The Handkerchief
By Deborah Burch
I found your handkerchief today
it's still folded in a square.
Inside a drawer put away,
as if you'd left it there.
I wrapped my hands around it tight,
then pressed it to my chest,
as tears began to cloud all sight,
my heart filled with unrest.
I searched to find you in the folds
though nowhere was your smell,
just mem'ries now, my heart still holds,
of love time cannot quell.
I found your handkerchief today,
reluctantly it's put away.
- - -
Deborah Burch is a multi-faceted talent. Accomplished in the arts of voice and song writing, she dabbles in the field of acting. She is also an accomplished horsewoman who has trained horses for international competition. Her wild life prints decorate the walls of many venues in the US, Europe and Canada. She has spent her life thus far in tending those in need. Nursing has provided the bread for her table. Writing is her joy, and the tool she uses to re-find her sense of self.
Sunday, June 30, 2013
Saturday, June 29, 2013
6/29/13
Expensive Taste
By Linda M. Crate
The last remaining leaves rustled and her hair blew in the wind untamed, tiny ships of red flying through the azure tide of sky. Sighing she finally drew them back, in an attempt to tame them. He would be here at any second, and she didn’t want to disappoint him by looking a wreck. She shivered from the cold.
When he had suggested ice skating on the lake, she had felt a bit of trepidation. She had never been strong at ice skating, but he persisted, and she finally caved. He had a habit of charming her into situations she wouldn’t necessarily undertake otherwise. Still, she wouldn’t hold it against him. He was helping to mold her into a braver person than she had been.
Her mother even approved of him, which was saying something, because her mother had never approved of any of her boyfriends before. Even her dad liked him. He said that he made her the happiest he had ever seen her, and that if he treated her well that was all that mattered.
Joy smiled. Lex always brought out the best in her.
She sighed, however, looking at the trees. They were so full of life a month ago. Now almost all had shed their leaves, and winter had settled in with his white blankets and garments of ice. Shivering, she glanced around her.
She hoped that she hadn’t come too early, but she had a sneaking suspicion that he was running a little late, as always. She should have brought her phone with her so she could glance at the time every now and again, but she had left that in the car. Foolishly, perhaps, but wiser in some ways — she was almost certain that if she brought it with her, it would have gotten misplaced in the snowbank twenty yards away. She was good at crashing into them, having done so many times as a child and teen. It even had happened a month or two ago when her friends convinced her to go ice skating with them.
There wasn’t much to do in this sleepy little town of demure little houses and cottages and stretching landscape. Yet she loved the peace and creature comforts it afforded her. She loved the seasons, the big wide out there, the forests of trees, and all the creatures you found here could not be easily as seen in the city. The hustle and bustle of city life had never appealed to her much either. She liked the quiet, restful babble of the brooks and lull of crickets and bullfrogs. Even winter held a loveliness as the sun reflected through the ice on trees and danced on pockets of snow rendering them golden islands amid the ivory.
“Sorry I was late,” came a voice from behind her.
She nearly jumped. Putting a hand to her heart, Joy laughed when she realized it was Lex. “You jerk, you’re always late,” she remarked, giving him a playful shove.
He gave her the cutest pout he could muster.
“Gah, you and those puppy dog eyes! Stop it, I’ll give you whatever you want, just not those eyes. You could get away with anything giving me those eyes, and you know it. Stop it! It’s not fair.”
He laughed. “Love you,” he remarked gently, giving her a peck on the cheek.
“I love you, too,” she responded.
They ice skated for several hours. Joy thought it was going pretty well, too. She had fallen a couple of times, but there wasn’t anything major about them, and she hadn’t hurt herself. Besides Lex was there to help her up. So she was content that nothing could possibly go wrong.
However, this new found confidence (or perhaps arrogance) launched her head first into a snow bank. She heard Lex laughing audibly as she attempted to pull her head from out of the avalanche of white. Finally managing the feat, she found him kneeling before her.
“Oh, don’t worry, Lex, I’m fine —.”
“Joy Ava Lyons, will you marry me?”
Joy’s eyes danced with bliss. “Of course, I will,” she remarked, half-laughing and half-crying at the same time. “Is that why you were late?”
“Of course, had to find the perfect ring for my lovely Joy. Your mother wasn’t much help, she kept pointing at this one and that one —.”
“Sounds like mom,” Joy laughed. “Here, help me up.”
“Why, of course, dear. Your every wish is my command.”
She rolled her eyes. “You’re a goon, but I’m glad you’re my goon.” He helped her to her feet, and she found herself memorized with the ring. She couldn’t wait to show her parents, even if her mother had already seen the purchase. She smiled at Lex. “I think this may have been my favorite ice skate outing. Even if I did end up flying into the biggest snow bank ever.”
“Well, you always did have expensive taste,” he winked.
- - -
Linda Crate is a Pennsylvanian native currently migrated to Maine. She has a degree in English-Literature and her poetry and short stories have appeared in many publications the latest of which include: Birds Eye reView, Mirror Dance, Blue & Yellow Dog, Crisis Chronicles Online Library, Super Flash Fiction, and Dead Snakes.
By Linda M. Crate
The last remaining leaves rustled and her hair blew in the wind untamed, tiny ships of red flying through the azure tide of sky. Sighing she finally drew them back, in an attempt to tame them. He would be here at any second, and she didn’t want to disappoint him by looking a wreck. She shivered from the cold.
When he had suggested ice skating on the lake, she had felt a bit of trepidation. She had never been strong at ice skating, but he persisted, and she finally caved. He had a habit of charming her into situations she wouldn’t necessarily undertake otherwise. Still, she wouldn’t hold it against him. He was helping to mold her into a braver person than she had been.
Her mother even approved of him, which was saying something, because her mother had never approved of any of her boyfriends before. Even her dad liked him. He said that he made her the happiest he had ever seen her, and that if he treated her well that was all that mattered.
Joy smiled. Lex always brought out the best in her.
She sighed, however, looking at the trees. They were so full of life a month ago. Now almost all had shed their leaves, and winter had settled in with his white blankets and garments of ice. Shivering, she glanced around her.
She hoped that she hadn’t come too early, but she had a sneaking suspicion that he was running a little late, as always. She should have brought her phone with her so she could glance at the time every now and again, but she had left that in the car. Foolishly, perhaps, but wiser in some ways — she was almost certain that if she brought it with her, it would have gotten misplaced in the snowbank twenty yards away. She was good at crashing into them, having done so many times as a child and teen. It even had happened a month or two ago when her friends convinced her to go ice skating with them.
There wasn’t much to do in this sleepy little town of demure little houses and cottages and stretching landscape. Yet she loved the peace and creature comforts it afforded her. She loved the seasons, the big wide out there, the forests of trees, and all the creatures you found here could not be easily as seen in the city. The hustle and bustle of city life had never appealed to her much either. She liked the quiet, restful babble of the brooks and lull of crickets and bullfrogs. Even winter held a loveliness as the sun reflected through the ice on trees and danced on pockets of snow rendering them golden islands amid the ivory.
“Sorry I was late,” came a voice from behind her.
She nearly jumped. Putting a hand to her heart, Joy laughed when she realized it was Lex. “You jerk, you’re always late,” she remarked, giving him a playful shove.
He gave her the cutest pout he could muster.
“Gah, you and those puppy dog eyes! Stop it, I’ll give you whatever you want, just not those eyes. You could get away with anything giving me those eyes, and you know it. Stop it! It’s not fair.”
He laughed. “Love you,” he remarked gently, giving her a peck on the cheek.
“I love you, too,” she responded.
They ice skated for several hours. Joy thought it was going pretty well, too. She had fallen a couple of times, but there wasn’t anything major about them, and she hadn’t hurt herself. Besides Lex was there to help her up. So she was content that nothing could possibly go wrong.
However, this new found confidence (or perhaps arrogance) launched her head first into a snow bank. She heard Lex laughing audibly as she attempted to pull her head from out of the avalanche of white. Finally managing the feat, she found him kneeling before her.
“Oh, don’t worry, Lex, I’m fine —.”
“Joy Ava Lyons, will you marry me?”
Joy’s eyes danced with bliss. “Of course, I will,” she remarked, half-laughing and half-crying at the same time. “Is that why you were late?”
“Of course, had to find the perfect ring for my lovely Joy. Your mother wasn’t much help, she kept pointing at this one and that one —.”
“Sounds like mom,” Joy laughed. “Here, help me up.”
“Why, of course, dear. Your every wish is my command.”
She rolled her eyes. “You’re a goon, but I’m glad you’re my goon.” He helped her to her feet, and she found herself memorized with the ring. She couldn’t wait to show her parents, even if her mother had already seen the purchase. She smiled at Lex. “I think this may have been my favorite ice skate outing. Even if I did end up flying into the biggest snow bank ever.”
“Well, you always did have expensive taste,” he winked.
- - -
Linda Crate is a Pennsylvanian native currently migrated to Maine. She has a degree in English-Literature and her poetry and short stories have appeared in many publications the latest of which include: Birds Eye reView, Mirror Dance, Blue & Yellow Dog, Crisis Chronicles Online Library, Super Flash Fiction, and Dead Snakes.
Friday, June 28, 2013
6/28/13
Jury Selection
By Dan Slaten
Joel never expected to see his first love again. Diana Olsen. He’d been twenty the first time he’d seen her, half the age he was now. They’d been at a rave in an old bank building in Birmingham on a sweltering summer night. He’d lost himself in a sea of bass as he swerved in and out of the writhing, sweaty bodies crammed onto the dance floor, and when he’d looked up she was there dancing a few feet away from him. She’d been wearing a blue sweater vest, and she’d had shoulder-length brown hair and eyes that were blue enough to slice through the darkness between them with the same intensity as the green lasers shooting back and forth above their heads.
Of course, calling her his first love might have been stretching things a little bit. His feelings went unreturned because he’d never quite mustered up the nerve to tell her how he felt, although he’d always assumed that his bumbling awkwardness in her presence was indication enough of his feelings. They’d spoken on a number of occasions, even exchanging phone numbers at one point, but time had slowly pushed their paths further and further apart, until finally their paths no longer crossed at all. He’d always wondered what had happened to Diana, and he’d always wondered what might have happened if he hadn’t been so afraid of love back in college.
Standing here in a courtroom twenty years later, Joel couldn’t believe how vivid his memories of their first encounter remained. It was as close as he’d ever come to love at first sight, even if it was more accurately unrequited love at first sight. Somehow, instead of fading with time the way most everything else did, the memory had become brighter, sharper, imbued with the shiny gloss of nostalgia for lost youth. Such was the fate of first love.
The judge, a white-haired man with glasses, peered out at the jury pool from his seat at the bench. “Does anyone here know Mr. Phillips?” he asked.
Joel’s heart beat faster. Now she would stand up, he thought. Their eyes would meet the way they had on that night twenty years earlier. There would be fireworks, and it would be like lightning striking twice. It would be . . . magic.
No one moved. Then a hesitant hand emerged from the jury pool. Diana stood up, slowly.
“Mr. Phillips looks familiar,” she said.
The judge turned his focus to Joel. “What say you, Mr. Phillips? Do you know juror number 72?”
Joel took a deep breath. “Juror number 72 looks familiar, your honor. I believe we may have met many years ago.” He looked at Diana, hoping to hold her gaze. Instead of fireworks or lightning or magic, all he saw in those still-bright blue eyes was a vague sense of recognition dimmed by the passage of time.
Was this vague recognition enough to strike Diana from the jury for cause? Joel suddenly hoped so. He didn’t want to waste one of his strikes on her. To do so seemed like a cruel betrayal of his younger self, a man who would have done anything to be in the presence of this now middle-aged woman with short bobbed hair.
Joel had dreamed many times over the years of running into Diana again and getting a second chance with his first love, the one who’d gotten away. Apparently she hadn’t shared those fantasies. Apparently she hadn’t thought of him at all.
- - -
Dan Slaten started writing stories shortly after he learned how to form sentences. About fifty of those stories have appeared in small press zines and on the internet over the past eighteen years.
By Dan Slaten
Joel never expected to see his first love again. Diana Olsen. He’d been twenty the first time he’d seen her, half the age he was now. They’d been at a rave in an old bank building in Birmingham on a sweltering summer night. He’d lost himself in a sea of bass as he swerved in and out of the writhing, sweaty bodies crammed onto the dance floor, and when he’d looked up she was there dancing a few feet away from him. She’d been wearing a blue sweater vest, and she’d had shoulder-length brown hair and eyes that were blue enough to slice through the darkness between them with the same intensity as the green lasers shooting back and forth above their heads.
Of course, calling her his first love might have been stretching things a little bit. His feelings went unreturned because he’d never quite mustered up the nerve to tell her how he felt, although he’d always assumed that his bumbling awkwardness in her presence was indication enough of his feelings. They’d spoken on a number of occasions, even exchanging phone numbers at one point, but time had slowly pushed their paths further and further apart, until finally their paths no longer crossed at all. He’d always wondered what had happened to Diana, and he’d always wondered what might have happened if he hadn’t been so afraid of love back in college.
Standing here in a courtroom twenty years later, Joel couldn’t believe how vivid his memories of their first encounter remained. It was as close as he’d ever come to love at first sight, even if it was more accurately unrequited love at first sight. Somehow, instead of fading with time the way most everything else did, the memory had become brighter, sharper, imbued with the shiny gloss of nostalgia for lost youth. Such was the fate of first love.
The judge, a white-haired man with glasses, peered out at the jury pool from his seat at the bench. “Does anyone here know Mr. Phillips?” he asked.
Joel’s heart beat faster. Now she would stand up, he thought. Their eyes would meet the way they had on that night twenty years earlier. There would be fireworks, and it would be like lightning striking twice. It would be . . . magic.
No one moved. Then a hesitant hand emerged from the jury pool. Diana stood up, slowly.
“Mr. Phillips looks familiar,” she said.
The judge turned his focus to Joel. “What say you, Mr. Phillips? Do you know juror number 72?”
Joel took a deep breath. “Juror number 72 looks familiar, your honor. I believe we may have met many years ago.” He looked at Diana, hoping to hold her gaze. Instead of fireworks or lightning or magic, all he saw in those still-bright blue eyes was a vague sense of recognition dimmed by the passage of time.
Was this vague recognition enough to strike Diana from the jury for cause? Joel suddenly hoped so. He didn’t want to waste one of his strikes on her. To do so seemed like a cruel betrayal of his younger self, a man who would have done anything to be in the presence of this now middle-aged woman with short bobbed hair.
Joel had dreamed many times over the years of running into Diana again and getting a second chance with his first love, the one who’d gotten away. Apparently she hadn’t shared those fantasies. Apparently she hadn’t thought of him at all.
- - -
Dan Slaten started writing stories shortly after he learned how to form sentences. About fifty of those stories have appeared in small press zines and on the internet over the past eighteen years.
Thursday, June 27, 2013
6/27/13
White Wedding
By Brittany Zedalis
Eyes wide and full of wonder,
Remembering when he was younger,
When dreams were big and days were long..
─he snaps out at the sound of a song.
There she is, all in white,
Tears of joy blur his sight,
Is this real? It cannot be─
He says to himself so quietly.
She takes his hand and his grip tightens,
Perhaps he is a bit frightened,
Shaking, he smiles as her face lights up,
Oh, dear me, this must be love.
Memories flood his racing mind,
The first kiss, her shining eyes,
Come so far from where they were,
He knew from the beginning it would be her.
The destined words fall out in haste,
This truly must have been fate,
Here it comes, the sealing kiss..
─long dreamt of, this is it.
- - -
I am 20 years old, married, and studying at Francis Marion University to be an elementary teacher. I love reading, writing and photography, and am a pretty cheerful person.
By Brittany Zedalis
Eyes wide and full of wonder,
Remembering when he was younger,
When dreams were big and days were long..
─he snaps out at the sound of a song.
There she is, all in white,
Tears of joy blur his sight,
Is this real? It cannot be─
He says to himself so quietly.
She takes his hand and his grip tightens,
Perhaps he is a bit frightened,
Shaking, he smiles as her face lights up,
Oh, dear me, this must be love.
Memories flood his racing mind,
The first kiss, her shining eyes,
Come so far from where they were,
He knew from the beginning it would be her.
The destined words fall out in haste,
This truly must have been fate,
Here it comes, the sealing kiss..
─long dreamt of, this is it.
- - -
I am 20 years old, married, and studying at Francis Marion University to be an elementary teacher. I love reading, writing and photography, and am a pretty cheerful person.
Wednesday, June 26, 2013
6/26/13
Last Five Years (Complete Text)
By E.S. Wynn
- -
This is the complete text of my book "Last Five Years" as read by me.
Enjoy!
If you liked the recording and would like to pick up a copy of the book, check out: www.thunderune.com/2012/03/last-five-years.html
- - -
E.S. Wynn is the author of over forty books.
By E.S. Wynn
- -
This is the complete text of my book "Last Five Years" as read by me.
Enjoy!
If you liked the recording and would like to pick up a copy of the book, check out: www.thunderune.com/2012/03/last-five-years.html
- - -
E.S. Wynn is the author of over forty books.
Tuesday, June 25, 2013
6/25/13
Hospice
By Donal Mahoney
Listen, Dad,
Mom's dead, but
you can dance
with her again.
She's waiting
in the sky, behind
a star, humming
to the music.
You and Mom
can waltz around
the moon forever.
She may even sing
that song you like.
I'll comb your hair,
shine your shoes
and press your old tuxedo.
There's no rush.
You know Mom.
She'd never dance
with anyone but you.
- - -
Donal Mahoney has had poetry and fiction appear in various publications in North America, Europe, Asia and Africa.
By Donal Mahoney
Listen, Dad,
Mom's dead, but
you can dance
with her again.
She's waiting
in the sky, behind
a star, humming
to the music.
You and Mom
can waltz around
the moon forever.
She may even sing
that song you like.
I'll comb your hair,
shine your shoes
and press your old tuxedo.
There's no rush.
You know Mom.
She'd never dance
with anyone but you.
- - -
Donal Mahoney has had poetry and fiction appear in various publications in North America, Europe, Asia and Africa.
Monday, June 24, 2013
6/24/13
The Northwest wind
By Graham Boldt
Yes. You are my tempest, the turn and tangle
about an angry eye, which seeks to spy my
storm tossed heart. Yes. You are the torrid sky
rent with violent sounds, the tisk tisks dangle
amidst a comment meant to mend. Yes. You are
the waves, which seek to send a way man away. Man
was not made to crest Poseidon’s wrack, nor can
he stand beneath the tempest’s weight, when smiles bar
the passage of tongues, when apostles seek escape.
Yet. Are your eyes any less lovely than
the tears of the dawn? No. When wits have run
their course, do I still seek to flee? No. Run the Cape,
and have it ran. Break the tide and find it mend.
Yet, back to the sea I fare, to find her eye again.
- - -
I am a student now enrolled at Trinity Western University in B.C. I wrote this piece about a girl I was pursuing and who is now my girlfriend. She lived in an apartment complex called North West suits, thus the metaphor and title of the piece.
By Graham Boldt
Yes. You are my tempest, the turn and tangle
about an angry eye, which seeks to spy my
storm tossed heart. Yes. You are the torrid sky
rent with violent sounds, the tisk tisks dangle
amidst a comment meant to mend. Yes. You are
the waves, which seek to send a way man away. Man
was not made to crest Poseidon’s wrack, nor can
he stand beneath the tempest’s weight, when smiles bar
the passage of tongues, when apostles seek escape.
Yet. Are your eyes any less lovely than
the tears of the dawn? No. When wits have run
their course, do I still seek to flee? No. Run the Cape,
and have it ran. Break the tide and find it mend.
Yet, back to the sea I fare, to find her eye again.
- - -
I am a student now enrolled at Trinity Western University in B.C. I wrote this piece about a girl I was pursuing and who is now my girlfriend. She lived in an apartment complex called North West suits, thus the metaphor and title of the piece.
Sunday, June 23, 2013
6/23/13
Dumped
By Linda M. Crate
She knew a letter was more impersonal than face-to-face, but it would have to do. She had to free herself from the parasite of his romance before she was merely a pedestal beauty. A skeleton of whom she truly was simply for him to stare at and admire. It was just something she had to do.
She didn’t even need one last parting glance to know she had done the right thing. The neatly arranged apartment filed so perfectly was no place for her. She was disorganized and messy at home, at work there was a demand for perfect order. At home she wanted to crash and throw her things wherever she wanted. He always was quite OCD about where everything belonged. It was like dating her boss, it just seemed wrong.
They had only been dating for two weeks and already he had told her that he loved her. It was a little ‘too soon’ she thought. They barely knew each other for him to be in this head over heels whirlwind of romance.
She put the note neatly folded in perfect symmetry so as to catch his attention. She knew that was probably the only thing about the letter he would like.
He walked in ten minutes later and found the missive she had left him. A small smile flickered to his face as he noticed that everything was perfectly symmetrical. He wondered what good news she had to impart to him. His face fell as he read:
Dear Bryce,
I’m leaving you.
You’re a nice guy, I’ll give you that. But you’re a little too clingy and emotionally unstable for me. I felt comfort in that you weren’t afraid to say that you loved me — I’ve dated one too many commitment phobes, but you said it entirely too much.
We’ve been together two weeks and you’re already talking about a wedding? I’m not ready for that. It’s too soon. We don’t even know each other.
Your love stifled and suffocated me. I needed more space than you would give me.
You’re neat and ordered perfection — outside of work, I’m a wreck. I just want to be lazy, to crash, and have some fun. Not have to focus on mundane tasks, I do enough of that during work hours.
Good luck with your life and future endeavors.
- Jill
He crumpled the note, throwing it into the garbage. How thoughtful of her to break his heart on the day he had been laid off from his job — she hadn’t even had the guts to say it to his face. Grumbling about what a terrible person she was, he sighed. He had cared about her, but not long enough for this to truly hurt. He had to admit it did sting, a bit, though. It was unexpected and out of the blue, but if that’s how she felt he was glad she broke it off before it got serious. Still, he didn’t know how to feel. He hadn’t been dumped before.
He was usually the one to end the relationship because he felt stifled or suffocated. He snorted. Oh, what irony!
- - -
Linda Crate is a Pennsylvanian native currently migrated to Maine. She has a degree in English-Literature and her poetry and short stories have appeared in many publications the latest of which include: Birds Eye reView, Mirror Dance, Blue & Yellow Dog, Crisis Chronicles Online Library, Super Flash Fiction, and Dead Snakes.
By Linda M. Crate
She knew a letter was more impersonal than face-to-face, but it would have to do. She had to free herself from the parasite of his romance before she was merely a pedestal beauty. A skeleton of whom she truly was simply for him to stare at and admire. It was just something she had to do.
She didn’t even need one last parting glance to know she had done the right thing. The neatly arranged apartment filed so perfectly was no place for her. She was disorganized and messy at home, at work there was a demand for perfect order. At home she wanted to crash and throw her things wherever she wanted. He always was quite OCD about where everything belonged. It was like dating her boss, it just seemed wrong.
They had only been dating for two weeks and already he had told her that he loved her. It was a little ‘too soon’ she thought. They barely knew each other for him to be in this head over heels whirlwind of romance.
She put the note neatly folded in perfect symmetry so as to catch his attention. She knew that was probably the only thing about the letter he would like.
He walked in ten minutes later and found the missive she had left him. A small smile flickered to his face as he noticed that everything was perfectly symmetrical. He wondered what good news she had to impart to him. His face fell as he read:
Dear Bryce,
I’m leaving you.
You’re a nice guy, I’ll give you that. But you’re a little too clingy and emotionally unstable for me. I felt comfort in that you weren’t afraid to say that you loved me — I’ve dated one too many commitment phobes, but you said it entirely too much.
We’ve been together two weeks and you’re already talking about a wedding? I’m not ready for that. It’s too soon. We don’t even know each other.
Your love stifled and suffocated me. I needed more space than you would give me.
You’re neat and ordered perfection — outside of work, I’m a wreck. I just want to be lazy, to crash, and have some fun. Not have to focus on mundane tasks, I do enough of that during work hours.
Good luck with your life and future endeavors.
- Jill
He crumpled the note, throwing it into the garbage. How thoughtful of her to break his heart on the day he had been laid off from his job — she hadn’t even had the guts to say it to his face. Grumbling about what a terrible person she was, he sighed. He had cared about her, but not long enough for this to truly hurt. He had to admit it did sting, a bit, though. It was unexpected and out of the blue, but if that’s how she felt he was glad she broke it off before it got serious. Still, he didn’t know how to feel. He hadn’t been dumped before.
He was usually the one to end the relationship because he felt stifled or suffocated. He snorted. Oh, what irony!
- - -
Linda Crate is a Pennsylvanian native currently migrated to Maine. She has a degree in English-Literature and her poetry and short stories have appeared in many publications the latest of which include: Birds Eye reView, Mirror Dance, Blue & Yellow Dog, Crisis Chronicles Online Library, Super Flash Fiction, and Dead Snakes.
Saturday, June 22, 2013
6/22/13
Frozen in Time
By Brittany Zedalis
- - -
I am 20 years old, married, and studying at Francis Marion University to be an elementary teacher. I love reading, writing and photography, and am a pretty cheerful person.
By Brittany Zedalis
His hand on my cheek
─I’m lost
In a place where time stops
Where magic thrives
─Where love is never lost
In a dream that is so real
I won’t wake up
─Not after fifty years
You’ll still be here
Your hands in mine
─Our eyes locked
In a place where time stops
─I’m lost
In a place where time stops
Where magic thrives
─Where love is never lost
In a dream that is so real
I won’t wake up
─Not after fifty years
You’ll still be here
Your hands in mine
─Our eyes locked
In a place where time stops
- - -
I am 20 years old, married, and studying at Francis Marion University to be an elementary teacher. I love reading, writing and photography, and am a pretty cheerful person.
Friday, June 21, 2013
6/21/13
When the Flowers of Youth Fell
By Deborah Burch
Winter stayed late that year
courting Spring with a fury.
Beautiful gifts of snow
and dazzling ice, he gave her.
It was during such courtship
I found myself lost -- adrift
in a place that once was ....
decades from this century.
Where mud and blood held hands
beneath duty and honour
and kindred flowers fell
to sounds of bugle and drum.
Smoke arose through Spring's tears.
Images of Blue and Grey
pilfered my breath as cannons
rained thunder upon the brave.
How was this happening?
This was not where I belonged!
My time was not this place
and I wanted to go home.
Where Winter courted Spring
and snowmen fell -- not flowers --
upon the muddy ground
as snow reigned upon the brave.
The smell of gun powder
danced about my head and nose
like spirits for the faint --
arousing life ... far from home.
"Get down! Get down! Get down!"
The half-crazed voice plunged me
into the mud and blood
and I lay frozen in fear
beneath his weight ... and the cold.
So cold, no hearts were beating,
no breaths were being drawn,
just the smell of sweat and blood.
The smell of rain and death.
Clutched tightly in his pale fist
a tattered blood-stained note
bore the words, "Please ... for
mama ...."
I tried but could not scream.
And, I felt daylight passing ....
As shadows took the brave,
Winter's folly tamed sweet Spring
with final coats of snow ....
and snowmen fell -- not flowers.
- - -
Deborah Burch is a multi-faceted talent. Accomplished in the arts of voice and song writing, who dabbles in the field of acting. She is also an accomplished horsewoman who has trained horses for international competition. Her wild life prints decorate the walls of many venues in the US, Europe and Canada.She has spent her life thus far in tending those in need. Nursing has provided the bread for her table.Writing is her joy, and the tool she uses to re-find her sense of self.
By Deborah Burch
Winter stayed late that year
courting Spring with a fury.
Beautiful gifts of snow
and dazzling ice, he gave her.
It was during such courtship
I found myself lost -- adrift
in a place that once was ....
decades from this century.
Where mud and blood held hands
beneath duty and honour
and kindred flowers fell
to sounds of bugle and drum.
Smoke arose through Spring's tears.
Images of Blue and Grey
pilfered my breath as cannons
rained thunder upon the brave.
How was this happening?
This was not where I belonged!
My time was not this place
and I wanted to go home.
Where Winter courted Spring
and snowmen fell -- not flowers --
upon the muddy ground
as snow reigned upon the brave.
The smell of gun powder
danced about my head and nose
like spirits for the faint --
arousing life ... far from home.
"Get down! Get down! Get down!"
The half-crazed voice plunged me
into the mud and blood
and I lay frozen in fear
beneath his weight ... and the cold.
So cold, no hearts were beating,
no breaths were being drawn,
just the smell of sweat and blood.
The smell of rain and death.
Clutched tightly in his pale fist
a tattered blood-stained note
bore the words, "Please ... for
mama ...."
I tried but could not scream.
And, I felt daylight passing ....
As shadows took the brave,
Winter's folly tamed sweet Spring
with final coats of snow ....
and snowmen fell -- not flowers.
- - -
Deborah Burch is a multi-faceted talent. Accomplished in the arts of voice and song writing, who dabbles in the field of acting. She is also an accomplished horsewoman who has trained horses for international competition. Her wild life prints decorate the walls of many venues in the US, Europe and Canada.She has spent her life thus far in tending those in need. Nursing has provided the bread for her table.Writing is her joy, and the tool she uses to re-find her sense of self.
Thursday, June 20, 2013
6/20/13
When My Wife Is in Her Garden
By Donal Mahoney
When my wife is in her garden,
she becomes a ballerina
moving with the morning breeze
through hollyhocks and roses,
peonies and phlox.
There is music only she can hear.
It's been that way for 30 years.
I never interrupt her dance
not even when the house caught fire
early in the morning. I didn't holler out
the way another husband might
if he had never had a gardener for a wife.
Instead I called the firemen,
and while they were on their way,
I poured water from the sink
on the growing conflagration.
My efforts proved to be in vain.
The firemen arrived too late and so
the house is now a shell of smoke.
The garden still looks beautiful
yet I have no idea what I'll say
when my wife comes back inside.
But if she's toting roses to arrange
she may not notice any change.
- - -
Donal Mahoney has had poetry and fiction appear in various publications in North America, Europe, Asia and Africa.
By Donal Mahoney
When my wife is in her garden,
she becomes a ballerina
moving with the morning breeze
through hollyhocks and roses,
peonies and phlox.
There is music only she can hear.
It's been that way for 30 years.
I never interrupt her dance
not even when the house caught fire
early in the morning. I didn't holler out
the way another husband might
if he had never had a gardener for a wife.
Instead I called the firemen,
and while they were on their way,
I poured water from the sink
on the growing conflagration.
My efforts proved to be in vain.
The firemen arrived too late and so
the house is now a shell of smoke.
The garden still looks beautiful
yet I have no idea what I'll say
when my wife comes back inside.
But if she's toting roses to arrange
she may not notice any change.
- - -
Donal Mahoney has had poetry and fiction appear in various publications in North America, Europe, Asia and Africa.
Wednesday, June 19, 2013
6/19/13
Love Dream
By Nancy May
in dreams
the blue ocean
forgets rows
golden clouds
land on the lawn
a sweet kiss
in the spring
soft kisses graze
a bird chorus
red clouds
ecstasy of love
rain dance
a summer tale
one kiss one kiss
jumping frog
dreams die
life truly starts
fast waterfall
- - -
Nancy May has been writing poetry for a year. Her work can be found at Haiku Journal, Three Line Poetry, Poetry Quarterly, Dark Pens, Eskimo Pie, Inclement Poetry, Twisted Dreams and Vox Poetica.
By Nancy May
in dreams
the blue ocean
forgets rows
golden clouds
land on the lawn
a sweet kiss
in the spring
soft kisses graze
a bird chorus
red clouds
ecstasy of love
rain dance
a summer tale
one kiss one kiss
jumping frog
dreams die
life truly starts
fast waterfall
- - -
Nancy May has been writing poetry for a year. Her work can be found at Haiku Journal, Three Line Poetry, Poetry Quarterly, Dark Pens, Eskimo Pie, Inclement Poetry, Twisted Dreams and Vox Poetica.
Tuesday, June 18, 2013
6/18/13
Through the Peephole
By T. E. Mentecki II
I watch them every other Saturday morning. They don’t see me, but I see them. I can’t hear them. They can’t hear me. I am here because I work here. I don’t know why they are here for sure. I see many people, but these two are my favorite. I have come to love them.
Maybe I love them because they are always beautiful. The man always in suits, and dress shoes. The woman is always in dress pants and flowery shirts. She reminds me of summer time. He reminds me of New York City. Normally I start watching them put on their clothes. They sleep in the nude, I think.
Sometimes though, I catch them with their clothes off, sheets up to their necks, nuzzling each other in the beds they slide together. They are lovers. Maybe they are secret lovers, star crossed but locked in a dangerous affair. I like to imagine his wife says things to him like, “ How come you can never do anything right, you are just like your father, worthless!” He does everything right, and he is a better man then his father, she just doesn’t appreciate him. The woman, who reminds me of summer, her husband likes to stay up late and drink heavily, and he is very angry. They aren’t bad people; they are trapped people like little mice in a corner facing a cobra. The little mice get to spend this time together free of their cobras. This is my favorite story of them.
Every other Saturday morning, they hold hands across our outside patio tables and drink room service coffee. They smile and laugh. I can’t hear the laughter, but I know that is what they are doing. They play with each other’s feet under the table, and I like to think they make plans to run away together to Aruba. I went there once, and they would be happy there. They always seem happy. They seem to be in love. I knew love once, a girl named Olga, an odd name, but she was nice to me. She went away though and now she is happy.
Today, as I looked through my peephole things are different. They seem distant and sad. I think they won’t be able to meet for a while. My mom told me once that absence makes the heart grow fonder. They will grow fonder of each other. The next time they meet things will be wonderful.
The man in the suit seems very upset, and the woman who is like summer, she is crying. I don’t understand what could be happening. My dad used to make my mom cry until he went away. This man is not like my father; he is a nice man, isn’t he? The woman gets up and walks outside. The man follows. Normally, I only watch but today, I was worried about them, so I moved to a small window near my peephole to hopefully listen.
“Martha, I don’t mean to make you cry but I feel like we can’t make this work.” Said the man in the suit.
“Peter, things have been wonderful, what is wrong now?”
“I…just feel…I feel like everything is put on, like a show we are acting out.”
“A show, I have given you everything over these past 10 years and you want to call it quits?”
“Oh Martha, I don’t know what I want anymore.”
“One more time Peter, let’s try this one more time, next Friday night, we stay here together, have our Saturday morning together, and if that isn’t enough, then we can do things your way.”
“Fine, Martha, one more try, for you.”
I made an excited sound and they looked suspiciously at the small window. I was out of sight though. I wanted to be safe so I moved back to my peephole. The fighting has stopped but they didn't say much when they came back inside. The woman who reminded me of summer, she left the room. The man in the suit sat down and buried his face in his hands. This made me worry more.
They were little mice in a corner, I knew it, and these big evil cobras had made a move to stop them from meeting here every other Saturday morning. I loved them and wanted to help. I could not let them be apart. They loved each other, and had plans to move to Aruba, and hold hands while drinking room service coffee. I knew what I had to do.
I would help them go away. Like my mom made my dad go away, or like when I helped Olga go away. My mom said that going away sometimes made people really happy. I wanted them to be really happy. So I would make them go away.
Not this coming Saturday, but the Saturday after that, they would be here. They would put on their clothes, him his suits and her, her summer shirts. They would drink their room service coffee. Then I will knock on their door and help them go away forever, where they can be happy together.
- - -
My name is Troy E. Mentecki Jr. I am currently studying at Full Sail University for my degree in Creative Writing. I have been writing fiction since I was 10 years old.
By T. E. Mentecki II
I watch them every other Saturday morning. They don’t see me, but I see them. I can’t hear them. They can’t hear me. I am here because I work here. I don’t know why they are here for sure. I see many people, but these two are my favorite. I have come to love them.
Maybe I love them because they are always beautiful. The man always in suits, and dress shoes. The woman is always in dress pants and flowery shirts. She reminds me of summer time. He reminds me of New York City. Normally I start watching them put on their clothes. They sleep in the nude, I think.
Sometimes though, I catch them with their clothes off, sheets up to their necks, nuzzling each other in the beds they slide together. They are lovers. Maybe they are secret lovers, star crossed but locked in a dangerous affair. I like to imagine his wife says things to him like, “ How come you can never do anything right, you are just like your father, worthless!” He does everything right, and he is a better man then his father, she just doesn’t appreciate him. The woman, who reminds me of summer, her husband likes to stay up late and drink heavily, and he is very angry. They aren’t bad people; they are trapped people like little mice in a corner facing a cobra. The little mice get to spend this time together free of their cobras. This is my favorite story of them.
Every other Saturday morning, they hold hands across our outside patio tables and drink room service coffee. They smile and laugh. I can’t hear the laughter, but I know that is what they are doing. They play with each other’s feet under the table, and I like to think they make plans to run away together to Aruba. I went there once, and they would be happy there. They always seem happy. They seem to be in love. I knew love once, a girl named Olga, an odd name, but she was nice to me. She went away though and now she is happy.
Today, as I looked through my peephole things are different. They seem distant and sad. I think they won’t be able to meet for a while. My mom told me once that absence makes the heart grow fonder. They will grow fonder of each other. The next time they meet things will be wonderful.
The man in the suit seems very upset, and the woman who is like summer, she is crying. I don’t understand what could be happening. My dad used to make my mom cry until he went away. This man is not like my father; he is a nice man, isn’t he? The woman gets up and walks outside. The man follows. Normally, I only watch but today, I was worried about them, so I moved to a small window near my peephole to hopefully listen.
“Martha, I don’t mean to make you cry but I feel like we can’t make this work.” Said the man in the suit.
“Peter, things have been wonderful, what is wrong now?”
“I…just feel…I feel like everything is put on, like a show we are acting out.”
“A show, I have given you everything over these past 10 years and you want to call it quits?”
“Oh Martha, I don’t know what I want anymore.”
“One more time Peter, let’s try this one more time, next Friday night, we stay here together, have our Saturday morning together, and if that isn’t enough, then we can do things your way.”
“Fine, Martha, one more try, for you.”
I made an excited sound and they looked suspiciously at the small window. I was out of sight though. I wanted to be safe so I moved back to my peephole. The fighting has stopped but they didn't say much when they came back inside. The woman who reminded me of summer, she left the room. The man in the suit sat down and buried his face in his hands. This made me worry more.
They were little mice in a corner, I knew it, and these big evil cobras had made a move to stop them from meeting here every other Saturday morning. I loved them and wanted to help. I could not let them be apart. They loved each other, and had plans to move to Aruba, and hold hands while drinking room service coffee. I knew what I had to do.
I would help them go away. Like my mom made my dad go away, or like when I helped Olga go away. My mom said that going away sometimes made people really happy. I wanted them to be really happy. So I would make them go away.
Not this coming Saturday, but the Saturday after that, they would be here. They would put on their clothes, him his suits and her, her summer shirts. They would drink their room service coffee. Then I will knock on their door and help them go away forever, where they can be happy together.
- - -
My name is Troy E. Mentecki Jr. I am currently studying at Full Sail University for my degree in Creative Writing. I have been writing fiction since I was 10 years old.
Monday, June 17, 2013
6/17/13
Dear Best Friend,
By Bryla Thompson
Dear Best friend,
You took me in. You took me in with no regrets and no fear and I knew, I knew that all my flaws meant nothing to you. You knew me from inside and out and it took someone like you to understand and accept that I am crazy. But you’re crazy so it seems as if we belong like peanut butter and jelly on same slice of bread. We can argue one night but no matter how bad it got, I knew with all the life of me you’ll be there whenever I need you. You are the shoulder I cry on every time I need to vent and trust me even though I don’t thank you, I appreciate every little thing you have done for me. You are the angel on my left shoulder leading me to the right path while I’m on the right shoulder telling you to shut the FUCK up. But I know you won’t shut up, no matter how much I tell you too, and I love that part of you. I love those hour long funny stories, that aren’t really funny but you be busting up laughing, so it seems funny no matter how much I say I hate them. How can I ever forget those nights when we're on twitter or instagram putting people on blast because we think we're perfect. Sad part is, we're only perfect in each other's eyes. And when we lay next to each other holding hands, talking about every little thing we can think about while we slowly drifting to sleep and words barely being said, we always find the energy to tell each other I love you. And trust me meant our pinky promise, till death do us part.
- - -
By Bryla Thompson
Dear Best friend,
You took me in. You took me in with no regrets and no fear and I knew, I knew that all my flaws meant nothing to you. You knew me from inside and out and it took someone like you to understand and accept that I am crazy. But you’re crazy so it seems as if we belong like peanut butter and jelly on same slice of bread. We can argue one night but no matter how bad it got, I knew with all the life of me you’ll be there whenever I need you. You are the shoulder I cry on every time I need to vent and trust me even though I don’t thank you, I appreciate every little thing you have done for me. You are the angel on my left shoulder leading me to the right path while I’m on the right shoulder telling you to shut the FUCK up. But I know you won’t shut up, no matter how much I tell you too, and I love that part of you. I love those hour long funny stories, that aren’t really funny but you be busting up laughing, so it seems funny no matter how much I say I hate them. How can I ever forget those nights when we're on twitter or instagram putting people on blast because we think we're perfect. Sad part is, we're only perfect in each other's eyes. And when we lay next to each other holding hands, talking about every little thing we can think about while we slowly drifting to sleep and words barely being said, we always find the energy to tell each other I love you. And trust me meant our pinky promise, till death do us part.
- - -
Sunday, June 16, 2013
6/16/13
Him
By Jennifer Nam
Dimples gently form as he smiles
My whole world seems to pause
For his presence is all I long for
His heartbeat is my favorite rhythm
Everything starts with him
For he is incomparable to anyone
I am filled with endless happiness
I’ve never felt a profound love like this
To my past lovers I’ve been with
Everything stops with him
- - -
Jennifer Nam started taking an interest in writing after she had taken a creative writing class her senior year of high school. She enjoys watching movies, and reading romance novels during her free time.
By Jennifer Nam
Dimples gently form as he smiles
My whole world seems to pause
For his presence is all I long for
His heartbeat is my favorite rhythm
Everything starts with him
For he is incomparable to anyone
I am filled with endless happiness
I’ve never felt a profound love like this
To my past lovers I’ve been with
Everything stops with him
- - -
Jennifer Nam started taking an interest in writing after she had taken a creative writing class her senior year of high school. She enjoys watching movies, and reading romance novels during her free time.
Saturday, June 15, 2013
6/15/13
Companion
By Divya Subramanian
The game began
The day we met.
Your heart was a puzzle,
So intricate, so soft.
I read a sign
That could not be seen.
And knew at first sight
You were perfect for me.
Life was a dream
With you by my side.
Nothing seem complicated,
Everything would be alright.
You were in my mind,
As I arose each day.
You were in my smile,
As I fell asleep each night.
I felt the love change,
As days flew by.
I uncovered your secrets,
And you, my quirks.
The rush is gone,
But the joy remains.
I have the same smile,
When I see your name.
Friends or lovers,
To me it’s the same.
I just want to be the one,
You think of everyday.
A companion irreplaceable,
With whom your trust will stay.
- - -
Divya Subramanian is a writer from California who specializes in darker genres, but doesn't mind broadening her horizons. She has previously been published in Eskimo Pie and Danse Macabre.
By Divya Subramanian
The game began
The day we met.
Your heart was a puzzle,
So intricate, so soft.
I read a sign
That could not be seen.
And knew at first sight
You were perfect for me.
Life was a dream
With you by my side.
Nothing seem complicated,
Everything would be alright.
You were in my mind,
As I arose each day.
You were in my smile,
As I fell asleep each night.
I felt the love change,
As days flew by.
I uncovered your secrets,
And you, my quirks.
The rush is gone,
But the joy remains.
I have the same smile,
When I see your name.
Friends or lovers,
To me it’s the same.
I just want to be the one,
You think of everyday.
A companion irreplaceable,
With whom your trust will stay.
- - -
Divya Subramanian is a writer from California who specializes in darker genres, but doesn't mind broadening her horizons. She has previously been published in Eskimo Pie and Danse Macabre.
Friday, June 14, 2013
6/14/13
She Stepped Off The Train
By Paul Tristram
and the coat she wore
was Eskimo,
it was Mountain People.
She was as cute as apple-pie
and then some.
She filled the platform
with her smile & warmth.
Tickets, paper, cigarettes
just crumbled
as I kissed her
and we both walked away
together, in love.
- - -
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
and the coat she wore
was Eskimo,
it was Mountain People.
She was as cute as apple-pie
and then some.
She filled the platform
with her smile & warmth.
Tickets, paper, cigarettes
just crumbled
as I kissed her
and we both walked away
together, in love.
- - -
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.
Thursday, June 13, 2013
6/13/13
CHOCOLATE COVERED STRAWBERRIES
By Jaymee Morgan
You sit there working
I lie here reading
I get bored
And begin to watch you eat strawberries
Fresh off the vine
I’m munching a king size Hershey bar
Bookey you’re so healthy
Why can’t I be more like you
You say
Oh hush Baby
You know I don’t always eat like this
I roll my eyes
You chuckle
Would it make you feel better
If I shared my strawberries with you
And I ate some of your chocolate
I nod my head
With a mouth full of Hershey’s
You pop a strawberry in your mouth
And start to chew
Getting out of your seat
You walk towards me smirking
I sit up as you sit down
Beside me
Alright my love
Let’s share
- - -
I am a graduating senior at Bacon Academy in Colchester, Connecticut, USA. I have been writing since I was very young. I identify as a transgender FTM; this has been among the challenges I've faced in a "conventional" American high school.
By Jaymee Morgan
You sit there working
I lie here reading
I get bored
And begin to watch you eat strawberries
Fresh off the vine
I’m munching a king size Hershey bar
Bookey you’re so healthy
Why can’t I be more like you
You say
Oh hush Baby
You know I don’t always eat like this
I roll my eyes
You chuckle
Would it make you feel better
If I shared my strawberries with you
And I ate some of your chocolate
I nod my head
With a mouth full of Hershey’s
You pop a strawberry in your mouth
And start to chew
Getting out of your seat
You walk towards me smirking
I sit up as you sit down
Beside me
Alright my love
Let’s share
- - -
I am a graduating senior at Bacon Academy in Colchester, Connecticut, USA. I have been writing since I was very young. I identify as a transgender FTM; this has been among the challenges I've faced in a "conventional" American high school.
Wednesday, June 12, 2013
6/12/13
CLOSE YOUR EYES
By Patricia Storbeck
Isabella will never forget Nick’s parting words four months ago. Leaving on an assignment to the Galápagos, he hugged her, whispered; “Goodbye my love”, and left without a backward glance.
This morning, when Isabella opened the shutters, light flooded into the apartment, and so did Nick. He stood in the Jardin du Campanin, next to the fountain; in which a little boy played with his toy boat. A roguish smile played at the corners of his mouth; he wore a wrinkled cobalt blue button down shirt, faded jeans rolled up over his ankles and had his Leica slung around his neck.
Nick said; “Un café et croissant, my darling girl.”
“Oui, monsieur.”
“Let’s go sailing, Isabella, let’s go and dance on the waves.”
Laughing, Isabella ran down the steps; flung her arms around him and kissed his warm mouth.
“Only if you have champagne on board.”
“You know I have.”
“And ice cream?”
The light breeze barely filled the sails and Nick trimmed them as best as he knew how, he then left the helm, allowing the boat to follow the wind. He knew, like people, boats need to find their own rhythm, their own course to sail.
The air was fragrant with orange blossom, jasmine and roses. The hills were covered in citrus orchards. Isabella loved the Côte d’Azur and the tiny village she lived in, on the border between France and Italy. The azure sky was perfect for the seascapes she painted.
Gulls wheeled in the sky and land receded. Isabella and Nick, both lost in thought, feared that talking would mar the moment.
Distant islands appeared on the horizon. Emerald vegetation shimmered in the haze where tall mountain peaks wore circlets of clouds. The deck was hot under bare feet. Rivulets of sweat poured down bare limbs.
Sipping from her tall glass, the bubbles making love in the golden liquid, she watched Nick over the rim. He too, seemed lost in thought, squinting against the bright sun.
“Penny for your thoughts?” Said Isabella.
He smiled and kissed her shoulder in answer.
They anchored the boat in a deserted cove, as the sun slipped behind the cliff, painting the sky in orange, rose, magenta, vermillion and minutes later a deep violet. The moon appeared, pregnant with promise, dreams and hopes. The sky was packed white with stars. The only sound the gentle lap of water against the wooden hull.
They ate fat green olives tasting of rosemary and sage; sipped wine, a translucent rosé, with hints of sweet berries and citrus; Ile de France brie, rich and creamy, and for dessert, vanilla ice cream.
Sated they fell back on bean bags, star gazed and failed to identify constellations; laughed at their ignorance and realized how insignificant and fleeting life is, and love.
Nick then tilted her face with his fingertips and kissed her forehead. Kissed her in his special intimate way. Isabella drinking in his never-forgotten, warm masculine smell.
Lifting anchor, they sailed home, guided by the moonlight; a stairway to heaven. They talked about inconsequential things and kissed. Nick wrapped her in his arms, buried his face on her hair. Isabella cried, not with her body, just with her eyes. The tears were hot, as they slipped off her cheeks like the rain off a polished deck.
Lights appeared on the horizon. They were returning to reality, to a world demanding their attention again.
- - -
Patricia Storbeck is from South Africa and loves to travel, together with her husband, on their yacht Mojito. Dancing on the waves of life as she sails along the edge of heaven.
Sharing bits of wisdom and art through words and photography.
By Patricia Storbeck
Isabella will never forget Nick’s parting words four months ago. Leaving on an assignment to the Galápagos, he hugged her, whispered; “Goodbye my love”, and left without a backward glance.
This morning, when Isabella opened the shutters, light flooded into the apartment, and so did Nick. He stood in the Jardin du Campanin, next to the fountain; in which a little boy played with his toy boat. A roguish smile played at the corners of his mouth; he wore a wrinkled cobalt blue button down shirt, faded jeans rolled up over his ankles and had his Leica slung around his neck.
Nick said; “Un café et croissant, my darling girl.”
“Oui, monsieur.”
“Let’s go sailing, Isabella, let’s go and dance on the waves.”
Laughing, Isabella ran down the steps; flung her arms around him and kissed his warm mouth.
“Only if you have champagne on board.”
“You know I have.”
“And ice cream?”
The light breeze barely filled the sails and Nick trimmed them as best as he knew how, he then left the helm, allowing the boat to follow the wind. He knew, like people, boats need to find their own rhythm, their own course to sail.
The air was fragrant with orange blossom, jasmine and roses. The hills were covered in citrus orchards. Isabella loved the Côte d’Azur and the tiny village she lived in, on the border between France and Italy. The azure sky was perfect for the seascapes she painted.
Gulls wheeled in the sky and land receded. Isabella and Nick, both lost in thought, feared that talking would mar the moment.
Distant islands appeared on the horizon. Emerald vegetation shimmered in the haze where tall mountain peaks wore circlets of clouds. The deck was hot under bare feet. Rivulets of sweat poured down bare limbs.
Sipping from her tall glass, the bubbles making love in the golden liquid, she watched Nick over the rim. He too, seemed lost in thought, squinting against the bright sun.
“Penny for your thoughts?” Said Isabella.
He smiled and kissed her shoulder in answer.
They anchored the boat in a deserted cove, as the sun slipped behind the cliff, painting the sky in orange, rose, magenta, vermillion and minutes later a deep violet. The moon appeared, pregnant with promise, dreams and hopes. The sky was packed white with stars. The only sound the gentle lap of water against the wooden hull.
They ate fat green olives tasting of rosemary and sage; sipped wine, a translucent rosé, with hints of sweet berries and citrus; Ile de France brie, rich and creamy, and for dessert, vanilla ice cream.
Sated they fell back on bean bags, star gazed and failed to identify constellations; laughed at their ignorance and realized how insignificant and fleeting life is, and love.
Nick then tilted her face with his fingertips and kissed her forehead. Kissed her in his special intimate way. Isabella drinking in his never-forgotten, warm masculine smell.
Lifting anchor, they sailed home, guided by the moonlight; a stairway to heaven. They talked about inconsequential things and kissed. Nick wrapped her in his arms, buried his face on her hair. Isabella cried, not with her body, just with her eyes. The tears were hot, as they slipped off her cheeks like the rain off a polished deck.
Lights appeared on the horizon. They were returning to reality, to a world demanding their attention again.
- - -
Patricia Storbeck is from South Africa and loves to travel, together with her husband, on their yacht Mojito. Dancing on the waves of life as she sails along the edge of heaven.
Sharing bits of wisdom and art through words and photography.
Tuesday, June 11, 2013
6/11/13
Dust, Stars, Us
By Talisa Kalinda
Spun from the silk of suns
from the milk of light
star-dust
An atom of me
must be linked
to an atom of you
maybe more
maybe much more
I feel so at home
with you
maybe part of me
part of you
came from
the same star.
- - -
By Talisa Kalinda
Spun from the silk of suns
from the milk of light
star-dust
An atom of me
must be linked
to an atom of you
maybe more
maybe much more
I feel so at home
with you
maybe part of me
part of you
came from
the same star.
- - -
Monday, June 10, 2013
6/10/13
Sans America
By Eric Carl
I'd like to take you home
make something of you
with you
of us
here
(not there)
I'd like to welcome you
to my country
to my family
to my life
to a life
we could make
here
(not there)
I can be yours, here
(not there)
There,
where every smile is hiding a frown
where every cost hides a tax, a fee
where every ad sells hard and bright
where every thing is crumbling
and no one seems to see
we
couldn't be.
- - -
By Eric Carl
I'd like to take you home
make something of you
with you
of us
here
(not there)
I'd like to welcome you
to my country
to my family
to my life
to a life
we could make
here
(not there)
I can be yours, here
(not there)
There,
where every smile is hiding a frown
where every cost hides a tax, a fee
where every ad sells hard and bright
where every thing is crumbling
and no one seems to see
we
couldn't be.
- - -
Sunday, June 9, 2013
6/9/13
My Man
By Mirigold Manovera
Cold
bruised
cut
hurt
lost
crying.
will you let me take you in
wrap you
warm you
make you
my man?
- - -
Nothing special, yet. Happy future comes, right?
By Mirigold Manovera
Cold
bruised
cut
hurt
lost
crying.
will you let me take you in
wrap you
warm you
make you
my man?
- - -
Nothing special, yet. Happy future comes, right?
Saturday, June 8, 2013
6/8/13
(the color)
By Michael Scott Olsen
I can't give you the color,
the name of the color
I see
when I am without you.
It's cold
alone
without you
(the color)
It's quiet
haunting
without you
(the color)
- - -
Michael Scott Olsen is my father. He passed away six years ago. This is one of the poems I found in his journal.
By Michael Scott Olsen
I can't give you the color,
the name of the color
I see
when I am without you.
It's cold
alone
without you
(the color)
It's quiet
haunting
without you
(the color)
- - -
Michael Scott Olsen is my father. He passed away six years ago. This is one of the poems I found in his journal.
Friday, June 7, 2013
6/7/13
Marigold
By Yesha Shah
Bejeweled and bedecked bride with her head bowed
hesitant, reluctant, slow steps to the altar
draped in symbolic red, white and gold
with her jasmine hair and turmeric glow.
Hesitant, reluctant, slow steps to the altar,
her heavy heart clinging to the maternal home
with her jasmine hair and turmeric glow,
anklets tinkle, bangles chime on mehndi dyed hands.
Her heavy heart clinging to the maternal home,
fleeting glimpses of childhood flow through moist eyes
anklets tinkle, bangles chime on mehndi-dyed hands,
embers of the wedding fire reflect in diamonds.
Fleeting glimpses of childhood flow through moist eyes,
she yearns for her cocoon of love and warmth
embers of the wedding fire reflect in diamonds,
final verses chanted as the vermillion is applied.
She yearns for her cocoon of love and warmth,
On the threshold of womanhood, the beloved little daughter
final verses chanted as the vermillion is applied,
swaying marigold garlands around signify sanctity.
On the threshold of womanhood, the beloved little daughter
draped in symbolic red, white and gold,
swaying marigold garlands around signify sanctity
bejewelled, bedecked bride with her head bowed.
- - -
Yesha has been writing poetry since the age of 8. Many of her poems have been published in a weekly supplement of The Indian Express when still in school. She has been the magazine editor of her college magazine and the literary secretary of the student's union at college. Most of her poetry has been posted at Poetry Soup site for poetry. Two of her poems have been accepted by the Inclement poetry magazine for their Winter 2013 issue.
By Yesha Shah
Bejeweled and bedecked bride with her head bowed
hesitant, reluctant, slow steps to the altar
draped in symbolic red, white and gold
with her jasmine hair and turmeric glow.
Hesitant, reluctant, slow steps to the altar,
her heavy heart clinging to the maternal home
with her jasmine hair and turmeric glow,
anklets tinkle, bangles chime on mehndi dyed hands.
Her heavy heart clinging to the maternal home,
fleeting glimpses of childhood flow through moist eyes
anklets tinkle, bangles chime on mehndi-dyed hands,
embers of the wedding fire reflect in diamonds.
Fleeting glimpses of childhood flow through moist eyes,
she yearns for her cocoon of love and warmth
embers of the wedding fire reflect in diamonds,
final verses chanted as the vermillion is applied.
She yearns for her cocoon of love and warmth,
On the threshold of womanhood, the beloved little daughter
final verses chanted as the vermillion is applied,
swaying marigold garlands around signify sanctity.
On the threshold of womanhood, the beloved little daughter
draped in symbolic red, white and gold,
swaying marigold garlands around signify sanctity
bejewelled, bedecked bride with her head bowed.
- - -
Yesha has been writing poetry since the age of 8. Many of her poems have been published in a weekly supplement of The Indian Express when still in school. She has been the magazine editor of her college magazine and the literary secretary of the student's union at college. Most of her poetry has been posted at Poetry Soup site for poetry. Two of her poems have been accepted by the Inclement poetry magazine for their Winter 2013 issue.
Thursday, June 6, 2013
6/6/13
Astro-Midnight
By Amanda Firefox
Slide in
so soft
I want you, boy
I want that heat
that rise
that muscle
sweat
seed
draw it out a little
take your time with me
explore me
then use me
do me
until the dawn
- - -
Amanda Firefox is a fiery little brunette who spends as much time at the beach as she can manage. She doesn't write much, but when she writes, it's almost always about her favorite subject: boys.
By Amanda Firefox
Slide in
so soft
I want you, boy
I want that heat
that rise
that muscle
sweat
seed
draw it out a little
take your time with me
explore me
then use me
do me
until the dawn
- - -
Amanda Firefox is a fiery little brunette who spends as much time at the beach as she can manage. She doesn't write much, but when she writes, it's almost always about her favorite subject: boys.
Wednesday, June 5, 2013
6/5/13
A FEW OF MY FAVORITE THINGS
By Lela Marie De La Garza
Mrs. Hollister taught Beulah how to make Robbie’s favorite chicken pot pie. She showed Beulah how her son liked his clothes put away, told her what brands of soap, toothpaste, deodorant, etc., he preferred. Beulah obediently copied recipes, made lists. “Are these things really so important?” she asked once.
Mr. Hollister fixed her with a cold eye. “Of course. Maybe not at first. But after the honeymoon is over, they’re very important.” Beulah believed her. She was Robbie’s mother, and she should know. Beulah kept copying down recipes and taking notes, and then she and Robbie were married.
Beulah was eager to start putting into practice what she had learned. But the marriage got off to a slightly rocky start. Robbie never complained, but she never heard a word of praise out of him either. Beulah did all she could; making his coffee just the way he liked it—two sugars, no cream—always buying his preferred brand of toothpaste. One evening she made his favorite chicken pot pie, and Robbie ate it without a word. “Did you like it?” she asked timidly.
“Oh sure—it was fine.” Fine? Beulah had worked for two hours on that dish, and all it rated was “fine.” She redoubled her efforts. Robbie didn’t seem to notice. For the first time the dark thought of divorce crossed Beulah’s mind. She’d never felt so unappreciated.
Recklessly she bought a new kind of air freshener, another brand of toothpaste. She put Robbie’s Tees away with the sleeves up instead of facing down and folded his underwear lengthwise instead of across. He never said a word. One night Beulah made pot pie. She didn’t have any chicken so she used roast instead. And substituted tomato gravy for milk. Robbie took a few bites. “This is really good,” he said. Beulah was elated. She’d pleased her husband at last—and done it on her own.
Beulah told her mother-in-law, who scoffed. “Fine, for right now. But wait till the honeymoon is over. Then you’ll see.” What Mrs. Hollister didn’t realize was that the honeymoon had already ended, and the marriage begun.
Together the couple began to explore new paths—finding dishes they both liked, a new brand of coffee, another kind of dental floss. Together they discovered “favorites”. And Beulah came to realize that, out of all the world, she was Robbie’s favorite thing.
- - -
Lela Marie De La Garza has had work published in “Behind Closed Doors”, “Pound of Flash”, “ChickLit”, “Daily Romance”, and “Creepy Gnome”. 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
Mrs. Hollister taught Beulah how to make Robbie’s favorite chicken pot pie. She showed Beulah how her son liked his clothes put away, told her what brands of soap, toothpaste, deodorant, etc., he preferred. Beulah obediently copied recipes, made lists. “Are these things really so important?” she asked once.
Mr. Hollister fixed her with a cold eye. “Of course. Maybe not at first. But after the honeymoon is over, they’re very important.” Beulah believed her. She was Robbie’s mother, and she should know. Beulah kept copying down recipes and taking notes, and then she and Robbie were married.
Beulah was eager to start putting into practice what she had learned. But the marriage got off to a slightly rocky start. Robbie never complained, but she never heard a word of praise out of him either. Beulah did all she could; making his coffee just the way he liked it—two sugars, no cream—always buying his preferred brand of toothpaste. One evening she made his favorite chicken pot pie, and Robbie ate it without a word. “Did you like it?” she asked timidly.
“Oh sure—it was fine.” Fine? Beulah had worked for two hours on that dish, and all it rated was “fine.” She redoubled her efforts. Robbie didn’t seem to notice. For the first time the dark thought of divorce crossed Beulah’s mind. She’d never felt so unappreciated.
Recklessly she bought a new kind of air freshener, another brand of toothpaste. She put Robbie’s Tees away with the sleeves up instead of facing down and folded his underwear lengthwise instead of across. He never said a word. One night Beulah made pot pie. She didn’t have any chicken so she used roast instead. And substituted tomato gravy for milk. Robbie took a few bites. “This is really good,” he said. Beulah was elated. She’d pleased her husband at last—and done it on her own.
Beulah told her mother-in-law, who scoffed. “Fine, for right now. But wait till the honeymoon is over. Then you’ll see.” What Mrs. Hollister didn’t realize was that the honeymoon had already ended, and the marriage begun.
Together the couple began to explore new paths—finding dishes they both liked, a new brand of coffee, another kind of dental floss. Together they discovered “favorites”. And Beulah came to realize that, out of all the world, she was Robbie’s favorite thing.
- - -
Lela Marie De La Garza has had work published in “Behind Closed Doors”, “Pound of Flash”, “ChickLit”, “Daily Romance”, and “Creepy Gnome”. 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.
Tuesday, June 4, 2013
6/4/13
Before You Die to Sleep
By Catherine Zickgraf
Sometimes, before you die to sleep
yet after your lids lower their shades:
you feel clouds swaying on the pale ceiling like a mobile.
Then your far away lover appears, lacing and
chording more cumulous whites to the eggshell sky.
And under all that cotton, you remember
him pressing his chest against yours
and how you moved together for warmth—
legs around legs, fingers drawn through hair.
You both slide like minutes, locking and unlocking,
then swing like seconds, flushed and bare.
In waist-wrapped sheets, he arches to heaven.
Before you die to sleep, your mind unwinds its memories
of when beside you he would lay,
and you’d turn to watch him sleep.
- - -
Catherine is writer first, a performer second. As Catherine the Great, she has performed her writing from Boston to Miami, from San Francisco to your street corner. See her perform at youtube.com/czickgraf.
By Catherine Zickgraf
Sometimes, before you die to sleep
yet after your lids lower their shades:
you feel clouds swaying on the pale ceiling like a mobile.
Then your far away lover appears, lacing and
chording more cumulous whites to the eggshell sky.
And under all that cotton, you remember
him pressing his chest against yours
and how you moved together for warmth—
legs around legs, fingers drawn through hair.
You both slide like minutes, locking and unlocking,
then swing like seconds, flushed and bare.
In waist-wrapped sheets, he arches to heaven.
Before you die to sleep, your mind unwinds its memories
of when beside you he would lay,
and you’d turn to watch him sleep.
- - -
Catherine is writer first, a performer second. As Catherine the Great, she has performed her writing from Boston to Miami, from San Francisco to your street corner. See her perform at youtube.com/czickgraf.
Monday, June 3, 2013
6/3/13
Robins Are Monogamous
By Ryan Quinn Flanagan
She sits at the foot of the bed;
silent,
indignant,
despondent
because she feels I have
been with another.
Nothing I tell her
can convince her otherwise
so I stand by the open closet
and say nothing.
Robins are monogamous,
we both seem to
know
it.
As Glenn Miller
is on the radio
singing:
don’t sit under the apple tree
apple tree
apple tree,
don’t sit under the apple tree
with anyone else
but me.
- - -
Please accept the following selection of poetry for your consideration for inclusion with Daily Love. I live in Elliot Lake, Ontario, Canada with my toaster oven and my muse. I enjoy short walks on the beach as I am a wheezing asthmatic. My love poem is a sad love, but it is love nonetheless.
By Ryan Quinn Flanagan
She sits at the foot of the bed;
silent,
indignant,
despondent
because she feels I have
been with another.
Nothing I tell her
can convince her otherwise
so I stand by the open closet
and say nothing.
Robins are monogamous,
we both seem to
know
it.
As Glenn Miller
is on the radio
singing:
don’t sit under the apple tree
apple tree
apple tree,
don’t sit under the apple tree
with anyone else
but me.
- - -
Please accept the following selection of poetry for your consideration for inclusion with Daily Love. I live in Elliot Lake, Ontario, Canada with my toaster oven and my muse. I enjoy short walks on the beach as I am a wheezing asthmatic. My love poem is a sad love, but it is love nonetheless.
Sunday, June 2, 2013
6/2/13
Reading
By Adreyo Sen
Because no face is a map,
we need directions
to walk them through
to the conclusions
already in our hearts.
When laughter looks like pain
and sorrow like the beginning
of a smile,
can we know what is being said
in the tightening of the eyes?
Love is, in essence,
a collection
of catastrophic near-misses
and delightful near-hits.
It’s enough that we are
searching each other
for the answers.
- - -
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. She has been published in Daily Love, Danse Macabre and Kritya.
By Adreyo Sen
Because no face is a map,
we need directions
to walk them through
to the conclusions
already in our hearts.
When laughter looks like pain
and sorrow like the beginning
of a smile,
can we know what is being said
in the tightening of the eyes?
Love is, in essence,
a collection
of catastrophic near-misses
and delightful near-hits.
It’s enough that we are
searching each other
for the answers.
- - -
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. She has been published in Daily Love, Danse Macabre and Kritya.
Saturday, June 1, 2013
6/1/13
Romantic rendezvous
By Yesha Shah
Under the bejeweled canopy of night sky
Tension crackles, sparks fly in summer breeze
Awkward silence, unsure and feeling shy
Roof top view of fruit laden mango trees.
Craving, longing for the forbidden sweets
Tantalizing touch's soft enigmatic imply
Behind fluffed clouds, a blushing moon retreats
Magic mystifies as the courtship days pass by
Fragrant soft whispers loving and tender
Love's mellifluous question, a natural reply
Dream drifting lost senses surrender
Enraptured heart does a silent sigh
Tasting romance's first ever luscious bliss
Stars adorn the dazzle of the first kiss.
- - -
Yesha has been writing poetry since the age of 8. Many of her poems have been published in a weekly supplement of The Indian Express when still in school. She has been the magazine editor of her college magazine and the literary secretary of the student's union at college. Most of her poetry has been posted at Poetry Soup site for poetry. Two of her poems have been accepted by the Inclement poetry magazine for their Winter 2013 issue.
By Yesha Shah
Under the bejeweled canopy of night sky
Tension crackles, sparks fly in summer breeze
Awkward silence, unsure and feeling shy
Roof top view of fruit laden mango trees.
Craving, longing for the forbidden sweets
Tantalizing touch's soft enigmatic imply
Behind fluffed clouds, a blushing moon retreats
Magic mystifies as the courtship days pass by
Fragrant soft whispers loving and tender
Love's mellifluous question, a natural reply
Dream drifting lost senses surrender
Enraptured heart does a silent sigh
Tasting romance's first ever luscious bliss
Stars adorn the dazzle of the first kiss.
- - -
Yesha has been writing poetry since the age of 8. Many of her poems have been published in a weekly supplement of The Indian Express when still in school. She has been the magazine editor of her college magazine and the literary secretary of the student's union at college. Most of her poetry has been posted at Poetry Soup site for poetry. Two of her poems have been accepted by the Inclement poetry magazine for their Winter 2013 issue.
