Recalculating…
…says the GPS in my car, every time I take a turn other than the one it suggested.
Recalculating…
…goes the female voice of its computer and the faint disappointment in that voice sounds just like my mother’s did, when I didn’t follow the path she chose for me. I wanted to make my own mistakes, to blaze my own trail.
No, I’ve never asked for directions, and often I seem simply lost.
Recalculating…
I’ll find my own way, on my own terms. I’ll change the cartography of my life or vanish off the face of the Earth trying.
Copyright 2009
Author's Bio: I’m Cormac Brown, an up-and-slumming writer in the city of Saint Francis. Some of my stories have appeared at Powder Burn Flash, Six Sentences, A Twist of Noir, Astonishing Adventures Magazine, and Crooked Magazine. You can find me at Cormac Writes.
Pinus Timbre by Johnsienoel
Ancient erections loom aloft
ringed by decades
centuries for some
in gnarled scabs of pine.
Resinous scents bid
Aphids come hither
the honeydew laden sirens
lull the Apini tribe.
Thistle tops bristle
signaling the approaching front
painting bone on palest saffron
across the Siberian sky.
Shudder though they will
never a quiver felt below
rooted in the taiga
brooding pines soon to be felled.
Oestrus season has begun
the virgin’s blanket lying still
upon the feet.
Limbs creak in hushed
anticipation.
Noted length and girth
prized in the jacker’s eyes
the greening complete and most
ambrosial he takes the shaft
in hand and mounts.
Hewing ax in sculptor’s hands
at first penetration cries out
the timbre of the moment
silences the standing crowd.
As arctic kisses gusting down
he wields the decisive stroke.
One climactic call heralds in
felling of the wood.
Debased and deflowered
laid on somber ground
the lowly pine mourns its loss
of roots upon which stood.
Copyright 2009
Author's Bio: Johnsienoel is still the Bawdy Broad of Paradoxical Persiflage who lives, works, writes and single parents in Charlotte, NC. It was recently suggested she stop leading life with her sexuality to which she quipped: "How does one lead with their sexuality when they have always lacked a penis and/or really big tits?"
ringed by decades
centuries for some
in gnarled scabs of pine.
Resinous scents bid
Aphids come hither
the honeydew laden sirens
lull the Apini tribe.
Thistle tops bristle
signaling the approaching front
painting bone on palest saffron
across the Siberian sky.
Shudder though they will
never a quiver felt below
rooted in the taiga
brooding pines soon to be felled.
Oestrus season has begun
the virgin’s blanket lying still
upon the feet.
Limbs creak in hushed
anticipation.
Noted length and girth
prized in the jacker’s eyes
the greening complete and most
ambrosial he takes the shaft
in hand and mounts.
Hewing ax in sculptor’s hands
at first penetration cries out
the timbre of the moment
silences the standing crowd.
As arctic kisses gusting down
he wields the decisive stroke.
One climactic call heralds in
felling of the wood.
Debased and deflowered
laid on somber ground
the lowly pine mourns its loss
of roots upon which stood.
Copyright 2009
Author's Bio: Johnsienoel is still the Bawdy Broad of Paradoxical Persiflage who lives, works, writes and single parents in Charlotte, NC. It was recently suggested she stop leading life with her sexuality to which she quipped: "How does one lead with their sexuality when they have always lacked a penis and/or really big tits?"
Smartypants by Ray Succre
I could not bend to the supernatural,
learned little from anatomy,
and the crumbles of philosophy gave my
tongue no good taste.
My land was unoriginal and confessing
every moment
its need for me was less than a dozen
well-weighted bees.
My skin was perfumed, stultified as a socialite
dropped in the sea,
where no other life is much urged to smell
the air.
None of this was new. I or else the
world was an enjambed,
fiendish cripple, a Richard descended
with false strength in mind,
until the marvelous hour I found my
element,
my very own cause to stand:
I had been a magnanimous prick, was the
truth, and enjoying
the breaths of others, sorting my own
amongst this din,
required no faith in a firmament or study
of axons,
no adoption of nothingness or
management of property,
not even a quaint, fresh odor,
but only that I relax and cease fucking
around with my smarts.
All of this was new.
Copyright 2009
Author's Bio: Ray Succre lives on the Oregon coast with his wife and son. He has been published in Aesthetica, BlazeVOX, and Pank, and in many others across numerous countries. His novel Tatterdemalion (Cauliay) was recently released in print and is available most places. A second, Amphisbaena, is forthcoming in Summer 2009.
learned little from anatomy,
and the crumbles of philosophy gave my
tongue no good taste.
My land was unoriginal and confessing
every moment
its need for me was less than a dozen
well-weighted bees.
My skin was perfumed, stultified as a socialite
dropped in the sea,
where no other life is much urged to smell
the air.
None of this was new. I or else the
world was an enjambed,
fiendish cripple, a Richard descended
with false strength in mind,
until the marvelous hour I found my
element,
my very own cause to stand:
I had been a magnanimous prick, was the
truth, and enjoying
the breaths of others, sorting my own
amongst this din,
required no faith in a firmament or study
of axons,
no adoption of nothingness or
management of property,
not even a quaint, fresh odor,
but only that I relax and cease fucking
around with my smarts.
All of this was new.
Copyright 2009
Author's Bio: Ray Succre lives on the Oregon coast with his wife and son. He has been published in Aesthetica, BlazeVOX, and Pank, and in many others across numerous countries. His novel Tatterdemalion (Cauliay) was recently released in print and is available most places. A second, Amphisbaena, is forthcoming in Summer 2009.
Too Dark To Care by Branimir Hrvoj a.k.a. Jebozid
Brown, crusted stains on the yellowed pillow
I crawl like a snail to the bathroom mirror
This face is not mine, not as I remember
Doc said in March - I won't see September
Legs spill like piss, head hits the spout
Teeth fill the sink, blood gushes out
Meat slaps the floor, bleeds out a prayer
This shriveled corpse - pills can't repair
Is this what life looks like?
A pile of bones in a leather bag
When bowels fail and mix shit with gore
Is this how spent souls smell?
On the wet ceramic grave, lies a pale, wrinkled mass
It's too late to coagulate, too dark to...
Copyright 2009
Author's Bio: Jeb is a Croatian Satan incarnation. Has great legs. Loves saying "Go team something".
I crawl like a snail to the bathroom mirror
This face is not mine, not as I remember
Doc said in March - I won't see September
Legs spill like piss, head hits the spout
Teeth fill the sink, blood gushes out
Meat slaps the floor, bleeds out a prayer
This shriveled corpse - pills can't repair
Is this what life looks like?
A pile of bones in a leather bag
When bowels fail and mix shit with gore
Is this how spent souls smell?
On the wet ceramic grave, lies a pale, wrinkled mass
It's too late to coagulate, too dark to...
Copyright 2009
Author's Bio: Jeb is a Croatian Satan incarnation. Has great legs. Loves saying "Go team something".
One Day, I'd Like to Wake Up Silly by J.S. Graustein
after dreaming of tanks that shoot magnolia
blossoms with Klingons at the helm,
I'd say, “Identify yourselves.”
They'd reply by showering my bicycle
with fragrant petals
near the embassy in Ouagadougou.
We'd then transport to England
for a skinny dip in River Nene.
Just as I'd order rounds for them
and all within the Vane Arms pub,
my husband's smoldering hands
would shiver me awake.
Neither of us would care about time, kids,
weather, lunch, or work.
I'd just stroke the silky skin on his
scalp while he says, “Make it so.”
And then we would.
Copyright 2009
Author's Bio: When J. S. Graustein isn't writing, she plays Managing Editor at Folded Word Press. Her path to the writing life is best expressed in mathematical terms:
w = [e - (h + m)] / OED
Having trouble solving for w? You'll find clues on her Twitter stream. Better yet, email her and she'll give you the answer.
blossoms with Klingons at the helm,
I'd say, “Identify yourselves.”
They'd reply by showering my bicycle
with fragrant petals
near the embassy in Ouagadougou.
We'd then transport to England
for a skinny dip in River Nene.
Just as I'd order rounds for them
and all within the Vane Arms pub,
my husband's smoldering hands
would shiver me awake.
Neither of us would care about time, kids,
weather, lunch, or work.
I'd just stroke the silky skin on his
scalp while he says, “Make it so.”
And then we would.
Copyright 2009
Author's Bio: When J. S. Graustein isn't writing, she plays Managing Editor at Folded Word Press. Her path to the writing life is best expressed in mathematical terms:
w = [e - (h + m)] / OED
Having trouble solving for w? You'll find clues on her Twitter stream. Better yet, email her and she'll give you the answer.
Survival by John A. Ward
I am at Eglin Air Force Base in Florida with a group of second lieutenants and ensigns and a petty officer who is deadly with a slingshot. We are flushing flying squirrels out of the treetops and he is knocking them out of the air with marbles. We pull out the projectiles and pop the squirrels in a sack. The critters are our dinner. We are here for three days.
At the campsite, another pre-flight student and I are assigned to the butchering detail. We sit on the bank of the creek. I pull on my leather gloves. We have been warned not to cut into a pelt without gloves because there is tularemia in these woods. Also, squirrels carry sylvatic plague, also known as bubonic plague, and we don't fancy getting any disease that will cause us to have boobs on our necks. I have gotten out my knife and my colleague is still sitting there, wrinkling up his nose, a city boy. This is familiar territory for me. I majored in biology.
"You don't like this, do you?" I say.
"No," he says, "do you?"
"I'll show you how."
I slit open the belly, dump the guts out, and point out the organs for him, a dissection lesson. I tell him to be careful not to cut the gall bladder because it will make the meat taste bitter. He nods and watches, but he is not going to do this. It's all right. I am comfortable with slaughter and I'm much faster alone. I skin all six and fill up the number ten can from the creek.
"We'll make soup," I say, "put in some of the pokeweed and prickly pear roots and eat it for three days."
Truth is, there isn't much meat on a flying squirrel and there are more trainees in our group than there are squirrels, so we just eat the vegetables and drink the broth to let our stomachs shrink so the squirrels will seem like a feast when we finally eat them.
After dinner, I go back to the creek to toss the can in to keep it cool. I hope that some crawdads will crawl in overnight to explore. We'll boil them up too. I tuck the can between two smooth bed stones to keep it from floating away. When I look up, "Hello!"
A beautiful black Labrador retriever is looking at me. I smile at him. If dogs could smile, black labs would. They radiate smile. I cross the creek talking to him like I'm his best buddy. He looks friendly and healthy, probably a pedigree. I pet his head and feel his shoulders and his haunch, "Good dog." I take off my belt and slip it around his neck to lead him back to the camp. He doesn't resist. He seems glad to have found a friend. Heck, they said we could eat anything we caught. I'm going to hold out and trade him for meat and potatoes.
Copyright 2009
Author's Bio: John A. Ward was born on Staten Island, attended Wagner College in the early 60's, sold his first poem to Leatherneck magazine, and became a scientist. He is now in San Antonio running, writing and living with his dance partner. Links to his work can be found at http://www.geocities.com/jaward04@sbcglobal.net/dancfool.htm
At the campsite, another pre-flight student and I are assigned to the butchering detail. We sit on the bank of the creek. I pull on my leather gloves. We have been warned not to cut into a pelt without gloves because there is tularemia in these woods. Also, squirrels carry sylvatic plague, also known as bubonic plague, and we don't fancy getting any disease that will cause us to have boobs on our necks. I have gotten out my knife and my colleague is still sitting there, wrinkling up his nose, a city boy. This is familiar territory for me. I majored in biology.
"You don't like this, do you?" I say.
"No," he says, "do you?"
"I'll show you how."
I slit open the belly, dump the guts out, and point out the organs for him, a dissection lesson. I tell him to be careful not to cut the gall bladder because it will make the meat taste bitter. He nods and watches, but he is not going to do this. It's all right. I am comfortable with slaughter and I'm much faster alone. I skin all six and fill up the number ten can from the creek.
"We'll make soup," I say, "put in some of the pokeweed and prickly pear roots and eat it for three days."
Truth is, there isn't much meat on a flying squirrel and there are more trainees in our group than there are squirrels, so we just eat the vegetables and drink the broth to let our stomachs shrink so the squirrels will seem like a feast when we finally eat them.
After dinner, I go back to the creek to toss the can in to keep it cool. I hope that some crawdads will crawl in overnight to explore. We'll boil them up too. I tuck the can between two smooth bed stones to keep it from floating away. When I look up, "Hello!"
A beautiful black Labrador retriever is looking at me. I smile at him. If dogs could smile, black labs would. They radiate smile. I cross the creek talking to him like I'm his best buddy. He looks friendly and healthy, probably a pedigree. I pet his head and feel his shoulders and his haunch, "Good dog." I take off my belt and slip it around his neck to lead him back to the camp. He doesn't resist. He seems glad to have found a friend. Heck, they said we could eat anything we caught. I'm going to hold out and trade him for meat and potatoes.
Copyright 2009
Author's Bio: John A. Ward was born on Staten Island, attended Wagner College in the early 60's, sold his first poem to Leatherneck magazine, and became a scientist. He is now in San Antonio running, writing and living with his dance partner. Links to his work can be found at http://www.geocities.com/jaward04@sbcglobal.net/dancfool.htm
The Pen-Sword by J
Ages ago, Frannie had put away all the knives and scissors—thrown away the shivs made from fractured plastic trays. She'd hidden the screwdrivers, rubber mallet, and drill behind a door that locked. She'd packed away those five hardback anthologies frequently chucked at her head from the second floor. And Darth Vader's helmet, cape, and light sabre? Goodwill.
Yet Duncan still stood there, all four feet of him, armed with a pen. Her pen with a waxy black feather on the end. The one she naïvely kept in a can by the phone—a gag gift from her critique group's Christmas party. Frannie wasn't laughing now. Neither was Duncan. He stood facing her, pen poised above his head and wide eyes staring at her shoulder.
“I'll do it. You're gonna get it.”
He mock-stabbed then swished the pen in the air like a sword until the feather whispered its agreement.
Frannie tried the lines from workshops led by “professionals” with zero emotion in her voice. But she was sure Duncan could smell her exhaustion. Her last rational attempt was, “Does hurting people ever get you what you want?”
But Duncan's hemispheres no longer participated in the drama. Brain-stem signals fueled him now: 100% pure animal instinct, reflex, and involuntary muscle. He ran at her, made contact with her thigh, then jumped back, ready to strike again. He laughed at the hole he'd made in her tan slacks. A hole soon tinged with blood.
She'd failed. And now she had to bring Robert into it. She wasn't mom enough to rein the boy in, so now the love of her life would have to get hurt, too. The couple herded Duncan from kitchen to living room to the stairs. But then Robert (always) had to do the heavy lifting.
They never did get the pen-sword out of Duncan's hand. He stood in his doorway for thirty minutes—watching Frannie, rubbing the feather the wrong way down its shaft so that every barb unzipped—and smirked.
Copyright 2009
Author's Bio: J lives in relative obscurity (but not poverty) in the foothills of California. This is her first piece of fiction.
Yet Duncan still stood there, all four feet of him, armed with a pen. Her pen with a waxy black feather on the end. The one she naïvely kept in a can by the phone—a gag gift from her critique group's Christmas party. Frannie wasn't laughing now. Neither was Duncan. He stood facing her, pen poised above his head and wide eyes staring at her shoulder.
“I'll do it. You're gonna get it.”
He mock-stabbed then swished the pen in the air like a sword until the feather whispered its agreement.
Frannie tried the lines from workshops led by “professionals” with zero emotion in her voice. But she was sure Duncan could smell her exhaustion. Her last rational attempt was, “Does hurting people ever get you what you want?”
But Duncan's hemispheres no longer participated in the drama. Brain-stem signals fueled him now: 100% pure animal instinct, reflex, and involuntary muscle. He ran at her, made contact with her thigh, then jumped back, ready to strike again. He laughed at the hole he'd made in her tan slacks. A hole soon tinged with blood.
She'd failed. And now she had to bring Robert into it. She wasn't mom enough to rein the boy in, so now the love of her life would have to get hurt, too. The couple herded Duncan from kitchen to living room to the stairs. But then Robert (always) had to do the heavy lifting.
They never did get the pen-sword out of Duncan's hand. He stood in his doorway for thirty minutes—watching Frannie, rubbing the feather the wrong way down its shaft so that every barb unzipped—and smirked.
Copyright 2009
Author's Bio: J lives in relative obscurity (but not poverty) in the foothills of California. This is her first piece of fiction.
Taking Prisoners by Derek Osborne
We had stopped by the side of the road to make camp in a big field outside the town. It had been slow going because we had prisoners and needed to stop every hour to keep them in line. The corporal complained how they slowed us down. There were beds and showers waiting in Leon. He complained to me but I ignored him. I was very tired after marching all day and wanted nothing more than to get some sleep.
He and the others stayed out by the fire, the kid from Liverpool, the sergeant who carried the biggest rabbit’s foot I have ever seen, and the huge Scott with his red beret and heavy, Browning machine gun. There were others as well but I do not recall them with any clarity. Around ten I heard the lieutenant come up and speak in urgent tones. I pretended to be asleep when he looked inside the tent. Then I heard them move out, so I got up and went outside. It was cold now and the stars were thick above the trees. You could hear the rifles clanking against their cartridge packs as they walked up the road in the dark. I found some soup in the pot so I made a seat of my rucksack and sat in the wet grass to eat. It was always cold at night and then hot on the road in the afternoon. The warm soup tasted good.
I heard shots and then screaming, then several more shots, the steady thud of the Browning gun firing short bursts underneath the sharper crack of the rifles, and the whole time there was the screaming. I sat and stared at the fire. The silence was awful. Then there was one more very loud scream and one last shot.
When they returned none of them wanted to talk. The sergeant couldn’t keep anything down. After that night, the corporal never complained again. He wasn’t a bad sort, and apologized when his orders came through. He made me promise to visit if I ever I got back to England.
Copyright 2009
Author's Bio: All of us learn by imitating others. For me, it was Hemingway. It took years to get that voice out of my head, but he taught me the basics - like riding a bike. Regardless of politics, the guy was a hell of a writer, and I owe him a great deal.
He and the others stayed out by the fire, the kid from Liverpool, the sergeant who carried the biggest rabbit’s foot I have ever seen, and the huge Scott with his red beret and heavy, Browning machine gun. There were others as well but I do not recall them with any clarity. Around ten I heard the lieutenant come up and speak in urgent tones. I pretended to be asleep when he looked inside the tent. Then I heard them move out, so I got up and went outside. It was cold now and the stars were thick above the trees. You could hear the rifles clanking against their cartridge packs as they walked up the road in the dark. I found some soup in the pot so I made a seat of my rucksack and sat in the wet grass to eat. It was always cold at night and then hot on the road in the afternoon. The warm soup tasted good.
I heard shots and then screaming, then several more shots, the steady thud of the Browning gun firing short bursts underneath the sharper crack of the rifles, and the whole time there was the screaming. I sat and stared at the fire. The silence was awful. Then there was one more very loud scream and one last shot.
When they returned none of them wanted to talk. The sergeant couldn’t keep anything down. After that night, the corporal never complained again. He wasn’t a bad sort, and apologized when his orders came through. He made me promise to visit if I ever I got back to England.
Copyright 2009
Author's Bio: All of us learn by imitating others. For me, it was Hemingway. It took years to get that voice out of my head, but he taught me the basics - like riding a bike. Regardless of politics, the guy was a hell of a writer, and I owe him a great deal.
Insatiable Appetite by Anonymous
Tasty poison; I couldn’t resist your broad shoulders.
Caramel-colored, or should I say dulce de leche,
your monochromatic skin had no tan lines to stop
my tongue; I’d already crossed the border.
You savored my stew, simmered slowly,
tender and yielding to your bite.
Unfamiliar paprika, you learned to like it.
But I can’t cook all day,
and you were always hungry.
You raided my refrigerator for cold leftovers,
after I asked you not to.
I had to put a lock on the refrigerator door.
I had to tell you to take your large ladle
and go stir someone else’s pot.
Copyright 2009
Author's Bio: Anonymous is an amateur poet and cook and a healthcare professional in New York City. She savors natural ingredients and bittersweet flavor.
Caramel-colored, or should I say dulce de leche,
your monochromatic skin had no tan lines to stop
my tongue; I’d already crossed the border.
You savored my stew, simmered slowly,
tender and yielding to your bite.
Unfamiliar paprika, you learned to like it.
But I can’t cook all day,
and you were always hungry.
You raided my refrigerator for cold leftovers,
after I asked you not to.
I had to put a lock on the refrigerator door.
I had to tell you to take your large ladle
and go stir someone else’s pot.
Copyright 2009
Author's Bio: Anonymous is an amateur poet and cook and a healthcare professional in New York City. She savors natural ingredients and bittersweet flavor.
The Readers in Car 103 by Christopher Allen
Jessie wasn't the best reader, but he decided he had to give it a whirl. On the train last week, he’d fallen in love with the literate look of the woman who, with her nose in a novel, ended up sitting opposite him. That afternoon he went out and swiped the first book he saw.
The next morning at precisely 8:22 he boarded the train, took his seat across from The Reader, as he now called her, and opened his book to page 103 where he imagined a love story called The Readers in Car 103:
“Good morning,” he’d greet. Or maybe just, “Hiya.”
“Good morning,” she’d reply. And she’d smile.
Jessie, however, couldn’t muster courage to greet. Thrumming fingers on page 103, he drank in The Reader reading. Her eyes, lowered to the book in her thinly veiled lap, were lashed halfmoons in the window of Jessie’s night train. Her hands, vanilla dreamsicles dripping on her cornflower-blue dress, dog-eared her sticky pages.
He missed his stop and dropped his book. The moment he reached to retrieve it, The Reader crossed her legs and moaned, "Oh God!"
A heady breeze of blood powdered Jessie senseless for a page, but he recovered and returned to The Readers in Car 103:
“I love you,” he’d confess. Or maybe, “Let’s fuck.”
“You’re worthy,” she’d say, wiping the drool from his lower lip.
But Jessie was neither romantic nor crude, so he continued to catalogue The Reader’s every freckle and curve. Sweat drops at her temples glistened like intellect. Four lines on her forehead outed a serious, experienced soul. Her strawberry mouth puckered a thousand silent kisses towards the words on her page.
Hungry for the letters of her lap, Jessie’s lips parted, mimicking each buss. The faster she gobbled, the faster Jessie mime-gobbled. But try as he might, he could never taste the words on her pages 168, 169, 170 . . .
She smacked her book shut and looked up.
Jessie’s shocked eyes shot holes through page 103. He felt The Reader’s eyes caress and crawl in and out of him. She’d see he was stout, bearded, blond and nothing if not a devoted reader. She’d surely notice the literariness in his book, House Plants for the Homeless. She’d sense his smell: the earthy, bacterial Renaissance Man. If she was smiling when he looked up, he’d have to wolf her down.
With a coquette's eye-batting gentleness and the courage of a bear, he raised the windows to his soul and gazed into hers. Then, like a sudden sea mist, came the burning realization, the unbearable pain. He pinched his eyes and regretted the misreading.
“I’ll spray you again!” a woman’s voice shouted. “Someone get this smelly creep off me, or I’ll fuck him up good.”
Copyright 2009
Author's Bio: Christopher Allen writes character-driven fiction. Several of his short stories will be published this year. He lives a life of luxury in Germany. Hate him.
The next morning at precisely 8:22 he boarded the train, took his seat across from The Reader, as he now called her, and opened his book to page 103 where he imagined a love story called The Readers in Car 103:
“Good morning,” he’d greet. Or maybe just, “Hiya.”
“Good morning,” she’d reply. And she’d smile.
Jessie, however, couldn’t muster courage to greet. Thrumming fingers on page 103, he drank in The Reader reading. Her eyes, lowered to the book in her thinly veiled lap, were lashed halfmoons in the window of Jessie’s night train. Her hands, vanilla dreamsicles dripping on her cornflower-blue dress, dog-eared her sticky pages.
He missed his stop and dropped his book. The moment he reached to retrieve it, The Reader crossed her legs and moaned, "Oh God!"
A heady breeze of blood powdered Jessie senseless for a page, but he recovered and returned to The Readers in Car 103:
“I love you,” he’d confess. Or maybe, “Let’s fuck.”
“You’re worthy,” she’d say, wiping the drool from his lower lip.
But Jessie was neither romantic nor crude, so he continued to catalogue The Reader’s every freckle and curve. Sweat drops at her temples glistened like intellect. Four lines on her forehead outed a serious, experienced soul. Her strawberry mouth puckered a thousand silent kisses towards the words on her page.
Hungry for the letters of her lap, Jessie’s lips parted, mimicking each buss. The faster she gobbled, the faster Jessie mime-gobbled. But try as he might, he could never taste the words on her pages 168, 169, 170 . . .
She smacked her book shut and looked up.
Jessie’s shocked eyes shot holes through page 103. He felt The Reader’s eyes caress and crawl in and out of him. She’d see he was stout, bearded, blond and nothing if not a devoted reader. She’d surely notice the literariness in his book, House Plants for the Homeless. She’d sense his smell: the earthy, bacterial Renaissance Man. If she was smiling when he looked up, he’d have to wolf her down.
With a coquette's eye-batting gentleness and the courage of a bear, he raised the windows to his soul and gazed into hers. Then, like a sudden sea mist, came the burning realization, the unbearable pain. He pinched his eyes and regretted the misreading.
“I’ll spray you again!” a woman’s voice shouted. “Someone get this smelly creep off me, or I’ll fuck him up good.”
Copyright 2009
Author's Bio: Christopher Allen writes character-driven fiction. Several of his short stories will be published this year. He lives a life of luxury in Germany. Hate him.
eternal return by Chris Deal
long, too long,
but i can still
remember her smile,
like a moment after
the singularity
snapped, eternally
returning to the
first moment i saw,
the moment we first,
unexpected,
so damn early in
the morning, her
there, leaning over,
kissing me softly on
the lips, coming
through the sleeping
fog, then she was gone,
her smile on my lips,
still, tasting, always,
thank god it's always there,
we will always return
to that one moment,
that first kiss,
that waking i pray to see
again, me there, her coming
out of the dark,
first night,
there, before, the first
smile,
years earlier,
so far earlier,
i haven't seen her in so
Copyright 2009
Author's Bio: Chris Deal writes from Huntersville, NC.
but i can still
remember her smile,
like a moment after
the singularity
snapped, eternally
returning to the
first moment i saw,
the moment we first,
unexpected,
so damn early in
the morning, her
there, leaning over,
kissing me softly on
the lips, coming
through the sleeping
fog, then she was gone,
her smile on my lips,
still, tasting, always,
thank god it's always there,
we will always return
to that one moment,
that first kiss,
that waking i pray to see
again, me there, her coming
out of the dark,
first night,
there, before, the first
smile,
years earlier,
so far earlier,
i haven't seen her in so
Copyright 2009
Author's Bio: Chris Deal writes from Huntersville, NC.
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