Quirks and All
By Sherri Collins
That’s him. Holy crap on toast, that’s him. He’s so… so… well, perfect. Perfect is the apt word here, isn’t it? Just look at all those descriptors that romance writers have the market on. Chiseled chin? Check! Piercing eyes? Yep. Sculpted arms? Good God, yes.
I’m doomed.
Okay, no, it’s fine. I’ll just go over there and introduce myself and not say something stupid. Grace wouldn’t have set me up with him if she didn’t think I could handle it. I can totally handle it. I’m not such a bad catch myself, right? I can handle it. I can handle it. Oh my God, he’s so pretty.
One foot in front of the other, good, good. Uh-oh, he’s looking at me. Piercing eyes! Piercing eyes!
“Hi,” I say. “You must be Chris.”
Strong handshake, charming smile, crinkling of the eyes. Oh, yeah, he’s still perfect. “Heather, I presume,” he says in a deep timbre. The kind of voice that would make a telemarketer forget her pitch. “Please have a seat. Can I get you a drink?” He’s already motioning to the bartender.
“A martini, please. Extra olives.” Wow, that really rolled off my tongue there, so the practice paid off. Now, I wonder what a martini tastes like…
“I have to admit that I was skeptical about a blind date,” he says. “But I’m glad I gave into Grace’s persistence. You’re even lovelier than she described.”
Okay, who is feeding this guy his lines? He cannot be this charming. Surely he has an earpiece on, and a long-beaked fellow is behind a curtain somewhere.
“That’s sweet,” I say and try for the high-wattage smile to match his. “I’m pleasantly surprised myself.”
He chuckles, low and deep. “So, tell me about yourself. I’m afraid I didn’t get many details from Grace.”
When I’m eating M&Ms, I have to eat all of the yellow ones first!
My left ear is bigger than my right!
When I was little, I wanted to be a rap singer when I grew up. I still do!
“Oh, there’s not much to tell,” I say. “I work with Grace at Miller and Associates. I’m a legal assistant there.”
“Sounds interesting. You like it?”
“I guess.”
He leans slightly toward me. “What do you do in your spare time?”
I like to watch rugby games at two a.m. and I don’t even know the rules!
I go to the airport two hours before I’m supposed to pick someone up, just so I can watch all of the people reuniting!
I insist on watching horror movies and then bury my face in a pillow the whole time!
“Oh, the usual, I suppose. I like shopping and cooking and taking long walks.” Oh, no. Did I just say that I like to take long walks? Am I writing a cheesy personal ad? Next I’ll be saying that I like getting caught in the rain!
Uh-oh. He just glanced away. He tried to cover it, but he definitely glanced away. Is he getting bored already? Maybe if I smile again….there….okay…oh, shoot. His smile back doesn’t look quite so sincere. That’s not good. I’m going to have to---no! He did it again. Holy crap on toast, I’m losing him already.
“I race remote control boats in the park!” I say before I realize it. “I put peanut butter and jelly on a big spoon and just eat it like that! I’ve seen Dumb and Dumber forty-six times! No, forty-seven! I watched it last night.”
His perfect eyebrows lift in surprise. Oh, God, please kill me now. Or maybe God has nothing to do with it, since a demon has obviously possessed my body and made me sputter all those things. This is the most humiliating moment of my life. Goodbye, Perfect Man. Where’s my purse? I should offer to pay for that God-awful martini, at least.
“Okay,” he says, and then he slowly smiles. It’s not the high-watt smile from before.
It’s…warmer.
“That’s an ingenious way to have a PB and J,” he nods. “I’ll have to try it. Dumb and Dumber is my favorite movie. I’ve seen it at least that many times myself. And what was the other one…remote control boats? That’s so cool. Are you in competitions?”
I lean back. “Yeah, sometimes. I even have a few trophies. But mostly it’s just me and a bunch of nine-year-olds out at the Duck Pond.”
He tilts his head back and laughs. For the first time, I see a small scar on his chin. So…it’s chiseled but flawed.
Just how I like it.
- - -
Sherri Collins, who lives and works in the foothills of Tennessee, has a list of quirks a mile long. Her work can be found in Eric's Hysterics and The Big Jewel, among others.
Monday, July 29, 2013
Sunday, July 28, 2013
7/28/13
On Taking Secretaries To Lunch
By Donal Mahoney
If you live in the valley
know the lava above
has the tact of Comanche
demeanor of dove
Hoe furrow
don’t sprinkle
your seed
then enwire
Post sentry
tall criers
Go home
to your love
- - -
In St. Louis, Donal Mahoney believes that secretaries are to some men what whiskey is to an alcoholic. Any brand, at times, will do.
By Donal Mahoney
If you live in the valley
know the lava above
has the tact of Comanche
demeanor of dove
Hoe furrow
don’t sprinkle
your seed
then enwire
Post sentry
tall criers
Go home
to your love
- - -
In St. Louis, Donal Mahoney believes that secretaries are to some men what whiskey is to an alcoholic. Any brand, at times, will do.
Saturday, July 27, 2013
7/27/13
On Bended Knee
By A.J. Huffman
I knew
who you were.
Before you spoke.
When the light still danced
at your back.
Sliding.
Around you.
Marking you black.
And I felt your look.
Burning me.
As you passed
through my hands.
Back.
Into the fires
you raised at my feet.
Look.
Here.
At my palms.
Carried face up
in the moonlight.
And read me.
My scars.
These sacred sermons.
Are a legacy
of a dirty-haired angel.
- - -
A.J. Huffman is a poet and freelance writer in Daytona Beach, Florida. She has previously published six collections of poetry all available on Amazon.com. She has also published her work in numerous national and international literary journals. She is currently the editor for six online poetry journals for Kind of a Hurricane Press (www.kindofahurricanepress.com). Find more about A.J. Huffman, including additional information and links to her work at http://www.facebook.com/profile.php?id=100000191382454 and https://twitter.com/#!/poetess222 .
By A.J. Huffman
I knew
who you were.
Before you spoke.
When the light still danced
at your back.
Sliding.
Around you.
Marking you black.
And I felt your look.
Burning me.
As you passed
through my hands.
Back.
Into the fires
you raised at my feet.
Look.
Here.
At my palms.
Carried face up
in the moonlight.
And read me.
My scars.
These sacred sermons.
Are a legacy
of a dirty-haired angel.
- - -
A.J. Huffman is a poet and freelance writer in Daytona Beach, Florida. She has previously published six collections of poetry all available on Amazon.com. She has also published her work in numerous national and international literary journals. She is currently the editor for six online poetry journals for Kind of a Hurricane Press (www.kindofahurricanepress.com). Find more about A.J. Huffman, including additional information and links to her work at http://www.facebook.com/profile.php?id=100000191382454 and https://twitter.com/#!/poetess222 .
Friday, July 26, 2013
7/26/13
Indian Woman Passing By
By Ben Rasnic
Pure elegance
just waltzed
past my bay window
in a pale green sarong
swaying gently
in a summer evening breeze;
slowly sweeping
the soft sweet magical scent
of mango in air,
lotus petals drift,
then silently vanish
before I chance
to savor.
- - -
Ben Rasnic's poetry appears in numerous electronic and print journals. he has published two volumes of poetry: "Artifacts and Legends" and "Puppet: Poems by Ben Rasnic". These books can be purchased through amazon.com.
By Ben Rasnic
Pure elegance
just waltzed
past my bay window
in a pale green sarong
swaying gently
in a summer evening breeze;
slowly sweeping
the soft sweet magical scent
of mango in air,
lotus petals drift,
then silently vanish
before I chance
to savor.
- - -
Ben Rasnic's poetry appears in numerous electronic and print journals. he has published two volumes of poetry: "Artifacts and Legends" and "Puppet: Poems by Ben Rasnic". These books can be purchased through amazon.com.
Thursday, July 25, 2013
7/25/13
Planet Bob
By Kaitlin Edwards
You and I are a match made in Heaven.
Everyone says so. We’ve known each other since I was three and you were five, when our moms became best friends. We cooked Play-Dough spaghetti and caught fireflies and snuggled while we took our naps. You would make me origami rings and I would only talk to you because my older sister talked so much that no one seemed to listen. Except you.
When I was six and you were eight, you stayed by my side all summer, even though I couldn’t swim well because I broke my wrist and my cast couldn’t go under water. You stayed right beside me, three feet deep in water mixed with depression because I really wanted to go to the deep end. You didn’t go off the giant new diving board until I could jump at the same time as you, our fingers locked together. I pretended not to notice when you kissed my hand in the chaos of bubbles that were made as soon as we broke the surface of the clear water. I tried to make it up to you by watching Titan AE with you until the tape wore out. Not because I liked the movie, but because your face lit up every time they renamed the new Earth “Planet Bob.” I knew that the exchange was uneven, but I was six and you had cooties.
We went through our rebellious phases at the same time, you with your tattoos and me with my piercings. You moved away, but we still shared secrets like it was our job- I remember you texting me after your first time smoking, and then again months later when it progressed to you always having a stash in pocket. You’re the only person I ever told about taking shots of cheap vodka before going to classes. I knew that you finished all of those “decorative” sake bottles in your room when you were seventeen, and you knew that I stopped eating my junior year in high school. You became an existentialist and I became a hippie, and we exchanged music via texts even though neither of us liked what the other listened to. You began to call me “my Mary Jane” when you were high enough, and I was never sure if you were referring to weed or to the Spiderman comic books that we both loved. It didn’t matter- you were the first person I talked to in the mornings and the last person I said goodbye to at night.
We went to different colleges. My friends, who you have never met, referred to you as “the boy.” Your friends sent me drunk facebook messages that I have never told you about, asking if we’re dating and telling me to back off because I’m the reason why you ignore the pretty girls when they talk to you at parties. You wanted to drop out and move to Chicago, I wanted to go to grad school and work in California. We made plans to visit each other in the far off future. I told you that you were going to marry lawyer and have two kids, and you told me that I would marry a starving artist and you would never approve of him. We never talked about dating- it seemed like everyone else chatted about us enough without our input.
Three years have passed. It’s today, and I have been told four times in the last forty-eight hours that you and I are a match made in heaven. You own a record store and I am building my own coffee shop, and our favorite bar and two abandoned buildings are the only things that separate us. We look good together- you are 6’4 and tan, I am 5’10 and freckled, and our kids would have your brilliant blue eyes and my red curly hair. You make sure I eat enough and I remind you to pay your cell phone bills. You always buy the bacon and I always buy the eggs, and we laugh when there’s never toast for breakfast because we both refuse to change our ways… every time. You know what tea to buy me when I’m stressed and I know what beer to order you when you’re running late, depending on how your day was. I’m your go-to date for every wedding you’re invited to, and you’re the one who carried me out of the room like a princess when I couldn’t move from crying so hard at my mother’s wake. I know how to make you laugh and you know what to do when I’m sad. You take better care of me than I do.
But since that day we jumped off of the diving board together, you have never tried to kiss me, or take me to bed, or hold my hand. And I see your eyes follow the girls at the bars when we go downtown. And even if we are a “match made in heaven,” I know neither of us is going to make the first move. So next time your attention is caught mid conversation with me by a petit blonde with straight hair, I’m going to go order her a drink and tell her it’s from you.
Because even though I love you, I will never be the “Planet Bob” that lights up your face like that stranger just did.
- - -
Kaitlin Edwards doesn’t know a lot about one thing, but she knows a little about everything. She’s a senior studying design and 3D animation, and she feels really awkward writing about herself in third person. She believes in love, laughter, and flossing… even if she doesn’t do it.
By Kaitlin Edwards
You and I are a match made in Heaven.
Everyone says so. We’ve known each other since I was three and you were five, when our moms became best friends. We cooked Play-Dough spaghetti and caught fireflies and snuggled while we took our naps. You would make me origami rings and I would only talk to you because my older sister talked so much that no one seemed to listen. Except you.
When I was six and you were eight, you stayed by my side all summer, even though I couldn’t swim well because I broke my wrist and my cast couldn’t go under water. You stayed right beside me, three feet deep in water mixed with depression because I really wanted to go to the deep end. You didn’t go off the giant new diving board until I could jump at the same time as you, our fingers locked together. I pretended not to notice when you kissed my hand in the chaos of bubbles that were made as soon as we broke the surface of the clear water. I tried to make it up to you by watching Titan AE with you until the tape wore out. Not because I liked the movie, but because your face lit up every time they renamed the new Earth “Planet Bob.” I knew that the exchange was uneven, but I was six and you had cooties.
We went through our rebellious phases at the same time, you with your tattoos and me with my piercings. You moved away, but we still shared secrets like it was our job- I remember you texting me after your first time smoking, and then again months later when it progressed to you always having a stash in pocket. You’re the only person I ever told about taking shots of cheap vodka before going to classes. I knew that you finished all of those “decorative” sake bottles in your room when you were seventeen, and you knew that I stopped eating my junior year in high school. You became an existentialist and I became a hippie, and we exchanged music via texts even though neither of us liked what the other listened to. You began to call me “my Mary Jane” when you were high enough, and I was never sure if you were referring to weed or to the Spiderman comic books that we both loved. It didn’t matter- you were the first person I talked to in the mornings and the last person I said goodbye to at night.
We went to different colleges. My friends, who you have never met, referred to you as “the boy.” Your friends sent me drunk facebook messages that I have never told you about, asking if we’re dating and telling me to back off because I’m the reason why you ignore the pretty girls when they talk to you at parties. You wanted to drop out and move to Chicago, I wanted to go to grad school and work in California. We made plans to visit each other in the far off future. I told you that you were going to marry lawyer and have two kids, and you told me that I would marry a starving artist and you would never approve of him. We never talked about dating- it seemed like everyone else chatted about us enough without our input.
Three years have passed. It’s today, and I have been told four times in the last forty-eight hours that you and I are a match made in heaven. You own a record store and I am building my own coffee shop, and our favorite bar and two abandoned buildings are the only things that separate us. We look good together- you are 6’4 and tan, I am 5’10 and freckled, and our kids would have your brilliant blue eyes and my red curly hair. You make sure I eat enough and I remind you to pay your cell phone bills. You always buy the bacon and I always buy the eggs, and we laugh when there’s never toast for breakfast because we both refuse to change our ways… every time. You know what tea to buy me when I’m stressed and I know what beer to order you when you’re running late, depending on how your day was. I’m your go-to date for every wedding you’re invited to, and you’re the one who carried me out of the room like a princess when I couldn’t move from crying so hard at my mother’s wake. I know how to make you laugh and you know what to do when I’m sad. You take better care of me than I do.
But since that day we jumped off of the diving board together, you have never tried to kiss me, or take me to bed, or hold my hand. And I see your eyes follow the girls at the bars when we go downtown. And even if we are a “match made in heaven,” I know neither of us is going to make the first move. So next time your attention is caught mid conversation with me by a petit blonde with straight hair, I’m going to go order her a drink and tell her it’s from you.
Because even though I love you, I will never be the “Planet Bob” that lights up your face like that stranger just did.
- - -
Kaitlin Edwards doesn’t know a lot about one thing, but she knows a little about everything. She’s a senior studying design and 3D animation, and she feels really awkward writing about herself in third person. She believes in love, laughter, and flossing… even if she doesn’t do it.
Wednesday, July 24, 2013
7/24/13
Torment Me Forever
By John Laneri
Whenever I travel overseas on business, I try to avoid Paris. While I thoroughly enjoy the city, being there always reminds me of Dominique.
We met initially at a party in New York and quickly began an intense relationship, or better said, a series of relationships that always ended just as our hearts were beginning to unite.
Several weeks ago, I had to be in Paris on business, so I stayed at the Ritz. At the time, I wondered if I'd ever see her again. It's not often that two people fall in love and feel as if they had known each other since the beginning of time.
Shortly after arrival that first day while waiting for a taxi at the hotel, someone hurrying along the sidewalk accidentally bumped me. “Excusez-moi, m'sieur.”
Turning about and much to my surprise, I again came face to face with Dominique.
“Why Dominique.. Is that really you?”
“Mon Dieu, Eric... I never expected to see you again!” she said, as she embraced me warmly.
We must have remained together for several minutes, feeling old memories once again begin to surface.
Stepping back to look her over, I noticed that she was wearing the simple gold necklace I had given her the last time we were together; otherwise, she looked just as beautiful as I remembered.
“I like your necklace.”
“I'm never without it,” she replied softly.
“Do you have time for coffee?”
Taking my hand, she replied, “I would love to, but I was due at an important conference an hour ago. Can we meet later... perhaps at your hotel bar at ten o'clock?”
We again briefly embraced, and then she hurried away, leaving me with that same sense of pleasure I always experienced when we were together.
Later, after dinner, I headed to the bar where I ordered wine and waited until well past midnight. Finally, I signed my tab and went to bed unsure of why the she had failed to keep our rendezvous.
Around two am though, I heard a knock on the door.
It was Dominique.
“Can I come in?” she asked softly.
“Of course you can.”
She came to me and pressed her body warmly against mine. “I've missed you so very much. I still think of you every day.”
“And, I've missed you too. But, why so late? I thought you'd forgotten me.”
“Another business meeting,” she replied, as she kicked off her shoes and padded toward the bed where our passions ignited just as ravenously as in the past.
The following morning, we awoke in each other's arms thoroughly exhausted.
She whispered softly. “I've never been so aroused.”
“You continue to have a remarkable way of bringing out the best in me.”
Later, we showered together then ordered breakfast, and eventually, headed in separate directions. My agenda called for a sales meeting with a client. Her day focused on visiting several properties owned by her uncle.
That evening, we met for dinner.
“You selected an interesting place,” I said, looking about. “The oil paintings on the walls look old school.”
“They're part of my Uncle's collection. I try to come here often just to enjoy the beauty and quiet ambiance.” She smiled pleasantly. “It's also a perfect place for two lovers.”
While our dinner was a culinary masterpiece of French cuisine, it was overshadowed only by our attraction to one another.
Eventually, she touched my hand, letting her fingers intertwine mine. “Can we discuss something important?”
I indicated yes and ordered another bottle of wine then settled back, wondering what seemed to be so pressing. By then, I was again in love and mellow enough not to ask questions. When she had finished, I learned, much to my surprise, that she had recently become engaged to a business acquaintance, a man she had known for several months.
Surprised, I said, “I thought we had something special together, but I guess I was mistaken.”
She again touched my hand. “We do have something very special together. And, you have every right to be upset, but you do need to know that I love you with all my heart. I always will. Jacques is someone my Uncle wants me to marry. I don't love him, but he's rich and well connected. You did, after all, turn me away the last time we were together.”
“You've made your point,” I replied, as I motioned to a waiter. “It's obvious that I need to bow out of your life. It's been fun while it lasted.”
“But, we have something together that few people ever experience. I don't want to lose you.”
“I can't be your silent lover – the person hidden away in another part of your life.”
“I don't want you to be merely my lover. I want more of you. Please say you want me forever.”
When the waiter came, I paid the check and indicated to Dominique that we needed to leave. Reluctantly, she followed. Once at the curb, I hailed a taxi. By then, my thoughts were spinning in all directions.
She took my arm, her green eyes directed to mine. “Don't you want me tonight? It's still early. I need to know that our hearts are still one.”
“Not tonight,” I replied as I waved at another taxi. “We'd be cheating Jacques.”
“Don't leave me like this,” she said pleading. “I only love you. Please don't be that way. We need to talk.”
In seconds, I bundled her into a taxi, handed the driver several Euro and turned away.
The following day, I returned to the States, unable to come to terms with with the flood of emotions drowning my senses. At the time, I hoped that Dominique would eventually become a distant memory, but knowing myself, I feared that she would always remain in my heart and torment me forever.
- - -
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
Whenever I travel overseas on business, I try to avoid Paris. While I thoroughly enjoy the city, being there always reminds me of Dominique.
We met initially at a party in New York and quickly began an intense relationship, or better said, a series of relationships that always ended just as our hearts were beginning to unite.
Several weeks ago, I had to be in Paris on business, so I stayed at the Ritz. At the time, I wondered if I'd ever see her again. It's not often that two people fall in love and feel as if they had known each other since the beginning of time.
Shortly after arrival that first day while waiting for a taxi at the hotel, someone hurrying along the sidewalk accidentally bumped me. “Excusez-moi, m'sieur.”
Turning about and much to my surprise, I again came face to face with Dominique.
“Why Dominique.. Is that really you?”
“Mon Dieu, Eric... I never expected to see you again!” she said, as she embraced me warmly.
We must have remained together for several minutes, feeling old memories once again begin to surface.
Stepping back to look her over, I noticed that she was wearing the simple gold necklace I had given her the last time we were together; otherwise, she looked just as beautiful as I remembered.
“I like your necklace.”
“I'm never without it,” she replied softly.
“Do you have time for coffee?”
Taking my hand, she replied, “I would love to, but I was due at an important conference an hour ago. Can we meet later... perhaps at your hotel bar at ten o'clock?”
We again briefly embraced, and then she hurried away, leaving me with that same sense of pleasure I always experienced when we were together.
Later, after dinner, I headed to the bar where I ordered wine and waited until well past midnight. Finally, I signed my tab and went to bed unsure of why the she had failed to keep our rendezvous.
Around two am though, I heard a knock on the door.
It was Dominique.
“Can I come in?” she asked softly.
“Of course you can.”
She came to me and pressed her body warmly against mine. “I've missed you so very much. I still think of you every day.”
“And, I've missed you too. But, why so late? I thought you'd forgotten me.”
“Another business meeting,” she replied, as she kicked off her shoes and padded toward the bed where our passions ignited just as ravenously as in the past.
The following morning, we awoke in each other's arms thoroughly exhausted.
She whispered softly. “I've never been so aroused.”
“You continue to have a remarkable way of bringing out the best in me.”
Later, we showered together then ordered breakfast, and eventually, headed in separate directions. My agenda called for a sales meeting with a client. Her day focused on visiting several properties owned by her uncle.
That evening, we met for dinner.
“You selected an interesting place,” I said, looking about. “The oil paintings on the walls look old school.”
“They're part of my Uncle's collection. I try to come here often just to enjoy the beauty and quiet ambiance.” She smiled pleasantly. “It's also a perfect place for two lovers.”
While our dinner was a culinary masterpiece of French cuisine, it was overshadowed only by our attraction to one another.
Eventually, she touched my hand, letting her fingers intertwine mine. “Can we discuss something important?”
I indicated yes and ordered another bottle of wine then settled back, wondering what seemed to be so pressing. By then, I was again in love and mellow enough not to ask questions. When she had finished, I learned, much to my surprise, that she had recently become engaged to a business acquaintance, a man she had known for several months.
Surprised, I said, “I thought we had something special together, but I guess I was mistaken.”
She again touched my hand. “We do have something very special together. And, you have every right to be upset, but you do need to know that I love you with all my heart. I always will. Jacques is someone my Uncle wants me to marry. I don't love him, but he's rich and well connected. You did, after all, turn me away the last time we were together.”
“You've made your point,” I replied, as I motioned to a waiter. “It's obvious that I need to bow out of your life. It's been fun while it lasted.”
“But, we have something together that few people ever experience. I don't want to lose you.”
“I can't be your silent lover – the person hidden away in another part of your life.”
“I don't want you to be merely my lover. I want more of you. Please say you want me forever.”
When the waiter came, I paid the check and indicated to Dominique that we needed to leave. Reluctantly, she followed. Once at the curb, I hailed a taxi. By then, my thoughts were spinning in all directions.
She took my arm, her green eyes directed to mine. “Don't you want me tonight? It's still early. I need to know that our hearts are still one.”
“Not tonight,” I replied as I waved at another taxi. “We'd be cheating Jacques.”
“Don't leave me like this,” she said pleading. “I only love you. Please don't be that way. We need to talk.”
In seconds, I bundled her into a taxi, handed the driver several Euro and turned away.
The following day, I returned to the States, unable to come to terms with with the flood of emotions drowning my senses. At the time, I hoped that Dominique would eventually become a distant memory, but knowing myself, I feared that she would always remain in my heart and torment me forever.
- - -
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.
Tuesday, July 23, 2013
7/23/13
Dynasty of Broken Arrows
By A.J. Huffman
You replaced the sun.
Outshone the moon.
And took your rightful place
as the spotlight
in my dark world.
But like any distracting star,
you fade.
Tired and complacent.
Capable of wonder.
Unable to wander.
Yet filled with the desire
to burn.
A black hole.
In my eyes.
I need you there.
In that empty cage.
You are my prize:
an endangered species.
That no one wants to save.
- - -
A.J. Huffman is a poet and freelance writer in Daytona Beach, Florida. She has previously published six collections of poetry all available on Amazon.com. She has also published her work in numerous national and international literary journals. She is currently the editor for six online poetry journals for Kind of a Hurricane Press (www.kindofahurricanepress.com). Find more about A.J. Huffman, including additional information and links to her work at http://www.facebook.com/profile.php?id=100000191382454 and https://twitter.com/#!/poetess222 .
By A.J. Huffman
You replaced the sun.
Outshone the moon.
And took your rightful place
as the spotlight
in my dark world.
But like any distracting star,
you fade.
Tired and complacent.
Capable of wonder.
Unable to wander.
Yet filled with the desire
to burn.
A black hole.
In my eyes.
I need you there.
In that empty cage.
You are my prize:
an endangered species.
That no one wants to save.
- - -
A.J. Huffman is a poet and freelance writer in Daytona Beach, Florida. She has previously published six collections of poetry all available on Amazon.com. She has also published her work in numerous national and international literary journals. She is currently the editor for six online poetry journals for Kind of a Hurricane Press (www.kindofahurricanepress.com). Find more about A.J. Huffman, including additional information and links to her work at http://www.facebook.com/profile.php?id=100000191382454 and https://twitter.com/#!/poetess222 .
Monday, July 22, 2013
7/22/13
In This Desert
By Ashley Suzanne Musick
The only water here
is my tears
so my soul hurts
with unquenchable thirst
as I pursue
mirages of you
in this desert of
unrequited love.
- - -
Ashley Suzanne Musick was born on February 26th, 1989, and raised in Anaheim, California. Currently she lives in rural Kern County, where she lives on her parents’ farm, sells Avon and, in her spare time, writes poetry and short fiction.
By Ashley Suzanne Musick
The only water here
is my tears
so my soul hurts
with unquenchable thirst
as I pursue
mirages of you
in this desert of
unrequited love.
- - -
Ashley Suzanne Musick was born on February 26th, 1989, and raised in Anaheim, California. Currently she lives in rural Kern County, where she lives on her parents’ farm, sells Avon and, in her spare time, writes poetry and short fiction.
Sunday, July 21, 2013
7/21/13
Just A Slice
By Lyla Sommersby
Searing joy
in the heat of summer
in the heat of life.
Heaven,
for an instant.
The fullness of sweet grapes
spilling from silver plates.
The abundance
of wanting
eternity
the whole pie
instead of
just a slice.
- - -
I am a student in Miami, Florida. Painting is my other love.
By Lyla Sommersby
Searing joy
in the heat of summer
in the heat of life.
Heaven,
for an instant.
The fullness of sweet grapes
spilling from silver plates.
The abundance
of wanting
eternity
the whole pie
instead of
just a slice.
- - -
I am a student in Miami, Florida. Painting is my other love.
Saturday, July 20, 2013
7/20/13
Skeleton Key
By Ben Rasnic
There comes a time
without fail
when passions subside
and stagnate.
Self-preservation
as a rule
grows an extra layer
of skin on the heart
that callouses over time.
Yet a simple notion,
a well-placed sentiment
can re-open what was
& what should always be.
The opposite of love
is indifference.
- - -
Ben Rasnic's poetry appears in numerous electronic and print journals. he has published two volumes of poetry: "Artifacts and Legends" and "Puppet: Poems by Ben Rasnic". These books can be purchased through amazon.com.
By Ben Rasnic
There comes a time
without fail
when passions subside
and stagnate.
Self-preservation
as a rule
grows an extra layer
of skin on the heart
that callouses over time.
Yet a simple notion,
a well-placed sentiment
can re-open what was
& what should always be.
The opposite of love
is indifference.
- - -
Ben Rasnic's poetry appears in numerous electronic and print journals. he has published two volumes of poetry: "Artifacts and Legends" and "Puppet: Poems by Ben Rasnic". These books can be purchased through amazon.com.
Friday, July 19, 2013
7/19/13
May Your Dreams Be Full
By Rusty Flowers
May your dreams be full
vibrant and bright
may you always sit to sup
at a full table heaped high
may you always drink deeply
and sweet nectars dispel your thirst
and may you always find yourself home
in the arms of those you love
when you need it most.
- - -
By Rusty Flowers
May your dreams be full
vibrant and bright
may you always sit to sup
at a full table heaped high
may you always drink deeply
and sweet nectars dispel your thirst
and may you always find yourself home
in the arms of those you love
when you need it most.
- - -
Thursday, July 18, 2013
7/18/13
Prayer For Us
By John Ogden
Keep us safe from wishes
that would tear us apart
bind us against the fleeting joys
that lead to regret and despair
tie our hands when we reach
for the tools of self-harm
deny us the chasing of dreams
that would sunder us completely
give us only pain
that we can easily overcome
strain us, restrain us
only to save us, maintain us
the sweetness
joys
that make each dawn
worth waking up
to watch.
Let us love,
As Lennons do
Let us live
As Buffetts do
Let us lie together
in the end
As Yeagers and Mosers do.
- - -
John Ogden was conceived of a government form and a passing mailbox. He lives somewhere out in the woods of a rural land more akin to the fantasy realms of literature than real life, and his favorite dirt bikes will always be the broken ones.
By John Ogden
Keep us safe from wishes
that would tear us apart
bind us against the fleeting joys
that lead to regret and despair
tie our hands when we reach
for the tools of self-harm
deny us the chasing of dreams
that would sunder us completely
give us only pain
that we can easily overcome
strain us, restrain us
only to save us, maintain us
the sweetness
joys
that make each dawn
worth waking up
to watch.
Let us love,
As Lennons do
Let us live
As Buffetts do
Let us lie together
in the end
As Yeagers and Mosers do.
- - -
John Ogden was conceived of a government form and a passing mailbox. He lives somewhere out in the woods of a rural land more akin to the fantasy realms of literature than real life, and his favorite dirt bikes will always be the broken ones.
Wednesday, July 17, 2013
7/17/13
Truth, Spirit, Future (Hope To Gain)
By Lyla Sommersby
Can you see the truth
that dances free
(so sweet to see)
the truth
that dances free
Can you hear the spirit
washing through meat and mineral
(washing through it all, through us all)
the spirit
like a tide within us all
Can you breathe the future
simple love and life we hope to gain
(simple love and life free from pain)
the future
we all hope
and hope (and hope)
to gain
- - -
I am a student in Miami, Florida. Painting is my other love.
By Lyla Sommersby
Can you see the truth
that dances free
(so sweet to see)
the truth
that dances free
Can you hear the spirit
washing through meat and mineral
(washing through it all, through us all)
the spirit
like a tide within us all
Can you breathe the future
simple love and life we hope to gain
(simple love and life free from pain)
the future
we all hope
and hope (and hope)
to gain
- - -
I am a student in Miami, Florida. Painting is my other love.
Tuesday, July 16, 2013
7/16/13
Waterbugs, Roses and Me
By Donal Mahoney
Waterbugs scurry
when the light snaps on
at midnight in the bathroom
the way this woman's eyes
dart when I see her
dancing with a nice man
but not the right man.
He's shorter than I am,
has a neat goatee.
She always knew
my interest would last
once I had gamboled
in the garden of roses
she had been planting
one rose at a time
for a devil like me.
- - -
Donal Mahoney has been married for a long time.
By Donal Mahoney
Waterbugs scurry
when the light snaps on
at midnight in the bathroom
the way this woman's eyes
dart when I see her
dancing with a nice man
but not the right man.
He's shorter than I am,
has a neat goatee.
She always knew
my interest would last
once I had gamboled
in the garden of roses
she had been planting
one rose at a time
for a devil like me.
- - -
Donal Mahoney has been married for a long time.
Monday, July 15, 2013
7/15/13
Cured
By Chrys Fey
I was hurt and broken,
and you fixed me like a surgeon,
I was in need of a heart transplant,
and you gave me yours with your hands,
I needed something to survive,
and you came into my life,
resuscitated me with your love,
revived me and now I’m strong.
Every day, I have you by my side,
now I have hope for the first time,
I almost died of a broken heart,
but you cured me from the start.
Your laugh is the only medicine I need,
your smile is better than an I.V.,
your heart is beating next to mine,
you’re the love of my life!
- - -
Chrys Fey has published short stories with Freedom Fiction Journal, Slate & Style, and Inner Sins magazine. Her poems Falling Feather and The Angel are featured on Long Story Short. And her blog “Write With Fey” is dedicated to helping and inspiring writers.
By Chrys Fey
I was hurt and broken,
and you fixed me like a surgeon,
I was in need of a heart transplant,
and you gave me yours with your hands,
I needed something to survive,
and you came into my life,
resuscitated me with your love,
revived me and now I’m strong.
Every day, I have you by my side,
now I have hope for the first time,
I almost died of a broken heart,
but you cured me from the start.
Your laugh is the only medicine I need,
your smile is better than an I.V.,
your heart is beating next to mine,
you’re the love of my life!
- - -
Chrys Fey has published short stories with Freedom Fiction Journal, Slate & Style, and Inner Sins magazine. Her poems Falling Feather and The Angel are featured on Long Story Short. And her blog “Write With Fey” is dedicated to helping and inspiring writers.
Sunday, July 14, 2013
7/14/13
A Life of Searching
By Brittany Zedalis
An angel forged in stone,
Yes, that’s what I’ve been,
Throughout my time, a constant fight,
Waiting for my life to begin.
Along came a soldier,
Not the kind that battle war,
A more gentle, caring creature,
Just glided through the door.
Eyes of fire and hope,
A body built for protection,
A heart so strong, yet fragile,
Just right for intense affection.
He caught me off-guard,
This was not what I was expecting,
Though, throughout this life,
For this, I had been searching.
- - -
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
An angel forged in stone,
Yes, that’s what I’ve been,
Throughout my time, a constant fight,
Waiting for my life to begin.
Along came a soldier,
Not the kind that battle war,
A more gentle, caring creature,
Just glided through the door.
Eyes of fire and hope,
A body built for protection,
A heart so strong, yet fragile,
Just right for intense affection.
He caught me off-guard,
This was not what I was expecting,
Though, throughout this life,
For this, I had been searching.
- - -
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.
Saturday, July 13, 2013
7/13/13
What Shine Of Solace
By Lyla Sommersby
What shine of solace I see in your eyes
when we dream freely of the future.
What shine of solace, I see
when we dream of sand and sea
of places where easy sweetness meets surf
and the breezes stir
to keep the heat from settling.
What shine of solace
blossoms soft in the shrine
of my mind
when you speak
when you dream
with me
of days to come.
- - -
I am a student in Miami, Florida. Painting is my other love.
By Lyla Sommersby
What shine of solace I see in your eyes
when we dream freely of the future.
What shine of solace, I see
when we dream of sand and sea
of places where easy sweetness meets surf
and the breezes stir
to keep the heat from settling.
What shine of solace
blossoms soft in the shrine
of my mind
when you speak
when you dream
with me
of days to come.
- - -
I am a student in Miami, Florida. Painting is my other love.
Friday, July 12, 2013
7/12/13
After Burying A Wife
By Donal Mahoney
Were she here with me now,
by the waist I would raise her,
a chalice of wonder.
I’d bellow hosannas
and whirl her around,
tell her again that I love her,
press my face moist
in the pleats of her skirt,
ask her to sprinkle
phlox on the curls
of our children
if they are with her,
ask her to stay a while longer
while I do so much more
were she here with me now.
- - -
Donal Mahoney has had work published in various print and electronic publications in North America, Europe, Asia and Africa.
By Donal Mahoney
Were she here with me now,
by the waist I would raise her,
a chalice of wonder.
I’d bellow hosannas
and whirl her around,
tell her again that I love her,
press my face moist
in the pleats of her skirt,
ask her to sprinkle
phlox on the curls
of our children
if they are with her,
ask her to stay a while longer
while I do so much more
were she here with me now.
- - -
Donal Mahoney has had work published in various print and electronic publications in North America, Europe, Asia and Africa.
Thursday, July 11, 2013
7/11/13
Ballast
By Nala Jimway
You were ballast,
you held me
kept me low in the water
safe
serene
but as I grew
as I moved
took on the cargoes of distant lands
of wisdom
and time
and experience
you kept me low
kept me too low
so low
I started to sink.
Now, free of you
free of ballast
I sail
I
sail
- - -
By Nala Jimway
You were ballast,
you held me
kept me low in the water
safe
serene
but as I grew
as I moved
took on the cargoes of distant lands
of wisdom
and time
and experience
you kept me low
kept me too low
so low
I started to sink.
Now, free of you
free of ballast
I sail
I
sail
- - -
Wednesday, July 10, 2013
7/10/13
But I Remember
By Lyla Sommersby
But I remember your legs most of all.
But I remember your smile
Plush lips, flash teeth, never bite
only nuzzle
only
But I remember your skin
and your eyes
so dark
the way your back
ar-ches
with the thrust
of love.
But your legs
I remember your legs most of all.
- - -
I am a student in Miami, Florida. Painting is my other love.
By Lyla Sommersby
But I remember your legs most of all.
But I remember your smile
Plush lips, flash teeth, never bite
only nuzzle
only
But I remember your skin
and your eyes
so dark
the way your back
ar-ches
with the thrust
of love.
But your legs
I remember your legs most of all.
- - -
I am a student in Miami, Florida. Painting is my other love.
Tuesday, July 9, 2013
7/9/13
Let's Boycott
By Christopher E. Long
Anita’s wet hair is wrapped in a towel, and her silk robe is tied securely around her waist with a belt. She leans against the bathroom counter to steady herself as she applies mascara. She glances at the reflection of her husband in the mirror. “You look nice,” she says.
“Thanks,” Todd says. “Where are we going for dinner?”
“I don’t know. What do you feel like?”
“How about Hickman’s.”
Anita stops what she’s doing and turns to face him. “I hope you’re kidding.”
“I thought you liked that place.”
“They don’t have any gluten-free items on the menu.”
“Are you still doing the whole gluten thing?” he asks. “I thought you stopped that.”
“I did, but that’s not the point.”
“What’s the point?”
“They refuse to put gluten-free items on their menu,” she says, turning back to the mirror to apply the finishing touches on her face. “That’s the point.”
Todd checks the time on his watch. “Do you feel like Bob’s Kabobs? We haven’t been there in a while.”
Anita leans in and removes a clump of mascara from her eyelash. “We stopped going there for a reason. Remember? They lost their organic certification.”
“Do you want to go to Sid and Arly? They have that goat cheese and beet salad you like.”
She gives herself a once over in the mirror. Satisfied, she begins to put away her makeup. “The whole menu is pork, and pigs are second in intelligence to dolphins. They’re smarter than dogs. No pork.”
Todd reaches into his pocket and retrieves his phone. He turns it on and activates his restaurant app. “Well, what kind of food do you want? Mexican?”
She steps past her husband and stands in front of her open closet. She surveys the clothing like a general inspecting the troops. “We’re boycotting Mexican food this month.”
“Why?”
“In support of immigration reform.”
“Greek?”
“I’d feel guilty because of all the austerity reforms the Euro Zone is forcing on them,” she says. “How about S.R.C.?”
“Sweet Rib Company?” he asks.
“Yeah.”
“Didn’t you hear what the owner did?”
“No.”
“He donated money to defeat Prop 37,” Todd says.
“What was that again?” Anita asks.
“The proposition that guarantees us the right to know what’s in our food. Can you imagine? What’s that douche trying to hide?” Todd scans through his app. “Italian?”
Anita steps into a skirt and pulls it over her hips. “It wouldn’t feel right because of Berlusconi. He had those sex parties with prostitutes dressed up like Obama and all.”
Todd smiles and says, “That makes me want to have Italian.”
Anita glares at her husband.
“Sorry,” he says.
“How about Thai?” she asks.
He shakes his head, and says, “Not until the Thai government cracks down on the sex-trade tourism.”
She gazes at her profile in the mirror. “I can’t believe I forgot that. I’m a horrible person.”
“There’s a new Ethiopian place that opened at the Market Place.”
“I haven’t been able to stomach the idea of Ethiopian food since all the famine jokes in the eighties.”
“Do you know how you kill fifty flies all at once?” Todd says. “Hit an Ethiopian in the face with a shovel.”
“That’s not funny.”
The smile vanishes. “How about Indian food?”
“Dot or feather?”
“Dot.”
She holds a blouse up to her body. She tilts her head to the side as she inspects her reflection in the closet mirror. “A rape occurs every twenty minutes in India, but it has the lowest conviction rate for rapists in the world.”
Todd continues to scan the app, but finally gives up. “We’re running out of options.”
“How about that cute, little French bistro?” Anita says, putting on the blouse. When her husband doesn’t respond, she glances at him and finds him glaring at her. “What?”
“French?”
She grimaces, and says, “Sorry. I wasn’t thinking about our ménage à trois gone bad.”
“I’ll never eat French again.”
She removes a pair of heels from the closet and slips them on. “Then where do you want to go?”
He shrugs, and says, “I think there’s only one place we can go.”
Anita and Todd stand on the sidewalk in front of the food truck. He zips his jacket all the way up to his chin to fend off the chill in the air. She wraps her arm through her husband’s and curls up against him. Her teeth chatter. “It is so cold,” she says.
Todd scans the menu hanging from the side of the food truck. “Do you know what you want?”
“I’ll get the grilled cheese sandwich and fries.”
“I was thinking that, too,” he says.
They move to the open window where a man in all white waits to take their order. A gust of wind kicks up and swirls around them, kicking up litter and dust. The guy clenches his teeth. “Man, global warming my butt,” he says. “So, can I take your order?”
Husband and wife stare in openmouthed horror at the man.
“What did you say?” Anita gasps.
“Can I take your order?”
“No, before that,” Todd says.
“Oh,” the guy says. “If it’s this cold in April, I was joking that global warming is a joke.”
Without so much as another word, husband and wife storm off down the sidewalk.
“Can you freaking believe that?” Todd grumbles.
“No, I can’t,” Anita says.
“We are never coming back here.”
“Never ever.”
“The gall of some people.”
“The gall.”
- - -
Christopher E. Long's comic book writing has been published by Marvel Comics, DC Comics, IDW Publishing and Image Comics. He has a new short story that will appear in issue 7 of Thuglit.
By Christopher E. Long
Anita’s wet hair is wrapped in a towel, and her silk robe is tied securely around her waist with a belt. She leans against the bathroom counter to steady herself as she applies mascara. She glances at the reflection of her husband in the mirror. “You look nice,” she says.
“Thanks,” Todd says. “Where are we going for dinner?”
“I don’t know. What do you feel like?”
“How about Hickman’s.”
Anita stops what she’s doing and turns to face him. “I hope you’re kidding.”
“I thought you liked that place.”
“They don’t have any gluten-free items on the menu.”
“Are you still doing the whole gluten thing?” he asks. “I thought you stopped that.”
“I did, but that’s not the point.”
“What’s the point?”
“They refuse to put gluten-free items on their menu,” she says, turning back to the mirror to apply the finishing touches on her face. “That’s the point.”
Todd checks the time on his watch. “Do you feel like Bob’s Kabobs? We haven’t been there in a while.”
Anita leans in and removes a clump of mascara from her eyelash. “We stopped going there for a reason. Remember? They lost their organic certification.”
“Do you want to go to Sid and Arly? They have that goat cheese and beet salad you like.”
She gives herself a once over in the mirror. Satisfied, she begins to put away her makeup. “The whole menu is pork, and pigs are second in intelligence to dolphins. They’re smarter than dogs. No pork.”
Todd reaches into his pocket and retrieves his phone. He turns it on and activates his restaurant app. “Well, what kind of food do you want? Mexican?”
She steps past her husband and stands in front of her open closet. She surveys the clothing like a general inspecting the troops. “We’re boycotting Mexican food this month.”
“Why?”
“In support of immigration reform.”
“Greek?”
“I’d feel guilty because of all the austerity reforms the Euro Zone is forcing on them,” she says. “How about S.R.C.?”
“Sweet Rib Company?” he asks.
“Yeah.”
“Didn’t you hear what the owner did?”
“No.”
“He donated money to defeat Prop 37,” Todd says.
“What was that again?” Anita asks.
“The proposition that guarantees us the right to know what’s in our food. Can you imagine? What’s that douche trying to hide?” Todd scans through his app. “Italian?”
Anita steps into a skirt and pulls it over her hips. “It wouldn’t feel right because of Berlusconi. He had those sex parties with prostitutes dressed up like Obama and all.”
Todd smiles and says, “That makes me want to have Italian.”
Anita glares at her husband.
“Sorry,” he says.
“How about Thai?” she asks.
He shakes his head, and says, “Not until the Thai government cracks down on the sex-trade tourism.”
She gazes at her profile in the mirror. “I can’t believe I forgot that. I’m a horrible person.”
“There’s a new Ethiopian place that opened at the Market Place.”
“I haven’t been able to stomach the idea of Ethiopian food since all the famine jokes in the eighties.”
“Do you know how you kill fifty flies all at once?” Todd says. “Hit an Ethiopian in the face with a shovel.”
“That’s not funny.”
The smile vanishes. “How about Indian food?”
“Dot or feather?”
“Dot.”
She holds a blouse up to her body. She tilts her head to the side as she inspects her reflection in the closet mirror. “A rape occurs every twenty minutes in India, but it has the lowest conviction rate for rapists in the world.”
Todd continues to scan the app, but finally gives up. “We’re running out of options.”
“How about that cute, little French bistro?” Anita says, putting on the blouse. When her husband doesn’t respond, she glances at him and finds him glaring at her. “What?”
“French?”
She grimaces, and says, “Sorry. I wasn’t thinking about our ménage à trois gone bad.”
“I’ll never eat French again.”
She removes a pair of heels from the closet and slips them on. “Then where do you want to go?”
He shrugs, and says, “I think there’s only one place we can go.”
Anita and Todd stand on the sidewalk in front of the food truck. He zips his jacket all the way up to his chin to fend off the chill in the air. She wraps her arm through her husband’s and curls up against him. Her teeth chatter. “It is so cold,” she says.
Todd scans the menu hanging from the side of the food truck. “Do you know what you want?”
“I’ll get the grilled cheese sandwich and fries.”
“I was thinking that, too,” he says.
They move to the open window where a man in all white waits to take their order. A gust of wind kicks up and swirls around them, kicking up litter and dust. The guy clenches his teeth. “Man, global warming my butt,” he says. “So, can I take your order?”
Husband and wife stare in openmouthed horror at the man.
“What did you say?” Anita gasps.
“Can I take your order?”
“No, before that,” Todd says.
“Oh,” the guy says. “If it’s this cold in April, I was joking that global warming is a joke.”
Without so much as another word, husband and wife storm off down the sidewalk.
“Can you freaking believe that?” Todd grumbles.
“No, I can’t,” Anita says.
“We are never coming back here.”
“Never ever.”
“The gall of some people.”
“The gall.”
- - -
Christopher E. Long's comic book writing has been published by Marvel Comics, DC Comics, IDW Publishing and Image Comics. He has a new short story that will appear in issue 7 of Thuglit.
Monday, July 8, 2013
7/8/13
Stars
By Christina Jones
“Come closer,” he whispered. So, I leaned in, my ear close enough to feel his breath. Andy always told the best secrets. I waited patiently for the words to come out. Then, suddenly he sat up straight as a board.
“I don’t know, June. I’m not sure that I want to tell you this,” he said.
“Oh, come on! Just say it. Come on!”
He smiled and cupped his hand around his mouth. Leaning in again, I waited patiently for what he was going to say.
“You’re the prettiest girl that I know,” he whispered into my ear. I didn’t know what to say back. So I leaned away from him and stared at the sky which was now cluttered with stars. I tried to pick one out and focus on it but it was so hard to choose only one. I mean, they were all so pretty. That’s how I knew that Andy was wrong. There are way too many pretty girls at our school. You can’t pick just one. It’s not possible.
“June?” he whispered. I could see that he was hurt. I hadn’t said anything and it was obvious that he expected me to. I didn’t want to hurt his feelings and it wasn’t that I didn’t like him. I did. It’s just that, well, we were only twelve and my body hadn’t even fully developed. I wasn’t even sure that I looked like a girl. Trudy Centers was much more developed than I was. She almost looked like my mom. Why didn’t he tell her that she was pretty, instead of me?
“If you don’t like me like that, it’s okay. Just tell me and I’ll leave it alone,” he said.
“Listen, Andy, it’s not that, okay. Have you seen Trudy?” I blurted out.
“Trudy?” he looked confused.
“You know, Trudy Centers, from math class. She’s the one who sits behind stinky Ben.”
“Yeah, what about her?”
“Well, she’s much prettier than I am. So, you just can’t be telling the truth. That’s all.”
“You think I’m lying?” I offended him. I didn’t mean to but it happened.
“Well, she’s more of a woman than I am,” I declared.
“Woman? June, she’s twelve, so are you. What are you talking about?” he said.
I didn’t want to tell him that I’d overheard Trudy and her friends in gym class the other day. She was telling them about how she became a woman over the weekend because mother nature had paid her a visit. I had no idea what she was talking about but I was jealous. I didn’t know what I needed to do to get a visit from Mother Nature but I was certainly ready to meet her. Besides, my sister Shelly told me that most boys like older women because they are mature.
“Listen, Andy, we used to take baths together,” I said.
“So?” It was obvious that I wasn’t getting my point across. He was just becoming more confused.
“You only said that I was the prettiest girl that you know because I’m the only girl that you’re comfortable with. I know that you’d much rather date Trudy than me. If you want, I’ll help you talk to her.”
His smile was immediately gone. He lowered his head and cradled it in his palm. I’d crushed him. I didn’t see that coming. I thought he’d be relieved to get off the hook. I didn’t know what to say. Besides, I’d probably said enough. So, I just sat there and watched the fireflies flicker by. It was warmer than it usually was in July. I started to wipe the sweat from my forehead when Andy grabbed my hand.
“I don’t like Trudy Centers and I don’t care that we used to take baths together. June, you are the prettiest girl that I’ve ever seen and I think you’re smart and funny. I may only be twelve but a boy knows what he likes and I like you. Now, if you don’t like me, just say so. I don’t care to just be your friend but I gotta know if you like me, too. You know, if you like, like me,” he said.
I felt frozen. After all the talking, I still hadn’t stopped to think about how I felt. I just assumed that he didn’t really like me like that and it wouldn’t matter anyway. So, I looked at him in his grass stained jeans and red t-shirt. His nose was covered in freckles and his blonde hair was always messy. His face was dripping with sweat and his hands were dirty from the tree we’d climbed earlier but he still looked cute. That’s when I realized that I liked him, too. I’d never thought about it before but now that I did, I kinda liked the idea of him being my boyfriend.
“You’re smiling. That must be good, right?” he asked.
“Well, Andy, I think I do like you. I mean, if you’re sure that you like me,” I said.
He smiled and held out his hand. “I’m sure.”
“Good because I think that Trudy has a boyfriend, anyway.”
We both laughed and laid back onto the cool grass. We spent our evenings looking at the stars. The only difference now was that I could feel the sweat from his hands on my own. Suddenly, I found it quite easy to focus on just one star.
- - -
I am a mother, wife, writer, blogger and editor. I love the ocean and spend way too much time reading. I'm currently in the editing trenches with my first novel.
By Christina Jones
“Come closer,” he whispered. So, I leaned in, my ear close enough to feel his breath. Andy always told the best secrets. I waited patiently for the words to come out. Then, suddenly he sat up straight as a board.
“I don’t know, June. I’m not sure that I want to tell you this,” he said.
“Oh, come on! Just say it. Come on!”
He smiled and cupped his hand around his mouth. Leaning in again, I waited patiently for what he was going to say.
“You’re the prettiest girl that I know,” he whispered into my ear. I didn’t know what to say back. So I leaned away from him and stared at the sky which was now cluttered with stars. I tried to pick one out and focus on it but it was so hard to choose only one. I mean, they were all so pretty. That’s how I knew that Andy was wrong. There are way too many pretty girls at our school. You can’t pick just one. It’s not possible.
“June?” he whispered. I could see that he was hurt. I hadn’t said anything and it was obvious that he expected me to. I didn’t want to hurt his feelings and it wasn’t that I didn’t like him. I did. It’s just that, well, we were only twelve and my body hadn’t even fully developed. I wasn’t even sure that I looked like a girl. Trudy Centers was much more developed than I was. She almost looked like my mom. Why didn’t he tell her that she was pretty, instead of me?
“If you don’t like me like that, it’s okay. Just tell me and I’ll leave it alone,” he said.
“Listen, Andy, it’s not that, okay. Have you seen Trudy?” I blurted out.
“Trudy?” he looked confused.
“You know, Trudy Centers, from math class. She’s the one who sits behind stinky Ben.”
“Yeah, what about her?”
“Well, she’s much prettier than I am. So, you just can’t be telling the truth. That’s all.”
“You think I’m lying?” I offended him. I didn’t mean to but it happened.
“Well, she’s more of a woman than I am,” I declared.
“Woman? June, she’s twelve, so are you. What are you talking about?” he said.
I didn’t want to tell him that I’d overheard Trudy and her friends in gym class the other day. She was telling them about how she became a woman over the weekend because mother nature had paid her a visit. I had no idea what she was talking about but I was jealous. I didn’t know what I needed to do to get a visit from Mother Nature but I was certainly ready to meet her. Besides, my sister Shelly told me that most boys like older women because they are mature.
“Listen, Andy, we used to take baths together,” I said.
“So?” It was obvious that I wasn’t getting my point across. He was just becoming more confused.
“You only said that I was the prettiest girl that you know because I’m the only girl that you’re comfortable with. I know that you’d much rather date Trudy than me. If you want, I’ll help you talk to her.”
His smile was immediately gone. He lowered his head and cradled it in his palm. I’d crushed him. I didn’t see that coming. I thought he’d be relieved to get off the hook. I didn’t know what to say. Besides, I’d probably said enough. So, I just sat there and watched the fireflies flicker by. It was warmer than it usually was in July. I started to wipe the sweat from my forehead when Andy grabbed my hand.
“I don’t like Trudy Centers and I don’t care that we used to take baths together. June, you are the prettiest girl that I’ve ever seen and I think you’re smart and funny. I may only be twelve but a boy knows what he likes and I like you. Now, if you don’t like me, just say so. I don’t care to just be your friend but I gotta know if you like me, too. You know, if you like, like me,” he said.
I felt frozen. After all the talking, I still hadn’t stopped to think about how I felt. I just assumed that he didn’t really like me like that and it wouldn’t matter anyway. So, I looked at him in his grass stained jeans and red t-shirt. His nose was covered in freckles and his blonde hair was always messy. His face was dripping with sweat and his hands were dirty from the tree we’d climbed earlier but he still looked cute. That’s when I realized that I liked him, too. I’d never thought about it before but now that I did, I kinda liked the idea of him being my boyfriend.
“You’re smiling. That must be good, right?” he asked.
“Well, Andy, I think I do like you. I mean, if you’re sure that you like me,” I said.
He smiled and held out his hand. “I’m sure.”
“Good because I think that Trudy has a boyfriend, anyway.”
We both laughed and laid back onto the cool grass. We spent our evenings looking at the stars. The only difference now was that I could feel the sweat from his hands on my own. Suddenly, I found it quite easy to focus on just one star.
- - -
I am a mother, wife, writer, blogger and editor. I love the ocean and spend way too much time reading. I'm currently in the editing trenches with my first novel.
Sunday, July 7, 2013
7/7/13
Satin and Grace
By Donal Mahoney
Here in Chicago I sit
in the sun of an Indian Summer
high on the Water Tower waiting,
chapped hands in a visor
over my eyes, hoping I see
you in that gown,
all satin and grace,
float like a feather
back to Chicago.
I don't care if you stop
by Confederate streams
to pick phallic rocks
on the way from Savannah
so long as you rise,
release all your hair,
take to the air
and float like a feather
on to Chicago
because this is the last time I'll sit
on the Water Tower waiting.
I'd rather go blind than see
you in that gown,
all satin and grace,
laugh like a loon,
turn in the air,
then float like a feather
back to Savannah.
- - -
Donal Mahoney lives in St. Louis, Missouri.
By Donal Mahoney
Here in Chicago I sit
in the sun of an Indian Summer
high on the Water Tower waiting,
chapped hands in a visor
over my eyes, hoping I see
you in that gown,
all satin and grace,
float like a feather
back to Chicago.
I don't care if you stop
by Confederate streams
to pick phallic rocks
on the way from Savannah
so long as you rise,
release all your hair,
take to the air
and float like a feather
on to Chicago
because this is the last time I'll sit
on the Water Tower waiting.
I'd rather go blind than see
you in that gown,
all satin and grace,
laugh like a loon,
turn in the air,
then float like a feather
back to Savannah.
- - -
Donal Mahoney lives in St. Louis, Missouri.
Saturday, July 6, 2013
7/6/13
SCOOPING
By Shelby Dale DeWeese
Everything I have ever felt spills out of me
at the thought of you.
I try to scoop all those feelings up,
hold them in the space between my clasped hands,
shape them into something
to give to you
in a bright, clean gift basket.
But time has taught me that there is no solution,
that all I can do is love you so hard
it squeezes you tight
and ties up the loose edges
of what you call your life.
- - -
Shelby Dale DeWeese is a poetry editor for Fractal and Teen Ink. Her work has appeared in those publications, and is forthcoming in Eunoia Review. Born and raised in a town so small that it doesn't even have a name, she currently lives and studies in Los Angeles.
By Shelby Dale DeWeese
Everything I have ever felt spills out of me
at the thought of you.
I try to scoop all those feelings up,
hold them in the space between my clasped hands,
shape them into something
to give to you
in a bright, clean gift basket.
But time has taught me that there is no solution,
that all I can do is love you so hard
it squeezes you tight
and ties up the loose edges
of what you call your life.
- - -
Shelby Dale DeWeese is a poetry editor for Fractal and Teen Ink. Her work has appeared in those publications, and is forthcoming in Eunoia Review. Born and raised in a town so small that it doesn't even have a name, she currently lives and studies in Los Angeles.
Friday, July 5, 2013
7/5/13
Heavy Velvet Wet
By Birta C. Long
Touched
Where the fire is felt
keenest
where itching, inching fingers
part velvet curtains
trace tips
through rain
to futures
shared
welcome the dawn
within me
within you
together
and kiss all that I am
when you come.
- - -
By Birta C. Long
Touched
Where the fire is felt
keenest
where itching, inching fingers
part velvet curtains
trace tips
through rain
to futures
shared
welcome the dawn
within me
within you
together
and kiss all that I am
when you come.
- - -
Thursday, July 4, 2013
7/4/13
Widow's Walk
By Deborah Burch
My Captain! Oh, my Captain! Captain, mine!
The sea, a wretched temptress, rolled you deep.
She's kept you from me, squandering our time.
How long before you're free this vixen's keep?
Each day, in vain, I walk the roof top watch,
while searching the horizon for your sail.
At night, by lantern light, I touch each notch,
Where last you carved our names within the rail.
By candlelight, I read the letters sent,
about the journey's quest and your return,
of travesties and sickness relenting,
Oh how my love, eternal, for you burns.
Tonight, upon the widow's walk I stand...
The moon reveals your footprints, in the sand.
- - -
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.
By Deborah Burch
My Captain! Oh, my Captain! Captain, mine!
The sea, a wretched temptress, rolled you deep.
She's kept you from me, squandering our time.
How long before you're free this vixen's keep?
Each day, in vain, I walk the roof top watch,
while searching the horizon for your sail.
At night, by lantern light, I touch each notch,
Where last you carved our names within the rail.
By candlelight, I read the letters sent,
about the journey's quest and your return,
of travesties and sickness relenting,
Oh how my love, eternal, for you burns.
Tonight, upon the widow's walk I stand...
The moon reveals your footprints, in the sand.
- - -
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.
Wednesday, July 3, 2013
7/3/13
I Am The Girl You Write Songs About
By Angela Catley
I am the girl you write songs about
the girl you make breakfasts for
the girl you hold hands with and take the danger side for when crossing the street
the girl you watch peculiar films and concerts with (which you don’t like but she does, so you do it)
the girl you take to fancy dinners and hold doors for
the girl you drink beers with and make out with on the dance floor
the girl you drive hours for just to see her
the girl who laughs when you fart then shoves you but pulls you back in a hug
the girl you take to meet your folks and your buddies
the girl who plays her records and smokes in the dark as you talk about all your secrets and fears
the girl you make promises to while tangled naked in bed as the morning sun and sweat glisten your skin
the girl whose laughter makes your heart melt, so you try
the girl whose scent you always miss
the girl whom you cry for when she walks out and leaves
but you let go of anyway
- - -
Made in the Philippines, exported to the United States. Angela has a Bachelor’s Degree in Psychology, working a full-time office job and enjoying her young adult life in sunny Orange County, California.
By Angela Catley
I am the girl you write songs about
the girl you make breakfasts for
the girl you hold hands with and take the danger side for when crossing the street
the girl you watch peculiar films and concerts with (which you don’t like but she does, so you do it)
the girl you take to fancy dinners and hold doors for
the girl you drink beers with and make out with on the dance floor
the girl you drive hours for just to see her
the girl who laughs when you fart then shoves you but pulls you back in a hug
the girl you take to meet your folks and your buddies
the girl who plays her records and smokes in the dark as you talk about all your secrets and fears
the girl you make promises to while tangled naked in bed as the morning sun and sweat glisten your skin
the girl whose laughter makes your heart melt, so you try
the girl whose scent you always miss
the girl whom you cry for when she walks out and leaves
but you let go of anyway
- - -
Made in the Philippines, exported to the United States. Angela has a Bachelor’s Degree in Psychology, working a full-time office job and enjoying her young adult life in sunny Orange County, California.
Tuesday, July 2, 2013
7/2/13
Tell Me
By Wade Thiel
What do you want me to do?
I will do anything.
I will sit here and stare
Out the windshield of my car,
While your words pick
At scabs and scars.
You can get shitty or bitchy
Or reach out and hit me.
I’ll be waiting for you
Just tell me when you’re ready.
Tell me when you’re done
Being angry,
And ready to be lazy.
To lay in bed and rest
Your head on my chest
And hold my hand
Without anger or stress
And when you smile and our
Lips press.
I’ll know it’s all right.
I’ll know it’s all right.
- - -
My name is Wade Thiel. I am studying creative writing at the University of Indianapolis. I write fiction and poetry and usually don't write about love, but sometimes things happen.
By Wade Thiel
What do you want me to do?
I will do anything.
I will sit here and stare
Out the windshield of my car,
While your words pick
At scabs and scars.
You can get shitty or bitchy
Or reach out and hit me.
I’ll be waiting for you
Just tell me when you’re ready.
Tell me when you’re done
Being angry,
And ready to be lazy.
To lay in bed and rest
Your head on my chest
And hold my hand
Without anger or stress
And when you smile and our
Lips press.
I’ll know it’s all right.
I’ll know it’s all right.
- - -
My name is Wade Thiel. I am studying creative writing at the University of Indianapolis. I write fiction and poetry and usually don't write about love, but sometimes things happen.
Monday, July 1, 2013
7/1/13
Mostly Basie with a Little Bach
By Donal Mahoney
Whenever I see a new woman, I know
I should look at her hair and her eyes and her smile
before I decide if she's worth the small talk
and the dinner later
and whatever else she may require
before she becomes taffy,
pliant and smiling.
But that never works for me.
Whenever I see a new woman,
what matters to me is never
her hair or her eyes or her smile;
what matters to me is her saunter
as I stroll behind her.
If her moon comes over the mountain
and loops in languor, left to right,
and then loops back again,
primed for another revolution, then
I introduce myself immediately
no matter where we are,
in the stairwell or on the street
and that's when I see for the first time
her hair and her eyes and her smile
but they are never a distraction since
I'm lost in the music of her saunter.
Years ago, tall and loping Carol Ann
took a train to Chicago,
found a job and then one summer day
walked ahead of me on Michigan Avenue
while I surveyed her universe amid
the cabs screeching, horns beeping,
a driver's middle finger rising.
Suddenly she turned and said hello
and we shook hands and I saw her smile
dart like a minnow and then disappear
as she frowned and asked
why was I walking behind her.
I told her I was on my way to the noon Mass
at Holy Name Cathedral and she was welcome
to come along. The sermon wouldn't be much,
I said, but the coffee and bagels afterward
would be plentiful, enough to cover lunch.
And Jesus Christ Himself would be there.
She didn't believe me, not at all,
and she hasn't believed me since.
That was thirty years ago and now
her smile is still a minnow
darting here and there but now
it's more important than her saunter
which is still a symphony,
mostly Basie with a little Bach.
And I no longer traipse Michigan Avenue
as I did years ago looking for new moons
swirling in my universe. Instead,
I take my lunch in a little bag
on a long train from the suburbs
and I marvel at one fact:
It's been thirty years since I first heard
the music in her saunter
and Carol Ann and I are
still together, praise the Lord.
Who can believe it? Not I.
Carol Ann says she knew
the ending from the start.
Lord, Almighty. Fancy that.
- - -
Donal Mahoney has had poetry and fiction appear in various publications in North America, Europe, Asia and Africa.
By Donal Mahoney
Whenever I see a new woman, I know
I should look at her hair and her eyes and her smile
before I decide if she's worth the small talk
and the dinner later
and whatever else she may require
before she becomes taffy,
pliant and smiling.
But that never works for me.
Whenever I see a new woman,
what matters to me is never
her hair or her eyes or her smile;
what matters to me is her saunter
as I stroll behind her.
If her moon comes over the mountain
and loops in languor, left to right,
and then loops back again,
primed for another revolution, then
I introduce myself immediately
no matter where we are,
in the stairwell or on the street
and that's when I see for the first time
her hair and her eyes and her smile
but they are never a distraction since
I'm lost in the music of her saunter.
Years ago, tall and loping Carol Ann
took a train to Chicago,
found a job and then one summer day
walked ahead of me on Michigan Avenue
while I surveyed her universe amid
the cabs screeching, horns beeping,
a driver's middle finger rising.
Suddenly she turned and said hello
and we shook hands and I saw her smile
dart like a minnow and then disappear
as she frowned and asked
why was I walking behind her.
I told her I was on my way to the noon Mass
at Holy Name Cathedral and she was welcome
to come along. The sermon wouldn't be much,
I said, but the coffee and bagels afterward
would be plentiful, enough to cover lunch.
And Jesus Christ Himself would be there.
She didn't believe me, not at all,
and she hasn't believed me since.
That was thirty years ago and now
her smile is still a minnow
darting here and there but now
it's more important than her saunter
which is still a symphony,
mostly Basie with a little Bach.
And I no longer traipse Michigan Avenue
as I did years ago looking for new moons
swirling in my universe. Instead,
I take my lunch in a little bag
on a long train from the suburbs
and I marvel at one fact:
It's been thirty years since I first heard
the music in her saunter
and Carol Ann and I are
still together, praise the Lord.
Who can believe it? Not I.
Carol Ann says she knew
the ending from the start.
Lord, Almighty. Fancy that.
- - -
Donal Mahoney has had poetry and fiction appear in various publications in North America, Europe, Asia and Africa.
