, ken*again, Daily Love, The Entroper, Emerge Literary Journal, Three Line Poetry, The Fat City Review, Eskimo Pie, Mused: The BellaOnline Literary Review, Euphemism and more. She has been passionate about art in any form for over 30 years.
By Stacy Maddox
Please be mine and set me free
Let truth fall, from whispering lips
Unveil the way you covet solely me
In a caress of longing fingertips
Keep me close with the awakening of dawn
Murmur dark secrets, kiss me with fire
Weaken my senses, until I am gone
Tantalize my needs with every ounce of desire
Blazon my dewy skin with a slow hand
Leave a burning trail where bliss explores
Your pleasure is only my greatest demand
Falling as a feather, suspended over the floor
Tempt me over and over, from my liquid dreams
Tangled in white linen and gossamer pillowslip
Dancing languidly between slanted moonbeams
Quivering breathlessly where passions drip
Seduce me...
- - -
Stacy Maddox lives, dreams and writes in the fast-paced city of Lawrence, KS. She loves to soak up the sun by the river and feel the rush of water over her feet while spending time with her family and pets. Stacy has been published in Long Story Short, ken*again, Daily Love, The Entroper, Emerge Literary Journal, Three Line Poetry, The Fat City Review, Eskimo Pie, Mused: The BellaOnline Literary Review, Euphemism and more. She has been passionate about art in any form for over 30 years.
Tuesday, April 9, 2013
4/9/13
Untitled
By Paul Um
The reason why I love you,
Is because you gave me a heart.
My love grew for you, and that was just the start.
Me and you make a team; With you I’m complete.
Me and you together, we can never face defeat.
I miss the early mornings and late nights.
I even miss all the fussing and fights.
Young and sprung we thought this would go forever.
To part you? In my mind that was never.
Who knew that this would all end so quick.
Who know that this world could make you feel so sick.
The day you left me I was scarred for life.
I was mad at God, we were in a deep strife.
You disappeared so quick and so suddenly,
That it left my state of mind trapped in deep custody.
I realized how lucky I was to have you by my side,
And tears won’t bring you back, I know because I cried.
Someday soon I will visit you over there.
The time until then, my heart will be in repair.
I love you forever, and that I can promise,
I won’t forget the 13th of that late summer August.
- - -
Paul Um is a high school writer from Los Angeles, California. He currently attends Cerritos High School. Paul loves art and expressing what he has on his mind.
By Paul Um
The reason why I love you,
Is because you gave me a heart.
My love grew for you, and that was just the start.
Me and you make a team; With you I’m complete.
Me and you together, we can never face defeat.
I miss the early mornings and late nights.
I even miss all the fussing and fights.
Young and sprung we thought this would go forever.
To part you? In my mind that was never.
Who knew that this would all end so quick.
Who know that this world could make you feel so sick.
The day you left me I was scarred for life.
I was mad at God, we were in a deep strife.
You disappeared so quick and so suddenly,
That it left my state of mind trapped in deep custody.
I realized how lucky I was to have you by my side,
And tears won’t bring you back, I know because I cried.
Someday soon I will visit you over there.
The time until then, my heart will be in repair.
I love you forever, and that I can promise,
I won’t forget the 13th of that late summer August.
- - -
Paul Um is a high school writer from Los Angeles, California. He currently attends Cerritos High School. Paul loves art and expressing what he has on his mind.
Monday, April 8, 2013
4/8/13
Love A Little
By Michael Tyler
I'm lying on a firm double mattress, on dull white sheets, a dark green patterned duvet pulled to my waist. It is three in the morning, I have not slept, and as she lays there beside me I stroke her neck, believe I see a welcoming smile, I fancy she is willing me to murder.
Five months earlier;
we both attend a film festival popular with people in search of empty seats in darkened rooms.
She sits three seats down and two across and as she removes her jacket I spy on her shoulder a tattoo.
“Lucifer?”
She turns and grins ... nothing friendly, something mechanical, as if to grin at a stranger's voice is preconceived.
A noticeable pause, and then
“I prefer Bealzabub.”
I have nothing more. I almost lose all and the fear comes over me as I silently twist, but she rescues me with a smile, an 'honest to God' smile. She turns to the screen as the curtains part.
We sit silent throughout. We sit in our own seats in our own rows but as we leave we turn down the same corridor, make way down the same stairs to sit at the same bright orange booth.
I order fries and a hotdog and she mentions Freud, I reply 'Pavlov' and she fires back 'ding ding' and I am forever one step behind although she will rarely let on.
Simply a kiss, a closed lip kiss that surprises me one morning.
A closed lipped 'out the door' kiss that speaks of intimacy, of 'I need you' or - perhaps more frightening - 'you need me too'.
She lies next to me, the mattress shifts, her face on my shoulder, her hair in my mouth, I flick it away.
I lean and plant a kiss, a wet sloppy kiss she'll be sure to wipe.
She scrunches her face and with eyes closed whispers "You know what they say hun" - god I love it when she calls me hun - “when you dance with the devil ...” she giggles and squeezes my hand.
I know the rest, when you dance with the devil you wait for the song to stop.
- - -
Michael Tyler writes from a shack on a cliff overlooking the ocean just south of the edge of the world. Michael has been fortunate enough to have been published in several literary magazines and continues to plan for a short story collection to be published some time before the Andromeda Galaxy collides with ours and the lights go out for good ...
By Michael Tyler
I'm lying on a firm double mattress, on dull white sheets, a dark green patterned duvet pulled to my waist. It is three in the morning, I have not slept, and as she lays there beside me I stroke her neck, believe I see a welcoming smile, I fancy she is willing me to murder.
#
Five months earlier;
we both attend a film festival popular with people in search of empty seats in darkened rooms.
She sits three seats down and two across and as she removes her jacket I spy on her shoulder a tattoo.
“Lucifer?”
She turns and grins ... nothing friendly, something mechanical, as if to grin at a stranger's voice is preconceived.
A noticeable pause, and then
“I prefer Bealzabub.”
I have nothing more. I almost lose all and the fear comes over me as I silently twist, but she rescues me with a smile, an 'honest to God' smile. She turns to the screen as the curtains part.
We sit silent throughout. We sit in our own seats in our own rows but as we leave we turn down the same corridor, make way down the same stairs to sit at the same bright orange booth.
I order fries and a hotdog and she mentions Freud, I reply 'Pavlov' and she fires back 'ding ding' and I am forever one step behind although she will rarely let on.
#
Simply a kiss, a closed lip kiss that surprises me one morning.
A closed lipped 'out the door' kiss that speaks of intimacy, of 'I need you' or - perhaps more frightening - 'you need me too'.
#
She lies next to me, the mattress shifts, her face on my shoulder, her hair in my mouth, I flick it away.
I lean and plant a kiss, a wet sloppy kiss she'll be sure to wipe.
She scrunches her face and with eyes closed whispers "You know what they say hun" - god I love it when she calls me hun - “when you dance with the devil ...” she giggles and squeezes my hand.
I know the rest, when you dance with the devil you wait for the song to stop.
- - -
Michael Tyler writes from a shack on a cliff overlooking the ocean just south of the edge of the world. Michael has been fortunate enough to have been published in several literary magazines and continues to plan for a short story collection to be published some time before the Andromeda Galaxy collides with ours and the lights go out for good ...
Sunday, April 7, 2013
4/7/13
999,920 More Years
By Aeia Abas
A million years
would it take
to love you
and not be shamed.
But I'm an amateur.
You're the Bible
in the arms
of an illiterate.
You paint the world
with every breath,
while I merely bathe
in your colors.
And though I speak
more than I should,
I'd gladly go mute,
if I could just hear you;
Your laughter, your rants,
The click of your tongue,
Your indecisive hum,
the sound of your breathing.
And then I swear it's true,
Reincarnation,
Because I see no reason
in a world lacking you.
I know it's pointless,
to even try to describe.
I'm given 80 years
In what takes one million
But you don't see,
and that's why I speak.
So you’ll finally know
you are the reason.
For everything
beautiful, sweet,
grand, and real;
you’re the reason.
And I’ve failed
on this dying day.
If God would only give
999,920 more years...
- - -
Aeia Abas, wherever she may be, commits to a life of spontaneity with her pen and forever unfilled cup. She writes for her own well-being, though happy to inspire. She can be contacted at aeiaabas@gmail.com.
By Aeia Abas
A million years
would it take
to love you
and not be shamed.
But I'm an amateur.
You're the Bible
in the arms
of an illiterate.
You paint the world
with every breath,
while I merely bathe
in your colors.
And though I speak
more than I should,
I'd gladly go mute,
if I could just hear you;
Your laughter, your rants,
The click of your tongue,
Your indecisive hum,
the sound of your breathing.
And then I swear it's true,
Reincarnation,
Because I see no reason
in a world lacking you.
I know it's pointless,
to even try to describe.
I'm given 80 years
In what takes one million
But you don't see,
and that's why I speak.
So you’ll finally know
you are the reason.
For everything
beautiful, sweet,
grand, and real;
you’re the reason.
And I’ve failed
on this dying day.
If God would only give
999,920 more years...
- - -
Aeia Abas, wherever she may be, commits to a life of spontaneity with her pen and forever unfilled cup. She writes for her own well-being, though happy to inspire. She can be contacted at aeiaabas@gmail.com.
Saturday, April 6, 2013
4/6/13
Along The Lake
By Brandon Barrows
The setting sun cast red-gold fingers across the water as Max walked the length of the dock where Jessie dangled her feet.
He sat and dipped his own toes. From the corner of his eye, Max could see her runny mascara and red-rimmed eyes.
After a moment, he broke the silence, “Hey.”
Jessie replied “You can say it, you know.” Max said nothing. She continued, “You knew he was a jerk all along.”
Max slipped his arm around his sister’s shoulders and squeezed. “I don’t need to.”
She leaned into him and watched as the sun slipped behind the horizon.
- - -
Brandon Barrows writes comic books prodigiously and flirts with poetry and prose. His award-nominated detective series JACK HAMMER is published by Action Lab Comics, and his graphic novel VOYAGA was recently published by AAM/Markosia. His poetry is scheduled to appear in Scifaikuest and his prose has been published by Cruentus Libri Press and Linguistic Erosion.
By Brandon Barrows
The setting sun cast red-gold fingers across the water as Max walked the length of the dock where Jessie dangled her feet.
He sat and dipped his own toes. From the corner of his eye, Max could see her runny mascara and red-rimmed eyes.
After a moment, he broke the silence, “Hey.”
Jessie replied “You can say it, you know.” Max said nothing. She continued, “You knew he was a jerk all along.”
Max slipped his arm around his sister’s shoulders and squeezed. “I don’t need to.”
She leaned into him and watched as the sun slipped behind the horizon.
- - -
Brandon Barrows writes comic books prodigiously and flirts with poetry and prose. His award-nominated detective series JACK HAMMER is published by Action Lab Comics, and his graphic novel VOYAGA was recently published by AAM/Markosia. His poetry is scheduled to appear in Scifaikuest and his prose has been published by Cruentus Libri Press and Linguistic Erosion.
Friday, April 5, 2013
4/5/13
Early Morning
By Stephanie Lynch
The 6 am buzzer sounds
the sun slides in under the shade
Rumpled bedding, a pillow on the floor
vestiges of a dream
An old lover and a familiar place
trying to hold on as it fades away
Start the old coffee pot
Teeth brushed, mug filled, sitting at the table
Slowly coming to
the reality of the day
- - -
Stephanie is a psychotherapist who works with women, helping them to understand and over come the stresses of life and relationships.
By Stephanie Lynch
The 6 am buzzer sounds
the sun slides in under the shade
Rumpled bedding, a pillow on the floor
vestiges of a dream
An old lover and a familiar place
trying to hold on as it fades away
Start the old coffee pot
Teeth brushed, mug filled, sitting at the table
Slowly coming to
the reality of the day
- - -
Stephanie is a psychotherapist who works with women, helping them to understand and over come the stresses of life and relationships.
Thursday, April 4, 2013
4/4/13
Will You
By Stacy Maddox
If I come to you soft and slow
Will you
Covet me in your warm arms
In tonight's full moonglow
I am vulnerable, supple, desirous
Will you
Dance with me here and now
For a moment in candlelight
Shadows entangled on silent walls
Will you
Kiss my lips with all-consuming passion
Surrendering your body and soul
Ready for a touch from your hands
Will you
Caress my skin with oily fingertips
Stoking smoldering flames higher
Neverending, always a new beginning
Will you
Lead me to our secluded hideaway
Surrounded only by each other
You speak words of love
Will you
Accept an open invitation
To etch our names through stars.
- - -
Stacy Maddox lives, dreams and writes in the fast-paced city of Lawrence, KS. She loves to soak up the sun by the river and feel the rush of water over her feet while spending time with her family and pets. Stacy has been published in Long Story Short, ken*again, Daily Love, The Entroper, Emerge Literary Journal, Three Line Poetry, The Fat City Review, Eskimo Pie, Mused: The BellaOnline Literary Review, Euphemism and more. She has been passionate about art in any form for over 30 years.
By Stacy Maddox
If I come to you soft and slow
Will you
Covet me in your warm arms
In tonight's full moonglow
I am vulnerable, supple, desirous
Will you
Dance with me here and now
For a moment in candlelight
Shadows entangled on silent walls
Will you
Kiss my lips with all-consuming passion
Surrendering your body and soul
Ready for a touch from your hands
Will you
Caress my skin with oily fingertips
Stoking smoldering flames higher
Neverending, always a new beginning
Will you
Lead me to our secluded hideaway
Surrounded only by each other
You speak words of love
Will you
Accept an open invitation
To etch our names through stars.
- - -
Stacy Maddox lives, dreams and writes in the fast-paced city of Lawrence, KS. She loves to soak up the sun by the river and feel the rush of water over her feet while spending time with her family and pets. Stacy has been published in Long Story Short, ken*again, Daily Love, The Entroper, Emerge Literary Journal, Three Line Poetry, The Fat City Review, Eskimo Pie, Mused: The BellaOnline Literary Review, Euphemism and more. She has been passionate about art in any form for over 30 years.
Wednesday, April 3, 2013
4/3/13
Beelzebub in the Ointment
By Quinn Tyler Jackson
Sean Fitzpatrick lived in a cheap but clean, almost completely empty hotel room above the Manhattan Nightly, the pound and throb from which came the cheap weekly rate for the room. From eight in the evening to two every morning, his room was an unbearable thunderstorm of dance mixes and howling college students looking to get together with other howling college students and share a few hormones. Sean, however, was in love with the most beautiful woman in the world.
Sean had spent the greater part of his life never fitting in anywhere or with anyone. His brief and numerous encounters with women over his life had given him the confidence that it was also not his appearance or his charm that had put him in the oubliette. Sean came to the conclusion that he was uncommon.
When he came to know the most beautiful woman in the world, however, Sean finally felt that even an uncommon man could be happy. So now, as he scratched poetry at eleven o’ clock at night above the noisy pit below his simple, nearly empty room, he did not feel empty or alone.
As Sean put back another glass of vodka, neat, he was happy that she greeted him so warmly and that her name wasn't Shirley Temple.
- - -
By Quinn Tyler Jackson
Sean Fitzpatrick lived in a cheap but clean, almost completely empty hotel room above the Manhattan Nightly, the pound and throb from which came the cheap weekly rate for the room. From eight in the evening to two every morning, his room was an unbearable thunderstorm of dance mixes and howling college students looking to get together with other howling college students and share a few hormones. Sean, however, was in love with the most beautiful woman in the world.
Sean had spent the greater part of his life never fitting in anywhere or with anyone. His brief and numerous encounters with women over his life had given him the confidence that it was also not his appearance or his charm that had put him in the oubliette. Sean came to the conclusion that he was uncommon.
When he came to know the most beautiful woman in the world, however, Sean finally felt that even an uncommon man could be happy. So now, as he scratched poetry at eleven o’ clock at night above the noisy pit below his simple, nearly empty room, he did not feel empty or alone.
As Sean put back another glass of vodka, neat, he was happy that she greeted him so warmly and that her name wasn't Shirley Temple.
- - -
Tuesday, April 2, 2013
4/2/13
A Night with the Senator
By John Laneri
It was a Saturday afternoon when Senator Thadeus Osborne stopped at Aunt Jillie's Boarding House, a place most folks consider to be the finest establishment in Neverton, a small community along the cattle trail to Fort Worth.
Not to be outdone, it's proprietress, a lady with bright red hair and soft green eyes, known throughout the state as 'Aunt Jillie' possessed all the charm that many a gentlemen as well as a senior senator expected in a woman.
She was waiting when the Senator's carriage arrived at her front gate.
After greeting one another, they spent most of the afternoon sitting in her back yard where they talked and sipped whiskey together. Later that evening, they ate a home style meal consisting of a slow cooked pot roast garnished with new potatoes and fresh green beans grown in her garden.
Once they had become thoroughly filled with food, they drifted to her front porch for a breath of fresh air.
“That sounds wonderful,” she said to the Senator. “So you’re planning to have the legislature proclaim a day in my honor.”
“That’s exactly what I’m thinkin’ little lady. It’s time for folks to appreciate working girls.”
“I never knew we were so important.”
“You provide the world a healthy service.”
“I have to admit we do offer fellows a lively diversion.”
The Senator took a draw on his cigar, the glow illuminating his rotund belly and sagging jowls.
Blowing smoke her way, he went on to say, “I can picture the governor now, standing on his podium in front of the capitol building, proclaiming a day in your honor. I suspect there’ll be cheering crowds and gentlemen traveling in from far and wide. Why hell, before I’m done, the President in Washington might even declare a national holiday for all workin' girls.”
Jillie fanned at the smoke then said, “Just naming a holiday after me is reason enough to be proud.”
“It’s my pleasure... Why it seems, I’m always telling friends at the capitol that fine ladies deserve rewarding.”
Speaking of rewards,” she replied, “Are you about ready to go upstairs? I'm ready to earn that one hundred dollars you offered.”
Taking a surprised step back, he said, “One hundred dollars!”
Smiling pleasantly, she continued, “I recall your mentioning one hundred dollars in your letter. As you know, all working girls want something in return for allowing fellows to explore their finer qualities.”
The Senator cleared his throat. “One hundred dollars is a mighty steep price for exploring a lady’s finer qualities – though I have to admit yours are the finest I’ve seen in some time. A day in your honor at the capitol seems a powerful enough compensation.”
“But…” she persisted, “We agreed in our letters on one hundred dollars. As you know, my offer included a fine dinner, followed by a lively splash in my bathtub as well as a restful night in a clean bed on ironed sheets. As to any other treats, I assured you they would be available the moment a calling arose.”
Taking another draw on the cigar, he went on to ask, “Does your bathtub come with whiskey? I’m mighty fond of spirits while I’m soaking… helps me get a restful night.”
“It comes with whatever you like,” she replied smoothly. “I even provide a back brush in case my fingers get too playful.”
“You strike a hard bargain, little lady,” he replied, his voice trailing away. “But, twenty dollars is about all I have in my pocket.”
“Maybe you’d rather acquaint with one of the other girls,” she said calmly. “I’ve got a cute little lady from Waco who likes to wear boots and spurs when she's workin'. Most fellows tend to fall in love with her... enthusiasm.”
Taking another long draw on his cigar, the Senator finally said, “Spurs are a bit too harsh on the backside. But, now that you mention it, I do remember something about one hundred dollars.”
“Then, lets go upstairs,” she continued playfully. “When we're through, you might even consider vacationing at my house when you feel up to partaking of a lively, fun-filled weekender.”
The following morning while making his usual rounds, Sheriff Matt Carson – Jillie's best friend – spotted her sitting on a porch swing quietly watching birds feed under a tree.
“How'd it go with the Senator?” he asked as he headed her way and settled nearby.
“Not so good.”
“What happened? I thought you were plannin' to court that old buzzard in style.”
She glanced his way. “I only left the room for a moment thinking he had passed out from too much whiskey, and before I knew it, he had snatched my money and disappeared out the door.”
“I'm sorry to hear that.”
“He didn't even bother to say thank you for the free meal and whiskey. I wasted half the night listening to his line of bull. In a manner of speaking, the only thing I still have is my virtue.”
“In my experience, doing business with politicians is always a losing proposition.”
Turning to him, she said, “If you track him down and bring him to justice, I'll treat you to an all nighter for free.”
“That's a mighty tempting offer,” he replied laughing, “But, you've been sparking me for free for over twenty years – all nighter's included.”
“What would you say if I decided to stop sparkin' you like lots of married women do to their husbands?”
“I'd probably conclude that you don't love me anymore. Then I'd be miserable.”
Smiling softly, she went to him and settled onto his lap, her lips nuzzling his neck. “Then, let's go upstairs. I need cheering up, and I want you to be happy too. You're my only love in life.”
- - -
John is a native born Texan living near Houston. His writing focuses on short stories and flash. Publications to his credit have appeared in several scientific journals as well as a number of internet sites and short story periodicals.
By John Laneri
It was a Saturday afternoon when Senator Thadeus Osborne stopped at Aunt Jillie's Boarding House, a place most folks consider to be the finest establishment in Neverton, a small community along the cattle trail to Fort Worth.
Not to be outdone, it's proprietress, a lady with bright red hair and soft green eyes, known throughout the state as 'Aunt Jillie' possessed all the charm that many a gentlemen as well as a senior senator expected in a woman.
She was waiting when the Senator's carriage arrived at her front gate.
After greeting one another, they spent most of the afternoon sitting in her back yard where they talked and sipped whiskey together. Later that evening, they ate a home style meal consisting of a slow cooked pot roast garnished with new potatoes and fresh green beans grown in her garden.
Once they had become thoroughly filled with food, they drifted to her front porch for a breath of fresh air.
“That sounds wonderful,” she said to the Senator. “So you’re planning to have the legislature proclaim a day in my honor.”
“That’s exactly what I’m thinkin’ little lady. It’s time for folks to appreciate working girls.”
“I never knew we were so important.”
“You provide the world a healthy service.”
“I have to admit we do offer fellows a lively diversion.”
The Senator took a draw on his cigar, the glow illuminating his rotund belly and sagging jowls.
Blowing smoke her way, he went on to say, “I can picture the governor now, standing on his podium in front of the capitol building, proclaiming a day in your honor. I suspect there’ll be cheering crowds and gentlemen traveling in from far and wide. Why hell, before I’m done, the President in Washington might even declare a national holiday for all workin' girls.”
Jillie fanned at the smoke then said, “Just naming a holiday after me is reason enough to be proud.”
“It’s my pleasure... Why it seems, I’m always telling friends at the capitol that fine ladies deserve rewarding.”
Speaking of rewards,” she replied, “Are you about ready to go upstairs? I'm ready to earn that one hundred dollars you offered.”
Taking a surprised step back, he said, “One hundred dollars!”
Smiling pleasantly, she continued, “I recall your mentioning one hundred dollars in your letter. As you know, all working girls want something in return for allowing fellows to explore their finer qualities.”
The Senator cleared his throat. “One hundred dollars is a mighty steep price for exploring a lady’s finer qualities – though I have to admit yours are the finest I’ve seen in some time. A day in your honor at the capitol seems a powerful enough compensation.”
“But…” she persisted, “We agreed in our letters on one hundred dollars. As you know, my offer included a fine dinner, followed by a lively splash in my bathtub as well as a restful night in a clean bed on ironed sheets. As to any other treats, I assured you they would be available the moment a calling arose.”
Taking another draw on the cigar, he went on to ask, “Does your bathtub come with whiskey? I’m mighty fond of spirits while I’m soaking… helps me get a restful night.”
“It comes with whatever you like,” she replied smoothly. “I even provide a back brush in case my fingers get too playful.”
“You strike a hard bargain, little lady,” he replied, his voice trailing away. “But, twenty dollars is about all I have in my pocket.”
“Maybe you’d rather acquaint with one of the other girls,” she said calmly. “I’ve got a cute little lady from Waco who likes to wear boots and spurs when she's workin'. Most fellows tend to fall in love with her... enthusiasm.”
Taking another long draw on his cigar, the Senator finally said, “Spurs are a bit too harsh on the backside. But, now that you mention it, I do remember something about one hundred dollars.”
“Then, lets go upstairs,” she continued playfully. “When we're through, you might even consider vacationing at my house when you feel up to partaking of a lively, fun-filled weekender.”
The following morning while making his usual rounds, Sheriff Matt Carson – Jillie's best friend – spotted her sitting on a porch swing quietly watching birds feed under a tree.
“How'd it go with the Senator?” he asked as he headed her way and settled nearby.
“Not so good.”
“What happened? I thought you were plannin' to court that old buzzard in style.”
She glanced his way. “I only left the room for a moment thinking he had passed out from too much whiskey, and before I knew it, he had snatched my money and disappeared out the door.”
“I'm sorry to hear that.”
“He didn't even bother to say thank you for the free meal and whiskey. I wasted half the night listening to his line of bull. In a manner of speaking, the only thing I still have is my virtue.”
“In my experience, doing business with politicians is always a losing proposition.”
Turning to him, she said, “If you track him down and bring him to justice, I'll treat you to an all nighter for free.”
“That's a mighty tempting offer,” he replied laughing, “But, you've been sparking me for free for over twenty years – all nighter's included.”
“What would you say if I decided to stop sparkin' you like lots of married women do to their husbands?”
“I'd probably conclude that you don't love me anymore. Then I'd be miserable.”
Smiling softly, she went to him and settled onto his lap, her lips nuzzling his neck. “Then, let's go upstairs. I need cheering up, and I want you to be happy too. You're my only love in life.”
- - -
John is a native born Texan living near Houston. His writing focuses on short stories and flash. Publications to his credit have appeared in several scientific journals as well as a number of internet sites and short story periodicals.
Monday, April 1, 2013
4/1/13
iPurrrrrr
By iDrew
it was the day the hello kitty
porno movie was released
on dvd
you had sent me a text saying
we’re having fish and milk
for our tea
by the time i got home
you’d redecorated the flat
everything pink with fur and fluff
then served our food in
bowls with no knife or fork
but it was ok to use our paws
and tongues
licking
you said
is very important
we then nestled down in front
of the telly and
as they say
the rest is history as
the night the cuddles the sex was
purfect
oh honey
you’ve never been so right
licking is so very important
- - -
Writing under the name of iDrew to co-ordinate with her titles, Essex girl Drew has previously been published in various magazines. She enjoys shopping, boys and clubs but claims these are all merely research for her writing.
By iDrew
it was the day the hello kitty
porno movie was released
on dvd
you had sent me a text saying
we’re having fish and milk
for our tea
by the time i got home
you’d redecorated the flat
everything pink with fur and fluff
then served our food in
bowls with no knife or fork
but it was ok to use our paws
and tongues
licking
you said
is very important
we then nestled down in front
of the telly and
as they say
the rest is history as
the night the cuddles the sex was
purfect
oh honey
you’ve never been so right
licking is so very important
- - -
Writing under the name of iDrew to co-ordinate with her titles, Essex girl Drew has previously been published in various magazines. She enjoys shopping, boys and clubs but claims these are all merely research for her writing.
