For You
By Todd Norton
I imagine death more suitable
for flowers and thunderstorms.
The finality is such beauty.
I imagined love exactly
as you’ve become,
growing from the ashes of loneliness,
dissolute children of parentless prospects,
relying on faith
to obtain what we seek.
Empty windows along crowded streets
and nothing is familiar
except this need to be found.
There’s more than one song
in the jukebox,
there’s one that fits
everything you say,
every dream you think,
every pain we’ve felt.
I imagined life more beautiful
and then you appeared,
my hand in yours,
as we become
forever bound.
- - -
Todd Norton is a Native American poet who lives and works in Appleton, Wisconsin.
Saturday, December 31, 2011
Friday, December 30, 2011
12/30/11
'Falling in Love, Again'
By Adrian Ford
I had thought, ‘falling in love at first sight’ is just a cliché. That is, until it happened to me. It was in the early sixties; I was an unworldly teenager at his first Saturday night local hop. Approaching the hall, you could hear the bass of
‘Great Balls of Fire’
trying to beat its way through the walls. I paid my entrance money, took a deep breath and reached out to open when the main door when it burst open in my face.
‘I Hear You Knockin’’
‘Watch out, kid.’ It was two of the village heavyweights dressed in flashy teddy-boy style suits with drape jackets, drainpipe trousers and crepe-soled beetle-crushers.
‘S-s-sorry,’ I stammered, making way for the boisterous two and their giggling girls, chewing gum ostentatiously. Their dresses were so short you could see their underwear.
‘I Saw Her Standing There’
Inside, I joined the writhing mass of humanity and saw her near the stage. A single spotlight played upon a revolving crystal ball hanging from the ceiling. Bubbles of light washed over the most beautiful face I had ever seen. I seemed to be gazing through a hazy tunnel, music diminishing to a whisper. She was tall, her black dress accentuating her hourglass figure, complementing her perfect pale face, black hair falling over exquisite shoulders. My mouth became dry; my pulses raced; I was in love.
‘Are you going to ask me to dance, Johnny?’ It was Sandra, the girl who lived next door. I was back in the real world.
‘Of course,’ I said, leading her into the throng.
‘Let’s Dance’
Later, we sat with glasses of ice-cold coke. ‘Great to see you, Sandra, you’re looking lovely tonight.’ We had an ‘open’ relationship of close friendship; not at all platonic but stopping short of exclusive ‘going steady’.
‘Who’s that in the black dress?’ I asked.
‘She’s out of your league, Johnny. That’s Claudia d’Angelo, of the ice cream family. She’s with her brother, Jackie.’
I knew of him – and his side-kick, Eddie Smylie. They were not just reputed to be hard men. Undeterred, when Sandra was asked to dance I walked over to Claudia.
‘Hello, Miss d’Angelo, I’m Johnny Manson. Would you like to dance?’
Her brother stepped between us. ‘She doesn’t dance with kids, especially those from the Wimpey estate and who go to private schools. Beat it.’ He seemed a pleasant chap, quietly spoken; whose eyes never left yours.
‘The Ballad of High Noon’
‘With respect, Mr. d’Angelo, I am asking your sister to dance.’
He said, ‘Okay, but you have a problem.’
‘And what’s that?’
‘Her boyfriend.’
Two huge hands clamped me on the upper arms, turning me so that I was facing away from Claudia. Eddie Smylie then propelled me into the middle of the dance floor. I scuttled off, red-faced, wishing I were somewhere else.
‘Return to Sender’
Sandra took many letters to Claudia at their school for me; I telephoned her daily. Then Eddie called me and made it very clear that I should desist from annoying his girl-friend. ‘In any case, sunshine,’ he said, ‘she wouldn’t be allowed to go out with a non-Catholic.’
So there it was; my address, school and religion were against me. I was doomed.
Decades later, Sandra contacted me through a social website. She lived in South Africa and we began to e-mail constantly. She was divorced and had two grown-up children, just like me. When she said she was visiting England to visit her son in Worcester, we arranged to meet at the Randolph, in Oxford.
She was already sitting, reading at a cream tea-laden table and didn’t see me as I gazed upon her, smitten suddenly by something akin to when I first saw Claudia.
After tea, she said, ‘Not only have I organized the tea, Jimmy, I have taken a room.’
We married in Durban and honeymooned in Botswana where we were to take up teaching posts. Funny old world, isn’t it?
‘Wimoweh’
- - -
By Adrian Ford
I had thought, ‘falling in love at first sight’ is just a cliché. That is, until it happened to me. It was in the early sixties; I was an unworldly teenager at his first Saturday night local hop. Approaching the hall, you could hear the bass of
‘Great Balls of Fire’
trying to beat its way through the walls. I paid my entrance money, took a deep breath and reached out to open when the main door when it burst open in my face.
‘I Hear You Knockin’’
‘Watch out, kid.’ It was two of the village heavyweights dressed in flashy teddy-boy style suits with drape jackets, drainpipe trousers and crepe-soled beetle-crushers.
‘S-s-sorry,’ I stammered, making way for the boisterous two and their giggling girls, chewing gum ostentatiously. Their dresses were so short you could see their underwear.
‘I Saw Her Standing There’
Inside, I joined the writhing mass of humanity and saw her near the stage. A single spotlight played upon a revolving crystal ball hanging from the ceiling. Bubbles of light washed over the most beautiful face I had ever seen. I seemed to be gazing through a hazy tunnel, music diminishing to a whisper. She was tall, her black dress accentuating her hourglass figure, complementing her perfect pale face, black hair falling over exquisite shoulders. My mouth became dry; my pulses raced; I was in love.
‘Are you going to ask me to dance, Johnny?’ It was Sandra, the girl who lived next door. I was back in the real world.
‘Of course,’ I said, leading her into the throng.
‘Let’s Dance’
Later, we sat with glasses of ice-cold coke. ‘Great to see you, Sandra, you’re looking lovely tonight.’ We had an ‘open’ relationship of close friendship; not at all platonic but stopping short of exclusive ‘going steady’.
‘Who’s that in the black dress?’ I asked.
‘She’s out of your league, Johnny. That’s Claudia d’Angelo, of the ice cream family. She’s with her brother, Jackie.’
I knew of him – and his side-kick, Eddie Smylie. They were not just reputed to be hard men. Undeterred, when Sandra was asked to dance I walked over to Claudia.
‘Hello, Miss d’Angelo, I’m Johnny Manson. Would you like to dance?’
Her brother stepped between us. ‘She doesn’t dance with kids, especially those from the Wimpey estate and who go to private schools. Beat it.’ He seemed a pleasant chap, quietly spoken; whose eyes never left yours.
‘The Ballad of High Noon’
‘With respect, Mr. d’Angelo, I am asking your sister to dance.’
He said, ‘Okay, but you have a problem.’
‘And what’s that?’
‘Her boyfriend.’
Two huge hands clamped me on the upper arms, turning me so that I was facing away from Claudia. Eddie Smylie then propelled me into the middle of the dance floor. I scuttled off, red-faced, wishing I were somewhere else.
‘Return to Sender’
Sandra took many letters to Claudia at their school for me; I telephoned her daily. Then Eddie called me and made it very clear that I should desist from annoying his girl-friend. ‘In any case, sunshine,’ he said, ‘she wouldn’t be allowed to go out with a non-Catholic.’
So there it was; my address, school and religion were against me. I was doomed.
*
Decades later, Sandra contacted me through a social website. She lived in South Africa and we began to e-mail constantly. She was divorced and had two grown-up children, just like me. When she said she was visiting England to visit her son in Worcester, we arranged to meet at the Randolph, in Oxford.
She was already sitting, reading at a cream tea-laden table and didn’t see me as I gazed upon her, smitten suddenly by something akin to when I first saw Claudia.
After tea, she said, ‘Not only have I organized the tea, Jimmy, I have taken a room.’
We married in Durban and honeymooned in Botswana where we were to take up teaching posts. Funny old world, isn’t it?
‘Wimoweh’
- - -
Thursday, December 29, 2011
12/29/11
Adieu
By Virginie Colline
parting time
you catch your breath
I catch mine
- - -
Virginie Colline is a Parisian translator.
By Virginie Colline
parting time
you catch your breath
I catch mine
- - -
Virginie Colline is a Parisian translator.
Wednesday, December 28, 2011
12/28/11
Forever
By Samuel Cole
Like forever, they sit together in the porch during the evening shade on matching green recliners facing each other like reflective mirrors.
She sips Earl Gray tea and writes poetry through bifocals.
He drinks Heineken and reads the newspaper cover to cover.
At 8:30pm, hand in hand, they head off to bed. Routine since their last child left the house eleven years ago.
She’s come to enjoy the quiet, but misses her children’s laughter.
He’s come to smoke a pipe and hum while he reads.
“Would you like to hear my latest poem?” she asks, removing her spectacles.
He can hear the excitement in her voice. “Course,” he says, stuffing the newspaper into his lap. “Ready when you are.”
She holds up the piece of paper, rattling inside her arthritic fingers.
He grins, happy to see it’s a short poem. The last poem went on and on, well over five minutes.
“You’ll be honest, right?” she asks, as if questioning his character. “You’ll tell me truthfully what you think of it when I’m done.”
“I always do,” he says, as if frustrated with her unrelenting quest to question his character.
She pushes her spectacles into her face and clears her throat.
He plays with the inside of his ears, pretending to be full of gunky wax.
“Like forever, they sit together in the porch during the evening shade on matching green recliners facing each other like reflective mirrors,” she begins. She pauses.
“Go on,” he says. He knows there’s more.
“What do you think so far?”
“Nice introduction. I can really see the setting.”
“That was my goal,” she says, smiling. “I’m so pleased you noticed.” Rattling the piece of paper, she clears her throat, reads on. Each line grows stronger in voice and substance, finishing the poem out of breath, weeping.
She looks over at his pipe, turned upside down smoking on the newspaper. He too is out of breath, gone forever from the poem she titles forever.
- - -
Samuel Cole lives in Woodbury, MN.
By Samuel Cole
Like forever, they sit together in the porch during the evening shade on matching green recliners facing each other like reflective mirrors.
She sips Earl Gray tea and writes poetry through bifocals.
He drinks Heineken and reads the newspaper cover to cover.
At 8:30pm, hand in hand, they head off to bed. Routine since their last child left the house eleven years ago.
She’s come to enjoy the quiet, but misses her children’s laughter.
He’s come to smoke a pipe and hum while he reads.
“Would you like to hear my latest poem?” she asks, removing her spectacles.
He can hear the excitement in her voice. “Course,” he says, stuffing the newspaper into his lap. “Ready when you are.”
She holds up the piece of paper, rattling inside her arthritic fingers.
He grins, happy to see it’s a short poem. The last poem went on and on, well over five minutes.
“You’ll be honest, right?” she asks, as if questioning his character. “You’ll tell me truthfully what you think of it when I’m done.”
“I always do,” he says, as if frustrated with her unrelenting quest to question his character.
She pushes her spectacles into her face and clears her throat.
He plays with the inside of his ears, pretending to be full of gunky wax.
“Like forever, they sit together in the porch during the evening shade on matching green recliners facing each other like reflective mirrors,” she begins. She pauses.
“Go on,” he says. He knows there’s more.
“What do you think so far?”
“Nice introduction. I can really see the setting.”
“That was my goal,” she says, smiling. “I’m so pleased you noticed.” Rattling the piece of paper, she clears her throat, reads on. Each line grows stronger in voice and substance, finishing the poem out of breath, weeping.
She looks over at his pipe, turned upside down smoking on the newspaper. He too is out of breath, gone forever from the poem she titles forever.
- - -
Samuel Cole lives in Woodbury, MN.
Tuesday, December 27, 2011
12/27/11
The Cherry Punnet
By RM Nicholson
David stood, leaning on his stick, gazing into the mist across the field, waiting for signs of activity. Finally a white flag waved. He lifted his stick and waved in acknowledgement and set off at a steady pace across the turnip field. Shapes that had been invisible in the mist because of their stillness became other people moving in a line. His job on this, the last drive of the day, was to walk towards a large clump of holly, driving any partridge that were in the field towards a cover crop in the distance. At the holly clump he would meet another beater and together they would prevent as many partridge as possible from flying back across the field by turning them across a wood and towards the guns in the valley below.
He didn't recognise the other beater at the holly clump. She was about his age, slim, dark haired with fine almost elfin features and she had a dog that was sitting patiently beside her. He had been aware that a couple of beaters had arrived at lunch to join in for the afternoon and couldn't work out why he hadn't noticed her at the time.
“Hi,” he said, “we have to make our way over there then stand off the wood about 50 yards”. He pointed his stick towards the edge of the wood. “There is a wire fence to negotiate; will your dog be ok?”
“She'll be able to scramble through,” said the girl.
“Ok let's go then,” said David.
At the fence he held the top strand down so the girl could get over it. Once over she stood on the bottom strand and lifted the one above it and called for the dog to climb through the gap. The dog was halfway through when it got caught on the wire and let out a whine, causing a flock of partridge to wheel up and fly back over their heads. “She's caught her skin on a barb, can you help hold her please?” said the girl.
David dropped to his knees and took the weight of the dog while the girl tried to free her. He was aware of her hair, her perfume and when they touched he felt a surge of energy. The dog was struggling and she soothed her with gentle encouragement and finally freed her. They both stood up and she looked David in the eyes. She was beautiful.
“Thanks,” she smiled, “I'm Gemma by the way.” She carried on smiling, really smiling, not a fixed polite smile but a proper smile as if they were old friends. They looked deep into each others eyes.
“You're welcome,” he said, finally, aware of a slight strain in his voice.
“I think I'll take her back to the house,” said Gemma, “see you later at tea?”
“Ok, that will be great,” said David and they parted, Gemma through a gate into the next field and David inwardly smiling and pleasantly surprised at what had just happened.
However when they all got back to the farm, Gemma was no where to be seen. David asked one of the other beaters, a woman he vaguely knew as Sheila, who had apparently invited Gemma onto the shoot.
“She got her dog caught on the wire and I helped her free it. I just want to get in touch to make sure she's ok. The dog I mean,” he said lamely.
“Be careful there,” said Sheila, “Gemma's husband is insanely jealous and he keeps her on a tight rein. I think that they are in the throes of a separation so now might not be a good idea.”
“Will she be beating again this year?” he asked.
“Possibly,” said Sheila, looking at him slightly quizzically.
The last shoot was a fortnight later and as it happened David was forced to go on a work trip so he missed it. He attended his meeting, silently screaming inside, desperate to see Gemma again.
David had been away from the chase for so long he didn't know where to start. In truth he had never really been in the chase; his marriage had been a wonderful long and happy one; they had found each other at University one drunken night and that had been that. Here he was, a widower at 40 behaving like a lovesick teenager.
A few weeks later he Googled Facebook, signed in and spent an hour trying to find people who might lead him towards Gemma. He started with Sheila who turned out to be a single 42 year old into horses. She ran boarding kennels and appeared to have quite a wide circle of friends including, finally, Gemma. He decided to ask Sheila through Facebook if he could be her friend and move on from there. Sheila emailed back the next evening and offered the information that Gemma and her husband had now separated and that she and Sheila were going to be in town together the following Saturday, if he was still infatuated and up for a chance meeting. David's heart leapt and he started playing all sorts of scenes in his head, the meeting, the cappuccino, their eyes meeting and hands touching briefly before he asked her out for a meal and she gave a breathy 'yes'.
On Saturday in Waitrose, David had just found everything, including the last punnet of cherries in the shop, when a soft voice behind him said “It's David isn't it?”
David turned and gazed deeply into the eyes of the woman he had thought of above everything else over the last weeks. Sheila stood behind her, smiling. “Er, yes, how are you?” he asked.
“Bearing up,” said Gemma, “I missed you at the end of the shoot because my husband, ex-husband, arrived early and I didn't have a chance to thank you properly for being so caring with my dog.”
David was just going to ask after the dog when Gemma added “Are those cherries in your basket?”
“Yes,” said David, “I'm trying out a new recipe tonight. I was lucky, there aren't any left.”
“I know,” said Gemma, “I was after cherries as well. I'm having a dinner party tonight and really need some because I've already started preparing the desert. I don't suppose you would let me have them, seeing as my need is slightly greater than yours?” She looked up at David with an inquiring innocence.
“Why doesn't David buy them then you two can split them up outside the shop?” said Sheila.
“Because I need all of them,” said Gemma in a strident tone. David was surprised; she sounded like a spoilt child.
“Why don't you ask the manager if he has any more?” he suggested. Gemma put her basket down and strode off and left David feeling confused, his dream crashing around him.
“What are you cooking?” asked Sheila.
“Oh it’s a cherry pie thing,” said David from the depths of his despair. “I just want to get it right for friends who are coming over next week.”
“So if I come over at about 7.00 with a bottle could I help taste it?” said Sheila, smiling at him. “I'll bring some cream and a spoon and bowl if it helps?” David looked at Sheila and engaged her blue eyes, her laughter lines at the corners, and he broke into a happy grin.
“Seven is fine, I think I can find you a spoon and bowl but a bottle would be great.” Sheila reached up gave his arm a squeeze and planted a kiss on his cheek.
“I'm looking forward to it,” she said “now go and cook.”
- - -
The author is new to creative writing and this is his first romantic short story. It was inspired by an incident on a recent shoot when the author’s spaniel got caught on some barbed wire…
By RM Nicholson
David stood, leaning on his stick, gazing into the mist across the field, waiting for signs of activity. Finally a white flag waved. He lifted his stick and waved in acknowledgement and set off at a steady pace across the turnip field. Shapes that had been invisible in the mist because of their stillness became other people moving in a line. His job on this, the last drive of the day, was to walk towards a large clump of holly, driving any partridge that were in the field towards a cover crop in the distance. At the holly clump he would meet another beater and together they would prevent as many partridge as possible from flying back across the field by turning them across a wood and towards the guns in the valley below.
He didn't recognise the other beater at the holly clump. She was about his age, slim, dark haired with fine almost elfin features and she had a dog that was sitting patiently beside her. He had been aware that a couple of beaters had arrived at lunch to join in for the afternoon and couldn't work out why he hadn't noticed her at the time.
“Hi,” he said, “we have to make our way over there then stand off the wood about 50 yards”. He pointed his stick towards the edge of the wood. “There is a wire fence to negotiate; will your dog be ok?”
“She'll be able to scramble through,” said the girl.
“Ok let's go then,” said David.
At the fence he held the top strand down so the girl could get over it. Once over she stood on the bottom strand and lifted the one above it and called for the dog to climb through the gap. The dog was halfway through when it got caught on the wire and let out a whine, causing a flock of partridge to wheel up and fly back over their heads. “She's caught her skin on a barb, can you help hold her please?” said the girl.
David dropped to his knees and took the weight of the dog while the girl tried to free her. He was aware of her hair, her perfume and when they touched he felt a surge of energy. The dog was struggling and she soothed her with gentle encouragement and finally freed her. They both stood up and she looked David in the eyes. She was beautiful.
“Thanks,” she smiled, “I'm Gemma by the way.” She carried on smiling, really smiling, not a fixed polite smile but a proper smile as if they were old friends. They looked deep into each others eyes.
“You're welcome,” he said, finally, aware of a slight strain in his voice.
“I think I'll take her back to the house,” said Gemma, “see you later at tea?”
“Ok, that will be great,” said David and they parted, Gemma through a gate into the next field and David inwardly smiling and pleasantly surprised at what had just happened.
However when they all got back to the farm, Gemma was no where to be seen. David asked one of the other beaters, a woman he vaguely knew as Sheila, who had apparently invited Gemma onto the shoot.
“She got her dog caught on the wire and I helped her free it. I just want to get in touch to make sure she's ok. The dog I mean,” he said lamely.
“Be careful there,” said Sheila, “Gemma's husband is insanely jealous and he keeps her on a tight rein. I think that they are in the throes of a separation so now might not be a good idea.”
“Will she be beating again this year?” he asked.
“Possibly,” said Sheila, looking at him slightly quizzically.
The last shoot was a fortnight later and as it happened David was forced to go on a work trip so he missed it. He attended his meeting, silently screaming inside, desperate to see Gemma again.
David had been away from the chase for so long he didn't know where to start. In truth he had never really been in the chase; his marriage had been a wonderful long and happy one; they had found each other at University one drunken night and that had been that. Here he was, a widower at 40 behaving like a lovesick teenager.
A few weeks later he Googled Facebook, signed in and spent an hour trying to find people who might lead him towards Gemma. He started with Sheila who turned out to be a single 42 year old into horses. She ran boarding kennels and appeared to have quite a wide circle of friends including, finally, Gemma. He decided to ask Sheila through Facebook if he could be her friend and move on from there. Sheila emailed back the next evening and offered the information that Gemma and her husband had now separated and that she and Sheila were going to be in town together the following Saturday, if he was still infatuated and up for a chance meeting. David's heart leapt and he started playing all sorts of scenes in his head, the meeting, the cappuccino, their eyes meeting and hands touching briefly before he asked her out for a meal and she gave a breathy 'yes'.
On Saturday in Waitrose, David had just found everything, including the last punnet of cherries in the shop, when a soft voice behind him said “It's David isn't it?”
David turned and gazed deeply into the eyes of the woman he had thought of above everything else over the last weeks. Sheila stood behind her, smiling. “Er, yes, how are you?” he asked.
“Bearing up,” said Gemma, “I missed you at the end of the shoot because my husband, ex-husband, arrived early and I didn't have a chance to thank you properly for being so caring with my dog.”
David was just going to ask after the dog when Gemma added “Are those cherries in your basket?”
“Yes,” said David, “I'm trying out a new recipe tonight. I was lucky, there aren't any left.”
“I know,” said Gemma, “I was after cherries as well. I'm having a dinner party tonight and really need some because I've already started preparing the desert. I don't suppose you would let me have them, seeing as my need is slightly greater than yours?” She looked up at David with an inquiring innocence.
“Why doesn't David buy them then you two can split them up outside the shop?” said Sheila.
“Because I need all of them,” said Gemma in a strident tone. David was surprised; she sounded like a spoilt child.
“Why don't you ask the manager if he has any more?” he suggested. Gemma put her basket down and strode off and left David feeling confused, his dream crashing around him.
“What are you cooking?” asked Sheila.
“Oh it’s a cherry pie thing,” said David from the depths of his despair. “I just want to get it right for friends who are coming over next week.”
“So if I come over at about 7.00 with a bottle could I help taste it?” said Sheila, smiling at him. “I'll bring some cream and a spoon and bowl if it helps?” David looked at Sheila and engaged her blue eyes, her laughter lines at the corners, and he broke into a happy grin.
“Seven is fine, I think I can find you a spoon and bowl but a bottle would be great.” Sheila reached up gave his arm a squeeze and planted a kiss on his cheek.
“I'm looking forward to it,” she said “now go and cook.”
- - -
The author is new to creative writing and this is his first romantic short story. It was inspired by an incident on a recent shoot when the author’s spaniel got caught on some barbed wire…
Monday, December 26, 2011
12/26/11
Summer of '59
By Simay Yildiz
Jane fell in love with George on the peach-colored tile floors of her family’s ranch house on the summer of 1959. The very same day Hawaii was admitted as the 50th US State, her sister and his brother had gotten married, yet George’s entire family had moved into Jane’s house two weeks before that.
On the night of the wedding, Jane had to share her room with George’s younger sister so that the newlyweds could have some privacy. She couldn’t sleep because the sister’s snores made her butt cheeks shake beneath her silk nightgown. So Jane went into the kitchen in the middle of the night to find George on all fours, licking chocolate frosting off the floor.
He lifted his head at the sight of her bare feet and pulled her down on top of his striped pajamas, her chest resting on his. That was the day Jane fell in love with George, right there and then.
''I couldn't let such a good cake go to waste,” he said, his finger leaving chocolate dots on her nose and cheeks, ”didn’t mean to drop it.” As he licked them off with over dramatic sounds, Jane started giggling louder and louder. Just as he reached out to kiss her, they heard the sound of footsteps coming from the stairs. George quickly got up and pulled Jane’s 16-year-old body after him, motioning her to get into the huge wine cabinet before he turned the light off and got inside himself.
Through the cuts in the wood, they hid and watched his mother come in. She was a big yet elegant woman, breathing heavily and talking to herself. She opened a drawer and farted, opened another one and farted again. She kept opening drawer after drawer, farting with each pull, seeming unsure about what she was looking for.
When George realized Jane was about to burst out in laughter, he covered her mouth with the palm of his hand. Her chest pounding at his touch, Jane turned around to see he was holding his nose with his free hand. That was when George lifted his hand up from her mouth, squeezed her nostrils between his fingers and pressed his lips against hers.
That was Jane and George’s very first kiss, the kiss that was surrounded by his mother’s intestines-gone-wrong smell. Yet Jane’s nose only picked up the cheap cologne on his skin and his toothpaste-minty breath on hers.
- - -
Simay works as a copywriter in Istanbul. She likes reading thankyous in CD booklets, bursts into song at random times and has other habits that most consider "weird."
By Simay Yildiz
Jane fell in love with George on the peach-colored tile floors of her family’s ranch house on the summer of 1959. The very same day Hawaii was admitted as the 50th US State, her sister and his brother had gotten married, yet George’s entire family had moved into Jane’s house two weeks before that.
On the night of the wedding, Jane had to share her room with George’s younger sister so that the newlyweds could have some privacy. She couldn’t sleep because the sister’s snores made her butt cheeks shake beneath her silk nightgown. So Jane went into the kitchen in the middle of the night to find George on all fours, licking chocolate frosting off the floor.
He lifted his head at the sight of her bare feet and pulled her down on top of his striped pajamas, her chest resting on his. That was the day Jane fell in love with George, right there and then.
''I couldn't let such a good cake go to waste,” he said, his finger leaving chocolate dots on her nose and cheeks, ”didn’t mean to drop it.” As he licked them off with over dramatic sounds, Jane started giggling louder and louder. Just as he reached out to kiss her, they heard the sound of footsteps coming from the stairs. George quickly got up and pulled Jane’s 16-year-old body after him, motioning her to get into the huge wine cabinet before he turned the light off and got inside himself.
Through the cuts in the wood, they hid and watched his mother come in. She was a big yet elegant woman, breathing heavily and talking to herself. She opened a drawer and farted, opened another one and farted again. She kept opening drawer after drawer, farting with each pull, seeming unsure about what she was looking for.
When George realized Jane was about to burst out in laughter, he covered her mouth with the palm of his hand. Her chest pounding at his touch, Jane turned around to see he was holding his nose with his free hand. That was when George lifted his hand up from her mouth, squeezed her nostrils between his fingers and pressed his lips against hers.
That was Jane and George’s very first kiss, the kiss that was surrounded by his mother’s intestines-gone-wrong smell. Yet Jane’s nose only picked up the cheap cologne on his skin and his toothpaste-minty breath on hers.
- - -
Simay works as a copywriter in Istanbul. She likes reading thankyous in CD booklets, bursts into song at random times and has other habits that most consider "weird."
Sunday, December 25, 2011
12/25/11
Frozen
By Sean Woods
He picked himself up and made work of dragging his body to the concrete barrier between the city and the water. The effort must have been considerable, as since then he hasn’t moved but to breathe or blink. His heavy hands are widely spaced, cementing two pillar-like arms to the cold stone ledge. Broad shoulders hold a thick neck and a face too masculine to be pretty. He eyes the slab of cold concrete between his hands with the intensity of a man contemplating something awful.
I have watched him for hours across the river, both of us frozen where we stand. The stillness betraying our whirring minds, pumping veins and bleeding hearts. His heart plunged into mourning her loss; mine flooded with desire for what I have found.
I don’t know what their fight was about, but it sent her arms flapping and dropped him to his knees. I think it was the flapping arms that caught my eye. Their bodies told me it was a lovers’ tiff, but she left before I got the hang of reading lips. So I waited. For her to return or him to chase her, I don’t know, but I waited nonetheless. Neither came to pass, only hours.
At first I admired his commitment to the pantomime pout and theatrical sulk. Assuming he was trying to look sad for her return. The pigeon proved me wrong though. There are two ways to react to a winged rat in the city: with the excitement of a tourist or the proportionate disgust of a Londoner. Instead he stood motionless as the vermin crossed both the stone ledge and his hands. A man so frozen was not pretending; he was devastated. That’s when I started to fall for him.
I began to wonder how those rough hands would feel on my soft skin, if his stone like arms would turn to pillows around me, if his frost bitten lips would thaw with a kiss.
At five o’clock I thought I’d lost him to the frenzied siege of good men and women returning to their families. For a few panicked moments my eyes darted around the battlefield, hoping for one last glimpse. The fighting soon ceased, and as the troops retreated to regroup, I found him again where I’d left him. My pounding heart did not slow with relief, but instead raced faster with excitement. That's when I knew I had fallen.
As the sun dipped down behind the bank, he cast a long lonely shadow towards me. I imagined his eyes following that shimmering shadow across the water and up the bank to the buildings beyond. Amongst which he would find an unimposing but unmistakably beautiful town house, with slight flaws that only add to its charm. Wherein he finds a window, wherein he finds a girl. Slight flaws only add to her charm. But alas, his eyes cannot swim and stay fixed on the cold stone partition that keeps him from drowning.
Day gives way to night and I have somewhere else to be. The kettle boiled, I fill my flask, and don my coat. Reluctantly I turn to leave, and toss a final glance at him, still frozen to the palisade.
Outside the night is warmer than expected, perhaps enough to thaw.
- - -
By Sean Woods
He picked himself up and made work of dragging his body to the concrete barrier between the city and the water. The effort must have been considerable, as since then he hasn’t moved but to breathe or blink. His heavy hands are widely spaced, cementing two pillar-like arms to the cold stone ledge. Broad shoulders hold a thick neck and a face too masculine to be pretty. He eyes the slab of cold concrete between his hands with the intensity of a man contemplating something awful.
I have watched him for hours across the river, both of us frozen where we stand. The stillness betraying our whirring minds, pumping veins and bleeding hearts. His heart plunged into mourning her loss; mine flooded with desire for what I have found.
I don’t know what their fight was about, but it sent her arms flapping and dropped him to his knees. I think it was the flapping arms that caught my eye. Their bodies told me it was a lovers’ tiff, but she left before I got the hang of reading lips. So I waited. For her to return or him to chase her, I don’t know, but I waited nonetheless. Neither came to pass, only hours.
At first I admired his commitment to the pantomime pout and theatrical sulk. Assuming he was trying to look sad for her return. The pigeon proved me wrong though. There are two ways to react to a winged rat in the city: with the excitement of a tourist or the proportionate disgust of a Londoner. Instead he stood motionless as the vermin crossed both the stone ledge and his hands. A man so frozen was not pretending; he was devastated. That’s when I started to fall for him.
I began to wonder how those rough hands would feel on my soft skin, if his stone like arms would turn to pillows around me, if his frost bitten lips would thaw with a kiss.
At five o’clock I thought I’d lost him to the frenzied siege of good men and women returning to their families. For a few panicked moments my eyes darted around the battlefield, hoping for one last glimpse. The fighting soon ceased, and as the troops retreated to regroup, I found him again where I’d left him. My pounding heart did not slow with relief, but instead raced faster with excitement. That's when I knew I had fallen.
As the sun dipped down behind the bank, he cast a long lonely shadow towards me. I imagined his eyes following that shimmering shadow across the water and up the bank to the buildings beyond. Amongst which he would find an unimposing but unmistakably beautiful town house, with slight flaws that only add to its charm. Wherein he finds a window, wherein he finds a girl. Slight flaws only add to her charm. But alas, his eyes cannot swim and stay fixed on the cold stone partition that keeps him from drowning.
Day gives way to night and I have somewhere else to be. The kettle boiled, I fill my flask, and don my coat. Reluctantly I turn to leave, and toss a final glance at him, still frozen to the palisade.
Outside the night is warmer than expected, perhaps enough to thaw.
- - -
Saturday, December 24, 2011
12/24/11
Hush, Little Baby
By David Harker
Holly snuggled down into her quilt and once again forced her eyes shut; terrified that Santa wouldn’t come if she couldn’t get to sleep. She and Jacquie, her Mummy, had moved into the old thatched cottage after her Daddy was killed in Afghanistan.
She could still remember every detail of the time when the big black car had stopped outside their house in the middle of the night and the men in uniform had come to the door. Holly had been wide awake and crept out of bed to listen as the men spoke to Mummy. They were speaking quietly, saying something about an IED and him being killed? At just 4 years old Holly couldn’t understand all the words they used, nor why her Mummy had fallen to the floor. She just saw the men rush forward and grab her arms.
“Leave my Mummy alone! You’re hurting her!”
Holly had rushed down the stairs and was now trying to push away the men, hitting out at them with her tiny fists.
“Holly, honey, its fine, It’s OK! I just felt a bit dizzy that’s all!”
Her Mummy scooped her in a huge hug, tears welling up in her eyes.
“It’s Daddy, these gentlemen have just told me he won’t be able to come home anymore.”
“Why not?”
“He was in an accident and he’s had to go to Heaven.”
There was the funniest sound in her voice and huge tears trickled down her cheeks. She rocked Holly in her arms and started sobbing uncontrollably. Holly wrapped her arms around her neck and whispered,
“It’s alright Mummy, you won’t be lonely – I’ll look after you!”
Back in her room, Holly shuffled once again in bed, still wishing she could fall asleep. In the night-time quietness, timbers creaked and the open fire sputtered and crackled behind its fireguard. A log settled in the grate, sending a flock of fiery sparks up the chimney. One of the sparks squeezed through the guard and fluttered its way over to Holly’s bed. She gasped, round-eyed in amazement, as she found herself looking at the tiniest fairy figure sparkling in the darkness.
“Hello Holly! I’m the fire fairy. Santa has sent me on ahead to ask you what you want more than anything in the world... I can give you anything so think carefully!”
The fairy’s wings fluttered and glowed in the darkness of the room, her elfin face smiling at Holly as little sparkles of fairy dust trailed behind her.
“So Holly, Close your eyes and make your wish!“
Holly squeezed her eyes shut and thought a moment, then an idea formed in her mind.
“Fire Fairy, I wish Mummy wasn’t so sad. I wish she could see Daddy again.”
Downstairs, the long case clock struck 12; there was a flash of golden light...
In her room Jacquie woke from a deep sleep. John’s strong arms folded around her and his warm body spooned against her back. She squirmed with delight and shuffled that little bit further back towards him. His male scent filled her senses, his stubble scratched against her neck.
“I’m so sorry I put you two through all this Jacqs… It wasn’t meant to be this way. ”
His deep, gravelly voice stirred things deep inside her body.
“That’s alright my love!”, Jacquie turned to face her husband, “You’re here now and that’s all that counts!”
He smiled, the familiar creases at the corners of his eyes deepened and his face lit up.
“I’m here for you but I can’t stop Jacqs, what happened really happened. But I promise I’ll be here whenever you want me, and for as long as you need me. Now, hold me in your arms and sing me the lullaby you used to sing for Holly.”
Jacqui pulled John into her body, nestling his head into her breast and closed her eyes.
“Hush little baby, don't say a word, Mama's gonna buy you a mocking bird…”
“Mummy! It’s Christmas and Santa’s been!”
Holly was bouncing excitedly at the bottom of the bed as Jacquie rubbed the sleep from her eyes. She sat up in bed and thought about the strange dream she had had. She looked at the pile of presents Holly had brought, still unopened, into the bedroom and stacked on the floor to the side of her bed. Something caught her eye and as she looked more closely, she noticed the head shaped depression on the pillow at John’s side of the bed. Could it be? She lifted the pillow and squeezed it to her chest. His fragrance once again filled her senses and for the first time in a very long time she truly relaxed and beamed a smile.
“Happy Christmas honey! Aren’t you going to open your presents?”
Holly looked at her Mummy sitting smiling at the head of the bed, then crawled up and snuggled under the quilt next to her. Jacquie couldn’t understand her daughter’s next sentence, but at this moment in time she wouldn’t waste time worrying.
“Oh I had my best present last night from the fire fairy - and your face just opened it!”
- - -
David lives in part of a converted 17th century watermill in deepest, darkest South Shropshire. His interests are Writing, Landscape Photography, Travel and Nature, with all that entails. His work has been published at Pygmy Giant, Bewildering Stories, Short Humour and Daily Love.
By David Harker
Holly snuggled down into her quilt and once again forced her eyes shut; terrified that Santa wouldn’t come if she couldn’t get to sleep. She and Jacquie, her Mummy, had moved into the old thatched cottage after her Daddy was killed in Afghanistan.
She could still remember every detail of the time when the big black car had stopped outside their house in the middle of the night and the men in uniform had come to the door. Holly had been wide awake and crept out of bed to listen as the men spoke to Mummy. They were speaking quietly, saying something about an IED and him being killed? At just 4 years old Holly couldn’t understand all the words they used, nor why her Mummy had fallen to the floor. She just saw the men rush forward and grab her arms.
“Leave my Mummy alone! You’re hurting her!”
Holly had rushed down the stairs and was now trying to push away the men, hitting out at them with her tiny fists.
“Holly, honey, its fine, It’s OK! I just felt a bit dizzy that’s all!”
Her Mummy scooped her in a huge hug, tears welling up in her eyes.
“It’s Daddy, these gentlemen have just told me he won’t be able to come home anymore.”
“Why not?”
“He was in an accident and he’s had to go to Heaven.”
There was the funniest sound in her voice and huge tears trickled down her cheeks. She rocked Holly in her arms and started sobbing uncontrollably. Holly wrapped her arms around her neck and whispered,
“It’s alright Mummy, you won’t be lonely – I’ll look after you!”
Back in her room, Holly shuffled once again in bed, still wishing she could fall asleep. In the night-time quietness, timbers creaked and the open fire sputtered and crackled behind its fireguard. A log settled in the grate, sending a flock of fiery sparks up the chimney. One of the sparks squeezed through the guard and fluttered its way over to Holly’s bed. She gasped, round-eyed in amazement, as she found herself looking at the tiniest fairy figure sparkling in the darkness.
“Hello Holly! I’m the fire fairy. Santa has sent me on ahead to ask you what you want more than anything in the world... I can give you anything so think carefully!”
The fairy’s wings fluttered and glowed in the darkness of the room, her elfin face smiling at Holly as little sparkles of fairy dust trailed behind her.
“So Holly, Close your eyes and make your wish!“
Holly squeezed her eyes shut and thought a moment, then an idea formed in her mind.
“Fire Fairy, I wish Mummy wasn’t so sad. I wish she could see Daddy again.”
Downstairs, the long case clock struck 12; there was a flash of golden light...
In her room Jacquie woke from a deep sleep. John’s strong arms folded around her and his warm body spooned against her back. She squirmed with delight and shuffled that little bit further back towards him. His male scent filled her senses, his stubble scratched against her neck.
“I’m so sorry I put you two through all this Jacqs… It wasn’t meant to be this way. ”
His deep, gravelly voice stirred things deep inside her body.
“That’s alright my love!”, Jacquie turned to face her husband, “You’re here now and that’s all that counts!”
He smiled, the familiar creases at the corners of his eyes deepened and his face lit up.
“I’m here for you but I can’t stop Jacqs, what happened really happened. But I promise I’ll be here whenever you want me, and for as long as you need me. Now, hold me in your arms and sing me the lullaby you used to sing for Holly.”
Jacqui pulled John into her body, nestling his head into her breast and closed her eyes.
“Hush little baby, don't say a word, Mama's gonna buy you a mocking bird…”
“Mummy! It’s Christmas and Santa’s been!”
Holly was bouncing excitedly at the bottom of the bed as Jacquie rubbed the sleep from her eyes. She sat up in bed and thought about the strange dream she had had. She looked at the pile of presents Holly had brought, still unopened, into the bedroom and stacked on the floor to the side of her bed. Something caught her eye and as she looked more closely, she noticed the head shaped depression on the pillow at John’s side of the bed. Could it be? She lifted the pillow and squeezed it to her chest. His fragrance once again filled her senses and for the first time in a very long time she truly relaxed and beamed a smile.
“Happy Christmas honey! Aren’t you going to open your presents?”
Holly looked at her Mummy sitting smiling at the head of the bed, then crawled up and snuggled under the quilt next to her. Jacquie couldn’t understand her daughter’s next sentence, but at this moment in time she wouldn’t waste time worrying.
“Oh I had my best present last night from the fire fairy - and your face just opened it!”
- - -
David lives in part of a converted 17th century watermill in deepest, darkest South Shropshire. His interests are Writing, Landscape Photography, Travel and Nature, with all that entails. His work has been published at Pygmy Giant, Bewildering Stories, Short Humour and Daily Love.
Friday, December 23, 2011
12/23/11
Storm Shelter
By Laurel Garver
“I have something to show you,”
he sighs more than speaks,
then closet door creaks.
Beneath the starched shirts
and pleated chinos,
he reveals another world:
His bluegreen haven
of soft chenille,
smooth stones,
images of sisters’ laughter
and stretched shadows
on the lakehouse lawn.
He pulls me down
into his cave of comfort,
far from the fracas
of wronged mother
and cad father’s
upper-hand deathdance
that seismically
shook his universe.
Here his curled boybody
once wept and wished
and whispered wants
to Tuggie
the woven wonder,
now lost to the annals
of Linus-like best blankets.
Today, his boyhearted manbody
enfolds me like a second skin,
as he breathes in my love—
that stillcenter of slow
hope for him
to grow up
bold and whole.
- - -
Laurel Garver is a writer and magazine editor whose work has appeared in Flashquake, Motley Press, Rubber Lemon, Drown in my Own Fears and is forthcoming in Joyful!. An indie film enthusiast and incurable Anglophile, she lives in Philadelphia with her husband and daughter. You can visit her blog at http://laurelgarver.blogspot.com.
By Laurel Garver
“I have something to show you,”
he sighs more than speaks,
then closet door creaks.
Beneath the starched shirts
and pleated chinos,
he reveals another world:
His bluegreen haven
of soft chenille,
smooth stones,
images of sisters’ laughter
and stretched shadows
on the lakehouse lawn.
He pulls me down
into his cave of comfort,
far from the fracas
of wronged mother
and cad father’s
upper-hand deathdance
that seismically
shook his universe.
Here his curled boybody
once wept and wished
and whispered wants
to Tuggie
the woven wonder,
now lost to the annals
of Linus-like best blankets.
Today, his boyhearted manbody
enfolds me like a second skin,
as he breathes in my love—
that stillcenter of slow
hope for him
to grow up
bold and whole.
- - -
Laurel Garver is a writer and magazine editor whose work has appeared in Flashquake, Motley Press, Rubber Lemon, Drown in my Own Fears and is forthcoming in Joyful!. An indie film enthusiast and incurable Anglophile, she lives in Philadelphia with her husband and daughter. You can visit her blog at http://laurelgarver.blogspot.com.
Thursday, December 22, 2011
12/22/11
The Gift
By Jan Aubrey
Even my hair
reaches out to tangle you....
Sweat dripped curls
cling to every pore you possess.
Ends split apart and twist
like a lovers body
in throes.
Strands slink through
quivering fingers
into crevices
of the forbidden.
At times.....
I desire only your death.
For my hair to slip around
your neck and strangle
softly.....
This mad love that
keeps lovers insane,
driving to the edge
of
doom.
- - -
By Jan Aubrey
Even my hair
reaches out to tangle you....
Sweat dripped curls
cling to every pore you possess.
Ends split apart and twist
like a lovers body
in throes.
Strands slink through
quivering fingers
into crevices
of the forbidden.
At times.....
I desire only your death.
For my hair to slip around
your neck and strangle
softly.....
This mad love that
keeps lovers insane,
driving to the edge
of
doom.
- - -
Wednesday, December 21, 2011
12/21/11
The Beautiful Woman
By Tim Jeffreys
He set eyes on her, the first time, when they were leaving the island. He was standing in a queue of palpitating, sun-red tourists waiting to get back on the ship and float off to some place new. He was just a fat little man with a fat little wife and two fat little daughters. His wife noticed him looking at the beautiful woman and pursed her lips in a scowl, her eyes as hard as glass. In her arms she cradled the awful, bald cat she had named Lady and which she took everywhere with her and which had caused them no end of problems with quarantine laws. Lady too was scowling at him. His daughters were not scowling. Their expressions were expectant, as if they knew there was a perfectly good reason their father was staring at the woman on the harbour with the honey-coloured skin and they were merely waiting for him to explain it to them. There were times, it was true, when he wanted to knock their heads together for being good.
He defied them all and stared at the woman. He couldn’t help himself. She was a thing of rare beauty. Her hair was slick and black, her eyes dark and daring. She wore a thin white dress barely able to contain her ample breasts, which bounced up and down as she walked. The hem of her dress ended at the top of her long long legs. Her skin was radiant. As she passed along the line of tourists every man’s mouth fell open and every wife went tut!The eyes of the beautiful woman met the eyes of the fat little man and contained within that brief glance was an ocean full of promises.
Imagine being her lover! he thought, not knowing that he would be meeting her every night thereafter and ravishing her at her own bequest in an endless variety of positions and locals.
Why that very night as his wife lay snoring, he would jump ship and tiptoe across the waves, back to the island where she was waiting for him on the beach with her arms folded, with one ripe breast unanchored from her dress. She smiled when she saw him, and said in her accented voice:
“But how did you get here?”
“I walked on slivers of moonlight,” he told her.
She laughed again and took his hand.
The moon was full, floating above the ship which sat far out across the water. From somewhere, still, he could still hear his wife snoring. It came to him as if carried on the wind.
“Take me. Love me,” the beautiful woman said, crouching in the foam at the edge of the water. “Take me here right here, right now.”
He spared a moment for his wife, for the horrible bald cat, for his good little girls. Then he too crouched down in the foam as the beautiful woman took him by the hand.
“And tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow,” he said. And the beautiful woman laughed.
- - -
I am UK-based writer of horror, fantasy, and weird fiction.
By Tim Jeffreys
He set eyes on her, the first time, when they were leaving the island. He was standing in a queue of palpitating, sun-red tourists waiting to get back on the ship and float off to some place new. He was just a fat little man with a fat little wife and two fat little daughters. His wife noticed him looking at the beautiful woman and pursed her lips in a scowl, her eyes as hard as glass. In her arms she cradled the awful, bald cat she had named Lady and which she took everywhere with her and which had caused them no end of problems with quarantine laws. Lady too was scowling at him. His daughters were not scowling. Their expressions were expectant, as if they knew there was a perfectly good reason their father was staring at the woman on the harbour with the honey-coloured skin and they were merely waiting for him to explain it to them. There were times, it was true, when he wanted to knock their heads together for being good.
He defied them all and stared at the woman. He couldn’t help himself. She was a thing of rare beauty. Her hair was slick and black, her eyes dark and daring. She wore a thin white dress barely able to contain her ample breasts, which bounced up and down as she walked. The hem of her dress ended at the top of her long long legs. Her skin was radiant. As she passed along the line of tourists every man’s mouth fell open and every wife went tut!The eyes of the beautiful woman met the eyes of the fat little man and contained within that brief glance was an ocean full of promises.
Imagine being her lover! he thought, not knowing that he would be meeting her every night thereafter and ravishing her at her own bequest in an endless variety of positions and locals.
Why that very night as his wife lay snoring, he would jump ship and tiptoe across the waves, back to the island where she was waiting for him on the beach with her arms folded, with one ripe breast unanchored from her dress. She smiled when she saw him, and said in her accented voice:
“But how did you get here?”
“I walked on slivers of moonlight,” he told her.
She laughed again and took his hand.
The moon was full, floating above the ship which sat far out across the water. From somewhere, still, he could still hear his wife snoring. It came to him as if carried on the wind.
“Take me. Love me,” the beautiful woman said, crouching in the foam at the edge of the water. “Take me here right here, right now.”
He spared a moment for his wife, for the horrible bald cat, for his good little girls. Then he too crouched down in the foam as the beautiful woman took him by the hand.
“And tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow,” he said. And the beautiful woman laughed.
- - -
I am UK-based writer of horror, fantasy, and weird fiction.
Tuesday, December 20, 2011
12/20/11
and you will be the one...
By Niah Jamerson
- - -
Niah doesn't believe that anyone who reads this short biography will really care to hear much about her. However, she does ask anyone who happens to know where she can locate a unicorn to contact her as soon as possible. (twitter.com/NiahJustNiah)
By Niah Jamerson
And you will be the one to say to my heart,
”Come out! Come out!
It’s OK to breathe again.”
“Forget the past. It’s only the future that matters.”
“Was what happened before really that bad?”
”Surely
you are stronger now.”
And your gentle coaxing will bring my heart
out of the cocoon where it was
hidden, (wrapped tightly in thoughts and logic and plans.)
Wincing at the brightness of the sun.
Reaching blindly
for your hand.
- - -
Niah doesn't believe that anyone who reads this short biography will really care to hear much about her. However, she does ask anyone who happens to know where she can locate a unicorn to contact her as soon as possible. (twitter.com/NiahJustNiah)
Monday, December 19, 2011
12/19/11
Impulsive
By Rich Ives
“Oh dear, oh dear,” a cherry little bump of a girl squeaks, and Jimmy Bear-Walking-Backwards pays attention. I’ve been told that I’m wearing a provocative blue number with midnight piping, but it’s not enough for Jimmy, so I leave the party. An attractive local storm follows me down to the creek and has its way with me. He’s a pleasant little trench-runner if you slow him down after the first eruption. There’s a sensitivity emerges if you keep him diving slowly. I dab at him and get a little twinkled, so I rummage around in his trunk and locate the valuables, but they’re not as valuable as I thought they were.
His winks are a bit tiddly, but this time I’ll make myself sweeter. Like a gentle caress the wind offers that becomes a hand before you know what’s happening. He gives me something that fits inside, right along with his swollen appendage. It doesn’t flop out afterwards, and I carry it around like a secret. I get tired of Jimmy’s dramatic exclamations of ordinary joy. They don’t mind repeating themselves, but I do.
The impatient river is swallowing air and burping so constantly no one notices. They think it’s normal behavior. It gets where it’s going before I do. Hi ho, Mr. Snibbly-Face, Mr. Do-As-You-Please, I can’t be expected to provide all the perfumes, all the clever lubrications. Jimmy’s impatient. He’s got no time for subtle transitions.
Brother Big-Toad and Brother Little-Toad are trying to hatch a pile of white eggs. I don’t know if they’re even theirs or not. Jimmy’s got a similar habit that makes him feel guilty. It’s hard to understand what it has to do with love, but they’re both there in the same little carnival. You could see that the shadows were no longer flirting. It wasn’t the first time. I can never remember if they were inspired by passion or disturbing invasions of my privacy. What’s the difference? The rope burns humiliate me and make me wet. If I think of myself as a slut, it’s not as exciting as if someone else does.
It’s not enough that Jimmy had planted a barren tree and it had come to life. It’s not enough that every Wednesday he talks to no one but me. It’s not enough to defend yourself.
Jimmy’s impatient. Jimmy’s already there.
The fat one has a plan and it wants me to pet the reclining one. He is sickly and can be shared by several. I will take him outside himself and see if he can live there. I will share the property and make use of the lost pounds because they always return and they bring their friends. The one I want is coming into his own now. He is unaware of the arrangement. He can be convinced I am available only to him. He can be withheld.
Some peopling of the fur is required before consummation of the refreshment it can provide. The edge of the attendant conversation can wander and interfere with the gestures of resplendency.
I wish to appear to be making an effort. I want to be seen as responsive if not adept, considerate if not instinctive.
I rub Jimmy’s pond around the edges and it seems gentle and sleepy and it doesn’t seem to know if I’m anything that wasn’t there before. I’m not because I’m there before I know I’m there.
Recurring measure of lathered human fabric, release thy steeple of need, relentless and inevitable as winter in its knowledge of otherness.
I can be completed without intentions.
- - -
Rich Ives is the 2009 winner of the Francis Locke Memorial Poetry Award from Bitter Oleander. An interview and18 hybrid works appear in the Spring 2011 issue of Bitter Oleander. In 2011 he has been nominated twice for Best of the Net.
By Rich Ives
“Oh dear, oh dear,” a cherry little bump of a girl squeaks, and Jimmy Bear-Walking-Backwards pays attention. I’ve been told that I’m wearing a provocative blue number with midnight piping, but it’s not enough for Jimmy, so I leave the party. An attractive local storm follows me down to the creek and has its way with me. He’s a pleasant little trench-runner if you slow him down after the first eruption. There’s a sensitivity emerges if you keep him diving slowly. I dab at him and get a little twinkled, so I rummage around in his trunk and locate the valuables, but they’re not as valuable as I thought they were.
His winks are a bit tiddly, but this time I’ll make myself sweeter. Like a gentle caress the wind offers that becomes a hand before you know what’s happening. He gives me something that fits inside, right along with his swollen appendage. It doesn’t flop out afterwards, and I carry it around like a secret. I get tired of Jimmy’s dramatic exclamations of ordinary joy. They don’t mind repeating themselves, but I do.
The impatient river is swallowing air and burping so constantly no one notices. They think it’s normal behavior. It gets where it’s going before I do. Hi ho, Mr. Snibbly-Face, Mr. Do-As-You-Please, I can’t be expected to provide all the perfumes, all the clever lubrications. Jimmy’s impatient. He’s got no time for subtle transitions.
Brother Big-Toad and Brother Little-Toad are trying to hatch a pile of white eggs. I don’t know if they’re even theirs or not. Jimmy’s got a similar habit that makes him feel guilty. It’s hard to understand what it has to do with love, but they’re both there in the same little carnival. You could see that the shadows were no longer flirting. It wasn’t the first time. I can never remember if they were inspired by passion or disturbing invasions of my privacy. What’s the difference? The rope burns humiliate me and make me wet. If I think of myself as a slut, it’s not as exciting as if someone else does.
It’s not enough that Jimmy had planted a barren tree and it had come to life. It’s not enough that every Wednesday he talks to no one but me. It’s not enough to defend yourself.
Jimmy’s impatient. Jimmy’s already there.
The fat one has a plan and it wants me to pet the reclining one. He is sickly and can be shared by several. I will take him outside himself and see if he can live there. I will share the property and make use of the lost pounds because they always return and they bring their friends. The one I want is coming into his own now. He is unaware of the arrangement. He can be convinced I am available only to him. He can be withheld.
Some peopling of the fur is required before consummation of the refreshment it can provide. The edge of the attendant conversation can wander and interfere with the gestures of resplendency.
I wish to appear to be making an effort. I want to be seen as responsive if not adept, considerate if not instinctive.
I rub Jimmy’s pond around the edges and it seems gentle and sleepy and it doesn’t seem to know if I’m anything that wasn’t there before. I’m not because I’m there before I know I’m there.
Recurring measure of lathered human fabric, release thy steeple of need, relentless and inevitable as winter in its knowledge of otherness.
I can be completed without intentions.
- - -
Rich Ives is the 2009 winner of the Francis Locke Memorial Poetry Award from Bitter Oleander. An interview and18 hybrid works appear in the Spring 2011 issue of Bitter Oleander. In 2011 he has been nominated twice for Best of the Net.
Sunday, December 18, 2011
12/18/11
For Your Tomorrow
By Alison Bennett
Claire Pemberton stood somberly with Matt’s parents and his brother William at the War Memorial in the village where they’d grown up. The biting November chill cut through her and the emptiness of the last six months seemed somehow even more painful. Matt, her fiancé, was killed in active service in Afghanistan and her world had been shattered.
The large crowd, some in uniforms, some civilian, fell silent around the cenotaph, all with their own thoughts of loved ones lost and fallen. A small robin sang noisily in the big tree at the side of the churchyard as if he had no sense of occasion, and the north wind was now so strong that the Union flag at the top of the church tower was beating against the pole.
After the service Claire went back to Matt’s parents’ house for lunch and spent some time looking at the photos proudly on display. It all became a little too much for Claire, and after lunch she went into the garden and sat on the bench that looked out over the horses’ field. She was deep in thought when William joined her, bringing out two large glasses of wine.
“I thought you might need this,” he said, smiling kindly.
“Thanks Wills,” she replied. As she looked at him she realised just how much like Matt he was. His eyes were the same colour, the deepest brown, and his hair was dark, while the whole of the family seemed to have perfect teeth, Wills being no exception.
They sat and talked watching the horses graze in the field in front of them.
“I just can’t begin to accept what’s happened,” Claire said. “It’s like I’ve died too; all my hopes, my dreams for the future just gone overnight. I still love him so much.”
“I know you do, Claire. And so do I.”
“Of course Wills,” Claire empathized, “it’s hard for all of us. I heard your mother saying how glad she was that you were an accountant and not in the Services.”
They sat in the garden together uninterrupted most of the afternoon. As the sun set, Wills’ father brought them out a travel rug to cover themselves. It was still cold, but the warmth of the rug, the comfort that they found in talking and just being together, more than made up for the November weather.
Claire asked Wills why Emma wasn’t with him today.
“Not really her scene I guess,” he replied. “She’s busy working away a lot now and likes to see her girlfriends when she has a weekend off.”
Claire detected that maybe things were not too good between the two of them and saw a different sadness in Wills’ eyes.
When Claire eventually got home she went straight up to her room, opened the wardrobe door and removed a large shoe box covered with hearts and flowers. This was her most treasured possession; it was all her letters to Matt that she’d had returned when he died, along with the letters he had sent to her.
As she took the first letter out of the box she looked at the beautiful handwriting that he had, so neat and perfectly formed and far better than hers. Far better than anyone else’s she had ever seen.
Dear Claire,
This is just a brief letter to let you know that we arrived safely in Camp Bastian this morning. You can’t comprehend just how hot it is, and the dust is unbelievable. It feels a long way from home and a very long way from you.
I was lying on my bunk thinking of you, and I had to smile; remember the day we first met and how we really didn’t like each other? You came marching up our path and knocked on our door to tell me that I’d taken your parking space and that you’d just carried all your shopping from two roads away. As I came out to move my car I thought you were such a stuck up bitch, it was hard to imagine that I would end up falling for you.
This is just a short letter this time so I can catch the post that’s about to leave the camp. Please write soon and give everyone my best. Most of all remember that I love you more than any words could ever say.
All my love,
Matt xxxxx
She carefully folded the letter back up and put it in the neat envelope, then took out one of her own.
Dear Matt,
I’m missing you so much. The family send their love and will be writing again soon.
My work is going well and the children at the school are such a joy and they raise my spirits when I feel down.
Today it was sports day, and while watching the races it made me think of the time when we were on holiday in Greece and we raced up the beach. You would always win of course, but it never stopped me trying.
It was a great holiday; the little secluded bay was an absolute godsend. Remember when I fell over in the sand and you ran back to me? You leant over and looked at my face for what seemed like an eternity, then said, “I always thought your eyes were blue, but in this light they look green. And your hair, I love the way it falls down so naturally.” Then you totally ruined the moment by saying, “I even like your funny nose!”
We laughed uncontrollably and, rolling around on the shore line, you touched my face, held it between your hands and kissed me. Then, completely unannounced, after caressing my upper thigh, as the sun began to set and waves began to lap the beach we… Well, I’d never thought of doing it alfresco, but it just seemed so right at the time. Yes, it was a great holiday that one!
I wonder, do you have any idea just how much I miss you? I want you with every sinew of my being and I can’t wait until I see you again.
All my love now and always,
Claire xxxxx
Claire fell back on the bed and the pain of her loss overwhelmed her. It was not only an emotional sadness, but also an intense physical pain, an emptiness, that hurt deep in her stomach. She knew she needed to be up for work the next day, but couldn’t stop reading; the letters were all she had left of Matt now, they were the closest she could ever be to him. She picked another one…
Dear Claire,
Just heard, Aerosmith “ I don’t wana miss a thing,” I play it a lot on my iPod. I was lying on my bunk and remembering us dancing to it at Marcus’ and Sara’s wedding - that was such a great night.
I loved holding you close, feeling your body next to mine. I think we both had a bit too much to drink that night, but I would give anything to be dancing with you right now. I remember I got a bit excited on the dance floor and you were so scared that everyone would notice. I whispered that they would only notice if I hung a flag on it!
I miss you so much Claire and I think of you all the time. I took a shower earlier and I remembered when we were in Scotland, we had that shower in our room big enough for both of us. The steam filled the cubical while the hot water cascaded over your curvy body, and as I kissed you, your nipples stood so erect that they caused their own little water features.
God, I miss you Claire Pemberton.
Matt xxxxxx
Claire started to pack up the letters and get ready for bed with yet another night of intermittent sleep ahead, thinking of the past, thinking of the loss, but never once thinking of the future.
The days, the weeks, the months went by and Claire tried in her own way to deal with her grief. The children at her school helped a lot; they seemed to have a special way of lifting her and making life seem more positive, even if only for a while during the day.
Claire heard that Wills’ relationship with Emma was over. A thought passed through her mind that maybe, just maybe, Wills would like to go for a drink. She was a little surprised that he hadn’t been in touch recently as they had once been very close friends. Perhaps she was a painful reminder of Matt and he no longer wanted to be around her.
Time moved ever onward and Claire was gradually succeeding in putting back at least some of the pieces of her shattered life. Work was good, the children were still giving her a real purpose and she had started an evening arts course at the local college. But Claire now felt sure that she had not only lost Matt but, it would appear, Wills too.
Then out of the blue a letter arrived. This was no ordinary letter, as it had the most exquisite handwriting. It was addressed to Miss Claire Pemberton and she quickly opened it.
Dear Claire,
I’m sorry that I haven’t been in touch for a while, which is why I’ve decided to write you a letter - I don’t want to cause any embarrassment to either of us. If I’m completely out of line, please simply disregard this letter and pretend that it was never sent.
I just wanted to tell you that I now find myself single, and wanted to ask if you would consider seeing me. I feel that we get on really well and, to be perfectly honest, I’ve always been so very fond of you.
I know this must all seem a little uncomfortable and I really hope that I haven’t upset you by asking.
Please ring me if you want to meet. If I don’t hear, I’ll understand, but please don’t think badly of me, I just had to tell you how I feel.
I know how much you loved my brother and that no one will ever be able to replace him, and that is not my intention, but we are both young and we both have to try to move forward.
With Love
Wills
Claire picked up the phone and began to dial…
- - -
By Alison Bennett
Claire Pemberton stood somberly with Matt’s parents and his brother William at the War Memorial in the village where they’d grown up. The biting November chill cut through her and the emptiness of the last six months seemed somehow even more painful. Matt, her fiancé, was killed in active service in Afghanistan and her world had been shattered.
The large crowd, some in uniforms, some civilian, fell silent around the cenotaph, all with their own thoughts of loved ones lost and fallen. A small robin sang noisily in the big tree at the side of the churchyard as if he had no sense of occasion, and the north wind was now so strong that the Union flag at the top of the church tower was beating against the pole.
After the service Claire went back to Matt’s parents’ house for lunch and spent some time looking at the photos proudly on display. It all became a little too much for Claire, and after lunch she went into the garden and sat on the bench that looked out over the horses’ field. She was deep in thought when William joined her, bringing out two large glasses of wine.
“I thought you might need this,” he said, smiling kindly.
“Thanks Wills,” she replied. As she looked at him she realised just how much like Matt he was. His eyes were the same colour, the deepest brown, and his hair was dark, while the whole of the family seemed to have perfect teeth, Wills being no exception.
They sat and talked watching the horses graze in the field in front of them.
“I just can’t begin to accept what’s happened,” Claire said. “It’s like I’ve died too; all my hopes, my dreams for the future just gone overnight. I still love him so much.”
“I know you do, Claire. And so do I.”
“Of course Wills,” Claire empathized, “it’s hard for all of us. I heard your mother saying how glad she was that you were an accountant and not in the Services.”
They sat in the garden together uninterrupted most of the afternoon. As the sun set, Wills’ father brought them out a travel rug to cover themselves. It was still cold, but the warmth of the rug, the comfort that they found in talking and just being together, more than made up for the November weather.
Claire asked Wills why Emma wasn’t with him today.
“Not really her scene I guess,” he replied. “She’s busy working away a lot now and likes to see her girlfriends when she has a weekend off.”
Claire detected that maybe things were not too good between the two of them and saw a different sadness in Wills’ eyes.
When Claire eventually got home she went straight up to her room, opened the wardrobe door and removed a large shoe box covered with hearts and flowers. This was her most treasured possession; it was all her letters to Matt that she’d had returned when he died, along with the letters he had sent to her.
As she took the first letter out of the box she looked at the beautiful handwriting that he had, so neat and perfectly formed and far better than hers. Far better than anyone else’s she had ever seen.
Dear Claire,
This is just a brief letter to let you know that we arrived safely in Camp Bastian this morning. You can’t comprehend just how hot it is, and the dust is unbelievable. It feels a long way from home and a very long way from you.
I was lying on my bunk thinking of you, and I had to smile; remember the day we first met and how we really didn’t like each other? You came marching up our path and knocked on our door to tell me that I’d taken your parking space and that you’d just carried all your shopping from two roads away. As I came out to move my car I thought you were such a stuck up bitch, it was hard to imagine that I would end up falling for you.
This is just a short letter this time so I can catch the post that’s about to leave the camp. Please write soon and give everyone my best. Most of all remember that I love you more than any words could ever say.
All my love,
Matt xxxxx
She carefully folded the letter back up and put it in the neat envelope, then took out one of her own.
Dear Matt,
I’m missing you so much. The family send their love and will be writing again soon.
My work is going well and the children at the school are such a joy and they raise my spirits when I feel down.
Today it was sports day, and while watching the races it made me think of the time when we were on holiday in Greece and we raced up the beach. You would always win of course, but it never stopped me trying.
It was a great holiday; the little secluded bay was an absolute godsend. Remember when I fell over in the sand and you ran back to me? You leant over and looked at my face for what seemed like an eternity, then said, “I always thought your eyes were blue, but in this light they look green. And your hair, I love the way it falls down so naturally.” Then you totally ruined the moment by saying, “I even like your funny nose!”
We laughed uncontrollably and, rolling around on the shore line, you touched my face, held it between your hands and kissed me. Then, completely unannounced, after caressing my upper thigh, as the sun began to set and waves began to lap the beach we… Well, I’d never thought of doing it alfresco, but it just seemed so right at the time. Yes, it was a great holiday that one!
I wonder, do you have any idea just how much I miss you? I want you with every sinew of my being and I can’t wait until I see you again.
All my love now and always,
Claire xxxxx
Claire fell back on the bed and the pain of her loss overwhelmed her. It was not only an emotional sadness, but also an intense physical pain, an emptiness, that hurt deep in her stomach. She knew she needed to be up for work the next day, but couldn’t stop reading; the letters were all she had left of Matt now, they were the closest she could ever be to him. She picked another one…
Dear Claire,
Just heard, Aerosmith “ I don’t wana miss a thing,” I play it a lot on my iPod. I was lying on my bunk and remembering us dancing to it at Marcus’ and Sara’s wedding - that was such a great night.
I loved holding you close, feeling your body next to mine. I think we both had a bit too much to drink that night, but I would give anything to be dancing with you right now. I remember I got a bit excited on the dance floor and you were so scared that everyone would notice. I whispered that they would only notice if I hung a flag on it!
I miss you so much Claire and I think of you all the time. I took a shower earlier and I remembered when we were in Scotland, we had that shower in our room big enough for both of us. The steam filled the cubical while the hot water cascaded over your curvy body, and as I kissed you, your nipples stood so erect that they caused their own little water features.
God, I miss you Claire Pemberton.
Matt xxxxxx
Claire started to pack up the letters and get ready for bed with yet another night of intermittent sleep ahead, thinking of the past, thinking of the loss, but never once thinking of the future.
The days, the weeks, the months went by and Claire tried in her own way to deal with her grief. The children at her school helped a lot; they seemed to have a special way of lifting her and making life seem more positive, even if only for a while during the day.
Claire heard that Wills’ relationship with Emma was over. A thought passed through her mind that maybe, just maybe, Wills would like to go for a drink. She was a little surprised that he hadn’t been in touch recently as they had once been very close friends. Perhaps she was a painful reminder of Matt and he no longer wanted to be around her.
Time moved ever onward and Claire was gradually succeeding in putting back at least some of the pieces of her shattered life. Work was good, the children were still giving her a real purpose and she had started an evening arts course at the local college. But Claire now felt sure that she had not only lost Matt but, it would appear, Wills too.
Then out of the blue a letter arrived. This was no ordinary letter, as it had the most exquisite handwriting. It was addressed to Miss Claire Pemberton and she quickly opened it.
Dear Claire,
I’m sorry that I haven’t been in touch for a while, which is why I’ve decided to write you a letter - I don’t want to cause any embarrassment to either of us. If I’m completely out of line, please simply disregard this letter and pretend that it was never sent.
I just wanted to tell you that I now find myself single, and wanted to ask if you would consider seeing me. I feel that we get on really well and, to be perfectly honest, I’ve always been so very fond of you.
I know this must all seem a little uncomfortable and I really hope that I haven’t upset you by asking.
Please ring me if you want to meet. If I don’t hear, I’ll understand, but please don’t think badly of me, I just had to tell you how I feel.
I know how much you loved my brother and that no one will ever be able to replace him, and that is not my intention, but we are both young and we both have to try to move forward.
With Love
Wills
Claire picked up the phone and began to dial…
- - -
Saturday, December 17, 2011
12/17/11
Distant Memories
By Elizabeth Blosfield
Take me away in the cascade of the moonlight
Kiss me under the fairytale sky
Dance with me to the night’s beautiful melody;
our hearts keeping perfect time
Lead me along to the song of the stars
inside the breath of a warm, gentle wind
Carry me back to the promise of forever,
lying safe in your arms once again
- - -
I am a 19-year-old journalism student, a dancer and an optimist. I love to write whenever and wherever, but especially inside of coffee shops. I am inspired by nature, music, people and meaningful conversation, and my favorite subject to write about is love. Instead of a hopeless romantic though, I like to consider myself a hopeful romantic, because I absolutely believe in true love in all of it's forms.
By Elizabeth Blosfield
Take me away in the cascade of the moonlight
Kiss me under the fairytale sky
Dance with me to the night’s beautiful melody;
our hearts keeping perfect time
Lead me along to the song of the stars
inside the breath of a warm, gentle wind
Carry me back to the promise of forever,
lying safe in your arms once again
- - -
I am a 19-year-old journalism student, a dancer and an optimist. I love to write whenever and wherever, but especially inside of coffee shops. I am inspired by nature, music, people and meaningful conversation, and my favorite subject to write about is love. Instead of a hopeless romantic though, I like to consider myself a hopeful romantic, because I absolutely believe in true love in all of it's forms.
Friday, December 16, 2011
12/16/11
Bryan
By Susan E. Holle
- - -
Susan is thirty-year-old woman who has Cerebral Palsy. but doesn’t let her disability stand in the way of all of the things she wants to achieve. Susan graduated high school with honors and then went to Blinn Junior College and then went to Texas A&M University. She graduated in 2006 and now she is a video editor and writer.
By Susan E. Holle
Leaves crunched beneath Olivia’s boots as she walked through the park. She tightened her jacket to shield herself against the cold. After reaching the swing set, she sat in one and glanced around.
She soaked up the peace of the park. For the last six months she had been going through the motions of life, living day by day. That had to change. She had decisions to make.
But how? If my counselor and my pastor can’t help me, then who can?
“Hey, Livie.”
She turned toward the familiar voice. The sun blinded her. She shaded her eyes with a hand, and saw her boyfriend, Bryan. She jumped up and flung her arms around his neck. She breathed in the scent of his cologne and enjoyed the warmth of his arms around her.
“I’ve missed you. I’ve been lost since you left.” She stepped back. “I can’t believe you are here.”
Bryan smiled and caressed her cheek. “I had to see you, but I don’t have much time.”
“Oh.” She lowered her eyes, inhaled and tried to keep her sadness at bay. She forced a smile, determined not to waste their time. “You’re here now. That’s all that matters.”
He took her hand, leading her to a wooden bench. After they sat, he sighed. “Boy, being here brings back memories.”
“Like meeting a scrawny blonde girl?”
“Yep.” He gave her a wink. “And she grew up into a babe.”
Her face heated. “Thanks. You did too. Every girl in school was jealous I was your girlfriend.” She glanced at the ground and shook her head. “You deserved someone better than me.”
He put a finger under her chin and locked eyes with hers. “Hey, don’t say that. I’ve always loved you. Even when I was six.”
Tears welled in her eyes. Unable to look at him any longer, she pulled away and stood, turning away from him. “How can you still love me?”
“It wasn’t your fault.” He gave her shoulder a gentle squeeze, “Please believe that.”
“I can’t,” she said in a shaky voice. “If we hadn’t gone to that stupid Maroon 5 concert that I wanted to go to, my car wouldn’t have broken down in the worst part of the city, we wouldn’t have gotten mugged and you wouldn’t have gotten shot and…“
“Died,” he finished.
She turned and faced him, tears trickling down her cheeks. “How can you stand to be around me knowing I didn’t do anything to stop that mugger from killing you? I just stood there as he pulled out his gun and shot you, and then I ran.”
”What else could you’ve done? Wrestle him for his gun?”
“Yes.”
“Then you would have died too.” He stepped closer and cupped her face in his hands. “You did the right thing by running away.”
“But I left you.”
“You had to.” He wiped her tears with the pads of his thumbs.
She shrugged. “I wish I could go back and tell myself not to go to the concert.”
“Well, you can’t.” He lifted her chin. “Life is fragile. You don’t know what is going to happen, but you can’t stop living.” He sighed. “Listen, Livie, I’ve been watching you since my death, and I’m worried about you.”
She furrowed her brow. “You watch me?”
He chuckled. “Not all of the time. They have rules up there about respecting our loved ones’ privacy.”
“Good to know.”
“Anyway, I was so worried that I asked to be granted a special pass to come down and talk to you.“ His gaze went Heavenward. “They must be worried about you too, because those passes aren’t easy to get, especially for a newcomer like me. God himself gave me information about your futures.”
Her eyes widened. “Wow. What do you mean by my futures?” She tilted her head. “Don’t you mean ‘future’?
“Well, you’re at crossroads now.” He brushed her hair from her forehead. “If you keep blaming yourself for my death, the guilt will destroy you. But if you accept that it wasn’t your fault, then you’ll have a bright future as a doctor and have a family of your own.”
“I figured we would always be together.”
“We don’t always get the future we envisioned, but it can be even better.”
She sniffed and wiped away tears. “Are you happy?”
“Yes.” He smiled. “I get to help people-even though they can’t see me. That makes me happy. What would make me even happier is if you accepted the scholarship from Texas A&M, went to medical school and were happy. You’re meant to help and save people. Please promise me you will.”
“You were always unselfish.” She smiled, eyes sparkling. “Okay. I promise. I’ll live for both of us.”
“That’s my girl.” He looked up. “I’ve to go now. They’re calling me back.”
Her heart wrenched and she leaped into his arms. “No. Don’t go yet.”
“I have to.” He pulled away. “But don’t worry. I’ll be there for you whenever you need me.”
“I love you.”
“I love you, too.” He kissed her cheek. “Goodbye.”
White orbs swirled around him until he vanished.
After he left, she didn’t feel the emptiness and sadness she had expected. The thousand pound weight she had been carrying was lifted from her chest.
She glanced up and smiled. “Thanks, Bryan.”
- - -
Susan is thirty-year-old woman who has Cerebral Palsy. but doesn’t let her disability stand in the way of all of the things she wants to achieve. Susan graduated high school with honors and then went to Blinn Junior College and then went to Texas A&M University. She graduated in 2006 and now she is a video editor and writer.
Thursday, December 15, 2011
12/15/11
The Lovers
By K.W. Taylor
“This isn’t real?” Izzy blinked up at him. Her voice was flat, emotionless.
“I guess.” He took a step backward. “But . . . ” He wanted to say more, but all his thoughts were tangled, jumbled, incoherent. Instead, he simply sighed.
Izzy tore her eyes from his and moved away, flopping down on the sofa. “Well, I mean, it’s not like I hated you or something,” she murmured. “I thought you were nice enough.” She frowned. “I guess. I’m trying . . . it’s so hard to remember. I’m thinking through this veil of--”
“Love,” he interjected. The word pierced the room like an arrow, even though he’d spoken it quietly.
She nodded, looking down at her lap. “Love,” Izzy agreed after a moment’s silence. “It’s hard to think through all this love.” Her voice was rougher now, the thick quality of someone trying not to cry.
“Do you care?” he asked. He was still across the room, making no move to comfort her, though he desperately wanted to. But everything was second guesses now. Did he want to go to Izzy, touch her, hold her? Or was something making him want to? And did it matter?
“I care about what was done to us,” Izzy finally replied. “I care about not having choice.” Now she looked at him again. She still wasn’t crying. “This doesn’t have to change anything if we don’t want it to.”
But did they? “I need some time.” He was outside before she could say anything else. That heart-shaped face, those eyes… he couldn’t be around Izzy right now.
Except that she followed him. He could never hide from Izzy; she knew everything about him, all his mind’s workings, all his tendencies, even what direction he’d walk down the sidewalk when he stormed out of a building.
“Tristan!” Her voice was a shriek, a yelp, a desperate cry on the autumn wind.
He turned. He couldn’t see her through his own tears. They ran to each other and embraced.
Three months earlier, there had been two glasses on a table. Two sips. That was all it took.
- - -
My fiction and non-fiction have been featured in many print and web publications, and my first novella, “We Shadows Have Offended,” was just released by Etopia Press last month. I also have a short story appearing in the upcoming Wicked East Press anthology Once Bitten, Never Die. I teach college English in Ohio.
By K.W. Taylor
“This isn’t real?” Izzy blinked up at him. Her voice was flat, emotionless.
“I guess.” He took a step backward. “But . . . ” He wanted to say more, but all his thoughts were tangled, jumbled, incoherent. Instead, he simply sighed.
Izzy tore her eyes from his and moved away, flopping down on the sofa. “Well, I mean, it’s not like I hated you or something,” she murmured. “I thought you were nice enough.” She frowned. “I guess. I’m trying . . . it’s so hard to remember. I’m thinking through this veil of--”
“Love,” he interjected. The word pierced the room like an arrow, even though he’d spoken it quietly.
She nodded, looking down at her lap. “Love,” Izzy agreed after a moment’s silence. “It’s hard to think through all this love.” Her voice was rougher now, the thick quality of someone trying not to cry.
“Do you care?” he asked. He was still across the room, making no move to comfort her, though he desperately wanted to. But everything was second guesses now. Did he want to go to Izzy, touch her, hold her? Or was something making him want to? And did it matter?
“I care about what was done to us,” Izzy finally replied. “I care about not having choice.” Now she looked at him again. She still wasn’t crying. “This doesn’t have to change anything if we don’t want it to.”
But did they? “I need some time.” He was outside before she could say anything else. That heart-shaped face, those eyes… he couldn’t be around Izzy right now.
Except that she followed him. He could never hide from Izzy; she knew everything about him, all his mind’s workings, all his tendencies, even what direction he’d walk down the sidewalk when he stormed out of a building.
“Tristan!” Her voice was a shriek, a yelp, a desperate cry on the autumn wind.
He turned. He couldn’t see her through his own tears. They ran to each other and embraced.
Three months earlier, there had been two glasses on a table. Two sips. That was all it took.
- - -
My fiction and non-fiction have been featured in many print and web publications, and my first novella, “We Shadows Have Offended,” was just released by Etopia Press last month. I also have a short story appearing in the upcoming Wicked East Press anthology Once Bitten, Never Die. I teach college English in Ohio.
Wednesday, December 14, 2011
12/14/11
Christopher
By Jennifer Donnell
The world is cruel and I have forgotten you.
Your smell,
the name of your first girlfriend,
whether we ever wished on shooting stars,
kissed under mistletoe, or ate spinach.
I don’t know whether you wanted to move
to a tropical island and grow old,
or live in a city where you’d stay forever young.
Your kiss turned me cold to a world of kisses.
I wrote you love letters and forgot the postage,
or that’s my only explanation for why you didn’t write back.
Your hands reached for me like a blizzard,
I barricaded you from the chill.
- - -
Jennifer Donnell is a writer, poet, and certified health coach. Her recent and/or upcoming publishing credits include: Pure Slush, The Scrambler, Bohemia Journal, Sapling, Speech Therapy Poetry, Borderline, Young American Poets, Orion Headless, SIC 3, The Scarlet Sound, Don’t Blame the Ugly Mug (Anthology- Tebot Bach), Poetix, Bestiary Magazine, The Criterion, Astarte, Deep Tissue Magazine, East Village Poetry, A Few Lines Magazine, Artistica, and Negative Suck. She can be found at various gluten free cafes and writing about the idiosyncrasies of life.
By Jennifer Donnell
The world is cruel and I have forgotten you.
Your smell,
the name of your first girlfriend,
whether we ever wished on shooting stars,
kissed under mistletoe, or ate spinach.
I don’t know whether you wanted to move
to a tropical island and grow old,
or live in a city where you’d stay forever young.
Your kiss turned me cold to a world of kisses.
I wrote you love letters and forgot the postage,
or that’s my only explanation for why you didn’t write back.
Your hands reached for me like a blizzard,
I barricaded you from the chill.
- - -
Jennifer Donnell is a writer, poet, and certified health coach. Her recent and/or upcoming publishing credits include: Pure Slush, The Scrambler, Bohemia Journal, Sapling, Speech Therapy Poetry, Borderline, Young American Poets, Orion Headless, SIC 3, The Scarlet Sound, Don’t Blame the Ugly Mug (Anthology- Tebot Bach), Poetix, Bestiary Magazine, The Criterion, Astarte, Deep Tissue Magazine, East Village Poetry, A Few Lines Magazine, Artistica, and Negative Suck. She can be found at various gluten free cafes and writing about the idiosyncrasies of life.
Tuesday, December 13, 2011
12/13/11
WD-Forty
By Cheryl Anne Gardner
"Sing me an organ grinder's taxi ride gospel and let the tide coast in," she said. That was her way of saying, "poor you," when I started whining about how emasculating our relationship was. She had this fixation for white orchids and pain and a shotgun barrel of whiskey a day.
We hadn't spoke in a while.
She said she missed me but couldn't tell me why.
She'd invited me to dinner, expected me to look her in the eyes, but the sparks coming from the belt sander were a distraction. We'd had this conversation before. She said if I wanted to be her muse, "then I'd better just shut the hell up," but the straps were too tight, the stilettos too high. They made my legs look bowed like a cowboy who'd taken one too many rough rides. "You're a rough ride," she said through the side of her mouth as she lit one of them long brown European cigarettes she liked so much. She said she liked how they looked in her hand and between her lips when she watched herself smoke in the mirror.
She liked the taste of the tobacco.
I didn't like it. It left little dirty bits on my tongue when she kissed me. She rarely kisses me these days. She said she wasn't interested in that anymore, that for some reason, the number thirteen bothered her, haunted her like a lounge lizard with a caterpillar smile. She said, "I loved you once, when you were fearless," but I'm not anymore, apparently, so she put out her smoke and went back to buffing and oiling the rusted hinges she'd always said were mine.
- - -
Cheryl Anne Gardner is a hopeless dark romantic, lives in a haunted house, and often channels the spirits of Poe, Kafka, and de Sade. She prefers writing art-house novellas and abstract flash fiction to writing bios because she always seems to forget what point of view she is in. When she isn’t writing, she likes to chase marbles on a glass floor, eat lint, play with sharp objects, and make taxidermy dioramas with dead flies.
By Cheryl Anne Gardner
"Sing me an organ grinder's taxi ride gospel and let the tide coast in," she said. That was her way of saying, "poor you," when I started whining about how emasculating our relationship was. She had this fixation for white orchids and pain and a shotgun barrel of whiskey a day.
We hadn't spoke in a while.
She said she missed me but couldn't tell me why.
She'd invited me to dinner, expected me to look her in the eyes, but the sparks coming from the belt sander were a distraction. We'd had this conversation before. She said if I wanted to be her muse, "then I'd better just shut the hell up," but the straps were too tight, the stilettos too high. They made my legs look bowed like a cowboy who'd taken one too many rough rides. "You're a rough ride," she said through the side of her mouth as she lit one of them long brown European cigarettes she liked so much. She said she liked how they looked in her hand and between her lips when she watched herself smoke in the mirror.
She liked the taste of the tobacco.
I didn't like it. It left little dirty bits on my tongue when she kissed me. She rarely kisses me these days. She said she wasn't interested in that anymore, that for some reason, the number thirteen bothered her, haunted her like a lounge lizard with a caterpillar smile. She said, "I loved you once, when you were fearless," but I'm not anymore, apparently, so she put out her smoke and went back to buffing and oiling the rusted hinges she'd always said were mine.
- - -
Cheryl Anne Gardner is a hopeless dark romantic, lives in a haunted house, and often channels the spirits of Poe, Kafka, and de Sade. She prefers writing art-house novellas and abstract flash fiction to writing bios because she always seems to forget what point of view she is in. When she isn’t writing, she likes to chase marbles on a glass floor, eat lint, play with sharp objects, and make taxidermy dioramas with dead flies.
Monday, December 12, 2011
12/12/11
Sounds of a First Kiss
By Mandy Brown
Welcoming sunshine
Spills over with
Refreshing summer warmth
Everything etched
Into my soul
Like a long lost fingerprint
He swings me into him
I fold into
His kiss
Sweet milk.
My ears fill with
Locomotive
Roars
Spirited shouts cheer on the
Thundering storms
Machine guns
Firecrackers and
Alarms
Reverberating
Swirling
Rushing
Around us ‘til they are sucked into a
Vacuum of
Laughter
Absorbed into stillness
And a heart begins to slowly beat.
Newfound bliss.
Crying itself to laughter,
My Dear Daydream.
Overcomes me and
My lips betray me to his unspoken dare:
“I love you.”
- - -
When Mandy Brown isn't changing the world, she's changing diapers but only because she's convinced the two are related. She hopes to find fulfilling work in academia, especially where writing is involved.
By Mandy Brown
Welcoming sunshine
Spills over with
Refreshing summer warmth
Everything etched
Into my soul
Like a long lost fingerprint
He swings me into him
I fold into
His kiss
Sweet milk.
My ears fill with
Locomotive
Roars
Spirited shouts cheer on the
Thundering storms
Machine guns
Firecrackers and
Alarms
Reverberating
Swirling
Rushing
Around us ‘til they are sucked into a
Vacuum of
Laughter
Absorbed into stillness
And a heart begins to slowly beat.
Newfound bliss.
Crying itself to laughter,
My Dear Daydream.
Overcomes me and
My lips betray me to his unspoken dare:
“I love you.”
- - -
When Mandy Brown isn't changing the world, she's changing diapers but only because she's convinced the two are related. She hopes to find fulfilling work in academia, especially where writing is involved.
Sunday, December 11, 2011
12/11/11
Love in Another Time
By K.C. Ong
- - -
Kevin C. Ong is not your typical romance author, in his day job he works as a Tax Manager! Though he believes his inspiration for romance might the romantic location in which he lives, Lavender Bay with views of the Sydney Harbour Bridge and Opera House - it has been the subject of many local artists. “Love in Another Time” will appear with its companion piece “Until the End of Time” in a collection of short stories currently being compiled by Kevin to be released in 2012. Find out more by visiting facebook.com/kcongpublications (email: kcongpublications@gmail.com).
By K.C. Ong
She dipped her hand into the water once more; it felt cold yet invigorating at the same time. The lake from which the water flowed was sublime. The water was so clear and inviting that she wanted to quench her thirst with it or lie in it so her entire body could feel as invigorated as her hand.
They were sitting beside a beautiful lake, enjoying a picnic in the sun. The scene was perfect, so perfect that it felt unreal. Birds chirped as they sat upon the weeping willow trees that surrounded the lake. The grass was thick and so green it was to be envied. The sky was as clear as the water on this bright sunny day. She turned to face him, flicking drops of water at him playfully. He laughed and smiled. Their smiles met, and streaks of sunlight shone through the willows leaves upon her face highlighting her exquisitely fair features and auburn-colored hair.
He gently touched her cheek, and they shared a special moment looking deeply into each other's eyes. He wanted to kiss her but felt it might be too soon; after all, this was only their first date. What a first date it was! He wanted it to be memorable, so he did everything he could to make the date special, having planned it weeks in advance.
“Do want some more chocolate?” he finally asked, breaking the silence.
“Ummm, okay” she replied coyly. She wanted him to kiss her.
Unaware that he had missed his opportunity, he reached into the picnic basket and took out an enticing box of handmade chocolates. He presented her with the open box of divine chocolates. She opened her mouth invitingly. This time he knew what to do and placed a piece of chocolate delicately into her mouth. He wanted to ask if she liked his choice of chocolate, but the content look on her face said it all.
Their eyes met. “We should go; there's something I want you to see,” he said.
“Okay.” She beamed at him with anticipation.
They stood up from the picnic blanket, and she glanced once more at his dark masculine features accentuated by his dark motorcycle gear. He looked so at ease packing up, putting the lovely food back into the basket and efficiently folding up the picnic blanket.
He's obviously good with his hands, she mused, recalling that he worked as a landscape gardener who sculpted in his spare time.
He carefully attached the small picnic basket on a handy little rear deck at back of his sports bike. It looked a little odd, so she giggled, admiring his ingenuity. He handed her a helmet, which she slipped on as they sat on the bike. She held on tight to his sculptured chest.
“Hmmm, I like that; probably safer if you hold onto my hips, though.” He grinned. She laughed before holding on to his hips. He wondered if she did that on purpose.
They sped off into the distance, then up onto a curved road. The ride was exhilarating as they climbed up the road in an almost spiral fashion. She smiled nervously, excited yet at the same time trying to work out where they were going, what lay ahead. But all she could see was dense forest on either side. She wanted to ask him, but the roar of the engine made talking hard, so she relaxed into the moment, enjoying all the sights and sounds. After a while her mind drifted into recalling how they had first met.
They had met on rhyme&reason.com--a chat site for poets and aspiring poets. She had posted a comment complimenting him on his lovely poem about landscapes, “My Valley.” From the poem, she could tell he had an affinity with nature and the land. After a few online chats, she found out that he worked as a landscape gardener. She admired the pictures he had posted of his work. She revealed that she was an aspiring writer with a particular interest in poetry. In addition to her day job as a political journalist for The New Times newspaper, she wrote romantic poetry as an escape to the serious political journalism. She explained that her favorite work was William Shakespeare's eighteenth sonnet: “Shall I Compare Thee to a Summer's Day?” He read it, studied it, and composed a poem, “Eternal Love,” which strangely had the same effect on her. She admired his wit and intelligence, which had an almost innocent quality about it, free from any pretense. She knew that this was someone she had to meet.
They were nervous in their first face-to-face web chat. She though he was boyishly cute. He thought she was beautiful and way out of his league. Over the course of a few months, they chatted frequently this way about their lives, their fears, their hopes, their dreams. They had not experienced love before. He, because he had been so hard at work building his landscaping business. She, because she had come from a broken home, her father leaving her mother when she was three years of age. As a result of this, she had developed a mistrust of men. But he seemed to be the only exception; from his writings she felt as if she could feel his feelings and glance into his soul. The fact that he was cute didn't hurt either, she thought.
“We should meet. I want to meet you,” he finally declared.
“I would very much like that,” she had responded happily.
So they set up a date; it was to be a surprise date. They would meet at a café by the lake where she lived, and he promised to take her somewhere else afterward. They had coffee at the café, things went well, and the conversation flowed; they seemed to have so much in common. Too perfect they both thought in astonishment at times. He asked her to have lunch with him by the lake, and it seemed natural for her to say yes.
Her mind drifted back to the present. The bike slowed down, then came to a standstill. They had arrived in a clearing on a peak high above the ground--so high it felt as if you could touch the clouds.
“It's lovely. I never knew such a place existed so close to home,” she expressed, soaking in the atmosphere.
“I come here all the time. It clears my mind, helps me to think,” he explained. “I wrote 'My Valley' sitting over there.” He pointed to a small ledge overlooking the entire valley below.
She wanted to see what he saw, see what inspired him to write such a gem. They walked over to the ledge hand in hand, admiring each other and the beauty around them. The sky had turned slightly gray, giving the scene an almost timeless quality.
They sat up on the ledge high above the ground; it felt as if they were in heaven. The valley was covered in thick emerald forests forming the captivating landscape. There was a waterfall gushing down the river deep into the valley below. Across the valley they could see where the sea met the sky in an endless horizon.
At this moment, time stood still. It felt right, but he was still unskilled in the ways of love, so he wanted to be sure.
“You want to know something else?” he asked.
“What?” she said, thinking, Kiss me.
“I've never been in love before, but when I first met you and got to know you, you became my inspiration for 'Eternal love.' ” He was surprised at how easily the words came out of his mouth. Normally, with a woman as beautiful as Sonja he would have been tongue-tied.
She blushed. That was deep though the words are right for this perfect moment.
They glazed intensely into each other's eyes. He held her close as he leant forward closing his eyes.
She's so beautiful. I can't believe this. I'm about to kiss an angel.
Their lips touched. Their thick lips complimented each other, and it felt so good, so right, so perfect . . .
“Times up,” the machine beeped.
Their dream pods abruptly switched off, and they were back in reality.
That was sublime, Sonja pondered as she removed her headpiece and sat up from the dream pod. If his visions and writing are anything to go by, I can't wait to meet him for real.
Weeks passed. Thoughts of David and the dream they shared occupied Sonja's thoughts every day. They had set a date to meet for real. He would fly from his hometown of Old Wark to meet her in Sentinel, where she lived. She counted down the days. She would often find herself daydreaming about their “perfect” moment and the anticipation of turning that “perfect” moment into reality.
Finally, the day had arrived--the day their paths were to cross, their date with destiny. She was wearing a white dress, and he would be wearing a dark coat. She sat nervously at the airport arrival lounge pretending to read a book while scanning the crowd for signs of David. It seemed that hundreds of people had rushed past the gate into the arrival lounge--but no sign of David.
Has he stood me up? Oh, he couldn't have after all that we've shared. We were just chatting last night and he seemed so keen. Hmmm, he's fifteen minutes late. I wonder what's happened to him. I hope he's just running late. Thoughts raced through her head as she began to panic.
Then, as the crowd coming through the gate reduced to a trickle, she saw a man. He was tall and broad and dressed in a dark overcoat hiding his large frame.
“He's taller than I pictured, which is good.”
From across the room he looked over her way, smiled, and walked toward her. She stared back at him, smiling. As he came nearer, his large features became more prominent. Actually he doesn't look anything like I pictured him, but he seems strong and sturdy. Anyway, I'm in love with his mind.
As he came within greeting distance, she could see that he was not as sculptured as he was in the dream. Poetic license, she thought, but even so, he had a handsome face. She wanted to wave but felt uncharacteristically shy. He came closer and closer, their smiles getting larger the closer he came . . . till he sailed right past her.
A look of shock replaced the smile on her face as she turned around embarrassed. The man whom she thought was David was hugging a tall athletic woman, her face beaming with joy.
How embarrassing, she thought as she turned back around and sank into her chair.
He's twenty minutes late, and I thought he was a “nice” guy. I guess they all seem nice at first. Why can't I seem to meet the good ones? I only want one; I only need one.
It was at that moment that she felt a tap on her shoulder.
Surprised, she turned around.
“Sonja?” a man with a boyish grin said, looking straight into her eyes.
“Ummm, David?” she replied.
They stared at each other as their bodies aligned into one. Sonja's face beamed with joy; finally, she'd met him. He was a little shorter than she'd imagined, but physically, he was her type.
They stepped back to face each other.
“Sorry I'm late. I was looking all over for you, and I must admit that when I first saw you, I felt nervous. You're more beautiful than I imagined,” he explained sheepishly.
She blushed. “Thank you. You're not so bad yourself,” she teased.
To onlookers they would have been described at best as a “plain-looking” couple. He had a toned and trim physique from his years of manual labor. She was thin and waif-looking. “I'm so busy, and no matter how much I eat, I just can't seem to put on weight. I wish I could be like my friends with all their curves. They're gorgeous. Why did I have to be born this way?” she often exclaimed.
He had grown up in poor family, at times going without food. Though he wanted to be accepted into society, he knew that his looks weren't ideal, so instead focused on his business. He would undergo intense strength training so he could perform his job more effectively: lift more, work faster, work harder. As a result of his dedication to his business, he had developed a strong, toned body. She knew this as soon she brushed up against his chest and felt his hard abdominals.
His family placed a strong emphasis on education, and books were treasured in his house. Even though he could not afford to go to a university in his younger years, he read widely and often. Books were his way to journey to distant, exotic places he could not afford to visit. To understand how to run a business when he did not have a business degree. To allow him to converse freely with and understand what motivated his wealthy customers. To at least feel what it was like to be loved by a woman even if it had not happened in the physical world.
“We should go there's so much I want you to see,” she explained “what time is it?”
“2:20 pm 14th June 2177,” he replied cheekily.
“I've only been here 30 minutes and Sentinel does seem like an amazing city,” he said as he looked out the window at the imposing castles with moats, towers and cathedrals which were common place in the city.
Sentinel does seem to have taken on this Neo-Renaissance revival with vigor, he thought.
David and Sonja stared intently into each other's eyes before walking hand in hand towards the airport's exit. As they passed by a newsstand, images of rubenesque models flashed on a screen advertising the various magazines on sale. The word's “Chic Magazine's 50 most eligible bachelors” appeared on screen with pictures portly men with double chins. Their girth and weight indicating that they are well feed, wealthy and of high status.
They look like the prince and princesses in the Renaissance paintings. People really have taken to these images, I guess everyone wants to look like they are royalty, he thought as he glanced at the images.
When they exited the airport and gazed out at the cityscape ahead, he held her hand tightly as he gently motioned her to stop.
“There's something I've wanted to do from the day I first laid eyes on you,” he whispered.
She smiled knowingly. He closed his eyes and leant into kiss her tenderly.
Wow! This is amazing. It's just like I imagined it, they both thought.
David Teo and Sonya Sparks wanted this moment to last forever. Though they weren't going to win any contests as an ”ideal couple,” it didn't matter to them. They saw the beauty inside and knew that this was the start of something special.
- - -
Kevin C. Ong is not your typical romance author, in his day job he works as a Tax Manager! Though he believes his inspiration for romance might the romantic location in which he lives, Lavender Bay with views of the Sydney Harbour Bridge and Opera House - it has been the subject of many local artists. “Love in Another Time” will appear with its companion piece “Until the End of Time” in a collection of short stories currently being compiled by Kevin to be released in 2012. Find out more by visiting facebook.com/kcongpublications (email: kcongpublications@gmail.com).
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